Dog Muncher

Beth Kaufka

We call this Girls Night Out, a name we should change because the point of the whole once-a-month ordeal is to find guys, and one of us, if it's a successful night, ends up ditching the girls completely. We dress up in clothes we'd be ashamed to wear around our parents, low on top, short on the bottom. Tiff always dresses for the most success, which means, the sluttiest. Tonight, she wears a strapless dress that dips in a deep V in front. It's held up with a little luck, perhaps some prayer, and double-sided tape. It's black, the dress I had wanted, tried on, and left crumpled on the floor of the dressing room because it made me look like a fresh-off-the-boat Asian prostitute. Too long for my body, the dress's curves hung in all the wrong places, the bottom hem coming mid-knee, the perfect length for schoolmarms in thick, nude pantyhose. Tiff's stacked in the back, as you wouldn't expect from such a white, white girl. My short Asian butt sits flat and low on my back like a half-empty, loose fitting fanny pack.

Tiff's just arrived at my apartment to pick me up for the evening. She always picks me up first; it takes Vickie longer to get ready – after all, Vickie is the weather girl. The three of us, infamous news station gals. I watch Tiff's exposed long legs as she stomps snow onto the doormat. "So, what's up, my little yellow monkey?" she greets me. I make monkey calls as I always do. Our terms of endearment tend to be racial epithets, our way of deflating them. Inside jokes only we're allowed to make.

I hand her a rum and coke. She clicks across my hardwoods in red cowboy boots. Mr. It's A Baby!, my Jack Russell terrier, yaps and bites at her heels until she bends down to pet him. Then, he piddles on the floor.

"Damn it, Mr. It's A Baby!" Tiff says, pushing him away with her foot.

"Your dog," I remind her. Tiff bought Mr. It's A Baby! a few years ago, after we graduated and each moved into our own apartments. She saw him in the window of the Pet Pen, took him home and threw him a baby shower – with invitations and gift registry – really just an excuse to have a party. During the event, she held a contest to name the dog. The wining name came from the invitation. But, just one week after the big party, she showed up at my door.

"If you take him," she said, dog carrier in her one hand, and duffle bag of dog food and rubber balls in the other, "you can have him for free. But you have to promise not to turn him into chop suey."

Ha. Either way, I always wanted my own dog.

I met Tiff in the dorms seven years ago when she was dating Izuru, a Japanese exchange student, who I actually sort of met before I met Tiff when he tried to speak to me in Japanese in the dorm lobby. I ignored him on the way up the elevator and down the hall. I'd have probably been nicer to him if I knew he was headed to the room across from mine. When Tiff, wrapped in nothing but a towel, opened the door for him, her long blond hair wet and bound up in a single chopstick, we smiled at each other. Though she lived across the hall, I'd actually never seen her before. She kissed Izuru, which impressed me. I'd never known a white girl who dated Asian guys. But, then again, I guess I haven't known many Asian guys in the first place – and I'm Asian, sort of.

Tiff teases me when I tell people I'm Korean-American. "No, she's not," she corrects me. "She's Adopted-American." It's one of her favorite jokes, though I've never really thought it funny. But, it's true. I don't have much claim to any Koreanness. I once registered for a Tae Kwon Do class in college, but after a week, dropped it for Hip Hop Aerobics.

I wipe up Mr. It's A Baby!'s pee and we're out the door to SEEN, a new club that's just opened on the Eastside of Detroit. On our way, we stop to pick up Vickie in Tiff's Jetta. Vickie also works at the news station with us. We're quite the threesome. I'm a reporter, Tiff's an editor, and Vickie's the weather girl.

*

Just outside SEEN, the Jetta's heater blasts while we fix our lip-gloss in the rear view mirror, fluff our hair, complement each other. You look great! No, you look great! No, you look great! We take off our coats. I exchange my snow boots for a shiny pair of high heels. Tiff passes a flask of Southern Comfort to warm us before we step outside. In unison, we snap our handbags shut, open the doors, and step out of the car into dirty snow. We walk toward the line of people waiting to get into SEEN. Wind blows our skirts tight against our legs. We try to position our faces in the wind so it doesn't ruin our hair. We're like a team, advancing side by side, working our way across the field. We wonder if anyone is watching. We wonder if we'll win.

At the door, Vickie flirts with the bouncer who recognizes her as the weather girl. She shows off her telestrating skills on a pretend map, ushering in a storm with the wave of her hand. "Look out," she says. "There's a wave of high pressure blowing in from the south that'll keep temperatures hot and conditions wet."

"Vickie," Tiff says, "you're such a slut!" She slaps Vickie on the ass and the sound snaps off her tight skirt. They toss their arms around each other's waists and start to bump their hips together. Then their butts. They hop and turn and bump. I walk past, trying to ignore the show, and they simultaneously slap me where I wish a real butt were.

In the club, we get drinks and dance until Vickie points across the room to two white guys and one Asian guy sipping their beers at a tall round table. "Hey, check them out," she says, "Van Damme, Kevin Bacon, and Jackie Chan. Perfect. One for each of us."

"Shut up," I say. I try to grab her arm, but she takes off toward them.

The first guy, the big one, doesn't fit into his t-shirt, like he thinks his little brother's t-shirt shows off his muscles better than one of his own. He's also wearing factory-ripped jeans that flare out ever so slightly at the ankle. His goatee is crooked, leaning off to the right of his cleft chin. In the streaming lights, the gel in his hair shines like wet plastic. The second one does sort of look like Kevin Bacon, A Few Good Men-era. His blond hair scoops up and out from his long forehead for a clear view of his pinchy face. He's got on a silver and gold polka-dotted shirt, unbuttoned to his sternum. When he runs his hand through his hair, his Kanji tattoo peeks out from beneath his sleeve, including its English translation: Wisdom. Soon Vickie is grabbing Kevin Bacon's arm and tugging him toward the dance floor. She gives Jackie Chan a few quick pokes in the shoulder and points at me. He looks. I walk away – quickly – in the other direction. I need a drink.

I squeeze in between a couple of people and try to make eye contact with the bartender and I do, but it doesn't matter. There's a rowdy bunch of frat boys banging on the bar, ordering each other shots. I wait, my view oscillating between frat boys, the bartender, and Vickie talking with our male counterparts.

"Foxy lady!" One of the frat boys shouts at me over the music. He high-fives one of the passing guys.

"Gross." I begin to walk away. My drink can wait.

"What?" he says, "Hey, are you Japanese?"

"No. Why? Are you?"

"What are you then?" He rubs one finger up and down my forearm. I look down at my arm and back up at him.

"I'm done with you," I say and flick his hand away as hard as I can.

"Sorry for living."

"I, too, am sorry you're living."

He looks at me like I'm suddenly the ugliest person he's ever seen. "Dog-Muncher-Bitch," he says and takes off before I can shoot back a rebuttal. I'm rendered speechless. I can't even get out an easy "asshole" because I'm so impressed with the slur. Dog Muncher? Honestly, I think it's a good one. I have to admit that. It's got all the elements of a good slur: an ignorant stereotype, humor, and creative wording. My senior year in college, I dated this black guy for a while. I met him in an Afro-Caribbean Literature course; a militant Black Nationalist dating an Asian chick. We got a charge out of it. I never told him my folks are white, that I'm adopted, grew up in a mostly white neighborhood. Anyway, we used to lie in bed at night, saying every single racist epithet that came to mind, laughing hysterically. Our favorites: Africoon, Rice-Rice-Baby, Porch Monkey, Ching-Chong-Chopstick, Negroid, Egg Roll Hole.

We'd laugh and laugh.

Sometimes, there's not much more you can do.

*

I get my drink and work my way through the crowd back to my friends, where it's safe. Tiff and Vickie are standing in a puff of smoke; they're sharing a Newport Light cigarette and talking with T-Shirt Man, Kevin Bacon, and Jackie Chan, the five of them laughing like old friends. When I arrive, they go quiet. Tiff nods to Vickie who nods to T-shirt Man who nods to Kevin Bacon, and then they leave me with Jackie Chan, alone and awkward. They walk off in the direction of more drinks.

Jackie Chan and I stand there a few seconds, just looking at each other, like we're in shock that our friends would do such a thing. He's got on plain dark Levis and a black, cotton button-up shirt, top button undone, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. His hair is short and neat, shaved down to a quarter inch of jet-black fuzz. More of a Chow Yun Fat than a Jackie Chan, if I have to pin him down to Hollywood. He's quite handsome. He smells like sandalwood soap.

"I'm Eddie Chin."

I shake his hand. "Abby Miller."

And I then I imagine the interaction goes like this:

He says, "It's very nice to meet you," to which I would say something like: "They're trying to set us up because we're both Asian, y'know."

"I know," he says, "Lame."

"White people."

"Yeah, white people," he'd confirm. And then this is where things would get light.

"Come here often? What's your sign?" I'd say, and we'd laugh.

"You're one of the news reporters on Channel 7, right?"

"You recognize me? I haven't done many stories yet. Too young."

"But, you could be older, much older. Who knows with Asians? You could be, like, 87 for all they know. It's how we infiltrate."

"Asian invasion." We'd say this at the same time and laugh, strangers sharing an inside joke. Already. At this moment, Chin – a complete stranger – would understand me more than my best girlfriends Tiff and Vickie.

Then, I could sigh, relax. Finally. Because Chin's not going to tell me, surprised, that I speak English so well. He's not going to tell me about how my people are, how Asians are good people, that he once knew a Chinese guy who was the hardest worker he ever knew – quiet, but a damned hard worker. And Chin would know the secrets: Most Asians are lactose intolerant, and many don't need to wear deodorant. He would know I've never eaten dogs and won't blame my bad driving on my race, but my general anxiety. He wouldn't assume I'm really, really good at math – I suck at math. And he would know how it feels to be accused of being Asian.

And tonight I'd be the one going home with the nice guy while Tiff and Vickie are stuck with T-Shirt Man and Footloose. I imagine I leave SEEN with Chin, get in his BMW, and talk my yellow head off. We laugh easily, but I keep wanting to cry. It's just that I'm so comfortable. I tell him my parents are white and that I'm adopted and that I only knew two other Asian people in my life, besides the family across the street who owned The Golden Dragon restaurant, and whose house always smelled like fish sauce. You could smell it all the way from the sidewalk, I tell him, and he laughs because he knows what I'm talking about. We stop at Lafayette Coney Island for some chilidogs and fries and talk about his travels to South America, his love of Rock & Rye Faygo and Vernors, about how we both love Steinbeck, and how the film rendition of Fight Club is the best book to film translation of our time, even though we hated the book. Then, we hop back in his car and drive around for a couple of hours listening to Nina Simone and talking about our families before we go back to his place where he shakes up some martinis and we talk about getting the hell out of Michigan.

But my encounter with Chin doesn't happen like that.

It all happens the way I've told it – until the part when it's my turn to introduce myself. So, really, it goes like this: He says, "I'm Eddie Chin," and I say, "Abby Miller." We shake hands, and I promptly excuse myself to the bathroom, but really to get another drink.

I'm ashamed of myself. I know I should go back, try again, give this guy a chance. Perhaps give myself another chance. I know I'm skipping out on him just because he's Asian. Here's the thing. Two Asian people together = two immigrants = two dog munchers. It's like some weird rule. One Asian person alone can remain an anybody, personhood intact, racial features semi-invisible. Two or more Asians gathered in one spot and all of the sudden you become the Empire, moving in swiftly as an entire nation, all slanty eyes, flat-faces, math and pianos. Alone, I'm Abby. With Chin, I'm all of Asia and all of Asia's racial baggage. But, after all the classes in Asian-American literature, oppression theory, history of identity politics, I should know better. I do know better. I feel like a fraud.

*

I'm standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching Vickie get down Britney Spears style (post-Justin, pre-K-Fed) with T-shirt Man, who gropes her ass while she slinks around him as if he's a stripper pole. I watch from the bar with a fresh vodka tonic, a little embarrassed for her. Vickie sees me and waves. Then, T-shirt Man dances his way over to me. His head rocks back and forth on his thick neck, his hips sway from side to side, and his ass juts out every other beat as he walks – he's trying to dance toward me, but looks like he's trying to shake a fart out of his pants – and every once in a while, he closes his eyes to make a show of how much he's into the music.

"Whatcha drinkin'?" he asks.

"Water."

"Really," he says. "What are you drinking?"

"Water," I say. "Really."

"Y'know, Chin's over there." He points, but I don't look. I expect Chin's in exactly the same place I left him. Now, the problem is, I actually want to go over and talk to Chin because he is handsome, and I feel like a jerk, but I don't want to give any of these people the satisfaction of thinking that the only two Asian people in the room belong together because they are Asian.

"You should go talk to him," he says.

"You're his friend. You go talk to him."

"You're one of those banana girls, aren't you?" he says, meaning, yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

"Not cool," I say.

"Oh, sorry. A Twinkie, then?" He thinks he's pretty funny, like he's allowed to say these things to me because he probably says them to Chin, like he's an insider because his friend is Asian. He thinks if you get permission from one of us, you get permission from all of us. It's like the white kid who thinks he can say “nigger” because he hangs out with black kids, and the black kids don't mind because they are particular, specific black kids who just happen not to mind. But when that same white kid says “nigger” to another, different and particular, specific group of black kids, he gets his sorry ass beat. As such, I want to beat T-Shirt Man's ass.

"Don't worry," he says, "I'm not hitting on you. I'm into your friend, Vi . . . Valerie. Really, I just thought you and Chin might hit it off."

"Why? Because we're Asian?"

"Why not?" He is sweating profusely, and I imagine the drops running down his forehead to be thick and sticky with hair gel.

*

The air in SEEN is steamy from all the drunken, sweaty bodies pushed together, dancing like they are on MTV, like they think they're the back up dancers in a club scene for some Snoop Dog video. A draft of cool air blows in every once in a while as groups of people come and go.

Tiff and Chin are talking at a booth next to the bar. Vickie is on the dance floor thinking she's the hottest thing out there because she is. Granted she is the weather girl, plus she spent all of her high school years in an east coast conservatory studying dance. Other girls can't compete with her skills. That's why I stand against the bar. Or, that's one reason I stand against the bar. The other reason is for balance. I haven't been this drunk in years. I pick up my drink, and it tastes like vanilla, which means it is not my drink. In fact, I suddenly remember I finished my last vodka tonic a few minutes ago before going to the bathroom. But this drink tastes good. I decide the vanilla drink is my new favorite drink, and I take it with me over to a round table at the edge of the dance floor where T-Shirt Man sits, watching Vickie dance.

"Hey, T-Shirt Man," I say. The music is loud. "Hey!" It takes a minute for him to respond. He holds his index finger in the air, signaling to me I'll have to wait a sec because he's still watching my friend shake her ass like Shakira.

"T-Shirt Man, my man," I say. I put my hand in the air; I want him to give me a high-five.

"Chin's over there." He grabs my shoulders, spins me around on the vinyl seat, pointing me back toward the bar. "See him?" He raises his eyebrows as if I might score and shoos me away.

I know where Chin is. That's the problem. I've known where he's been all night and for the last half of the night, I've watched him schmooze with my best friend. What the hell? Why doesn't he want to get to know me? I'm the one who'd understand him. Tiff shouldn't even be talking to him. She's seeing two other guys right now, and both of them think it's exclusive. Chin should know better than to trust a girl like that. Doesn't he see how she's dressed, like a hooker? I must talk to Chin. This has gone too far. I stride over to where they're huddled.

"Excuse me," I say to Tiff. "Chin and I need to talk now."

"Is everything okay?" she says, acting innocent, like a woman who doesn't have two boyfriends, but I don't change my position.

"Now," I say. Tiff gets up with a huff and pushes past where I stand at the edge of the table.

"Chin," I say, "You're an Asian guy, right? So why don't you date Asian chicks?" I take a swig of the vanilla drink.

"Are you okay?"

"Answer my question, Chin."

"I think you should put your drink down for a moment."

"It's not my drink, Chin." I know I've stumped him. And now he's got to move on to my questions. "No more diversions, Chin. Get your own drink. Why don't you date Asian chicks?"

"Are you kidding?"

I bend forward and look him dead in the eye, slap my palm on the table. "Hey, Dog-Muncher," I say. "I'm the one asking questions here. I'm the reporter. Are you going to answer me or what, Chin?"

"No, I'm not. What is this about?"

"Hey, Chin. Do you care that people call you Chin, Chin? Doesn't it make you feel so Asian, Chin? Doesn't it? How does it feel to you, to be Asian, Chin?"

A familiar sadness opens on his face. Our eyes meet for a second, just long enough to acknowledge an unspoken code. Then, he gets up from the booth and sits me down in it. His arms are strong and confident. He pushes his glass of water toward me, and I take a long drink. Right now, all I want is to be home in my own bed with my dog curled at my feet.

"Chin, I love Misser Bitsy Baby," I slur.

He gives me a strange look and says, "Take another sip." He pushes the glass of water closer to me. I push it away, afraid I'll throw up. I slump into the booth, my head too heavy to hold so high. I try to apologize to Chin, but I can't seem to peel my face from the cool surface of the table. He pats my shoulder. "Good luck, Abby," he says, and when I try to signal for him to sit down, he's already gone, disappeared into the throng on the dance floor, the anonymous bodies moving like a singular entity. They rise and fall, showered in the spectacle of red and green and yellow lights, and if I could, I would heave myself out of the booth and, too, slip into the crowd, lose myself in the pulse of the night.