Esem Junior The Dueling Plumbers of Harvard
J
im knows it’s silly, but all he’s thought about the past few days is holding a baby panda. A fifty-five-year-old man shouldn’t obsess over such a thing, that’s what he tells himself. But certain things can’t be helped. He’s watched videos online, has seen the newborn pandas squeak and topple down hillsides. Has imagined scratching them behind the ears, gathering soft, white down between his fingers. That’s what has taken him to the panda center outside Chengdu. Two minutes of panda time cost two thousand yuan, but so be it. He needs this. Jim’s been in China for two weeks and has hated every minute of it. The Chinese strike him as pushy, rude, prone to spitting. Being in China reminds him of days past when he fought with Asian grandmothers in Costco, who conspired to box him out at the rotisserie chicken counter with the hard edges of their carts. But these mid-sized industrial cities in Western China will be his home for the foreseeable future. He’s paid by corporations to be an authentic white man, to sit in corporate meetings, packaged in a dark wool suit, and nod when a critical mass of black eyes look to him for assent. It’s prearranged that every question will have a “yes” answer. An attendant at the panda center holds out plastic gloves and shakes them in Jim’s face. Powder sifts from the gloves, chased by the scent of latex. “You’ve already got me in this get-up,” Jim says, and nods down at the mandatory, blue scrubs that billow over his torso and upper thighs. The attendant, a man Jim’s age with acne scars across his forehead, shakes the gloves again. “Jesus, fine.” Jim snatches the jumble of rubber. Once gloved, he holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers. The man directs him to sit on a bench. The baby panda appears. A different attendant waddles out with the bear, holding the creature under its arms. There’s no ceremony to it. The attendant stutters forward, as if lugging
SIXFOLD FICTION WINTER 2020
Esem Junior
|
31
