The Oriental Market

There were no real signs in the oriental market. They were never printed on thick cardstock and inserted in a neat metal frame, or even typed up and taped to a shelf. It could almost always be assumed that any produce sign had been made by ripping apart some random cardboard box nearby and scribbling Chinese and an English translation on it in thick sharpie.

There was always a bin of borderline rotten produce, proudly displayed near the checkout for all those who might want to salvage old bananas or mangoes for 50 cents a pound. Amazingly, there were always patrons who’d wander through and claim them.

The floors were unfinished but not because the owners couldn't afford to fix them. They were grey and raised in some areas and faintly patterned in another, making it look like a dirty topographical map. Every oriental market has an area in the store where the floor dips a little and causes the wheels of a shopping cart to make strange sounds as it struggles to traverse across the nearly invisible crater.

Oriental markets are always cold. Colder than the people who run them. The coldest place in any city, Thien thought. Thien had been working at Lu Ban’s for 2 years. It was Summertime but even so, it always felt like Winter inside the store.

He has spent the last 30 years working a number of different jobs in the U.S after immigrating as a refugee- a boat person- from Vietnam. He had worked in a few restaurants, a furnishing business, and another oriental market a few doors down that had since been bought and turned into a marijuana dispensary and finally he came to Lu Ban’s. He was hoping it’d be his last stop between now and retirement.

While the Chinese made up the majority of the patrons who came to Lu Ban’s, there were plenty of other people the store served. It attracted Latino Restaurant owners. Viet nail techs. American college students who come for the Hi-Chew, and Pocky. Africans replenishing their cassava as this was the only place to find it. Food enthusiasts who think they know enough to come collect ingredients and make an authentic bowl of pho. Tourists who wander in from Penn Avenue in their maxi skirts with their hair in messy buns, their colorful woven bags brushing the displays as they scale the vast aisles. Thien realized that while he hadn’t seen all of the world, it appeared that most of it had been coming to the market anyway.

Dozens of produce boxes lay stacked in the back of the building, where one of the owners was barking orders at the other employees to unload the palettes quickly. It was nearly 10 am and soon the morning rush would have the whole store flooded with customers.

“Láo bān!” Thien called.

Láo bān was Chinese for “boss” and that was what everybody called her, even customers who didn’t understand what it meant, and just assumed it was her actual name.

“Yes, Thien!,” she yelled, as she snapped her head back around, her hair in a low ponytail, clipboard in-hand with scribbles of Chinese characters that were a blur to him.

“The owner of Pho Nguyen is asking for 4 cases of bean sprouts.” he said.

“Uhhh. Okay! They are unloading them right now, okay?! Five minutes, okay, Thien-a? Tell them please.”

He hated being the liaison between business owners and Láo bān. Why couldn’t they just call her? He had so much produce to get to the cooler this morning.

While Thien was preparing for closing, he went out to the lobby area to sweep the floors in front of the registers and noticed a small, black book on the counter. He immediately brought it back to Láo bān. She hurriedly thanked him and rushed off to her office to tuck it away in a drawer.

As soon as the doors opened the following day, a petite old woman wearing a green cloche hat came rushing into the market asking for Láo bān. Thien had been in the back room, grabbing boxes of mustard greens when Láo bān called for him over the intercom to come out front. Annoyed, he cursed in Mandarin and stormed out to the checkout area.

The old woman was holding the book in her arms, tightly against her chest. He noticed her almost immediately and thought perhaps, he was about to be accused of stealing whatever was in the book.

“Yes?” he asked, looking directly at the woman as he spoke to Láo bān.

“She wanted to thank you for finding her book,” she said with a smile.

Thien’s countenance softened. He had nothing to worry about.

“You’re welcome,” he said curtly and pivoted to return to his work in the back. He was already imagining the produce ladies getting ready to assign him the task of grabbing all the boxes for them to prep the various greens only for him to later drag them out to the shelves himself.

Before he could get back, the little cloche woman began to speak, forcing him to stand in place.

“This book has my photos and addresses and phone numbers of all my family back in Hong Kong. It is very important to me,” she said. “Thank you for finding it.”

“Welcome.” Thien said almost immediately, and then his eyes darted back to Láo bān, but she was already on the phone going over a wholesale order from a restaurant owner.

“My name is Anne,” the old woman said with a smile. “It is nice to meet you, Thien.”

He nodded and feigned a smile before bee-lining to the back.

Anne began to visit Thien a few times a week thereafter. Sometimes she’d bring cookies or soup from the café she owned.

One day, there was a terrible storm and she stayed inside the market, waiting for it to pass. Thien offered her a seat in the corner and his space heater from the lunch room.

“How old are you Thien?” she asked after she sat down.

“61,” he replied.

“And you are from Vietnam?”

“Yes.”

“I have been to Vietnam once. It is very beautiful. And the food is very good. I loved those pork buns your wife made me the other week. Please tell her I said that.”

“Yes, I will,” he replied.

“Thien, what did you do before you worked for Láo bān?” Anne asked.

“Uhh. I worked for another grocery store and I-,” he began, but Anne cut him off.

“No, no, no. Before that. Before you did this. Before you had kids. Did you do anything different back home in Vietnam?”

He paused for a moment, not knowing why he had to think about his answer.

“I was a carpenter.” he finally said.

“Ah…you are a carpenter.”

“Yes, my father was one and my grandfather was one too.”

“What did you make?” she asked.

“We used to build billiard tables and before I was married, I made these pictures.”

“Can I see?”

Thien reached into his camo cargo pants and pulled out his phone. She almost immediately grabbed it from him.

“These are… amazing,” she said. “Did you used to sell these?”

“No,” he replied. “This was my hobby and when I had the kids, I stopped.”

“Well, you should continue,” she said, as she slowly scrolled through the photos until she stopped on one.

It was a scene of two cranes. Next to a giant tree and drinking from a lake . Chinese characters were carved out and lined part of the right side. All on a purple velvet backdrop.

“This one,” she said, tapping at the screen. “I want this one.”

Thien smiled. It had been so long since anybody had complimented his art or even seen it. Some were displayed on his walls at home while others remained tucked away in storage.

“No really,” she said. “I want to buy this one.”

Thien chuckled softly.

She couldn't be serious, he thought. He had had these for years and while people thought they were impressive, it never went beyond that.

“Are you working Thursday? You work Thursdays right?”

“Yes, m’am.”

The storm had passed, and most of the staff had emerged from the back room. Even Láo bān had come out of her office and was ready to call it a night.

A couple days later, Anne returned to the market. She rarely ordered anything wholesale for her café. She specifically requested that Thien be the employee to meet her out back with her order and Láo bān allowed it.

Thien pushed a dolly full of products to the back door where Anne’s red van was already waiting for him. After he loaded everything into the back, she handed him an envelope that looked and felt more like a small thick parcel. He thanked her but was so confused. She smiled at him and gestured towards the envelope, urging him to open its contents.

He hesitated but looked inside. There were two straps of hundred dollar bills, so crisp and new, he initially mistook them for notepads instead of currency.

Thien’s eyes widened and his throat tightened. With this he could buy a new car, take him and his wife on a trip, or pay off some debt. He was utterly speechless. Why would she tip him $20,000 for a $500 order of groceries? His mind continued to race over all the possibilities that this money could be used for but snapped back to reality within seconds as he speculated that perhaps this was a mistake or maybe this money was meant for Láo bān. What would she think if she had seen this opened before he handed it to her? He closed the flap of the envelope and smoothed it down, pretending that somehow he could seal it if he pressed hard enough.

“Like I said, Thien,” Anne began. “I really want to buy your art.”

She pulled out a card from her purse.

“My son is a modern art curator and wants to meet you the next day you have off. You are very talented, Thien and you could be very successful as an artist. Let us help you,” she continued.

“But…,” Thien began. “I am too old.”

“Nobody is ever too old to do what they are meant for,” Anne replied. “As a birthday gift from my son, he told me he would buy me any piece of art from this season’s collection but I saw your woodcarving and it was nothing like anything he could offer me. I’m offering you this for the one with the cranes. I know you are working now and you are busy so just hold onto the money and the business card and I will be back tomorrow. You can let me know your decision, okay?”

She took his hand in both of hers and gently shook it. Thien thanked her profusely and said he would talk to his wife and let Anne know tomorrow. She got into her van and he stood in the doorway and watched as she drove away, barely able to hold himself up without the support of the door frame. He tucked her son’s business card in the thick envelope of cash and shoved them into his breast pocket before hurrying back to the front of the store.

The rest of the work day slipped by quicker than it had begun. On his way home, he thought of his own father and his before him. How he had built billiard tables alongside the men until they no longer could, as well as thereafter. He wished he could call them and tell them what had just happened. Suddenly, he no longer felt like an old man with aching bones and graying hair. Suddenly, he felt the way he had when he left home many decades ago- that it was time to start something new and trust in the magic of beginnings.