Typical Asianality
They spend the morning in a dance of kisses, each a little
closer to the last. Very soon, Skye is standing on a curb in front of the
casino, watching her car fade off down the road, a period at the end of a clean
gray sentence. His lips feel chapped and dry.
Dry. Through all the heartbreaking drama, he promised
himself that he would remember one practical item: his truck is an oil-burner,
and he needs to give it a fresh quart. He walks a block to a convenience store
and finds an overpriced 10W-30. When he returns to the casino lot, he flips the
hood and just stares.
His engine is blindingly shiny. It takes a minute of memory
scan before he figures out what he’s looking at: a genuine 1986 Toyota pickup
motor that has never been used. He checks the oil, finds it full, and begins to
laugh.
He can’t possibly go through Salt Lake, so he cuts south to
Highway 50, where the markers read Loneliest
Road in the U.S. It proves to be true, an infinity of scrublands, dry
creekbeds and graveled mountains. On a long, empty straightaway he gets out and
pees in the middle of the road. As he zips up, a drizzle of rain passes over,
flushing his urine and kicking up the smell of sage from the roadside. He finds
a motel in Delta, Utah, sits under a tree and lights up a cigar that Sarge’s
minions stashed in his glove compartment.
He drives over the Wasatch Plateau in a lightning storm. The
strikes are thrilling and a little terrifying. He tries to recall practical
bits of science – will the plastic steering wheel insulate him from a strike to
the chassis? He wouldn’t be surprised if Sarge’s mechanics installed a
lightning rod. Four hours later, the rain is falling in blinding sheets, and he
decides to give his nerves a rest.
He recalls the town of Glenwood Springs, Colorado from a
train trip. Viewed from the station, the town looked bucolic and inviting, rows
of old-fashioned storefronts on a tree-shaded main drag, the Colorado River
running between the town and a rocky, fir-treed mountainside. He later realized
it was a way-station to Aspen, which explained the prosperous atmosphere.
He’s now driving that very drag, and stops to park when he
sees the word “coffee” next a dangling bicycle. The Kickstand Café. He orders a
latte at the industrial copper counter, and hears what sounds like live music
seeping through the back wall.
“Something going on back there?”
The barista gives him a dead-eyed look. “Oh. Uh. Songwriter
night? In the back room. Costs like three bucks.”
“Oh. Cool.”
She flicks her eyebrow ring. “It doesn’t entirely suck.”
After this kind of testimonial, how can one resist? He
shakes a little cocoa on his latte, pays his three Washingtons to a girl at the
door (like the barista, practiced in the art of minimum enthusiasm), and enters
a dark room full of brightly painted tables and terrifying artworks. He sits
next to a painting of a blue Satan holding a pitchfork on which he has
shish-kebabbed an American family: mom, dad, teenage daughter, golden retriever
and a blond toddler about to be dipped in a deep frier. Is there something in the
water of Glenwood Springs?
A slim fiftysomething with a Grateful Dead beard and a red
mandolin adjusts the mic stand and smiles beatifically.
“We have a visitor from the cultural hinterlands of San
Francisco, who is in the midst of a cross-country tour of funky coffeehouses. I
listened to the stuff on his website, and I think you are going to be blown
away. Would you please welcome Peter Chung!”
Peter is a slim, tall twentysomething with attractively
angular features and a clean-cut look: button-down shirt, new jeans and a
corporate haircut. The sole bohemian clue is a silver necklace with a Celtic
knot pendant. Any thoughts of typical Asianality are dispelled when he speaks:
a scratchy baritone that ought to belong to a cowhand or a carnival barker. In
the way of all good performers, he addresses the obvious.
“I know what you’re thinking: shouldn’t this guy sound more
Chinese?”
The gothed-up teen audience, all geared up to be aloof,
can’t help but snicker.
“Story is, I was abducted in Beijing and raised by a pair of
black gay auto mechanics.”
Bigger laugh. Peter waits a beat (he’s obviously done this
routine before) then puts a hand to his forehead.
“I’m so confused!”
By now he’s done with his tuning. He stings a high note,
slides it low and pulls it to a jackhammer strum. His singing is back-porch
rough, invested with crackles and barks, a brown timbre that cools to a tender
indigo. His playing is blues-based but eclectic, ranging into single-note
arpeggios, wiry rock solos and the ukelele swing of the recent happy-pop. His
lyrics center on love, with a wry wit and surprising flashes of sincerity. He
finishes with a stop-and-start Chicago blues, “Don’t Let a Vampire Drive Your
Car,” and finally releases a smile under the rain of applause.
Hippie-dude retakes the mic and announces the opportunity to
purchase Peter’s CDs at $10 per. The next act, a trio of banjo, mandolin and
standup bass, takes the stage and begins the business of plugging in. Skye
heads for Peter’s table and hands him a Benjamin.
“Oh dude. I don’t think I’ve got change for…”
“Ten, please.”
“Well, yes, they’re ten apiece.”
“I would like ten CDs.”
Skye has flapped the unflappable. Peter develops another
smile.
“Seriously?”
“Not that a man should have to justify anything when he’s
handing you a hundred bucks, but yes. You’re an awesome singer, and I’m going
to make sure all my friends know about it.”
“Well that’s a deal!” He sorts out ten copies and hands them
over.
“Thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
“Skye.”
They shake hands. “I’m… well I guess you know who I am. You
have made my night, Skye. Hell, my week.”
“No problem. Keep up the good work.” He turns to leave.
“You’re not staying for the bluegrass?”
“Nope. Little tired from driving. Take care.”
“You too.”
Skye doesn’t really know why he’s leaving, but the idea
takes shape as he walks to his truck. A ridiculous show of generosity should be
followed by a quick exit, lest the recipient feel uncomfortably indebted. He
slips Peter’s CD into his stereo and heads out in search of a motel.
Photo: the real Peter Chung.
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