Dream Me(23)

“Do a lot of . . . Vietnamese people live around here?”

“We have a pretty big community. And you don’t have to feel embarrassed to ask, it’s not a dirty word or anything,” Mai laughed, picking up on my awkwardness.

“Do your mom and dad speak English?”

“My mom not so good, but my dad is fluent. They’ve been here a long time. Since they were my age. Way before I was born.”

“Why here? I mean, why’s there such a big Vietnamese community in Sugar Dunes?”

“They were fishing people in Vietnam. After the war, the ones who could get out of the country left. A lot of them might’ve been killed if they were identified with the old regime. Boat people is what they were called back then, which drove my parents crazy . . . like they were somehow less than other people. So my grandparents put my mom on a boat and never saw her again. They weren’t even sure if she would survive, but they thought that whatever happened it’d be better for her than living under the Communist government.”

“Why didn’t they go with her?”

“They didn’t have enough money. In our culture, parents do everything to give their kids a chance for a better life.”

“Do your parents miss their home?”

“This is their home. They’re both citizens and my sister and I were born here. I guess in the beginning it was hard. The local fishermen were threatened by the competition from all the new fishermen, so there was violence against the Vietnamese. And, for some strange reason, they blamed the refugees for the war, as if they had anything to do with it. They were innocent victims but Americans didn’t want to think about the war anymore and people like my parents were a constant reminder.”

“Wow, that sounds—”

“Things have changed a lot. I was born here and I never saw any of that shit happening. I’ve only heard about it from my parents.”

“So why’d you say you can’t wait to get away from here?”

“It gets old real fast. There’s nothing to do but go to the beach and work and go to school. I’m only applying to colleges in cities with a million or more population: NYU, UCLA, Emory, Tulane . . .”

Warm, silky wavelets lapped against my legs, and I felt the balmy blush of sunset. “Be careful what you wish for,” I said. “To some people, this might be paradise.”

“Paradise, hah!” Mai scoffed at the notion. “Hey, I know that guy. He comes in the store a lot.”

Walking toward us, with a big grin on his face, was Earl. I didn’t recognize him at first outside of the gatehouse in his civilian clothes. He was even smaller on the beach with no shoes to add the extra few inches to his height. He was loaded down with some elaborate and expensive looking camera equipment.

“If it isn’t two of my favorite gals!” he said.

“It was Earl who told me about your family’s market,” I said.

“That’s right.” He looked at Mai. “You can thank me for your new friend here.”

Mai smiled sweetly and immediately went into behind-the-counter customer service mode. “How are you, Mr. Collins?”

“Just call me Earl. Some days I’m not even sure who Mr. Collins is.” He chuckled at his joke. “I’m fine, jes’ fine. Thought I’d come out and take a few photos of the sunset. Photography’s a hobby of mine, you know.”

Even if he hadn’t already mentioned this multiple times since I’d met him, it would be pretty easy to figure out from the looks of his equipment. “How about a quick pose, you two? There’s jes’ enough light for a real pretty sunset shot.”

This was my second pose for Earl and I wondered what he did with all the pictures he took. But he did get our cable fixed and maybe he’d give me a copy of the picture. Mai and I posed with just the faintest pink sky behind us. Physically, we were an odd contrast in just about every way. It would make for an interesting portrait, I thought.

Afterward, Earl strolled down the beach and Mai and I continued our walk.

“You don’t think he’s some kind of a pervert, do you?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.” I didn’t think it was too strange of a question, with all the warnings girls our age get from their parents. “I think he just likes taking pictures. At least I hope so, and—”

“—photography’s a hobby of his.” We both said it at the same time, laughing while we did.

“Do you know how he pronounced your last name? Nuggins!”

“You think that’s funny? How do you pronounce it?”

“I’m not saying I know exactly how, but I know it’s not Nuggins.”

“Go ahead. Take a stab at it.”

“Nuh-goo-yen?” I said hesitantly.

“Now that’s funny, Babe. Honestly.” Her laugh came out like a short snort.

I reached over and playfully yanked her pony tail. “Okay, Nuggins. Be careful what you wish for.”





BABE’S BLOG


Does it seem strange that I couldn’t wait to get home last night and go to sleep so I could dream about Zat? It doesn’t seem strange to me. When my family lived in Nevada I had a friend who was bipolar. She sometimes got herself into trouble by skipping her meds. The way she explained it to me was the meds took away that creative rush that came with her highs and she didn’t want to give up that part of her life. I think I know how she felt, although I’d never condone someone skipping their meds. My Zat dreams are something I probably should talk to someone about. The headaches are a red flag and I’ve never heard of a person having sequential dreams. Sometimes I wonder about my own sanity. But the anticipation of spending an evening with him keeps me going during the day. The excitement and rush of emotions make me protective of my dreams, and therefore secretive. If I tell my parents, will he go away? Am I an idiot for sharing it in this blog?