On Saturday, I went back to work at the café. I quickly started my job, baking an assortment of foods, and making several urns of coffee. I made bagels as well, some with butter, some with cream cheese. At eight a.m. the rest of the crew arrived.
They were talking loudly about the Dai Lo. I listened, but did not participate in the conversation. Their Dai Lo had stolen some clothing from a department store and was tackled by a security guard before getting away. The work day was slow and dull. I kept listening; it was fascinating stuff. Christine said that the Dai Lo was going to miss a couple of days of school.
“Where does he go to school?” I asked. Everyone dispersed. Christine smiled.
“Where DO YOU go to school?” she asked, and I inferred that the Dai Lo went to Stanton. They did not speak too freely for the rest of the morning. I may have overstepped my boundaries.
Kenny felt that one of us would be fired unless business picked up. I hoped it wasn’t me. It wasn’t cheap to be a high school senior. Expenses like college application fees, trips, the prom, and more, added up. And I just needed money to buy things. I couldn’t ask my father for money. I could hear him now saying, “money doesn’t grow on trees.”
The next day, Sunday, there was a new manager for the café named Mike. He was tall and lanky, bald, with glasses. I would guess he was close to thirty years old. Christine said that Mike always arrived late, and slept at work. She had worked with him at the café’s other location.
She was right. Mike was a disaster. He never actually did any work. Mike was the only adult at the cafe, and was friends with the owner. In the real world, it paid to be friends with the boss.
Christine and Kenny were talking in Cantonese and laughing. I asked, “What’s so funny?” She said that I dressed funny. They giggled again.
“You guys dress funny, like typical Chinese gangsters,” I said. They were offended and threw wet sponges at me. It’s not okay to tell Chinese gangsters that they actually looked like Chinese gangsters.
“If you wanted to be incognito, then why dress this way?” I asked. Christine explained that everyone in Chinatown dressed this way.
“It’s incognito in Chinatown.”
Later that day, Christine remarked that I wasn’t bad looking but needed to do something with my clothes and my hair.
“I know a backhanded compliment when I hear one,” I said. She asked if I wanted to go shopping after work. I was a little surprised by how forward she was, but agreed. I had just been paid, and liked the idea of hanging out with her. She was a very pretty girl, with a slender build, and a smile that made her look like a child at times. Her skin was remarkably smooth, despite the make up.
Christine and I went to Chinatown. We walked to Hester Street, an old street with small stores and traditional Chinese restaurants. The entire population was mostly non-English speaking Chinese immigrants. We shopped at a store she suggested. Christine spoke to the store clerk in Cantonese. I tried to speak to the clerk but she ignored my questions about the prices. I figured she did not speak English. I asked Christine to ask her how long she’d been in New York. Christine asked in Cantonese. The clerk crossed her arms, and responded, “I was born in Brooklyn, you idiot!” I bought a cool outfit from her, like nothing I had ever worn before. I had always been a Levis and Tee shirt guy, until now. These threads I bought were the style of Christine’s choosing, and reminiscent of Chinese gangsters.
Next we went to a barber shop. They only spoke Chinese, as a far as I could tell, but I didn’t want to assume anything. I told the barber, “Give me a trim, nothing drastic.” He looked at me puzzled, unable to understand. Christine told him in Cantonese how to cut my hair. Ten minutes later, I was shocked by my haircut. My hair stood tall on top, spiked to the max, and cut to the scalp on the sides.
I thanked Christine for her help and told her I’d see her next weekend. I gave her a hug goodbye, and almost didn’t want to let go. I had never embraced anyone so soft and tender before.
On the subway ride home, people kept trying not to look at my hair. New Yorkers rarely stare, but the people on the subway were obviously not told about this rule.
When I arrived home, my father was concerned. He was not accustomed to his oldest son not showing up for dinner. I explained that I bought some clothes and went for a haircut. He asked if I had looked in the mirror before I left the barber shop. I said I liked the cut and this would be my new look. My father looked at me, shook his head in disbelief, and walked away.
On Monday at school, I had a new found sense of confidence. I wore my new clothes, and sported my new hair cut. I was wearing black khaki pants, tapered to the ankle. I wore an oversized t-shirt, and an oversized denim jacket. The other kids stared and some even giggled.
Delancey approached me at lunch and said she liked the new look. Her opinion was the only one that mattered. Several people asked if I had joined a Chinese gang. The Chinese gangsters giggled every time they saw me.
Sam was quiet after overhearing Delancey’s comment. He looked irritated. We kept eating lunch. Carlos asked where I got the new clothes and haircut. I told him about Christine, the café, and the shopping trip. Carlos said it looked “bad in a good way.” Sam said I looked like an idiot.
It seemed the wheels in Sam’s head were turning.
“You can’t pull off this look. It’s not you and it works better for other people. Besides, why are you wasting money? You should be helping your family with their expenses and saving for college.” That was classic Sam. He always knew my real concerns, and which buttons to push to activate my self doubts.
“To each their own,” I said.
I’ve never been the type of person that sought after attention or relished it. I’d been perfectly happy being incognito my entire life, but at this point things were changing. The way I felt about drawing attention and the comments that came with it, also changed. I liked the fact that Delancey liked my new look, and that Sam didn’t. Anything that irritated Sam meant that I was doing something right.
Sure, I was thinking that I should’ve used the money for something better, something more long term. But, I experienced something new that day. I had lifted some of my inferiority complex, even if it was temporary. I had more confidence, and even walked with a little swagger. Not bad for a poor boy from Queens.
“So, what’s with the new look?” asked Delancey. I told her about Christine, and working at the café.
“I wanted something different,” I added.
“You look so much more grown up.” She giggled as she said this, and Sam glowered.
“I wasn’t going for more grown up, just cool,” I said.
“Oh, excuse me. Definitely cool!” she said.
We all laughed, except for Sam.
Later that day, I had to write an article on the basketball team. Stanton’s basketball team was one of the best in Brooklyn. For the first time, I interviewed shooting guard Eddie Lo.
I didn’t know Eddie Lo well at all. I knew who he was, but who didn’t? Eddie was famous at Stanton. I don’t want to sound like I had a crush on the guy, but he was everything I wished I could be. Eddie was the coolest guy in school.
I would describe him as good looking, with an overabundance of testosterone. He was stylish, wore the latest fashions, including a very expensive leather jacket. No one messed with Eddie, either in school or out of school. Eddie Lo was the only Chinese-American member of the basketball team and was hard to miss at six feet four inches tall and a bulky two hundred and twenty pounds. He had fully developed muscles in parts of his body where I didn’t even have tissue. He also had a long scar across his neck, and a necklace consisting of a jade pendant tied around a red thread. Eddie Lo was also a dangerous Chinese gangster with a tattoo of a large snake on his arm.
During the interview, he said a few colleges had contacted him about playing basketball. However, he wanted to stay close to home to help his family with their business. He needed to go to college in the city, close to his family’s clothing store in Chinatown. He had seen me at his family’s store over the weekend, and joked that I looked like a Chinatown gangster.
“You should talk,” I said. He accused me of wanting to look like him. We both laughed.
Eddie wanted to play basketball for St. John’s University in Queens, but he felt his reputation and tattoos eliminated him from most college basketball programs.
A few days later, when the paper came out, Eddie thought the article was about him, and thanked me. I had intended for the article to be about the basketball team, but since Eddie Lo was the only player interviewed, I could understand his interpretation. Eddie said his father was really proud to see an article about him, even if it was just the school newspaper.
I loved basketball, but I had not played for years. I did not have a basketball hoop in the driveway of my home. As a matter of fact, I did not have a driveway either. I’m not sure we even had a basketball. For me to play basketball meant going to a nearby playground or park. These basketball playgrounds were always a hub for criminal activities and drug dealers. My father was very strict about my brother and I avoiding these places. Fights usually broke out during the games.
The next day, Sam was in the hallway wearing tapered black pants. He even had my hair cut. He said he got the clothes from the same place I did. I was confused. Sam said I looked stupid, but he went out and bought almost identical clothing, and got the same haircut. He stole my look!
Maybe Sam was jealous. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he was just trying to get Delancey’s attention. How many other guys would deliberately go out and steal my look?
Three days later, Carlos also had the same haircut. It was becoming normal for Carlos to do whatever Sam did.
Carlos said the Deceptors were going to attack Stanton on Halloween. Fifty kids were sent to a hospital the year before during a similar Halloween attack on a different school.
“I’ll worry about it later, as we get closer to Halloween,” I said indifferently.
Sam thought about getting jumped and said he would probably cut school on Halloween. Carlos could not cut school that day; he had a big math test. I asked John what he thought.
John and I were always practical, no matter the circumstances. John was planning on coming to school and going home. He wasn’t about to worry about an attack that may or may not happen, and even if it did, he would just avoid it. My mother’s words from long ago came into my head. She had said, “you always find what you are looking for when you go looking for trouble.” The kids most worried about the Deceptors were the ones likely to get assaulted.
Delancey asked if we would attend a march after school to raise awareness for a charity for disabled kids. Sam jumped up and shouted that he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Delancey laughed, aware of Sam’s insincerity. She could see right through him. She mentioned that she would be taking pictures of the march for the yearbook. I told her that we were all headed to play billiards after school. She said the march wouldn’t take long. I agreed to attend; after all, it was Delancey asking.
Mr. Zoose’s English class was my favorite part of school. Students sat anywhere they wanted; desks were not organized in any sequence. I could even sit on the floor, or near the window. Mr. Zoose usually walked in a few minutes late, placed an apple on his desk, and then began teaching. He preferred we only took notes if we had to, otherwise, it would distract from his class. We were reading
The Stranger
by Camus. I couldn’t relate to the character’s motives or philosophy. I was indifferent to existentialism.
Delancey also liked the book, but could not really relate to the main character. I wondered if an existentialist could even fall in love. Delancey said that not even an existentialist could avoid certain basic human experiences such as falling in love.
“It’s an event, it’s an emotion, it’s iconic, and uncontrollable. Love is in a category by itself,” she smiled at me. “Are you an existentialist?” she asked.
“Probably the opposite,” I said.
At the end of class, Mr. Zoose reminded us that he was directing the school play. Mr. Zoose was the head of the drama club, and consistently put on a great show every year. He had asked me to perform “Ave Maria” in the play.
“No. Not this year. I have to focus on more serious things in my life,” I said. Mr. Zoose seemed disappointed.
After school, I marched with hundreds of students for 45 minutes around the block. The blustery weather made for complaints that the march was taking too long. I was missing my jacket that had been stolen the first day of school. Delancey took hundreds of pictures.
Sam sat smoking on a nearby brownstone’s front stoop. He finally had an audience watching him try to be cool. He was a brilliant student, could possibly have been valedictorian, and yet his constant need for attention led to stupid behavior. I think the only motivation behind his desire to be valedictorian was the opportunity to make a speech at graduation and all the attention that goes with it. He had all the brains in the world, and all the potential that comes with high intelligence. Sam was on cruise control and still getting high grades. I was pushing full throttle with my studying and still couldn’t break into the top three hundred on the rankings list.
Delancey asked about our billiards game, and I told her about our favorite pool hall in Manhattan’s West Village.