by Sonia Patel
I pull the door shut behind me and check the doorknob. It’s unlocked.
I start down the hallway but stop. I pivot and march back to the door. I turn the knob. It’s unlocked. I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk towards the elevator. I’m halfway there but end up turning around a third time. I practically run back to the door to test the knob again. It’s still unlocked.
I head out for real this time.
A fast elevator ride to the lobby, my usual nod to the doorman, and my feet plant on the sidewalk. I hold out my palm, it’s drizzling. The sky is nothing but mist and black. I don’t care. Neither does the city. It’s bright and flashy.
I breathe in the damp air. Hands in pockets, head down, I take my first step.
It’s crowded. Umbrella spokes graze the shaved sides of my head. Raindrops get lost in my longer hair on top, a few tickle my scalp. My feet splash in puddles. Cars switch on headlights. Windshield wipers swish. Raincoats squeak past each other.
I close my eyes for a second and hear Pavarotti’s majestic voice.
I walk and walk and walk. An hour? Two?
I stop only when my next step would be into the Han.
My hand drifts to my chest. My heartbeat is steady, everything is okay.
My cell rings. I check. It’s Dad. I ignore it.
Everything is ok.
I waver.
Is everything ok?
Everything is ok. I stand up straight. I nod.
That’s right. Everything is ok.
My cell rings again. Dad, again. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” he hollers. “Do you know what time it is? Do you…”
I hold the phone away from my ear as his voice slaps me around. What the heck? He was out like a light.
“Get your ass home right now or else!” he screams.
“Ok.”
When Dad’s like this, I do what he says.
When it was the three of us, things were different.
A flash of lightning forks behind all the buildings on the other side of the river.
Why did Mom leave me alone with him?
Thunder grumbles low, then cracks the air.
The next thunder explosion is like a belt. It whips me out of my calm. I flinch then back away from the Han. With the next crash I turn on my heels and run.
This is no time for a slow walk home, the thunder shouts, chasing me.
Fortunately there’s a subway station on the next corner. I fly down the steps and leap onto my train just before the doors slide closed.
By the time I get back to the penthouse, my father’s pacing in the living room. He’s well into another bottle of whiskey and smoking on overdrive. Dunhill butts form the foundation of a tower on the ashtray like Jenga blocks. I shut the front door as quiet as I can, hoping to slip past him to my room.
No such luck.
He sees me. He stops marching and glares at me. He takes a big swig of whiskey. Wobbles. Eyes me for a second then storms towards me.
I hide how scared I am. Gangsters, especially future bosses, aren’t supposed to be afraid. I manage to keep my deadpan expression. I pull my shoulders back and push my chest out.
Too bad my sweat betrays me. It leaks out of every pore. It drips into my eyes, but I don’t let myself blink or lift a hand to rub it away though it stings.
Dad’s in my face now. “Where the fuck were you?” he screams. His hot breath smells like flowers that someone watered with gasoline.
“On a walk,” I say in as neutral a voice as possible.
“Did I say you could go on a walk?” he yells. He takes another gulp of whiskey.
“No. I’m sorry,” I say, bowing.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he says then shoves me with one hand.
I stumble backwards. The wall catches me. I straighten up and look at my bedroom door. I need to get to my room. He won’t bother me in there. I take slow, sideways steps.
Dad plows toward me, shoves me two more times.
I end up with my back against the wall again.
He unbuckles his belt. “This boy needs a lesson,” he mutters under his breath. He tugs on the metal clasp.
My body stiffens. What about the TSP co—
Just then his cell rings. He frowns as he lets go of the belt to answer.
I think I’m out of the woods, but he raises the bottle and makes like he’s going to smash it into the side of my head.
I duck, my arms shielding my head.
He catches my eye and postures one more time before he walks away, giving angry instructions to whichever TSP guy is on the phone. He disappears into his room. The slamming of his bedroom door makes me jump.
He’s done manhandling me it seems, but I can’t move. I can’t think so I count. It’s the only thing I can do.
Sixty-two seconds until I can take my first shaky step.
5.
My boys and I strut to the grand arched entrance of our school’s dining hall. It’s well into lunchtime, so the elegant room is jam-packed with munching and gossiping students. I do my stealthy surveillance, clockwise. It always has to be clockwise.
At five o’clock is a table of popular girls. Ten gleaming eyes bat at me. Cupped hands as they loud whisper to each other.
“So handsome.”
“My kind of hot bad boy.”
I yawn at them, not bothering to cover my mouth. Whatever. Popular or not, they’re like sheep who know they can’t get too close to the wolf. Me. The alpha. And my boys are my betas.
I check the row of chandeliers. The one in the middle is still only half lit.
Everything’s ok then.
My betas and I swagger in, straight to our table at the far back corner. The best, of course. Our territory, claimed and marked. My boys wait for me to sit before they do.
I bust out my Dunhills. Light up. The school staff looks the other way, they have to. They know who my dad is.
But I hate that. I’d rather it be because they know who I am—the boss of mini Three Star Pa—and what we’ve done—earned our status as the rulers of the school.
My dad’s not boss here. I am. I’m the king.
I behold my subjects.
The popular girls are still eyeing me.
I do a smoke trick.
“A ghost!” one of them squeals.
They all giggle and their bracelets clink as they cover their mouths. They’re so easily amused. So boring.
I look away and turn to Braid. “The Three Tenors,” I say.
Braid nods. His eyes and fingers trail down the stack of my favorite opera records. More perks from the school—an Onkyo, speakers, and records. He selects an album near the bottom. I close my eyes so it will be a surprise. The crackling sound when he lays the stylus on the spinning vinyl makes the little hairs on my arms stand. The orchestra starts. Immediately I know which song it is. Una Furtiva Lagrima. Haven’t heard it in forever. I count the seconds of the long minute until the fearless timbre of my idol fills the room.
An ache of familiarity. I squeeze my eyelids tighter. I see Younger Uncle and Mom in our penthouse. A childhood memory? A half-remembered dream? Younger Uncle pours red wine. Smiles as he hands Mom the stemless glass. She looks away. Sips…
Then the vision is gone. And so is the odd feeling.
I open my eyes. I bask in the lush warmth and depth of analog, something not possible with digital.
Braid laughs at some joke he made about the “seaweed bits” stuck on Strike’s chin and upper lip.
Meanwhile Strike sneaks his hand behind Braid. “Ha!” he says, “At least I can grow hair on my face! Not like some people…” He laughs. His fingers wrap around Braid’s braid. His laugh transforms into fake moans as he tugs. He jumps up behind Braid. Now he’s gyrating his hips. Moaning louder.
Patch holds his belly, cracking up silently.
All of a sudden, Strike freezes. Braid’s braid slips out of his hand. He’s staring at the entrance. His lips move. “Look who’s here, boss,”
he says, “Black Coolie.” He contorts his face.
I look over my shoulder. Sure enough there’s Ha-na. All alone, like always, like she should be, because I made it law. In fact, it’s the first law I established as boss a few years ago—no one at school can hang out with her. A couple of months later, after a particular world history lesson, I expanded the Ha-na law: everyone has to call her “Black Coolie.” The British called their indentured servants from India and China “coolies,” but the term turned into a slur. And Ha-na is slur worthy because I say so. Especially when she’s on my turf.
Ha-na Desai. She’s half-Indian, half-Korean. She pulls more Indian because she’s dark brown.
Brown. Black. It’s all the same to me—the opposite of light. Maybe I Wouldn’t be so repulsed by her if she was some other dark and not part Indian.
My mom had a bad encounter with some Indians once. I was there when she told Older Uncle about it. I remember it like it was yesterday because it’s the only time I’ve ever heard Mom complain about anything.
I was almost six. I was supposed to be sleeping. Older Uncle had tucked me in an hour before. But I was wide awake, excited that he was around because my dad never seemed to be home anymore. So I snuck out of my room and hid under one of the end tables in the living room. I played quietly with my toy car. And listened. Watched.
Older Uncle sipped on a cup of tea. “How are you and Dae-sung doing?” he asked.
Mom smiled a nervous smile and looked away. Then, eyes on her feet, she said, “Fine. We’re fine.”
“Has he—”
Mom whipped her head up. “No!” she blurted. “No. Don’t worry. He hasn’t done that in awhile.”
Older Uncle squinted as he examined Mom’s face.
“He hasn’t, really. I’d tell you,” Mom said with lots of long blinking. I counted the blinks, eight. She took two quick sips of her tea, avoiding Older Uncle’s eyes.
Older Uncle nodded. He sat back. “I’m relieved to hear that,” he said. He took a sip then asked, “I guess last week was because of something else?”
Mom scratched her neck. “Last week,” she began. She touched her mouth before she gave an ill-timed smile. “Oh, yes, last week. Yes, I had a bad migraine.” She raised her eyebrows and interlaced her hands. “Glad it’s gone. I’m feeling much better.”
“Good. That’s good,” Older Uncle said. He gulped some tea.
Mom sat up straight, a sour expression on her face as if she just took a bite of overly fermented gimchi. “You know what else happened last week?” She wrinkled her nose.
Older Uncle shook his head.
“Some random G.I. slipped me something at the club.”
Older Uncle leaned in toward my mother. “Slipped you something?”
Mom didn’t answer. She kept going, speaking faster. “Those G.I.s, such rude and arrogant U.S. soldiers, hit on me. They were dark, but not black, Indian maybe? Anyway, one of them tried to kiss me! I held up my left hand, practically shoved my wedding ring in his face. He grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. He laid a tiny plastic bag in my palm then said, ‘You’ll want me after this.’ Then he winked, and just like that he and his buddy turned to go. But not before I heard one of them say to the other, ‘That Dae-sung—I can’t believe he got his wife into this shit.’”
Older Uncle frowned. “Dae-sung wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t go against the code,” he said.
Mom rested her chin on her hand and nodded. “I know,” she said, “I didn’t believe them.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t try it, did you?” he asked with a hard look.
She had trouble meeting his gaze. She looked down and away. “Of course not,” she whispered.
“And you got rid of it?” he asked.
Mom nodded.
“I’m so relieved,” he said. He took a long sip of tea.
“But that time D—”She cut herself off and pressed her lips together.
“What’s that?” he asked, setting his cup down and looking at Mom.
She gave him an awkward half smile. “Nothing,” she said shaking her head. “I’m curious about it though. I mean sometimes I could use a little, you know…” She wrung her hands. “Especially when—”She cut herself off again, this time her body and face was frozen.
“Especially when what?” Older Uncle asked in a taut voice.
Mom wrapped her arms around herself. “Nothing,” she said again. “It’s nothing. When I told Dae-sung about those Indians he smiled. ‘Can you blame them?’ he asked, ‘Those poor bastards just wanted to get near the hottest girl in the club.’ But I insisted that I didn’t like them or trust them. Dae-sung got all serious. ‘You better get over it,’ he said, ‘because they just contributed enough money to TSP to put Rocky through university one hundred times.’” She exhaled a slow breath. She sipped her tea. “But I can’t get them out of my head. They were so awful. I could’ve easily just—”She didn’t finish. All she did was clasp her hands over her head.
“Thankfully you didn’t,” Older Uncle said.
Mom dropped her hands to fidget with her ring. She swallowed hard.
Older Uncle pressed his temple. “Those men, they don’t sound like regulars or anyone I’ve ever seen. And I wasn’t there for that deal.” His forehead puckered. “Can you describe them in more detail?” he asked.
“Not really,” Mom said with a shrug. But then her eyes narrowed. “They were dark and sweaty and smelled gross. Like curry and wet dog. I was scared.”
Older Uncle tapped his chin.
Mom bit her lower lip, then tried to smile before she said, “I’m sure Dae-sung took care of it. I’m sure they’ll never bother me again.”
Older Uncle didn’t say anything. He was peering out the sliding glass door. A few minutes later he whispered, “Please let me know if that ever happens again.”
This time Mom didn’t say anything. But I saw her slide her hand into her pocket…
“Black coolie freak,” Strike mumbles.
I track Ha-na. I’m a wolf after all. She’s a little lost lamb.
No one’s paying attention to the black coolie. She skulks along the edge of the wall until she falls into the back of the long line of students at the buffet table. Her wavy hair oozes down her back, like the black sludge in the bathroom sink drain if our house cleaners miss a week, and coats her cheeks.
The kid in front of her is digging around in his backpack. He pulls out a folder. As he slings his backpack onto his shoulder, he ends up dropping the folder. Loose papers spill out, fanning near his feet. Before he even moves, Ha-na’s already crouched. Quick as a wink she gathers up the papers and stacks them neatly on the folder. She looks up at the kid from her squat, smiles, and then holds out the thin pile. The kid glares at her as he snatches his papers and folder. He whisks back around without saying one word of thanks. Ha-na drops her head. A soft but frustrated exhale escapes from her slightly parted lips.
Strike rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. “What do you think, boss? You want Patch and me to handle it?” he asks.
I nod. They know to keep it mostly to words. Maybe a little shoving. But never beyond that for a girl, even a girl as nasty as Ha-na.
Patch and Strike exchange half smiles.
“Shall we?” Strike asks him.
Patch nods, then springs up.
The two of them take their time swaggering towards her.
Ha-na’s arms are by her side, but she starts waving a hand to Pavarotti’s bold voice.
I rip the stylus off the record. She’s not allowed to enjoy my music. When I look back, her hand has stopped. That’s better.
She inches forward in the slow line. Then she cups her mouth and nose and sneezes. Not once. Three in a row. Three high-pitched kitten sneezes.
My mom sneezed the exact same way. I thought my mom’s were so adorable. But from Ha-na…
I fast tap my shoe. My fists ball up under the table. Relax. I light up another cig to take the edge off. Three quick
draws in a row before exhaling three large smoke rings.
Braid taps my shoulder. “Watch this, boss,” he says holding up his cell phone. “Let’s give Black Coolie a little appetizer.”
I smile inside. My boys and I have Ha-na’s number. We made her give it to us awhile back when we were into prank calling. And she knows she better answer our calls, or else. She knows she better not change her number, or else.
Braid speed dials on speaker, keeping his eyes on her.
She pats a pocket on her uniform skirt. She reaches in, pulls out her cell, and checks. She frowns, then shoves the phone back in her pocket without answering!
Before I have a chance to get worked up, Patch and Strike reach her. They sandwich her. Patch lightly pushes her.
Her head and shoulders don’t droop like usual. She actually stares at Patch.
Strike brings his mouth to her ear. “Ugly. Fat. Black. Coolie,” he says in a loud voice. Then he presses one hand on his chest, the other onto his mouth and fake retches.
A hush falls over the entire dining hall. All eyes are on the three of them.
Ha-na still doesn’t make like she’s going to retreat, she even glowers.
That’s when I make my move. I saunter over, hands in my pockets, chin slightly lifted. The only sound—my shoes striking the hardwood floor.
Strike swats at her hair. Patch goes to push her again.
“Stop,” I boom.
My boys drop their arms and step back.
I plant my feet in front of her, an uninterested look on my face. I flick my cigarette stub on the floor. Smash it with my sole. I look at her. “Pick it up,” I order.
She doesn’t move.
I take out my gold pocket watch. “You have thirty seconds.”
Some sharp inhales around the room, then silence. It’s so quiet I can hear the tick tick of my watch. I count the ticks in my mind. Thirty. Slide my watch into my pocket. “Pick it up. Now,” I say, reaching for her shoulder.
She crams her hand into her pocket and pulls out a folding knife. She fumbles with it.
I retract my hand. I cross my arms and watch her, intrigued.
