This is a story about me and my friend Mr. Shu-Xiang. Mr. Shu-Xiang, as a sign of respect. Or Shu-Xiang-san, in case that could apply. Sorry about that, but I'm struggling enough trying to understand Canadian culture to pause that and go down a rabbit hole about those little Asian name thingies for elderly people. Because that's the first thing that you need to know: he's probably twice my age, maybe a little bit older. The thing is, never ask a senior neighbour about his age, his income, or how cheap his almost-mansion cost whenever he bought it.
For sure, I don't have an answer for any of those three questions, but I think about them more often than I'd like to admit. And probably you might think: "Just ask him," but didn't you read the ending of the last paragraph? I mean, we're making a full stop in here so you could go back and reread it. Don't worry, though. I feel you. My brain is also broken with all those hours of doomscrolling.
So... ready? I mean, even if I were able to break that ancient, and probably sacred, rule about never asking, I wouldn't be able to ask that kind of question, because you know, I'm Mexican, and he's from China, or Korea, or Taiwan, or Japan, or probably any other Asian country well represented at a convenient business at the south end of Granville Street. Talking about that, do you know about Rib & Chicken? Man (or madame, because I'm not here just to make assumptions), their Chicken Terimayo Rice Bowl is amazing.
I promise to try and get straight to the point, but please understand me: I was a little bit hungry writing this early in the morning, just after saying hello to Shu-Xiang-senpai across the laneway. Whatever, as I was saying, I didn't ask any of those questions because he probably speaks Chinenglish, or Japanenglish... Or even Koreanglish, in the exact same way that I'm a speaker of Spanglish or Mexicanglish, however you want to call it.
Sorry for this new pause. Now, if you're reading this because you want to hire me, forget all about that. I promise—a real promise, not like the previous one—that I can think, write, and speak in well-polished English. Or almost well-polished English, just to honor my word. Besides, this whole entry is sort of a joke. You noticed that, right?
Actually, as part of this new bond of trust we're building, I'm gonna tell you a little secret: Shu-Xiang-chan and I aren't really friends yet; we just say "Morning!" to each other every single day, even when it's not morning anymore, probably around 1:00 or 2:00 PM. Since it is usually my first human interaction after stepping out my door, it still counts, at least to me.
In fact, his name is not Shu-Xiang. I made it up because I don't even know his real name, just like he doesn't know mine. But that's not an issue since both of us are happy with our minimal but gentle interactions. At the end of the day, we're just neighbors sharing exactly the same amount of information with each other. He usually sees me the whole week walking my dogs to the park, and I usually see him greeting all his visitors.
Not too long ago, I thought that he was such a lovely grandparent, or dad, or a national patriarch, or something like that, because he was always receiving people at his wide-open garage; sometimes as early as 7:00 AM, or at exactly 8:24 PM, usually on Tuesdays. But you know, I'm not some creepy-ass neighbour who spies on his elderly Asian neighbours, so I just continue straight to the corner and pronounce the magic words in front of him.
Sometimes out loud, sometimes almost as a whisper, or when we're less chatty, just with a little synchronized movement of our heads. Believe it or not, that tiny moment means a lot to me. It's a confirmation of my existence as a human being beyond my computer screen, but also as a neighbor in this cold and increasingly rainy city. I know there are colder places in Canada. Still, in my hometown, 23 degrees Celsius is the rule, not the exception.
Anyway, if you’re still wondering about my neighbor's profession, I can tell you I think he’s a mechanic working every day at the back of his almost-mansion. That's just an assumption, though, just like he assumed one day that my mix-breed dog was a Chihuahua simply because I’m Mexican. I know, right? He could be a little racist, but please don’t judge him. I would even take a bullet for him (or not), even if he doesn't know it, because that simple and plain "morning" makes my days here sunnier.
