The Chickasaw Plum

The Chickasaw Plum

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Jeff Chon lives in Southern California with his wife and young daughters. He really misses cigarettes, especially when writing. This story was influenced by Raymond Carver and Bruce Lee. It is his first published short story.

WE ARE NOT SICK MEN

The words, angrily shoved together, repeated themselves over and over in Chuck’s mind, making sharp turns, shooting spark trail shavings, careening through the well-worn tracks in a circuit:

Watch it, you Chinese piece of shit.

It was all he heard, listening to Marty in the next cubicle gossiping on the phone. It was all he heard, the nervous energy leaving his fingertips in a click-clack-click-clack-click-clack upon the keyboard. It was all he heard, trying to forget the old man’s confused and wounded smile.

He grabbed the cigarettes from his desk drawer and headed for the courtyard.

The old man wasn’t even Chinese. He was Southeast Asian—Cambodian or Laotian were his best guesses—not Chinese. Chuck blew a slow leaking stream of tobacco from his lips. It clung cobwebs to the dry air as he stared at the professionals walking in and out of the building. He was convinced even he probably looked Chinese through the ripple of cigarette smoke in front of his face.

A beautiful young woman in a crisp brown suit sat on the bench across from him and lit a Newport. She smiled at him and immediately began texting. He watched her take soft drags from her cigarette, her graceful thumbs tapping the delicate buttons, smoke rising upwards from the tip of her cigarette, weaving slinky white braids towards the sky, deep and gentle gasps, laughing with every text and reply, text and reply, text and reply.

His buried cigarette forced streams of smoke through the spaces in the gravel. Chuck walked back into the building. He could still hear her laughing from the lobby. Chuck spun around a heavy-set woman in an ill-fitting pantsuit, barely avoiding a collision.

Oh, excuse me, she giggled. I almost bowled you over.

Chuck gave a slight, smiling bow and pressed the elevator button.

Watch it, you Chinese piece of shit!

He dropped his burger into the open cardstock clamshell, snapping his head toward the source of the slur. They locked eyes, Chuck and the young man in the green nursing school scrubs. Chuck’s furrowed eyebrows had the boy’s undivided attention.

The old man, clearly Southeast Asian, bowed over and over again, smiling a sickening, undignified smile. His head bobbed up and down in perpetual motion, a drinking bird in a plastic top hat, apologizing in that meek, unspeaking manner Chuck used to find embarrassing as a child. On his knees, the old man started wiping up the spilled Coke at the feet of the young nursing student. Chuck’s eyes clenched shut. He shook his head in a rapid back and forth, preparing himself for the walk across the dining area, for the exchange of words, for the shoving match and for the eventual punch-up that was going to take place.

When he opened his eyes, the young man was gone. He left behind an old man, Cambodian or Laotian, wiping the cheap brick-colored tiles with cheap box-colored napkins. The old man looked up at Chuck and smiled. Chuck ran outside. The mid-day sun bleached everything in his line of vision. He squinted toward the nursing college across the street. The young man had gotten away.

The old man walked past Chuck and got on his blue Schwinn Suburban. Chuck watched him pedal away in bowlegged rotation, handlebars wobbling, bike hobbling down the sidewalk and onto the side of the road. The far right lane slowed and swerved around the old man’s trembling ten-speed. They honked their horns as the bicycle stutter-stepped its way along the row of lunch hour traffic. A black man in a Jeep shoved his palm into the horn, shouting for the old man to get out of the way. The old man waved as the Jeep accelerated past him.

There was a pulsing throb in Chuck’s temples and his teeth began to grind.

The business casual swarm split, curving around Chuck as if he were aerodynamic. Rushing to the parking garage. Rushing to their cars. Rushing toward their homes. Chuck stood there, an obstruction, an impediment, an obstacle, and closed his eyes. He could feel the crowd avoiding him, walking around him, leaning away, talking on their cell phones:

I can’t wait to come home. I missed you all day.

Watch it…

Well, why can’t you pick her up? Do you know what traffic’s going to be like by the time I get on the freeway?

…you Chinese…

No KFC tonight, honey. We really need to eat healthier.

…piece of shit.

Those words refused to dissipate—a blockade, a seven car pile-up, a blood clot. Chuck opened his eyes and swung around, coming face to face with a startled little man with a gray beard.

What did you say to me?

Oh no, I didn’t say any—

You don’t ever say that to me, you racist motherfucker!

What?! Now hold on! I don’t know what—

A chink? Seriously? A chink?

…What?

I’m not even Chinese, man! Where do you get off?

I never s—

I should kick your ass!

…You’re out of your mind!

The man shoved his way out of the confrontation and tried to storm off. Chuck grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him around. The man’s face crumpled with rage. He bared his teeth and roared.

I didn’t call you anything!

Don’t try denying it! Everybody heard you call me a chink!

I didn’t call you anything!

Too late, man! Everyone heard you! You can’t walk this back! It’s over, you racist motherfucker! It’s over!

I didn’t say anything! I didn’t say anything! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Chuck took a step back and looked around, staring at the cluster of curious faces, searching for a seam, a clear path of escape. He took a deep breath. His throat felt swollen and dry. He wanted a drink of water. A dreadlocked security guard pushed his way through the crowd, dogpaddling through the wave of onlookers, massive biceps rolling over and sliding off a sea of shoulders and arms. The guard broke through the tangle of bystanders, coming face to face with Chuck and the little man. He was big, this guard. So big, Chuck couldn’t even look him in the eye. Instead, he stared at the name plate on his expansive chest: Myron.

I need you gentlemen to please come with me, Myron said.

I didn’t do a goddamn thing, snapped the little man. I’m not going anywhere. This son of a bitch—

Sir, I really need you to come with me.

But I didn’t do anything! This guy’s accusing me of saying things I—

I understand you’re angry, sir, but I really need you to come with me.

And I’m telling you I’m not going anywhere! I’m not the problem! He’s the problem!

We can sort all this out if you’ll just follow me back into the—

But I’m telling you that I’m not the problem here! I didn’t do anything and I didn’t say anything, yet this guy’s accusing me of this and calling me that—I don’t know what his problem is….

Chuck surveyed the heaping cluster of confused, narrowed eyes as Myron and the little man argued, the fluid surge of their back and forth sweeping through Chuck’s head, white noise, leaving him numb. It was getting dark. The crowd began to disperse, breaking away, bits and pieces, dissolving into the open courtyard, back to their routines. As he watched the last stragglers make their way toward the parking garage, all Chuck could do was twist off a grin and shake his head.

And he could almost see the old man smiling back.

The Chickasaw Plum - Volume VI - Number 7 - July 2009

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