Fresh Off the Boat (6 page)

“Ohhhhh, my brudder the emperor! Please, Huang Di, give me
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
for SNES!”

“You will have all the Ninja Turtle games, my brother! I also give you Tibet!”

“Ha, ha, yes, Tibet is mine!”

“Hey, Mom, don’t you think you should get us some more stuff? I’m going to be an emperor one day.”

“Oh, shut up.”

That year Louis Huang took the child emperor to his first NBA game. The Orlando Magic sucked. I thought their name was wack and there were mad cornballs on the team like Scott Skiles and Jeff Turner. They used to play this song on the radio making fun of the squad:

“Orlando Magic, they are so tragic, ooooohhhh watch out beware …”

But it was still fun to be at a game. My first game was Magic versus Warriors. The Warriors had Chris Mullin and Tim Hardaway and I loved Hardaway, but my dad was a sucker for the Magic. It was part of his “we’re Orlandoans” campaign. The rest of the family hated Orlando. It was full of ass-backward transplants, bad food, and doo-doo basketball players. It was everything that sucked about the South with none of the benefits. People drove ride-on lawn mowers through their neighborhoods wearing Home Depot hats, but you couldn’t find any decent barbecue within five counties. No Southern hospitality, just hot asphalt and suburban phoniness. All the ignorance, none of the sense.

We sat down for the game and every time Hardaway crossed someone over, fans would scream “double dribble” or something equally embarrassing. These fans had no basketball IQ; they didn’t know about that UTEP Two-Step. Hardaway was breakin’ fools off left and right; it was dope. But my dad insisted I cheer for the Magic. He came up with his own “cheer” and slick-talked me into doing it with him.

“Next time Chris Mullin gets the ball, yell, ‘al-co-holic’ and then stomp your feet.”

“What’s an alcoholic?”

“Chris Mullin is an alcoholic.”

“OK, cool!”

He had the whole section screaming “al-co-holic.” He was officially a brain-damaged Orlando resident, but at least he was having fun. My dad and I always watched
Married with Children
together and this was my Bud Bundy moment. Instead of beer and strippers, we had nachos and Run TMC. I really liked this Mullin guy: the man’s jumper was wet and he had a flat top like me. I thought to myself, “I wouldn’t mind being an alcoholic …”

When I changed schools the next year, to Park Maitland, another private school, this time ninety minutes from home, it was basketball that helped me make friends. A bunch of us collected basketball cards and read
Sports Illustrated for Kids
so we’d stay after school and trade cards and play
ball. That year, the Magic were supposed to get the number-one pick and Shaq was coming out of LSU. We couldn’t wait. Every day, we sat around after school thinking about what would happen if Shaq came to Orlando.

“Dude, we could beat the Bulls!”

“We’ll never beat the Bulls!”

“We can beat anyone with Shaq! He breaks backboards, man!”

“We should get Shaq and then trade him for Charles Barkley. He’s even better than Jordan.”

“No way, man, Barkley stinks. He’s so fat!”

My best friend was Jeff Miller. We both read the Encyclopedia Brown books and made up fake crimes to solve at school. We all loved Kris Kross and Hammer so we tried to rap. But all roads led back to Shaq and we bugged when we found out he rapped, too. We were obsessed. Teachers would try to ask us questions about science or math and we would answer back with news about Shaq coming to Orlando. It was an exciting time.

One day, Jeff invited me over to his house for a sleepover. I had never been to one before, but I always saw other kids going home with their friends at car pool and I was curious. He told me he had a Super Nintendo and tons of board games. I couldn’t wait, because we didn’t have shit at my house. My brothers and I shared three comics, two dinosaurs, and one copy of
Coming to America
between the three of us. There was one blue dinosaur that Emery and I both liked, and this big shitty orange dinosaur that neither of us wanted to play with. My kindest act as a brother was to let Emery play with the blue one. That was the apex of my accomplishments as a good older brother. I mean, damn, I ate all the kid’s food, he should at least get the blue dinosaur.

Of course, I had to ask my mom for permission to go over to Jeff’s house.

“What do his parents do?”

“Doctors.”

“What kind?”

“Uhhh, anesthetic?”

“Anesthetic? I have not heard of this.”

“Yeah, Jeff says he gives shots to people so they fall asleep before surgery.”

“Hmm, let me call your aunt, she will know …”

After calling several of her sisters and friends, she figured it was a good job and approved.

“OK, you can go to Jeff’s house. Me and Dad will drive you Saturday. Good job. You make a good friend.”

My mom was pretty proud of herself. Her plan to have me rub elbows with the children of rich kids was working. From a young age, Mom made sure I was aware of money and how important it was. Everything revolved around money for her. School was important, but it was only a means to some ends. If you asked her why we came to America, she’d tell you straight up: cold hard motherfucking cash. Why else? We didn’t like the food, people, culture, anything here. My dad “believed” in America, but my mom didn’t. She just wanted the eggs.
^a
I wasn’t mad, though—I couldn’t wait to play Super Nintendo and watch wrestling with Jeff. Every Saturday, WWF came on TV and my favorite wrestler was this big greasy Latino dude named Razor Ramon, who threw toothpicks, kicked sand in people’s faces, and did the Razor’s Edge. He’d put someone on his shoulders like a reverse cowgirl (pause) and then slam them down on their backs for the pin. I liked Jake the Snake, too—I did his signature move, the DDT, on Emery all the time—but Razor Ramon was my favorite. As a bonus, Jeff said we could practice the Razor’s Edge on his little brother.

When the day finally came, my mom dropped me off.

“Hi! I’m Jessica. Are you Jeff’s mom?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Miller. And you must be Eddie! It’s so nice to meet you. Jeff talks about you every day.”

“Yeah, hey, Jeff.”

“Hey, man.”

“Well, Jeff, go on ahead and take Eddie upstairs; you boys can play video games.”

We were so excited we ran upstairs to play games, but I could hear my mom from downstairs.

“Thank you so much for having Eddie over! We brought this for you.”

My mom had brought a gift. She always brought gifts everywhere we went, usually some sort of dessert or a bottle of wine from the restaurant.

“Oh, thank you! Yes, we’re very happy to have him over.”

“He says your husband is a … uh, anesthetics?”

“Oh, you must mean anesthesiologist?”

“Yes, yes, he gives the shot, right?”

“Well, yeah, he gives people shots or treatment before they go into surgery.”

“Ahhh, like the novocaine.”

“Yeah, sort of like that.”

“Oh, great! I know the novocaine! I get it all the time at the dentist.”

“Well, that’s, that’s … fantastic.”

“OK! Great. Well, I will see you tomorrow. We pick up Eddie around three?”

I mean, people loved my mom and all the parents said nice things, but I would just laugh my ass off inside listening to her try to show people she knew what was up. That novocaine shit had me rolling.

I walked up to Jeff’s room—they called it a loft because it was upstairs and had a low ceiling; I couldn’t believe my eyes. Everywhere you walked: toys, games, huge television, stuffed animals, it was like living in a Toys ‘R’ Us. I remember thinking to myself that if I died, I wanted to come back a white man. These fuckers had EVERYTHING. I didn’t know what to play first, I was so confused. I literally rolled around in video games, read the instructions, looked at all the
GamePro
magazines, and then went to the bathroom and wiped my ass with their fancy toilet paper just to see how it felt. When you washed your hands, they had hand towels so you didn’t have to wipe your face with the towel your brother wiped his balls with ten minutes ago. For real, if you are a broke-ass kid, you are wiping your face with your brother’s balls. I felt like some wild gremlin child living in Chinese hell after going to their house.

By that point, I was ready to convert. I wanted to be white so fucking bad. But then dinner happened. All of us sat down. I had never eaten at a white person’s house, but I just figured they ate pizza, hot dogs, or something like that. After a few minutes, Jeff’s mom came out of the kitchen with two bowls. One bowl was filled with goopy orange stuff. For a second, I thought they might be little boiled intestines in an orange sauce, which I could get down with, but on closer inspection they were unlike any intestines I’d ever seen. The other bowl was gray and filled with a fibrous material mixed with bits of celery. I thought to myself, These white people like really mushy food.

She also gave us each two pieces of bread, the same plain Wonder Bread I saw at school. Jeff started wiping the gray stuff on the bread. I didn’t want to come off like an idiot so I did the same thing. I put the other slice on top, lifted up, and went to take a bite, but holy shit, that smell.
What the fuck was in this?
Jeff and his brothers couldn’t get enough but I was scared. I took a deep breath, clutched my orange juice, and forced myself to take a bite. Right on cue, gag reflex, boom went the orange juice. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I had to ask.

“What is that, man?”

“You’ve never had tuna fish sandwiches?”

“No, never. Where do you get it?”

“At the grocery store, you want to see the can?”

“OK, but what’s the orange stuff?”

“Macaroni and cheese.”

“What’s macaroni?”

“It’s pasta.”

I didn’t know what pasta was, but was really starting to feel like a dumb-ass so I didn’t ask. The shit was so nasty. We never ate cheese and it stunk like feet. A lot of Chinese people are lactose intolerant, so it’s just not something we eat normally. We drink soy milk instead of cow’s milk and stir-fry our noodles instead of covering them with cheese. I suddenly realized that converting to white wouldn’t be easy, but still, that toilet paper was like silk. I tried to force myself to eat the macaroni and cheese
but literally barfed it through my nose. Jeff and his brothers couldn’t believe it. I realized no matter how many toys they had, I couldn’t cross over. I’d much rather eat Chinese food and split the one good dinosaur with my brother. Macaroni is to Chinamen as water is to gremlins, teeth are to blow jobs, and Asian is to American. It just didn’t fit.

I
always liked sneakers. You had to look fresh playing ball, but I didn’t have to have the illest pair. That is, until I saw what Chaz Crowfoot had on his feet that day.… I still remember creeping through the basketball court, and BAM! There they were and I could never go back to life without the knowledge that they existed: fire-red Jordan Vs with the lace locks. It was the first time I remember ever wanting to jack someone. The shits were so fresh, it was like having cars on your feet. That silver 3M tongue was dancing, light just bouncing off all angles, calling my name with the Jumpman in the middle. I had to have them.

Of course, my parents never bought us anything, but I thought maybe, just maybe, this one time, things would change. I went home that day on a mission. When I walked into the house, my mother was waiting and I seized the moment.

“Mom, I never ever ask for shoes,” I started, figuring I should remind her of my silent sacrifices to date. “But I gotta get the Jordan Vs.”

“Eh! I like Michael Qiao dan, how much are they?”

“I don’t know, but everyone says they have them at Belz Outlet Mall.”

“OK, we go after dinner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, after dinner!”

I thought to myself, I can’t believe this, but I’ll take it! The truth is, I probably should have started the “Please Buy Me Jordan Vs” tour about two months earlier, but I blocked out those thoughts and tried to run the two-minute drill. Whatever mind games I could play, I tried. I opened doors for everyone, I took out the garbage, I let Emery out of the car first. I swore to the god I didn’t believe in that if I got those damn shoes I would do this forever.
^*

We pulled up to City Sports at the Belz Outlet Mall and didn’t even have to look for them: there they were, visible from twenty feet away, in the right front window on a five-foot pedestal with two platforms. The white ones on top, black ones on bottom. 3M tongue
dancin’
. Even Emery and Evan were in awe. They were the hardest sneakers I’d ever seen. Hands down, all time, O.G. Jordan V Fire Reds no doubt, no question, illest pair of shoes ever made. The reason you love sneakers changes as you grow. Some people follow players and cop the signature shoe. In high school, it’s a style thing. And when you get your first job, you buy every Jordan in sight just to make up for lost time or cheap parents. But when you’re a ten-year-old, there’s one reason you buy J’s: to jump higher.