A Big Deal

By Jonathan Chang
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January1, 2000 | Page 1, 2, 3

This was Worcester in the afternoon. The April sun would not set until at least six or seven at night, but it stayed low which made driving either pleasant or impossible. In a way this city always had a certain charm to it, somehow proud that its the second largest city in New England, and that if you could only take away the bad things about it, it would be good.

It meant that perhaps if the city's prosperity in the sixties did not move to Mexico or Japan, that the large, almost mansion-like triple-decker houses all over the city would still have the bratty kids of rich textile or steel factory managers running around the yards. Instead there was the melted pot of Vietnamese, Hispanic, Filipino coke addicts, gang-bangers, or just good immigrants who are down and out dividing these houses with up to five or six families in them. It was hard to call a lot of these places the ghetto. If only the houses were kept up it felt as if there should be a country club near by.

"I don't get it. What happened here?" the first student asked.

"It's a metaphor for life, a good one too." The second student barely held back a smirk because he always said this.

"I saw that. But it's true, hard not to laugh at it either. Take a right here."

The sun was in front of them now and they both put the shades down. The first student had the luxury of using his hands as second shades over his eyes.

"You know there are a lot worse parts of town than this," the second student added.

"I know, I try to avoid those places… even though no one would look our way in this piece of shit car."

"Hey I resent that. Couldn't ask for much more from a dead uncle who had nothing else to leave me."

"I'm not complaining you know."

"I know."

"Just saying that this car fits in brilliantly amongst the lovely Worcester decor."

"I wouldn't say brilliantly."

On a sunny day from a distance or on top of a hill, anything looks nice as perspective always seems to bring in that something beauty of objectivity. He used to say that from an airplane or a microscope anything looks sublime. A sort of disinterested admiration, like a black and white photograph of a bum artistically manufactured in form and content, hanging in a gallery in SoHo. But it was hard to tell if he was talking in metaphors, especially after his last attempt a few days ago. There were only certain things you could ask to be explicit.

"Over there," the first student squinted and pointed to his left. "You see it? Past the doughnut shop." He pointed again and said, "Slow down, you're going to miss it, you have to take a U-turn at this light coming up." They were in the downtown area now, on a main street that shot straight out of the sun. He tapped the windshield and said, "See it? There it is, right there on your left."

"O.K. All right. I just can't see that well in this light," the second student assured.

"O.K. Fine," the first student enunciated carefully the way one talks to an angry mother.

"There, here we are. U-turn and all. Wasn't so scary was it? You should have that cool and composed-expression-in-the-face-of-adversity checked out. There's definitely something wrong with it."

"Funny. Your sarcasm, no, what's the word? Your sardonic little attitude."

Chuckling, he said, "Oh shut up, and go and get what you need."

"Do you need anything inside?"

"No, I'll just wait in the car. Wouldn't want this piece of shit to get stolen."

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