BROKEN WORDS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I met a writer friend, best-selling thriller author Gayle Lynds, at Starbucks. We were both desperate to get out of our offices and breathe air mixed with exhaust from cars trolling for parking spaces. And as women, we were desperate to talk and talk. Did you know that talking releases some kind of chemical or hormone to the brain of women that makes them feel better? While we sipped our lattes and bitched and complained about the state of book publishing, a young distraught Asian man approached us. He was thin and looked deeply hurt. He started pleading with us. But we couldn’t understand his broken English.

Then he said 911. We asked him if he needed to call 911? He nodded frantically. Gayle whipped out her cell. I looked around to see if there had been an accident. But the world was continuing on its usual self-absorbed pace. My friend connected to 911. She told the young man to speak slowly and she would convey his message. He nodded.

“Jacket,” he said.

“Jacket,” she repeated to the dispatcher.

“Leather.”

“Leather.”

“Leather?” I blurted.

“She no give me,” he said furiously and pointed. I turned and saw a dry cleaning shop next door. My friend apologized to the dispatcher for the false alarm. I was ready to wash my hands of the situation now. I wanted to get back to, well, talking about me. And get a rush of that hormone that made me feel so good.

“I’m sorry we can’t help you,” I said.

Angry, eyes glazing, the young man reached into his back pocket. I was looking for place to duck if he pulled out a gun. Hint: the little filigree outdoor tables at Starbucks are not bullet proof. I suddenly feared for my life. My only weapon was a hot latte that I couldn’t get the lid off without spilling it all over my lap.

But instead of waving a gun, he waved a receipt for his leather jacket. He shoved it into Gayle’s hand. She studied it as if it were the Gutenberg Bible.

“She steal it,” he screamed.

“I’m sorry,” I began again “But we can’t….”

Gayle leapt up, turning into Joan of Arc of the strip-mall. “I’ll handle this.”

I let out deep sigh. My talking hormone was depleting rapidly. The two of them marched off to the dry cleaners. Alone, I felt ineffectual. I wondered if I was a bad person for not wanting to intervene. But I could sense a Kafkaesque situation forming when I heard voices yelling in an Asian language. Then my friend yelling, “Calm down.”

I decided I should get up and make an attempt to do something. I stood in front of the shop. I didn’t go in. I was in observer mode. The writer at work. Gayle is tall, about six feet. The young man and an Asian woman, who appeared to run the shop, were short. Towering over them, my friend held a white leather jacket in a plastic wrapper. The woman threw her arms up in the air and walked out standing next to me. She was expensively dressed with full makeup perfectly applied. She put her hands over her mouth and began to laugh. A great maniacal cackle. I smiled.

“What happened?” I asked her.

“He no understand anything.”

“What nationality is he?”

She shrugged. “Korean.”

“Oh,” I nodded as if this explained everything. “What nationality are you?”

“Korean,” she said.

I gaped at her. “Can’t you speak to him in Korean?”

“Not if he don’t understand anything.”

She had a point. “What don’t …doesn’t he understand?”

“I try to get spot out. I can’t. Jacket must go to Los Angeles. Takes two weeks.”

“To get the spot out in Los Angeles.”

“He wants the spot gone now. I tell him I tried but has to go to Los Angeles.”

I nodded. “To get the spot out.”

She put her hands over her mouth and begins to laugh again. I marveled at the gesture. We covered our yawns, our sneezes, and our belches, but not our laughter.

“Has he paid?” I asked, remembering the receipt he waved at us.

“He don’t want to pay for me trying to get out spot and he don’t want to send to Los Angeles.”

“To get the spot removed,” I finished.

“I tell him I keep jacket if he no pay or I send to Los Angeles. He pay when it come back. He says I’m stealing his jacket.”

Now Gayle walked out of the shop with the young man.

“Okay” she said. “Here’s what’s happening. He needs the jacket for this weekend. He will pay you for trying to get the spot out then bring it back to send to Los Angeles.”

The owner of the shop had her arms crossed against her chest and glared at the kid. “He can pay me. But he don’t bring jacket back.”

They begin to argue in English as they both go back into the shop.

We returned to our table. Gayle took out a cigarette, lit it, and let out a deep draw of smoke. She looked like she’d just had great sex. “Now where we?”

I was speechless. Completely distracted. I knew this was going to happen. It’s why I didn’t want to get involved. I had absorbed all the confusion, the absurdity. My head was filled with broken English. Broken words. Communication seemed impossible to me. My talking hormone level had plunged to zero.

“Melodie?”

“Uh?”