Refugees All

[Vung Tau, 6/26/26]

Forty-nine-year old Mrs. Hạnh used to sell cheap coffee in the shadow of that never finished Double Tree Hilton. Twenty story tall, maybe, it’s appeared unchanged for a decade, though, daily, construction workers stream in and out. Maybe they’re crafting a nuclear bomb inside? Vietnam, too, needs an empire deterrent.

Many bought from Mrs. Hạnh on credit, with some delaying payments forever. So sick of it, she switched to flogging baluts. These boiled duck embryos are eaten in the shell with raw Vietnamese coriander, salt, pepper, lime and crushed garlic with hot peppers. This new venture didn’t last a week. Now, Mrs. Hạnh just sits at home, apparently, while her common law husband housepaints for 400K [$15.20] a day, six days a week. Since this scrawny, dark man is in his 50’s, how many more years can he last?

In Philly, I housepainted for seven years or so. It’s brutal work, though not as bad as being a roofer. Most US housepainters and roofers are heavy drinkers. Our crew would hit as many as three bars after work, starting with The Office, a skanky go-go joint. It’s just steps from Bookbinder’s, a Philly institution known for its lobsters, on 15^th Street. Too high class for me. I never ate there. In The Office, I saw an old, meek man lick a dancer’s high heel.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Just to try something new.”

Another time, I noticed a middle-aged Korean guy looking very angry.

One dancer, this light skinned black woman, said to me, “I hear you Chinese guys can do it a hundred times in a row?”

I was too exhausted or stunned to reply, “No, a thousand.” Life is mostly a series of lost opportunities. Anything worth saying or doing only comes late at night, forty years later, in your motherfuckin’ head.