Monthly Archives: November 2011

She found herself in a rented an apartment on the North side of the Chicago where she knew she could easily get her bearings—as if that were a metaphor for getting her bearings in the whole of her life. That was the thing about Chicago, it always feels like home. In some kind of primal, sensory way. The clatter of the elevated—the smell of kosher hot dogs—the car horns, the sirens–the feel of the icy wind on your cheek—the musical litanies of the neighborhoods: Wicker Park, Wrigleyville, Pilsen, North Shore, Lakeview. She holed up in that apartment for months while the grief worked its way through its stages. Shock—anger—depression—small stabs at acceptance. Old friends called to see if she were alright. And she was alright. If they would only leave her alone for a while, she would be alright—surely.

She took to going to the noodle shop at the corner of Lincoln and Addison where she absorbed herself in the consumption of momos—Tibetan dumplings, tender with savory fillings. This was really only the only food she could manage to eat. And while she sat there, her thin frame hunched over the plate, she thought of Tibetans—mountain people—sherpas—yaks—Everest climbers. For some reason, this was a nourishing exercise, not only the noodles but the thoughts that accompanied the noodles.

It was November. The first Chicago snow tickled her face as she trudged to the noodle shop at mid-day. She ordered—sat—took her first forkful—and began thinking of oxygen tanks they brought up the mountains to keep from getting altitude sickness. How some people refused them, but it was so dangerous to attempt to go without. Her eyes came up and suddenly met those of a Chinese man sitting two tables away.

“You seem to be enjoying those momos,” he said. “No question, they’re the best in town.”

She wiped her lips.

“They are my weakness.”

He pondered this. Then, in a businesslike tone, said, “Have you tried the ones at Tan Chew’s on Belmont? Not quite as good, but an interesting filling all the same.”

She liked that. That he found it interesting without being the best.

“No, I haven’t. I’ll make a point of trying them.”

He attended to his tea, which she knew was hot and strong and invigorating. Perfect for the city’s first day of snow.

“Not many people know what momos are,” he said. “I come here for the Vietnamese pho myself—one of the best you’ll find.”

She thought he had almost said ‘not many Caucasians know’ but had caught himself.

“I haven’t tried it yet, but I will take your recommendation.”

He seemed unaccountably pleased by this.

“I’ve made a bit of a study of the restaurants in this city—during my business pursuits—I can tell you the best food at the best price anywhere in Chicago.”

She contemplated him as she took a bite from the momo.

“What business are you in?” she finally asked.

“Advertising.”

She nodded.

“If you’d like some advice about where to go—any cuisine, you name it—Asian, Mexican, Lebanese–.”

“Well, Chicago certainly does offer just about anything—but I’m afraid I don’t go out much.”

“Except for momos.”

“Yes—except for momos.”

For some reason, she felt he was pondering the possibilities of the situation. And she wanted to head him off.

“I’ve only just moved back to the city—after my husband’s death. I’m still getting—settled here.”

He carefully wiped his hands on the napkin.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“How long have you been widowed?”

She couldn’t quite remember, but grasped at a small detail remembered from her return to the city. The forsythia had been in bloom. She remembered that. Yes. Beautiful yellow-flowers amid the melting snow.

“Since the spring–March.”

He nodded and got to his feet.

“Yes. Well—it was very nice talking with you.”

She smiled vaguely.

After that, he showed up time and again when she was there. Before talking with him that first time, there was no consciousness of his presence. City-style. Now she had to acknowledge him—every time.

Before long, he had cordially asked if he might sit at her table with her. The talk centered on him. The story of his coming to America—his stint at a Midwestern university where he could get no dates—his spate of engineering jobs—his divorce—his present business. All she had to do was listen through his accent and let him paint the pictures for her. It was something that took her away from her own thoughts. Like the momos—and the thoughts that accompanied the momos.

One time, as they sat together at the table, his conversation took an unexpected turn.

“I was wondering—maybe you’d like to attend a concert with me on Friday. It’s a jazz quartet. I heard they’re quite good.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh—I see. Perhaps another time.”

Their conversation went on to other subjects without missing a beat.

But another time, weeks later, as he finished the pho, wiping his hands carefully on the napkin, he tried again.

“There’s a Van Gogh exhibit this Sunday at the Art Institute. Perhaps, you’d like to go with me?”

She pushed the remains of the pale dumplings around on her plate with her fork.

“No—I’m not ready. I’m sorry.”

“When will you be ready?”

“I don’t know that I ever will be ready.”

“It’s because I’m Asian, isn’t?”

“Don’t be manipulative.”

“I’m not being manipulative.”

But then, he realized he was.

“Oh—now I feel terrible. I feel totally humiliated,” he said.

She gave him a wry look. But even that didn’t deter him.

Soon, he became so insistent, she had to stop coming to the noodle shop for momos. Which made her sad. And made her sad to think she had made him sad, too.

A few weeks later, she returned to the noodle shop. She placed her order and sat down to once again enjoy the quiet contemplation while she ate. A young man came in, placed an order, and looked around the empty shop.

“Great food here, huh?”

She smiled and went back to eating.

“What do you have there? What’s that called?”

“Momos.”

“Momos.”

“Tibetan dumplings.”

“Never heard of them. They good?”

“Very.”

“What’s in them?”

Just then, Chen came through the door. He looked at the young man—and her. She gave him a little wave, but his expression didn’t flicker.

“These are chicken,” she answered the young man. “But the lamb momos are also good.”

“They’re seasoned, right?” the young man said.

“Oh yes. With onions—and garlic. There’s a bit of ginger, too. And cilantro, I think.”

Chen stood stiffly at the counter, refusing to look at her.

“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll try some of that next time.”

It was only after the young man left with his Styrofoam tray of noodles that Chen came to her table.

“I see you made a new friend,” he said.

She just looked at him, looking for his meaning.

He lapsed into silence trying to calm himself.

“I know I have no right to be jealous,” he said.

Still, she could think of nothing to say.

“Neither one of us is ready for this game, Chen.”

“This game?”

“This romantic jousting. Neither one of us. You’re still focused on what you came here for. I’m still focused on—things I’ve left behind.”

His eyes stayed on her.

“Yes, I see. Perhaps you’re right.”

The counter man called him for his bowl of pho.

When Chen returned, he stood over her table uncertainly with the bowl in his hands.

“May I sit here with you—or not?” Chen asked.

“Of course you may.”

He arranged himself and his food and settled down to eat.

“It’s more complicated than I thought—you Caucasian women.”

She laughed.

They went back to eating.

“You seem representative of the species, however—perhaps you could teach me.”

They walked in the late spring snowfall. It was clean and fresh, and nothing about it had to be defined.

My therapist, who always smells like triangles, says I’m not a lesbian, I am just a narcissist. But since the day we met, I never thought Hazel Kitchen was all that. And nothing could be less all that than the sad, wounded constellation of human features that went diving through the twisted gauntlet of my parent’s Southern Baptist Mississippi DNA to end up on my face. They are the same forgettable features that I first saw on Hazel Kitchen that day.Only I never forgot them.

If it hadn’t been for her Aunt Bayleigh’s terrible knitting skills, we might never have ended up in the trouble we are in. And that would’ve been a tragedy.

“You could be sisters,” the Turkish waiter said, studying Hazel’s face and then mine as we struggled to untangle her Aunt Bayleigh’s too long scarf out of the doors of the Turkish Coffee Shop. “Twins even.”

Hazel looked up from where the rusted hinges of the door were locked around the frayed green threads the color of a long Sunday. When she saw my face, she was as stunned as I was. We were both fifteen, too pale, too thin, hair too straight and too long to do anything with and the kind of brown that makes you invisible. I had never thought I was beautiful. I had a sufficient face, useful, everything where it was supposed to be. Nothing interesting or close to beautiful, but as I looked at her, it was the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

This is why my therapist thinks I am a narcissist. I told her I didn’t think we had any of those in Mississippi. Maybe in the city, but not where I was from. We didn’t even have cable.

And we sure didn’t have any lesbians. Not before I untangled Hazel Kitchen’s Sunday-green scarf and she invited me to join her for a cup of Turkish Coffee that got cold before either of us ever looked down. She had some fancy water, Calistoga. She offered it to me and I made fun of her for it. It was our first actual conversation. The only thing bearable about it was that her eyes had this whole story about what they wanted that was the opposite of everything she said.

“I wanted 2 kiss U,” Hazel Kitchen texted me later that night. My cell buzzed in my pocket while I was staring at an uneaten plate of pot roast at my grandparent’s kitchen table. I couldn’t eat. I hadn’t thought of anything but Hazel Kitchen since we met five hours, seven minutes and six seconds earlier.

“Come over 2moro,” I texted her back, when my family had gone to bed. And then I did what everyone does when you need answers. I googled it.

“LESBIAN,” I typed.

It was a good thing I did the research, because Hazel Kitchen didn’t really know how to be a lesbian either. She showed up the next day, looking better than anyone ever had, watching me through her jagged bangs with a look in her eyes I could feel under the soles of my feet.

While my mom baked apple pie for the church bake sale, I introduced them as fast as I could, dragging Hazel Kitchen by the sleeve up the stairs and into my room. My parents would’ve never let me close my bedroom door if there was a guy in my room, but it never occurred to them what Hazel Kitchen and I wanted to do to each other. I closed the door.

“My pastor says all the gays are going to hell,” she said, but she shook her shoes off carelessly and went diving into my bed as she said it.

“Well, if all of the lesbians are going to hell, why would we wanna go anywhere else?” I smiled, surprising myself.

“That’s a good point,” she laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

There was a slow, hungry silence between us.

“I know what to do,” I told her, leaning in to kiss her. “I’ve been googling.”

“So have I,” she said, sitting up from the bed. “You got a towel?”

I hesitated.

“And some scissors?”

“What for?” I asked her, as I was digging through my closet for both. I handed them to her nervously.

“Trust me,” she said, pulling a chair between her legs. “Sit down.”

I sat shaking in the chair facing her. She put the towel around my neck slowly and studied my hair intently. “Trust me,” she said again. And then she started cutting. She cut my hair jagged, like hers, but shorter. Lesbian short. Lesbian jagged. As every hair fell, I felt more free. When it was over, she handed me the scissors.

“Your turn,” she said.

I cut hers exactly like mine and then we just lay there, looking at each other.

“What do you want to do now?” I asked her, too entranced to hear my mother coming up the stairs.

“Everything,” she said.