Buddha Baby by Kim Wong Keltner Page B

great." Then he made a fake-sad face and gave her a puppy-dog look. "But you don't seem all that happy to see me."
    His flirtation was boosting her ego but she decided to play it cool. She said, "Let's just say I'm glad you're not dead."
    "Well, at least that's a start."
    He reached across the counter to touch her hand, and when she hesitantly lifted it away from his, he grabbed and squeezed it, pressing a small, rectangular thing into her palm. He kissed the back of her hand, and said "I'll be in the bar across the street. Come see me when you get off." Then he abruptly turned and walked away.
    Dazed by his sudden appearance and quick departure, Lindsey watched him stride out the door. Uncurling her clenched fingers, she found a peace offering, a Hello Kitty eraser. She brought the small, pastel square under her nose and inhaled its pleasing vanilla scent.
    Alas, Hello Kitty was like kryptonite. Who knew that pink, plastic crap could be so intoxicating? But, oh, it sure was. For an Asian girl, and presumably others, there was something about that new, plastic smell that consistently delighted. Maybe it was the nostalgia of childhood revisited, the promise of a perfect world where all the pencils were sharp and colors were bright like candy. In the Sanrio world, everyone was a chum, with silly clothes and perky bows. Faces were innocent, wide-eyed, and friendly with no mouths to utter ugly words or get you in trouble with French kissing or fellatio.
    The rest of her shift flew by, and by nine, she was counting out her register and replenishing Zone Four with supplies. She freshened up her appearance with the hair-and-makeup kit she kept in her staff locker for nights when she and Michael planned late dinners out. With Michael in Santa Barbara, she rationalized that there was no reason to return so soon to their dark, empty apartment. She headed across the street to where Dustin awaited her.
    It was drizzling outside and Lindsey didn't have an umbrella, so she held the edge of her coat over her head. As she stepped off the curb on a green light, she was nearly plowed over by a brown Trans-Am with a flaming, gold eagle painted on the hood. She jumped back, terrified.
    Under the streetlight in the well-lit intersection, she could see that the driver was a middle-aged man, an
Asian
man, and as he slowed his car he simultaneously revved the engine. Leaning out the window, he eyeballed her from head to toe, then sneered.
    "Look where you're going, you dumb bitch."
    Lindsey stood paralyzed as she watched the driver peel across the lanes, burning rubber. Still standing dumbly in the crosswalk like Rainman, she eventually regained her senses, ran to the bus shelter at the curb, then spontaneously burst into tears.
    It was raining now, and as she sat there and waited for the patter to lessen, she felt like she had just been assaulted. She took a few deep breaths and considered what had just transpired with the Trans-Am driver. A sudden tide of frustration, resentment, and confusion swelled in her heart, and in her mind she launched into an unspoken tirade against a phenomenon that had troubled her all her post-pubescent life:
    The Angry Asian Man. She encountered him every so often, and he could take many forms: a young guy, an old guy, businessman, skateboarder, store clerk, restaurant worker, pedestrian, or like tonight, a guy in a car. An Angry Asian Man was always a stranger, but someone whom, with a single look, a curt word, or with silent body language communicated something to her that struck the core of her being.
    The Angry Asian Man inexplicably hated her. When she encountered him she was always caught unaware, perhaps walking innocently when a stream of saliva would land mere inches from her shoes. She would look up to see someone whose physical features made it appear that he could possibly be her relative, but whose unblinking glare and sneering look of disgust
let
her know in no uncertain terms that he found her—her