Jay Passer

China

She materializes before my shift is over. At the bar, my proving ground, my killing fields, my Elysia. Wiping a counter, I watch Tom Rong talking her up or trying to. The language barrier is beyond his intellectual capacity. Her accent sounds Mandarin – a lot of shushing and whooshing. Since I’m such a linguistic expert. She notices me scoping her; there’s no language for that, no need for translation. I finish cleaning up lightning-fast change shoes and shirt. Quick underarm sniff. Huh. Okay. In pheromones I trust. I amble up to the bar like I own the place and sit on the stool next to her. No bullshit hair dye or fancy styling, just long, straight, purplish-black strands in an exuberant cascade. Her face, a classic oval moon, smoothly tapered jaw, full indigo lips, eyes like arabesques. Hot. I don’t know how exactly we manage to communicate, but she likes her rum and cokes. Tom Rong keeps watering her like a horse. Soon we’re flirting and lightly touching. Experimentally. She’s on the sturdier side but more like an ex-gymnast than, say, an ox. Her hands convince me; very proportionate, well-defined, nails neatly trimmed without any garish polish or ostentatious manicuring. Human connection? Animal attraction? A couple of horny lushes? Tom Rong intuits my motivations, and despite his side-eyed and slobbery insinuations, hands me a nice bottle of Merlot; not spendy but not cheap either. I get the hint. Tom, call me a cab – China, let’s get the hell out of here. At the Outrigger I’m the pint-sized playboy with my spartan bar: fresh bottle of Stolichnaya in the freezer stash of skunk bud in the kitchen cabinet. But first things first: I flip open the laptop and press a few tabs. R&B standards: Smokey, Gladys, Etta, Tina, Sam Cooke, Isaac Hayes, JB, Aretha – but the main gyration is Otis. Otis Redding who on a starless wintry night in 1967 dropped out of the sky into the frigid waters of Lake Monona. I load a bong find a corkscrew pop the wine grab a couple glasses saunter over to the futon couch – China’s already barefoot. A beautiful woman who barely speaks English. Otis, crooning The Happy Song:

It makes you want to shout – in fact it knocks you out!

The song delights China who begs me to play it again. Moments later we’re ripping each other’s clothes off. It’s strangely fulfilling to fuck somebody without the usual vocalized preamble of penchants and hatreds. Not unlike an escort but with the bonus of not having to pay. China smells good and has few inhibitions. But when I try rimming her purple ringlet, she wriggles and somehow finds the word tickles in her vocabulary. Kawaii! When it’s time I reach under the futon for condoms, my hand searching with a little frantic dance. My supply is low. In fact, I’m down to the generics, snagged from the free clinic after a rare STD check-up. China’s panting and pulling me towards her, urging me forward, chanting, incanting, Happy hong, happy hong, da-de-dum-dum! Okay okay! I rip open the packet work it on look down to see my old boy standing stiff, straight – and black. Like dipped in crude oil. Fuck it, so I’m a Negro from the balls up. I slam it in. China’s a good sport meets me thrust for thrust. I consider subscribing to The Rosetta Stone. Maybe I’ll never have to talk shit with a white woman ever again. One can always dream. Then it’s over and I withdraw. Goddamn! Cheap-ass, stale-ass fucking defective black latex condoms! Ripped! Trust me, it’s not like my dick is a chisel or anything. I ball that mess up quick fling it into a corner of the room. But China’s uncannily alert for a drunken foreigner. Wah happen? Wah happen? She dives for the evidence. With squinty dismay she displays the dripping victim of my priapic maul between thumb and forefinger. It break? Shit shit! It break! I upturn my hands in exasperation. What can I do? The damage is done. I console China, we drink more wine, we drink all the wine, and as I advance to the Stoli, China falls fast asleep. Off like a light switch. In the morning the indictment begins. She’s sober now and worried about our baby. After an awkward interlude of broken translation and copious tears, it comes to light that China is in all actuality a mail-order wife on the stray. I call out sick and whisk her to breakfast at the Continental where after several mimosas, she’s singing Dum-dum dilly de-dum-dum again, and, after a stop at the corner bodega for some mighty Trojans, we’re back at the Outrigger. 

Fucky sucky!

A week later she shows up at the bar, effusive, upbeat, with the breaking news update. Unfortunately, we are not going to be raising a baby. But China wants to hear Otis again, except this time, no black dick! Shit shit!