was barely five feet tall—a graceful slip of a girl who might have just stepped from the mists of an ukiyo-e woodblock
print—but she was equipped with the most superbly atrocious vocabulary I’d ever encountered. Seriously, the chick made
me
sound like a repressed Mormon.
“Rich white people dress like shit to show they don’t have to care,” I said.
Yumiko gave my crap T-shirt and frayed khaki Bermudas a how-the-hell-would-
you
-know smirk. “Fucking stupid. You’re all, like, a bunch of fucking
freaks
.”
“I’ve always thought so,” I said, booting up my computer.
“I mean,” she continued, “how could anyone even fucking
kiss
a white guy? They’ve got those
eyes
, you know? All
blue
and weird shit. Like they’re fucking
dead
. It’s disgusting.”
“More for me, then,” said Karen.
Yumiko waved this off. “Banana bitch—only yellow on the outside.”
“So, what, you like Japan better than here?” I asked her.
“That’s all bullshit, back there,” she said. “They won’t let you do fucking anything, you know? Like, my cousin used a curling
iron on her hair once, for school? The teacher stuck her head in a bucket of water in front of the whole class. Said they
had to make sure she wasn’t
Korean
or some shit.”
“Tasteless fool,” said Yong Sun, bouncing the palm of one hand under her own naturally curly tresses, the gesture of Frieda
in a
Peanuts
special.
“Plus, they think I’m ugly,” said Yumiko.
“You’re a total babe,” I said. “What are they, crazy?”
“My eyes are too big, and I have dark skin—my grandfather calls me Indian Girl. You’re supposed to be all squinty and pale
and shit.
Fuck
that.”
“Well, over here, you’re
gorgeous
,” I said.
“Over here I have no tits. They think I look like a fucking twelve-year-old boy.”
“Trade you,” I said, pointing at my own abundance of boobulage.
She ignored that. “I go to Victoria’s Secret, they can’t even sell me underpants—both legs fit in one hole. I try on jeans
at the Gap, they’re all size zero—like, not even big enough to get a real
number
. Fucked up.”
“Whine, whine, whine,” said Karen, smiling. “Just like some stupid FOB.”
I knew from previous Yumiko-rants that this acronym stood for Fresh Off the Boat.
Yumiko said, “Shut the fuck up and give me a Marlboro.”
Karen drew a red-and-white soft-pack from her purse, extracted a smoke, and tossed it onto the carpet.
Yumiko stuck it behind her ear, filter forward.
“Pussy chink-ass bitch can’t even
throw
right,” she said. “No wonder your grandma’s still slopping around rice paddies behind a water buffalo—dog-eating communist
motherfuckers.”
“
Koreans
eat dogs,” said Karen.
“Do
not
,” said Yong Sun.
“With
garlic
,” said Yumiko.
Yong Sun stood up. “With that attitude, I think it’s
your
turn to do the credit-card batch.”
“I did the fucking credit-card batch
Friday
,” said Yumiko. “It’s your turn.”
Yong Sun shook her head. “I’m the manager. And I’m busy.”
“Doing
what
?” asked Yumiko.
“Putting more garlic in this damn coffee,” said Yong Sun, walking out the door.
“Kiss my ass!” Yumiko yelled after her.
“In your dreams, bitch,” echoed Yong Sun’s voice back up the hall.
The phone rang, lighting up line two.
I pounced on it, beating Karen by a nanosecond. “Good morning, this is the Catalog, how may I help you?”
When line three lit up, Karen slapped the button down so fast the phone didn’t have time to chirp, much less ring.
She smugly flipped off Yumiko, then pointed her still-extended middle finger toward the credit-card terminal.
Yumiko pursed her lips to make a wet kissy noise, then slapped her unrepentant size-zero butt.
Cate called around ten, saying we had the all clear from Skwarecki to go back inside Prospect.
“I’m out of here at noon,” I said. “When are you meeting your Quakers?”
“One o’clock, so your
print—but she was equipped with the most superbly atrocious vocabulary I’d ever encountered. Seriously, the chick made
me
sound like a repressed Mormon.
“Rich white people dress like shit to show they don’t have to care,” I said.
Yumiko gave my crap T-shirt and frayed khaki Bermudas a how-the-hell-would-
you
-know smirk. “Fucking stupid. You’re all, like, a bunch of fucking
freaks
.”
“I’ve always thought so,” I said, booting up my computer.
“I mean,” she continued, “how could anyone even fucking
kiss
a white guy? They’ve got those
eyes
, you know? All
blue
and weird shit. Like they’re fucking
dead
. It’s disgusting.”
“More for me, then,” said Karen.
Yumiko waved this off. “Banana bitch—only yellow on the outside.”
“So, what, you like Japan better than here?” I asked her.
“That’s all bullshit, back there,” she said. “They won’t let you do fucking anything, you know? Like, my cousin used a curling
iron on her hair once, for school? The teacher stuck her head in a bucket of water in front of the whole class. Said they
had to make sure she wasn’t
Korean
or some shit.”
“Tasteless fool,” said Yong Sun, bouncing the palm of one hand under her own naturally curly tresses, the gesture of Frieda
in a
Peanuts
special.
“Plus, they think I’m ugly,” said Yumiko.
“You’re a total babe,” I said. “What are they, crazy?”
“My eyes are too big, and I have dark skin—my grandfather calls me Indian Girl. You’re supposed to be all squinty and pale
and shit.
Fuck
that.”
“Well, over here, you’re
gorgeous
,” I said.
“Over here I have no tits. They think I look like a fucking twelve-year-old boy.”
“Trade you,” I said, pointing at my own abundance of boobulage.
She ignored that. “I go to Victoria’s Secret, they can’t even sell me underpants—both legs fit in one hole. I try on jeans
at the Gap, they’re all size zero—like, not even big enough to get a real
number
. Fucked up.”
“Whine, whine, whine,” said Karen, smiling. “Just like some stupid FOB.”
I knew from previous Yumiko-rants that this acronym stood for Fresh Off the Boat.
Yumiko said, “Shut the fuck up and give me a Marlboro.”
Karen drew a red-and-white soft-pack from her purse, extracted a smoke, and tossed it onto the carpet.
Yumiko stuck it behind her ear, filter forward.
“Pussy chink-ass bitch can’t even
throw
right,” she said. “No wonder your grandma’s still slopping around rice paddies behind a water buffalo—dog-eating communist
motherfuckers.”
“
Koreans
eat dogs,” said Karen.
“Do
not
,” said Yong Sun.
“With
garlic
,” said Yumiko.
Yong Sun stood up. “With that attitude, I think it’s
your
turn to do the credit-card batch.”
“I did the fucking credit-card batch
Friday
,” said Yumiko. “It’s your turn.”
Yong Sun shook her head. “I’m the manager. And I’m busy.”
“Doing
what
?” asked Yumiko.
“Putting more garlic in this damn coffee,” said Yong Sun, walking out the door.
“Kiss my ass!” Yumiko yelled after her.
“In your dreams, bitch,” echoed Yong Sun’s voice back up the hall.
The phone rang, lighting up line two.
I pounced on it, beating Karen by a nanosecond. “Good morning, this is the Catalog, how may I help you?”
When line three lit up, Karen slapped the button down so fast the phone didn’t have time to chirp, much less ring.
She smugly flipped off Yumiko, then pointed her still-extended middle finger toward the credit-card terminal.
Yumiko pursed her lips to make a wet kissy noise, then slapped her unrepentant size-zero butt.
Cate called around ten, saying we had the all clear from Skwarecki to go back inside Prospect.
“I’m out of here at noon,” I said. “When are you meeting your Quakers?”
“One o’clock, so your
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