And I have two decorations: the Purple Heart from Venezuela and the Lifesaving Award for the hurricane five months ago. Yes, I can do something better than pulling a trigger. I saved lives, goddammit! Although, the hurricane hit everybody, so we had to do something anyway. Kim and Tan did way more than me, and rightfully got themselves Medals of Valor. OK, I admit, two years and three months out of the five-year volunteer contract plus the Purple Heart for being halved don't count for that much. Any clown can get herself shot in the aft and lose both legs. But my Lifesaving Award is one hundred percent honest achievement. Nothing in common with my History ‘C’.
I dial Kim again. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number…’ Wile E Coyote smiles from the screen, the little pink hearts rotate above his head. And what did you expect, Road Runner? By the way, why this stupid Road Runner left such a wonderful cargo trike? You could do perfectly well with your panic while some unnamed fellow from the Koreamerican-3 was puffing on pedals. And now – you must finish the ride on your own. I pull the gloves and throw my body on the skate, ready for my little Tour de France. Back during my middle school years, they kept showing this on TV. Presidential program Bicycle-2020: every American must get a bike. Bike propaganda, my ass! Before the Meltdown, there were idiots who raced bicycles over mountains, while other idiots paid good money to watch the racing idiots. And even the bikes were impractical, totally idiotic: with thin tires and no cargo platforms. It was like a TV soap opera, only about riding bikes. Unbelievable.
The good news, I am pretty close to home: one hundred yards on concrete, then four hundred – on the dirt road. If only concrete, even two miles on skate is no big deal. Unfortunately, nobody builds any new concrete roads now, and even fixing the old ones is not on a priority list. No probs, our tailless mermaid will have very strong arms.
***
Twenty minutes later, the tailless mermaid, in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France, well ahead of the peloton, blasts though the last stretch of the dirt road and passes the finish line in the Koreamerican Patch-1. The spectators yell and applaud. And I am not even out of breath. Getting better at this stupid sport, I guess.
In our Garret Road Slum, there are no streets, only ‘Roads’ and ‘Patches’. A ‘Patch’ initially meant ‘a plot of land’, but over years the meaning shifted. Now it's more like ‘village’ or ‘compound’, although our ‘Patch’ is not your typical city block. Explaining how the Amerasian Patch works to the hardened individualist Yankees from the North is not an easy task, but I will try anyway.
So, the Patch. If you squint real hard, you may imagine yourself in the middle of the Fifteenth Century Asian village. Endless vegetable beds are all over the place. Two girls push a water-lifting wheel. Farmers in conical hats return from the rice field. And all the rest is as expected: rickety huts on stilts, a tiny Buddhist shrine amongst these huts, chickens and pigs digging through the dirt, barefoot kids playing at the village common grounds. Got the picture? Now just unsquint a little, and you discover yourself in the XXI Century Asian village, with all the advancements: all the above, but the roofs are made of rusted metal, complete with TV antennas and solar panels. Bicycles are everywhere. Not those Tour de France contraptions on ridiculously thin tires, but our real work bikes with strong frames – you can happily load five hundred pounds, or even more, as much as you can push.
And if you are tired of squinting, the XXI Century Asian village turns into the standard XXI Century Houston slum. One wall still bears faded sign of the IHOP restaurant chain, plastic film glitters in the window frames, tarpaulins and old tires are used in shack construction instead of palm leaves and bamboo poles. Dressed in T-shirts and shorts instead of exotic sarongs, two girls at the water-lifting wheel have stereo earbuds and step over the wooden planks clearly following some pop-music beat. The village kids at the common grounds are not playing some antiquated Asian game. It's modern and sophisticated weekly match of softball, as they proudly define it, ‘with fast serve and full rules’. The boy at the home base has whacked the ball with high-tech aluminum bat. By the way, the yells and applause for the imaginary Tour de France leader are real – from one of the softball teams. After the mighty strike, the fifth-grader has passed the second base and now is flying towards the third, stomping dusty ground with his bare feet. Sometimes I wish I can play softball too.
“Home run!” the umpire declares. The boy makes a little winning dance. The opposing team exhales a defeat sound and throws the ball to the pitcher.
“Anyoung haseyo, Auntie Kate!” a skinny teenage girl delivers first a traditional Korean bow and then a traditional American smile, waving her home-made catching glove. A little break in the game: the kids smile, nod, and wave to me. So cute.
“Are you from the Beat, Auntie Kate?” the umpire-cum-scorekeeper inquires. Fourteen-year old, he is probably the oldest here and naturally in-charge of the entire show. “Do you need something from the market? We can send a runner. Right away.”
We are not relatives. The Slum Rules are such that every woman of about my age is called ‘auntie’ by all the kids in the Block, and I must call them ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’. If I was two or three years younger, they would call me ‘big sister.’ And I must call ‘auntie’ every woman who is eight or ten years older than me.
I smile to the kids and wave my gloved hand. “Anyoung! Thanks, I am OK.”
I have always marveled how polite the Amerasian kids are in here. To be honest, when I first came to Houston I had strong preconceptions about Asian slums. But I quickly learned to appreciate this lifestyle and the Slum Rules too. It's easy to get used to good things. A city block in my native Michigan differs from the Amerasian ‘Patches’ in Houston slums not only by the absence of proper streets, the water-lifting wheel and the Buddhist shrine. In Detroit, an adult approaching a teenagers' game causes nothing but a wild-animal stare. And the wild stare is the best possible outcome. Let say, if it was me on my skate, the conversation might go along very different path. Oh, who do we have here? A freaking legless vet! Hey, cripple, can we borrow your skate? We will return it. Maybe. And show us inside your bag. And inside your pockets. Or you prefer a knife? Of course, I would never give them my skate. Want to see inside my bag? And what do we have in here? Click! Surprise! I have a nice blade of my own. Come close, shit. I see you don't need no balls no more… So the things might turn rather bloody – on both sides. The kids in Detroit never play softball. Knife throwing (for distance and accuracy) and setting abandoned buildings on fire (for extra warmth and awesomeness) are two least violent street sports up-North.
Leaving the softball players behind, I push my skate along the dirt path. The paths in our Patch-1 are wide, almost like roads. This place was built immediately after the Meltdown, at that time many believed that the crisis was temporary. The gas would become cheap again, and the cars would return. After the following fourteen years, the gasoline did not get any cheaper, so the rusted frames of partially disassembled cars became storage shacks or chicken pens.
O-ops! And who is that old lady, cunningly waiting under the communal kitchen shed? Naturally, this is my mother-in-law. Captain has the bridge! First Officer, punch the General Quarters, if you would! All to the battle stations. Comms, signal to the Space Fleet: detected by the opposing force at the traverse of Kitchen, engaging the opponent. Scotty, are you done with your Shield repairs? Get lasers and space torpedoes hot! For our USS Enterprise – surrender is not an option.