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“I like making conversation.” She gives me a diamond-edged smile that could cut glass. “Get to know you, a little small talk. I’m being polite. I have to decorate an entire cake. You should keep me company.”
She tops off her parallel lines. I have no idea what she’s drawing. Maybe the beginning of a tree? Maybe the Washington monument? In peach?
Fine. If we’re going to have this conversation, let’s fucking have it. “Yes. I was in Hangzhou.”
“Thinking about a new factory for a product?”
I keep my mouth shut.
“Blake didn’t say,” she tells me. “I guessed. Don’t worry; I understand. Big corporate secret. You don’t want to tell anyone. Don’t worry; nobody hired me for espionage.”
That is definitely not a giant, peach silhouette of the Washington Monument, I realize, as she adds a realistic-looking head to the top of what has abruptly turned into a giant uncut dick. She has a reasonable amount of talent if she can differentiate between circumcised and uncircumcised with an airbrush. She starts shading in balls to either side.
She frowns. “Although I would be good at espionage. Almost as good as I am at decorating cakes.”
“You would be complete shit.”
She looks up in annoyance, and I shrug.
“If you were any good at corporate espionage you would already have been hired out. You’re in a privileged position.”
She waves a hand. “But we are not talking about me. We were talking about you. What is it like, working with the government responsible for the worst human rights abuses in the world?”
“It’s fucking awesome,” I say smoothly. “Currency headwind’s a bitch right now, but we’ll move past that.”
“You know what will be even better?” She is still decorating, airbrushing her piece, shading in the sides. “When Tina and Blake have my grandchildren. I will have to start influencing them very early.”
She fights dirty. “You’d use innocent children in a political battle?”
“You use innocent children in your factory.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. We do not. That report was totally discredited.”
“So sorry,” she says, without a hint of apology in her voice. “English is not my first language. Sometimes I make mistakes. Did I say you used children? I meant that you take advantage of a culture where near slavery conditions, including child labor, drive down the cost of wages to the benefit of the Chinese government and yourself.”
Fuck. Here is our problem in a nutshell. The Chinese government once tried to kill and reeducate Tina’s parents. It has also made me—personally—oh, something on the order of fourteen billion dollars.
These two items of personal history go absofuckinglutely great together, like bananas and asphalt. Like marshmallows and the fucking swamp thing.
No. I’m being too kind. These things go together like the Westboro Baptist church and a Pride parade.
“No need to worry,” she says a little too sweetly. “I’ll make sure our grandchildren know that the reason they don’t know their great-grandfather is because he was killed by the government you support. You won’t need to explain a thing.”
“Sure,” I say. “You won’t look like a hypocrite working at fucking Wal-Mart, which is well known for its ethical sourcing of labor.”
She switches out a cartridge and begins to draw dark lines at the base of the cake-based erection.
“Never tell a child of the Cultural Revolution that there’s no difference between owning the means of production and participating in the process in order to survive.” She does not look away from the cake. “I can kick your ass about labor politics in my sleep. Don’t embarrass our grandchildren by trying.”
She’s right. Political philosophy was never my bag of shit. I don’t think about crap like this. I just do it.
That shit she is shading in is definitely pubic hair.
I fold my arms and stare at her. “You don’t want to play the grandchildren game. I’ll be the one giving them really fucking cool toys.”
“Nice try. They’ll be half-Chinese. Guilt is stronger than toys. It’s a cultural thing.” She waves her hand in my direction. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “What am I supposed to do, then?”
“So many options.” She looks up. “Here’s one. Move all Cyclone operations to Singapore.”
Speaking of going together like the Westboro fucking Baptists and my pocketful of pink triangles…
I try not to growl. “I hate Singapore. I hate everything about Singapore. Don’t talk to me about Singapore and human rights. Definitely fuck Singapore.”
Her nose wrinkles. “You know what I find amusing? The fourth richest man in the world is buying a penis cake from Wal-Mart because he wants to talk to me.” She begins to hum as she draws.
“So what would you do?” I ask.
She looks up at me, her pubic art halting momentarily.
“You wake up one day. Freaky Friday. Suddenly, you’re me. Do you say, fuck China, fuck everything, and just let the company go to hell, knowing that in the corporate world of Whack-a-Mole, someone else will just take Cyclone’s place? Or do you try to change the world?”
“Ha. Easy for you to talk about changing the world.”
“Yep.” I fold my arms. “I change the fucking world when I don’t like my breakfast options.”
She sets down her airbrushing tool. “I decorate cakes. I wouldn’t understand.”
Says the woman who could kick my ass about labor politics.
“Hong Mei. I fucking confessed to a federal crime on a public livestream because my son was in love with your daughter.”
She runs her hand along her airbrushing tool.
“I didn’t get where I am by never fucking listening to anyone. You can play passive-aggressive bullshit with our kids and their kids. Or you could just straight up tell the person who is actually in a position to change things. And I will argue and fight, but goddammit, I will listen. Your fucking choice. You can try to change the world in millimeters. Or you can piss me off and make our kids miserable.”
Our eyes meet. We stare at each other for a very long ti
me.
“Shit.” She looks away. “I was afraid this would happen. I like you.”
I don’t smile. “There was a fifty-fifty chance.”
She fetches a bag of blue icing and begins to write letters across the giant penis she has drawn. Congratulations…
She shakes her head as she writes in swirling cursive. “Tomorrow, we’re going out with our friends. Tonight, it’s just our family. You should come over. We play games and make noise and eat a lot of food.”
“Great.”
“Need the address? Directions?”
“Nah. I have it all.”
Hong Mei pops a plastic top on the cake and walks to the counter. “Here.” She pushes the cake to me, and I read the lettering for the first time. Congratulations on your penis!
“Honey, when you’re done here, could you—” A blond woman comes up behind her and takes one look at the cake. Her eyes widen and she looks at me. “Oh my God. Sir. Is this what you ordered? I’m so sorry. That’s not—we don’t—that is, we’re a family friendly—”
“Relax,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“But—”
I give her my best glower, which is pretty fucking effective. “Are you insulting my taste? I’ve always wanted to have my dick and eat it, too.”
She flushes. “Oh. Um.” She looks at Hong Mei, and then back at the cake. “Okay.” She scurries away.
“Okay. Tonight. Six o’clock is good,” Hong Mei says. “See you then.”
“Want me to bring anything?”
She considers this for a moment. “Soju,” she finally says.
“Soju? Isn’t that Korean?”
“Because I like soju,” she says. “Oh.” She frowns at me. “Shit. Rehab. Is it okay for you to be around alcohol? I should have asked first.”
I meet her eyes. “Shit that makes me work less has never been my problem. Alcohol’s fine. Anything else?”
She glances down at the frosted sheet cake in my hands and shrugs. “Cake.”
I wait until I’m back in the car before I start composing my fucking email in my head. It’s all fragments, ones that I don’t let coalesce into anything like a real conversation.
