Rice
by Lara—Age 37—Sundance, UT
Cleveland, 1987. Most commuters shuttling home on Detroit Road to their five-bedroom tract houses miss Golden Buddha, hidden in a strip mall between a barbershop and a hardware store. I come here after school, three days a week.
Wash rice! Wash rice!
Mrs. Wu’s high-pitched voice; always the first words I hear when I open the front door, the tinkling of chimes announcing my arrival. I head toward the back, past the metal and brown vinyl chairs lined up against the faux-wood paneled walls. Around the glass counter filled with cheap imported gifts and chewing gum. The woks aren’t heated yet, but when they are, the lard—the cooking medium of choice—vaporizes on contact, filling the air with a heavy scent, so thick it hangs in my hair and lingers in my clothing. I am permitted only to dunk egg rolls, wontons, and precooked ribs in the boiling lard of the deep fryer. I continue past the small stainless steel worktable tucked in among drums of lard, cooked shrimp chips, chopped vegetables, and rice; boxes of almond cookies, fortune cookies, and takeout containers; where, for the rest of the night, I will package finished dishes in white takeout containers and stack them in brown bags; I’ll fill wax paper bags with shrimp chips, egg rolls, and almond cookies. I continue to the sink in the back—the sink used for washing rice and dunking the mop. Mr. Wu is at the chopping board, cleaver in hand, hacking away at stacks of bok choy, celery, onions, and green peppers. Mr. Wu never speaks to me directly. His constant scowling tells there is more to his story, beyond his anger. I know only that it involves an escape by boat from Shanghai. Being a shy and awkward teenager, I don’t ask.
Mrs. Wu has filled two three-foot diameter metal basins with rice. I slide one into the sink and start rhythmically rubbing the rice grains between my palms, turning the water a milky white. Their children come in though the back door. School’s out; they’ll stay until closing. If it’s warm they’ll disappear into the alley around back. When Mr. Wu needs a cigarette, he’ll join them. If the evening lulls, Mrs. Wu will command, “Teach children.” I’ve already taught their daughter how to tell time and their son how to add. For now, I keep washing the rice.
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