The door opened again and in came another stranger with another bottle of wine.
With no free hand left, I had to move away from the door and entryway. I backed myself into the kitchen and bumped into something. I turned, and the something was an Asian. Whoa, I said. I hadn’t met other Asian tenants in the building before and assumed that I was the only one.
You lost? she asked, her lids dusted in a cool electric-blue shadow, her bangs cut on a slant. She introduced herself as the Korean exchange student subletting 4D for the year and studying graphic design at Columbia. Then she introduced herself as a postmillennial.
A what?
Because feeling lost is okay, she went on. I feel lost all the time.
For you, she said, and held out a packet of Chapagetti, or the best instant ramen that I would ever have. She handed me a round bowl of microwaveable rice and a tin of low-sodium Spam. The Spam should be fried and put over the rice in strips, like rays of a pink sun. If I felt adventurous, I could add a fried egg on top and blanched spinach on the side.
I brought my bottle-holding arms together and the cool, postmillennial Asian placed colorfully packaged food items into my embrace.
Let me know what you think about them, she said. Or don’t. Whatever works. The Korean word for snacks is gansik, or “in-between foods,” she told me, and without knowing why, except that there was something open about her, I told her that the Chinese word is líng shí, or “zero foods.”
Friends, she stated, hooking her pinkie onto mine. She tugged and I wobbled, and would have dropped everything had Mark not appeared beside me right then and started taking the things out of my arms.
We have a wine rack, you know, he said.
We do? I said. Since when?
He’d brought one in last week.
Cute, said the postmillennial about us, and sauntered off to join the growing crowd in the living room. The door had been opening and closing intermittently. I took a peek and saw that there were close to ten people, huddled in two separate circles that were slowly merging.
I told Mark I couldn’t go out there. I didn’t know anyone, but somehow everyone seemed to know me. It was a trap.
They know you because I told them, he said.
What would possess you to do that? I asked.
Because this is your moment.
My kitchen counter held a dozen bottles now, and Mark was splitting them up into three groups by color. The sparkling and white he put in the fridge. The reds he started to uncork.
You used to be so busy with work, he said. But now that I was on leave or possibly suspended—which still pissed him off, by the way, and he kept mentioning that I should file a complaint about workplace abuse with HR—he thought I deserved a better, more welcoming experience and a chance to get to know the other tenants, as well as have them get to know me. They were all great people, cultured and easy to talk to. A woman who had recently been to Patagonia on a humanitarian trip to build houses. Another who teaches English to underserved communities. Even an art student from Korea, whom I’d just met and was experiencing her first dose of authentic American life. Mark had been meaning to get this group together for some time. He hoped to make introductions and to have us all connect. In case I wasn’t up-to-date on lingo, he explained that these were like-minded folks, folks who were well informed, self-aware, or, as the kids say, woke.
I said I knew the word woke.
Oh, you do? He didn’t think that I did.
Here I felt homesick. I missed my unit where every patient, however woke, was asleep.
Mark set out two champagne flutes. He went to the back of my fridge to pull out a bottle of what he considered the most appropriate celebratory champagne, Veuve Clicquot.
But what were we celebrating? That I was on leave for reasons that I myself couldn’t keep straight, or that my apartment was no longer mine?
He poured the champagne out and the foam layers soared upward like rocket fuel. I held the flute by the stem with both hands to prevent myself from pulling out large quantities of my hair. He clinked his flute against mine, but it did not make a flute-like sound.
Cheers to the new Joan, he said, and reached for my elbow to escort me out into the living room, toward the crowd circle. New year, new Joan.
* * *
—
FOR SON OF A BITCH, you would say wáng bā dàn, or “turtle egg.” Or character by character, taken quite literally, “king of eight eggs.”
* * *
—
AFTER A BRIEF HELLO with everyone and hearing a sentence or two from them about what they did, I left the apartment at around 8:00 p.m., as the party was going on.
When the sweater vest man asked about my books again, I confessed to not having read any except the shortest. He thought I was joking, he laughed really hard. The elegantly dressed woman spoke about her extensive travels to South America. She told me that she’d been to China twice or thrice now. She loved visiting that country and asked which province my family was from. I said Jiangsu and she said she loved Jiangsu, great food, a great balance of flavors in their dishes, the Jiangsu people were exceptionally skilled with steamed fish. Did I steam fish? I said no and she looked disappointed. The same weight and height couple were the English teachers. English was easy to learn but difficult to master, they told me, and while their students were earnest, the seemingly simple language was full of nuances that, after a certain point, became frustrating to explain. As native speakers, they weren’t aware of the language’s pitfalls until they saw their own students struggle with them. But what you’re doing is so important, said the elegant woman to the couple, and all three of them beamed. Here the postmillennial graphic designer chimed in to say that to truly learn another language, you must listen to it through other mediums. She’d learned all her English from Friends, so English to her was mostly about cupping large mugs of coffee while expressing trivial but inconsistent thoughts. And you had to be funny in English, she said, or else it was a no go. The group nodded in unison. Everyone, even Mark, agreed that Friends was a good show.
When I left, I took only my work bag with wallet and phone and half an hour later was on the 8:46 p.m. Metro-North train to Greenwich. On board, I called my brother to say that I would be at the station shortly. He mentioned how late it was and last minute, but he commended me on having come to my senses, our previous conversation must have really sunk in. Negotiation 101: Everything is negotiable except for what is not—seeing your family on important dates, being there for them when they decide to host important events.
Almost too ironic that I was fleeing one crowd of people for another, trading a house party in for a bash. How did I get myself into this situation? Which tests of being an effective hermit had I failed?
I said yeah, well. I asked if Tami could lend me some clothes.
Everything all right? he asked.
Totally fine, I said.
At pickup, he was waiting for me in their new Land Rover. After I got in, he pointed out the car’s leather-lined interior, the broad clamshell hood, the exterior color of Yulong white. This was their newest plug-in hybrid model. On a full battery, it could do about seventy-five miles of mixed city driving.
Mixed city driving is key, I said.
He drove us through the town center and said had it been earlier and light out, he could have at least shown me around. He didn’t understand why I executed my personal plans without foresight or consideration for others. What if he hadn’t picked up the phone, hadn’t heard it? Then I would’ve had to find a way to their house on my own at night. Greenwich was safe, but no place is that safe after dark.
From downtown we drove past the town’s hospital that was barely visible now and that Fang pointed out each time we passed.