A teen-aged girl, a nat, had stopped on the sidewalk. She was looking at me through the gate of the chainlink fence.
I usually turned away from strange nats, being deeply embarrassed by my appearance. As you can see, it's a racial caricature of both the Japanese and the Chinese from World War II. I had stopped growing during the previous year at five feet in height, and kind of chubby. The only choice I had about my appearance was my haircut, which was a bristly flattop.
This time, I forgot about the crate. She was one of the most stunning girls I had ever seen. I just stared.
She looked like she was about my age. Rich sable hair was drawn back in a ponytail from her face, tied with a pink ribbon. Her skin was pale, flawless, and slightly flushed from the heat. Brown eyes studied me carefully from under long lashes. A short string of pearls lay on the swell of breasts that were unusually full, especially for a teenager; they strained against a very expensive-looking white blouse trimmed with lace. A small brown purse hung from her shoulder on a narrow strap. She wore a light blue skirt, long and full, shaped with crinolines I couldn't see but knew had to be there. Her bobby socks were spotless and her brown penny loafers shone in the sunlight.
She was at least four inches taller than I was.
"Are you a joker?" She spoke quietly, almost timidly.
At first I was stung by the fear that she was mocking me, but then I saw that she was sincere.
"Yeah." I grinned wryly. "Can't you tell?"
She missed the sarcasm. "I don't know where I am. I couldn't decide from looking at you. Is this Chinatown or Jokertown?"
"Both." Flattered that she was taking me seriously, I straightened to my full height and walked over to the gate. "This is the border. We're on the Chinatown side right here. My boss delivers seafood to Chinatown restaurants and grocery stores. But he hired me from the Jokertown side to load and unload for him."
She gazed down the block on the Jokertown side. "I wasn't sure … I got out of my cab on the Bowery and walked."
This was already the longest conversation I had ever had with a nat girl without being teased or ridiculed. "Can I help you find where you're going?"
She looked back at me through the chainlink as though seeing me for the first time. "Oh." Her face tightened uncomfortably. "I've never spoken to a joker before."
"What's your name?" I was afraid that if I was too forward, she would turn and run or else maybe get mad and start calling me the nasty names I already knew so well from other nats.
"Uh … I'm Flo."
"I'm Chuck." I looked her over again. She didn't look like a Flo. Maybe a Florence. More like an Annette or a Mitzi.
"Pleased to meet you," she said primly, as if by rote.
I tried to think of more to say. "Do you like chess? Bobby Fischer won the U.S. championship in January. He's only fifteen."
She was silent, still looking down the street.
"I'm sixteen," I added, lamely. "How old are you?"
"Fifteen." Her voice was distracted.
"I think it's great, having a teenager as chess champion."
"I bet Bobby Fischer is a secret ace." She turned back to me.
"You think so?" I had never thought about that before.
"All aces should be exposed," said Flo, sharply.
I had never considered that before, either. "I don't suppose it matters much. I think they do whatever they want."
"Do you live in Jokertown?"
"Yeah. My family lives right on the edge here." I hesitated. "We're Japanese Americans. We wouldn't be at home in Chinatown."
"How well do you know Jokertown?"
"Fine."
"I mean, really well?"
"Sure I do. I live here."
She nodded, looking up at the buildings.
"Where are you going?"
"Oh. …" She shrugged.
"I get off soon. I could take you there." I was sweating heavily again, now from tension as much as from the heat.
"I don't know exactly where I'm going."
That sounded like a brush-off. Disappointed, I expected her to say goodbye. I looked at her pretty brown eyes, waiting.
"And now," the radio blared faintly. "Here's a golden oldie from 1956! Here's Johnny Mathis! Chances are, if I wear a silly grin, the moment you come into view — "
Flo just stood there. It wasn't a brush-off after all. I got the idea that maybe she wanted me to take the initiative.
The door from the warehouse office squeaked. Startled, I turned to see my driver, Peter Choy, coming out. He was in his mid-twenties and had the short, stocky build common to many of the Cantonese in Chinatown. His khaki driver's uniform was stained with sweat under the arms.
"All finished, Chuck?" Peter asked.
"Uh — almost." Belatedly, I turned to get the last crate of shrimp. I had left it too long and it was starting to smell.
"Say, Chuck, this one's about to go bad! What have you been — " Peter stopped suddenly, seeing Flo. "Oh, pardon me." He winked at me and picked up the crate himself "Hey, not bad, pal. You go on. I'll punch out for you."
"Thanks!" I grinned. "Thanks, Mr. Choy."
"G'wan, get outa here!" Peter carried the crate back inside.
"He's not a joker, is he?" Flo asked softly.
"No!" I shook my head, still grinning. "He's a great guy. And he's the only one who calls me Chuck."
"What does everyone else call you?"
I paused, regretting that I had brought up the subject. "Aw, nothing. Look — you want me to show you around?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay." I looked down at my sweat-darkened t-shirt and faded blue dungarees with the cuffs rolled up, both of which emphasized how chubby I was. "Sony about the way I look."
She shrugged.
"Well … I'm getting awful hungry. Would you like to have dinner?" I opened the gate and stepped out.
She backed away, keeping her distance. "Um — in Jokertown?"
I knew of a little Chinese dive just up the street that I could afford. A girl dressed as she was might not like the atmosphere, but the only other choice within my budget was Biffs Burgers in the heart of Jokertown, where too many of my friends would be hanging around. I wanted to be alone with her.
"There's a Chinese place up the street, right on the border."
"Okay." Flo looked at my clothes pointedly. "Can you really take me out to dinner?"
"Aw, sure. Come on." I gestured and she came with me, walking well to one side. "I have money. I was planning to go to the hobby shop to look for some Slug Maligne baseball cards."
"Who?"
"Slug Maligne. He's the big, slimy joker who signed this spring as the Yankees' new backup catcher when Elston Howard got hurt. Somebody's got to spell Yogi. Slug's only got the one rookie card, but in Jokertown, it's real expensive already. A bunch of them would be a good investment."
"A joker? On the Yankees?" She grimaced.
"Aw, he'll do okay. Slug's not much on the base paths, but he can really block the plate."
"Oh."
I decided she wasn't a baseball fan.
The Twisted Dragon was only a narrow storefront, but I held the screen door open for her, watching her pretty face anxiously. I was afraid she would turn up her nose and leave. Instead, she stepped inside, clutching her little purse in front of her.
A couple of old, green ceiling fans creaked slowly over our heads. The hardwood floor had been worn clean of varnish years ago. None of the tables matched each other in shape or height, but they were covered with clean white tablecloths. The muffled sound of a t.v. came from the kitchen.