Chinaman's Chance

"Good morning, wife," he responded with a grin. "I always thought I would have to return to China in order to obtain a wife. I feel very lucky."

"I'm the lucky one," I declared. I got up and hugged him. Chen showed me where the jakes were and where to clean up. I longed for a hot shower, but that wasn't in the cards. I cleaned up as best I could. Breakfast was rice and tea again. I would have to get used to that, too.

"Are you still willing to be disguised as a boy?" Chen asked.

I nodded. "I don't think we have any choice," I said. We had already discussed the need to hide from the bad guys and doing it in plain sight seemed the best way to do it. We also needed money. Rent was costing Chen a dollar a week. San Francisco was an expensive place to live even in 1882.

"Perhaps I can get work in the restaurant," I suggested.

Chen shook his head. "You not knowing the Cantonese dialect will cause people to ask questions, cause gossip and raise suspicion. I was thinking along the lines of a stable boy for a white owned business." Well, I liked horses, but I never before considered mucking out stalls as a career choice.

"That makes sense," I said. "Let's get started." Thirty minutes later I was as bald as the proverbial cue ball with the exception of a bit at the back which became a short queue. Makeup covered my cut somewhat and still allowed it to breathe. More makeup thinned my lips. Lots of dirt would keep people from looking at me too close. I was a passable twelve-year-old youth. At least I hoped so. Chen wanted to stay with me so I would be protected.

"We need to separate so we can cover more territory, husband," I told him. "I promise I won't take any chances." He liked it when I called him husband.

"I will worry about you every moment we are apart," he said.

"And I for you," I responded. "Be safe. I love you."

It didn't take me long to feel unwelcome. Wherever I went, I was greeted with shouts of "No Chinese!" before I got a word out of my mouth. Others just shook their heads when I approached. I knew enough not to push things. Still, I was determined to be persistent. A person has to get used to constant rejection in the film industry real fast or he'll get discouraged in no time at all. I decided I had to be persistent here, too. The more doors I knocked on, the closer I'd be getting to my first job offer.

I found myself wandering into an area filled with numerous saloons. I also saw numerous signs touting various types of entertainment. I realized I was getting into the Barbary Coast district, notorious for being a haven for the lowest elements of San Francisco society: thieves, murderers and other criminal types. This wasn't where I wanted to be. It really wasn't any worse than some of Chinatown, but at least I had Chen to rely on. I made an about face. That was when I saw a policeman walking in my direction. He wasn't one of the rapists, but I was kind of shy of the police just then so I ducked just inside an alleyway door that was ajar.

"Can I help you?" a woman's voice said from behind me.

"Uh, no ma'am," I responded without seeing her. It was dim inside and took a few seconds to get used to the gloom. I was inside a saloon. "But perhaps I can help you," I added. "It looks like your cleanup crew forgot to show up." The place looked like the aftermath of a frat party.

"My swamper didn't show up," the woman said, "if that's what you mean by my cleanup crew. He's either dead drunk or dead. I guess it doesn't matter which it is."

"I'll be your swamper." The woman looked at me for a moment.

"I guess beggars can't be choosers," she said. "I'll pay you two bits if you can have this place looking presentable when we open."

Hmm! That didn't seem like very much. "Make it four bits."

"Two bits," the woman insisted. "I'd like to see if you're worth even that."

"Fine," I said. "Where's the cleaning gear?" I spent the morning wiping tables, washing glassware, sweeping and mopping floors. The place reeked of stale beer and smoke. Nothing could be done there. The worst of it was mopping up spills of unknown origin. I found myself wishing I had access to a hazmat suit. If there was a health department in the city in this era, they certainly weren't doing their jobs. Chen told me stories of having worked sixteen straight hours and then being stiffed on his pay. I hoped that didn't happen to me.

"What do people call you?" the saloon owner Mrs. Crabtree asked. She had begun to relax as the room started to look decent. The woman told me she was a widow and had inherited the saloon from her late husband. They were childless.

I thought for a moment and raised my cap, exposing my bald pate. "The name is Curly, ma'am, if you please." That made her laugh and I smiled in return.

"I like how you work, Curly," the woman responded. "You have earned your two bits already. I just wish you weren't...Chinese." I wasn't going to take offense. I had already seen the man who delivered a huge beer keg and the saloon bartender giving me disapproving looks. Was it good business to be rid of me?

"I can't help that my parents were Chinese," I said, "just as I am sure you couldn't help that you were born female." Mrs. Crabtree blushed a bit and nodded. I'm sure she had suffered her share of gender discrimination in this male dominated society.

"You're wise beyond your years, Curly."

"I've had to grow up pretty fast, Mrs. Crabtree."

The saloon opened up and the customers came drifting in. I ignored the stares and just busied myself washing mugs and shot glasses so the bartender could keep pouring. In return the customers, all men, started to ignore me. I realized from overhearing snatches of conversation that these men were Irish laborers. The Irish were politically powerful in San Francisco politics, composing about a third of the entire population at this time. Their politicians were instrumental in introducing anti-Chinese legislation in California and getting it passed in the legislature. The antipathy mainly stemmed from the post Civil War recession when not only the Chinese, but the Irish also suffered from high unemployment. There was no getting on their good side. No wonder Mrs. Crabtree wished I wasn't Chinese.

"This place is going to the dogs fast," a huge man said, his voice booming. He was a new arrival and seemed to be the leader among this group. "Where's Joe?" I assumed Joe was the no-show swamper.

"I'm Joe's temporary replacement," I said, "until he returns from his holiday in the south of France." That got a laugh from the room.

"The south of France, eh? That means he'll be gone a bit. Perhaps we should take our custom elsewhere until his return or the saloon gets a real Irishman to employ and not some cheap China boy." There were murmurs of agreement. Oh shit! This guy was a real hard ass. I glanced over at Mrs. Crabtree, who was giving me her own sideways glance. She wasn't about to keep me around if that meant losing customers. Should I just ask her to pay me off and walk out? She already said I had earned my two bits.

"I'm as Irish as anyone in this room," I shouted in bravado and bit of desperation. "I can't help it if my dear mother ran afoul of one of the little people while I was still in her womb and got cursed as a result." There were some gasps and more laughter, even from Mr. Hard Ass this time. The little people were of course the leprechauns of Irish myth.

"What did she do to get you cursed by one of the little people?" someone else asked. He sounded like he was in awe and a bit frightened. Perhaps he was a true believer.

"He came by my mother's door begging for something to drink, claiming to be dying of thirst. Unfortunately she thought he meant water when it was good Irish whiskey he wanted." That got another laugh. The crowd was warming to me...I hoped. I still had to convince their leader. "Out I come from the womb looking like a heathen Chinese. The midwife fainted. My mother fainted. I had to chew through the umbilical cord myself and me with no teeth yet. Do you realize how difficult that was? The first time my father saw me, he kicked my mother's bum right up between her shoulders. She still walks funny to this very day." There was a cheer and some applause. I knew the Irish appreciated a good story telling.

"Well," my antagonist said, "it sure sounds like you have kissed the Blarney Stone, but if you're an Irishman then I'm a Hottentot." In fact, I did kiss the Blarney Stone as a twelve-year-old tourist with my family.

"What? Do I have to dance a jig to convince you? Does anyone here have a fiddle?"

"How about a tin whistle?" someone yelled.

"Fine," I yelled back. "Play something." I knew some Irish step dancing, although I was pretty rusty at it. It was hard enough wearing sandals, but I didn't make a complete fool of myself. When the music ended I almost curtseyed, but I covered it up with a little stumble and bowed. The audience was appreciative.

"I'll be damned if you ain't Irish and if anyone wants to dispute it they'll have to deal with Brian O'Hara. I'm buying this lad here a drink!" My new friend slapped me on the shoulder and I almost collapsed.

"I can't drink on the job, but I'll have a sarsaparilla with you, if you please."

"It does not please me," Brian declared. "Bring out the good stuff." Geez Louise! This must be a test of honor or Irishness or something like that. I looked to Mrs. Crabtree seeking help, but she just shrugged her shoulders. My boss was already walking toward us with a bottle and two shot glasses. She set the glasses on a table and then poured.

"I have lived to see Hell itself freeze over," the woman said. "The house is buying this round." I was no teetotaler. I had done plenty of shots at frat parties, but it was always on a full stomach. I was running on empty again.

"Erin go Bragh!" I shouted and downed my drink. It was good stuff.

"Erin go Bragh!" Brian and everyone else chorused and cheered.

"Curly here has some chores to do now and I imagine you lads have to get back to work," Mrs. Crabtree announced. There were some grumbles, but no one disagreed. I was glad for the rescue and the saloon owner led me back to a cubbyhole she used as an office. We sat down and I was glad to take a load off my feet.

"Things could have gone wrong again if you had refused that drink with Brian," my boss said. "I'm glad you were up to it."

"I kind of figured it was something like that," I replied. "I'm just glad that there wasn't a follow up round. That would have done me in for sure."

"I don't know how you did it, but you made friends of that bunch. Brian O'Hara is more likely to break a Chinaman's skull with a cudgel as look at him. He's such a nice man otherwise." That last part sounded like Mrs. Crabtree liked Brian a whole lot.

"I guess I better teach Irish jigs to the Chinese around here." We both laughed. I was covering up my fright. I didn't realize Brian was that dangerous. The bartender walked back and handed me a plate of fried chicken.

"Thank you, Tim." Tim smiled and left. I guessed I made a friend of the bartender, too.

"If you continue doing that for the boys, maybe we had better make sure those boobies of yours don't bounce so much. Small as they are, someone else is bound to notice them eventually." I just about choked on the piece of chicken I was chewing. I guess I didn't make a very convincing boy after all.

"Does that mean you want me back tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"What if Joe comes back?"

"I'll keep him on," said the proprietor. "He's as worthless as teats on a boar, but I can't afford to have people think I prefer a Chinaman over an Irishman."

"Okay, boss," I responded. "I can understand that. Say, this is pretty good chicken. I'm going to save it and share it with my friend. He'll be glad to hear the good news about my job, too."

"Go ahead and eat. I've got lots more. I'll wrap some up and you can take it home to your friend."

"Thanks, Mrs. Crabtree."

"Call me Emma when we're alone."

"I'm Jennifer when we're alone," I responded.

Emma gave me a dollar and told me keep quiet about how much she gave me. I had to remind myself that a dollar was probably a pretty good day's wage for a lot of people in the era I was now living. She then allowed me to go home early because my friend was probably worried about where I was.

I was right about Chen being worried. I could see an almost frantic expression on his face from half a block away. I waved and caught his attention. He closed his eyes and I imagined he was going through a calming exercise.

"I have some good news," I said. Instead of asking what the news was, Chen launched into an angry sounding tirade. I didn't understand a word of it because it was all in Cantonese. He motioned me to follow him. I started to ask him what was wrong, but he became even angrier and louder, drowning me out. I wondered what it was that I had done wrong. It wasn't until we were back in our room with the door closed that he embraced me.

"We are under observation," he whispered and then yelled some more. I was both frightened and relieved. Frightened that the bad guys might have found us and relieved that I wasn't in trouble with Chen. It was an act to mislead whoever was watching us. My husband walked outside and then came back a few minutes later.

"I think they have lost interest in us for now," Chen said. "You are now my worthless good-for-nothing newly-arrived nephew that I would send back to China immediately if I had any money."

"Hold me," was the only thing I could think to say. We held each other without saying anything for over a minute.

Chen said, "I believe they were tong agents. You are a new face in the neighborhood and I wanted to establish your identity for the curious. What is your news?"

I didn't give Chen the full story on what happened for fear of upsetting him for real, only that I met Emma and did some work for her. She liked my work and wanted me back for a full shift the next day. I gave him the dollar I earned and thought he would be pleased. He frowned instead. He was upset anyway. "What's wrong?"

"I am the husband," Chen said. "I should be the one earning for our household."

"You know what, Chen," I responded. "I feel like smacking you right now."

He looked surprised. "Why would you wish to smack me?"

"Because you're not thinking right. We're a team now, equals as far as earning money is concerned, and we should be cheering each other on, not feeling down just because the other one scored first. It all goes in the same pot, right?"

"You're right of course," my husband said. "I apologize for my wrong attitude." I couldn't blame Chen for his wrong attitude after hearing about his day. His search for work had been fruitless so far. When he returned home he was met by the landlord, who said that he found out Chen now had a roommate and the rent would be increased effective immediately. Then the suspected tong agents showed up.

"How much does the landlord want?"

"He wanted to double the rent to two dollars a week, but I talked him down to one and a half dollars." "Our landlord is a blood sucking bastard," I said. Chen agreed with me. We shredded up the chicken and ate it with our rice. I decided to track down a greengrocer soon. I was missing my fruits and vegetables. We talked through the evening.

"What province are you from," Chen asked.

"I was born in L.A."

"L.A.?

"L.A. -as in short for Los Angeles? Here in California?"

"Ah, I have heard of Los Angeles. It's a small town south of here, isn't it?"

"That's right," I answered and giggled. "It will soon become a huge metropolis much bigger than San Francisco." I launched into my version of history, or in Chen's case, events yet to happen. We talked about local future history this time including the great earthquake and fire which would destroy most of San Francisco in April, 1906.

"If we live that long, let's make sure to be out of the city during that month, all right?"

"I totally agree," I said. Gosh! We were doing some long term planning already with the earthquake being 24 years in the future. We'd be middle-aged by then. Suddenly I didn't want to talk anymore. "Let's go to bed."

"Yes, you must be very tired," Chen said.

"I wasn't thinking about sleeping," I replied. I think I wore out the poor man that night.

"Does the saloon do anything special for St. Patrick's Day, Emma?" That was a week away and I was thinking about what I had learned in a marketing class while still in university.

"We sell more drinks, but nothing special. Why?"

"I was just thinking we would get a lot more customers on that day if we told everyone we were the place to be on St. Patrick's Day."

"Honey, we are just one saloon in an area where there are hundreds," Emma said. "We mostly all sell the same drinks and at the same prices. Some have brothels connected to them. Otherwise there's not a penny's worth of difference between us. We depend on word of mouth that our customers won't have their drinks watered down and that they can drink in peace. Of course, there's no guarantee they won't get shot, stabbed or bludgeoned once they step out into the street, but that's a hazard anywhere you're likely to go in this city. From my experience, advertising for the saloon is a waste of money."

"Word of mouth is exactly what I'm talking about, Emma. We just give it a little help. Will you listen to my idea?"

Basically the idea was to pin a green ribbon on the lapel of every customer who walked through the door on March 16, the day before St. Patrick's. When the customer went home or back to work, he would be asked about it and refer the curious to Emma's saloon. They would have to walk into the saloon to get the ribbon and then they might feel obligated to stick around and buy a few drinks. It would promote good will and perhaps get the new customers as returning customers. The promotion could be done on the cheap. The only upfront costs would be the ribbon and pins. Emma thought the idea had merit. We decided to run with it.

It almost didn't happen. In my 21st century mind, I thought we would just go to a supplier and buy a bunch of cheap ribbon. The trouble was the only ribbon available in all of the Bay Area was made out of cloth for dressmaking. That cost a lot more than Emma was willing to spend. But then someone contacted her, someone who knew of a supplier who was stuck with a load of green cloth that he would be willing to part with cheaply just to get it out of his warehouse. It wasn't ribbon, but we thought we could make something similar out of it.

Chen was able to help with the next step. He talked to the owner of a Chinatown clothing factory who was glad to get the extra work and willing to meet our price and deadline. I never did tell Emma her St. Patrick's Day ribbons were manufactured in Chinatown by Buddhists. Some information should never see the light of day. My husband was even able to pocket a couple of bucks from the deal to add to our savings.

Of course, no nice girl would be caught dead working in a saloon, so my boss hired a young pretty prostitute with red hair and blue eyes, dressed in a traditional Irish costume. Her job was to pin the ribbon on the lapel of every customer leaving the premises, smile pretty and invite them back for the next day's festivities. Emma hired a music trio that knew a bunch of Irish drinking songs as well as bawdy tunes that went well in a saloon.

The ribbons were a successful promotion and the saloon did record sales. Emma had to bring in couple of relief bartenders to help out Tim. A lot of first time customers visited just because they saw someone wearing the ribbon and asked the wearer where they could get one, too. Some of our regular customers complained that his wife or daughter or sweetheart claimed the ribbon for themselves so they didn't have a chance to wear it around town. We were happy to keep handing them out until they were all gone. I got my period and was thankful I wasn't pregnant.