The Cooked Seed (14 page)

I don’t remember how I left the room. I was hysterical. The department chair came and took care of the matter. Many years later, a former classmate told me that Jerome had lived. He never revealed what was on his mind that day. Rumor said that an Asian woman performed Chinese voodoo involving trading sandwiches.

The memory of Jerome’s bulging eyes and blue veins stuck with me. I tried hard to understand his pain. I knew that he wasn’t faking. But a pain that drove a young American to suicide regardless of his freedom and protected human rights was incomprehensible to me. I didn’t have a better phrase to describe how I felt—American youth suffered a different form of deprivation, which might include the lack of suffering itself.

In the summer of 1986 I sent home a photo of myself. It was an image my family expected—I was successful in America. I wore a red sleeveless top and a matching short skirt. The outfit was Joan Chen’s. I had visited her the previous Christmas in Los Angeles. She was kind enough to pay for my airfare and let me stay with her for two weeks. I also wanted to look for any work opportunities and any connections that might lead to work.

Joan Chen had matured into a young woman since leaving China years before. Now twenty-four, she had been trying to make a name for herself in America. Many roles came her way, but few inspired her passion. She craved a substantial acting part, not merely playing a delicate China doll. She was having a hard time avoiding being typecast.

Joan Chen gave me a makeover one evening. She applied what she had learned from her makeup artists. She believed any woman could be transformed into a cover girl. She dressed me with clothes from her closet.

I enjoyed looking in the mirror wearing Joan Chen’s red summer outfit. I even looked sexy, I thought. She said I could have the outfit, and I was thrilled. I would have stayed in Los Angeles if my English had not regressed in the short time I visited Joan. As much as I loved my friend and the California weather, I returned to Chicago taking with me her red sleeveless top and matching skirt.

I sat on the shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago dressed in Joan Chen’s clothes. I asked a stranger to help take a picture of me. I smiled at the camera leaning toward the shore. Right before the shot, the sound of an engine rumbled from the lake. I turned around and saw a giant sailboat approaching. There were handsome, suntanned men drinking beer on the boat’s deck. I asked the kind stranger to please include the men in the background. I put on my biggest smile as the shutter clicked.

In the photo, I looked confident and attractive. The sailboat behind me and the handsome men on it enhanced the effect. I might
have been one of their party. I mailed home the picture, the fake me. The real me was depressed, lonely, and homesick. I craved affection, and I dreamed of love. It had been too long since I had shared intimacy with another human being. I wasn’t looking forward to turning thirty. I wished that I had called out to the sailboat, “Hey, I am here! I have been waiting!”

Discount food stores were the only places I shopped. I looked for deals like two dozen eggs for a dollar and a loaf of bread for fifty cents. I made dishes out of rotten vegetables. I never missed the discounted milk and meat that were on or beyond their expiration dates. Sometimes the milk had a funny taste and the meat smelled. I boiled the milk and thoroughly cooked the food. To get rid of the smell, I marinated the meat in dark brown soy sauce and then stir-fried it with ginger and garlic. I was able to live on a thirty-dollar-a-month budget.

Before Christmas, I saw an 80-percent-off sign at Woolworth’s in downtown Chicago. I went in and bought seven pairs of orange cotton socks with pumpkin designs for only a dollar. What good luck, I thought. I also bought a set of sweaters and pants with bat designs and the same orange color for only $1.50. I spent another dollar for a hat and matching mittens. I wondered why everything was orange. I wondered why nobody else was taking advantage of the bargain.

The next day I arrived at school wearing my new outfit. The orange-colored sweater; the pants, hat, and mittens. People smiled at me and said, “Halloween again?” I noticed that it wasn’t just one person who said this to me. Almost everyone did.

“What’s Halloween?” I asked.

The back-to-back cafeteria sofas shook violently. By now I knew that the place was a favorite for lovers.

Witnessing these activities only made me feel lonelier. What I had missed in my youth had never really hit me until now. I felt sad and sorry for myself. I had never dated boys when I was these girls’ age.

I was the flower that had missed its blossoming season, and this
affected the way I thought of myself. I attracted, it seemed, only the crooked melons and rotten peaches. It wasn’t that I was holding out for a prince. A few times I was asked out by seemingly nice American men, even professors, only to discover that they were “married but in a terrible relationship.” Since drugs and alcohol were not problems in China, I had no idea what “alcoholic” meant until I was approached by one—a Prince Charming on the surface, but who couldn’t recognize me the next day.

Other times I received odd comments after the date, such as “You are more American than an American woman,” or “Aren’t you glad that you don’t have bound feet?”

One man said to me, “Would you like to go dutch, or would you like to take care of the entire bill?”

I blinked and believed that the translator inside my head had tricked me.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t mind,” the man continued. “I can totally understand that you’re from Communist China and would prefer to hold … how do you phrase it? You know the Mao quotation? Something about ‘half the sky’?”

I dated one Asian man for six months. He was a gentleman who enjoyed taking care of his lady. I waited for him to let me know if we were going somewhere. He finally decided that America didn’t suit him. He was returning to Taiwan because he couldn’t find a job after earning a master’s degree in architecture. His visa had expired. The man didn’t know what to say to me. Both of us knew that this would be the last time we would see each other. As a farewell I said to him, “Thanks for stocking beef patties and chocolate ice cream in my refrigerator.”

Although I understood that life was not art, I yearned for passion. I was shocked by a tall, blond, handsome student named George who kissed me without warning.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he sang.

“What’s Valentine’s Day?” I pushed him away. He said that he was delighted to be the first one to educate me about Valentine’s Day. I also adored Justin, who came to sit by me while I tended the gallery. He was a shy boy who had just turned eighteen. After his fourth visit, I decided to tell him my age.

I will never forget the shock on his face when I told him that I was ten years his senior.

“Wow!” he jumped out of his seat. “That’s … something!”

Justin never visited again. Although I remained composed, my self-confidence crumbled.

On my way to the subway station there was a video store owned by an old Korean couple. They also owned a dry cleaners next door. I had been renting movies from the husband ever since I purchased a used video player to help me learn English. I had discovered that watching movies was the most effective way to deal with my loneliness while improving my English. I asked the Korean owner if by any chance he carried movies made in mainland China.

The man shook his head. “No, bee don’t carry movies from Communist China. However, bee carry something else that might interest you—let bee check.” He paused, looked around, and then pulled me to the side. “You student?”

I nodded.

“You live by yourself? You homesick?” he asked. “Bee can help.”

I told him that I was, yes, alone. Completely alone.

“Bee ha-boo something poor you. I see you, walk by, you, e-bri-day. Come, here.” He led me through the racks of his video displays to an enclosed space where there was a curtain by the entrance and a sign that read ADULT ONLY.

I was not sure if I had heard him right. He had said “Free free.” I wondered if he meant “Feel free.” He eased me in and then pulled the curtain behind.

My cheeks burned. I was shocked by the display of videos of wild images of coupling in every manner and position. I felt terrible and glad at the same time. I left the store and returned to my room. I found that I could think of nothing else. I counted my money, hoping that I could afford to rent an adult video.

The old Korean man welcomed me back with a knowing smile. He pointed his chin toward the adult video section and mouthed a “feel
free.” I was embarrassed. The man’s grandson was doing his homework by the checkout counter. The old man called for his wife from the dry cleaning. She came and took away the boy. The man led me to the section and closed the curtain.

This must be how a mouse felt after it had fallen into a rice jar. I picked out the film that seemed most romantic. I quickly exited. The old man kept his head down as he took my three dollars. He put the video in a plastic bag and said, “Bring it back before six o’clock tomorrow.”

I watched the video with the volume off.

For the first time I discovered masturbation. I was thrilled that I could comfort myself. I closed my eyes and imagined being caressed by a man. It felt good not to beg anyone for affection. My anxiety eased. The craving became bearable.

I visited the video store on my loneliest nights during Thanksgiving and Christmas. I wanted desperately to call China just to hear my family’s voices. The Korean man was pleased with the business. I became devoted to one video titled
Sex Education
, which was more artfully done than the others. I first selected it because it was less graphic and it was longer in length. The seductresses in the film left their silk scarves on as they peeled off the rest of their clothes. The sex scenes were less mechanical. The other videos reminded me of plumbers trying to get through a clog.

The Korean man wanted to sell me the
Sex Education
tape at a discounted price. “You good customer,” he said. “Bee make you a deal. Twenty-pipe dollars.”

“I can’t afford twenty-five dollars,” I said.

“You’ll get your money worth in a long run,” the man said. “Look, it has been the only video you rent. You like it, don’t you? Why spend more money on renting when you can own the tape? Seven more times, you make your money back. You don’t have to visit my store again. I know how embarrassed you are every time. Like I said, you good customer. I no cheating you.”

I asked why he was willing to part with the video. He smiled and told me that
Sex Education
was the least popular video in the store. “You’re the only one who rents it. I honest with you. Other customers
think it too slow. No action. Too boring. They want juicy stuff! Lots of action. Okay, how about twenty dollars? My last offer. I lose money. You take it or leave it!”

As I paid the twenty dollars, I thought that I could use the video for the rest of my life.

Many students from mainland China worked in local Chinese restaurants in addition to their campus jobs. It was their way to earn tuition. I begged my roommate, Wen Li, who worked as a waitress at a Chinese restaurant in a Chicago suburb, to keep an eye out for me if there was an opening. I asked Wen Li to bring me a menu from her restaurant. I memorized the thirty-five dishes on the menu in English. I had been rejected by every Chinese restaurant in downtown Chicago and knew that I must impress.

The night a waitress quit, Wen Li called. She told me that her boss was looking for an immediate replacement because the restaurant was in the middle of catering a large corporate party. I put down what I was doing and took a train to the restaurant. I met the owner for an on-the-spot interview. Mrs. Soong was a Taiwanese Chinese lady in her forties. She had short hair and a moon-shaped face. She stood by the entrance of the restaurant and greeted her customers as she interviewed me. I kept hearing her say, “Happy Sex-giving!” or, “Sex for coming!”

I told Mrs. Soong that although I had no previous experience in waitressing, I had memorized her menu. I recited her thirty-five dishes the same way I had once recited Mao’s quotations. Mrs. Soong was so impressed that she forgot to say, “Happy Sex-giving!”

I was given three days to try out. I followed Wen Li as an apprentice and was hired after the third day, although Mrs. Soong offered zero salary. I would earn only from tips. Now I was a full-time student and juggling five jobs at the same time. Besides waitressing, I continued fabric painting, although with a different boss. I continued to work as an attendant at the school’s film-equipment booth, admission office, and student gallery.

It was a battle to get to the restaurant exactly at 5:15 P.M. My class ended at four P.M. Ten minutes before four P.M., I eased toward the door. When the professor turned his back, I snuck out and ran through downtown Chicago and toward Union Station. I needed to catch the
4:05 train to Libertyville. The train arrived in Libertyville at five P.M., and I ran to the restaurant. Once I arrived, I rushed to the ladies’ room to put on my makeup and apron.

Wen Li told me that Mrs. Soong used to be the principal of an elementary school in Taiwan. It was in her nature to give orders and criticize. Mrs. Soong walked around her restaurant with both hands locked behind her back like a general inspecting her troops. She would sense immediately if any of us failed to do her job properly. Before Mrs. Soong became an owner, she had worked as a waitress and a bartender herself.

“Creating return customers is the goal!” she reminded us daily. Mrs. Soong pointed at her watch and said that I was five minutes late. “Did I tell you five fifteen sharp? Don’t bother to come if you intend to be late again.”

I solved the problem by applying makeup and changing on the train.

“No gasping when you enter my restaurant!” Mrs. Soong said the moment I pushed open the door. “You are scaring away my customers! No moving lips either! No chewing, absolutely! It’s not my problem that you haven’t eaten all day!”