.
It occurred to me that a few minutes inside a bike shop might help push the attack out of my mind. Besides, I’d never been inside a Chinese bike shop. It could be interesting.
I headed for the storefront, if it could be called that. The two-story building was in bad shape, its bricks crumbling into the cracked sidewalk. Large windows were boarded over with sheets of plywood. If it weren’t for a second small sign, this one on the heavy metal front door, I would have headed back to the bus terminal without giving the building another thought. The small sign contained only one Chinese character, but I could read it. It said OPEN .
I gave the battered door a gentle tug, and to my surprise it swung outward smoothly on well-oiled hinges. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Lookingaround, I had to blink several times to make sure I wasn’t imagining what I was seeing. It was one of the most amazing sights I’d ever encountered.
Before me was a sea of bicycles. There were mountain bikes, road bikes, and cyclocross bikes. There were tricycles, unicycles, and tandem bikes. There were BMX bikes, load-hauling bikes, and recumbent bikes. It was unbelievable.
Most astonishing of all was that the bikes were from every major manufacturer around the world. The shops back in the United States would kill for an inventory like this. American shops were tied to contracts with specific manufacturers, which meant they could carry only certain things from certain brands. This shop obviously had no such agreements.
Standing with my mouth agape, I heard a girl’s voice ring out in English.
“Do you like?”
I closed my mouth and glanced about, but didn’t see anyone. Then I heard movement behind a tall counter toward the back of the shop and saw a small, grease-covered individual appear from behind it. The person was wearing stained coveralls, black work boots, and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low. It didn’t look like any girl I had ever seen before.
A small hand with gunk-clogged fingernails removed the hat, and a wave of shimmering sable hair spilled out.
Now
she looked like a girl.
“I said, ‘Do you like?’ ” the girl asked again. “You speak English, yes?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And I like.”
She smiled. “What exactly do you like?”
I felt my face flush, and I waved a hand toward the rows of bicycles blanketing the shop floor. “I—I was talking about the bikes.”
The girl pouted as she approached me. “Oh.” She wiped grease from her palms with a dirty rag dangling from her back pocket and stuck out her hand. “My name is Tiě Hú Dié. Welcome to the finest bicycle shop in Henan Province.”
Still embarrassed, I took her hand. It was small and warm, and holding it made me feel strange. I let go.
“I’m Phoenix Collins,” I mumbled.
“Phoenix?”
“Yes.”
“That is a girl’s name.”
I frowned. “Not according to my grandfather, and he’s Chinese.”
“But you’re American, yes?”
I stared at her. “How did you know?”
“Your accent.”
“Oh.”
“So, Phoenix is your first name?” she asked.
I remembered that people from many Asian countries gave their last name first. “That’s right,” I said.
“Then you would say that my name is Hú Dié Tiě. You may call me Hú Dié.”
She pronounced it “Hoo DEE-ay.”
“Butterfly?” I asked.
“Correct,” she said. “You speak Chinese?”
“Yí dian dian,”
I replied. “A little. What does
Tiě
mean?”
She flashed a mischievous smile. “Guess.”
“I have no idea.”
“Come on, Phoenix, guess my name.”
I fought the urge to laugh as the story of Rumpelstiltskin popped into my head. Never one to back down from a challenge, I looked her over and swallowed a lump that was inexplicably forming in my throat. I figured I should guess something nice. I asked, “Does
Tiě
mean … ‘lovely’?”
To my surprise, her smile disappeared, and she punched me in the arm. “No,” she said.
It occurred to me that a few minutes inside a bike shop might help push the attack out of my mind. Besides, I’d never been inside a Chinese bike shop. It could be interesting.
I headed for the storefront, if it could be called that. The two-story building was in bad shape, its bricks crumbling into the cracked sidewalk. Large windows were boarded over with sheets of plywood. If it weren’t for a second small sign, this one on the heavy metal front door, I would have headed back to the bus terminal without giving the building another thought. The small sign contained only one Chinese character, but I could read it. It said OPEN .
I gave the battered door a gentle tug, and to my surprise it swung outward smoothly on well-oiled hinges. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Lookingaround, I had to blink several times to make sure I wasn’t imagining what I was seeing. It was one of the most amazing sights I’d ever encountered.
Before me was a sea of bicycles. There were mountain bikes, road bikes, and cyclocross bikes. There were tricycles, unicycles, and tandem bikes. There were BMX bikes, load-hauling bikes, and recumbent bikes. It was unbelievable.
Most astonishing of all was that the bikes were from every major manufacturer around the world. The shops back in the United States would kill for an inventory like this. American shops were tied to contracts with specific manufacturers, which meant they could carry only certain things from certain brands. This shop obviously had no such agreements.
Standing with my mouth agape, I heard a girl’s voice ring out in English.
“Do you like?”
I closed my mouth and glanced about, but didn’t see anyone. Then I heard movement behind a tall counter toward the back of the shop and saw a small, grease-covered individual appear from behind it. The person was wearing stained coveralls, black work boots, and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low. It didn’t look like any girl I had ever seen before.
A small hand with gunk-clogged fingernails removed the hat, and a wave of shimmering sable hair spilled out.
Now
she looked like a girl.
“I said, ‘Do you like?’ ” the girl asked again. “You speak English, yes?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And I like.”
She smiled. “What exactly do you like?”
I felt my face flush, and I waved a hand toward the rows of bicycles blanketing the shop floor. “I—I was talking about the bikes.”
The girl pouted as she approached me. “Oh.” She wiped grease from her palms with a dirty rag dangling from her back pocket and stuck out her hand. “My name is Tiě Hú Dié. Welcome to the finest bicycle shop in Henan Province.”
Still embarrassed, I took her hand. It was small and warm, and holding it made me feel strange. I let go.
“I’m Phoenix Collins,” I mumbled.
“Phoenix?”
“Yes.”
“That is a girl’s name.”
I frowned. “Not according to my grandfather, and he’s Chinese.”
“But you’re American, yes?”
I stared at her. “How did you know?”
“Your accent.”
“Oh.”
“So, Phoenix is your first name?” she asked.
I remembered that people from many Asian countries gave their last name first. “That’s right,” I said.
“Then you would say that my name is Hú Dié Tiě. You may call me Hú Dié.”
She pronounced it “Hoo DEE-ay.”
“Butterfly?” I asked.
“Correct,” she said. “You speak Chinese?”
“Yí dian dian,”
I replied. “A little. What does
Tiě
mean?”
She flashed a mischievous smile. “Guess.”
“I have no idea.”
“Come on, Phoenix, guess my name.”
I fought the urge to laugh as the story of Rumpelstiltskin popped into my head. Never one to back down from a challenge, I looked her over and swallowed a lump that was inexplicably forming in my throat. I figured I should guess something nice. I asked, “Does
Tiě
mean … ‘lovely’?”
To my surprise, her smile disappeared, and she punched me in the arm. “No,” she said.
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