Leftovers

The second I placed my size 5 foot on the cold, icy concrete outside Jupiter Apartments, I knew I wouldn't be delivering any noodles today. It was a deceivingly nice day. The sun was shining, but those roads patched with ice and snow would be treacherous. The segway was not ready for those. Lu would understand.

This morning's alarm clock was that of a ring more persistent than the routine sirens through the night. Somebody pulled the fire alarm, bringing all the residents of Jupiter Apartments together on Rouse Street. The culprit was identified when his mother made him confess that he was responsible for the wake-up call. That little boy around the corner was either crying for attention that his mother probably deprived him of, or he had become as bitter as the rest of the folks in this town and wanted to give everyone an early morning scare. Whatever the cause, he needed his meal at 1 PM, on the dot. However, I would not be making a fresh batch of noodles just for him. No, he will be receiving last night's fried rice.

As we all stumbled back to our rooms, a couple of my neighbors caught my eye. Sidda, or maybe it was Sydney, looked uncomfortable. Well, she always looked uncomfortable. But she had not yet tamed that lion-esque hair this morning, and she appeared very aware of that unfortunate situation. I could probably count on my child-sized hand the number of words we had ever exchanged. Then someone shooved past me, obviously, I think the proper term would be "pissed off", by what happened. It must have been that man with the standoffish demeanor, at least, distinctively moreso than the already cynical population here. If I had no fingers, I could count the words we had ever spoken to each other.

Once I got back to 404B, I slept for a couple more hours. When I woke up, I realized I was overdue for my monthly attempt to reconnect with those I had left behind in China. The coming and going sirens assured me that it was a very fitting day to stay in and complete this task. I searched for a pen and paper, and wrote, almost habitually, "Dear Shan, Please don't throw this away..."

Lo Mein

Lo mein days were usually good days. Lu always noted that the ratio of seasonings was "just right." The little boy around the corner always returned the noodle bowl, empty, by the time I got back from my check-ups with Lu. The hobo in the tunnel would always smile at me, teeth showing. He smiled at me every Sunday, and I couldn't blame him. That absurd segway had the power to force a smile on anyone's face. However, the smiles on non-lo mein days were closed-mouth smiles. For some inexplicable reason, it was only on lo mein days that I would get a glimpse of those yellow-with-a-hint-of-brown teeth.

I had a theory for why lo mein days were good days. Living in an apartment by myself in this town has given me a lot of time to ponder fatuous matters such as this. Lo mein undoubtedly had the most calories of all my recipes. I have put a lot of thought into this, and I have come to the conclusion that calories are true happiness in food form. Each calorie represents a degree of happiness; the more calories there are in a dish, the happier the person eating the dish is. This statement my seem contradictory coming from a woman 60 inches in height and 100 pounds in weight, but in my life I have found no satisfaction more true than that of eating good meal, filled with calories.

After I finished cleaning the dishes that night, removing the remenents of the noodles, but never the smell, I began another one of my Sunday routines. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, put my pajamas on, and placed myself in front of my 12-inch Sony TV. At 8 o'clock ABC's "Wipeout" promptly came on. American television is not quite as ludicrous as my native Chinese is, but it sure was getting there.