U-Turn by Lisa Lim

Listen to a podcast of Lisa Lim’s “U-Turn.”

I am not a taxi driver, Nazaret said. I am a famous poet in Armenia. I write great poems about love. He pulled over.

Listen to why I am famous, he said, into the rear-view. He took a yellowed notebook from the glove, cleared his throat and read, To be in love is to be hungry. Not to be in love is to be hollow.

He turned off the meter and performed more poems. They were nice, but trite. Most about love and flowers. Something about a hyacinth. I don’t remember much but I do remember the breath of his taxi, garlic and lamb, and the musky smell of a man. I remember how his chest hair sprouted from his shirt like a bouquet.

Nazaret reminded me of the dirty old man who used to be my boss at the Harris Poll. Behind a desk, he would touch himself as he listened to me conduct surveys about politics, education, and the Gulf War. He too had chest hair. It was his job to check if I was reading the survey exactly as scripted. I remember repeating, do you strongly agree, somewhat agree, somewhat disagree, or strongly disagree so many times that my tongue was tumbleweed. It was one of my first jobs and I was just discovering the power between my loins. Everything got me hot, even a dirty old eavesdropping man. There was something in knowing my voice was the object of his perversion that made me wet. Then, after a year, his attention turned to a new girl whose name I don’t remember.

She was an Asian girl with porn star curves. Her long black silken hair would whip around like a mermaid as she walked up and down the aisle from her telephone station to the reception area to gather the next batch of leads to call. She always wore snug red dresses, so short that they looked like shirts. She was like a single red rose, the kind you find in cheap plastic tubes that old Chinese ladies sell to romantic boyfriends inside Lower East Side restaurants. The rose once told me how she rubbed a drop of cum on her neck to snag men with pheromones. I might have missed something. I tried; it didn’t work.

I remembered all this while listening to Nazaret’s poems and thinking how late I was going to be.

Do you want to see a picture of my beautiful wife? Nazaret asked, then passed back the picture and said, look how beautiful. Yes, she is beautiful, I said. The photo was old, scotch-taped together and color enhanced like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. She does not look like this now, he said, shaking his head.

What is your name?

Annie.

Annie, do you have love?

No.

Why not? Does not matter. He pulled out a pen, twisted back and took my hand. I give you my number, Nazaret said. He pointed to his heart and said, I feel hungry. Hollow. You are woman. I am man. I feel hungry. You understand?

Aren’t you married? I said, wondering why had I let this man write on my hand. A familiar ache moved inside me.

No matter. He flapped his hand in the air as if to kill a pesky mosquito.

What if your wife made love to another man?

He hit my hand with the pen. I would kill her, he said, and sucked his teeth. Annie! Annie! She is mother of my children. I give her all my money. Of course you do not understand. I am man. You are woman.

I guess I didn’t understand. Still …

Then he showed me another picture, this one of his girlfriend. She gives me best sex. Beautiful Croatian woman. Every man should try Croatian woman. They are best.

I definitely didn’t understand. He had my hand again, stroked it. I was confused.

But Annie, I have never been with oriental woman. I am oriental virgin. You would be first. Come sit here, he said, unlocking the door and patting the broken leather seat beside him.

About the author:

Lisa Lim is a writer and cartoonist who lives in Brooklyn. Her work can be found at chineseladybug.carbonmade.com.