We were sitting at a bench at the plaza in Chinatown enjoying taro slush with boba from Cafe Via, in a contemplative mood, wondering who among us would be taking off next to another place. When an old Chinese guy walks up, looking like the sort of character fashion-damaged hipster kids can only dream of emulating. Crooked, glass-bottle eyeglasses, with frames circa 1978. A ratty old 90s neon windbreaker. And the kind of flat-top haircut that makes you look like you're being permanently electrocuted. He just wandered past. I said hello and he said hello back and I asked how he was doing and he said fine.
"It's crazy out here," he said to himself and to me at the same time. Why, I asked. "Too crazy. Might have to go to San Francisco." Is that where you're from? "No, no, I'm from Minnesota. But it's too cold out there. Midwest. Too cold." I nodded and I asked why it was crazy out here. He said, "Because everyone is fighting. The Latino fighting the black. Everyone is fighting."
I asked, Here in Chinatown? He said yes. I looked around and said, "People here aren't fighting. They're playing," and I gestured to the old Chinese men huddled over some kind of ancient game on the tables in front of Wonder Bakery. Thoughts of their coffee and sponge bread temporarily distracted me. Who was in there right now picking a wedding cake? When my new friend said, "No, not now. Fighting only on Saturdays and Sundays."
Oh, I said. He stood around and and we stood up and said good-bye. Another old man walked past and the man with the flat-top greeted him. We didn't know what to do next, so we went up to check out the magazines at Ooga Booga, then we wandered through the smokey alleys of Chinatown just as a few sprinkles fell from the sky. * Photo by chrissydlt.