Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang Page 3

  STEVE: Please repeat?

  DALE: English—you speak how much?

  STEVE: Oh—very little.

  DALE: Honest. (Pause) You feel like you’re an American? Don’t tell me. Lemme guess. Your father. (He switches into a mock Hong Kong accent) Your fad-dah tink he sending you here so you get yo’ M.B.A., den go back and covuh da world wit’ trinkets and beads. Diversify. Franchise. Sell—ah—Hong Kong X-ray glasses at tourist shop at Buckingham Palace. You know—ah—“See da Queen”? (Switches back to American accent) He’s hoping your American education’s gonna create an empire of defective goods and breakable merchandise. Like those little cameras with the slides inside? I bought one at Disneyland once and it ended up having pictures of Hong Kong in it. You know how shitty it is to expect the Magic Kingdom and wind up with the skyline of Kowloon? Part of your dad’s plan, I’m sure. But you’re gonna double-cross him. Coming to America, you’re gonna jump the boat. You’re gonna decide you like us. Yeah—you’re gonna like having fifteen theatres in three blocks, you’re gonna like West Hollywood and Newport Beach. You’re gonna decide to become an American. Yeah, don’t deny it—it happens to the best of us. You can’t hold out—you’re no different. You won’t even know it’s coming before it has you. Before you’re trying real hard to be just like the rest of us—go dinner, go movie, go motel, bang-bang. And when your father writes you that do-it-yourself acupuncture sales are down, you’ll throw that letter in the basket and burn it in your brain. And you’ll write that you’re gonna live in Monterey Park a few years before going back home—and you’ll get your green card—and you’ll build up a nice little stockbroker’s business and have a few American kids before your dad realizes what’s happened and dies, his hopes reduced to a few chattering teeth and a pack of pornographic playing cards. Yeah—great things come to the U.S. out of Hong Kong.

  (Steve lights a cigarette, blows smoke, stands.)

  STEVE: Such as your parents?

  (Steve turns on the radio. Blackout.)

  Scene Two

  Lights up on Dale and Steve eating. It is a few minutes later, and food is on the table. Dale eats Chinese-style, vigorously shoveling food into his mouth. Steve picks. Grace enters carrying a jar of hot sauce. Steve sees her.

  STEVE (To Grace): After eating, you like to go dance?

  DALE (Face in bowl): No, thanks. I think we’d be conspicuous.

  STEVE (To Grace): Like to go dance?

  GRACE: Perhaps. We’ll see.

  DALE (To Steve): Wait a minute. Hold on. How can you just...? I’m here, too, you know. Don’t forget I exist just ’cause you can’t understand me.

  STEVE: Please repeat?

  DALE: I get better communication from my fish. Look, we go see movie. Three here, see? One, two, three. Three can see movie. Only two can dance.

  GRACE: True, but...

  DALE (To Grace): That would really be a screw, you know? You invite me down here, you don’t have anyone for me to go out with, but you decide to go dancing.

  GRACE: Dale, I understand.

  DALE: Understand? That would really be a screw. (To Steve) Look, if you wanna dance, go find yourself some nice FOB partner.

  STEVE: “FOB”? Has what meaning?

  GRACE: Dale...

  DALE: F-O-B. Fresh Off the Boat. FOB.

  GRACE: Dale, I agree.

  DALE: See, we both agree. (To Grace) He’s a pretty prime example, isn’t he? All those foreign students—

  GRACE: I mean, I agree about going dancing.

  DALE:—go swimming in their underwear and everything—what?

  GRACE (To Steve): Please understand. This is not the right time for dancing.

  STEVE: Okay.

  DALE: “Okay.” It’s okay when she says it’s okay.

  STEVE (To Dale): “Fresh Off Boat” has what meaning?

  (Pause.)

  DALE (To Grace): Did you ever hear about Dad his first year in the U.S.?

  GRACE: Dale, he wants to know...

  DALE: Well, Gung Gung was pretty rich back then, so Dad must’ve been a pretty disgusting... one, too. You know, his first year here, he spent, like thirteen thousand dollars. And that was back ’round 1950.

  GRACE: Well, Mom never got anything.

  STEVE: FOB means what?

  DALE: That’s probably ’cause women didn’t get anything back then. Anyway, he bought himself a new car—all kinds of stuff, I guess. But then Gung Gung went bankrupt, so Dad had to work.

  GRACE: And Mom starved.

  DALE: Couldn’t hold down a job. Wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone.

  GRACE: Mom was used to taking orders from everyone.

  STEVE: Please explain this meaning.

  DALE: Got fired from job after job. Something like fifteen in a year. He’d just walk in the front door and out the back, practically.

  GRACE: Well, at least he had a choice of doors. At least he was educated.

  STEVE (To Dale): Excuse!

  DALE: Huh?

  GRACE: He was educated. Here. In America. When Mom came over, she couldn’t just quit ’cause she was mad at her employer. It was work or starve.

  DALE: Well, Dad had some pretty lousy jobs, too.

  STEVE (To Dale): Explain, please!

  GRACE: Do you know what it’s like to work eighty hours a week just to feed yourself?

  DALE: Do you?

  STEVE: Dale!

  DALE (To Steve): It means you. You know how, if you go to a fish store or something, they have the stuff that just came in that day? Well, so have you.

  STEVE: I do not understand.

  DALE: Forget it. That’s part of what makes you one.

  (Pause.)

  STEVE (Picking up hot sauce, to Dale): Hot. You want some?

  (Pause.)

  DALE: Well, yeah. Okay. Sure.

  (Steve puts hot sauce on Dale’s food.)

  Hey, isn’t that kinda a lot?

  GRACE: See, Steve’s family comes from Shanghai.

  DALE: Hmmmm. Well, I’ll try it. (He takes a gulp, then puts down his food)

  GRACE: I think perhaps that was too much for him.

  DALE: No.

  GRACE: Want some water?

  DALE: Yes.

  (Grace exits.)

  You like hot sauce? You like your food hot? All right—here. (He dumps the contents of the jar on Steve’s plate, stirs) Fucking savage. Don’t you ever worry about your intestines falling out?

  (Grace enters, gives water to Dale. Steve sits, shocked.)

  Thanks. FOBs can eat anything, huh? They’re specially trained. Helps maintain the characteristic greasy look.

  (Steve, cautiously, beings to eat his food.)

  What—? Look, Grace, he’s eating that! He’s amazing!

  A freak! What a cannibal!

  GRACE (Taking Dale’s plate): Want me to throw yours out?

  DALE (Snatching it back): Huh? No. No, I can eat it.

  (Dale and Steve stare at each other across the table. In unison, they pick up as large a glob of food as possible, stuff it into their mouths. They cough and choke. They rest, repeat the face-off a second time. They continue in silent pain. Grace, who has been watching this, speaks to the audience:)

  GRACE: Yeah. It’s tough trying to live in Chinatown. But it’s tough trying to live in Torrance, too. It’s true. I don’t like being alone. You know, when Mom could finally bring me to the U.S., I was already ten. But I never studied my English very hard in Taiwan, so I got moved back to the second grade. There were a few Chinese girls in the fourth grade, but they were American-born, so they wouldn’t even talk to me. They’d just stay with themselves and compare how much clothes they all had, and make fun of the way we all talked. I figured I had a better chance of getting in with the white kids than with them, so in junior high, I started bleaching my hair and hanging out at the beach—you know, Chinese hair looks pretty lousy when you bleach it. After a while, I knew what beach was gonna be good on any given day, and I could tell who was coming ju
st by his van. But the American-born Chinese, it didn’t matter to them. They just giggled and went to their own dances. Until my senior year in high school—that’s how long it took for me to get over this whole thing. One night I took Dad’s car and drove on Hollywood Boulevard, all the way from downtown to Beverly Hills, then back on Sunset. I was looking and listening—all the time with the window down, just so I’d feel like I was part of the city. And that Friday, it was—I guess—I said, “I’m lonely. And I don’t like it. I don’t like being alone.” And that was all. As soon as I said it, I felt all of the breeze—it was really cool on my face—and I heard all of the radio—and the music sounded really good, you know? So I drove home.

  (Pause. Dale bursts out coughing.)

  Oh, I’m sorry. Want some more water, Dale?

  DALE: It’s okay. I’ll get it myself. (He exits)

  STEVE (Looks at Grace): Good, huh?

  (Steve and Grace stare at each other as lights fade to black.)

  ACT II

  In blackout.

  DALE: I am much better now.

  (Single spot on Dale.)

  I go out now. Lots. I can, anyway. Sometimes I don’t ask anyone, so I don’t go out. But I could. (Pause) I am much better now. I have friends now. Lots. They drive Porsche Carreras. Well, one does. He has a house up in the Hollywood Hills where I can stand and look down on the lights of L.A. I guess I haven’t really been there yet. But I could easily go. I’d just have to ask. (Pause) My parents—they don’t know nothing about the world, about watching Benson at the Roxy, about ordering hors d’oeuvres at Scandia’s, downshifting onto the Ventura Freeway at midnight. They’re yellow ghosts and they’ve tried to cage me up with Chinese-ness when all the time we were in America. (Pause) So, I’ve had to work real hard—real hard—to be myself. To not be a Chinese, a yellow, a slant, a gook. To be just a human being, like everyone else. (Pause) I’ve paid my dues. And that’s why I’m much better now. I’m making it, you know? I’m making it in America.

  (A napkin is thrown in front of Dale’s face from right. As it passes, the lights go up. The napkin falls on the dinner table from the last scene. Dale is in the back room. Dinner is over. Steve has thrown the napkin from where he is sitting in his chair. Dale is standing upstage of the table and had been talking to Steve.)

  So, look, will you just not be so…Couldn’t you just be a little more . . . ? I mean, we don’t have to do all this . . . You know what’s gonna happen to us tomorrow morning? (He burps) What kinda diarrhea...? Look, maybe if you could just be a little more... (He gropes) normal. Here—stand up.

  (Steve does.)

  Don’t smile like that. Okay. You ever see Saturday Night Fever?

  STEVE: Oh. Saturday...

  DALE: Yeah.

  STEVE. Oh. Saturday Night Fever. Disco.

  DALE: That’s it. Okay. You know...

  STEVE: John Travolta.

  DALE: Right. John Travolta. Now, maybe if you could just be a little more like him.

  STEVE: Uh—Bee Gees?

  DALE: Yeah, right. Bee Gees. But what I mean is...

  STEVE: You like Bee Gees?

  DALE: I dunno. They’re okay. Just stand a little more like him, you know, his walk? (He tries to demonstrate)

  STEVE: I believe Bee Gees very good.

  DALE: Yeah. Listen.

  STEVE: You see movie name of...

  DALE: Will you listen for a sec?

  STEVE: ...Grease?

  DALE: Hold on!

  STEVE: Also Bee Gees.

  DALE: I’m trying to help you!

  STEVE: Also John Travolta?

  DALE: I’m trying to get you normal!

  STEVE: And—Oliver John-Newton.

  DALE: WILL YOU SHUT UP? I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU! I’M TRYING . . .

  STEVE: Very good!

  DALE: ...TO MAKE YOU LIKE JOHN TRAVOLTA!

  (Dale grabs Steve by the arm. Steve coldly knocks Dale’s’s hands away. Dale picks up the last of the dirty dishes on the table and backs into the kitchen. Grace enters from the kitchen with the wrapped box from Act I. She sits in a chair and goes over the wrapping, her back to Steve. He gets up and begins to go for the box, almost reaching her. She turns around suddenly, though, and he drops to the floor. He pretends to be looking for something. Dale, confident he’s given up, goes to the kitchen. Steve resumes his attempt, but just as he reaches the kitchen door, Dale reenters with a wet sponge.)

  (To Steve) Oh, you finally willing to help? I already brought in all the dishes, you know. Here—wipe the table.

  (Dale gives the sponge to Steve, then returns to the kitchen. Steve throws the sponge on the floor, sits back at the table. Grace turns around, sees the sponge on the floor, picks it up and goes to wipe the table. She brings the box with her and holds it in her hand.)

  GRACE: Look—you’ve been wanting this for some time now. Okay. Here. I’ll give it to you. (She puts the box on the table) A welcome to the country. You don’t have to fight for it—I’ll give it to you instead.

  (Pause; Steve pushes the box off the table.)

  Okay. Your choice. (She wipes the table)

  DALE (Entering from kitchen; sees Grace): What—you doing this?

  GRACE: Don’t worry, Dale.

  DALE: I asked him to do it.

  GRACE: I’ll do it.

  DALE: I asked him to do it. He’s useless! (He takes the sponge) Look, I don’t know how much English you know, but (Using a mock Chinese accent) look-ee!

  GRACE: Dale, don’t do that.

  DALE (Using sponge): Look—makes table all clean, see?

  GRACE: You have to understand...

  DALE: Ooooh! Nice and clean!

  GRACE: ...he’s not used to this.

  DALE: Look! I can see myself!

  GRACE: Look, I can do this. Really.

  DALE: Here—now you do.

  (Dale forces Steve’s hand onto the sponge.)

  Good. Very good. Now, move it around.

  (Dale leads Steve’s hand.)

  Oh, you learn so fast. Get green card, no time flat, buddy.

  (Dale removes his hand; Steve stops.)

  Uh-uh-uh. You must do it yourself. Come. There—now

  doesn’t that make you feel proud?

  (Dale takes his hand off again; Steve stops. Dale gives up, crosses downstage. Steve remains at the table, still.)

  Jesus! I’d trade him in for a vacuum cleaner any day.

  GRACE: You shouldn’t humiliate him like that.

  DALE: What humiliate? I asked him to wipe the table, that’s all.

  GRACE: See, he’s different. He probably has a lot of servants at home.

  DALE: Big deal. He’s in America, now. He’d better learn to work.

  GRACE: He’s rich, you know.

  DALE: So what? They all are. Rich FOBs.

  GRACE: Does that include me?

  DALE: Huh?

  GRACE: Does that include me? Am I one of your “rich FOBs”?

  DALE: What? Grace, c’mon, that’s ridiculous. You’re not rich. I mean, you’re not poor, but you’re not rich either. I mean, you’re not a FOB. FOBs are different. You’ve been over here most of your life. You’ve had time to thaw out. You’ve thawed out really well, and, besides—you’re my cousin.

  (Dale strokes Grace’s hair, and they freeze as before. Steve, meanwhile, has almost imperceptibly begun to clean with his sponge. He speaks to the audience as if speaking with his family:)

  STEVE (Drops accent): Yes. I will go to America. “Mei Guo.” (Pause. He continues wiping with the sponge) The white ghosts came into the harbor today. They promised that they would bring us to America, and that in America we would never want for anything. One white ghost told how the streets are paved with diamonds, how the land is so rich that pieces of gold lie on the road, and the worker-devils consider them too insignificant even to bend down for. They told of a land where there are no storms, no snow, but sunshine and warmth all year-round, where a man could live out in the open and feel not e
ven discomfort from the nature around him—a worker’s paradise. A land of gold, a mountain of wealth, a land in which a man can make his fortune and grow without wrinkles into an old age. And the white ghosts are providing free passage both ways. (Pause) All we need to do is sign a worker’s contract. (Pause) Yes, I am going to America.

  (At this point, Grace and Dale become mobile, but still fail to hear Steve. Grace picks up the box.)

  DALE: What’s that?

  STEVE (His wiping becomes increasingly frenzied): I am going to America because of its promises. I am going to follow the white ghosts because of their promises.

  DALE: Is this for me?

  STEVE: Because they promised! They promised! AND LOOK! YOU PROMISED! THIS IS SHIT! IT’S NOT TRUE.

  DALE (Taking the box): Let’s see what’s inside, is that okay?

  (Steve shoves Dale to the ground and takes the box.)

  STEVE: IT IS NOT! (With accent) THIS IS MINE!

  DALE: Well, what kind of shit is that?

  STEVE: She gave this to me.

  DALE: What kind of... we’re not at your place. We’re not in Hong Kong, you know. Look—look all around you—you see shit on the sidewalks?

  STEVE: This is mine!

  DALE: You see armies of rice-bowl haircuts?