Buddha Baby (20 page)

On Thursday nights the museum was open late, and after her shift at the gift shop Lindsey went to the adjoining cafe to meet Dustin. He had called her at work and since she didn't have anything to do anyway, she agreed to meet him. As she entered the eatery, she scanned the tables filled with evening museum-goers, but didn't see him. After ordering a latte, she made her way across the crowd to an empty spot by the window so she could people-watch as she waited. Looking out at the purple, almost-summer sky, she watched for her old school chum with nervous excitement.

She heard a voice. "Is this seat taken?"

He was about eighty, wearing an old-man windbreaker, and had mostly white hair with a sand-colored swath swooped over from one side, held down by the miracle of Dippity-do and a single, amber-colored bobby pin. And he was holding a catalog from the Asian Art Museum.
Ah so
. He was a
Hoarder of All Things Asian
.

Looking around, Lindsey noticed other cafe patrons sitting at more spacious tables—a black man with a laptop, an older woman emptying a packet of Sweet 'n' Low into her coffee, a white guy with dreadlocks who'd finished eating and was now just sitting there. It bugged her that this senior Hoarder wanted to share her tiny, twelve-inch-diameter table while other singletons occupied spaces three times bigger. In the unspoken, random hierarchy of public seating, it seemed that everyone assumed that Asian girls would be most accommodating. People never seemed to fear that a 120-pound Chinese gal clutching Hamtaro Ham Ham stationery was going to say no, pound their face into the dirt, or pull out a .45 and blow 'em away.

"I don't bite," the old man said. "See, dentures!" He stuck his finger into the side of his mouth and wiggled his entire top row of teeth at her as though they were a delightful finger puppet. Before she could explain that she was waiting for someone, he pulled out a chair and sat down. With pen and paper strewn about the table, it seemed fairly obvious that she was in the middle of writing a letter, but he proceeded to gab away like they were old friends. He began, "When I was in the war…"

This first sentence was a clear indication that the conversation would not be short. Lindsey was certain he was going to talk forever. She was plotting her escape when she heard him say, "and I had me a girlfriend in Hong Kong that looked just like you." He reached over and poked her in the chest, trying to play off that he didn't just basically touch her boob. He rested his gnarled hand with white knuckle-fur an inch from hers on the table.

Lindsey spotted an empty two-top across the room and started to pack up her bag, stowing her unfinished letter to her friend Mimi in a side compartment.

"You can have this table," she said, standing to leave.

"Don't go! I bet you can't guess my name."

"No thanks." She turned away, but was slow in escaping because a big group at the next table had also just stood to leave.

As she waited for them to collect their coats and get out of her way, the old guy said, "Wait! Have you ever seen a glass eye? I got a whole collection at home in my candy jar. If you guess how many I have, I'll give you a Kennedy half dollar!"

This last comment struck her as particularly
Silence of the Lambs
, so she hopped between a couple of empty chairs and bolted. She dodged past some artsy guys with goatees doctoring their mochas, and discreetly raced an old lady for the last window seat. Throwing down her backpack to stake her claim, she sat down and realized she'd forgotten her latte.

Just then she heard a roar outside that rattled the cafe's plate-glass windows. It was a black, vintage Norton motorcycle that had zoomed up onto the sidewalk just outside the cafe. Propping the beautiful machine on its kickstand at a rakish angle, the driver pulled off his helmet and Lindsey saw that it was Dustin. As he sauntered inside, people turned and looked at him. Lindsey noticed other girls and several guys sliding their eyes his way, and she thought to herself, "Okay, it's not just me. He's gorgeous."

He walked up to Lindsey with a smile.

"That was quite an entrance," she said.

"Nothing less would do," he said, taking off his leather jacket. "I'm trying to get in your pants, y'know."

No, she didn't know.

"Want me to get you something?" he said.

"Latte?"

He nodded and walked off, and she couldn't help but enjoy the back view of him.

When he returned, Lindsey thanked him and said, "Something you said the other night… What, exactly, do you mean when you say you only date white girls?"

Dustin took a sip of his coffee. "Well, it's not really on purpose. It just turned out that way. I guess no Asian girl has ever liked me back. Maybe I never wear the right kind of jacket, like other Chinese guys. I've never had a Derby, a Sir Jacques, or a Members Only, which I suppose all the natty Asian dudes were sporting back in school."

Lindsey stirred sugar into her coffee and considered what Dustin was saying as he continued, "In high school, the kind of music you listen to is everything, right? There were zero Chinese girls in Texas who were into New Wave." He chuckled a little. "I was so superior to everybody and everything back then. I think I actually had a T-shirt that said, 'Death to Poseurs.'"

Lindsey nearly jumped out of her seat. "So did I!" she blurted in amazement.

As Dustin continued to talk about high school and college, Lindsey felt as though he was describing her own experiences. It was evident that they had both had a hard time making Asian friends.

"Anyway, I guess part of the reason I moved back here is because I just broke up with my girlfriend in Austin. Incidentally, she was a blonde. Miss Abilene."

Lindsey nearly spit out her drink. "WHAT?"

Dustin was surprised by her response. "Hey, take it easy. I said she was Miss Abilene, but it was, like, three years ago, and just one regional competition. She never went on to any of the big beauty pageants."

Lindsey breathed a sigh of relief. For a split-second her mind had conjured the disturbing image of Dustin fornicating with her seventh-grade nemesis.

She tried to explain, "I thought you said
Ms
. Abilene. You know, from school. Oh, wait. I forgot. You left in the sixth grade, so you don't even know who I'm talking about. Forget it."

They talked some more and exchanged similar stories about how neither of them had ever managed to find their niche in an Asian peer group. As Dustin talked about his vacations in Europe, Lindsey looked into his handsome face and let her imagination wander. She began to think that had he not been pummeled out of her life in sixth grade, they might have really gotten along. If their first romance had been with each other, their path to same-ethnicity dating could have been launched on a whole different trajectory. As it was, neither of them had ever hooked up with another Chinese person, and frankly, staring at his full lips and smooth skin, she was beginning to wonder what he would be like in bed.

Guiltily, she erased that scenario and thought instead about Michael. Growing up, he had always "passed" for white. And although it wasn't his fault that he hadn't attracted harassment, he never experienced the ambivalence, subtle cruelties, or outright hostility that she had. She sometimes doubted if Michael could really ever understand.

But Dustin could. Over the next hour, they got to know each other even better. They each related similar tales of hating their names, insisting on eating only American foods in front of classmates, hating piano lessons, and cutting Chinese school.

Dustin said, "Once in my college dorm I detected the unmistakable odor of
hom hyreur
wafting down the hall from some Chinese guy's microwave. Some white girl walked by and was like, 'Eew, what's that smell?' and I said, 'I don't know,' as if I hadn't eaten stinky, salted fish my whole frickin' life."

He finished his coffee and added, "All that stuff you described about not fitting in with other Asian girls with their spiral perms and their AP Calculus classes—that was the same way I felt around Asian guys. I never felt smart enough around them and they just thought I was an asshole. Do you think Chinese guys are all predestined to become doctors, engineers and CPAs?"

"I dunno. Are you?"

"What, can't you tell by my snazzy clothes and expensive motorcycle? I'm a
flaneur
, a gadfly, a man-about-town." He paused, then added, "Unemployed. A leech on society. Like I told you before, I live off my family. But get this. Now my dad says if I want to get my inheritance, I have to marry a Chinese girl. Doesn't that sound straight out of a movie?"

Lindsey nodded.

"Unfortunately, it's my life. My dad is on some kick about preserving our heritage. Well, he should have thought about that before he moved us to the middle of nowhere, where people think Chinese food is 'crab rangoon' with cream cheese."

"Actually," Lindsey said slowly, "…
I'm
getting married."

She had promised Michael she wouldn't tell anyone until he got the ring, and she hadn't even told her family yet, but she couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Really?" Dustin said.

"Yeah!"

She suddenly felt really excited, and made a mental note to pick up some bridal magazines on the way home. She beamed, "Isn't it great?"

Lindsey had assumed Dustin would be mega-ecstatic for her, like any girl would be. But instead of jumping for joy and acting giddy, he just looked perplexed.

He shifted his weight in the chair and with his head cocked back, said, "This boyfriend of yours, what kind of things is he into?"

She replied, "We walk in the park, watch movies—"

"Oh, I see. He's boring."

Lindsey was annoyed to be interrupted, and on top of that was further irritated by his comment. "He is not. We're in love—"

"Snore! Where's he now, anyway?"

"He's on a trip for work. I really miss him."

"Oh, I bet he's so
nice
. Mr. Nice White Boring Guy. When he's here I'm sure he makes you lunch for the next day and it's waiting for you on the kitchen counter in the morning."

"He's not really white. I mean he is, but not really. Anyway, what's wrong with nice? And for your information, he does make me lunch, and it's sweet." She was in such a hurry to defend Michael's considerate nature that she fumbled the explanation that he was a quarter Chinese. Before she could elaborate, Dustin took another jab at her.

"That's so bourgeois. All you Asian girls end up wanting the same thing— suburban security. Minivans. I thought you were going to be different, but nope. It's nothing but minivans for your future."

Lindsey felt her cheeks burn. It was as if Dustin instinctively knew that the word "minivan" really riled her up. She hated minivans!

She didn't like that he made a sweeping generalization about Asian girls, and plus, it wasn't even accurate. Furthermore, while she was Asian and was also a girl, she certainly did not appreciate being lumped in with nameless, faceless others.

She sulked for a moment, trying to think of a witty comeback. Only an ascerbic rebuttal would do in this situation. But she wasn't fast enough and soon the chance passed. She needed to distract herself from the fact that she was failing at snappy repartee, so she just finished her latte, which had gotten cold.