ed lin

Giant Robot Presents: An Evening with Performance – Ed Lin, traci kato-kiriyama, Nicky Sa-eun Schildkraut



Giant Robot 2
2062 Sawtelle Blvd LA, CA 90025
Friday, August 15 at 7:00pm – 9:00pm
Giant Robot is stoked to host a night of readings from the best writers in America. The last time Ed Lin and traci kato-kiriyama read, it was a standing-room only crowd and every book for sale was snapped up. Now, joined with Nicky Sa-eun Schildkraut, it’s sure to be another memorable night. Neelanjana Banerjee, managing editor of Kaya Press, will MC the event, which Kaya is co-sponsoring.

traci kato-kiriyama is a nationally-touring writer/actor/multi-platform artist/educator/organizer. She is half of the award-winning PULLproject ensemble, whose show, PULL: Tales of Obsession, has toured from Los Angeles to Toronto and recently appeared in East West Player’s 2-person site-specific show, Our American Voice. She is the organizer of the Generations Of War oral history & peace education project and Director/Co-Founder of Tuesday Night Project – which opened it’s 16th season of “Tuesday Night Cafe,” acknowledged in LA Weekly’s Best of L.A. 2013 list as “Best Free Downtown Performance Series.” traci has facilitated writing, performance and arts activism workshops & collaborations for over the last 15 years – including projects such as the Los Angeles Day Of Remembrance performance she directed which brought together Japanese American and American Muslim storytellers; and courses such as “Wellness & Expression in the Asian American Community” for the Claremont Colleges. traci’s written work has been published and presented through a wide variety of platforms (incl. Regent Press; The Undeniables; Rafu Shimpo; Angry Asian Man; Ford Amphitheatre’s Inside The Ford), and she looks forward to finding more time to finish her second book of poetry & writing, slated for publication in early 2015 by Writ Large Press.

Nicky Sa-eun Schildkraut is a poet, scholar and teacher who teaches creative writing and college composition in Los Angeles. As a Korean adoptee, her creative and scholarly work reflects an ongoing interest to explore the emotional and historical aspects of the Korean diaspora as well as transnational adoption. Previously, she has collaborated on avant garde music and art projects with composers and visual artists. She earned an MFA in poetry (2002) and a PhD in literature and creative writing (2012) from the University of Southern California. Her first book of poetry, Magnetic Refrain, was published in February 2013 by Kaya Press. She is currently completing a second book titled Until Qualified For Pearl, containing lyrical and narrative poems, and a non-fiction critical book about adoption narratives in literature and film. [From Poetry Foundation]

Ed Lin, a native New Yorker of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards and is an all-around standup kinda guy. Waylaid and This Is a Bust were both published by Kaya Press in 2002 and 2007, respectively, and were widely praised. Both books also won Members’ Choice Awards in the Asian American Literary Awards. His third book, Snakes Can’t Run, was published by Minotaur Books in April 2010; it was loved by many and also won an Asian American Literary Award. One Red Bastard was published by Minotaur in April 2012. His latest book, Ghost Month, a Taipei-based mystery, was published by Soho Crime in July 2014.

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Q&A With Author Bushra Rehman

And I’m not talking about the beer, though it may help! (Art by Chitra Ganesh)

This is one of these short books that you finish in a few hours and it resonates with you for weeks, maybe years and possibly for the rest of your life. Corona reads like a fascinating collection of journals and fiction mashed together in a backpack and bound as is. It’s quite fitting that author Bushra Rehman was a vagabond poet.

Bushra and I met not even a year after after 9/11 and it’s a complete coincidence that I’m posting this on an anniversary of 9/11. 9/11 actually figures into the fabric of Corona, as narrator Razia Mirza, a Pakistani woman from Corona, Queens, travels through the country and through time, through troubled relationships and relationships with trouble. Smoking pot with asshole soon-to-be-ex-boyfriends. Drinking beer with racists in the burbs. It’s funny, it’s sad and, if you hang on long enough like Razia manages to, it’s funny again. The book is a brilliant rendering of life and if it is not always life-affirming, it is always genuine and honest.

Are you in New York this Friday Sept. 13? I strongly suggest you come to the Asian American Writers’ Workshop and see Bushra in all her glory. She is a fantastic reader and always a joy to behold.

Below is Bushra’s official bio. Below that is a little romp of a Q&A with her.

Bushra Rehman’s first novel Corona (Sibling Rivalry Press) is a dark comedy about being South Asian in the United States and was noted among this year’s Best Debut Fiction by Poets & Writers. Rehman’s first book, which she co-edited with Daisy Hernandez, Colonize This! Young Women of Color on Today’s Feminism was included in Ms. Magazine’s 100 Best Non-Fiction Books of All Time. Her writing has been featured in numerous anthologies and on BBC Radio 4, WNYC, and KPFA and in Poets & Writers, The New York Times, India Currents, Crab Orchard Review, Sepia Mutiny, Color Lines, The Feminist Wire, and Mizna: Prose, Poetry and Art Exploring Arab America.

1) When we met you were a poet. Did you shift to narrative storytelling or have you been collecting these stories all along?

Yes, I remember those crazy tours we did with the Asian American Literary Caravan, hitting unsuspecting Asian-American students all over the country with our insidious literature! My poems were all so heavy and disturbing back then that I started to tell funny stories in the middle about my own personal misadventures to lighten the mood. That way the audience could join me on the emotional rollercoaster of my mind.  The book is composed of some of those funny stories, mixed in with some heavy dark moments. Onwards with the Asian American Literary Caravan!

2) There are so many crazy, dangerous and awful things that happen in Corona, and yet the reader comes away from it in the same way that the narrator Razia does — with a measure of humor. I feel that people who’ve lived tough lives are usually funny because they had to laugh their way through times that were hard. Don’t you agree?

You know I do. The hardest times in my life were the times I laughed the hardest. I hope people laugh out loud when they read Corona, especially if they’re going through a hard time.

Bushra’s not flaky at all. (Photo by Jaishri Abichandani)

3) True or false? People with roots in Pakistan, which literally means, “Land of the Pure,” are naturals to portray Puritans.

Ha!  All the required body parts are covered with a Puritan costume, and they have so much in common, like praying. I loved writing about a Pakistani woman working as a Puritan in Salem. When I was a child, I thought living history museums were places where English immigrants were so successful in preserving their culture, they’d completely lost track of time and place. Of course I also want to share this fun fact, that Salem, Massachusetts, is where the first South Asians settled in the United States in the 1700s. They were sailors who worked for the East India Trading Company. They jumped ship and blended into the Native population. So it makes sense that when Razia leaves home, she heads straight for Salem to be a Puritan.

4) What would happen if hipsters began to migrate to Corona and turn it into the new Williamsburg? There goes the neighborhood or change is welcome?

What are you trying to do Ed, make me lose the only audience that has the money to buy my book? Such a loaded question… so I’ll have to give a loaded answer, whether it’s loaded with BS, time will tell.

If the implied definition is that hipster=uber cool trust fund kids with a lots of attitude who cause the rents to increase wherever they move, it would be terrible! Corona is a family neighborhood with people from every part of the globe living there. It’s still a place where you can afford to raise a family. Whether or not they intend for this to happen, the presence of hipsters displaces these families. So, is it too late for me to say, “Corona is an imaginary neighborhood, people. It does not exist. Do not try to move there. You will get shot-imaginarily.”

I was so into this question, I ran it by a number of friends. One said, “Corona was already the ultimate hipster joint.”  Back in the 40s and 50s, it was home to the original hipsters, the jazz greats, Louis Armstrong, Nat Adderley and Jimmy Heath. What a great answer.

Another friend, who grew up in Williamsburg when it was rough and tumble, tumble being a euphemism for people dying on the street, and I talked until we found the hidden question: Why can’t people of color who pay taxes (maybe more taxes then hipsters) get the city resources to live in safe and clean neighborhoods?

At the end of the day, even I cannot move back to Corona. I’d just want to sit in a café with my laptop writing the next great American novel like the worst hipster around.

  I also want to share this fun fact, that Salem, Massachusetts, is where the first South Asians settled in the United States in the 1700s.

5) It’s interesting that the people who have been traditional threats — bikers, hot-blooded Italian men — are actually the one looking out for Razia while the traditional protectors — family and lovers — are the real menaces. Are you trying to say that Everything You Know About People Is Wrong?

Oh my god is it? Is everything I know about people wrong? No wonder things keep getting messed up! You know I rarely set out with a message when I’m writing, then later readers help me know what I’m thinking. It’s a highly advanced, complicated and inefficient form of psychotherapy for a person like me who is too broke to pay for it.

6) What are your favorite toys?

I don’t remember having toys in the traditional sense. There were these rusty milk crates we used to build up a lot into different structures and one year there was this old broken down car in my friend’s yard. We spent a whole summer pretending to drive around and go on adventures. It was so fun, it’s strange I never learned how to drive.

I do remember thirteen years ago being at Burning Man clutching a 2 liter bottle of water and someone saying, “You’re holding that like a teddy bear,” and I said, “I didn’t have teddy bears. I had younger siblings.” It’s true. When I first rocked my newborn daughter to sleep, I thought, this reminds me of my childhood. It was a sweet feeling.

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Q&A With Author Matthew Salesses

A swimmingly excellent novel.

I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying is a new novel in flash fiction by Matthew Salesses.

In 115 chapters, all shorter than a page and some as short as five lines of text, Salesses details a man’s life that is simultaneously falling apart and coming together.

A boy who is apparently his moves in with him after the mother passes away. Yet the man continues to juggle two affairs on the side while maintaining a passable relationship with “the wifely woman.” Meanwhile, his career advances, with no discernible effort on his part.

Possibly medicated (prescribed and otherwise) into ambivalence, the narrator puts in appearances where and when necessary most of the time, trying to stave off the genuine pain that comes from true engagement. And yet, by taking his poison a thimbleful at a time, the bite eventually seeps in and both the narrator and the reader come to an understanding about his place in the world.

Salesses is a husband and a father. His writing has been published widely. Recently, he took the time to share some thoughts about I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying with GR.


1) Is it harder or easier to write against type? I can tell you’re a nice guy and a good dad, so what is it like to write about a man who is ambivalent about relationships and fatherhood?

I’m not sure whether it’s harder or easier, in general. It’s harder for me to make up someone than to use myself as a character. One thing I like about nonfiction is that I don’t have to worry about how to create fully rounded characters; I only have to worry about how to represent people/myself as fully rounded.

The reason to choose fiction over nonfiction is to get at a truth that can’t be gotten at, or can’t be presented, as convincingly in an essay. Which means that in fiction I’m often writing against type, because I want to tell a story, and I don’t generally make a lot of interesting things happen in real life.

In this book, that choice meant using the voice of someone more directly conflicted than I am. I could have written nonfiction about my own fear of commitment, but it wouldn’t have been as interesting or convincing (coming from a married man with a daughter) as the story of this narrator, who is deeply afraid and makes choices out of that fear.

I guess to answer the question, it would have been harder to write this particular story if the narrator was nicer and a better dad.

I’ve never actually seen an Easy-Bake Oven, but I love the myth of it.

2) Flash fiction. Here to stay as a viable format, or something that, in the future, will date all work to 201X?

Here since at least Kafka, or maybe oral myths, and here to stay.

Also, I remember teachers telling me in undergrad to write fiction that is timeless and would last because it couldn’t be dated. I don’t think I believe that, now. I like fiction that represents a particular time and place, whether that’s Homer’s Greece or our present, and I don’t think that timeliness prohibits something from being timeless.

3) How and when did you determine that your narrator wouldn’t have a name? Was it a conscious decision or did you put it off and then realize he didn’t need one?

I don’t name a character, especially a narrator, unless I have to. If you call a character, “Mom,” then the reader brings up an immediate image (for good or bad), but if you call her Alice, the associations aren’t as evocative or useful–at least until you make her Alice.

4) Regarding the cover art, what were the circumstances that you first saw it? Does a fish on a line symbolize the narrator’s life? He’s thinks he’s somewhat free, swimming in the air, and yet he’s really caught?

I found the cover art years ago, and years before I started this book. I was looking for a cover for the magazine I edited then, Redivider. The image has stuck with me–partly because it tells a story of its own. There is a symbolism to it in the context of the image itself–the kite-fish is pretty clearly a symbol in the drawing.

Why I think it works as a cover for this book is that the association can be made between the story told by the cover and the story told by the novel. That is (I hope), it multiplies the associations and symbolism in a way. I wouldn’t want to say it means something in particular.

5) What are your favorite toys?

The Easy-Bake Oven–I’ve never actually seen one, but I love the myth of it. I love people’s reactions when it comes up in conversation.

My favorite toys as a kid were sticks and the bullet shells my friend and I used to find in the sand dunes behind his house. A toy is just something you make into play.

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Oh, Snap!


C’mon, Trader Joe’s People!

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Top 10 Shows of 2012


2012 was a pretty great year for shows, but of course, some are way better than others. Here are my top 10!

Psychedelic Furs play tiny Maxwell’s in Hoboken, recapturing some of the magic from the first two awesome albums (at least until they play “Heartbreak Beat”).


Bruce Springsteen! At Madison Square Garden! My first time seeing Bruce live. Everybody should go at least once and soon. He’s the hardest-working man in showbiz.


Swervedriver at Bowery Ballroom. The juggernaut returns!  Frontman Adam Franklin is awesome singing in this band and solo.


Asobi Seksu at Highline Ballroom. Yeah, man! The coolest band in the world keeps smokin’!


Agnostic Front at Warsaw. Three decades along, the veterans show the whippersnappers also on the Power of the Riff bill how it’s done.


Asobi Seksu at Brooklyn Bowl. They count again because Yuki sang through a cold for this show. She is like so great!


Grimes at Hudson River Park. The show almost didn’t happen due to warnings for a thunderstorm, but Grimes could not be denied. Not my sort of music at all, but from the standpoint of delivering a live show — she killed it!


Ringo Deathstarr at Cake Shop. My favorite new band will go on to rule the fucking universe!


Public Image Limited at The Music Hall of Williamsburg. John Lydon has a never-ending supply of bile.


Corrosion of Conformity at St. Vitus. The Animosity-era lineup is having the time of their lives playing shows, judging by the smiles and jokes. “How’s the weather?” asked singer/bassist Mike Dean. This was about a week after Hurricane Sandy. “Too soon!” yelled back an unflappable audience member. New York. You gotta love it.

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Hurricane Sandy and Midtown Manhattan

Grand Central Station, one of the busiest terminals in the world, is locked and completely empty.

Sandy hammered New York City Monday night. Midtown Manhattan was spared of the worst. We don’t have flooding like other parts of the city, but 39th Street has emerged as the dividing line of the have and have-nots. Of electricity that is. I’m straddling both worlds because while I don’t have power at home, I do at work! Here are some pics from my morning commute.

A loss of power doesn’t stop the Korean greengrocer from staying open while nearly all chain groceries and drug stores are closed.


One of my favorite burger joints remains closed, but they prepared as most other businesses did by boarding up the doors and laying down plastic to prevent flooding into the below-the-street storage.


As a former Cub Scout, I know that in the case of rain (or record hurricanes), the flag should be taken down and stored inside. C’mon, closed post-office people!


This Sanitation Dept. big gun is probably headed to the Lower East Side, parts of which are under a few feet of water. Wonder what kind of shape the old GRNY space is in!


Not only are our bus lines down, but so are some of the bus signs! Even though the MTA has suspended trains and buses, cars are still assiduously avoiding the bus lanes even though I doubt they’d be fined at this point.


No days off for Asians! Most countries have closed their consulates for the day — not the Philippines! The guy’s stepped out for a moment, though.

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C’mon, Supermarket People!

Allied Old English is the maker of this fine “sauce,” which is basically sugar! You know, if you’re gonna do it this way, at least make the whole thing in a chinky font. C’mon!

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Q&A With Writer Gina Apostol

Photo by Ken Byrne


Gina Apostol’s fascinating novel Gun Dealer’s Daughter has just been published in an American edition. This incredible book traces the seduction of Sol, a young privileged girl, by a romantics in a revolutionary group during the heady Marcos era in The Philippines. The first-person narrative is colored with defective memories and unreliable (but sympathetic) narratives. The reader will fall apart with Sol when she realizes too late that she’s sealed the cruel fate of the one person who truly cared about her.

I recently had the pleasure to read Gun Dealer’s Daughter and Gina agreed to a few questions and answers for Giant Robot readers. For those in New York City, Gina will be reading with Sabina Murray at The Asian American Writers’ Workshop on Thursday Sept. 6.


Congratulations on writing such a stunner of a book. Has anything changed editorially from its original 2010 publication on Anvil in the Philippines and the American W.W. Norton edition earlier this year?

I cut some sections of the opening, mainly. I had always thought the beginning was too slow. But I was also attached and wanted to keep everything. I did keep most of it, like the carousel ride, etc., minutiae the reader would not remember but I thought were crucial to my design—the book was designed with a circle in mind. My editor helped me cut. It was great to work with an editor who was, to my mind, always on the same page with me, but had a sharp eye for killing, killing, killing all the lice—Flaubert’s term for the incidents and words you can get rid of, but don’t want to, because they have already sucked your blood.


 I was once at this coffee shop in Baltimore listening to this incredibly stunning kid go on and on about Salinger and why she loved Catcher in the Rye. She turned out to be Winona Ryder talking to her boyfriend at the time, Johnny Depp


I couldn’t help but feel a certain vibe similar to the film Heathers. The feeling of play-revolutionaries mixed in with adolescent infatuation careening into something horribly real. How far would the teenage-girl narrator go in her zeal to impress Jed? On a different day would Sol (the girl) and Soli have changed places?

I just found the novel’s old Mac disks (those cute, colored squares that slide into the 1990s Macintoshes—I still keep that computer in my closet, like a sad robot of things past) and they were labeled Fil CITR —Filipino Catcher in the Rye. Oh, snap. It was only when I had finished the book that I thought—the bookend of carousels is a secret nod—of course!—to Catcher in the Rye. Heathers is a very good reference. All those films and books about adolescent stupor among the beautiful who become the damned. Now if Winona Ryder could also sing the Internationale as well as epater le bourgeois girls, she’d be Sol’s sister. I was once at this coffee shop in Baltimore listening to this incredibly stunning kid go on and on about Salinger and why she loved Catcher in the Rye. She turned out to be Winona Ryder talking to her boyfriend at the time, Johnny Depp. He was in town doing the movie Crybaby. He had a huge pimple on his face because John Waters kept making him eat Cheez Doodles or something during the shoot. What one learns from such models is that it is not good to take your teenage angst seriously. You might come to a bad end. In Winona’s case, she shoplifted; if only Sol had done the same. I always thought if Holden in Catcher had grown up in the Third World, he’d have turned into a good Maoist instead of just wandering drunk on Fifth Avenue and wiping off graffiti from the Egyptians at the Met. For me, of course, the difference between Heathers and Holden and Sol—and Winona—is that in Gun Dealer, adolescent angst is diagnosed as a political matter—even our malaise has consequences beyond the small pool of our local disenchantments. As for Sol’s thing with Jed—it is, I think, a cover for other lusts—above all the lust to be “real.” She has the Velveteen Bunny around her, after all, toys, the illusory world her parents bought, but like the bunny she wants to be real. Jed is a screen for that hunger, but I think even Sol knows she’s fooling herself. If you asked me, I’d have told her to get rid of Jed, from day one. Guy’s a dope. But I am not Sol. The thing about Sol and Soli is that they are meant to be somehow interchangeable, I think, but I am not sure. That Sol has, perhaps, a desire to be that other one, Soli, her ethical self, maybe, but she’s locked in her own merry-go-round of security, her carousel of comfort.


I fucking don’t care if Mitt Romney has ever felt alienated in his life


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Q&A With Actor Louis Ozawa Changchien

(Copyright, Harry Fellows 2012)

Louis Ozawa Changchien is a man of many faces so it’s a good thing he’s a damn good actor and not a thief. You may know him for having the most memorable scene in Predators (2010) in which his yakuza character Hanzo fights through a kendo match with a Falconer Predator. Changchien, who is of Taiwanese and Japanese descent, will be seen next in The Bourne Legacy (Aug. 10), although action movies aren’t his only forte. New Yorkers have an opportunity see him on stage in Kenneth Lin’s “Warrior Class,” playing Asian American Assemblyman Julius Lee making a run at Congress. “There is nothing more terrifying,” Changchien says of his role in the play, which opens today. By the way, his name “Louis” is pronounced the French way.

Giant Robot: Please explain how you can have major roles in action-oriented films such as Predators and The Bourne Legacy and yet still play a lead in a staged political drama such as ‘Warrior Class.” What’s more dangerous: going one-on-one with a Falconer Predator or running for public office?

Louis Ozawa Changchien: Running for public office for sure. At least I knew who my enemy was in Predators! I’ll take my chances with a sword over just using my mouth any day. It’s a rare opportunity for an Asian American actor to play a politician in a contemporary play. No special effects, no explosions, no guns to hide behind. Just three actors on a stage speaking the unspeakable to each other. There is nothing more terrifying. I’m hoping that the audience will enter Julius’ journey into the backroom battle that is politics. In Hollywood, I’m asked to look tough and shut my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, these action movies can be physically demanding: tumbling down volcanic rock that is razor sharp in nothing but flesh-colored Vibram Five Fingers and a cashmere silk three-piece suit in the middle of a sweltering hot rainforest is pretty intense. Or fighting the Falconer Predator in 30-degree weather shirtless while being sprayed down with water for 12 hours in the dead of winter in Austin was pretty demanding, too. And let’s not forget the stomach bug that hammered me while shooting Bourne in Manila.  I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I was throwing up every 15 minutes on one of my most intense days of stunts. I had a bucket next to me that I would hurl into right before the cameras would start rolling.

GR: You’re a graduate of Stuy, an extremely difficult high school to test into. Did your parents hit the roof when you told them you wanted to act? What advice would you give to young people who need to break the news to their parents that they don’t want to be doctors?

Changchien: Actually, I was lucky. My folks have always been very supportive of my artistic endeavors. But then again, I think they knew that there was no stopping me. For young folks, especially young Asian American children of immigrants, it’s hard to envision a successful life as an artist. I had no clue how to truly live as an artist. We have so little precedence and so few role models. And the path is never so clear. It’s not like being a doctor or lawyer. Going to school is no guarantee of work, although, I’d recommend it to all young actors. There are so few Asian roles out there, you’d better be good when your opportunity comes. Be prepared for some ups and downs. Save money, and try to enjoy the ride. Try to see and be involved in the best shit. And try to communicate all of this to your folks. I know it can be tough sometimes with Asian parents, but it’s only because they don’t have success stories as a frame of reference. Nobody wants to see their kids struggle. My mom is always asking if I’m eating enough, or if I have enough money!

GR: It seems that American actors of East Asian and South Asian descent are hitting a stride now in film and television. In your fantasy TV show, who would play your mom and dad and why?

Changchien: Can we get Pat Morita out of the grave? He’d be a cool dad. And Gong Li would be my dad’s new wife. But then, it’d be an Oedipal story.

GR: I once overheard an actor say that while he was having steady film and TV work, he needs to act on stage to sharpen his acting skills and raise his game. Do you agree? Apart from that, do you find a live audience intimidating?

Changchien: I think that was me who said that! Yes I agree. I think having a live audience is mostly thrilling. But when I’m nervous I convince myself that the spectators are out there paying money to have a good time. I figure if I’m having a good time on stage maybe they will, too.

GR: Recently you’ve been to Asia for film promotions and for filming itself, and I know you’ve spent time there growing up in Taiwan and Japan. Do you ever see yourself pulling a Daniel Wu and moving there for a good chunk of time and working there?

Changchien: My folks live in Japan so it’s nice to have opportunities to work out there. However,  I don’t think I’ll move there for long periods of time. New York is my home. And I now have a dog. Who is a monster. He’s a six-month-old pit bull and it’s hard to travel with such a big dog (he’s already 55 pounds).

GR: Are you a coffee or a tea guy? Describe a perfect cup.

Changchien: Coffee for sure. I like making my own coffee. I like Stumptown and Ninth Street coffee beans. Intelligentsia is dope too. My local spot Joe on 23rd and Ninth makes good cortados. Sometimes I use one of those Hario ceramic gizmos to make a nice cup of filtered coffee or I’ve got a stove-top espresso maker, which I’m about to use now. If I’m going to have tea, I like to make oolong. Hey, I’m Taiwanese.

GR: What are your favorite toys?

Changchien: Gee, that’s a tough one. I used to have a lot of toys. I liked cars and motorcycles but I got rid of everything to live in Manhattan. My custom-made Hanzo action figure is my favorite toy at the moment. It’s made by this guy named James Ellis and he did an incredible job. I’m the only person in the world who has one! I also have a small watch collection. I’ve added the watch I wore in Predators and the one I wore in Bourne into the mix. These time pieces mean a lot to me. The one from Predators is the Hamilton Ventura Elvis Anniversary edition. It’s cool cause Predators was my first lead role in a Hollywood film. Any time I put that watch on, it brings back a lot of memories. The watch from Bourne is actually quite rare. It’s made by a small American company called Kobold, based out of Pittsburgh of all places. And the manufacturer was nice enough to engrave “The Bourne Legacy” and my character’s name onto the back. Bourne was a physically and mentally demanding experience for me. I wear this watch to remind me that I can survive a lot more than I think.

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Motherfuckerland, Installment 21

(Art by spoon+fork.)

When I got off the New Jersey Transit train, Johnson honked twice from his car and popped open the passenger door.

“Where’s the old sedan?” I asked.

“That was a piece of junk,” he said.  “I think they sunk it in the harbor to give the fish a new place to play.”  He looked me over carefully.  “Have you put on weight?”

“I eat more than I used to,” I said.  “I have more money than I ever had in my entire life.”

“I hope you’re saving some.  This city eats money as fast as you can feed it.”

“You are right about that, man.”

“LaVerne treating you right?”

“Yeah, I can’t complain.  It’s the most serious job I ever had.  I iron my shirts now!”

“I hope you stay on the straight path from here on out because I like you.  I want you to know, Sean, a lot of times I had to pretend to be mean.”

“I understand.”

“What’s that you’re reading?”

“Oh, it’s a mystery book.  I found it on the train.  I can see why they left it.”

“What did you think about the reading program when you were in jail?”

“The reading program?  Well, the library was great.”

“Yeah, those library books!  Did you hear the news that some communist groups have been filling prison libraries with their propaganda books and they had people on the inside who made sure they were distributed?”

“Was it illegal?”

“No, since the books were being donated, but the Church groups are hopping mad.  They’ve filed a lawsuit for equal shelf space.”

“That’s crazy!”

“It’s Jersey.  It’s standard operating procedure.”

“I don’t miss Jersey bullshit at all,” I said, surprising myself. “Any of it.”

“Naw, guess you don’t, ya city slicker!  Hey, you going to write a book?  Tell all about the whole drug thing?”

“I had thought about it.”


“Let’s just say I understand why people wait until everybody else is dead before they write what really happened.”

“Yeah, you want to see me drop dead,” said Johnson, nodding his head.  “But that’s not going to happen.  At least not tonight.”

“Thanks for the invite to stay over, but I have that business trip tomorrow.  LaVerne’s taking me to the Los Angeles office.”

“Ah, yeah.  First time on a plane for you.  I understand.  For the first time you’re gonna get high the natural way.”

“What’s it like flying?”

“Stop sounding like a kid.  At least, don’t ask none of these guys at the bar.  They’ll think you’re a pussy instead of a hero.”

When I walked into JJ’s, shouts went up from everyone in the bar.  For the second time, I was the only white person in there, but now everyone wanted to come up and clap me on the back and shake my hand.

The bartender Curly came from around the corner and gave me a hug.

“Come on over here, I wanna show you a little something,” he said, walking me back to a spot by the jukebox.  There was a framed picture of me from the Asbury Park Press.

“You’re the first white man on the wall!” he said with pride.

It was true.  There was room made for me between two ancient pictures of doo-wop groups.

“I didn’t do that much,” I said.

“You stopped that towel-headed, snake-charmer motherfucker from selling more drugs to black kids.  That’s plenty,” Curly said.

Johnson cleared his throat.

“Come on,” he said, putting an arm around the bartender, “let’s get this man some drinks.”

Curly took a pewter mug down from the wall and washed it out.

“I’m gonna let you drink out of the John Vandyne Heroes Cup!”

“Who’s John Vandyne?” I asked.


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Motherfuckerland, Installment 20

(Art by spoon+fork.)

A nice suit made me look sharp.  More importantly, it gave me confidence.  I’d never worn anything that gave me such a mental boost, apart from a protector cup.  I got my hair trimmed like Chuck told me, and before we got into the courtroom he took out a comb and tried to run it over me.

I flinched and grabbed his arm.

“Don’t give me your dandruff, Chuck!”

“Hey, it’s not my comb.  I just bought it!” he said.  “Anyway, you can do your own hair, Sean.”  Chuck handed it over and I repaired myself.

I got up on the stand and after they were done with the Bible, I got a good look at Mr. Aggarwal.

He folded and unfolded his arms and shook his right leg.  The lapels of his shirt were uneven and the tie knot was mushy.  His eyes were downcast and only slightly open, like his mouth.  Sometimes he would rub his ears.

Mrs. Aggarwal wasn’t around.

I had both feet on the ground and I placed my hands on my knees.  I made the left and right fingers mirror each other in the same exact spot.

Then I lied.

I lied like a motherfucker.

I had premonitions of what my testimony would be like.  I knew I wouldn’t be nervous.  I just pretended I was trying to get a girl to take a ride with me.

It was Mr. Aggarwal I was unsure of.  I had a vision of him lunging at me with a knife, or maybe the same wrench that he used to kill Howard.  On TV they always kept the murder weapons on the evidence table, like they were daring the murderer to pick them up and fight their way out of the courtroom.

But the wrench wasn’t there and because there wasn’t another camera angle to cut to, a sense of action was missing in the court.  I would have been incredibly bored if I weren’t testifying.

Mr. Aggarwal was completely still with his head down.

He looked like a boy preparing to meet the principal, not a man facing the death sentence.


We had a recess for lunch.  Chuck took me across the street to a lunch counter with a cracked-linoleum floor.

“Sean, you’re doing great!” he told me.  “I think you missed your true calling.  You’re a natural actor!”

“Oh, yeah.  So I’ve been told.”

Chuck took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his tie.  I leaned into him and said: “I’m one fuck of a liar, aren’t I?”

He looked at me strangely and when he put on his glasses I saw menace in his eyes.

“Don’t say that,” he said, his voice as faint as a lead pipe scraping against a wall in a back alley.  “Don’t ever say that.”

Chuck ordered a toasted plain bagel with nothing on it.  I got the tuna salad sandwich and a coffee.  I started with the chips first.

“I’ve already got a Star Ledger reporter who wants to interview you and get your whole life’s story,” Chuck said.  He only took a glass of water with his dry bagel.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Don’t do any interviews until the trial is over.  But in the end, it’s up to you, Sean, if you ever want to talk to them.  I mean, if you were the kind of guy who knew how and wanted to publicize yourself, then talk to them.  Someone could make your story into a book or into a movie.”


“Yeah.  Happens all the time with stuff like this.”

He took a bite out of his bagel and chewed.  Watching him eat made my throat feel scratchy.

“How can you eat that, Chuck?”

He shrugged and kept chewing.

“That’s got to have no taste.  It’s like eating seashells.”

“I have a bad stomach, and on top of that, I’m a little nervous,” Chuck said.

“If you’re not going to put anything on it, why not get an onion or raisin bagel?  Why did you have to get a plain?”

“The plain bagel isn’t plain-tasting.  It absorbs the flavors from all the other bagels around it.  It’s like getting an everything bagel without all the crap falling in your lap.”

The waitress refilled my coffee and I finished it in about five seconds.  Then she gave me a dirty look, daring me to ask for another refill.

“Hey, there, don’t be that way,” I told her.  “I’m a hometown hero!” It was good for one last refill.

After we were done eating, Chuck said I had to take the stand again.

“I thought I was done,” I said.

“You’re only half done.  Now the defense gets to question you.”

Panic went through me like a lightning strike.  I cracked my thumb knuckles and rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth because it felt numb.

Mr. Aggarwal’s lawyer looked like the rat-like bad guy from the first “Die Hard,” Hans, and seemed as mean-spirited.

He came walking straight at me with his black eyes sharp as spearpoints smeared with ink.

“How long has it been,” he asked casually, “since you’ve rejected Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?”

I put my hands over my crotch.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“How long have you been working at the hamburger stand adjacent to my client’s hotel?”

“About three months.”

“Where were you employed immediately before?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were in jail, weren’t you?”

Chuck spoke up. “May counsel approach the bench?”  The judge said yes and the three men had a conference.

Hans’s mouth swung open.   He stepped back to the floor. When he looked at me again, I knew the worst was coming.

“Are you familiar with the group known as the Dotbusters?”

“I have heard of them, yes.”

“What do the Dotbusters do?”

“They hate people from India.”

“And how is it that you’re familiar with the Dotbusters?”

“My co-worker, Howard, the murdered guy, told me about them.”

“Isn’t it true that he was a member?”

“Objection,” said Chuck.  “That’s pure conjecture.”

“I’ll rephrase.  To the best of your knowledge, was Howard a member of the Dotbusters?”

“He said he wasn’t,” I said.

“What do you know about the hate crime perpetrated against the Aggarwals?”

“Objection,” said Chuck.

“To the best of your knowledge, did Howard know anything about the posters that were put up around the Seahorse Hotel?”

“He told me he didn’t know.”

“I object to this line of questioning,” said Chuck. “The hate crime has nothing to do with this case.”

Die Hard villain said, “I’m trying to establish that the witness is prejudiced against the client.”

“I’m not prejudiced!” I yelled.  “Howard was!”

Chuck threw me the look of death.  I shut up.

“And yet you continued working with Howard,” said Hans.

“I didn’t have a choice.  I couldn’t quit and leave.”

“Wouldn’t you say were friends with Howard?”

“Not really.  We just worked together.”

“Do you resent immigrants such as Mr. Aggarwal coming into this country?”

“No.  I became friends with Mrs. Aggarwal.”

“Just friends, Sean?”

“Objection,” said Chuck, lazily.

“Did you have an affair with my client’s wife?”


“Sustained,” said the judge.  “Counsel is warned that this is a frivolous line of questioning.”

Hans bit his lip and nodded.


When I got down and went over to Chuck, he muttered to me, “That was so fucking lame.”


“No, not you. The defendant’s lawyer. God, it was just pathetic. Was Aggarwal just trying to save money by calling 1-800-LAWYERS?”

“What happened earlier, when you walked up to the judge?”

“I told the judge that you were part of an undercover operation.  That any further testimony along the lines of your supposed imprisonment would put other undercover agents in jeopardy.”

“I wasn’t really.”

“No, it’s true.   I’m not lying. You just didn’t consciously know it.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“I’d say Aggarwal’s done like Tandoori chicken.  Serve him up with some bread.”

I slid down in my chair and played with my jacket buttons.


That was the end of my testimony.  I was done with going to court.  Chuck told me to lay low and stay away from any cameras until the verdict came out.

The day after me, Mr. Aggarwal was on the stand.  There were other people testifying–Johnson as to how he found us up there on the terrace, and someone at the autopsy to say how Howard was killed–but it was basically me against Mr. Aggarwal as to what actually happened.

I read in the paper that he didn’t deny that he grew the pot or that he sold it to Howard.  Mr. Aggarwal even admitted killing Howard, though out of “temporary insanity.”  Howard had always made racist comments at Mr. Aggarwal, calling him a “dot” or “7-11.”

Mr. Aggarwal said he lost it when Howard accused him of sending the money to Al Qaeda.

He happened to have a cast-iron pipe wrench in his hand at the time.

The next thing he knew, something soft dropped on his foot.  It was Howard’s neck.

Judging from the demographic of the jury, they probably thought that Mr. Aggarwal was part of an Al Qaeda terror cell, too.  People on that jury were meatheads like me, Howard and Andrea Conti.

Mr. Aggarwal’s lawyer must have known what was going on.  He had Mr. Aggarwal’s engineering degree from M.I.T. passed around the jury, but it wasn’t enough.

Mr. Aggarwal hanged himself in jail that night.  He had ripped out strips of fabric from the waistline of his jail pants for the noose.


Chuck came to my apartment in person to tell me about Mr. Aggarwal.  I had been asleep and came to the door in my boxers.

I remember that when I heard the news, I curled up in a fetal position on the floor, crying.  Chuck didn’t know what to do and turned to leave.

I grabbed his ankle when he tried to walk away.  Chuck put his briefcase down and pulled me up to the couch.

“Hey, come on!  Pull yourself together, Sean,” he said.  “Look at you.  This whole thing is good for you!  You were the star witness, and now you’re a star!”

“I need to tell Mrs. Aggarwal that I’m sorry!”

“No!  Don’t ever contact her!”

“I killed him.”

“The jailors, the guys who didn’t take away all the things Mr. Aggarwal could hurt himself with — they’re to blame, not you.  Anyway, he killed himself.  Innocent and good people never kill themselves.  He was bad.”

“I was bad, too!  I was in jail!”

“Well, he was worse than you. Much worse.”


With such a dramatic ending to the case, the press came for me.  I talked with the Asbury Park Press, The Star-Ledger and the Philadelphia Inquirer.  I even had a telephone interview with The New York Post.

I didn’t really know why they bothered to talk to me, because it seemed that they already knew what they wanted to write.  I was a reformed drug user working undercover to topple the pot kingpin of the Jersey shore.

The New Jersey Devils and the Nets wanted me to come to pre-season warm-ups and meet the guys.  I went to see both teams and it felt like the whole thing was happening to someone else — someone bigger and taller.

But most importantly, Johnson arranged for me to have dinner with a retired detective who now ran a management consultation business in the city.  His name was Ron LaVerne and he looked like the guy who does the diabetes drug ad on TV.  LaVerne wanted me to come and work for him, starting out with a low-level office job.


What struck me, as I was getting set up in the city, was how similar my situation was to when I was on probation.  Actually, it was a little worse.

The first time I saw the apartment LaVerne had set up for me, on the fifth floor of a walkup way over on 10th Avenue and 52nd Street, I thought that there had to be some mistake with the address.  The neighborhood was poorly lit and the sidewalks were as dirty as the gutter.

In fact, the asphalt of the street was so high and the sidewalk blocks had sank so low, there was no curb.  When it rained, the sidewalk was the gutter that the water washed up onto and flooded.

People hanging out were a strange mix of elderly Puerto Ricans and Dominicans and young white college students.

My building looked like the others up and down the block. The cracked and chipped stone steps up to the lobby door looked like they belonged in a haunted graveyard.

The tile floor of the lobby was mostly pulverized or missing.  The staircase was in surprisingly good shape.  It barely creaked when you walked up. The handrail had so many coatings of lead paint that it was bulletproof.

My apartment faced the street and even with the window shut, I could hear people yelling and laughing no matter where I was — in the small bedroom, the small living room or the tiny bathroom.

The first thing I did in that apartment was put the goldfish bowl on the toilet tank.  I watched him shake his fins and sink slightly.

I saw some nails on the floor so I took a broom off the counter and swept them out into the hallway.  I heard a girl in the next apartment on the phone, crying.  I came back in, shut the door and locked it.

In the morning, I walked down to 34th Street and then walked past The New Yorker hotel on the corner of 8th Avenue to a generic office building.

I was ready for my first day.  After taking the stand in court, there wasn’t anything I couldn’t face.

I walked into the lobby and tried to read the quote that ran the entire length of the lobby mural.  The guard behind the desk gave me a look like I was lucky his trap-door button wasn’t working.

Up on the 10th floor, the receptionist was on her cell phone and buzzed me in without even looking at me.

Ron LaVerne wasn’t in yet.  It turned out he rarely came in on Mondays, or early in the week or early in the month.

I got a cup of coffee and took a desk in a cubicle in the corner closest to the window.  I had a few coffee refills before a tech guy wandered over to set me up on the computer.   He got Firefox up and running but he couldn’t get me an actual company account until the boss came in.  I killed time by looking for a used copy of “The Corduroy Road.”

Ron came in on Thursday and had me backdate my paperwork to the beginning of the month.

“Someone show you the ropes around here, yet?” he asked as he glanced at my Social Security card.

“Nobody’s shown me anything.  I’ve been getting the cold shoulder around here.”

“You know what?  People think you’re my mole here.  They all know you from the newspaper and that you work undercover.  The first few months might be tough, but they’ll soften up.”


“Oh, you need an eight-by-24 phone, here.”  I found out later that that meant I was going to be handling the calls. I also filled out FedEx forms and took deliveries.  I became the go-to guy for Excel spreadsheets because I learned it quickly and soon took over for the woman who taught me.  Now that I think about it, I guess she let me pass her on purpose.

I didn’t have a computer at home, so I stayed a little late every day just to surf the Web.  I tried searching for where Mrs. Aggarwal was, but I kept turning up lists of professors and doctors.

I finally found “The Corduroy Road” at a used-book site.  Someone was selling a used one from a public school that had just shut down.  Jesus, how many years did they teach that book?

I did a Google search for myself, but as time went on, newspaper sites with my name started expiring and leading to dead links.  Hitting too many of them was always a signal to go home.

I was in a bar one night when I felt someone grab my shoulder.  I turned my head and stared into the face of a pretty green parrot.  Its head was cocked and a little tongue was hanging out of its beak.

His name was Money and he belonged to this Polish-American girl, Crystal.  I wish mom could have seen me now, dating a college graduate.

We were on and off, depending on how much money I had at the time.  I guess I was old-fashioned because I think men should have to pay.

LaVerne drug-tested at work every month and was also my landlord, so I didn’t dare smoke pot or even call in sick.  I was so paranoid, I wouldn’t even put oregano on my pizza.

My goldfish seemed more active in the new apartment, or maybe it was just my lack of pot intake.

Above the mirror in my bathroom, a sign read, “Promotion to Office Manager.”


Sometimes late in the afternoons there would be a loud hoopla from the mailroom.  Because all the managers in the office were white, they were too scared to go into the all-black-and-Latino mailroom to see what was going on.

Not scared for their lives.  Scared of looking stupid or square.

Because I sent out and received so many packages and flat-rate envelopes, I was probably the only white guy who went in there regularly.

One day my curiosity got the better of me and after a spirited series of hollers and high-fives from the mailroom, I got up, put my hands in my pockets and sauntered in.

The enthusiasm in the room died two seconds after I walked in.

“What’s going on in here?”

“Why, we’re only working hard, boss,” said Pops, the senior mail guy.  He had been there since the beginning, almost 10 years ago.  Pops had a kinky gray chin and head but clean-shaven lips.

Somebody quickly hit some keys on the tracking computer and then stood in front of the monitor.

“What do you know about the stock market?” asked Pops.


“Do you want to learn?”

“Not really.  I just wanted to know what all the shouting was about.”

“Well, we made our nut this week.”

“Your nut?”

“Yes, well, Sean, when a trading desk makes back all its operating expenses – things like rent, salary and other costs – it is said to be making its nut.  After that, everything’s gravy.

I didn’t understand a word he said.

Pops rolled up his sleeves and took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and started clicking the button.

“This is what’s going on, Sean,” he said.  “We’ve opened an online brokerage account and we’ve been trading stock.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Look, nothing illegal is going on here.  Except maybe we’re a little distracted from our work at times.  We’re even set up as a limited-liability partnership.”


“When we first got our WiFi network in the office, I noticed that my subordinates were spending a lot of time going over sports stats. One day I figured, shoot, if we’re gonna be putting that much effort into numbers, we might as well be making money off of it.”

“All right.”

“Legally.  Not with bookies.  I mean, I know how you’re the hero of the drug bust in Jersey, but there’s nothing here for you to sniff out.  Unless you want to join.”

“How do I join?  Um, what am I joining?”

The guy blocking the terminal broke in: “What are you asking him to join?  Just the investment club and not the book club?”

“Doug,” said Pops, “he can join either one.”

“A book club?  I like to read.  I’ll join that one, too.”

“Well, now, we have to take a vote on your memberships,” said Pops.  “Just wait outside for a few minutes for us to talk this over.”

They let me into the investment club, but I missed the book club by one vote.  The initial investment was $100 and I told Pops I’d have the money next week, after payday.

Just after congratulating me on getting in, Pops grabbed me by the shoulder and looked into my eyes.

“Tell me you have your 401(k) retirement plan set up.”

“I got the folder, but I didn’t read it.”

“Man, you gotta read that shit!  I’m enrolling you online right now.  Sit down!”

I sat down in the swivel chair in front of the terminal as Pops typed something on the keyboard.  It was a little too high, so I pulled on the lever on the side.

There was something very familiar about the feel of the lever.  I got up and turned the chair on its side to look under the seat.  It was made by DEPCOR, and maybe even by me.  I put the wheels back on the floor, sat down and slowly spun to the monitor.

“Now, what’s your last name, again?” asked Pops.


Johnson called me at work.

“O’Keefe!” I shouted into the phone out of instinct.

“I hate to admit it, but it’s nice to hear that name again,” Johnson said.

There are fables of people who wander into a hidden land of fairies and stay for a day and have fun. But when they leave the forest for home, they find out that in reality a number of years have passed — one year for each fairy hour.  You live in New York City in fairy hours.

When I heard Johnson’s voice I realized that it was now May, about seven months since the trial and everything, even though it felt like I was still in my first few weeks in the city.

May used to be a really exciting time for me.  The summer officially started in Shore Points with Memorial Day weekend, and before then, I had to get a job and a girl lined up, or at least my first job and first girl for the season.

Now it didn’t matter.  We went from winter to spring and the temperature and humidity of the office didn’t budge. It was the same fucking thing every day.

(Next week, the electrifying conclusion to Motherfuckerland.)

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Tongue and Groove Video


Excuse the quality and the ad that shows up from Ustream. (it’s recorded from our live stream of the event). That’s Franny Choi, Traci Akemi Kato Kiriyama, Ed Lin, and Chiwon Choi in the “Monsters of Reading” photo.


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Giant Robot Tongue and Groove Tour Stop

Thank you for coming through. When the idea of a “reading” was happening, I was picturing Ed Lin reading out of his book, or perhaps notes or anecdotes, but it turned into something else. A reading event with poets. At first it was a strange thought. In reality, it’s merely art form. You only have to listen and try and absorb the sounds, the words, and the tones of what’s being said. There’s a dynamic range of the many styles and this night showed it all. It started with Franny Choi (below), who’s a slam poet. She’s a competitor and brings an animated and strong performance to her words. She’ll grab everyone’s attention every second.


Chiwan Choi’s work is touching, subtle compared to Franny Choi (no relation), and his works are introspective yet mainting a hard hitting quietness, like a silent assassin.




Motherfuckerland, Installment 19

(Art by spoon+fork.)

Chuck worked out a deal for me and they released me to my overheated apartment.  The first thing I did was go into the bathroom and feed my fish.

I had been gone almost a week and was mildly worried I’d find him floating at the top.  He seemed hungry but normal.  I ran the water in the tub as I watched him eat.  I turned the fish food can over in my hand and read it for the first time.  I was shocked to see that the top ingredient was “fish meal.”

I knew fish in the ocean ate each other, but I thought tame fish were too civilized to do the same.  Would goldfish eat the flakes if they knew what was in them?

When the water was high enough, I undressed and got into the tub.

The reason I couldn’t eat the veal sandwich, and why I felt a little sick seeing Mr. Johnson eat it, was that my fourth-grade teacher Ms. Daley showed us some pictures from a veal farm.  She had pictures of cramped stalls with no windows and said veal was the meat of baby cows who were fed very little and had their legs chained or broken so they couldn’t develop muscle and their meat stayed white and tender.

She also had a picture of a dumpster that looked like it was filled with Corn Pops cereal.  But when you looked close, you saw that it was a pile of dead baby chickens.  The male chicks were thrown in the garbage and suffocated soon after they were born because they wouldn’t grow up to give as much meat as female chicks.

About once a week, she’d give us another reason to be a vegetarian.  Some kids were throwing their bologna sandwiches in the trash.

Then one day, instead of telling us about how bad our food was, she gave us all copies of “The Corduroy Road.”  After that, lunchmeat was okay again.  It hadn’t been a problem for me because I only had peanut butter, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Mrs. Daley went on quietly drinking a can of V8 with nuts and dried fruits on the side.  She didn’t even say anything when the boy in the back killed his first deer and brought in some venison for the whole class to try.  I remembered that the meat was tough and tasted like sweat.

After a while the water in the tub grew cold and filmy.  I had to piss so I climbed out.

I lay in bed naked for a while.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  It was going to be some time before the trial and my big show.  Until then I had to fight the urge to go to the hotel.  Mrs. Aggarwal wasn’t there anymore, but I wanted to walk around on the motel roof again.  We had had some good times together and it wasn’t just the pot, either.  I had never had such plain and open conversations in my adult life, and certainly not with a woman.

She hated me now.  I was sure.  I wondered if she would have hated me more if I had chosen not to testify and let her spend a year in jail like I did.

On the other hand, I saved myself. I think.

“I’m not Jesus,” I said out loud. I plugged in my TV but now it was dead.


In the morning, someone was buzzing my door.  I got up, put on a towel and slippers.

I went over to the intercom, pressed a button and said, “Yes?”

“Sean,” said Andrea Conti.  “It’s me!”

I pulled the towel tighter against my waist.

“What are you doing here, Andrea?”

“Get down here!  I’m gonna take you to buy a suit.”

“I already have a suit.”  It was from the thrift store and some guy probably died in it, but the suit fit well.

“Just get down here, okay?”

I went to the closet and yanked the suit off the rack.  It smelled a little musty, like young tree roots just pulled out from the ground.  I threw it on the bed to let it air out.  I put on a clean pocket T-shirt and a pair of cut-offs.

When I got downstairs I saw that she was in a shiny convertible, a Sebring.  Andrea flipped her sunglasses up and said, “Hi, stranger!”

She threw the car into drive even before I got the door closed all the way.

“Jesus, Andrea, at least let me get my seat belt on!”

“Sean, you’re going to be famous.  You already are!  You’re in the papers every day!” She was chewing a huge wad of gum but it didn’t slow down her talking.

“I came this close to . . .”

“You know, we let these people into our country and they come in here and they don’t even try to fit in!  They want our money but they hate our culture!  Cooking that disgusting curry and dressing in those harem dresses!  We should just close the fucking door.  Put up a sign that says, ‘Please Go Away, America Is Full.’  I hope they deport that fucker and his wife on their flying carpet!”

“You’re talking like a Dotbuster, Andrea.”

“Maybe they’re just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“Do you support the KKK, too?”

“Hey, I am not a racist!  I’m pro-American.  That Aggarwal isn’t an American, is he?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I touched my wallet and asked her, “Why do you want to buy me a suit, Andrea?”

“Aw, it’s from Michael.  You know, it says you worked at his hamburger stand, he wants you to look good.  Not that we pay you well, but, you know.  You’re an employee, so you’re sort of family.”

“Howard was family, too, right?”

“Michael is taking care of part of the burial expenses.  You know they found Howard’s dad in Florida?  He was completely broke and he hadn’t talked to Howard in years.  He’s trying to get the court to give him Howard’s bank account.”

“Did you have to get Howard a suit, too?”

“Did you get him a suit, too?”

“You know it was a closed-casket funeral, Mr. Funnyman.”

“I was in jail when it happened, Andrea.”

“Oh, that’s right.  Well, it was a nice service.”

She took me to the Men’s Wearhouse at the Freehold Raceway Mall.  I got two suits, one black and the other dark blue.  She insisted that I get a matching handkerchief for each, although I thought it made me look like Ricky Ricardo.  They seemed to know her there, and the tailor made all the adjustments in minutes even though there was a sign that said tailoring would take a week.

Andrea wanted to go see a race across the street at the raceway, but it was shut down.  They didn’t have racing in the summer because it was too hot for the horses, and it didn’t come back until late-August–a week away.

We looked through the plastic slats in the chain-link fence and saw an old riding lawnmower parked on the dirt of the track.  The metal seat had rusted to the same color as the soil.  The suit hangers were biting down into my hand, so I hooked them onto the fence and rubbed the grooves in my palm.

“Think that thing even works?” Andrea asked.

“Of course it works.  They wouldn’t drag it out there if it didn’t work.”

“It looks like a stagecoach after the Indians burned it.”

“You don’t know what a stagecoach looks like.”

For whatever reason, that set her off.

“Fuck you, Sean!  Don’t tell me what I know!  I went to college!”

“Well, you didn’t fucking finish, did you?”

“I went for a year!”

“Yeah?  Well, unlike you, I didn’t want to pretend that I could do it!  Anyway,  I knew I couldn’t pay for it!”

“Sucks to be poor, doesn’t it?”

“No, it sucks to be a greasy fucking Guinea bitch.”

She stalked off.  Over her shoulder, she yelled, “I’m one-eighth Indian, that’s how I know stagecoaches!  Now go pick me some potatoes, ya mick bastard!”

“You don’t pick potatoes–you dig them up.”

“You’re corroded, Sean!”

Andrea went across the road.

There’s a certain kind of walk a woman does when she’s had enough.  She puts her heels down first and turns her feet out like a duck.  Her upper body takes the form of two elbows pumping.  You’ll never see her happy face again and she’ll duck you at the mall.

Andrea hopped in the car and swung it onto the highway in no time. I think she gave me the finger but there was a glare on the window and I wasn’t sure.

I sat down and leaned against the fence where my suits were flapping in the wind.  Right there under the spikes of the bottom of the fence was a book of matches, half of it torn out.  I couldn’t believe my luck.

I took out a cigarette that I had bummed from the Men’s Wearhouse fitting-room girl and lit it.  It was one of the best non-pot smokes I ever had.  When I finished, I picked up my suits and walked down the road to the bus stop.  When I got there I only had to wait about 15 minutes.

(Part 20 next week.)

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Order Ed Lin’s Book, One Red Bastard, Signed!

  Giant Robot online exclusive!  Ed Lin is in town and promoting his thrilling new book One Red Bastard.  This is your chance to order it signed by the author himself!  For a limited time, request your copy personalized to yourself or a cool friend in the comments section of the ordering process.  Offer ends at 6pm Pacific Time on Friday May 25th.   Get it Now!

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GR2: Ed Lin Workshop


Ed Lin’s new book, One Red Bastard is out and he’s touring Southern California doing readings. Gladly, his first of two stops at Giant Robot included a workshop. In dubious form, he didn’t release any information on how it would work. It was a fun time. If you’re at home and want to write a book, here’s his exercise. A) Write about the room you’re in. B) Write about a person with a problem C) write about how he tries to solve the problem but it only gets worse. D) Write about an entity that comes in and helps solve the problem. E) Then back to yet a new problem that arises. That’s the building block of creating a story. It was also Ed Lin’s Birthday. He turned “7″. He’ll be back at GR on friday at the Tongue and Groove event. What will Ed read? It’s another great question.



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Motherfuckerland, Installment 18

(Art by spoon+fork.)

The Jersey newspapers usually run national news in the front sections.  Apart from high-school sports and construction kickback busts, there was almost never any local news.

Mr. Angrywall made the front covers of every newspaper that they let me have in my holding cell.  Only his name wasn’t “Angrywall.”  It was “Aggarwal.”

He had been growing several different kinds of marijuana in a few of the rooms on the top floor.  Some varieties were new to the law-enforcement community.

Which included James O’Keefe.  Turns out that wasn’t his real name.  His real name was Shawn Johnson.  He was a detective with the Narcotics Central Unit of the state.  I found out later that they had put Johnson on me because I was evaluated to be the most at risk of recidivism.  They wanted to see whom I would go to for more pot.

My court-appointed lawyer was a joke.  He was a nervous Oriental guy named Chuck Shu. Yeah, I’m not kidding.

He encouraged me to “remember” some sort of story of how I saw Howard regularly get pot from Mr. Angrywall.

“Better yet,” he said, “say you went with Howard to buy pot from Mr. Aggarwal.”

“Chuck,” I told him, “I didn’t see shit.  I have no idea where Howard got his pot from.”

“You’ve been apprehended in another drug-related crime, Sean.  Under your prior conviction, that’s an, ah, automatic three-year sentence.”

“So you want me to lie?”

“Oh, no, no, no — don’t lie.  But think harder.  You might have forgotten.  It could be suppressed deep down.  If you can remember a certain scenario, and testify against Mr. Aggarwal, I can probably get you an immunity deal.”

“That means no time at all for me?”

“Yes.  It could even make you a local hero.  Mr. Aggarwal was found to have an extraordinary amount of marijuana plants and, ah, associated paraphernalia.”

“What kind of sentence is Mr. Angrywall looking at?”

“Probably 20 to 25 years.  Ultimately, it could be reduced to 10, I think.”

“They wouldn’t deport him to India?”

“He’s a naturalized American citizen.  They won’t deport him.  Can’t, in fact.”

“What about Mrs. Angrywall?”

“Mrs. Aggarwal hasn’t been charged.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“I guess she’ll be visiting her husband on the weekends, heh.”


In my holding cell, I got back into reading, but not books.  They let me have newspapers every day with the classified sections and personal ads left out.

They were saying Mr. Aggarwal may have been the sole source of the strong marijuana that was going around grade schools in Monmouth and Ocean Counties.

An editorial in the Asbury Park Press said that “Raj Aggarwal should have used his knowledge and intelligence for good, not evil.”

Some Indian kids had been beaten in school.  One badly enough to be hospitalized.

The hotel and hamburger stand were both closed by the Shore Points sheriff.

They said that my role in the whole thing was as of yet unclear.

One paper profiled some jerk who had also been arrested under the Weed Out The Garden State measure and was now working in a gift shop, packing seashells imported from Mexico and playing organ in church on Sundays.

He said that being in jail was a wake-up call for him and that it would be a shame if it hadn’t straightened me out, as well.


They took me out of the cell and escorted me to an interrogation room.  I expected Chuck to show up, but it was O’Keefe, or Shawn Johnson.

Something smelled good.

“You like chicken or veal more?” he asked.  There were two subs wrapped in tin foil on the table.  They smelled like parmesan cheese.

“I like chicken more.  I feel guilty eating veal.”

He pushed the one marked “C” on the foil to a seat across from him.  I sat down in the chair and unwrapped the sub.  I felt moist warm bread push against the roof of my mouth and I almost choked on the first bite.

“Whoa, easy there!  You’re like a dog, Sean!”

“I don’t drink out of a toilet,” I said.  I didn’t have the balls to follow Howard’s advice.

We didn’t say anything else until we were both almost done eating.

“Now, I know you’ve had a chance to talk to your lawyer, Sean.  You got a story you want to tell me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Now let’s look at how things are, Sean,” Johnson said, finishing his sub and slapping the crumbs off his hands.

“Can I just call you O’Keefe?  It’s hard for me to call you Shawn.  That’s my name.”

“You can call me ‘Detective Johnson’ or ‘Mr. Johnson.’”

“Mr. Johnson, what kind of spot am I in?”

“You’re in a position to help put away one of the biggest drug lords in the history of our state, Sean.  Aggarwal didn’t care who got hurt or how many families got destroyed.”

“When I think of a drug lord, I think of ‘Scarface.’”

“Yeah, he was another guy who came to this country, tried to get ahead taking the low road, so to speak.  But now he has to face the music.”

“It’s just pot, Mr. Johnson.  It’s not cocaine.”

“‘Just pot,’ huh?  What if I told you that your late pal Howard was selling Aggarwal’s pot to kids at black schools?  I’m talking about kids as young as nine.  That coward sold it early in the morning before most adults in the neighborhood were awake.

“I can’t help but take this personally.  You think black families don’t already have enough to struggle with?  Now Junior’s coming home all doped up, stealing money from his mother’s purse for more when she hasn’t got enough to buy groceries?

“Then farther down the line, Junior’s going to have to smoke more and more to get to that high again.  Then he’s going to try harder stuff.”

“Everybody I knew just stuck to pot.”

“I’ll bet nobody you knew was raised by a single mother who had to work two jobs to keep the family going.

“I don’t mean two office jobs, neither!  I mean shit jobs! Scrubbing toilets, mopping floors, and everything on the graveyard shift!  Getting paid like a parking meter!  And then she has to keep juggling jobs because they keep finding someone who will work for even less!

“There you are coming in late, not knowing where you been and all high or strung out and she’s left out a dinner plate for you in the oven because she had to go to another job and she’s praying every minute, every day that you’re going to straighten out your life on your own because she’s too damn tired to beat you or even yell!”

“You’re shouting, Mr. Johnson.”

He inhaled and it seemed like a full minute before he let it out.

“I don’t mean to shout.  I just get worked up.”

“I treated my mother badly, too,” I said.  He nodded.

“Sean, you have an opportunity to break this cycle of cruelty, of racism.  Don’t do it just for you.  Think about the children.”

“Do what?”

“Testify about what you know about Aggarwal selling marijuana to Howard, who then went on to sell it to kids.”

“I didn’t hear about anything about that.”

“You know Aggarwal was supplying Howard.”

“I don’t know for sure.  Howard could have been in that room for the first time and Aggarwal killed him to keep him quiet.”

“Just say you saw them meet up, or Aggarwal came around the hamburger stand, slipped Howard a package.”

“It didn’t happen. I never saw him come by.”  He leaned in close.

“Sometimes, Sean, you need a little lie to stop the bigger evil.  For example, if I didn’t pretend to be your probation officer, I wouldn’t have been able to gain your trust and plant a bug on you.”


“The cell phone.  I was recording you.”

“Ha, I used to turn it off. . .from time to time.”

“The bug was a recording chip hidden inside that worked if the phone was on or off.  You talk a lot of bullshit when you’re high, Sean.”

“You can’t use any of that against me.  You didn’t have my permission to record me.”

“Au contraire!  As a convicted drug abuser, I had permission from the court to monitor your activities, your whereabouts and everything you ate, drank or smoked.  Do we understand each other?”

I didn’t say anything.

“And how about I throw in Mrs. Aggarwal for the abuse of drugs, too?  Be a shame to put such a sexy, spicy woman in jail.”

“What’s going to happen to Mrs. Angry–Aggarwal?”

“I knew you wanted to get with her.  Kinda disappointed you didn’t.”

“Hey, I could’ve.  She would’ve, too.”

“Of course.  I mean, now, she’s going to hate your guts for testifying against her husband.  But if you don’t fuck him over, you’re going to fuck her over.”

“I don’t want to fuck anybody over!”

“You have to fuck someone over!  Welcome to the real world, Sean!  You had enough practice fucking up your life and your mother’s!”

I wanted to hit him, but I was so mad I couldn’t even move.  Mr. Johnson brushed his sleeves.

“Personally, ” he said quietly, “I’d much, much rather have Mr. Aggarwal fucked over.  What do you say, Sean? Are you going to testify against him?”

I pushed my seat out and put my head on top my folded arms on the desk.  Mr. Johnson shifted in his seat to hold eye contact with me.

“What’s going to happen to your recordings of me and Mrs. Angrywall?” I asked.

“I’ll have a technical difficulty and delete them.”

“I want a copy of them.”

Suddenly, Chuck burst into the room.

“My client has nothing to say to you!” he stammered.

Mr. Johnson smiled and crumpled up the foil wrappers and tossed them into a garbage can.  He said, “We were just having lunch–a real good lunch.”

Then Chuck looked at the both of us and smiled, too.

(Part 19 next week.)

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GR2 Friday May 25th 8pm Tongue and Groove Author Readings


Tongue and Groove – Author Readings

Friday 5/25 8pm Giant Robot 2 

2062 Sawtelle Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90025 310-445-9276

In celebration of National Asian American/Pacific Islanders Heritage month, Conrad Romo’s Tongue and Groove Series will make an appearance at Giant Robot 2 featuring Frannie Choi, Chiwan Choi, Ed Lin, Traci Kato Kiriyama and others

Chiwan Choi is a writer, editor, teacher, and publisher Abductions is his second book of poetry.

Ed Lin is the author of Waylaid,This Is a Bust and Snakes Can’t Run. Lin, who is of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards. The native New Yorker’s latest book is One Red Bastard, by Minotaur. He’ll be available to sign copies.

Traci Akemi Kato-Kiriyama is the creator/ producer of Tuesday Night Café in Japan Town. She is a writer, performing artist, educator and  grassroots organizer.

Franny Choi was a finalist at two of the three most prestigious poetry slams in the country: the National Poetry Slam and the Women of the World Poetry Slam. She was awarded Best Female Poet and Most Innovative at the 2011 Wade-Lewis Poetry Slam Invitational, and her team was specially recognized for Pushing the Art Forward at the 2011 College Union Poetry Slam Invitational. She was also the top-ranking female poet at the 2011 Southern Fried Poetry Slam and the champion of 2010 Seoul Poetry Slam

Giant Robot was born as a Los Angeles-based magazine about Asian, Asian-American, and new hybrid culture in 1994, but has evolved into a full-service pop culture provider with shops and galleries in Los Angeles as well as an online equivalent.

Eric Nakamura
Giant Robot Owner/Publisher
[email protected]


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GR2 Wed May 22nd 7-9pm Ed Lin Workshop and Signing


FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE – Writing Workshop and Author Signing at GR2

Ed Lin – New Book – One Red Bastard

Wednesday May 23nd 7-9pm

GR2 – 2062 Sawtelle Blvd LA, CA 90025 www.gr2.net 310 445 9276

Giant Robot 2 (GR2) presents: Writing Workshop and Author Signing at GR2

Author Ed Lin just released his latest novel, One Red Bastard and is conducting a writing workshop. He says to bring your iPad, iPhone or Paper. The workshop is scheduled for an hour 7-8pm.

Afterwards from 8pm-9pm, Ed Lin will sign his new book – One Red Bastard. We’ll have copies on hand.

Giant Robot was born as a Los Angeles-based magazine about Asian, Asian-American, and new hybrid culture in 1994, but has evolved into a full-service pop culture provider with shops and galleries in Los Angeles as well as an online equivalent.


Eric Nakamura
Giant Robot Owner/Publisher
[email protected]

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Motherfuckerland, Installment 17

(Art by spoon+fork.)

Andrea Conti wanted to give me a handjob as usual, but I was done with it.  I think those anti-horny jail chemicals were completely out of my system.  I still wanted to jump on Mrs. Angrywall and I was mad at her for having that much control over me.  I guess I was mad at all women.

We were standing in the back of the walk-in van.

“Let’s not,” I told Andrea.  “It’s all right.  I held on to my zipper and pushed her hand away.

“What!”  She nearly dropped the sack of money from the hamburger stand’s receipts.

“Everything’s okay.  Just, you know, we’ll unload the food each week, I’ll give you the money, and that’s just fine.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  It’s just. . .that’s how it’s going to be.”

“You don’t like it anymore?”  Her eyes were shining.  Christ, it was like trying to break up with someone.

“I’m gonna be honest,” I said.  “This just doesn’t do it for me anymore.  I’m tired of bunting when I step up to the plate, you know what I mean?”

“All guys are like this, aren’t they?  Deep down inside you only want to score, isn’t that right?  You just want to fuck!”

“Not all the time, but some of the time, yes, definitely.  I do have to get laid every once in a while.”

“Maybe I could suck you.”

“That’s nice, but it’s not going to do it, either.”

“I’ll give you what you want, then,” Andrea said slowly.  “But you have to wrap it and I don’t want to do it in the van.”

“Where we gonna do it?”

“How about one of the hotel rooms?”

“Here?” I said, nearly choking.

“Yeah, here.  What, are you scared or something, now?  You only want to talk about fucking?”

“Naw, it’s just that, I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

“Go ask the dot for a key.  She won’t give a shit.  You know what they do in her country?”

“Don’t call her a ‘dot,’” I warned.

“I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want!”  She crossed her arms.

“Wait here.”

“I’ll wait, but not too long.”

I rubbed my ears as I walked to the office.  I wondered if I could look into Mrs. Angrywall’s eyes and ask for a room key just like that.  Sure, she was going to ask what for.  I couldn’t lie to her, but maybe I should tell her that I’d clean the room up after, too.

Every potentially good situation always had something tough to overcome.  “Man Has to Be His Own Savior talked about it endlessly.  Mao had the Long March.  The American autoworkers nearly starved to get their right to a 40-hour workweek.  I could ask Mrs. Angrywall for a room key to get laid.


“You look positively gloomy, Sean.”  Mrs. Angrywall was reading through Auto Exchange, the free weekly newsletter of used cars.  “It’s a sunny day out, so chin up.”

“Are you looking to buy a car or something?”

“No, but I do like the little descriptions of the cars, particularly the antique models.  It’s a bit like reading tombstones, only one presumes the cars are still running.  I’m amused by the number of ‘easily repaired’ problems there are.”

“A lot of car dealers take out ads to make them look like some guy selling a car in his driveway.  But then you call them and show up at the address and it’s a used-car lot.  They’ll try to sell you another car for more money.”

“You speaking from personal experience?”

I thought about how I went with my mother to what turned out to be a used-car lot.  The guy was a snake.  Her instincts were good enough that she ended up not buying a car, but for whatever fucking reason she went on a few dates with him.

“No, I just heard,” I said.

“You on break now?”

“No, I just. . .I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

“I definitely owe you.  If anything, for that excellent weed this summer.  You name it.”

“Could I get a hotel room?”

“Are you throwing a party?”

“Not really.  I’ll only need it for an hour, tops.”

Mrs. Angrywall scrunched up her eyebrows and nose and tried to make them meet somewhere between her eyes.



“What exactly are you planning on doing?”

I put my hands on the counter and hunched down.

“I’m going to have sex with this girl.”

Mrs. Angrywall folded up the magazine and smoothed down her hair.

“Are you mad, Sean?  Just who is this tart you’ve brought in?”

“It’s Andrea Conti.”  I wanted to be as upfront as possible.

“She’s a married woman, you know!  Oh, I’ve forgotten! That doesn’t mean anything to you!  You can’t keep it in your pants!”

“Oh, it matters, all right.  But it’s not the biggest thing in the fucking world!”

“Is she aware of your plans, or are you thinking you can manage to seduce her and be through with her in an hour?”

“Andrea knows what’s going on.”

“I see.  Now, then, let me find a room appropriate for such debauchery.”

She turned her back to me to look through the key rack.

“Look,” I said to her shoulders, “I’m a man.  I’m human.  I have certain needs I have to take care of.”

“Yes, that’s completely legitimate.  All men should take care of their needs.  Otherwise they wouldn’t be men.”  She snatched a set of keys and came around the counter.  “Shall we inspect the room first?” asked Mrs. Angrywall, sweeping her arms to the stairwell.

On the second floor landing, she stopped and unlocked a small closet.

“You’ll be needing clean sheets, I assume.  I mean, for her sake, at least,” she said, standing on her toes to reach for the top shelf.  I dropped my eyes to her calves.  They were a sight I had missed from all our afternoons sneaking to the roof to get high.  They were incredibly tan, impossibly smooth.

She whirled around, two sheets over her left elbow.

“Wondering if you could seduce me, now, hey?”

“It’s not a crime to look.”

“No, it’s just rude to stare at a woman’s ass.”

“I wasn’t looking at your ass, I was looking at your calves.”

“A leg man.  And I once had you pegged for breasts.”

“You don’t know what men are like.  Hell, you don’t even know what people are like.  You only know plants, little fucking underwater green shit smears.”

“You think life is about doing whatever you want, never having to take care about anyone else.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, in America we tend to look down on momma’s boys.”

“In India, any man who treated his mother the way you treated your mother would be a perfect pariah!”

“Well, maybe that’s what I am!”  I didn’t actually know what “pariah” meant.  Sounded French.

“Let’s go to the top floor.  Some of the storm-damaged rooms might fit your fancy.”

We went up and I looked at her calves some more. There was nothing else to look at apart from rough gray concrete.


Room 424 was at the far end of the west wing.  Walking across the terrace to the room, I looked down at the hamburger stand.  It looked lopsided from that angle.  Andrea was sitting in the driver’s seat of the van, the door open and her bare legs sticking out.  A cool breeze was coming in, raking thin wisps of clouds.

“Do you want to open the door, or shall I?” she asked.  The key dangled on her finger like a little bird.

“Is Mr. Angrywall around?”

“He might be.  Do you care who knows that you’re taking care of your needs?”

“I’ll open the fucking door,” I said.  I took the key from her and tried to stick it in the wrong way.  I turned it over and slipped it into the lock, but it still wouldn’t budge.

“It’s not working,” I told her.

“Let me see.”  She couldn’t get it to work, either.  “I’ll use the master key.”  Mrs. Angrywall reached into her wrap and pulled out a key with a brass circle tag.  The door opened easily.

There was an unpleasant smell, like the carpet was woven from dirty athletic socks.  You couldn’t see much of the floor, though.  Most of the space was taken up by potted marijuana plants under a complicated system of lights and water pipes.

At some point the plants had grown to about two feet high, but they were all dead and limp, lying around like washed up seaweed.

“Oh, my,” was all I could say.

“That fiendish bastard. . .” whispered Mrs. Angrywall.

The smell got worse closer to the bathroom.  The door was closed.

I saw my hand go to the door handle.  She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose.  We both knew what we were going to find.

Howard was sprawled out on the bathroom floor.  Half his face was caved in.  There were maggots and flies in his mouth.  The stench interfaced with the most un-evolved and primitive cells of my brain.  For the first time in my life, I could make my ears twitch.

Mrs. Angrywall was out on the terrace, screaming.  I stumbled outside.  She was sitting on the concrete floor, throwing her head around, spraying spit and tears.  Her fingers were tangled in her hair.

From the east wing someone was running over.  It was Mr. Angrywall.  He slowed when he saw me.  As he got closer, he smiled.

“I changed the locks, but I had forgotten about the master key.  I forgot she had a copy, too,” he said quietly.

“You killed Howard,” I said, my voice sounding like someone said it in back of me.

“Hey, buddy,” Mr. Angrywall said, “be quiet.”  He crouched down and held Mrs. Angrywall.

He was still there when several cops led by O’Keefe charged out of the stairwell and told us all to freeze.

Of course, Howard’s body was foremost in my mind.  But right up there, in second place, was the thought that I was going to be drinking water out of the toilet for at least a few years.

(Part 18 next week.)

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