One Man's Trash by Ivan Coyote

Author:Ivan Coyote
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Stories, Gay & Lesbian, Gender
ISBN: 9781551523101
Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press
Published: 2012-03-15T16:00:00+00:00

STUPID MAN

I like the cheap produce, and the fresh flowers, and the Rice Dream (for guests), but mostly I shop there because of her attitude.

She single-handedly fights to fend off the stereotype of the docile, soft-spoken Chinese woman behind the counter. I see her on the front lines for everyone, heating up samosas and sliding packs of Player’s Lights and setting an example for all of us.

I went in one night for cigarettes, and asked her how she was doing, more out of good manners than conversation, but she told me the truth; few ever do.

“I ask you now, what time is it? A quarter after nine o’clock? The only thing I ask my husband is for Tuesday nights I watch a – how do you say – Chinese soap opera? He is supposed to come here at eight o’clock, so where is he at? And where are my friends? Waiting outside my house maybe? I don’t know, I am stuck here all night. And then some fucking guy, he just stole a whole box of Oreo cookie ice cream sandwiches, so I ask you, what kind of a life is this?”

I took my cigarettes and left meekly. I was almost afraid to ask her how she was the next time I went in. When you ask someone how they are doing, you rarely expect them to actually tell you how they are doing.

A couple of weeks later I went in on a Friday night to pick up a few things for breakfast the next day. Never being one to shy away from the truth, I asked her, “How’s it going?”

Her eyes flashed hard and sharp, and she snapped her answer back at me, her head jerking towards the back of the store: “Why don’t you ask stupid man how am I doing?”

Her husband had his back turned towards us, quietly pricing cans of coconut milk; his wide shoulders slumped inward. I went to get some crackers and he met my eyes, nodded hello, and looked back down.

“What’s up with her?” I asked him. “Good thing you can get a deal on flowers, huh?”

He smiled weakly, like January sun, and cleared his throat and spoke, quietly. “I was in the back, and I hear her scream that we’re being robbed, so I come running out to see a tall, skinny, white man running out the door. I chase him up to Twelfth Avenue, and across the traffic and down past the Mohawk. I jumped him on the grass by the apartment, and he rolls over on his back and says: ‘Don’t hurt me don’t hurt me I’m sorry, here is your orange juice, here take it back,’ so I give him one kick in the ass and let him go. He runs away. I come back here and give her back the orange juice.”

“And she’s mad at you? She didn’t even say thank you?”

He shakes his head like a wet husky and motions for us to lower our voices. “No, all she said is: ‘Very good, there is my orange juice.

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