Rose is from Texas.
That was my very first night in New Orleans. Big Easy indeed. I had just been mugged in Louis Armstrong Project, right by the French Quarter, by two young black kids – one tall, one short. The big one had me locked up high by the neck. I saw the short one coming with a big pipe in his hands. I kicked my feet; I was wearing tongs… So the short punk went whack, whack, whack, right on my face. I felt, and heard, the bones in my jaw cracking quite clearly. Then I went to black.
The first time May Linh and Lily took off with the car, to go to town, 35 miles away, I was taken aback. They both had signed old Mr. Me’s contract stipulating that they would live with me in the nude in my secluded house by the ocean in this southeastern Asian country but there were no working hours per se in the contract.
For Christ sake, I didn’t know if Lily was even able to drive really but off they went. I was worried for some reasons that something may have happen to them. And, as the day went by and then night fell and then it started getting very late, I became more and more distraught, and a bit angry at them for putting me through this. So I had been drinking beer and smoking, including French joints, all day long while waiting for them, unable to do anything else.
Mr. You’s cremation was no religious ceremony, May Linh made sure of it. So it was just her and the kid and the undertaker, who didn’t know quite what to think. He knew there was a white man dead inside this casket and he couldn’t figure out what this May Linh had to do with it and who was this kid.