Though I know it's utterly pointless, I do fantasize about fairy tales. Since I first met Mr. Morita at the Caffeine Lab, he has been the recurring cast of my entirely fictional fantasy with ideas borrowed from Disney's princess movies.
Mr. Morita is a real person with unrealistic features. High-bridged nose, thin lips, chiseled jawline and sparkling eyes; everything on his face is in the right proportion, as though every detail is executed according to a thousand-year-long plan.
He's tall and slender, yet muscular. It would have been fair if he had been cursed to be bald before he hit thirty. But the universe is never fair, not even once. Mr. Morita has it all.
That's exactly the reason why he deserves a cameo in my fantasy. He would fan me with a gigantic palm-leaf when I lie on a pearl-white beach, under a coconut tree in Hawaii, sipping a glass of margarita; Or he could dress me up like a barbie doll and take me to a medieval-themed ball.
There's no way I can fit Jin in my fairy tales. Jin is not a prince. He's either a thief or an assassin, maybe heroic, but I would not enjoy sneaking around in darkness with him. Let the fantasy focus on something less life-threatening.
Mr. Morita is chatty. He talks to all sort of people at the coffee shop or along the streets. The difference between social classes never seems to bother him. I saw him once exchanging all the bits of gossips of the business circles with an old shoeshiner in a back alley (that old man certainly knows a lot). Mr. Morita's voice was warm. He did not treat the old man, who kneeled before him, brushing the tip of his luxurious leather shoes, like his servant. It did not surprise me when he initiated our first conversation with the nicest intention ever.
"You should tell your manager that you and the other girl should not be treated that way," he said, placing an empty cup in front of me as he finished his coffee.
"Excuse me?"
"Your co-worker. He's rude to you."
"Oh, Ming? Yeah. He's a sexist jerk. He thinks women are better than men in serving the customers," I said as I air-quoted the word "better".
Ming has always considered himself a barista, instead of a waiter, though all of us are trained with the skills to perform the duties of both. He acts like he is superior to us simply because he has a penis. He's not even that good as a barista.
Every night, after the Caffeine Lab is closed, he never takes out the trash or mops the floor; he claims men are better with the numbers. As Roger, our manager, tacitly agrees, Ming is now responsible for counting the cash.
Mr. Morita tried to set things out for me many times, but Ming just never learns. Nonetheless, I appreciate his help. He is just too perfect. It has become my mission to look for his flaws. So far I have nothing on that list.
How can I possibly befriend someone like him? I'm sure I made the right call: I bailed on him that night.
▲ ▼ ▲
"Why didn't you wait for me last night?" Mr. Morita comes straight up to me after he pushes through the doors of the Caffeine Lab. We are about to close the business in five minutes. Glancing at me, Naira giggles and continues to wipe the surface of the counter.
"Sorry, I was busy." I shrug. I'm not lying. I was busy with putting Grandma Ying to bed. "Coffee on me."
"When will you ever be free?" he asks with his arms crossed.
I pause and put some effort in giving a good answer to his question. My little herbal tea shop actually closes on every Sunday. And if Roger gives me a day off also on a Sunday, it's possible that I'll get some free time the night before.
I look for the roster that hangs on the side of the refrigerator by a magnet hook.
"I'll let you pick the date, time and location," he says.
"Really?" Puzzled with his proposal, I slide my index finger across the calendar, where the initials of all the employees are marked all over the place in blue.
He nods.
"Okay...How about next Saturday night? Only if you have the time."
"I'll make it." He assures me with a grin.
"But what if...it will be really late at night?"
"It's fine. Just don't bail on me this time."
The hour hand of the clock is pointing toward 10. With the weakest effort, I push the door open for merely an inch to take a peek at Grandma Ying, who is snoring on the bottom bunk of our bed. Thank god that nothing on TV tonight interests her, or else there will be a lot of explanation needed for me leaving the house. She has always been strict on my social life disregarding my age. I barely had any friends growing up.
She proved to me time to time that it was not a good idea to invite a classmate to our shop for a free drink. Maybe it's because her own daughter was knocked up by a gambling addict when she was turning 18. Now that Jin was gone, Grandma Ying has become even more paranoid. I'm her only safety net and she wants to make sure that I won't be diverted, such as eloping with some random guy.
I put on a khaki military jacket that once belonged to Jin on top of a black Arctic Monkeys t-shirt, which goes along with a pair of tight jeans. It's the best outfit I can assemble with limited pieces in my wardrobe. I tie my withering hair into a messy top-bun again as I don't really know other ways to deal with it.
The place I picked is nothing dazzling. It's a dingy yet bustling cooked food stall, only few blocks away from my home, serving Chinese spicy saute dishes til midnight while the tables are set along the sidewalk under the street lamps. I can guarantee that the food is superb, but for the hygiene, well, let say I'm very forgiving in that aspect. I hope Mr. Morita's standard is not too far from mine.
I sit at a wooden, crooked, folding table, waiting patiently. A girl dressed in a yellow mini-skirt walks by and sells me bottled beers. That's what they do in cooked food stalls. I order half a dozen from her, hoping that it will not leave a bad impression on Mr. Morita. I look at the customers sitting near our table. There are middle-aged men guzzling beer and chatting loudly with excessive foul language. Some even have triad-inspired tattoos on their arms.
Okay, maybe there are something more to be worried about besides the amount of beer I've ordered. I rest my head into my palm, thinking I've made a wrong choice.
"Hey." Someone pats my head and asks, "What's wrong?"
I jerk my head up and see Mr. Morita towering over me. His maroon baseball cap is the first thing I notice. It's refreshing to see him wearing something casual; the cap, the white t-shirt and the denim jeans, they all suit him perfectly.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have picked this place," I mumble, entwining my fingers together.
"Nah. This place is interesting. I need some new experience anyway." He glances around and takes the seat opposite to me.
Not fully convinced by what he says, I smile and pass him the menu. His eyes move slowly from up and down, then left to right. He seems genuinely happy with the choices offered on the menu.
"You don't like shrimps, right?" He looks away from the menu and asks, "What about clams? Do you like clams?"
I don't remember when did I tell him that. Sometimes, even Grandma Ying forgets about that because Jin loves shrimps.
"Clams are great. Spicy?" I propose.
He agrees in excitement. We've also ordered the water spinach stir-fried with minced garlic and hot pepper, grilled pork in satay sauce, and a deep-fried oyster pie. We thought we wouldn't have finished them but we underestimated our appetite. The half dozen of beers are also consumed at a rapid pace.
"Is it appropriate if I ask about your ethnicity?" I ask Mr. Morita with my hand covering my mouth stuffed with food.
Growing up, I had been surrounded by Chinese only. I've been quite ignorant of different cultures before meeting Naira. Now I'm learning to be more sensitive and respectful to the diversity of race, ethnicity and religion.
"Of course. I'm half-Japanese and half-Brazilian."
I raise my eyebrow. "Brazil? Like with the soccer and the top models?"
"Yeah, but I've never been there myself," he chuckles, "I was born in Japan and raised in Canada."
"Okay."
"What about you?" He picks up a piece of pork with the chopsticks and put it in my bowl.
"Me? I guess I'm half-Kowloon?" I laugh dryly at my own lame joke. "Nah, I was born here."
"Great. I need some local friends to show me around. Where do you live?"
"I live few blocks away from here," I answer, pointing at the direction of where I live.
"Really? Do you live with your parents?"
I shake my head. "I've been living with my dad's friend since I was ten."
He blinks at my answer for a second. "Was it rough?"
"Not really. They're nice people."
"Good to know. We don't have to talk about it. I don't really want to share stuff about my family too. It can be a bit too complicated."
I wonder how complicated it can be for him. Would it be more complicated than my story, which I don't even know where to start if someone asks me? How can I possibly explain accurately what Jin means to me without making it weird? But no matter what Mr. Morita claims, he is loaded with money and it makes all the difference. How can I ever compare my life with his?
"Do you have a lot of, you know, ordinary friends?" I ask, reaching for another bottle of beer.
"What do you mean? All of my friends are ordinary people. You think I'm friends with the Spider-man?"
"That's not what I meant. I mean friends with less money, like me."
He purses his lips and retorts, "Do we really have to classify people by their wealth?"
"It's not exactly about wealth. It's about education and upbringing. Values? Judgments?"
"People with more money do not necessarily possess better judgments."
"Of course, but I'm sure it's a different judgment."
He takes a deep breath, seems bothered by my argument. "I tend to believe there are more similarities than differences between me and my friends from any social classes. Like you and me."
"Okay. If you say so." I stifle a laugh. I can hardly think of any similarities between us. But why on earth did I argue with him? I'm being too comfortable around him, allowing my thoughts going every direction.
Forcing a smile on his face, Mr. Morita extends his arm and messes up my hair. I hope he's not feeling frustrated with me. I'm not that argumentative in normal circumstances.
Clink.
Suddenly, Someone smashes a bottle by my left sneaker. I jerk my feet away and immediately Mr. Morita gets up from his seat. Right next to our table, two drunken men are wrestling in anger. Mr. Morita pulls me close to him by a strong grip on my elbow. He asks me if I'm alright and I nod, still in shock.
The taller man is being thrown on our table and stumbles in pain. All the other customers spread out, forming a circle to enjoy the not-so-entertaining fight. I try to step forward to get my purse which has dropped on the ground, but Mr. Morita holds me tightly.
"Are you crazy? Stay away," he yells.
"But they're going to step on my purse. My phone is in it." And I definitely can't afford a new phone or a new purse.
Faltering, the taller man gets back to his feet and reaches out both his hands, while the short, chunky man is cursing and crying out loud, ready to start round two. Finally, two men emerging from the crowd intervene the fight by clutching the shoulders of both drunken men from behind. I guess one of the mediators is the owner of the stall. He shouts, "I'm calling the police!"
Though still arguing with each other, the drunken men calm themselves soon enough. The other mediator, dressed in a black suit, bends down to pick up my purse from the ground and walks to us.
"Mr. Morita, are you hurt?" that man asks. His voice is so familiar that my skin chills.
Mr. Morita takes my purse and pats that man on the shoulder. "Thanks, I'm alright."
Staring at the man standing right in front of me, I clench my fist. I'm stunned. It's Jin. My Jin. What is he doing here? Why is he talking to Mr. Morita?
"I'll wait for you in the car, sir." Jin turns his back and walks away without casting a glimpse at me.
I have no words. Absolutely no words.