Waylaid by Ed Lin Read Free Book Online

make change for smelly guys in shorts with hairy legs and bare feet, I lost respect for Miss Creach, even though she was the one who’d taught me about how plankton fit in the food chain. When she worked at Food World, she wore an apron that read, “I’m here to help you!” across the front pocket. She
    looked like a high-school dropout.
    â€œHi, Miss Creach,” I said.
    â€œHello there,” she said as a minor logjam of Slim Jims and Fruit Roll-Ups advanced on the conveyor belt along with bread, a box of rice, eggs, ground beef, peppers, onions, and apples. Slim Jims and Fruit Roll-Ups covered two of the four food groups — red meat and fruit. Miss Creach frowned, like she caught me with crib notes. “Your mother know what you eat?”
    â€œNo. She has no idea.”
    â€œYou sure you don’t want two bags?” she asked as I stuffed everything into a brown paper bag.
    â€œI got my bike, so I can only take one,” I said.
    â€œDrink some milk, okay? Or else your bones are going to stop growing,” she replied, wiping her arm against her forehead.
    I got onto my bike, one hand on the handlebar and one holding the bag. The bike had come with a basket in front, but I’d torn it off because baskets looked gay. I was fine with one hand.
    My parents sat in the kitchen eating Chinese food, and I was in the living room, eating a bowl of Sloppy Joe and watching “M*A*S*H.” Two Korean women were sitting on Klinger’s cot, crying. In the background, I could hear my mother and father talking in Chinese. Actually, my mother was talking in Chinese and my father was saying, “Umgh, umgh,” as he ate.
    â€œYou want to open burger stand?” asked my mother.
    She was speaking in English, so it was understood that I
    was being addressed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTurn down TV!” she ordered. Canned laughter washed over the sound of the Korean women sobbing.
    â€œI can hear you fine! Why do you want to open it?” I looked over at my parents. They were fixed in a brightly lit realm of tile, wood, and table, while I was sitting cross legged on the worn rug of the living room. They were in a completely different world.
    â€œCome over here! You can’t hear me! You should eat with us!”
    â€œI don’t like the way your food smells! Just tell me what you want!” I said, getting annoyed.
    â€œWe want you run burger stand on weekend. People get hungry and go across street to Barnhouse. You know how — you cook hamburgers. You cook Sloppy Joe.” The Barnhouse was a drive-in across the highway from the hotel. Bennys would pick up burgers, fries, and onion rings there, and come back and sit by the pool. I was always sweeping up soggy, flattened cartons smeared with oil, ketchup, and ants.
    The burger stand by the pool had been closed for years, but the equipment was still there, alongside the crates of hotel supplies we stored in the space. The only times I’d go inside was to get spare light bulbs or ashtrays.
    The scene inside the hamburger stand reminded me of those National Geographic features where they’d run a waterproof camera through the former living quarters of undersea shipwrecks. It was dark and murky and filled with drifting particles. Layers of gunk coated all the flat surfaces. Chairs were strewn about as if they had been abandoned in haste. And surrounding everything was an eerie stillness. Fixing that place up would be way harder than flipping burgers.
    â€œI can’t run that place by myself. I need some help!” I yelled.
    â€œFrom one to five, you’re going be open. Saturday and Sunday. All you do is play Atari, anyway.” There wasn’t much sense in arguing that point. When all the rooms were rented, there wasn’t anything to do in the afternoons but sit in the office and tell people we didn’t have any more rooms or make change for the phone or