Free Waylaid by Ed Lin Page A

gave a genuine laugh. Mrs. Fiorello looked puzzled.
    â€œHe?” she asked.
    â€œYee,” I said.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œOne.”
    â€œHunh,” said Mrs. Fiorello said incredulously. “How come it’s so simple? Aren’t most Chinese words like, ‘Ching chango wing wong’?”
    â€œNo, not this one.”
    â€œI’m so glad you speak some Chinese. You should know Chinese. It would be such a shame if you lost it. I only know food in Italian,” Mrs. Fiorello said. “But I’m an American, so it’s too late for me.”
    â€œYeah, that’s too bad.” I was thoroughly repulsed, not only by the conversation but also by how incredibly ugly Mrs. Fiorello was. Fat, old, and ugly. Those ugly freckles probably covered her fat-swollen tits and ass cheeks. Sweat was slick on her forehead and probably between her thighs, too. Her pussy probably smelled worse than licking-tuna-can jokes implied.
    â€œYou’re such a cute Chinese boy, you should speak some more and be proud of what you are,” Mrs. Fiorello said. “Really, it’s okay.”
    I cleared my throat, opened the door to the living room, and withdrew to the kitchen. The biscuits were hardening. After I finished choking them down, I squeezed some detergent onto a sponge and wiped down the baking tray, the butter knife, and my plate. I took the dishrag and wiped the vinyl place setting until it glistened.
    Then I looked at the list of things I had to do, which was written in all capitals on a yellow, lined sheet torn from a legal-sized notepad. A magnet from East Coast Distributors held the paper to the fridge. The instructions read like telegrams, with their clipped English and lack of punctuation.
    â€œONE: IF THERE IS ICE ON POOL COVER SHEET BREAK IT UP AND THREW IT AWAY OVER FENCE ONTO GRASS NOT DRIVEWAY
    â€œTWO: SHAKE SALT ON SIDEWALK FROM ROOM 12 AND FROM ROOM 11A
    â€œTHREE: GO TO HARDWARE STORE AND BUY THREE LIGHT SOCKET AC ADAPTERS GET MONEY FROM MOMMY.
    â€œFOUR: PICK UP ALL LOOSE TRASH ON DRIVEWAY CIGARET CAN BOTTLE.”
    Reading the list, I always had to insert “the” in the right places. It was already an automatic process from years of listening to my parents talk.
    Nothing too strenuous today. There was no ice on the pool covering, and sprinkling salt was child’s play.
    The worst had been when my father bought surplus railroad ties and concrete bunkers to keep the Bennys from driving over the lawn. New Jersey Transit dropped them off, but refused to hammer in the iron spokes needed to keep them in place. That became my job. The calluses I had from slamming that sledgehammer down hundreds of times that weekend will be with me until I wrap my hands around a walking stick.
    I went outside and threw salt around. I moved like an old man wandering around a park, feeding pigeons. I thought about what it would be like to be one of the old men. Old and worn out from years of getting laid hundreds of times, living by myself, eating Chocodiles and fruit pies.
    As I drew closer to the Fiorellos’ room, the announcements from a football game grew louder. I stood outside the door, one hand on the plastic scoop, the other holding the bucket of granulated salt. Mrs. Fiorello was still in the office, gabbing away. She had waved with manic intensity through the office window as I passed, but I’d given only a polite nod in response.
    Through the curved triangle of space between the closed curtains, I saw Peter Fiorello watching the football game. It was half-time, and the cheerleaders were building pyramids. His back was turned to me and I saw his cigar wiggle.
    Was this the end of the life cycle of all white men? Watching football in a hotel room? What happened to old Chinese men? Did they all withdraw into basement workshops like my father?
    I had a hard time understanding Frank, one of the offseason old-timers, because he couldn’t