Happy Birthday or Whatever (20 page)

“That how you throw, Anne. See how good Mommy play?”

“But it's based on
luck.
”

“No Anne, it skill.”

“Skill? There's no skill involved here. Zero. It's like dice.”

I looked at Tina for help and she smiled sympathetically. If my brother were here, he would've agreed with me.

The game continued and Yoon-chong's marker landed in a space occupied by ours, and their team erupted in cheers and high-fives. Our marker was sent to the starting line. My mother became irate.

“That wasn't a gae, that was a geol! See? One of the sticks is on its side. So it's three spaces, not two. Leave our marker on the board,” she sputtered in Korean.

“No it's a gae
,
” my oldest aunt said.

“If it's on the side, it counts as face-up. It's gae,” Tina's mother confirmed.

“Definitely gae,” said an uncle.

My mother stewed at the injustice. “Mom, it's just a game.”

“Anne, don't you want win?”

“No, not really.”

“Don't you want money?”

“Sure, but it's just fifteen dollars. The only thing you can get with that is coffee.”

Coffee! I looked for my cup behind the fireplace poker. Missing. I sighed. Why didn't I just guzzle it when I had the chance? I got up to pour myself another cup of coffee.

“I think you drink too much coffee. Not good for you.”

I slipped into the kitchen only to find the large percolator empty and my anal-compulsive aunt scrubbing away. She'd rather clean than play yut with a bunch of animals.

“How many cups have you had? No wonder you're so short. There's no more coffee, sorry,” she apologized in Korean. “You can make more.”

“Really?”

She handed me a family-sized jug of Folgers crystals. Instant. The container was so large, it had a handle. I was desperate, but
instant
? To me instant coffee is when you order it and someone hands it to you. My mother called me from the living room. It was our turn again.

My father, who got intrigued by all the commotion and joined the game, threw the sticks and moved our marker on to the same spot as another one of our markers, allowing both markers to travel together. My mother beamed.

“Anne, look how you Daddy play yut, he so good!”

“No skill, Mom. It takes none at all. Come on, Dad. You know this; do the math.”

I tried to appeal to my father's scientific mind. In his brain floated chemical formulas and ionic bonds and the Periodic Table of Elements. He had to agree that four sticks tossed randomly would produce a random result.

“I think it take luck, but luck take skill.”

“That doesn't even make sense.”

Tina's team was in the lead. They had gotten three of their four markers to the finish line. Both Yoon-chong's team and my oldest aunt were tied for second; they each had two markers on the finish line. We were last, with only one marker on the finish line.

“Anne, we have to win! Get mo! Get five space! Throw like Mommy, like I show you!”

I tossed the sticks, exaggerating the way my mother threw. I curled my arm and swung it back deeply, as if I was bowling. I lengthened my arm and hurled the sticks onto the floor and followed through with my entire arm, raising it straight into the air. My relatives burst into laughter. Even my mother grinned.

“How about that?”

“Anne, you such clown. Look what happen!”

Our marker landed on the same spot as the other two markers. We had all three on one space; all our eggs were in one basket. Our relatives smelled weakness. Tina's mother shouted to her daughter to toss a number that would land on our space. Yoon-chong and Yoonmi cheered for Stella to knock us out. Even my oldest aunt, the soft-spoken one, held the sticks closely to her heart and prayed for a number that would send our team back to the starting line. They were out for blood. My mother was not amused. She shook her head.

“Everyone so crazy here! How come we not win?”

“It's luck. I have bad luck, that's all. That's it.”

“Why you have bad luck?”

“Why does anyone have bad luck? It's just luck.”

“Maybe you practice more.”

“Practice
what?
”

Finally the last round of tossing began. Tina's final marker was close to the finish line. They would win the fifteen-dollar pot. I picked up the sticks and threw them listlessly, with the same sense of surrender as a team hopelessly down with three seconds left in the game.

“Oh my God!
Anne! Oh my God!”

“What?”

“WE WIN! WE WIN!”

I had landed all three of our markers on the special space that sent us to the finish line before Tina's team. My mother pumped her fists into the air and clapped loudly. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me excitedly. It was as if we had won a $15 million jackpot. Tina's mother was shocked.

“No, what is this? That's not how we play. That doesn't count. Who put that space on the board? That's not fair. It doesn't count!” She tried to yell over my mother.

“Anne, you know song—‘We are champion!'—you know? We have to sing song.”

I laughed, imagining my mother rocking out with Freddie Mercury.

I grinned. “Mom, I'm so not singing that song.”

My aunt looked at the yut board and shook her head. Tina squeezed my shoulder.

“See? You're not bad at this game.”

“It takes no skill, none at all.”

My mother motioned to high-five me, something I don't do. My New Year's resolution back in 2003 was to be high-five-free. It started as a joke, but I actually did feel silly and uncomfortable when I high-fived, so I just cut it out of my life. Among my friends, I'm known as the one who doesn't high-five.

“Mom, you know I don't high-five.”

I left her hanging but she laughed and hugged me anyway. She shoved the fifteen dollars into my pocket.

“Buy Mommy something nice!”

 

After a while, the conversations in the living room slowed down and relatives lowered their voices because Stella had fallen asleep on the couch. Close to midnight, everyone stood up to collect their
coats and bags. As I put on my shoes to leave, I saw a hand stuff something into my bag. I looked up; it was my anal-compulsive aunt.

“I know we're not doing money this year,” she whispered, “but your young, you live in New York. You need it.”

“No, no, please, I was only kidding before.”

She hugged me and handed me a bag of neatly wrapped vegetarian Korean food. I thanked her and wished her a happy New Year again and stepped outside. The fresh air felt crisp and it smelled like damp grass, something I rarely smelled in New York. I realized that for the past several hours I had been breathing garlic, sesame oil, and a heavy combination of musky and flowery fragrances (my father wears Drakkar Noir). I bowed to my aunts and uncles and said good-bye to my cousins as they each got in their car. I felt like it was the end of a movie, when each person walks off into the night, in a different direction, and the camera pulls back from a peaceful landscape while the credits roll. Tina's mother took me aside.

“You are still the youngest in your generation. You're our Annie. I'm the youngest too, you know.”

“I know.”

“Work hard.”

“I always do.”

She pressed some bills into my hand and floated away. I fished the keys out of my bag as I walked out to my car. My parents came up beside me.

“Anne, you know how to use this? Someone gave me as gift and I don't know how to use. You should take it.” He held out an American Express Traveler's Cheque. He winked.

“Thanks.”

“I see you at home later. Don't stay out too late with your friends.”

With a wave, my father walked off to his car.

“This jacket so thin, you need new one. You not cold?” It was a cold evening by Los Angeles standards and my mother buttoned up my favorite jacket—the cuffs are worn soft and thin and she always suggests it's time to let go.

“No, this is nothing compared to New York.”

She carefully closed my car door, looking to make sure my fingers were out of the way—something she's done since I was seven when Mike accidentally slammed the car door on my pinkie at Dodger Stadium. I turned the key and the engine stirred gently. I rolled the window down.

“Good night, I'll see you later!”

“Happy New Year, Anne. You live! You survive!”

As I drove off, I stuck my arm out the window and waved. I watched my mother in my rearview mirror as she waved back and smiled.

F
or the most part, writing makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a fork, so I deeply appreciate the people who have removed all the sharp objects within my reach. I was lucky to have two editors who worked tirelessly to wrangle with my words. Jill Schwartzman asked all the right questions and kept me on the path of awesome freshness. Jeanette Perez remained organized and calm and tightened every last screw in the project. My agent, Douglas Stewart, supported my every step and assured me that “this doesn't suck as much as you think.”

My professors at Columbia University pushed and prodded, and I am grateful I had the opportunity to work with them. Many of the stories in this book were crafted under the careful guidance of Richard Locke and his magical beast of a brain. Patricia O'Toole is the greatest cheerleader any writer could hope for; she must be cloned and available to all. Vince Passaro told me what was funny and what wasn't. The wily Englishman, Michael Scammell, got me started and fed me warm vittles that thankfully were not English.

Aura Davies, Sarah Smarsh, and Rhena Tantisunthorn rallied to my aid with comments, line edits, coffee, and beer. And more beer. And then more coffee. Aaron Isaksen has supported me since the very beginning, back in the days of yore. Sanford Kaye at Harvard Extension School, Nathan Bowers, Michah Calabrese, Cristine Gonzalez, Landon Hall, Chris Leong, Mika Oshima, Dave Schaye, Rosalyne Shieh, and Michele J. Thomas cut, blow-dried, and styled much of my writing and offered design advice. Perri Pivovar took my photos and suffered mosquito bites and missing bike messengers in the process. I am lucky to be in the company of such creative minds and generous friends.

Finally, I thank my parents for being irritating enough to warrant a book and loving enough (I hope) to forgive me for writing it. I also thank my brother, Mike, who has a warm and gentle heart even though he tries to hide it from me. I truly appreciate the support of my large, disruptive extended family, especially my cousin Andy. They know all too well the joys and horrors of growing up with me. Mostly joys.