gnawing a rib and Quint a piece of chicken, both ignoring Daron when he walked up.
Louis’s fingers and face oozed, gooey as those of a zombie at a fresh coffin trough. He sucked the knuckle of one hand so hard it looked like he might take the skin off. This is the shit! Someone put their foot in the sauce.
Oh. Is that a—Chinese—saying, too? asked Quint.
Simple math. Everything Chinese saying, if you add accent and subtract words. You put foot in sauce!
Quint guffawed, spraying flecks of chicken across the table. Daron made a mental note of the dishes seasoned thusly.
You oughta be a comedian. Chinese people are funny and all, but you got some jokes.
Louis beamed like he’d found a buttered Olsen twin in his bed. Quint kept talking, all the while pouring a shot from a bottle of Jack, which he handed to Louis while taking an impressive draw himself, enough to bob his apple a few times. Louis continued bobbleheading. About ten minutes later Quint called for everyone’s attention.
Hey, hey! he yelled, tapping a fork against a beer bottle. Before they all could hush up, Quint escalated to bottle-on-bottle action, head-butting two fallen soldiers, which he did until one broke, at which point everyone fell silent and looked at Janice, who stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand holding open the screen door, the red spatula at her side.
What the heck are you doing, Quintillion Lee Jackson?
I’m gettin’ y’allses attention. The stony grit in his voice ground down a measure, he continued, I see you’re armed, so I sure ain’t aiming to get on your short side, Aunty J. They all laughed. No, ma’am, not when you standing there looking knotted like Sheriff when he come ’round to see me the odd Friday. Used to be he came only after something went wrong. Now he rolls by every couple weeks, asks me if I got anything to confess. I always say, No. Quint winked. But y’all knows I always do. More laughter. I’m just the opener. Just the opener, not the beer, so sit back. We’re fixing to have a show. It’s the first performance in the South of the famous California comic Lenny Bruce Lee! Clap, y’all! Let’s hear it. Make him welcome, dammit.
Quint set a white plastic chair in front of the food table. Louis sat down and Quint grabbed his arm. After a moment of drunken pantomime, Louis understood and stood on the chair, at which point Daron’s family applauded as if a trick had been performed.
Louis cleared his throat and appeared to be reciting something to himself. Okay, let’s get started.
Hello, Braggsville! You don’t know me. I’m Chinese, but I had a typical American upbringing. I was also beaten by the Vietnamese. At that, a few people shared sympathetic chuckles. Only Charlie and Candice laughed heartily. Daron was disappointed. Louis was Malaysian, and claimed to be Chinese only when it was the easiest explanation. As he put it, It’s like saying you live in Unit 2 at Berkeley. No one knows that, so you go, San Fran, and people go, Oh.
I have the same relationship problems. Sometimes my girlfriend is like, Why don’t we go dancing? I’m thinking this is like if I opened the fridge and the steaks were like, Why don’t we go hunting? They liked that one. Louis stood a little straighter. The chair wobbled. Did he glance at Candice when he mentioned girlfriend? Daron hoped not.
See, this points to the differences between the sexes. I asked her, Seriously, do you think men really like to dance? If we could pay admission, give a chick the same amount of cash it would take to buy ten drinks, and take her home, we would. But that would be a brothel, or a sorority house.
When the crowd responded less than enthusiastically, Louis explained, See, we have this thing in some colleges known as sorostitution. It means rich girls … never mind. So then, my girl is like, But dancing is how you tell who’s good in bed. Maybe so, I told her, but that’s another difference between the sexes. You think we care about that.
She was like, All men care about is sex.
I was like, Yeah, that’s true, but not whether you’re good at it.
They liked that one. Uncle Roy pointed to Aunt Chester, who smacked his hand away.
Okay. My friend Charlie is here. Let’s hear it for Charlie. Chinese people and black people have a lot in common. Charlie clapped politely.
The Wu-Tang Clan. Quint spit out his drink laughing.
Tiger Woods? The black part was cheating, and the Chinese part was driving when he hit the tree. Charlie shook his head regretfully.
We each give our children funny names. There was silence, until he added, That white people can’t pronounce. It’s a conspiracy.
White people can’t cook our food, but they love to eat it. Though someone here makes good-ass ribs. He hiccuped. Excuse me. Good ribs. That was my black joke. I gotta represent. He gave Charlie a thumbs-up.
Oh yeah. Chinese people got some things in common with Southerners, too. You ready for this, Braggsville? I was at this store—he pointed over his shoulder, Lou’s Bait and Cash and Copy.
A few people in the crowd pointed in the other direction.
It’s in the other direction!
It’s called Lou Davis’s Cash-n-Carry Bait Shop and Copy Center!
Yeah! the stripper yelled.
The crowd all gestured toward town until Louis, too, was pointing in the right direction.
Yeah, so Chinese people are big into directions, too. He paused, collecting himself. But, I was at this store, Lou Davis’s, and it was like a Chinese store, you had everything: meat, bumper stickers, everything. In Chinatown, it’s like that. You can buy fruit and bread and get your teeth pulled in the back. Anyway, at Lou Davis’s I saw some strange stuff, like headcheese and all, and thought, hmmm, headcheese. Maybe these people are weird. Then I had an image of my grandma eating, guess what, chicken feet!
I thought, Okay, Southerners are like Chinese. We have pig’s feet and ears, and even the ovaries. A collective groan issued forth. Louis raised his hands. I don’t write the news. I just deliver the paper. Whole point is if we even got the ovaries, you know we don’t waste nothing. We eat everything but the oink or, sometimes in our case, the bark.
A hush fell over the crowd. That’s a joke, you all, Louis added, and the crowd went into an uproar, clapping and stomping their feet.
Louis paused, savoring the moment. He was much better than Daron expected.
Louis began speaking, but in the corner, Uncle Roy whispered in Aunt Chester’s ear, a mite too loudly, I think he mean they eat dogs. See! and the crowd went wild again.
Daron’s father was red in the face, as was his mother, who clapped both hands over her mouth as she often did when laughing against her will. His cousins held their sides as if in pain, and tears streamed down Quint’s face. After the crowd finally settled down, Louis continued.
And vegetarians? Who would willingly give up meat? I saw a menu in Cali with vegetarian beef stew. That’s going too far. If it’s vegetarian, why does it need a meat name? It just can’t be good. It’s got to be like sexing a blow-up doll. It’ll do the trick for a minute, but you won’t feel good about it afterwards, and you keep it to yourself, and you hide it when company comes over. He bowed to thunderous applause.
For
