CHAPTER ONE“Pleased to Meet Me”
NOVEMBER 1995
Soundtrack highlights:
“Cherub Rock”—The Smashing Pumpkins“World in My Eyes”—Depeche Mode“High and Dry”—RadioheadYoung worked at Jim’s Undertow twice a week. He would have picked up another two shifts if he wasn’t spending most of his time in Bobst Library reading up on cytochrome c and balancing valence equations. Jim barely paid minimum wage, but he was fun to be around. He had great back-in-the-day stories of the East Village (friends with Joey and Marky) and would treat Young to some Gray’s Papaya hot dogs (with sauced onions) every now and then.
Working at Jim’s was more than a means for pocket cash—it was what Young looked forward to every week. It was access to all the movies and music Young could consume. The Undertow (Get Caught in the Undertow!) was primarily a secondhand media store with a small video rental section upstairs. Much of the unending stockpile of DVD screeners and CD samplers that came across the “pre-enjoyed inventory acquisitions desk” originated from a bevy of interns (those lucky enough to score entry-level marketing jobs at BMG or Warner in Midtown). A third of the merchandise was stickered with “Property of Universal Music Group. For review purposes only.” The merch had razor slashes across its bar codes, holes punched in Hootie’s face or through Alanis’s hair, Sharpie-coded lot numbers on disc rims that someone, somewhere, thought would deter grubby hands from liberating the goods from the latest press-mailing pile.
The dust in the back room was unbearable at times, and the variety of unidentified, questionable substances splattered across the stock (cocaine residue? Apple cider vinegar? Lighter fluid?) made gloves and Lysol required precautions. But the endless rows, stacks, shelves, spinners, and crates filled with DVDs, CDs, videotapes, fanzines, and ratty old concert T-shirts made Young salivate.
Young was responsible for coordinating, cleaning, collating, clearing, and coding: sorting by genre, by artist, by director, by format. All this wonderful disorganized organization calmed the chattering clack that tumbled through Young’s head, the unscratchable itch that came from behind his left ear, pulsed out of his eyelids, then settled in at the base of his skull.
The hardest decision Young had to make that day was if Yaz (aka Yazoo) should be filed under Synthpop, Dance Divas, or simply under Y. (Then again, maybe he could create a special promo sign—“New Wave for Neophytes” or “Vince Clarke Keyboard Collabs”—and feature it alongside Depeche Mode, Erasure, and Alison Moyet’s solo work.)
Every smooth plastic slipcase sliding into its tight shelf slot was therapeutic. Every hard square locked into a plastic guardrail was a serotonin trigger. Everything in its place—and its place was never static. Change, nonpermanence, always moving and shifting, deviant disorder replaced by soothing symmetry. Patterns that he could latch on to for a while, then pivot, replace, reset, and repeat. Young loved this.
NYU was expensive, but grants and financial aid had taken care of most of the bursar’s bill. However, waking up and pulling back curtains to see the rising arch in Washington Square remained a dream. The practical fact: Queens was a forty-five-minute subway ride plus a fifteen-minute bus ride away. He was relegated to the life of a commuter. Not quite a derided “townie,” but the closest you could get as a middle-class resident of the outer boroughs.
With his ACT (32) and SAT (1420) scores, Young had secured a spot at UC Berkeley, but the earthy-crunchy lifestyle would never work for him. He wore black. He listened to Nine Inch Nails, the Sisters of Mercy, and Iron Maiden. He read The Sandman, Watchmen, The Invisibles. And Vonnegut. And Simić. He snuck menthol cigarettes. He liked walking in the rain. He was a moody black-is-the-color-of-everything New Yorker. He didn’t mind perpetuating the cliché. No one would ever describe him as “cheery.”
CalArts, USC—that sunny vision of the unattainable Hollywood elite. NYU Tisch was right here and more realistic, street-level genuine. Scorsese over Spielberg any day (though he still loved E.T. and Indiana Jones).
Young figured he could at least audit some film classes, maybe sit in on lectures. He could find a group like Coppola, Lucas, Milius, and Schrader did back in the ’70s. Didn’t need to be “official.” He could learn through osmosis—make friends, absorb by living on the edges. Guilt by association. He could just—sneak in and observe. He had an NYU ID. He’d find a way to be among the future directors and screenwriters who would be showing at Cannes in ten years’ time.
Or: he could focus on humanities, maybe even apply for grad school—film school! Do it for real, out in the open. He’d make a lousy doctor, research assistant, pharmacist. Pre-med courses were just so that Ma wouldn’t blink when she cut a tuition check, asked to see his grades—her doctor in training (psychiatrist, biochem expert, MD somethingsomething). He would find honorable, respectable, gainful employment after graduation. There was time, and he’d work hard.
Or: he could manage the biochem and lab sections and take Intro to French Cinema or Writing for the Screen. He could do it all: pre-med track, warrior-poet cineast. No sweat. (And no sleep, no sanity.)
Young had survived the rigors of the top-tier Stuyvesant High School. He’d done well—not the best, but he was smart enough and willing to put in the work. He was nen gan: the textbook definition of the Chinese can-do ideal.
But Young also had many daily excuses. He counted them in shame and disgust. He had to take care of his mei mei. He had to help Ma at her functions. Bah needed him to shuttle rounds of fresh samples to the Botanical Garden. He had to keep an eye on Gina while Paris was up in Michigan. He had to make sure Su Su didn’t forget him. And he still had to mend the shredded organ in his chest, anesthetize the persistent buzz in his head.
Young believed that the best art came from a place of quiet retrospection, introspection. One needed to look back from a place of serenity and cull the most gruesome, soul-atrophying (yet cinematic) details as fodder. He wasn’t quite there yet. In no way was he ready to collect, create, contribute.
Young was still living it. He was mired in the haze of insecurities and petty pain, treading muck in his own miasma of stagnancy. He couldn’t get out, couldn’t move forward. Stuck. He wasn’t ready to say much of anything. For now, it was enough to just exist. Do what you should, do what you are told. Observe and report, path of least resistance, head down, hopes and dreams on hold.
* * *
Su Su had sent Young another photo that he tossed in the front pocket of his JanSport. Little written this time except “Hot sun, hot fun—party time in Spain!” No return address, no clue where he was headed to next.
At least he knew his uncle enjoyed getting acquainted with the locals in Ibiza. Sweaty, shirtless, and tan—Su Su was wearing a comically large Cat in the Hat–style hat, a chartreuse feather boa draped across his broad shoulders, and circular mirrored sunglasses (no doubt covering his bloodshot, rave-rolling eyes). His arm around a bleached-blond beauty’s brown waist, fingers splayed across her taut stomach—her belly button ring peeking through between the angle of middle and ring finger, his other hand pointing, as if to say, Check out this bodacious bauble!
Young loved these periodic updates sent from some alternate world, where his sullen uncle was transformed into this grinning goofball. He was ashamed that he was jealous, even angry that he couldn’t see any clear path to happiness opening for himself. Why should he be living vicariously through his thirtysomething uncle, when it was supposed to be the other way around?
* * *
Jim liked to showcase “Staff Picks” and made sure the films on the end caps of the tight aisles played into the seasonal push (“Christmas Carnage with TROMA!”) or with current events (“GRUNGE IS DEAD! REALITY BITES and SLACKER available now!”). The rental section on the second floor was never as busy as downstairs. Young squeaked markers across the poster board: “Young recommends—LÉON: THE PROFESSIONAL! Luc Besson’s brilliant thriller filled with action, humor, and heart! Jean Reno is a revelation, Gary Oldman is a fiery force, and Natalie Portman is a star on the rise! For lovers of HARD BOILED and THE KILLER!” In the corner: a caricature of himself—evidenced by the signature wild coif of black hair—holding up a peace sign / V for Victory.
Young barely salvaged his masterpiece from his shaky red Sharpie, startled by the Undertow housephone clattering loud: “Hey, got a nice young lady coming your way! Needs help with Asian cinema. Figure you could manage that, Egg Foo Young!”
“Ha, ha, Jimmy. Send her up.” Young strolled over to Kurosawa, paid his respects to Ozu, propped up Game of Death under the “Kung Fu for Fools” promo table, and waited for his promised patron.
He could hear the bludgeoning speed metal (Megadeth? Overkill?) cranking out of her headphones. He could smell her shampoo (Pert Plus?) and the cherry smell of her gum (Hubba Bubba?).
“Hi, hi! Jimmy downstairs said you could help me with anime. You the guy?” she said, overly cheery. Her eyes were blinking, slowly widening, waking up to the realization that they were alone among the monolithic shelves of multimedia.
“Yes, I’m the guy. The only guy here. Upstairs, that is,” Young stammered, wincing. A snatch of the Pixies floated into his brain—the earworm countdown, something measured and steady to help him calm his nerves: and God is 7 and God is 7—
Young found it hard to place her ethnicity. Having grown up in Queens, surrounded by immigrants—in three syllables he could easily identify the different Chinese dialects, could spot a Mainlander, a Canto, a Taiwanese. He could tell Japanese apart from Vietnamese, Filipino, Hawaiian, Singaporean, Korean, etc. It was all in the shade of brown and the dip of vowels. If any average Caucasian American could tell the difference between Italian, Irish, and French, any “mellow yellow fellow” should have equal expertise in Asian-spotting.
But he needed more time with this girl. This girl made him uncomfortable—the slouchy hooded sweatshirt, the tight black jeans, the scuffed Doc Martens, the army-issue rucksack—
“Listening to some Exodus or Testament?” Young, motioning to her headphones. “I definitely went through a metal phase when I was younger.”
“Huh? No, this isn’t Christian music—no way! Are you kidding?” Her voice was as sweet and clear as that of any of his musical theater friends, but she had the kind of back-throated rasp that made him sweat.
“Not what I meant. Exodus and Testament, thrash metal bands? Not Christian metal at all. You’re thinking of Stryper or Whiteheart—completely different.”
“OK, I’m confused. I wanted to get some anime. I’m not interested in Christian rock or whatever you are proselytizing about. Just some Asian cartoons everyone keeps bugging me to check out.” Pulling back her hood and slipping the blaring headset buns down. Young thought he might fall through to the basement, poof, splat. Or he might just float away heavenward. She had brownamberhazel almond eyes, a two-shades-off-true-black bob, and a perfect Tinker Bell nose. She was gorgeous.
“No, no,” he stammered. In his head rolled 888, get it straight, bangbangbang, his own self-soothing rhyme. “I apologize, completely wrong observation. I was commenting on your choice of soundtrack.” Young motioned to her gigantic headphones again.
“No shit, Sherlock. You should have just asked what I was pumping through my cans instead of assuming. The whole ‘ASS-U-ME’ thing—like a third grader? Loads of avoidable misunderstandings! Ask the right questions, and you’ll surprisingly get some straight-up answers. Let’s start over, from the top.” She took a deep breath and clicked off her Walkman. “Sinawe.”
“Excuse me?” Young wondered if that meant “sorry”—maybe that was Malay?
“Sinawe. It’s Korean heavy metal. And it’s fucking awful! I promised my cousin Min Jee I was going to give it a go—her favorite tunes when she used to tool around NYC. It’s either ‘definitely decent’ or ‘ca-ca cacophony’ with her. This totally sucks. Hella sucks. Sucks balls. Nuts. Testes.”
Korean. And goodness, such a filthy mouth, Dear Lord!
“Erena, by the way,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag across her slender shoulder. “Pronounced: ER-in-uh. ERRRR-uh-nuuh. Spelled E-R-E-N-A.”
“Is that another band?”
“I’m Erena. Erena Ji-Yoon Renee Valentina Yasuda. It’s a mouthful—and one day, when I’m a badass lawyer, you bet I’m adding the ‘Esquire’ to the end. It’s a lot, but it accurately conveys the lineage of this petite package of pulchritude—little bit of this, little bit of that. It’s like the whole Axis ran riot over my entire family tree! Hello? Humor? I made a funny? Come on! Just shake my hand already! It’s a normal social convention!” She had a firm grip and pumped his hand hard, once.
“That’s a beautiful name: Korean, Japanese, and bonus extra European! I’m unfortunately not blessed with the same. I’m Young Wang. The ‘Wang’ is actually pronounced WOHHNNG—but everyone just says it like WAAAHNNG. And yes, I’ve heard all the jokes.” Young smirked. “It’s Chinese. Young Zheng Wang. Young as in ‘ocean’ and Wang as in ‘king.’ Zheng as in ‘noble.’ I’m either Aquaman’s best friend or worst enemy! Joke there. Humor? Made a funny?” He felt better. Dorky, but better.
“Aw, kinda shy and cute—and you try to be funny! I like it! And in case you haven’t caught on, I’m very clever. I’m known for my humor, Chick-King of the Sea.” She winked at him. It was devastating.
Young felt the inevitable slide. The thrumming in his head alternating for attention, but losing out to the sweet timbre of her voice (breathy soprano with that caramel echo). Her words split through all the other noise—nothing from outside on St. Mark’s, no buzzing from inside his scrambled coconut of a skull.
“Akira or Grave of the Fireflies or whatever this is, with the big ol’ titties on the cover. Or this one with the cyborg!” Erena pulled the videotapes from Young’s carefully curated “ANIME! Ani-Way You Want It! That’s the Way You See It!” section.
“Maybe stick to the first two. Both classics of the genre, but on opposite ends of the spectrum. Are you in the mood for dystopian cyberpunk body horror? Or would you prefer a gut-wrenching emotional journey about the impact of warfare on the innocent?” Young settled into an easy patter, confident introducing his old friends to someone new.
“Neither! Don’t you have some Sailor Moon or something happy? Not pervy, more fun-filled? Uplifting party time versus bleak nihilism, ya know?”
“If you don’t mind that it’s basically a movie for kids, you can’t go wrong with My Neighbor Totoro. Studio Ghibli is known for top-tier whimsy and magic—better than Disney, by far. But I always thought Totoro had a creepy smile, though ultimately cute and cuddly. And the Catbus is pretty fun! The English dub is all we have—not many options there, no fan-subbed Japanese language versions. You’d have to go to Elizabeth Street in Chinatown for those. So, you’ve only got that one vocal track choice. And Totoro—he’s fat and he flies.” Young shrugged. He couldn’t read Erena’s face. Confusion? Fascination?
“I’ll take it! You had me at ‘Catbus.’ What the fuck is that? I must see this bewildering creature for myself!” She took the videotape and shook it to hear the reels rattle inside. “While I’m here, might as well get some new tunes. Do you have some clearance stuff I can pop in now? I’ve got to purge these puppies of that nasty hangook noise.”
“Three bucks or under impulse bin up front. What kind of music do you like? Favorite band? Particular genre?”
“Crash Test Dummies.”
“More like a favorite of ‘all time’? Do you like synthpop or alternative guitar rock?”
“I love Crash Test Dummies. That ‘Mmm Mmm’ song was on repeat like you wouldn’t believe! That guy’s voice is so deep—and the lyrics were just as deep (but that other meaning of deep). Like it was about a kid in a car accident and the girl with the birthmark, and then the kids in the church. Wow, right? Just wow.” Erena, beaming bright at her memory of the one-hit wonder.
“Uh, anything else you like?”
“I dunno. I’m kinda into the Dead and Janis and Phish. (My folks played hippie music exclusively. ALL. THE. TIME.) But that gets self-indulgent quick with those wanky guitars. I like Ani DiFranco, but she can be absolutely aggro sometimes—and I’m mostly about being chill lately. Too much school stress. Why exacerbate it? I guess Spin Doctors, then? Or sometimes Snoop Dogg? But I guess it’s really Crash Test Dummies in the end.” She smiled earnestly and picked up a copy of 4 Non Blondes. “Bingo!”
Young was befuddled. She seemed to represent the antithesis of all he held dear. Her taste in music was atrocious. But her energy, her life force—she made him feel something. He promised himself (and his nagging best friends, one Miss Gina Villanueva and one Mr. Paris Choudhary) that he would be open-minded this year—do new things, meet new people, have new experiences, and start moving forward again. The brave city mouse forgets the freshman failures, swears off the sophomore slump.
“How about I give you this mixtape I’ve been listening to? It’s got a few favorites, some new stuff—it’s pretty eclectic. This place is basically my free-use archive, so I take advantage. And no Christian metal on this one! I swear!” Young, looking to spread the secular gospel of the Afghan Whigs, Pulp, Suede—
“That’s really sweet. I’d love some new music!” Erena twisted the headphone cord around her palm. “This old yellow Sony SPORTS Walkman, I mostly use it when I run in the park—my go-to device when I blast shitty rock tunes. My fucked-up Discman, the antiskip never works. I only use it when I’m studying in the library and not in a hurry.”
“Well, here. I’d love to know what you think. My shifts are usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I may tack on a Wednesday or a Saturday, if Jim needs the extra help. I commute from Queens to NYU, so I’m in the area all the time, regardless.”
Erena took the cassette tape and shook it to hear the reels rattle inside: “Same here! Well, I’m a dorm-er at NYU. A few years of hardcore learning in the Big Apple before I head back to the Golden State—or wherever’s next on my agenda for complete domination! I’m a global citizen! I belong to the world! London, Paris, Sydney—you’re next! I thought you might have been a Cooper Union dude, but awesome we’re both on team purple and white! Rad school colors, right? Yeah, I’ll for sure swing by when you’re around.” She opened her wallet. “I’ve actually got a study group session in twenty minutes. Jim hooked me up with a membership card downstairs. Ring me up, good sir! I’ll be sure to look out for that pussywagon thing! Catbus, Catbus! Just making sure you were paying attention!” Her finger guns went powpowpow-bangbangbang.
Copyright © 2024 by Abraham Chang
