Harold looked up from the magazine he was reading when a key hit the scratched counter. It was Lo Pei Chuan, returning the key to number seven. He absently reached over and flipped the checkout book back to last night’s page.
“I thought Chen had number seven,” he said. Chen’s name was in the book next to the number seven car. His eyes drifted back to his magazine; new Phillip Marlowe out this week, and he only half, at best, paying attention to the traffic of cab drivers checking keys in and out.
“I am Chen,” said Lo Pei. Harold threw a sharp glance at Lo Pei, suddenly paying attention. Lo Pei was wearing Chen’s stupid hat.
A lot of the drivers -- the newer ones, especially -- believed, he knew, that he couldn’t really tell them apart. They also believed that he didn’t understand Cantonese and that he was, maybe, just a little bit retarded. He hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to create what he thought of as the Myth of the Dumb Gwai Lo Dispatcher, but once he’d realized it existed he found himself going along with it, maybe playing it up a bit.
The older drivers knew him, of course, but they seemed to be in on the joke, so far. There’d been a big turnover last year, a bunch of guys leaving all at once, and the new guys... well, the new guys were young, all of them a bit rough and loud. The older guys didn’t like them much, and Harold was having a hard time liking them himself; so the atmosphere around the barn had been... weird, the last little while.
Lo Pei looked really unhappy. Something was going on; Harold tried to suss out whether it was some sort of serious intrigue, or whether Chen just had to go home early and got Lo Pei to cover for him and they were using the pretend-to-be-each-other gag because they didn’t trust him to be reasonable about it.
Either way, it wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened. Harold spit a stream of tobacco juice into the corner, absently, aiming at a brass dragon-stamped spittoon and missing it.
“Okay,” he said, “Sorry.” He hung the key to number seven on the peg board and watched Li Po walk away, looking back over his shoulder.
“Hey, Chen,” he shouted. Li Po did an actual triple take, stopping first because Harold had shouted, then relaxing because Harold had shouted someone else’s name, then tensing again as he remembered he was pretending to be Chen.
He turned to face Harold. “Yeah?” He didn’t come to attention, the way some of the drivers did, but he took his hands out of his pockets.
“When you see Li Po, let him know I want to see him,” said Harold. Then he went back to his magazine. Let him chew on that, he thought.
Somehow he had a hard time falling back into the story.
“I thought Chen had number seven,” he said. Chen’s name was in the book next to the number seven car. His eyes drifted back to his magazine; new Phillip Marlowe out this week, and he only half, at best, paying attention to the traffic of cab drivers checking keys in and out.
“I am Chen,” said Lo Pei. Harold threw a sharp glance at Lo Pei, suddenly paying attention. Lo Pei was wearing Chen’s stupid hat.
A lot of the drivers -- the newer ones, especially -- believed, he knew, that he couldn’t really tell them apart. They also believed that he didn’t understand Cantonese and that he was, maybe, just a little bit retarded. He hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to create what he thought of as the Myth of the Dumb Gwai Lo Dispatcher, but once he’d realized it existed he found himself going along with it, maybe playing it up a bit.
The older drivers knew him, of course, but they seemed to be in on the joke, so far. There’d been a big turnover last year, a bunch of guys leaving all at once, and the new guys... well, the new guys were young, all of them a bit rough and loud. The older guys didn’t like them much, and Harold was having a hard time liking them himself; so the atmosphere around the barn had been... weird, the last little while.
Lo Pei looked really unhappy. Something was going on; Harold tried to suss out whether it was some sort of serious intrigue, or whether Chen just had to go home early and got Lo Pei to cover for him and they were using the pretend-to-be-each-other gag because they didn’t trust him to be reasonable about it.
Either way, it wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened. Harold spit a stream of tobacco juice into the corner, absently, aiming at a brass dragon-stamped spittoon and missing it.
“Okay,” he said, “Sorry.” He hung the key to number seven on the peg board and watched Li Po walk away, looking back over his shoulder.
“Hey, Chen,” he shouted. Li Po did an actual triple take, stopping first because Harold had shouted, then relaxing because Harold had shouted someone else’s name, then tensing again as he remembered he was pretending to be Chen.
He turned to face Harold. “Yeah?” He didn’t come to attention, the way some of the drivers did, but he took his hands out of his pockets.
“When you see Li Po, let him know I want to see him,” said Harold. Then he went back to his magazine. Let him chew on that, he thought.
Somehow he had a hard time falling back into the story.
No comments:
Post a Comment