}}}Carey. 1982. Los Angeles, California. Chinatown.}}}}}}}}}
I didn’t know what the hell to say when Zang finished his story. It sucks, for sure. And I felt bad for the guy in it, but that guy was long dead. And like fuck am I going to console an Empty One, even if he was buying me beer. Hey, speaking of …
I pointed my beer can at the old Chinese bartender and made a shotgun noise. He looked at me. I shook it, to show him that it was empty. He didn’t move, just looked at Zang. Zang nodded, and the old guy got up to fetch us two more cans.
“So, what?” I said to Zang. “Now you’re a good guy? You’re like the punk rock Batman, righting wrongs and defending justice and shit?”
“Nah.” He laughed. “I just want to kill as many of those fuckers as I can.”
I briefly spun through some monologues about doing the right thing for the wrong reasons and all that garbage, but that would just be me playing devil’s advocate. Lecturing the guy not because I disagreed with him, but because I wished I did. That seemed like it would take a lot of energy that I just didn’t have, so instead I said:
“Huh.”
And I raised my beer can. He clacked his against it, and we drank.
“I gotta piss off soon,” Zang said, fully back into his asshole punk persona. “Places to be, people to kill.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Who and where and do you want a hand?”
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Seriously,” I said.
“I might take you up on that. A little birdy told me about a gathering of mystical shitheads going on tomorrow night. A little birdy who doesn’t have much of a face left anymore. Meet me at the entrance to the old zoo in Griffith Park at midnight if you’re looking to kill some time and some assholes. But not tonight. This business is personal, and besides”—Zang spun his finger at the bartender, in a wrap-it-up gesture—“you’ve got dishes to wash.”
“What?” I asked. “I think you’ve got your slang crossed, man. You need more practice talking like a human.”
Zang laughed as he shoved open the door and stepped out in the rain. It swung back inward after him, carrying a watery breeze scented with ozone and exhaust.
I looked at the bartender. He had one hand on the bar, sweeping away our empties into a bin. The other hand came up with a monstrous cleaver; a few big notches in the blade said it wasn’t for decoration. He motioned toward the gray door to the kitchen, behind which it sounded like some sort of Chinese civil war was starting.
“Motherfucker,” I said.
I stood up, pulled my jacket off, set it on the far end of the bar, and clocked into my new temp job.
You stupid bastard. If you know one thing by now, it’s this: There’s no such thing as a free beer.
* * *
That god damn Chinaman had me scrubbing pots until two in the morning. I don’t know what fucking payscale the Chinese work on, but three cheap beers does not equal four hours of hard labor. Unless …
Son of a bitch, Zang had me paying for his beers, too!
I wanted to hate him for it, but damned if I wouldn’t have done the same in his situation. He was actually pretty good at passing for a real punk.
After my shift, the Chinese at least gave me some fried rice and a cup of greenish tea. I ate it sitting on a milk crate out back. It had stopped raining, and the air felt lighter. Like the water had grabbed onto some of the particles of bullshit that accumulated in the L.A. air and washed them down the gutter. The bars were closed, and the shows had let out hours ago. The only people left in Chinatown now were the workers, just closing up shop, and the junkies and drunks looking for a dry place to sleep it off. I plucked through my bowl of rice as best I could.
The rotten sons of bitches had given me chopsticks.
Chopsticks. For rice.
How the hell was a man supposed to eat like that? It was like using tweezers to shave your head. One of the chefs came out to eat with me. He squatted down on a milk crate of his own, picked up his set of chopsticks, and plowed through his bowl in a little over a minute. That must be some Zen kung fu shit they all learn at a special monastery or something, because I gave up after about five minutes and resorted to shoveling rice and bits of pork into my face with my fingers.
I drank most of my tea, dipped my sticky fingers into last warm inch of water to rinse them off, then dumped the rest down the drain. I set my bowl and cup next to the door—my dining partner had locked up behind him—and ventured out into a shut-down Chinatown.
The place was like a theme park modeled after what a racist assumes China looks like: lots of pagodas and unnecessary archways, neon signs, and cheesy dragons. All dark now, of course, and abandoned. I sidestepped the puddles as best I could, but the holes in my ratty Chucks had my socks swamped in a matter of minutes. It took a good three hours of walking with soggy feet and an uninsulated jacket just to make it back to my crash spot. But the Los Angeles streets were as empty as they ever got, the buildings had been washed as clean as they ever got, and I was about as fed as I ever got, so all told, I’d had worse nights.