It’s A Cake

You’d think it’d happen in Kansas, seeing as how there weren’t that many Asian-Americans that lived there. Probably twenty from what I saw when we toured there. Friendly folk, Kansas people. A might slow, but I don’t think that had anything to do with actual intelligence, because, when I thought about it, they were graduating college on their way to becoming professors and doctors and lawyers and engineers, while I was fucking around with my little Asian-American touring theatre company. Whic, when I thought about it more, wasn’t all too smart.

Slower then, probably, in pace of life. Where a minute to someone like me who lived in LA would be an hour to them. in Kansas. Where I got mad at old Asian ladies driving slow on the fasy lane of a freeway, they would be more accommodating and appreciative that someone like her was driving in the first place. Where I had a million choices for a good Chinese restaurant to go to, while they only had their friends parents house.

Different, I should say. not slow. Just different.

But it happened, in all places, New York. Big city. Dreams. Epicenter of multi-culturalism, immersion of several political and sociological views. Somewhere where you’d assume the different sides to an issue would be considered before any conclusion would be made.

Not so. At least in this particular scenario.

“It’s a cake.” I said.

“But the candles are made of beeswax!” She yelled.

“Yeah. Because it’s Ross’ birthday.” I said. “That’s what we do on people’s birthdays.”

“Do you know that in order to create these candles intruder humans had to go in the very hives where millions of bees live?” She decided to inform me.

I just looked at her.

“And why do we have to ‘celebrate’ peoples birthdays?” She questioned. “It’s just one of those things created by the government so we spend more money on things we don’t need.”

“You don’t like getting gifts?” I asked.

“Not if it’s for an occasion that perpetuate the capitalist facade of ‘good’ living!” She remarked. “I’d rather have a few of my close friends and family around me, telling each other stories of our rich cultures history. Getting closer to our roots and why we have become who we are.”

“That sounds like a good time.” I said. “But you don’t like all the other stuff that go along with it?”

“No! Hell no!” She said, raising her already raised voice. “People spend money on birthday cards instead of saying the words themselves. People buy gifts from a store, something plastic, something cold, instead of making something that could resound with the persons heart and soul.”

She sure was passionate about this shit. Made her pretty for a no make-up, no leg-shaving, frumpy clothes-wearing, self-proclaimed Neo-Multi-Cultural-Activist/Artist.

“Did you know that birthday celebrations were invented by the English?” She asked.

“I did not know that.” I said.

“Yes, the English. In order to get more money from the proletariat, they devised a scheme to make it seem like a birthday party was necessary to celebrate someones birthday. The government created all these other businesses revolving around birthdays and birthday gifts and birthday cards. It’s true.”

“Fascinating.” I said. It really wasn’t. She hadn’t mentioned that in most ancient cultures a certain age marked a rite of passage from childhood to adulthood and that that’s probably how birthday celebrations started. But I didn’t care. I was going to be in New York for one more day. One more show, and then go home, back to LA. I really wanted to have sex before that.

“And so, Xavier, this cake represents hundreds of years of oppression. Hundreds of years of lies and deceit. Hundreds of years for Capitalist corporate fat cats lining their pockets.” She said, staring at me with the intensity of an anti-government march.

I really wanted to have sex with her.

“That’s cool. Want to have sex?” I asked.

She looked at me shocked. I looked at her apathetic. Her face contorted in confusion. I think I yawned.

In all honesty, I thought this was the most ridiculous conversation I had ever had. Cakes and candles and birthday parties being the obstacles of a Revolution she wanted. Sure, there were things in the world that subtly needled away at the immigrant family, the poor class, the underprivileged, the disenfranchised. And I was aware of most of them. Why else would I have joined an Asian-American touring theatre group in the first place?

But, c’mon. It’s a cake, for Christ’s Sake.

And I’d rather not get into a loud shouting match argument on politics and economics. I’d rather have sex. Other than this show we did at her college, me and her, we’d never mix company ever again. That was a fact. So why not leave on a good note?

“If you want to.” I said. “Nice shoes, by the way.”

Her distasteful look gave way to a face of curiosity.

“I know. I don’t have frontal lobes, though.” I said, taking out a cigarette. “Sorry. I say what’s on my mind. Surprised I haven’t been arrested yet.”

She smiled. I lit my cigarette. She turned from a roaring lion into a playful kitten in one puff.

She took me to her dorm room, and we did it. Only once. I bombed.

Two days later, I went back to LA to never see her again.

 

 

a conversation with some mega-leftist, fundamentalist, radical, who still rides around in a car with insurance that her mommy bought.