“Boiled or pan-fried?”
“Uh—boiled?”
“Got it.” She grabs my menu and heads back off behind the kitchen without another word.
What a bitch, I think, but then I remember that bad service is one of the hallmarks of good Chinese food, according to that one tweet. These soup dumplings had better be out of this world.
I try to focus on the positives. I can find some good narrative potential here, if I pay attention. Maybe this is the heartwarming story of a Chinatown restaurant going out of business, until the owner’s daughter quits her soulless corporate job to turn the family business around with the help of the community, social media, and a magic, talking dragon. Maybe I can give my bitchy waitress a sympathetic backstory and a personality makeover. Or maybe not. The more I think about it, the more this sounds like the plots of Ratatouille and Mulan combined.
Stop looking through the white gaze, I caution myself. I can’t make up stories about these people without knowing a thing about them. I have to talk to the locals. Make friends, understand where they’re coming from, learn the quirky details that only Chinese Americans could know.
The only other person in sight is a middle-aged man wiping down the tables behind me. I figure he’s as good a place to start as any.
I clear my throat and wave him over.
“What’s your name?” My voice sounds artificially bright and cheery, and I try to rearrange my features into something neutral, or at least less creepy. I took an investigative journalism class back in high school, and I remember some of the tips: establish a friendly relationship, listen and watch attentively, maintain direct eye contact, and ask clear and open-ended questions. I wish I’d remembered to start an iPhone recording. I’m supposed to take down quotes as we’re talking, but I don’t want to have my pen and notebook out in case that intimidates him.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He puts down the rag and walks toward me. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh no, no, I just, um, wanted to chat for a little, if you have the time.”
I wince as the words leave my mouth. Why is this so uncomfortable? I feel like I’m doing something naughty, like speaking without permission to someone else’s child. But that’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with a friendly conversation?
The waiter just stands there, watching me expectantly, so I blurt, “So, do you like living in Chinatown?”
“DC Chinatown?” He shrugs. “It’s not really a Chinatown. Perhaps a simulacrum of Chinatown. I live out in Maryland, actually.”
His English is a lot better than I expected. His accent is heavy, but what kind of new English speaker uses the word “simulacrum”? I wonder briefly if these accents are put on to convey authenticity to white customers. I wonder also if he’s one of those professors or doctors who immigrated to the United States because he offended his home government. Either could be a fun plot twist. “So how long have you worked here?”
He pauses a moment to think. “Oh, maybe nine years now. Ten. My wife wanted to go to California, but I wanted to be near our daughter. Maybe we will move when she graduates.”
“Oh, cool,” I say. “Does your daughter go to Georgetown?”
“George Washington. Studying economics.” He picks up his rag and turns halfway back to the other tables. I don’t want to lose him, so I blurt, “So, how do you like working in this restaurant? Do you have any interesting stories—about, um, working in this restaurant?”
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
The waitress strides out from the kitchen. She glances between us, eyes narrowed, and then tells the older man something quick and terse in Chinese. His response sounds lackadaisical—I think maybe he’s saying something like take it easy, but her tone grows higher, more urgent. Finally, shrugging, he tosses the rag on the table and retreats behind the kitchen doors.
The waitress turns to me. “If there’s a problem, I’m happy to help.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay, I’m just trying to make conversation.” I wave my hands in apology. “Sorry, I realize he’s probably busy.”
“Yes, we’re all quite busy. I am sorry it’s a bit quiet in here, but you’re going to have to let the waitstaff do their jobs.”
I roll my eyes. I’m the only customer here; how overworked could they be? “Okay,” I say, as dismissively as possible.
She doesn’t leave. “Any other questions?”
Her voice wobbles. She’s scared. I realize suddenly what this looks like—she must think that I’m police or ICE, that I’m trying to bust the old guy. “Oh my God.” I flap my hands in front of me to—to what, to prove I don’t have a gun, or a badge? “No, it’s not like that—”
“Then what’s it like?” She looks me up and down, then cocks her head. “Wait, aren’t you that writer?”
My heart skips a beat. I’ve never been recognized before in a place that wasn’t a bookstore or a speaking event. I’m momentarily flattered, and some part of me thinks she’s about to ask for my autograph. “I—um, yeah, I’m Juniper—”
“You’re that girl who stole Athena Liu’s work.” Her face hardens. “I knew it—I’ve seen your photo online. Juniper Song, right? Or Hayward, or whatever. What do you want?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation,” I say weakly. “I promise, I’m not out to—”
“I don’t care,” she says curtly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but we want no part of it. Actually, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
She probably doesn’t have the right to kick me out. I’m not causing a public disturbance; I haven’t done anything illegal. All I did was make casual conversation with a waiter. I consider standing my ground, enforcing my rights as a customer, insisting that they call the police if they want to remove me. But I’d rather not go viral for yet another reason. I can imagine the YouTube title: “Chinatown Karen Insists She’s Not ICE.”
“Fine.” I stand up. “Don’t bother with my dumplings, then.”
“You sure?” asks the waitress. “We don’t do refunds. That’s eight ninety-five, plus tax.”
My face burns. My mind races to come up with some quippy response, but I can’t think of anything that isn’t pathetic or plain racist. Instead I dig a twenty out of my wallet, sling my bag over my shoulder, and push past her to the door, pretending not to hear the amused snorts behind me as I storm out.
BRETT STARTS BUGGING ME ABOUT A MONTH INTO MY CREATIVE DESERT. I can tell he’s been trying to give me space—all his emails so far have been gentle, tactfully worded nudges—but clearly, he’s running out of patience.
Want to run a new opportunity by you, reads his latest missive. Call when convenient.
I groan, then reach for my phone.
He picks up on the first ring. “June! Good to hear from you. How’ve you been?”
“All right. The hate mail has stopped, mostly. Not getting death threats anymore.”
“Well, that’s good. I told you it would blow over.” He pauses. “And, uh, regarding what we last discussed—”
“There’s nothing.” I figure it’s best to just spit it out. “I’ve got nothing, not a single idea. I don’t even know where to start. Sorry, I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
I feel a twinge of guilt. It’s not about the money for Brett. His reputation is on the line, too; he doesn’t want to burn bridges with the Eden editorial team by bringing them their most embarrassing client by far. But I can’t give false hope where there is none.
I brace myself for Brett’s disappointment. Instead he asks promptly, “Then what about IP work?”
I suppress a scoff. IP—intellectual property—work is for mediocre writers, or so I’ve always been told. It’s cheap, work-for-hire labor for people who couldn’t manage to sell their original projects. “What about it?”
“All I mean is, if you’re having trouble coming up with your own concept, what about writing to an outline?”
“What, like a superhero novel? No thanks, Brett, I still have standards—”