Ameriki Town

The Spicy Pit

Climbing out of the Shanghai Maglev at Central station, Wei led him down into the slums. It was like leaving the future and going into the past. Crumbling buildings, dirty kids, old men with long fingernails and Fu-Manchu beards. Ying scratched at invisible fleas, disgusted by the poverty.

Kids pulled at their clothes, begging. The couple's sunglasses spoke of unimaginable wealth to those living in the hukou (city passport) free zone. Wei was vigilant, but Ying was intolerant. He was about to head back when he spotted the gates to Ameriki town. She led him on, as the western style village beckoned them.

More gwai lo than he had ever seen were engaged in business. Hardly an Asian face in the crowd. Even their gestures were American, hand waves, pats on the back, and hugs. Blue jeans and skirts, collared shirts, ties, and baseball caps worn casually. The discomfort of poverty gave way to the discomfort of cultural alienation.

All ages of American civilization were present in the architecture. From cowboy style saloons to space age coffee shops, steak houses to strip mall shops, all selling American kitsch. Chocolate chip cookies, fake maple syrup, corncob pipes, ten-gallon hats, not to mention the barber shops where one could get a shave and a haircut for two bits (whatever that was).

The rare Chinese faces were not local but, like themselves, visitors. Even the automobiles were all western brands, Fords and Buicks, no Trumpchi, Geely, nor Baojun. Wei dragged Ying across the street where a cop ticketed a Mustang convertible. His polished boot rested on the bumper. He lifted his pen and pointed at a street sign, staring at them with mirrored sunglasses.

Written in English, it read, 'No Jay walking.'

Ying looked at Wei asking, "What is Jay walking?"

She shrugged, and pulled him inside a restaurant where a sign over the door read, 'Spicy Pit BBQ.'

Sally wore a white puffed short sleeve top and a mid-thigh red skirt under a red-checked apron. She approached as they gawked at the inside of the place. Wood shavings were spread over the floor. All the tables covered with matching red-checked plastic covers like her apron.

"Well hey there, how ya'll doin'. Wei, it's been too long!" Sally said overly loud, laughing open-mouthed, wide enough that you saw her tonsils. The couple winced at the volume and her Chinese rudeness. "C'mon down, take a seat in this here booth. Mack's got some ribs cooking in the back. Not done yet, but perfection takes time, if ya know what I mean?" and she punctuated it with a big wink. "Don't mind if I say so myself, but you two look hungover."

"We are," Wei answered, finally getting to sneak a word in edge-wise, in broken English.

Sally yelled toward the kitchen, "Two hangover specials, Mack!"

Mack looked up at Sally and grinned, wide as the Mississippi. The couple winced again at her volume.

"What's in a hangover special?" asked Ying, not sure his stomach was ready for anything.

"Basically, it's a spinach omelet with American cheese. Add on top of it a banana shake. Soon enough, you'll be right as rain. I'll get you some water."

Before Ying could object, she left to help other customers. As she walked away, he noticed she was wearing cowboy boots with spurs. Ying pointed with his chin at her footwear, and Wei elbowed him.

"They are actually comfortable, I have a pair," she said.

This surprised Ying, as they caught a whiff of the ribs coming from the kitchen. The sweetness of the barbecue sauce struck them oddly. On their table was a bottle of the brown sauce, mustard, and ketchup. No chopsticks, only a knife, spoon, and fork.