Though I Get Home by YZ Chin

Author:YZ Chin
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781936932177
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 2018-02-10T05:00:00+00:00

Q: Why does the young woman say this: “How’d you guess?”

A. She’s uncomfortable with his curiosity.

B. She thinks she looks older.

C. She thinks it’s obvious.

D. She’s mystified at his observation.

Howie Ho thought this was more of a psychology question than a question of English competency, really.

A man appeared out of the blue, wearing a cowboy hat and Converse sneakers that, improbably, had spurs attached to them.

“Need some help there?” the man drawled, sounding just like Matthew McConaughey. He was short, with a wayward beard and patchy sideburns but impeccably combed blond hair. Cowboy propped himself against the ticket machine like it was a set piece. When Howie Ho looked up, the sky was a dirty color.

“What’s yernaime?” Cowboy asked.

“Ho . . .” he started, then caught himself. Here, in America, family names went last, after personal names. There was a joke that this was because Americans were not filial and did not respect their parents or ancestors, and that is why they put themselves before their family names. He made some mental rearrangements and said, tentatively, “Fook Hing . . . Ho.”

Cowboy hooted and slapped the ticket machine on its side, creating a terrifying sound of hollowness, a metal monster screaming hunger.

Cowboy stopped, and the metal hulk hummed for a bit. Then a dime clattered into the change dispensing tray. Cowboy slinked around Howie Ho and pinched the coin.

“So, ha, Fucking Ho, what’s yernaime mean?”

Behind him he could hear train doors closing, a monologue admonishing and warning.

“Prosperity . . . Rise.” It wasn’t easy, this negotiation of two languages.

Cowboy’s mouth widened in amusement. “That’s what I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry ’bout it, buddy. Hey, there’s this party. Yerwanna come?”

On the train, Fucking Ho stared dubiously at an empty seat’s texture of fake grass. To him it seemed that those seats were excellent trappers of bacteria and filth, but then a woman wearing a shirt for a dress came on and sat down, squirming her almost bare buttocks into the fake grass to get comfortable. She seemed fine. He shot a hand out to steady the bigger of his suitcases as the train lurched around a corner.

“So, Malaysia is a Muslim country, right?” Cowboy asked, leaning back, arms sprawled across seat backs, every limb as loose as could be.

“Well . . .” Fucking Ho hemmed. “Kind of . . .”

“Don’t worry, buddy.” Cowboy laughed loudly. Fucking Ho grinned back. They seemed to be getting along well.

They walked a few blocks after they got off the train, and then they were standing in front of a house with a small flight of stairs leading up to a wooden patio. It was halfway to dusk. The air smelled cold and quiet.

The door opened and loud music billowed like fire pushing itself out of a room without really leaving it. Howie Ho stopped when he saw how packed the room was with togas, helmets, masks, and duct tape. “Whoa,” Cowboy said, bumping a suitcase into the back of Fucking Ho’s calves.

“You didn’t tell me this was a cus-tom party,” Fucking Ho said.

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