“Mom, she’s back again and wants the most expensive thing on the menu. What should I do?” Towering over his mother’s pigtailed bun, Roy whispers his exasperation as she fries up a breakfast special for Mr. Watanabe. Ever since Goldfinger came out last month this LADWP senior manager gets mistaken for Oddjob (and growing that mustache sure has helped). He likes his breakfast precisely before he gets to the sports section and he’s just finishing the headlines now. No daily newspaper can beat the Los Angeles Times for sports coverage is what all The Little Blossom customers say, especially the gardeners, but someone always slips a copy of the afternoon Herald Examiner under the door so yesterday’s news is always ready on the counter.
Roy is anxious for his mother’s reply, hopefully he can kick this delinquent flower child off the stool and out forever. It drives him crazy to watch her spoon in almost an entire bowl of sugar into her coffee, knowing like always, she’ll leave without paying. After a night at LAPD headquarters on Los Angeles Street why can’t she just walk the other way toward Union Station and take a train somewhere, like to San Francisco? (Her oversized Indian tablecloth caftan must be a handy bedspread when she spends the night in jail.) Free meals have made his mom’s Little Tokyo diner a destination for her. Hopefully ordering the most expensive meal will put a stop to hippie freeloading.
Two perfectly cooked easy-over eggs slide onto a bed of rice as Roy’s mother hollers out, “Okay, got it: shrimp omelette, flapjacks with potatoes on the side.” As she places Mr. Watanabe’s order on the cutting board beside her, she turns her head towards Roy with a smile and says, “Right?”
Roy gives up completely and doesn’t argue. If he pleaded with his mother to not be so generous with needy customers, especially this one, she would probably mention his full UCLA scholarship and say that he needn’t worry about money. (And he really can’t complain since as soon as his dad gets that new Ford Mustang he’ll be getting the family Corvair with no strings attached.)
But why is his mom so nice to this weird hippy girl? She’s probably close to Roy’s age, but instead of going to college she’s majoring in “feeling groovy with Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill Wine.”
“Here you go, Miss Leah Manning, just for you,” says Roy’s mother as she presents the plate on the counter.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas.” Leah unscrews the Heinz 57 Ketchup bottle and knocks the bottom with her palm to start the flow. “It’s funny that you don’t look like your name would be Thomas, you look full Japanese, but your son looks like both.”
Taking an order at the two-top near the picture window Roy rolls his eyes upward as Mrs. Yoshioka and her friend Adele grin a, “what can you do?” towards Mrs. Thomas’ son. At least when he starts teaching Roy can tell his students about the evils of drugs and drinking and can give a prime example.
“Leah, I’m not Japanese at all, I’m Chinese. I’ll show you.” Mrs. Thomas walks from behind the lunch counter towards the table used for single diners she calls, “her office.” Pausing a moment before the wall of framed photographs of friends and family she unhooks a black and white photo of four girls, all Asian, in their late teens smiling with the hopefulness of youth showing on their innocence faces.
“Here, these are me and my Japanese girlfriends.” A tremble of sadness catches in her throat and she stops mid sentence before a tear has a chance to well up in her eye. She takes a breath, “Just a few days before they left for internment camp.” Pointing an unwavering finger towards East First Street and South Central she continues, “The bus took them up from that corner over there down the street.” Mrs. Thomas can break down and cry any second, but Leah asks a question and brings her back.
“You’re all so pretty. Which one is you?” asks Leah.
Pointing to the first girl on the left, Mrs. Thomas says, “That’s Misa she taught me Japanese doll making and Masako taught us all how to shoot pool and play pinball. That’s Yuki we call her, Poppy, she was the first to wear makeup and that’s me at the end, I taught everyone mahjong. We’re all still friends.”
“Everyone has such long beautiful hair, but you have an Aunt Jemina scarf on, how could you hide your hair for a photograph?” asked Leah.
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I was working in the kitchen that day,” Mrs. Thomas answers a-matter-of-factly and continues, “My dad owned a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown with his two brothers, but he wanted his own business. When Japanese-Americans were forced from their homes during World War II my father bought this luncheonette and promised the owner that he would sell it back if he ever wanted it. Mr. Sakata had to sell for cheap, they were given only six days to sell everything they had. It was so sad, they should have let them stay and had citizens protect them; they were American citizens, it was a time of misguided hate.” Mrs. Thomas whispers, “Earl Warren, I hope you have your hemorrhoids to keep you company beyond the grave.”
“Gosh, it was a civil rights injustice, Mrs. Thomas. If there was a Malcom X or Ghandi in the bunch they would have been crucified by a mob.” Hoping for a free meal, Leah thought that going along with sympathy would pay off for her.
Morning rush diners were coming in. Mrs. Thomas went back to her griddle and Leah concentrated on eating. After the young lady finished her breakfast she emphatically promised to pay the next time. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Thomas didn’t make a fuss, but she did make a point of letting Leah know that they would be closed not only on Sunday, but also Monday for a mom, dad and son fishing vacation before the fall quarter began. “Just a few more quarters and Roy will soon be teaching,” she says with motherly pride.
“My dad never taught me to fish. He probably would have if I were a boy. He just sits and watches TV,” says Leah with an unguarded lament. She quickly smiles and says, “Thank you! Good-bye!” and is out the door to find her friends. They scattered last night as soon as the cops showed up while waiting by that pay phone for their connection to call, but the guy never did. He had seemed cool, but maybe he told the cops that they could find hippies with weed and it was a set up. She wasn’t holding anything, but being cute didn’t help her with the cops this time and she spent the night in jail for loitering.
With Leah gone, Roy mutters, “She’s married to someone Caucasian, sheesch!” He wanted to add, “dumbbell,” but stopped himself. Everyone who had been listening silently thought of a similar word, but in Japanese.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The mid afternoon sun filters through the storefront window. The Little Blossom is spic-and-span and ready for tomorrow’s customers. Finishing up the daily books at her single-diner office table, Mrs. Thomas looks at the photo with the scarf on her head. It does look funny and she wore it for a silly reason; she had cut off all of her hair in sadness and revenge.
She remembers it all started while waiting for a streetcar on Sixth Street. It was the Number 3 Line, the Yellow Car (and just last year it ceased operation). It was like a dream, a young man in a brand new cream-colored ’42 Dodge coupe yelled out, “Hey! Can I give you a lift?” It was an adventure she had yearned for and if strangers saw her they would assume that a young Caucasian man was taking the family cook’s daughter out to get groceries. They drove to Lincoln Park and he told her that he had just turned 18 and was going into the army soon. He was so dashing, she really fell hard for him. His name was Max and they made a date to meet up again and more dates followed. They would kiss in secluded places around Elysian Park. One day he asked if she wanted to see his house and they drove all the way to Rancho Park and that’s what they would do from then on. He would pick her up and they would drive to his parent’s house and go upstairs to his bedroom. There was nothing to worry about, she wasn’t a grown-up, nothing could happen to her, but it did.
The last time she saw him was when she said that something wasn’t right and maybe she should see a doctor. He told her not to worry and promised they would talk about it next time.
She waited like always by the 3 Line. Conductors soon stopped asking if she wanted a ride, knowing that she was waiting for someone who wouldn’t be coming. When it got dark she gave up and hid her face in her collar and cried. She can’t embarrass her family. If she threw herself down a flight of stairs she might break an arm, but that would hopefully do the trick or take rat poison “by mistake.” The First Street Bridge can take care of it now. That’s it. Hopefully no one will see her or stop to chat before she makes it there.
Leaning against the concrete railing one good leap could get her over and she’d hit the bottom pavement to crumple her fall.
“It’s cold out now.” Startled by a down and out hobo, he slipped between her and the guardrail barring the way for her next move, “Isn’t it time for your supper with your folks?”
“Yes, yes it is. Thank you.” The man had just saved her life. Before she rushed home she turned back and said, “Please stop by for coffee at The Little Blossom in Little Tokyo. It’s a free cup on me.”
That night she watched through tears as her parents cried alongside her. Nothing could douse their fears, but nothing would destroy their love.
When she told her friends they didn’t know what to do. They wanted to help and gave the wishful thinking of prayers that weren’t answered right away, but they eventually were.
When all of the Japanese-Americans were taken from their homes to internment camps African American men populated the streets of Little Tokyo and they never asked about the father when she started to show. (An answer could bring up a dead spouse, or worse, a guy who wasn’t planning on showing up again.)
That hobo who saved her life did come in, but she didn’t recognize him at first. He had been living under the bridge and looked scruffy and old, but cleaned up he wasn’t old at all and handsome, too. He was unfit for service from a shovelhead his father once used for discipline ruining his left optic nerve forever. Knowing her kindness made him turn his own life around. He got a maintenance job at Douglas Aircraft. And that’s how she met Guy Thomas on a bridge.
When Roy had turned 18 years old his parents sat him down and told him everything and asked if he wanted to meet his real father. His reply made his mother’s heart sing. “I don’t need to know when my hairline will start to recede, I can just wait for it to happen. And my blood type is pretty run of the mill, so he won’t die on my account if he has a rare one. And if I did speak to this stranger all I can think of saying is, “Thank you for leaving, because I have the best dad ever, a great example of what a father is, what a good husband is. I’m lucky I have the best dad in the world.” Thanks for telling me mom, but I’d rather not meet him. I like the memories of my dad, my real dad and those are just the beginning of great memories to come.” It was the proudest moment of Mr. Thomas’ life. He wiped tears from his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Knock-Knock!“
"Mrs. Thomas, it’s me Leah!”
Mrs. Thomas opens the door and sees Leah holding a square wooden box.
“I’m leaving for an Oregon commune. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I don’t have any money, but this is for you, it’s a Japanese doll that I’ve had since I was a little girl. It was displayed to show the fancy up-do from the back, so the kimono hasn’t faded in the front at all. We kept it in the den, it’s like new. I hope you like it. Well, good-bye!” She rushed to a waiting VW Van and off she went. Her dad will think that she swiped another item for money and blame her mother for her bad behavior again, but he’ll be glad that she is gone and hope she won’t be coming back soon.
Written with a grease pencil, in the corner where a return address would be, was the word “Boy.” It looked like someone had made a mistake and didn’t realize that inside was a girl doll. She had written it when Roy was born to let the father know. (Mr. Washington was a custodian at Hamilton High and dropped it off for her. He was such a nice man.)
It had taken months to attach her own hair to the doll’s head strand by strand. It was done with pure adolescent drama. Now it seems kind of creepy to have taken all that time to put her hair on a doll for some dumb guy. Yuki helped with the face and she hopes that Max didn’t think it was suppose to be her own face. It’s nice to have the Japanese doll back, she can give it to Roy when he has his own family.
Mrs. Thomas never liked Leah and watching her freeload made her happy that Roy was nothing like her. When Leah first walked in the door there was no mistake to who she was. Once when she and Max were almost to his house, he shoved her head practically down to the floorboards, but she was able to see a girl looking at them from the sidewalk. He had said that it was, “his sister.” That was probably his real girlfriend and later Leah’s mother. If Max had stayed with her he’d be the same lazy person that he is today and her son would be a hopeless over-loved momma’s boy.
Mr. Thomas walks in and plants a kiss on his wife’s forehead.
“Lian, baby, let’s catch a movie at the Linda Lea and eat at the Far East Café tonight.”