Why was she still here? Why’d she order food when she’s the raven-haired freak show who already stayed for a drink? She felt the same way out west, but she also felt right at home in the mountains, the sentinel-straight evergreens, watching for moose and bison while cruising over the Teton Pass everyday en route to their hikes.
She didn’t blame the townies for their parochialism. She knew how it went, it was like that in China, too, her birth country, a sea of black hair and East Asian features and then an “old whitey,” as they’re called, walks in the room, wan, nose like a colossal beak, and everyone’s staring, silent, and probably pointing to boot.
The chili’s blander than her baked beans. She sips at her ale, asks for Tobasco sauce. Catches him checking her out, decides to tip her glass to acknowledge. He’s curious. Hasn’t traveled west of Texas his whole life, doesn’t mean he’s ignorant. The ex was a model in the eighties on the New York-London-Milan-Paris fashion circuit. They’d met in New York, in fact, on one of his strike force assignments, couldn’t miss her at six feet in flats, and a natural blonde. She moved in up to Boston with him a few months later, married the next year. They tripped to Puerto Rico a few times, then settled with vacations at the Pawtucket beach house he shared with his brother once kids came around. Asia was farther than the moon as far as he was concerned, but here she was, drinking a beer.
Not a Cowboys fan?, he’s towering next to her phone, Tito’s in hand.
Wait, are those cowboy boots?, she’s incredulous. Blue eyes, deep tan, thick silver crown. She shifts to get a better view.
Lucchese, gator. Have ’em in snake and ostrich, too. He pulls up his jeans to reveal the intricate needlework on the shaft. His blue short-sleeved button down also had stitching, a matte shimmer under the lights.
You usually dress up to watch? Who is this person. She realizes he has more fashion sense than the whole bar combined, subtle though, she likes it.
You always ask and never answer?
Got a problem?, she scoffs. They laugh. He sits to her left.
What brings a gal like you to Shortstop?
You mean Asians aren’t allowed?
Damn, she had some attitude. No jewelry, no visible ink, just an attitude to fill the room. I didn’t say that.
She’s being justifiably defensive, much as she knows she’s on his — on their — territory. But territory they stole from her ancestors who crossed the Bering Strait. So they could deal with her getting a damn drink and bowl of subpar chili. Go ahead and stare. Get a gooood look.
Believe it or not, I’m also from a F-150 town. 30 minutes north.
He laughs. Is that what you think we do here? He had a Silverado in addition to his Tahoe, and it’s true that he’d never buy anything but American.
I’m sure y’all work. And drive trucks.
I do have a truck license in fact. My father was a truck driver. As was his father. But I’m not a truck driver.
No shit, not when you’re wearing $1,400 boots.
Yep, four pairs, fell in love with the look when I was hanging cable down in Austin with the boys in ’82.
And what do you do?
He mock sighs, and slaps his creds on the counter. United States Department of Justice. She flips open the cover. Same crown in sandy brown. Eyes like an eager young recruit.
This satisfy you?
She pauses. I’m also an attorney.
He’s genuinely surprised. Pegged her at late twenties, but not a lawyer. What did Asians do? They’re good with numbers. Accountant then, maybe. Dentist. His acupuncturist is an Asian woman. No shit, what kind?
Corporate. Finance.
Right, you guys are good with numbers.
She rolls her eyes. Actually, we’re good at everything.
Except driving. She laughs.
I love wheels but I am a pretty shitty driver. What color’s your truck?
Come see for yourself.
He nods to the owner, who has his card on file, and they walk outside. The afternoon sun is good on her shoulders. She has a phenomenal ass. And yet, a full-blooded Asian.
What the — She walks toward the Model A. White leather diamond stitch interior, black exterior. From the 30s?
Good girl. ’31. I bought the shell and built the engine in high school.
Can I get a ride?
You bet.
