Typical American (10 page)

Theresa lifted her head shyly.

Grover craned his solid neck up, then down. His hand curled like a cooked shrimp. "Nice shoes," he said finally.

"New ones," Helen volunteered.

"Very darling," said Janis.

"Darling," echoed Helen.

Theresa's collar tightened.

"Very darling, indeed," agreed Grover. He placed his hands in his pockets. Then he winked again, a gleam in his eye, at Helen.

Dinner was ten long courses. These Janis served one after another, banquet-style, more because she had only three working burners and two hands than for formal effect. "Shredded Beef with Peppers," she'd announce, forehead damp, or "Squid with Button Mushrooms." Everyone would exclaim; Theresa and Helen would stand, set aside their napkins, insist they were going to help — Janis was too pregnant to be doing this, really she was — only to have Janis describe how her kitchen was too small for one person, much less two or three. Sometimes this involved pushing her guests back into their chairs. "No, no, your job is eat," she'd say, disappearing again. "Do you know she's think maybe write a cookbook?" Helen asked once. Everyone agreed that Janis certainly could, or should, except Old Chao, who shook his head. "She just like to run after every crazy idea," he said. Everyone agreed with this too. A more politic subject was tried. Another, but over and over, with a collective sigh, the company was dragged back to its apparent fate, congratulating Old Chao on having received a tenure-track job offer just that afternoon. "I think you heard more than enough on this particular sub-

ject," Old Chao kept saying. As indeed they all had. Anxious that they have some kind of conversation, though — it was a matter of face — Theresa especially responded with such keen interest that Old Chao had no choice as a host but to keep talking. He did try digressions — wondering if certain aches he'd been having might be arthritis, for example (Theresa assured him they were not) — but none of these proved sustainable. "And do you know, the department interviewed sixty people — that's six-oh, sixty — and by the end, only two people received so-called offer." This was after the soup, at the fourth course, Lion's Head. "Myself and one very smart guy, much smarter than me, I should say" — a wondering shake of the head here — "who got his doctorate from MIT."

"From MIT! Really!" chorused Helen and Theresa; and, faintly, Ralph. He couldn't eat.

Old Chao hesitated, apparently aware that he was displaying more self-satisfaction than was seemly. But as the silence mounted, he impulsively described another smart guy who didn't get an offer at all. "Can you believe it? Turned down, and he got his doctorate from CaliTech."

"From CaliTech! Ohh!"

Only Grover said nothing. Here everyone was, speaking English out of consideration for him, and he was too occupied to listen. He removed his jacket, chuckling to himself. He put it back on. He took it off again. He folded the napkin on his lap. He played with his chopsticks. He rotated his plate a quarter turn. Helen eyed him surreptitiously as she nodded in Old Chao's direction.

Theresa ignored him. As it was, she could feel her curls unceremoniously uncurling; she forced herself to converse, that she might not see herself in a small, strange room, ever shrinking with shame, far away from everyone else. Lucky thing there was Old Chao — stretching on like taffy, but in an effort to save her, it seemed. And the way he inclined his head her way, pressing his chest to the table edge — wasn't he behaving politely?

As opposed to Ralph, who, head tilted, mouth slack, looked for all the world like someone in love. Theresa saw it; anyone could have seen it. Especially when Grover, whisding, stood to leave the table. What Ralph would have done then to leave with him — good-by, Old Chao and his tenure-track job offer! Good-by, social nicety! Ralph could only ogle, though, helpless with envy, as Grover bailed up his napkin. He did not push his chair in, but left it angled out like a door in midswing.

Janis came out with Strange-Flavored Chicken.

By Ants Climbing Trees, Grover hadn't returned. His jacket hung on his chair back; his napkin uncrumpled slowly beside his plate, blooming like something out of a time-lapse photography sequence. All the same, Old Chao spoke in English, as though Grover hadn't left.

"Of course, for the back and forth, I had to buy a new car," he said. "You remember the old one, I won it in the church lottery?"

"Sure!"

"Well, now I trade it in for a new one."

Shrimp in Hot Sauce. Still no Grover, but they knew that the car was a barely used 1950 Chevy Bel Air DeLuxe, buttercream yellow. It had a full chrome grille, whitewalls, mud flaps, a pushbutton radio, the new stove bolt six engine, and a black convertible top that worked like a dream. It did not have Powerglide automatic transmission; Old Chao had had to settle for manual. He reported that Janis was begging to learn to drive too, which he opposed. "She run around too much already."

By dish ten, a steamed fish, everyone was groaning. "Too much, too much." Janis took her apron off. "Maybe I should ... ?"

Grover was in neither the living room nor the bathroom, but in the bedroom. Janis knocked. Her guest emerged, coolly explaining that he had needed to make a few phone calls.

In the dining room, he pulled his chair close to the table. "I do appreciate your saving me some of your, ah, old chow." He

grinned significantly at his host. Janis spooned some food onto his plate. "Good shrimp." He tried another dish. "Good pork." No one else said anything. "Did I interrupt the conversation?" Looking around, he winked at Helen, rakish; and when this time she stared stonily down at her near-empty plate, he simply turned and winked once more, at Ralph.

Silence. "Yes," Old Chao said. "That's right."

"Well, I'll be damned." Grover blew a smoke ring. "What kind?"

At length it was determined that the men should go out and see the car in person. Janis tendered the suggestion; the relief was almost audible.

"And what will you girls do?"

"Oh," said Janis, "talk girl talk. Be down in a couple minutes."

Neither Ralph nor Old Chao nor Grover said anything in the elevator. Outside, though, they began to talk a litde. The weather, the traffic. It had just rained. The sewer drains thundered liltingly; the streets shone like glazed candy. And before them, now — the car. A long, curvy, ample machine, it sported some chrome — a front grille like a bulldog's jaw, a back bumper. But mostly it was a heartwarmingly plain, sincere machine, promising good fun and few breakdowns; the sort of car that, especially in soft yellow, looked like nothing so much as a bar of soap.

Grover patted it as though it were a racehorse. "She's some gal," he said, between pats. His diamond ring clanked enthusiastically. Old Chao watched nervously, and when Grover turned, inspected the metal for scratches.

"Beautiful!" Ralph touched the car with one respectful finger.

"How's the top work?" Grover asked. "Can we get a look?"

Old Chao started to say no, something about how he didn't like to fold it up when it was wet, but Grover started to clank some more.

"Well, okay." Old Chao unlocked the door in order to demonstrate how the roof unlatched, how it accordioned. The snaps that held it in place, the cover that fastened over that. "What you think?"

Ralph and Grover oohed.

"You see this?" Old Chao showed them the spare tire, which rode in its own metal case on the rear bumper. Ralph and Grover

ahhed. "You want to sit inside?" Opening the door, Old Chao seemed to have forgotten his irritation.

Grover settled into the driver's seat. Ralph sat beside him.

"How about the radio there?" asked Grover. "Does it work?"

"Sure." Old Chao reached back into his pocket for the keys. "You got to turn on the engine."

Ralph and Grover tested the radio, the windshield wipers, the lights.

"What an auto-mo-bile," said Grover. "You're one lucky

guy."

"I guess I am," said Old Chao, a little surprised.

All three of them shook their heads a moment.

"How'd you get so lucky?" asked Grover. "You got a secret?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Nothing you'd care to divulge, huh."

"I just work hard, you know."

The car hummed.

"I just do what people tell me, and don't ask so many questions." Old Chao said this pointedly; but then as if remembering himself, continued in a more amiable tone. "Maybe that's the trick. You know, American people, they always ask this, ask that. Not me."

"When people tell you to hop to it, you hop, hop, hop."

"That's right. That's the Chinese way. Polite." Something in Grover's tone seemed to have set Old Chao back on edge.

"When people ask a question, you answer. No fooling around."

"Right."

"Hmmm," said Grover. "How do you release this brake here?"

"Just pull on the handle." Old Chao answered civilly, modelling his manners.

Grover pulled.

"1 wish I have car like this someday," said Ralph.

"And how do you drive?" asked Grover, hands on the wheel.

"First you put the car in gear," answered Old Chao. "Then you step on the pedal."

Grover put the car in gear, then stepped on the pedal.

"Hey! Stop!" called Old Chao as the car sped away. "Not funny! Hey! Not funny!"

By the time he'd started running, though, Grover and Ralph had already turned the corner; all he got for his efforts was the dwindling sound of the pair of them, laughing.

"Maybe we better go home," said Ralph, after a few minutes. Grover kept driving. "Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Home," said Ralph. He explained where he lived.

"You like it there?"

"Some things I like, some I don't." Ralph told Grover about Pete the super and Boyboy.

"Hmm," said Grover then, or at least that's what Ralph thought he said. He couldn't hear anymore. Since leaving the traffic on the George Washington Bridge they had sped up; now they were headed straight west, fast. Later Ralph was to notice how Grover loved motion in general and speed in particular — obliterating speeds; and how, just when the rest of the world packed its tools away, at twilight, he seemed to come most alive. He didn't ever seem to need to see better than he did.

For example, now. The sun was huge and low, directly ahead; it looked like a moongate leading to a fiery garden. Ralph put his visor down. "I can't see," he said. "Can you see?" Grover did not answer. How fast were they going? Ralph squinted, straining to see the speedometer. It seemed to say a hundred miles an hour. Surely not, he thought; though he could barely move, jacketed as he was to his seat by the wind. "We better go home," he tried to say again. "Where are we going?" And, "I'm cold." But he could not force his words into the air — shuo bu chu lai, literally. He was captive. What could he do but watch Grover drive? Ahead, the moongate stretched wide, just as a

cloud cover lowered itself out of nowhere. Lower, lower. It hovered above them like an attic ceiling. The town ahead, squashed, became all broad, bright horizon; and when the clouds went gold, it seemed to Ralph that the buildings kindled violently. Such live reds and oranges! And now, as though on cue, it all turned — in an instant — to writhing cinder. Ralph felt smoldery himself. Yet Grover drove through the whole grand catastrophe undistracted, as though the torching of a place simply did not matter to him, or as though it were no more than some histrionics he'd ordered up. Background, say, for some larger drama.

Ralph watched him closely. Before this, he'd known only two kinds of drivers — the kind who hunched up, both arms bent, pulling on the wheel as though to keep it from retracting into the dashboard; and the kind who sat so far back that in order to drape one casual wrist over the top of the wheel, they had to stiffen their elbows and curve their spines. Grover was neither. He was, rather, a natural driver, for whom the wheel seemed a logical extension of his hands. Anyone would have thought he'd invented the automobile. For how else could it be that he never had to slow down or speed up? He did not move and consider, move and consider, like other drivers, but only moved. As the cinder town began to deepen, cooling to mere scarlet, Ralph began to discern the familiar road again — to reassure himself that they were indeed on an ordinary highway with other cars. It had seemed that they were hurtling down a straight line; actually, though, they were snaking their way through traffic. He began to see that Grover was directing the slither — not by craning his neck and putting on his blinker and swearing, but simply by glancing, passing, glancing, passing.

Then night, the quick pour of roofing tar that changed everything. Still they drove. Ralph marvelled as the stars came out; the car moved so fast, yet they stayed so still. And how many of them there were! He'd never seen so many, he'd never seen such an enormous sky. "What do you say? Don't see stars like

that in the city, now do you." Grover was speaking. Ralph was surprised how easy it was to hear him. "If you don't get out for a spin every now and then, you forget all about them. And will you look at those trees." They were driving through forest. "Look like leaves and branches, right? But every one of them is an opportunity. You just have to see it." He nodded to himself.

Ralph nodded too. And one truth, he found, led to another: "I'm hungry." He had hardly eaten anything at Old Chao's.

"Me too!" Grover boomed his agreement, a buddy and friend. "Ravenous!"

They pulled so smoothly into the diner parking lot that Ralph took a moment to realize they'd stopped. The lot was empty except for one other car.

In the diner they slid into a green vinyl booth. There were no other customers. "Have what you want," Grover said. "Whatever strikes your fancy."

"Anything?"

"You like to eat," he said sagely. "I can tell."

A freshly painted sign over the counter put closing time at nine-thirty; the clock next to it read nine-twenty-five. Still, the waitress took their order as though she'd be more than glad to stay as long as they liked. Would they like breakfast, lunch, or dinner?

They had dinner, then lunch, then breakfast.

"My treat," Grover kept saying. "It's on me."

Ralph politely began with a hamburger, plain.

"Nothing to drink?"

Ralph shook his head no.

His hamburger arrived. Grover reached across the table and removed the top half of its bun. "Nobody," he said, "eats a burger naked." He piled on top ketchup, mustard, relish, a tomato slice from his own cheeseburger super deluxe, a few rings of onion, five French fries.

"That's good!" Ralph said; and when Grover ordered a black-and-white ice cream soda, Ralph shyly did too. And when Grover

ordered a fried clam plate and a Salisbury steak, just for fun, Ralph ordered a list of side dishes — onion rings, potato salad, coleslaw. Plus a chocolate milkshake. "What the heck," said Grover, approvingly. Ralph laughed. They ate at whim, taking a bite here, a bite there. When their table was full of plates, they moved to another one, where they ordered desserts — apple pie, cherry pie. Black Forest cake.

Ralph groaned. 'Tm full."

Grover roared, "I say we order more!"

"Nonono," Ralph protested, thinking, fleetingly, Typical American wasteful.

But when Grover ordered bacon and eggs, Ralph did too. It was a game. French toast. English muffins. German pancakes.

"We're going to have to haul it all home," said Grover, "in a doggie bag."

"A doggie bag!" Ralph laughed. Everything had begun to seem funny.

"What haven't we ordered," wondered Grover.

Ralph roared. "Chinese pancakes!" he said. "How come there are no Chinese pancakes!"

"Good point. How astute of you," Grover burped.

Ralph belched. Grover loosened his belt a notch. Ralph loosened his belt and undid the button of his pants, saying, "Hope the waitress can't see."

"And so what if she does?"

"We tell her we're just get comfortable."

"We'll tell her," winked Grover, "that we're getting comfortable, so she better watch out."

Ralph roared again. Wliat an adventure! He pried off his shoes; loosened his collar; slumped in his seat like an opium smoker. He was glad, though, that the waitress was nowhere to be seen; and when Grover, getting restless, suggested that they simply go back into the kitchen to see what was left that they hadn't tried, Ralph hesitated before padding after him, holding his pants up with his hand.

The waitress reappeared. "Ah," said Grover. "We were just

saying how we were getting comfortable, you'd better watch out." >

"Were you?" To Ralph's surprise, she did not blush.

Grover caressed her earlobe. "Nice earring you've got there."

She giggled. He pulled her to him.

"What do you say?" Grover winked at Ralph again. "To the kitchen?" Hands on the waitress's hips, he began to walk her like a puppet in front of him.

"Ah," said Ralph. Then suddenly polite, "Nononono."

He drifted back to the dining room alone, buttoning his pants. Flies buzzed over the tables of half-eaten food. One got stuck in some orange pancake syrup. Ralph tried the counter stools, one after another, for squeaks. Then the booths, for spring. In, out. From the kitchen came the sound of pots thrown to the floor. Cronng. Dishes smashing — ack! ackk! asssh! Then laughter. What were they doing that they laughed as they did it? He and Helen never laughed. More dishes. Screeches. He counted the ceiling lights. Then came what sounded like sobbing. Sobbing? Ralph shook his head to himself. Who was going to clean up later? And what about the dishes? And who was going to pay for all the food? Somebody, he thought, was going to have to pay, and though Grover had insisted all along that he would, Ralph began to wonder now if he was going to have to pay too.

He was brooding about whether to call home when Grover emerged, dusting himself off, though he didn't look dusty. "What a mess," Grover said.

Ralph heard the metallic scrape of a car starting up outside — the waitress, leaving.

Grover surveyed the dining room. Morose, he examined his hands. "So." His vest was open, his shirt rumpled and misbut-toned, his carnation wilted.

"So," said Ralph.

Grover felt his pants pocket for a handkerchief.

Silence.

Finally Ralph asked, "So where you from?"

"From?"

"Your hometown is where?"

"Hometown!" Grover laughed, instantly recovered. "You've been here how long? And still asking about people's hometown." He shook his head. "I'll let you in on a secret. In this country, the question to ask is: 'So what do you do for a living.' "

"So what you do for a living?"

Grover laughed again.

How did people get so that they could laugh like that? "I'm work on my Ph.D.," Ralph offered. "My field is engineering. Like Old Chao, except my specialty is so-called mechanics."

"Is that right."

"So your field is what?"

"What? Field? My field" — Grover flashed his gold tooth — "is anything."

"Anything?"

It was almost past understanding: Grover was whole or part owner of any number of buildings and restaurants. A stretch of timberland. "You make a few bucks in one business, then you branch out." He described mines he was in on, and rigs. A garment factory. A toy store. "What with babies popping out all over, toys are getting to be big business."

"Whooo," said Ralph. "That's a lot."

"Think so?" Grover preened, straightening his shirt.

"How come you own so many parts of things instead of one big thing?"

"Good question. And the answer, if you understand me, is that that way it's just a mite harder for people to get a fix on you."

"I got you." Ralph nodded. "That's Chinese way."

"What?"

"All the Chinese guys, you know, outside they look like they live some lousy place, but inside, beautiful."

"No kidding."

"Otherwise government ask them pay tax."

"It's the same story here. The government is a pain in the neck."

"Big pain. Make you be crazy."

"You know," said Grover, squinting. "You got some first-class gears twirling around in that upstairs of yours."

"Think so?" Ralph sat up a little. His waistband pulled.

"I'll tell you who you remind me of."

Ralph waited.

"Myself. You remind me of myself, back when I was nobody."

Slouching again, Ralph twiddled his spoon.

"You know, back then, I worked every lousy job in town, you name it. I was a jack-of-all-trades. I painted houses. I drove cab..."

No wonder he drove so well! thought Ralph.

"... I washed dishes. I even sang in a music show, get that."

"Show!"

"My authentic Chinese face got me in the door. South Pacific, a local production. You know, 'Happy talk, keep talkin', happy talk.'"

Ralph clapped.

"That's what you are in this country, if you got no dough, a singing Chinaman." Grover paused. "True or false?"

"True," guessed Ralph.

Grover smiled enigmatically. He explained how he got his break — how he kept his eyes open until one day he met this guy who needed somebody he could trust. "We happened to get to talking, just like we're talking now, and the next thing — bang — I'm a millionaire. A self-made man. What do you think of that?"

"Millionaire! Self-made man!"

"In America, anything is possible."

"Just from one day, happen to get talking!" Ralph was dazed. "Like we're talking now."

"Understand me, I was already the can-do type."

"Doer type. I got you."

"I had die correct attitude. Very important."

"Positive attitude, right? Use imagination?"

"You got it."

" 'I can do all things in Christ who strengthen me,' " quoted Ralph.

"Well, 1*11 be damned. The engineer's done some reading."

" 'Prayerize,' " said Ralph.

" 'Picturize, , " said Grover.

" 'Actualize.'"

Grover slapped his two hands on the table, grinning so that his molars showed.

"A man makes his mind up who he's going be." Ralph grinned with his molars too. "So what business was that?"

"What?"

"Your first business, that you became millionaire."

"That business?" Grover leaned forward conspiratorially. "That was fats and oils. I still have a hand in it." He explained how his factory took leftover cooking grease from restaurants and turned it into nice, white soap. "We make it smell good, you know? That's the important thing, the smell. You can sell anything if it smells right."

"Interesting."

"That's a secret. I'm telling you a secret."

They went on to other secrets. How a self-made man should always say he was born in something like a log cabin, preferably with no running water. How all self-made men found what they needed to know in bookstores. How he should close some deals with handshakes.

"A couple of big deals. No contract. And favors. Favors are important or the story's not right."

Risk was the key to success. Clothes made the man. Ralph wished the night would go on forever. But finally Grover was winding down. "And one last thing."

Ralph cocked his head, already wistful.

"Keep your eyes open."

"Eyes open."

"Keep your ears open."

"Ears open."

"Know who you're dealing with."

"Know who I'm deal with."

"And keep moving." Grover stood up and stretched. "Keep moving." He seemed to be talking to himself. "I'm going to call us a cab."

"What about the car?"

"It's out of gas anyway."

"The bill," Ralph said. "The mess."

"Forget it," said Grover. "I own this place." He called a taxi, and when it came — a bright yellow Checker, with a loose muffler — he directed the driver to Ralph's address first.

"How do you know where I live?"

"By your able description, remember?" He smiled winningly. "Your landlord's a buddy of mine."

Ralph gaped.

"You'll get that new super one of these days."

They drove home as they'd come, in a deafening wind — Grover had seen to the opening of all four windows. Now, though, instead of magic, what seemed to be flying into the car was everydayness. Grit, chemical smells. As the dark slowly gave way to light, they saw that the day was going to be hazy. Ralph propped his feet up on one of the jump seats, the way Grover had. His bee bite, he noticed, was finally gone. They arrived. Ralph lowered his legs; the jump seat popped right back vertical as though it had already forgotten him.

Grover shook his hand. "Good-by."

"Thank you." To his surprise, Ralph felt his eyes begin to tear. "So much you told me, I know you don't have to."

"Maybe I took a liking to you."

"Did you?" Ralph gripped the door handle. "The way your fats and oil boss liked you?"

Grover laughed. "Come on now. Time to call it a night."

Ralph opened his door.

"But here. My card," said Grover.

"Thank you. Thank you!"

"Give me a ring."

"Good-by." Ralph climbed out. "See you again!"

Who closed the door? It seemed to slam itself shut. Grover leaned back, disappearing from view as the gay yellow cab puttered away, its muffler clattering forlornly after it. Ralph waved at the empty street awhile; even the gas fumes seemed to be evaporating before he was ready. Then his feet turned, and shuffled a few steps, and began climbing the long staircase home.

tree, they were illuminated in pieces — an ear, a finger, a bit of torso. They'd become their emergency selves, in which lopped-off state they felt humanity stretched smoothly between them like one long wash line. They chatted quiedy about the schools in the suburbs, how coats were marked down Columbus Day, whether the United States was doing the right thing in Korea. Old Chao consulted Theresa on a pain he'd been having. It was as though they were gathered around a bridge game, an activity that set the social level for them, so that they did not have to gauge and give out, gauge and hold back, but could relax, companionable. What friends they were! Unexpected as always, happiness flapped through, brushing them with its soft wing. When Old Chao suggested they might take a walk around the block, just to have a look, they did, all four of them. Then Old Chao suggested they try the neighboring blocks too. They each set out in a different direction, making a cloverleaf, meeting back at the apartment. They made phone calls.