Somehow, I’ve ended up carrying a bottle of
sunflower oil home for my grandma at 10:40 PM. Most of the lights were out—it
was an old neighborhood of old people and old stores and old houses. I walk
faster than her. It was the first thing I noticed when I stepped out the store
(I hadn’t gone on the trip to the
store with her. I’d met her by accident there because I wanted to figure out if
I could buy a bottle of kaoliang or something. Why are the cigarettes behind
the counter and all that alcohol is just sitting out in the open?). So I slow
down, but my grandma, with her packet of brown sugar, is still three steps
away. Three steps is an awkward distance. Two steps is okay. But three steps
and it gets awkward.
“Careful!” she says.
My heart thumps hard once as a boy in a blue shirt
speeds pass me on his bike from an alley. He was a boy, not a man, because his
legs were skinny and his head was small. And his shirt wasn’t pastel. It was
bright—no, bold. That’s the word.
Home is not far away from the store, but I pass both
a betel nut place with a big neon sign and a place selling fried chicken.
There’s a man on a scooter parked right by the fried chicken place, and there’s
a huge puddle of water forming underneath his vehicle. I thought only cars leaked
water because the air conditioning was on inside. But there’s no reason a
scooter should be leaking, especially not ten times the amount cars usually
leak.
I turn right at the very end of the street—into the
last alley. Alley makes it sound like we’re homeless, but Grandma and Grandpa
actually own two houses on the same block. But I just say alley because it’s
way smaller than a street, and it’s definitely not a lane. A lane is for white,
American homes. Not white as in the race, but white as in the color. Alleys are
for our brown houses. Not the race, but the color. Because I don’t think I’m
considered a brown person anyway, not that it matters. And no, I’m not implying
that all the houses on lanes and alleys have
to be white and brown. Our alley houses are all brick and gray and cream
colored.
For a second I think I’m in the wrong alley because
it’s all dark, and the garage doors are all down. That isn’t like my
grandparents’ alley. The old house always has the garage door up until every
single person is in bed. And the family always hangs out in the new house
(which doesn’t have a garage) until at least midnight, so the door should be
open and the living room lights should be on. But no, it’s completely dark.
I look behind me to make sure my grandma is still
three steps away, and she is.
I’m in the right alley.
Phew.
I take a closer look and the panic subsides. It was
so dark I couldn’t see that the garage door was actually still open. And the
door was closed because the air conditioner was on inside. Fear makes you
forget to be logical, yes. I’ve heard that somewhere and I guess it’s true.
“Your daughter is good!” my grandma says to my mom
as we enter the new house. “She is wise with her money. She didn’t want ice
cream.”
My mom doesn’t say anything because she’s thinking
the same thing as me.
Oh, Grandma, if you only knew.
I only didn’t
want the ice cream because you just gave me some about an hour ago.
Otherwise, I can be really foolish and careless with
my money.
At least I don’t spend it all on brown sugar and
sunflower oil.
