Down to $4,880, my first wife and I had an appointment at an obstetrician/gynecologist, a female Korean doctor recommended by her mother’s side of her Korean family. I had no idea how much the doctor would charge for the safe medical delivery of our twins. With Akemi only three months pregnant at the time, I knew I had time to stack some paper. Although I was feeling the pressure, I was not a desperate man.
* * *
Somebody was working my spot in Chinatown at Cho’s Fish Market. I expected that to happen when my trip to Asia had stretched to longer than a week. I had phoned Cho from overseas, not wanting to stick him. His weekend business began on Friday morning and was always packed with hard work to do and plenty of customers. That was my shift.
Early Saturday morning, June 14th, instead of giving some sort of explanation or excuse for my extended absence, I did the only thing the Chinaman respects: washed my hands, threw on my rubber apron and the welder’s glasses I used for eye protection, and fell right into the rhythm of the work. I was carrying styrofoam crates filled with fish, shovels of crushed ice, empty barrels and tanks for the live fish, boxes of plain brown and waxed wrapping paper, and cartons of hundreds of plastic bags for the customers, and hosing down the prep tables. I was letting loose live eels in the tank, live scallops and clams and live crabs and lobsters, each in their own buckets and barrels. I was gutting and scaling sea bass, branzino, snappers, sea bream, rainbow trout, porgies, and whiting and a variety of types for the display.
The Chinese customers preferred to buy their fish fresh, as in still alive. The Americans were usually in a rush and wanted it fresh but dead, quickly cleaned and packaged and ready to go.
We worked like that till all of the customers were served, all of their choices prepared to all of their specifications—heads off, heads on, gutted, cleaned, split, sliced or filleted, and packaged and wrapped nicely for them to carry home without any leaking.
I worked that Saturday double shift for two reasons. One, I didn’t work yesterday, which was Friday, the day I finished cleaning and setting up the empty house in Queens, to bring my family home. Two, because I wanted to speak with Cho after we closed up his shop. I wasn’t charging him for my labor for the day. I wanted to make a new business relationship with him instead. My double-shift free labor was an investment in his ability to hear me out and consider what I was saying, while understanding and respecting my growth as a man.
He chose the spot for dinner. It was his regular spot. The Chinese did not dine in the same places or in the same manner or off the same menu as their tourist customers. So we were in a back room of a restaurant whose red canopy boasted bold Chinese letters, which I could not read. I could, however, read the English lettering in small print beneath the Chinese letters. It read CHUON TU CHIO JA. I learned from the restaurant business card that it meant Spring Restaurant. The room where we sat looked like a pig temple. There were pig heads and pig carcasses and even pig statues on mantels, and dead ducks with stretched-out necks, and damn, I did not want to be rude, but . . . I’m comfortable working with all kinds of seafood, but would not be comfortable working in a butcher’s shop that was not halal and had pork displayed everywhere. Really, I did not want to consume anything in there, but I did not want to insult Cho, either. So my mind was swiftly putting together a plan where I could satisfy my faith and his culture without compromise.
I thought I was meeting with Cho for dinner. But when we arrived, there were ten other Chinamen standing in a huddle as though they were waiting for him. Cho and I joined them. I was just following and listening and watching. The ten men were looking at Cho as if to ask, “Who the fuck is he?” I heard Cho either introduce me or define me as “Jen Lu Li.” Then he turned towards me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said in English, “Very hard worker.” I knew then that was my name in those men’s minds. At least it would be the description that separated me from whatever they thought based on my appearance and their prejudices. The Chinese don’t call each other by names directly. The Sudanese and other Africans and Asians are the same on this issue. Most customers who were Chinese and regulars, if they were younger than Cho, called him “Shushu,” meaning uncle.
When a twelfth Chinaman arrived, the eleven others greeted him with great excitement and respect. He was clearly older than all of the rest. His arrival inspired a chorus of “Nee how ma,” which is the greeting our Chinese customers used every day, meaning “How are you.” “Nee how ma shushu” was their way of showing him respect as a man older than each of them. The old Chinaman responded, “Chen-how,” meaning “very well,” but then he added “Les-lah,” which I did not know the meaning of, but when he made a face and body gesture, I felt he was saying he was really tired. The other eleven Chinamen guided him to his seat, and not until he sat did the rest of us sit at the round table. I was the last to take a chair, and the youngest in our group.
The Chinese sit shoulder to shoulder even though our dinner table was wide and round. They don’t waste space or air. It was an adjustment for me, having a business meeting at a table with twelve Chinamen who had nothing to do with the business I wanted to conduct with Cho. Each of them was either alone or with one or two others, but either way we were all together, each doing our own thing in our own language.
The food was placed on a small circular revolving table that was in the center of the huge round dinner table. One waiter came out and bowed to his guests, which was surprising because I’d never seen the Chinese bow. I always saw the Japanese and Koreans do so. I figured it was because he was a server. Right behind him came another Chinese male waiter carrying live fish in a clear plastic bag with water inside. I recognized the fish as sea bass. The men examined them from the sitting position and the elder gave the waiter the thumbs-up.
Chopsticks and no forks. I had been in this position many times in my Asian travels. I’m comfortable with chopsticks, even though I don’t have the same ease in using them that the Chinese have. Now all of the food dishes, including mee-fah (rice), pie gu tong (spare rib soup), hui gau jo (pork belly), ching jung uuer (steamed sea bass), Shang Hai cai (bok choi), sil gwa (stir-fried vegetables), and shi-gwa (watermelon), had been placed in the center, and each of us had our own bowl for white rice. The elder shushu spun the table, serving himself what he wanted. He called out, “Kuai-choo!” which seemed to mean, “Let’s eat.” Everyone then took from the revolving table what they wanted. It was unique and interesting and a bit emotional watching each of the eleven Chinamen take some vegetable from their uneaten dish of food and place it into the bowl of the elder, as a show of both love and respect. In all of their actions, it was as though they were constantly conscious of distinguishing one man’s age and position from the others’, all the while remaining unified without a trace of envy, resentment, or competition.
I selected my foods last. I chose rice, steamed fish, and watermelon, but I left all of the soups and vegetables alone because of the pork I knew was inside or could be inside as a seasoning. And like all of the men at the table I drank nu cha, which is green tea.
Cho was straight-faced and slurping soup. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he thought it was funny allowing me to follow him in here and fall in.
“Cho,” I said. He grunted. “I have a new business,” I told him.
“You work fish market? You no work fish market?” he asked me.
Instead of answering, I pulled out the neatly folded pamphlet, which contained photos of the vending machines. I had used a razor to perfectly slice out from the Japanese catalogue only the images I wanted to show, without revealing any Japanese letters or even English lettering or contact information.
“I would like to put this machine outside of your store,” I said, handing him the photos. It was the same as though I had handed it to each of them at the table. All twenty-four Chinese eyes were on the paper, and it was then being passed around. Cho took it first, looked, flipped it backward and then forward. The next man took it from Cho and the paper made the rou
nds, around the round table.
“For what?” he asked me.
“For customers,” I said, of course knowing that he didn’t sell sodas or waters or any of the merchandise that my machine could offer for sale.
“How much?” he asked.
“I’ll deliver the machine to the store tomorrow if you agree. Customers buy from the machine. I keep the machine restocked and I take the money,” I said. I knew it was the best business scenario for me. I knew it was a long shot for him to just say yes and allow it, and then to allow me to keep all of the revenue, but I purposely pitched my offer at a starting point that was best for me; in case it got shaved back, I’d still make some profit.
Twelve Chinamen laughing, that’s what I saw now. Even though we were not in the same conversation, and the men had arrived at separate times in varying numbers, we all seemed to be having the same conversation now. Then they erupted into the Chinese language among themselves, fingering the photo and passing it around the table to each man a second time.
“Duo shao qian?” most of them asked. I knew from working the fish store that meant, “How much money?” I wish I would’ve brought Akemi with me. My first wife speaks Mandarin Chinese. She could’ve sat quietly beside me and later translated these men’s Chinese convo to Chiasa in Japanese. Chiasa would then translate it to me in English. Because of how complicated that sounds, is the reason I was seated alone. And of course because in the back room there were only men, I was satisfied that I was there without my wives.
It’s funny how the gathered Chinamen spoke only in Chinese but could hear any and all money talk in English. Suddenly the eldest, who was the last man holding the photos of my vending machines, announced, “Cho fong su.”
“You pay rent,” Cho said to me. I assumed that was what the elder had ordered him to say.
“How much?” I asked.
“Ee bai qwah,” the eldest said.
“One hundred,” Cho said. I guess that’s what the elder suggested.
“One hundred dollars per year, good?” I said. Then, twelve Chinamen were laughing again. So I realized they wanted me to pay one hundred per month to be allowed to simply place my machine outside of Cho’s store.
“Fifty dollars per month,” I counteroffered. “Or fifteen-hundred dollars for the horse ride machine and you keep it,” I said to Cho, knowing he could either make six hundred dollars per year renting the space to me at fifty dollars per month or twelve thousand dollars a year owning the machine himself. If his customers gravitated towards it, even if he couldn’t clear a thousand dollars a month worth of riders, if he took in half of that amount, he would still make six thousand dollars per year instead of six hundred dollars renting me the space. He had customers of all different backgrounds, including African Americans, who lined up and waited patiently for their orders to be prepared all of the time, and who often came with their children on the weekend, days and evenings.
“Tai gwee la,” one of the men said, but he was not the elder. I knew what that meant. Chinese customers said those exact words when they thought their order was too expensive and they wanted the “We Chinese discount” at Cho’s store. Now, twenty-two Chinese eyes were fixed on Cho, mine making twenty-four. They began speaking in Chinese again among themselves. I imagined that at least one of them was saying that he could make a horse ride vending machine easily for one hundred and eighty dollars total, parts and labor. The Chinese are smart like that. They could take anyone in the world’s idea or product and duplicate it, even though they had not invented it or thought of it first. I anticipated the competition because I know when dealing with the Chinese, the angle is always that they can make absolutely anything that the human mind could imagine, and they could make it for cheap!
I knew that winning this offer that I was making to Cho depended on the fact that I am the first person he encountered making him such an offer, and that I had the machine available immediately. I already knew that whatever deal I might make with Cho, the deal would only last at maximum one year before he and they found a better, smarter, cheaper way to do it on their own. But that was cool. If I could draw in a year’s worth of coins, or sell the machine outright, I was still making a real profit either way. In one year, I would have expanded and made new locations for my machines and new contacts and new customers also, just like the Chinese could and would.
“Ee chien er,” the eldest said.
“Twelve hundred,” Cho said to me in English. “I keep,” he added. The eleven Chinamen began all speaking at one time. Then the speaking ceased and the oldest man was the only one speaking. The rest, including Cho, listening to him. When the eldest one was done, Cho replied in Chinese to him in a very respectful tone. I imagined he was saying, “Nah, this is my man here. He works at my shop. I can trust him.” And of course he could. The eldest Chinaman stood and said in a low volume with his full vocal force, “Ku-eee,” which for me meant the same as him saying, “Cool, let’s do it!” I took it as an approval.
“Bring tomorrow, pay tomorrow,” Cho said, sliding me my paperwork, which the elder had handed back to him. I pulled out a pen and handed it to Cho, as in asking him, “Sign.” It was only the horse vending machine photo, which I knew was not a proper contract, but for me it was a gesture of his earnestness, as well as a way for me to fill out and complete his receipt and paperwork with his proper information. Up until then, Cho and I had no paperwork between us, yet I was embarrassed to ask him out loud, “What’s your full name?” I knew that would be odd, since Cho and I had been together for a long time and he had made it clear that I was trustworthy to the other men at the table.
He signed in English, in large letters like it was his celebrity autograph. I was glad he did. He spells his Chinese name as Zhou. I had always had it spelled in my mind as Cho, which is how the word Zhou is pronounced. I also discovered that Zhou was his last name and his first name was Yong.
“Shi-shi,” I said, speaking the one Chinese word that I was absolutely sure about. It means “thank you.” And just my effort to speak that one word caused each of the men to nod their heads in approval.
Dessert was tong yuan (sticky rice balls) and kong dou tong (red bean soup). I passed on both, but completed my fish meal nicely, to show my gratitude, humility, comfort, character, and camaraderie.
* * *
Chiasa had paid seven hundred dollars for her “horsey ride.” We grossed a five-hundred-dollar profit on it since I agreed to sell it to Zhou at $1,200. I made the decision without her. I hoped she would be pleased about it. If not, same as we ordered the first two machines together, we could order two more, and keep it moving.
I had another slick idea for my merchandise vending machine. It had everything to do with my first wife, Akemi. Amazed at vending machines in Japan selling kicks, I had envisioned owning one that sold Nikes. But I knew the Nike Corporation was a powerful monopoly. Getting a deal with them dispensing in America through a line of vending machines seemed unimaginable. Therefore, I came up with an alternative. The Chinese had the infamous “Chinese slippers.” For African Americans, they would come into style for a brief moment and then the style would switch. For the Chinese, they were always in style. If a badass Chinese flick came out, the Chinese slipper would reappear again. I began thinking about how it didn’t matter if a product was considered “cheap,” as long as it was in demand. Something that sells for five dollars a pair is crazy paper if you sell one million pairs. And for the Chinese slipper that stays in use, I was sure there were way more than one million pairs being sold each year.
I wanted to create a trend for a product I had imagined naming “The New York Slipper,” designed by my first wife. I had seen her dope off some customized Nikes with an airbrush. The couple of times that she rocked those kicks that she designed, with a mean-ass mini, before I put the ring on her finger, she caused everybody who knew high fashion to do a double-triple take. Now if I could get her to make a “New York Slipper,” an exclusive design, and set up the
vending machine for them at an exclusive location, for example at the Museum of Modern Art, where Akemi had business contacts. I could sell the slippers to tourists for a mean price, say fifty dollars a pair. If I purchased the white Chinese slippers in bulk in Chinatown and got Akemi to throw a crazy design on them, I could net forty-seven dollars profit on each pair, crazy!
If the idea tanked, and I only sold a low amount, say one hundred pairs, that’s $4,700 profit for a poor showing. If I did a decent job and sold one thousand pairs, that’s $47,000 for a decent take. If I did real good and sold ten thousand pairs, that would be $470,000, damn! If I hit the bull’s-eye, so to speak, and sold one million pairs, that’s $47 million. My idea, even if it tanked, was worth too much money not to venture into it. So I would. I could imagine wealthy tourists walking around Central Park with their noses in the air while wearing a cheap Chinese slipper, with a mean-ass New York design on it, that they had paid a ridiculous fifty dollars for, from a vending machine strategically placed, that they viewed as selling art, memorabilia, and even collector’s items.
* * *
Mail was in my box even though my house was empty. I grabbed it, ran in, and showered and dressed. I was heading back to the hotel for our last night in the suite. Tomorrow was Sunday, family day for us. I would gather my wives and my mother and sister and bring them into our new home.