Dixieland Sushi Page 9

  “He’s not a tosser.”

  “Sure,” Riley says, sounding skeptical.

  “I’ve had a crush on Kevin Peterson since the third grade. He barely knows I exist. That’s pretty much the story.”

  “There you go again,” Riley says.

  “There I go again what?”

  “Idealizing men. It’s your fatal dating flaw.”

  “My what?”

  “We all have fatal dating flaws and yours is that you love the ideal of man so once you really get to know him, you’re always going to be disappointed. All blokes appear better than they are until you get to know them and realize they’re all the same. They all like fart jokes and porn.”

  “I like you, and I already know you like fart jokes and porn.” This slips out before I can stop it. Luckily, Riley doesn’t even skip a beat.

  “Well, you aren’t dating me, are you?”

  “No,” I say. “But …”

  “But nothing. If I were serious dating material, I wouldn’t last two weeks with you. Take the last guy you dated …”

  “John had an Asian porn stash!” I cry.

  “The guy before that. You broke up with him because he chewed his food funny.”

  “I did not. He peed in the shower. I cannot realistically date someone who pees in the shower. I’m sorry.”

  “You have just made my case for me,” Riley says. “ALL guys pee in the shower. Your standards are just too high.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “And anyway, if everyone has a fatal dating flaw, then what’s yours?”

  “I am an irresistible bird magnet, so my girls always get jealous,” he says, flashing me his Colins’ smile.

  I have to laugh.

  The traffic before us finally eases, as we slip onto Interstate 55, which will take us most of the way south.

  Riley starts singing along with Morrissey. “I went to a Morrissey concert once,” he says. “I’ll never do that again.”

  “Why?”

  “I spent half the show trying to lose a little boy who seemed to be in love with me. Or at least in love enough with me to rub himself against me at every available opportunity.”

  “Maybe it’s your man boobs,” I suggest.

  “Hey! Leave my man boobs out of this,” Riley protests, shielding his chest with one arm like a girl whose bikini top just washed away in the ocean surf.

  “Okay—time for a car game,” Riley says. “Who do you think would win in a fight? Mr. Miyagi or David Carradine from Kung Fu?”

  “No contest—Mr. Miyagi.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the master!” I say. “He may be short and old, but he’s got the moves. And, when I was ten, I idolized him. I spent an entire summer practicing crane kicks and trying to catch a fly with chopsticks.”

  “Your love of all things Miyagi is frightening. Anyway, your turn.”

  “Okay, uh …” I can smell the distinctive Riley scent: vanilla and clean laundry. For a second, I lose my train of thought. “Who would win in a fight, me or Tiffany?”

  “Hmmmm. Tough one,” Riley says, thinking. “You,” he says finally.

  “Why?”

  “For someone who claims to have seen The Karate Kid a hundred times, I bet you picked up a few moves,” Riley says.

  “So are you going to tell me about being on break or what?” I ask him.

  “There’s nothing to tell. Tiffany said she wanted a break, and so we’re taking a break. I think it’s all Paul’s doing, if you want my honest opinion.”

  I perk up at this.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, cautiously.

  “He’s moving to L.A. and he’s going to start some free lance PR firm.”

  “Oh.” Should I mention the bedroom scene from his apartment? I wonder.

  “Anyway, I think he’s pressuring her to go with him,” Riley says. “And I think she’s considering it. She’s always wanted to live in Los Angeles.”

  “I see. And how do you feel about it?”

  Riley shrugs. “I’d be really upset if she went,” he says. “But what I can I do? It’s her life. She knows I don’t want to move to California.”

  This doesn’t sound like Riley at all. It’s not the rugby player in him to let something of his go so easily. Then again, things would be a lot better for me if I didn’t have Tiffany as competition. It’s not like I have any hope of getting Riley’s attention when he’s dating a five-foot-nine, model-thin babe who can eat three hot dogs at a sitting and still fit into low-riding Lucky jeans.

  “Anyhow, she thinks I’m not serious enough about her,” Riley says.

  “And are you?”

  Riley shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I think maybe I am, but then, I think if I really was then wouldn’t I know it? I care for her a lot, but I haven’t been as upset as I thought I’d be about the prospect of a break.”

  “You haven’t?” I want to hear more about this.

  “Well, I just don’t know, sometimes I think there’s something missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I knew what, then I would know what it was that’s miss-ing,” Riley says.

  “So you wouldn’t be willing to marry her—even for the green card?” I ask, partly joking.

  “I don’t need a green card,” Riley says. “Technically, I’m an American citizen. I was born in Dallas, which, by the way, was a very popular show in England.”

  “No!” I shout, glancing over at him.

  “I’m afraid it was very popular.”

  “No, I mean you—an American.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s a disgrace to the royal family. My American-born mother came home to her parents to have me. Then, she flew back to London when I was about a year old.”

  “So you’re a Yank! The thing you despise most in the world.”

  “Don’t remind me. When I was in kindergarten, my teacher told the class I was a Yank from America and had me stand up in front of everybody and explain what Thanksgiving was. I had no idea what Thanksgiving was about. All I ever remembered was living in England. From then on, all the kids picked on me. They called me ‘Yank.’”

  I think back to when I was teased on the playground for being half-Japanese. I know what that feels like. “And now you live in a country where people mistake you for being Aus-tralian.”

  “Bunch of bollocks,” Riley says. “Well, what can you do, eh? The scars give me character and character makes me deep. And birds love deep blokes.”

  He flashes me a playful smile. I remind myself that if I were wise, I would not read anything into that smile.

  “Likely story,” I say.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.” He sends me another intense look. “Why on earth are you driving so slowly?”

  “I am not driving slowly.”

  “For someone so career-driven, you drive slower than my granny.”

  “I do not!”

  “I bet the Queen Mum is a race car driver next to you.”

  “I’m going five miles above the speed limit.”

  “Everyone else is passing us like we’re standing still.”

  “Would you rather drive?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Riley speeds as if we’re on the Autobahn, and when challenged about his driving skills, he says that the driving tests in England are a hundred times more difficult than in America. He makes it sound like you have to fry up an egg while parallel-parking.

  Two hours later, Riley declares it’s time to stop and eat, and in honor of our trip to the South, he insists on stopping at a Cracker Barrel.

  “You know, this is not authentic Southern cooking,” I say.

  “But that’s what the sign claims,” Riley says, pointing to a hand-carved decorative sign above the hostess station.

  “This is a chain,” I add.

  “A damn good one, too, if this sort of shopping is available while you wait for a table,” Riley says, taking in th
e country store, filled with scented candles and a frightening array of collectible dolls. I stop Riley from asking how much it would cost to buy Lil Miss Oopsie Pants, a doll whose pants are falling down, which Riley insists on calling “Lil Miss Poops Her Pants.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re the most immature person alive?”

  “Only Tiffany. About a hundred times,” Riley says.

  The hostess who seats us has a distinctly Southern-sounding drawl. While we’re only five hours outside Chicago, it feels like we’ve crossed into another dimension.

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Riley says to me, as we’re seated below an old tractor, which seems to be hanging precariously from the ceiling above us, along with some other country knickknacks like a hoe, a rusted rake, and some old pans.

  “Do you even know where Kansas is?”

  “Yes, for your information,” he says. “Unlike you Yanks, I am a product of a school system that teaches geography.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “So, what’s your plan for ruining the wedding?”

  “I’m not going to ruin any wedding,” I say.

  “You’re driving how many miles and you’re just going to chicken out at the end?” Riley asks me, looking incredulous.

  “I’m going to take the high ground.”

  “Come on. You’ve got to at least have a speech planned for the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ bit.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “How about ‘I’m a crazy woman who’s been in love with you since I was ten. Marry me instead!’”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say, but I can’t help but smile a little.

  “Besides, I’m not in love with him. That was a long time ago.”

  “Uh-huh,” Riley says, sounding unconvinced. “So that’s why you were so desperate to have a stand-in boyfriend tag along for the ride.”

  “I didn’t say you were my stand-in boyfriend,” I protest.

  “Uh-huh, right.”

  “Do you have a problem with that … being a stand-in, I mean,” I say. I am dangerously close to crossing that line from innocent platonic flirting to innuendo flirting.

  Riley just looks at me, an impish smile on his face.

  I think, suddenly, he doesn’t seem like he’d mind crossing that line at all.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

  My mobile phone rings. It’s the Dixie Chicks playing “Cowboy Take Me Away.”

  “That is not really your ring tone,” Riley says.

  “Told you I was a country girl,” I say, picking up my cell and walking away from the table.

  “I didn’t get my expense check this week, and I don’t appreciate the delay,” says Michelle on the line. “I thought you were going to take care of this for me.”

  I don’t remember agreeing to take care of Michelle’s expense reports.

  “I put the receipts on your desk this afternoon,” Michelle whines.

  “Michelle, I haven’t been to the office since this morning,” I say.

  “Well, this is just not acceptable.”

  “I’ll make some calls and see what I can do, all right?” I say, through clenched teeth. Michelle is going to be the death of me, I think.

  I make a quick call to Anne, but she’s not at her desk, so I leave her a message asking her to try to run interference for me with Michelle until I get back.

  Back at the table, the waitress sets down our food, and Riley studies his plate.

  “Bollocks!” Riley cries, looking at his food. “What is this?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, poking at the black-eyed peas that are swimming in some unidentifiable sauce that looks like a mix of gravy and butter.

  “I think we’d be safer eating at McDonald’s next time.”

  In the afternoon, Riley insists we stop in Amish country so he can have me take a picture of him with a bearded man in a buggy, one of his lifelong ambitions. While we’re there, Michelle calls twice more, and I take the calls under the disapproving gaze of an Amish man making candles.

  Back in the car, Riley starts a game of Jump the Shark in which we try to name the exact point a famed television series went down the tubes. “Jump the Shark” refers to the episode of Happy Days when Fonzie jumped a shark on water skis wearing a leather jacket.

  “The dream shower sequence on Dallas,” Riley says.

  “You watched Dallas?”

  “Fookin’ everybody watched Dallas,” Riley says. “You thought you were the only ones with TV sets? And The Dukes of Hazard was big, too.”

  I can only imagine the image of the American South being broadcast to hundreds of countries across the world. It’s probably only one of many issues we have with international relations.

  Riley attempts to put the Smiths back in again.

  “Oh, no—we’re in the South, so it’s time for some country music,” I say.

  “Lord, help us,” Riley mutters.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid

  Daniel-san, trust quality of what you know. Not quantity.

  1985

  The one thing about growing up half-Japanese in the South is that I often forgot I was Japanese at all. I wasn’t immune to racial amnesia. It didn’t help that I didn’t really look Japanese, or that my Japanese American mother spoke in a southern accent and said “ya’ll” about as often as she said “ya-shee.”

  During a particularly bad episode of racial amnesia, I thought I could be a country western star.

  Bubba had been taking us to school, and so we’d been hearing a steady rotation of his favorite artists: Alabama, the Oak Ridge Boys, and George Strait. So I had plenty of inspiration.

  After school, Kimberly and I watched the reruns of Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters religiously (it was the one show we could be sure to watch without Vivien’s running commentary, which usually revolved around asking what we thought were silly questions like “If the A-Team is supposed to be undercover, why does Mr. T wear all that flashy jewelry?”).

  I’m not sure when I decided to become a country western star, but at some point it became clear that I took the Mandrell Sisters far more seriously than Kimberly did. Secretly, I thought Nashville would be my ticket to winning the heart of Kevin Peterson. By Halloween, Christi and Kevin Peterson were still an item and going strong, and I knew I needed to do something big to get Kevin’s attention.

  It didn’t occur to me that I had two major stumbling blocks to my Nashville dreams: namely that I can’t sing and that I was half-Japanese. There were no Asian people in Nashville. Of course, since I was suffering racial amnesia, this fact didn’t concern me too much.

  I had a threefold plan to reach Nashville stardom.

  First, I started to grow my hair (I wanted it ankle-length like Crystal Gayle’s). Next, I practiced singing “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” in the shower religiously every day. Thirdly, I watched reruns of the Mandrell Sisters with my trusty Hello Kitty spiral notepad opened in front of me so I could carefully record notes on their costumes (some variation of sparkling sequins), hair (always rolled, sprayed, with feathered bangs), makeup (lots of lip gloss and silver blue eye shadow), and their dialogue (puns and hand puppets are hilarious!).

  With any luck, I would be the next Louise Mandrell, spokeswoman for White Rain, who not only played the clarinet and the banjo but was a famous markswoman, taking highest honors in her high school clay shoot competition. All I needed was some White Rain, a banjo, and a rifle and I’d be the next Nashville Sensation.

  Vivien soon shot down my dreams of the banjo and rifle (but allowed me the bottle of White Rain shampoo), and, sensing my interest in music, and perhaps even the potential of my crossover appeal (Half-Asian sings Country Western), Vivien suggested I take piano lessons.

  The problem with cultivating musical talent was that it required a significant amount of work. I expected to sit down at the piano and begin playing “I’m a little bit Country …” during my first lesson.
I didn’t anticipate the fact that it would take me six weeks to learn “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” which would hardly win me a spot on Star Search, and then, instead of playing tried and true country hits like Dolly Parton’s “Nine to Five” I wound up practicing scales every day.

  Granted, my talent was not that strong. Kimberly’s gentle prodding (yelling, “Mom! Make her stop that god-awful racket!”) inspired me to look for other ways of improving my talent.

  After all, scales by themselves wouldn’t get me closer to sequined gowns, big hair, and Lee press-on nails. I started spending more time practicing my singing face in the mirror. Scales seemed pointless, whereas my “singing face” was crucial. For one thing, you had to plan in advance just when you’re going to shut your eyes tight (during the most poignant lyrics like “Working nine to five … It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it!”), and when you’re going to lift up the microphone and tilt your chin back (usually during the high notes), and how you’re going to hold the microphone (two hands or one, and when to alternate).

  Note to self—Singing Hands should not be confused with Jazz Hands. Singing hands are to be used not at the end of a song but during particularly emphatic moments. How to exe-cute: pull fist into side, then sweep hand slowly up from hip to above head to help audience visualize voice going up an octave.

  I kept imagining that one day Kevin Peterson would see me on my very own variety show. He’d travel all the way to Nashville to visit me backstage. Our conversation would go something like:

  Kevin: I’ve never seen Singing Hands like yours before.

  Me (feigning humility): These old things? Oh, I don’t know.

  Kevin: And I haven’t seen hair like yours since Crystal Gayle.

  Me (flipping long hair from face): I use White Rain.

  Kevin: I can tell. Say, I know this is sudden, and that you’re famous and all, but do you want to go together? I’ve been dying to ask you.

  Me: Oh, Kevin. John Schneider, the actor who plays Bo Duke on The Dukes of Hazzard, asked me to go with him already. (Pause, watch Kevin’s face start to fall.) But, I don’t think he’s so hot anyway.