new story, please critique
When I say please critique, as long as it is productive I will not care how harsh it may seem. Constructive critisism is wonderful, as are constructive compliments. This story is not as polished as it could be, so help me out.
Plus, I like to show off my mad writing skillz.
Oriental Sauce
Vincent could feel them watching him.
He sat at the corner table with tea steaming in front of him, untouched. They glanced at him as a group when he came in, casting accusatory glances until they understood that he wasn’t whatever they thought he was. Every now and then one of them would look up at him, briefly, when the others weren’t watching. They seemed awfully curious for him not being whatever they thought he was at first. He huddled in his thick jacket, stared down at the battered copy of Neuromancer and studied them out of the corner of his eye. Five guys, maybe eighteen at the oldest. High schoolers. Mostly shaggy hair, not long like his but more like garage band hair. Nice clothes, for the most part. A little forced, but looked decent in ties. They looked kind of like football players, ordered to dress up on game day by their coach, but not jock enough to be football players who’d care about rivals. Debaters? That could be it. Notebooks, longish hair, it worked. Who did they think he was, a spy from a rival high school, listening in on classified knowledge, trying to get a bead on the competition? When the blond pudgy one looked up again Vince let his eyes move towards him, trying to smile in a non-threatening way. The boy glanced down hurriedly, and Vince chuckled to himself. High schoolers. Man, high school had only been two years ago, one and a half really, but it felt like so much longer.
Soon the debaters were getting up, putting on jackets and leaving more trash than they picked up. Fucking slobs. Feeling the eyes on him again, he picked up his cup and took a sip, looking at them over the rim. The blond one blushed slightly at the eye contact. As they let the door swing shut behind them, he heard one say, “Dude, I think that chick likes you.”
He almost spit out his tea, though he was unsure if it was in amazement or amusement. For a good while, he thought about the debater’s words. He was slight, and could be taken as a shortish man or a tallish woman, which would be even harder to tell sitting down. With his hair reaching just below the shoulders and bulky jacket, he could see having an ambiguous gender, and maybe passing for female. His father was fully Japanese, his mother a European mix. From his father he got full lips, brown eyes, and thick dark hair. From his mother, an angular nose and the ability to drink like a fish. His eyes were somewhere in between, narrower than his mother’s but not quite his father’s. Long lashes made them stand out even more. His girlfriend Nadia said they were his best feature, loved to put mascara on him. It was part of their game for her to plead and him to resist, eventually giving in with feigned reluctance and letting her gloat about her victory, gleefully picking out shades of eyeshadow to match whatever he was wearing and layering on mascara. He didn’t mind, and she knew it. That was why it was OK-they had understandings about each other, unspoken boundaries. He didn’t touch her sensitive feet, and she didn’t comment on his driving. She was allowed to braid his hair as long as she didn’t comment enviously on his naturally straight hair, having unruly curly hair herself. He was allowed to jump in the shower with her anytime as long as he didn’t prevent her from getting clean. They would do-si-do in the small shower, carefully maneuvering to take turns in the meager stream of water, giving light kisses in passing.
“L’chai-im!” A glass was raised, to be met with a chorus of “L’chai-im”s and “To life”s, glasses drunkenly held high. Vince meandered after Nadia, hard lemonade in hand, and congratulated her fellow thespians on a successful closing night. Sure, he’d seen Fiddler on the Roof three times since it opened, but tonight really had been the best. Tevye had sneezed all through the first performance and one of the dancers twisted his ankle during the second show, but tonight’s was fairly flawless. You could barely tell half the cast had worked themselves into sickness and exhaustion. Curtain having fallen, now was the time to celebrate and pat each other on the back.
“Vince, this is Ariel. She played Tzeitel. Ariel, my boyfriend Vincent.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Vincent shook her offered hand in that awkward single squeeze way. “You were one of the daughters, right?”
Ariel sniffed. “Tzeitel, the oldest daughter. The important one.”
“Right. Uh, good job tonight.” Vince took a swig of his drink and stared at the floor, wishing he had something stronger. Nadia and Ariel rehashed the night’s performance, giggling about imperceptible mistakes and lamenting the end of the run. Vince followed their conversation best he could, nodding at appropriate moments and surveying the room. He was in turn introduced to the rest of the cast, many of whom Nadia insisted he had met when he had attended the show on other nights. Vince feigned recognition, which he suspected was met with equally feigned recognition. When Nadia spotted someone across the room and rushed to grab them, Vince stood alone for a moment and wandered off to find a place to sit.
His seat options were limited to the kitchen, where most of the crew seemed to congregate, the living room, full of couples cuddling and people laying on top of each other, and the back porch which, while drafty, was only somewhat full of smokers. He slid out a clove cigarette, hoping that no one would think him a pretentious hipster for it, and planted himself in a deck chair. The plastic was cold through his jeans but close to the door, so every time someone came or went, he was subjected to a warm gust and sounds from inside. Conversation on the porch was more subdued than inside, as most people chose to finish their cigarettes and hurry back into the warmth. Vince was content to mostly listen to conversations, which became more random and louder as people got drunker. He ventured inside to replenish his drink for the third time and ran into Jake, a guy he had a class with freshman year.
“Hey man, your girlfriend was awesome tonight.” Jake must have smoked up before arriving, since he reeked of pot but Vincent hadn’t seen him outside.
“Yeah, thanks. I thought she did a pretty good job, too.”
“Hey, man. Hey. Show me some love, eh?” Jake held out his hand. Vincent obliged, slowly following Jake in an elaborate hand jive that ended in clasped wrists.
“Hey, check it out! Look here, we have one whole Asian person, one whole white person.” Jake laughed. “You’re Japanese, right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Quarter Japanese, quarter Vietnamese. Asian pride.”
“Uh, yeah. Cool.” Vincent’s wrist was still clasped, and he was beginning to feel the crowd’s attention being drawn to them. “I, uh, have to go take a leak.”
“Oh right right right, sorry.” Jake let go, and Vincent wove his way towards the hall. He thought he might have heard someone say ‘Asian pride’ behind him, but he wasn’t sure.
Someone was puking loudly in the bathroom so Vince allowed himself to be directed to a spot behind the garage where the grasses had grown up tall. He unzipped and tried not to think about what he might be standing in. In the outskirts of town, the stars were so much more visible. It was serene, staring up at the Milky Way haze and listening to his piss hit the grass, making that satisfying noise that just can’t be achieved when pissing into a toilet or urinal. He was musing over the musical quality of it and thinking about how some of the satisfaction must come from knowing you’re pissing outside in nature, when he heard Nadia calling his name, with other giggling voices occasionally joining in.
In the living room, Nadia was sprawled on the couch with some girls Vincent couldn’t remember if he knew or not. His girlfriend was finishing up braiding a blond girl’s extremely long hair under the direction of a brunette. Nadia’s face lit up when she saw him.
“Vince! Racquel taught me how to french braid, let me try it on you.”
“Yeah, I’m good. Maybe another night.”
“Nooo, I want to try it when she’s here to tell me if I’m doing it right.”
She stuck her lip out and made puppy dog eyes, and the other girls began pleading too, making come hither gestures and pouty faces. He sighed, and got on the floor in front of her. The girls squealed and began combing out his hair.
“Oh my god, your hair is so silky. Do you just use hardcore conditioner?” The blond sighed wistfully.
“Yeah. Um, this stuff... I don’t remember what it’s called.” Her fingers were freezing.
“It’s Herbal Essences, with the marigolds and stuff. Super yummy.” Nadia was starting to separate his hair.
“You’re so lucky, Nadia. Even if Greg grew his hair out, there’s no way he’d let me braid it.” It was Racquel’s turn to sigh wistfully. “And Vincent has such pretty hair. I totally didn’t know he was your boyfriend.”
“I am pretty lucky. He’s so good to me.”
“Plus, Asians are freakin’ hot.”
The girls giggled, and Vince could feel himself blushing slightly.
“Carolyn totally has an Asian fetish, if you couldn’t tell by the way she’s drooling.”
The blond punched Nadia’s arm lightly. “Do not.”
Racquel laughed. “You do so. You hit on every exchange student from Japan and get so jealous of the guys with Asian girlfriends.”
Nadia giggled. “I have an Asian girlfriend. Vince looks so pretty in braids, and when I put mascara on, daaamn. He could totally pass for a girl.”
“I bet. That’d be so hot.”
“See, you do have an Asian fetish.”
“Arg, I do not!”
Vincent pulled out of Nadia’s hands, eliciting protests and frustration.
“Vince, I was almost done. You should have told me before moving.”
“I... sorry. I think I need to go home.”
A look of concern crossed Nadia’s face. “You OK? You feeling sick or something?”
“I think I’m just ready to go. I’m kinda tired, and have a modeling gig in the morning. Y’know?”
“Oh, OK. Well, um. You want me to grab my coat and stuff?”
“You can stay, I mean, if you really want. I can just walk home.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s not that far.” That was a lie. “I don’t mind.” That was another lie.
“Are you sure?”
“If you want to stay, I’m not going to make you come home.”
“Alright. Well, I’ll see you when I get home, then. Take care. Love you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Vincent was still awake, staring silently at the insides of his eyelids when she came in and cuddled up quietly several hours later. He finally fell asleep after her breath had become slow and even, cheek pressed against his back, arm draped over his.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat, some dance to remember, some dance to forget- With a quick finger, Nadia silenced the Eagles, replacing them with a jazz mix that slowly spun to life. Vincent tapped a beat on the steering wheel, enjoying the rare drive to one of the few pet stores that sold live feeder mice. “Samantha’s going to be so happy to eat again.”
Nadia nodded. “She’s finally coming out of hibernation mode. She’s a hungry, grumpy snake when she wakes up.”
He guided the car through sparse traffic and reached over to hold Nadia’s hand. “So, I met with Ron the other day. Ron, I think I mentioned him, he’s the guy that owns the vineyard? We met for coffee yesterday to talk about his next art project he might be hiring me for, and we’re chatting, and he’s talking about meeting with a new doctor, and how the assistant is this Japanese or Vietnamese chick, I forget which, going through med school. He’s saying how she’s smart and good at what she does and gorgeous, never mind the fact that he’s got thirty years on her, but he kept referring to her as oriental. Not Asian, oriental. So I just slip in, ‘actually, the PC term now is Asian, or Asian American. Oriental is for things like rugs, but it’s kind of frowned upon in general.’ So he apologizes, says he didn’t know, and continues with the story. Every time he mentions her now he says the Asian young lady, putting a little emphasis on Asian and pausing a little, like he wants to make sure I noticed that he changed the word. It was funny. He was like a little kid going, ‘Look Mommy, I did it! See, see, see?’”
She laughed, and made an embarrassed coughing noise that ended the laughter. “So, um, do you mind me calling it Oriental Sauce?”
“That stuff you made for the ham around Easter?”
She cocked her head and brushed away a curl the color of caramel. “Yeah, I think so.”
“What’s in that, again?”
“Apricot-pineapple preserves, soy sauce, ground ginger, Gold N Soft.”
“Gold N Soft?” He swerved to avoid a bicycle, ignoring the car in the other lane that honked at him.
“Yeah. You know, margarine?”
“Oh, right. Remember I came from a household that didn’t believe in things like margarine. Hippie parents.”
“Yeah. I like your parents. So, do you mind? Like, since the oriental thing seems to really bother you.”
He sighed. “I can understand it’s a family recipe, and there’s no harm meant by it, but I still flinch whenever I hear the word because it’s generally used in a much less acceptable way. I’m not asking you to change the name, but it does bother me.”
“Well, I’m sorry it bothers you. I’m glad you’re not asking me to change it though, because I wasn’t planning on it.”
He glanced at her, surprised, and more than a little annoyed. She was looking out the window, and missed it. “Wait. So if it did bother me enough to ask, you still wouldn’t change it?”
“Well, I might not call it that around you, but to me it will always be oriental sauce.”
“Hm. Interesting.”
Her hands twitched in frustration. “So, if your family had an old recipe called Cracka Sauce, would you change the name?”
“Yes, because it’s offensive.”
“Oh, whatever.”
“No, even if I wasn’t dating you, dating anyone of European descent, I’d change it. It’s not respectful.”
“Jesus, you could just call us white.”
“But you’re so much more than a color. And you’re not white, you’re peachy pink.”
The rest of the car ride was filled only by smooth jazz.
Later, Vincent lay on the bed. Nadia came in quietly and watched him stare at a spot in the distance, flicking at the blanket edge. One of the lights had burnt out, so everything was lit in a dull glow that did nothing to improve the mood.
“What’s got you down, now? Same shit?”
He sighed, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry about the sauce thing. I shouldn’t bring that up again.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s bullshit. I have no right to.”
“What?” She gently pulled at his hands. He let her take them away from his face.
“I don’t really have the right to complain. It’s like, I’m not a real Asian. I’m not a European either, though. I don’t really feel that different from anybody else, but people point out that I’m different. I’m the ‘token asian’ of the group, but really, I’m not. I’m no more Asian that you are- I don’t hold anything from the culture, don’t speak the language- at least the huge anime fans with the boners for anything from Japan know enough to get by or some history or something. They’re less useless than I am to the culture. I carry half a Japanese name and genes for dark hair. Oh, and I can’t wear soft contact lenses because I can’t open my eyes wide enough.”
“I didn’t know you couldn’t wear soft lenses.”
He snorted. “Yes, because that was the whole point of what I was saying.”
“You can keep going.”
“You’re too kind. Think about it like this. Imagine there was no bisexuality, no name for it I mean. How would you feel? You’re not really gay, you’re not really straight. You just feel sort of lost and out of place whichever group you’re in. I know it’s not the same, but- can you see what I’m getting at? I know it’s not that important. A part of me knows the whole race thing is total bullshit but I still feel like crap knowing that I don’t have any, I dunno. Cultural identity. What it boils down to is, everyone wants a home team to root for. It’s lonely otherwise.”
“But there have to be others that feel like you. I mean, there are lots of other multiracial people.”
“Just because you’re not the only one doesn’t make it feel less lonely, not this. Not for me, not now.”
“I guess I just can’t say anything to help, can I.”
“No, you really can’t, because as much as I appreciate you trying I still can’t get past the fact that you don’t know what I’m talking about at all. I’m sorry. My mom doesn’t get it either. She tried talking my dad into hosting some exchange students once, thinking it’d be fun. He was so against it, and she had no idea why. I got it- it was because he wasn’t really Japanese in terms of culture, just by blood, and it would be embarrassing and we’d have nothing in common with them.”
He rolled onto his stomach, hiding part of his face with his arm. Nadia reached out and began to stroke his hair. She combed it out with her fingers and separated it into three sections, starting a thick braid. He heaved a sigh, pulling uncomfortably on his hair.
“I’m making mountains out of molehills, y’know? Telling people not to use the word ‘oriental’ is a bullshit little campaign because it’s not really important. No one is throwing shit out of car windows at me, yelling about how I’m a slanty-eyed yellow devil. There’s no risk in this. I’m not fighting racism, I’m making petty squabbles so I can feel righteous.”
“No, babe, anything that fights racism is worthwhile.”
“Whatever.”
She sighed and finished his braid. She tucked it lovingly against his side before he flopped onto his back, hand behind his head. He glanced at the wall, annoyed, as his next door neighbor began blasting Dave Matthews’ Band.
“You’d think he’d blast angry music, like punk or metal or something. Not this Dave Matthews shit. That’s for strumming on a guitar while girls flock all over you, swooning ‘Ooh, I love that band.’”
She tried to smile. “At least he’s off the Dire Straits kick. You said he played Sultans of Swing how many times that one day?”
“I counted at least six. Anyway. I’m thinking about cutting my hair.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. It feels like it’s time for a change. Plus, I get mistaken for a chick too easily.”
She sat stroking his braid. “I think you should call your dad, see what he has to say about the racial stuff. If nothing else, he’d have a better idea of where you’re coming from.”
“Yeah. I still think I’m going to cut my hair.”
Vincent blew on his chai, watching the milk froth move and close behind his breath, seamless and perfect again. “Thanks for driving out to do coffee. I- have a question. I just don’t really know how to start this conversation. Like, I know what I want to ask, just not how to ask it.”
Vincent’s father nervously took a sip of his coffee. He took his coffee black or with a tiny bit of cream, and strong, as long back as Vincent could remember. Never skim milk, he said, because it would look blue in the coffee and that was just gross. He was an intelligent man, in college when he was fifteen and kicked out of the dorms for allegedly threatening someone at knifepoint at sixteen. The fact that it was a butter knife brandished in jest and the victim was the resident bible thumper, whom he pointed out no one really liked, seemed to have been overlooked. He was part of the pothead/acidhead/Deadhead generation and bestowed his treasures, old concert tshirts worn thin and soft, on Vincent against his wife’s wishes. Vincent’s mother would say that the shirts were collectibles and should be in boxes or frames. His father would say that tshirts were things to be worn and appreciated that way, and since they were his, Vincent got to wear them. Today he was wearing his favorite, the Grateful Dead/Blues Brothers at Winterland, New Year’s Eve 1978, Breakfast Served At Dawn. But, for all his colorful past and casual attitude, he was still a very private man and, while affectionate, would much rather discuss music or philosophy and dive into personal issues. The last time he saw his father with the same nervous expression he was wearing now was when his little cousin was asking him where babies come from and he told her to ask his dad.
Vincent took a sip of his chai, ignoring the sting of the hot beverage. “I guess what I want to ask is- race. Racial identity. It’s something that’s been bugging me lately, like, I don’t feel like I have one, really. I don’t really feel Japanese, you know?” He filled his dad in on the conversation in the car with Nadia, the one with Ron, and his recent revelations. His father visibly relaxed, and looked thoughtfully into his coffee, at the blown glass lamps, at Vincent.
“Race is a tricky thing. In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, there’s a great quote I like sharing with people: ‘There are many things worth living for, a few things worth dying for, and nothing worth killing for.’ The character saying this happens to be called the Chink, even though he’s Japanese, but that’s a part I usually leave out when telling people. Many people have died, and killed, over skin color and what cloth they stand under.”
Something in the laundromat next door made a banging noise. Vincent imagined an exploded machine, vomiting underwear and suds through the door and into the street, though he doubted it was really that exciting. He could wish.
“Think about the word oriental, and whether the words themselves are that important. They are, they have an impact, but how much of one, y’know? There was a great comedian on the radio the other day, really funny guy, and he had this bit that went something like ‘Reparations paid out to the African American community: zero dollars. Money earned by rappers towards the U.S. economy: four billion dollars annually. White suburban teenagers calling each other the n word: priceless.’ There are a lot of words that can do a lot of damage. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about some of them. When I was younger, oriental was OK. I never questioned it. Then it was Asian, Asian American. A lot of the folks at the Native American Indian Center prefer the term Indian. I’ve become more aware of the word oriental, but it doesn’t bother me unless it’s said as an insult. ‘Jap’ has always bothered me, though.”
Vincent nodded, and blew on his chai. He noticed the gutterpunks at the next table glancing at them, decided they were uninteresting. The man sitting in the corner had his iPod earbuds in. The girl at the public computer was covertly picking her nose with her thumbnail while pretending to scratch the bridge. “I picked up a copy of Ken Kesey’s jail journal, awesome book, full of pictures and writing and stuff, right? Something funny I noticed was that, in his handwritten notes and pictures he called African Americans ‘spades,’ but where his notes have been transcribed into printed text, they change it to ‘blacks’.”
His father nodded, tugging at his beard. Vincent’s grandmother on his mother’s side had said the previous summer that his father looked like Genghis Khan with the facial hair.
“One thing you have to think about it, just how Asian do you have to be? There’s this concept of racial purity, that mixing races somehow taints it. If someone was mostly European, and had one great grandparent who was African American, they were considered black because the white part had been tainted. What percentage do you have to be to stand up for what you believe in? Half? A quarter? Seventy-five percent?”
“Nadia made the observation that you don’t have to be part of a group to stand up for them.”
“And she’s right. That’s really good. Justice is justice. I like her, she’s god a good head on her shoulders. Even if she is unreasonably stubborn about the sauce thing. Heh, ‘Cracka Sauce’. I like that.”
“She thought she was being pretty clever. I’m picturing a mix of ketchup and mayonnaise, myself.”
“Even better, Miracle Whip.”
“Eww.” It felt good to laugh, after so much tension. They finished their drinks, and left.
There were no suds out on the sidewalk.
Plus, I like to show off my mad writing skillz.
Oriental Sauce
Vincent could feel them watching him.
He sat at the corner table with tea steaming in front of him, untouched. They glanced at him as a group when he came in, casting accusatory glances until they understood that he wasn’t whatever they thought he was. Every now and then one of them would look up at him, briefly, when the others weren’t watching. They seemed awfully curious for him not being whatever they thought he was at first. He huddled in his thick jacket, stared down at the battered copy of Neuromancer and studied them out of the corner of his eye. Five guys, maybe eighteen at the oldest. High schoolers. Mostly shaggy hair, not long like his but more like garage band hair. Nice clothes, for the most part. A little forced, but looked decent in ties. They looked kind of like football players, ordered to dress up on game day by their coach, but not jock enough to be football players who’d care about rivals. Debaters? That could be it. Notebooks, longish hair, it worked. Who did they think he was, a spy from a rival high school, listening in on classified knowledge, trying to get a bead on the competition? When the blond pudgy one looked up again Vince let his eyes move towards him, trying to smile in a non-threatening way. The boy glanced down hurriedly, and Vince chuckled to himself. High schoolers. Man, high school had only been two years ago, one and a half really, but it felt like so much longer.
Soon the debaters were getting up, putting on jackets and leaving more trash than they picked up. Fucking slobs. Feeling the eyes on him again, he picked up his cup and took a sip, looking at them over the rim. The blond one blushed slightly at the eye contact. As they let the door swing shut behind them, he heard one say, “Dude, I think that chick likes you.”
He almost spit out his tea, though he was unsure if it was in amazement or amusement. For a good while, he thought about the debater’s words. He was slight, and could be taken as a shortish man or a tallish woman, which would be even harder to tell sitting down. With his hair reaching just below the shoulders and bulky jacket, he could see having an ambiguous gender, and maybe passing for female. His father was fully Japanese, his mother a European mix. From his father he got full lips, brown eyes, and thick dark hair. From his mother, an angular nose and the ability to drink like a fish. His eyes were somewhere in between, narrower than his mother’s but not quite his father’s. Long lashes made them stand out even more. His girlfriend Nadia said they were his best feature, loved to put mascara on him. It was part of their game for her to plead and him to resist, eventually giving in with feigned reluctance and letting her gloat about her victory, gleefully picking out shades of eyeshadow to match whatever he was wearing and layering on mascara. He didn’t mind, and she knew it. That was why it was OK-they had understandings about each other, unspoken boundaries. He didn’t touch her sensitive feet, and she didn’t comment on his driving. She was allowed to braid his hair as long as she didn’t comment enviously on his naturally straight hair, having unruly curly hair herself. He was allowed to jump in the shower with her anytime as long as he didn’t prevent her from getting clean. They would do-si-do in the small shower, carefully maneuvering to take turns in the meager stream of water, giving light kisses in passing.
“L’chai-im!” A glass was raised, to be met with a chorus of “L’chai-im”s and “To life”s, glasses drunkenly held high. Vince meandered after Nadia, hard lemonade in hand, and congratulated her fellow thespians on a successful closing night. Sure, he’d seen Fiddler on the Roof three times since it opened, but tonight really had been the best. Tevye had sneezed all through the first performance and one of the dancers twisted his ankle during the second show, but tonight’s was fairly flawless. You could barely tell half the cast had worked themselves into sickness and exhaustion. Curtain having fallen, now was the time to celebrate and pat each other on the back.
“Vince, this is Ariel. She played Tzeitel. Ariel, my boyfriend Vincent.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Vincent shook her offered hand in that awkward single squeeze way. “You were one of the daughters, right?”
Ariel sniffed. “Tzeitel, the oldest daughter. The important one.”
“Right. Uh, good job tonight.” Vince took a swig of his drink and stared at the floor, wishing he had something stronger. Nadia and Ariel rehashed the night’s performance, giggling about imperceptible mistakes and lamenting the end of the run. Vince followed their conversation best he could, nodding at appropriate moments and surveying the room. He was in turn introduced to the rest of the cast, many of whom Nadia insisted he had met when he had attended the show on other nights. Vince feigned recognition, which he suspected was met with equally feigned recognition. When Nadia spotted someone across the room and rushed to grab them, Vince stood alone for a moment and wandered off to find a place to sit.
His seat options were limited to the kitchen, where most of the crew seemed to congregate, the living room, full of couples cuddling and people laying on top of each other, and the back porch which, while drafty, was only somewhat full of smokers. He slid out a clove cigarette, hoping that no one would think him a pretentious hipster for it, and planted himself in a deck chair. The plastic was cold through his jeans but close to the door, so every time someone came or went, he was subjected to a warm gust and sounds from inside. Conversation on the porch was more subdued than inside, as most people chose to finish their cigarettes and hurry back into the warmth. Vince was content to mostly listen to conversations, which became more random and louder as people got drunker. He ventured inside to replenish his drink for the third time and ran into Jake, a guy he had a class with freshman year.
“Hey man, your girlfriend was awesome tonight.” Jake must have smoked up before arriving, since he reeked of pot but Vincent hadn’t seen him outside.
“Yeah, thanks. I thought she did a pretty good job, too.”
“Hey, man. Hey. Show me some love, eh?” Jake held out his hand. Vincent obliged, slowly following Jake in an elaborate hand jive that ended in clasped wrists.
“Hey, check it out! Look here, we have one whole Asian person, one whole white person.” Jake laughed. “You’re Japanese, right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Quarter Japanese, quarter Vietnamese. Asian pride.”
“Uh, yeah. Cool.” Vincent’s wrist was still clasped, and he was beginning to feel the crowd’s attention being drawn to them. “I, uh, have to go take a leak.”
“Oh right right right, sorry.” Jake let go, and Vincent wove his way towards the hall. He thought he might have heard someone say ‘Asian pride’ behind him, but he wasn’t sure.
Someone was puking loudly in the bathroom so Vince allowed himself to be directed to a spot behind the garage where the grasses had grown up tall. He unzipped and tried not to think about what he might be standing in. In the outskirts of town, the stars were so much more visible. It was serene, staring up at the Milky Way haze and listening to his piss hit the grass, making that satisfying noise that just can’t be achieved when pissing into a toilet or urinal. He was musing over the musical quality of it and thinking about how some of the satisfaction must come from knowing you’re pissing outside in nature, when he heard Nadia calling his name, with other giggling voices occasionally joining in.
In the living room, Nadia was sprawled on the couch with some girls Vincent couldn’t remember if he knew or not. His girlfriend was finishing up braiding a blond girl’s extremely long hair under the direction of a brunette. Nadia’s face lit up when she saw him.
“Vince! Racquel taught me how to french braid, let me try it on you.”
“Yeah, I’m good. Maybe another night.”
“Nooo, I want to try it when she’s here to tell me if I’m doing it right.”
She stuck her lip out and made puppy dog eyes, and the other girls began pleading too, making come hither gestures and pouty faces. He sighed, and got on the floor in front of her. The girls squealed and began combing out his hair.
“Oh my god, your hair is so silky. Do you just use hardcore conditioner?” The blond sighed wistfully.
“Yeah. Um, this stuff... I don’t remember what it’s called.” Her fingers were freezing.
“It’s Herbal Essences, with the marigolds and stuff. Super yummy.” Nadia was starting to separate his hair.
“You’re so lucky, Nadia. Even if Greg grew his hair out, there’s no way he’d let me braid it.” It was Racquel’s turn to sigh wistfully. “And Vincent has such pretty hair. I totally didn’t know he was your boyfriend.”
“I am pretty lucky. He’s so good to me.”
“Plus, Asians are freakin’ hot.”
The girls giggled, and Vince could feel himself blushing slightly.
“Carolyn totally has an Asian fetish, if you couldn’t tell by the way she’s drooling.”
The blond punched Nadia’s arm lightly. “Do not.”
Racquel laughed. “You do so. You hit on every exchange student from Japan and get so jealous of the guys with Asian girlfriends.”
Nadia giggled. “I have an Asian girlfriend. Vince looks so pretty in braids, and when I put mascara on, daaamn. He could totally pass for a girl.”
“I bet. That’d be so hot.”
“See, you do have an Asian fetish.”
“Arg, I do not!”
Vincent pulled out of Nadia’s hands, eliciting protests and frustration.
“Vince, I was almost done. You should have told me before moving.”
“I... sorry. I think I need to go home.”
A look of concern crossed Nadia’s face. “You OK? You feeling sick or something?”
“I think I’m just ready to go. I’m kinda tired, and have a modeling gig in the morning. Y’know?”
“Oh, OK. Well, um. You want me to grab my coat and stuff?”
“You can stay, I mean, if you really want. I can just walk home.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s not that far.” That was a lie. “I don’t mind.” That was another lie.
“Are you sure?”
“If you want to stay, I’m not going to make you come home.”
“Alright. Well, I’ll see you when I get home, then. Take care. Love you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Vincent was still awake, staring silently at the insides of his eyelids when she came in and cuddled up quietly several hours later. He finally fell asleep after her breath had become slow and even, cheek pressed against his back, arm draped over his.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat, some dance to remember, some dance to forget- With a quick finger, Nadia silenced the Eagles, replacing them with a jazz mix that slowly spun to life. Vincent tapped a beat on the steering wheel, enjoying the rare drive to one of the few pet stores that sold live feeder mice. “Samantha’s going to be so happy to eat again.”
Nadia nodded. “She’s finally coming out of hibernation mode. She’s a hungry, grumpy snake when she wakes up.”
He guided the car through sparse traffic and reached over to hold Nadia’s hand. “So, I met with Ron the other day. Ron, I think I mentioned him, he’s the guy that owns the vineyard? We met for coffee yesterday to talk about his next art project he might be hiring me for, and we’re chatting, and he’s talking about meeting with a new doctor, and how the assistant is this Japanese or Vietnamese chick, I forget which, going through med school. He’s saying how she’s smart and good at what she does and gorgeous, never mind the fact that he’s got thirty years on her, but he kept referring to her as oriental. Not Asian, oriental. So I just slip in, ‘actually, the PC term now is Asian, or Asian American. Oriental is for things like rugs, but it’s kind of frowned upon in general.’ So he apologizes, says he didn’t know, and continues with the story. Every time he mentions her now he says the Asian young lady, putting a little emphasis on Asian and pausing a little, like he wants to make sure I noticed that he changed the word. It was funny. He was like a little kid going, ‘Look Mommy, I did it! See, see, see?’”
She laughed, and made an embarrassed coughing noise that ended the laughter. “So, um, do you mind me calling it Oriental Sauce?”
“That stuff you made for the ham around Easter?”
She cocked her head and brushed away a curl the color of caramel. “Yeah, I think so.”
“What’s in that, again?”
“Apricot-pineapple preserves, soy sauce, ground ginger, Gold N Soft.”
“Gold N Soft?” He swerved to avoid a bicycle, ignoring the car in the other lane that honked at him.
“Yeah. You know, margarine?”
“Oh, right. Remember I came from a household that didn’t believe in things like margarine. Hippie parents.”
“Yeah. I like your parents. So, do you mind? Like, since the oriental thing seems to really bother you.”
He sighed. “I can understand it’s a family recipe, and there’s no harm meant by it, but I still flinch whenever I hear the word because it’s generally used in a much less acceptable way. I’m not asking you to change the name, but it does bother me.”
“Well, I’m sorry it bothers you. I’m glad you’re not asking me to change it though, because I wasn’t planning on it.”
He glanced at her, surprised, and more than a little annoyed. She was looking out the window, and missed it. “Wait. So if it did bother me enough to ask, you still wouldn’t change it?”
“Well, I might not call it that around you, but to me it will always be oriental sauce.”
“Hm. Interesting.”
Her hands twitched in frustration. “So, if your family had an old recipe called Cracka Sauce, would you change the name?”
“Yes, because it’s offensive.”
“Oh, whatever.”
“No, even if I wasn’t dating you, dating anyone of European descent, I’d change it. It’s not respectful.”
“Jesus, you could just call us white.”
“But you’re so much more than a color. And you’re not white, you’re peachy pink.”
The rest of the car ride was filled only by smooth jazz.
Later, Vincent lay on the bed. Nadia came in quietly and watched him stare at a spot in the distance, flicking at the blanket edge. One of the lights had burnt out, so everything was lit in a dull glow that did nothing to improve the mood.
“What’s got you down, now? Same shit?”
He sighed, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry about the sauce thing. I shouldn’t bring that up again.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s bullshit. I have no right to.”
“What?” She gently pulled at his hands. He let her take them away from his face.
“I don’t really have the right to complain. It’s like, I’m not a real Asian. I’m not a European either, though. I don’t really feel that different from anybody else, but people point out that I’m different. I’m the ‘token asian’ of the group, but really, I’m not. I’m no more Asian that you are- I don’t hold anything from the culture, don’t speak the language- at least the huge anime fans with the boners for anything from Japan know enough to get by or some history or something. They’re less useless than I am to the culture. I carry half a Japanese name and genes for dark hair. Oh, and I can’t wear soft contact lenses because I can’t open my eyes wide enough.”
“I didn’t know you couldn’t wear soft lenses.”
He snorted. “Yes, because that was the whole point of what I was saying.”
“You can keep going.”
“You’re too kind. Think about it like this. Imagine there was no bisexuality, no name for it I mean. How would you feel? You’re not really gay, you’re not really straight. You just feel sort of lost and out of place whichever group you’re in. I know it’s not the same, but- can you see what I’m getting at? I know it’s not that important. A part of me knows the whole race thing is total bullshit but I still feel like crap knowing that I don’t have any, I dunno. Cultural identity. What it boils down to is, everyone wants a home team to root for. It’s lonely otherwise.”
“But there have to be others that feel like you. I mean, there are lots of other multiracial people.”
“Just because you’re not the only one doesn’t make it feel less lonely, not this. Not for me, not now.”
“I guess I just can’t say anything to help, can I.”
“No, you really can’t, because as much as I appreciate you trying I still can’t get past the fact that you don’t know what I’m talking about at all. I’m sorry. My mom doesn’t get it either. She tried talking my dad into hosting some exchange students once, thinking it’d be fun. He was so against it, and she had no idea why. I got it- it was because he wasn’t really Japanese in terms of culture, just by blood, and it would be embarrassing and we’d have nothing in common with them.”
He rolled onto his stomach, hiding part of his face with his arm. Nadia reached out and began to stroke his hair. She combed it out with her fingers and separated it into three sections, starting a thick braid. He heaved a sigh, pulling uncomfortably on his hair.
“I’m making mountains out of molehills, y’know? Telling people not to use the word ‘oriental’ is a bullshit little campaign because it’s not really important. No one is throwing shit out of car windows at me, yelling about how I’m a slanty-eyed yellow devil. There’s no risk in this. I’m not fighting racism, I’m making petty squabbles so I can feel righteous.”
“No, babe, anything that fights racism is worthwhile.”
“Whatever.”
She sighed and finished his braid. She tucked it lovingly against his side before he flopped onto his back, hand behind his head. He glanced at the wall, annoyed, as his next door neighbor began blasting Dave Matthews’ Band.
“You’d think he’d blast angry music, like punk or metal or something. Not this Dave Matthews shit. That’s for strumming on a guitar while girls flock all over you, swooning ‘Ooh, I love that band.’”
She tried to smile. “At least he’s off the Dire Straits kick. You said he played Sultans of Swing how many times that one day?”
“I counted at least six. Anyway. I’m thinking about cutting my hair.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. It feels like it’s time for a change. Plus, I get mistaken for a chick too easily.”
She sat stroking his braid. “I think you should call your dad, see what he has to say about the racial stuff. If nothing else, he’d have a better idea of where you’re coming from.”
“Yeah. I still think I’m going to cut my hair.”
Vincent blew on his chai, watching the milk froth move and close behind his breath, seamless and perfect again. “Thanks for driving out to do coffee. I- have a question. I just don’t really know how to start this conversation. Like, I know what I want to ask, just not how to ask it.”
Vincent’s father nervously took a sip of his coffee. He took his coffee black or with a tiny bit of cream, and strong, as long back as Vincent could remember. Never skim milk, he said, because it would look blue in the coffee and that was just gross. He was an intelligent man, in college when he was fifteen and kicked out of the dorms for allegedly threatening someone at knifepoint at sixteen. The fact that it was a butter knife brandished in jest and the victim was the resident bible thumper, whom he pointed out no one really liked, seemed to have been overlooked. He was part of the pothead/acidhead/Deadhead generation and bestowed his treasures, old concert tshirts worn thin and soft, on Vincent against his wife’s wishes. Vincent’s mother would say that the shirts were collectibles and should be in boxes or frames. His father would say that tshirts were things to be worn and appreciated that way, and since they were his, Vincent got to wear them. Today he was wearing his favorite, the Grateful Dead/Blues Brothers at Winterland, New Year’s Eve 1978, Breakfast Served At Dawn. But, for all his colorful past and casual attitude, he was still a very private man and, while affectionate, would much rather discuss music or philosophy and dive into personal issues. The last time he saw his father with the same nervous expression he was wearing now was when his little cousin was asking him where babies come from and he told her to ask his dad.
Vincent took a sip of his chai, ignoring the sting of the hot beverage. “I guess what I want to ask is- race. Racial identity. It’s something that’s been bugging me lately, like, I don’t feel like I have one, really. I don’t really feel Japanese, you know?” He filled his dad in on the conversation in the car with Nadia, the one with Ron, and his recent revelations. His father visibly relaxed, and looked thoughtfully into his coffee, at the blown glass lamps, at Vincent.
“Race is a tricky thing. In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, there’s a great quote I like sharing with people: ‘There are many things worth living for, a few things worth dying for, and nothing worth killing for.’ The character saying this happens to be called the Chink, even though he’s Japanese, but that’s a part I usually leave out when telling people. Many people have died, and killed, over skin color and what cloth they stand under.”
Something in the laundromat next door made a banging noise. Vincent imagined an exploded machine, vomiting underwear and suds through the door and into the street, though he doubted it was really that exciting. He could wish.
“Think about the word oriental, and whether the words themselves are that important. They are, they have an impact, but how much of one, y’know? There was a great comedian on the radio the other day, really funny guy, and he had this bit that went something like ‘Reparations paid out to the African American community: zero dollars. Money earned by rappers towards the U.S. economy: four billion dollars annually. White suburban teenagers calling each other the n word: priceless.’ There are a lot of words that can do a lot of damage. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about some of them. When I was younger, oriental was OK. I never questioned it. Then it was Asian, Asian American. A lot of the folks at the Native American Indian Center prefer the term Indian. I’ve become more aware of the word oriental, but it doesn’t bother me unless it’s said as an insult. ‘Jap’ has always bothered me, though.”
Vincent nodded, and blew on his chai. He noticed the gutterpunks at the next table glancing at them, decided they were uninteresting. The man sitting in the corner had his iPod earbuds in. The girl at the public computer was covertly picking her nose with her thumbnail while pretending to scratch the bridge. “I picked up a copy of Ken Kesey’s jail journal, awesome book, full of pictures and writing and stuff, right? Something funny I noticed was that, in his handwritten notes and pictures he called African Americans ‘spades,’ but where his notes have been transcribed into printed text, they change it to ‘blacks’.”
His father nodded, tugging at his beard. Vincent’s grandmother on his mother’s side had said the previous summer that his father looked like Genghis Khan with the facial hair.
“One thing you have to think about it, just how Asian do you have to be? There’s this concept of racial purity, that mixing races somehow taints it. If someone was mostly European, and had one great grandparent who was African American, they were considered black because the white part had been tainted. What percentage do you have to be to stand up for what you believe in? Half? A quarter? Seventy-five percent?”
“Nadia made the observation that you don’t have to be part of a group to stand up for them.”
“And she’s right. That’s really good. Justice is justice. I like her, she’s god a good head on her shoulders. Even if she is unreasonably stubborn about the sauce thing. Heh, ‘Cracka Sauce’. I like that.”
“She thought she was being pretty clever. I’m picturing a mix of ketchup and mayonnaise, myself.”
“Even better, Miracle Whip.”
“Eww.” It felt good to laugh, after so much tension. They finished their drinks, and left.
There were no suds out on the sidewalk.