“I care and Santa cares, Cinderella!”

Cotton Boy doesn’t live amid the clouds nor in a castle; Cotton Boy lives in one of the buildings clustering on the edge of Lake Erie, Ohio. Half of my apartment directly faces toward the sapphire lake. I usually love standing by the windows, sliding them open, laying my hands on the sills and leaning forward to catch the fresh crisp breeze in the morning to revitalize and reenergize every moving cell in my body. I, instantly, feel like I was buoying and floating in the air and awaiting my Merry-Go-Round castle to transfer me to a gigantic piece of cotton cloud. Angels hymn in the mid-air; humming birds hover in the sky, sun rays shine and glitter everything. I do nothing but am solely eating giant cherry cotton candies and polishing my crown. This is my favorable daydream of my last summer and autumn since I settled here in the U.S.

When the winter arrives, “Oh, no! Everything is becoming naked. Plants and caterpillars perish. Rodents are hibernating; sparrows submerge close to the bottom of the scrubs and cloak themselves underneath the fallen leaves. All the interactions of our universe seem to be gradually frozen,” I aspirated.

I intentionally pushed through the window, but heard the wind was howling outside. “It is a blustery cold day. I should find something else to do at home besides daydreaming,” I murmured. I pelted a quick glance to the laundry basket by the door. It was forming a little mountain; clothes were spewing out of the basket and carpeting the floor. I collected and pinched them back to the basket. I whistled “Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle All The Way …”; I gripped the handles, lifted it up and waddled down to the laundry room which was at the ground floor of the building.

“Hey, Cinderella! How are you? Merry Christmas!” She glanced at me and muttered, “Fine … No one care! No one care!” “Are you alright, Cinderella? Tell me who is being mean to you? I will kick their butts for you!”

Cinderella is employed as a cleaner of the property. She told me her name one time, yet I did not catch it exactly. I only remember the first letter of her name is, “C”. Since then, I called her “Cinderella. She never opposes how I address her; perhaps she likes this fairy tale name. Cinderella is Romanian and is in her mid 50’s, short and plump, but she moves agilely and works diligently. She informed me that she doesn’t have any relatives here. She got married with an American 20 years ago; then divorced and now she is by herself. I questioned if she ever wanted to move back and be close to her family. She screeched and shouted out words heavily accented from the region of Eastern Europe in hopes of explaining me in details. I was attentive, but honestly, I didn’t understand. Her face turned red and became impatient. She kept blowing words out of which I couldn’t recognize. I hurriedly said, “Slow down. You can tell me next time.” After that, I never ask her again. That’s what we call, “language barrier”. I admire her and find she is so brave to live alone in a foreign land with limited language skill. She is fighting against all the uncertainties to accomplish her American dream(s).

Back to the “Scene”:

“See, see, see! Very dirty. I clean every~day and every~day dirty,” she protested and showed me the rag a few inches away from my nose of which she just finished wiping the top of all the washing machines. I fell back a bit and I proclaimed, “It is not me! I am a good tenant.” She mocked and said, “Whatever! No one care! No one care!”

I spoke with a heroic voice, “I care and Santa cares, Cinderella. Merry Christmas!”

“Where am I? India or Philippines?”

The sound “Dou, Dou, Dou” from the price scanner; the greeting “Hey, Hi and Ho” from the customers and the “Ring, Rang and Rung” sounds from the telephone drive me nuts! The noise, the scuffle and the skirmishes of price annoy me while I am performing my job as a cashier at the drugstore. Scanning the merchandises is fine; making sure I collect and discharge the correct amount of money are understandable; welcoming and assisting customers are bearable; however, I just can’t answer phones and conduct all the aforementioned tasks at the same precise moment. I cry; I collapse and I have no shame to speak to the receiver, “I surrender! Cotton Boy is defeated. Please let me go. Be kind and merciful, Merry Christmas!” I clicked; I clunked and I hung up the call.

The below is part of the extract that I remember during the phone conversation.

Scene: It happened on a dark cloudy early evening yesterday. I was a cashier at the drugstore and was assisting customers to check out their products. There were three customers waiting in line; the paper in the cash register machine was jammed. While I was opening it to re-feed the paper, the phone rang. I was told to answer it within the first three rings. I picked it up and said professionally:

Cotton Boy: Thank you for calling XXX drugstore. This is Cotton Boy. How can I help you?

Caller: Yeah. Whatz up, bro? Do you still hafs the 12-inch Minkie Mouse doll on sale?

Cotton Boy: Excuse me? Did you say Mickey Mouse?

Caller: Nope, I said, “Minnie Mouse”.

Cotton Boy: Do you mind if I put you on-hold? Someone will assist your call, Sir.

Caller: Wait, wait, wait … Where am I now?

Cotton Boy: I am sorry, what you do mean?

Caller: I’m saying you are in India or Philippines? Jesus Christ, this country even outsourcing this job to overseas. No wonder we don’t have no job here.

Cotton Boy: Sir, I am in Ohio, USA. Your call didn’t route to India or the Philippines.

Caller: You have accent!

Cotton Boy: Sir, I have “AN” accent. It doesn’t mean I am not in the U.S. Could you please hold?”

I, then, immediately page someone to help him find “Minnie Mouse”. I frowned and was distraught. It is stressful and even dreadful to answer calls similar to this every day. I need some oxygen, “Let me breathe!”

Cotton Christmas "Ho-Ho-Ho"

To all Cotton Boy's Fans,

Cotton Boy is Chinese and was raised in a traditional Chinese family which doesn't celebrate Christmas at all. Christmas is only a day of no work, no school and lots of food to eat. My friends call me Cotton Grinch as I don't know anything about Jesus and the Christianity. I said, "Whatever!" They sang the Grinch song on and on ...

"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel.
Mr. Grinch. "

I protested and decided to make a Christmas card for everyone who celebrates Christmas becasue of fun, food and a day of no work, not because of Jesus or any religons upholdinging the Christmas spirit.  

I declare, hereby, that anyone who has no religious background deserves a Merrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas, too!

Have a Cotton Christmas!!!!!!

The Ninja and The Fleas!

She pulled up both of her fleece sweater sleeves, twisting her arms 180° degree several times. I was astonished with an “O”-shaped mouth once I saw hundreds of red needle marks  scattered all over her finger tips up to the bottom of her chin. I stammered, “Wow!” She sputtered, “Told you! I am going to kill all these bastards! Not a single one will live after tonight. They have to be annihilated or at least be expelled from my house. No more haunting and annoyance!” Her left arm was scratching her right arm and her right arm was holding an ATM card, swiping through the machine ruthlessly. The transaction   completed. She had paid another $15.80 for two cans of insecticide spray.  As soon as the cash register spat out the receipt, she nabbed it, sprinted out and disappeared in the dark momentarily like a Japanese Ninja jumping up the roofs to slaughter all her enemies. I, then, scrutinized the cashier counter to inspect carefully if she shrugged off some of her foes, fleas, without my realization.

This story began at 1 p.m. Friday, December 16, 2011. A ruffled hair lady, wearing a pink fleece blouse, used her elbows to pinch two cans of insecticide spray and laid them on the counter. I said, “How’s going?” She flatted her lips and reluctantly replied, “Alright!” I scanned the items; the total came up to $15.80. She grabbed the plastic bag with one hand, stringed her falling pants upward with another hand and armed out the door in a quick instant that she didn’t even give me a chance to say, “Have a good day!” She disappeared in the mist.

I pondered, “The Raid (insecticide) is not on sale. What is the heck of reason for someone to purchase two cans at the same time? There must be many cockroaches or ants crawling in which she lives.” I hate cockroaches and they love coming out at night to scavenge for food in the kitchen area. I remember when I was very little, around 8-10 years old. I would tiptoe at midnight toward the kitchen with my older sister. She hissed and signaled me, “Are you ready, Cotton Boy?” I nodded and sprang open my 10 stout fingers. She switched on the light. We ran into the kitchen and declared a genocide to the cockroaches by using our thumbs or palms crushing and tweaking their bodies. A minute was the time limit for each stampede, we competed and counted. Approximately, 20-30 smashed dead bodies would be left behind. My sister always excelled me; she probably had bigger fingers at that time.  

At 4 p.m., this unkempt lady returned and appeared in front of me. She looked very impatient and rushed me to help her check out another can of insecticide spray. I did it promptly; she snatched the receipt with one hand. Meanwhile, she was scraping her neck harshly, leaving lengthy red marks and vanished again. I was stunned and flummoxed.

Another 4 hours had gone right before I was closing my cash register. The Lady Ninja whom I addressed emerged once again. She looked desperate, but infuriated. She placed another two cans of Raid. This time I could not shut off my curiosity. I courageously inquired, “You just bought three cans of Raid. Now, you are buying another two. They are expensive! What is going on?” “Son, I know. There are too many fleas in my house. The premise was bigger than I thought. Tonight, I am having a dead or alive battle with the fleas.” She swept away some hair from her mouth and lifted up her sleeves. The bug bite marks were numerous. I was horrified. She looked like the demon in the 1987 renowned movie, Hellraiser.

Once she left, I senselessly scratched my neck as well. “Fleas! Shouldn’t they only exist in the Third World countries? Many Americans are living in substandard living condition now due to this bad economy time. I am blessed I have a cozy warm bed with no fleas waiting me at home.

Interview Time: Talk and dress like a Peacock

Cotton Boy’s piggy bank is on diet. The gold coins are dribbling out from the slot with no control. Bills, including the health and auto insurance, mobile phone, cable TV, car payment, student loan, credit card are continuously flooding into my household. I squinted my eyes tightly, wiggled my nose and trembled my shoulders, emulating myself as if I were “Harry Potter” who was making a spell to eradicate all troublesome, worrisome and unpleasant feelings. When I re-opened my eyes, “Damn, all the bills are still there. I can’t ignore making payments. The consequence is fatal to my life. My credit score will be ruined. Purchasing a castle will be a fractious dream to reach as no one will lend me money for a mortgage loan.”  I need to find ways to gasp for air before I am suffocated and am about to be flushed by the deluge. Someone has to construct a floodgate to stop the water coming in. “Who is my superhero?” I questioned with two hands cupping my face while I was sitting on the toilet.  I look around and the only reflection from the mirror is me. I am distraught first, but a minute later, I realize I am the true rescuer.   

Yesterday was a big day for Cotton Boy. I got an interview for a full time job in an auto rental company. Throughout the last three months, I have filled out over 60 applications electronically and have gone to at least 5 employment agencies. I solely received 4 replies. Fortunately, three out of four offered me the work, but they are part-time work. I seriously need a full-time job which guarantees a 40-working hour per week, paid vacation, health, dental and vision insurance and a reliable pension fund. This auto rental company is a perfect match to cover all my bubbly dreams.

A day before the interview, I toiled the whole day digging out all the relevant information of the company, studying and rehearsing all the common questions that an interviewer will inquire, such as, “Tell me about yourself! What are your strengths and weaknesses? Why do we hire you?” At the end of the process, interviewers usually ask, “Do you have any questions?” Hahaha, Cotton boy had done all the preparations and was ready to pierce through the bloody battlefield.

The final morning had arrived. I took out the nicest suit, wore a sparkle sleeky white shirt, slipped into the shining leather shoes and put on an immaculate blue and red strip tie. (Hey, red and blue are the colors of USA’s spirit. I, as a new immigrant, should be given some credit to be a copycat.) I arrived the premises, switched off the car keys, inhaled and exhaled an enormous amount of air and loudly commented, “I am now dressing like a peacock, will speak like a peacock and have to act like a peacock. This is my moment to deliver a deep-rooted colossal impression to the questioner(s). No mistakes are allowed to be committed. I need to get out of working at the drugstore (where I am working now). Please, Jesus, give me the power!”

I was placed in the conference room. 10 minutes passed, the manager welcomed me; I greeted him back. I was set he would ask me this popular question, “Tell me about your background!” Instead, he said I looked very nice and asked me a series of questions, “What nationality are you? What brought you to Cleveland? Have you experienced how brutal the winter here yet?” Then, he continued, “Let’s do some role plays!” He pointed at several objects in the room and demanded me to sell them to him. “It is as easy as flipping my hand,” I grinned. I love to sell and I am an excellent salesperson. I swung as if I were a peacock launching my beautiful feather to stick up in the air.

He praised me, “Very good! Do you have any questions for me? I replied, “Certainly, what do you think is the best part of working here?” He contemplated deeply for a while, stuttered a few disorientated words and was agape. I wrapped the questioned up nicely by asking him another query.

45 minutes later, the whole process was done. I jumped back to my car, and looked up the sky, “I wonder if this place is really the job to fulfill my bubbly dreams as he couldn't even point out what are good here!”

Be Strong, Crack-Baby! (Part II)

“A “Crack-Baby” refers to a baby of a woman who uses cocaine during her pregnancy. Her fetus is exposed to the drug. Cocaine slows fetal growth. When the babies are born, they tend to be smaller with smaller heads,” he explained literately. I glimpsed at him from head to toe. He does have a tiny head; my head is one and half of his size. Since the term, “Crack-Baby”, was so interesting and invigorating, I went home and conducted some research the same night after work. You may be wondering if “Crack-Babies” have any defects in cognitive, developmental and language problems.  Studies claim as these “Crack-Babies” grow, their brain and body size, indeed, catch up like others. The effects of cocaine on a fetus are thought to be similar to the usage of tobacco and less severe than those of alcohol. In a nutshell, there is not much difference except, “Crack Babies” generally have a smaller head.

I started thinking, "huh, I have a bigger head, but it may actually contain a smaller brain." This explains well why I am anchoring my life at the drugstore with all these education that I have invested. I can’t even compete against a high school graduated “Crack-Baby. “I am doomed”, I moaned. My heart sank and wept not because Jacob has a meager life; I sobbed silently because I am striding on the same career path along with Jacob.

I looked at my iPhone. There was a 10-minute left for my lunch. I gobbled up the sandwiches and finished my Mountain Dew. I wiped the crumbs on the table and readily made a visit to the bathroom before returning to work. I signaled him that he may finish his story one day, but he couldn’t terminate the conversation. He continued standing in front of me with his two hands griping on the table. “I was born prematurely. My mother left me. I was placed in a foster home. My grandparents claimed me back. I lived with them until I graduated high school. My Dad showed up a few times throughout a year at my grandparents’ apartment, but no one knows what he was doing, where he lived and how he sustained his life. Until two years ago, Dad asked me to move in with him. Everything starts crumpling down.”

I had no idea why he was making this confession to me; as a matter of fact, I had heard enough, but it was rude to abandon him alone in the pantry. I wish someone would come in to dissolve his tense and my awkwardness.

“My girlfriend is living with us for a year. She wants to get married and have babies,” he chuckled softly. “Jacob, did you say, “BABY” or “BABIES”? Are you planning to have more than two? You are still young. The world is waiting for you. What is the rush? You need to plan!” solemnly I responded.

“Oh, Cotton Boy, in China, I heard you guys are only allowed to have one baby. Here in America, we can have as many babies as we want,” he tried to convince me. “Jacob, it is not what I was implying about One Child policy. It is all about a “PLAN”. My lunch time is up; I should go,” I retorted.

I understand I have no right to criticize anyone; as a result, I had better leave the discussion. He has dreams and Cotton Boy has dreams too, but our dreams are not on a same orbit.

***According to the latest figure from an article, Report: Child homelessness up 33% in 3 years written by Marisol Bello and posted on USA Today on December 13, 2011, one in 45 children in the USA — 1.6 million children — were living on the street.***

Be Strong, Crack-Baby! (Part I)

A flaring dragon with a pair of oversized wings, flapping in the mid-air ferociously, created deadly turbulences. Tree leaves, squirrels and hummingbirds were swirled into an eddy of dust. The dragon roared and discharged fire against my castle. I screamed “Stop” and hurled myriads of thumb-sized pebbles at his ridiculous undersized tail. He flung me a scornful look but continued the evil act. My castle burnt in flames and turned into ashes. I was aroused in my dream with fear; I sat upright on the edge of the bed with a hand rubbing the cold sweat off my face. My mouth was so dried. I paced to the kitchen and gurgled half bottle of distilled water and sighed, “Life in America is tough. I can’t even dream peacefully to wait for a mighty God to pull me out of the quicksand. Tomorrow is another crazy day in the drugstore.

Jacob is one of my co-workers, who is almost 20 years old a month from now; in fact, he and I share the same month of birthday. He is a very energetic, enthusiastic and devoted worker. His smiles shine and make everyone smile back to him even though he has countless acne on his up-side down triangular face. His body is much smaller than his own specie, Caucasian; he is even tinier than many Asians. His both lengthy skinny arms are awkwardly dangling in the air as if he was released after being crucified on the cross. I don’t often ask personal questions unless someone wants to share. Today afternoon during my lunch break, Jacob has revealed some of the myths about him.

Everyone is entitled to have a 30-minute lunch as long as you complete a 6 hours of work. I was at the pantry eating my turkey and cheddar cheese sandwiches with one hand playing “Angry Bird” on my iPhone 4. Jacob walked in and said, “Hi, Cotton Boy. What are you playing? I wish I had an Android or iPhone. My piece of crap is worse than a Nokia.” I gave him a quick glance and replied, “You will soon! Are you going to school now?” “I wish I could. I have to work. I am in debt around $20,000. I can’t even earn enough to clear the monthly minimum payment.” My mouth stopped chomping. I asked, “What the heck? You are only 19. How did you get yourself into this mess?” I surprisingly questioned. “My dad is a crack-head. He stole my credit cards and spent on drugs. I can’t report him to the police and put him in jail. He is still my Dad. In fact, he is living with me and my girlfriend now. He is unable to work. He stays home all day and is a bum,” he remarked. “Wow, really! He is living under your roof. You didn’t kick him out after he sabotaged your life” I re-started munching my sandwiches and gave him 100% attention. “My mom was a crack-head too. She left me after I was delivered. I was born a “Crack-Baby”? Do you know what a “Crack-Baby” is?” I shook my head as my lips quivered, “No, can you elaborate more?”

***Crack-Baby (Part II) will be posted by 6:00 p.m. tomorrow (Eastern Time). Stay tuned and come back to explore the world of Jacob***