The Meagre Tarmac Read Online Free Page B

eventual mba .
    We sit in silence around the dinner table. We always sit in silence. I cannot remember a time when anyone spoke. We’re not like Americans, grabbing a bite here and there, stuffing ourselves with processed foods, injecting our flaccid bodies with empty calories in front of a television feeding us empty images. Therefore we are better than Americans with beef blood dripping from their fangs.
    We never miss a meal. We are family. We are Indian. We are vegetarian. Every meal is a small production. Chop-chop, spice and dice, then fry, always fry. Even our bread and desserts are fried. Our walls glisten from airborne globules. My forehead glows. We sweat it. We practically bathe in vegetable oil. Our lifetime vegetable oil consumption, expressed as a function of water-use, is rising.
    Of course I am the only true American in the family. The Beast was born in Bombay. He conveniently forgets this fact. I have my sliced red pepper, celery and carrots. Tiffy is scarfing down on the fried food.
    She breaks the silence. “This is really good!” and my mother is pleased. This is the daughter she should have had. “All we get at home is greasy soup with noodles and pieces of vegetables swimming around in it.”
    I could say all we get is the same stuff, chopped and fried in the same spices, every day for all eternity. I stopped last year. His Lordship is drinking a beer. The Beast has a Coke; Tiff, Her Ladyship and I have iced tea.
    â€œChinese food is very good. I have many Chinese friends,” says His Lordship. So far as I know, all he has is Al Wong, his friend since graduate school, and Al and Mitzi come over once a month and they go to Al and Mitzi’s once a month, and they play bridge.
    â€œChinese food very healthy,” says my mother.
    â€œEspecially deep-fried egg roll,” says The Beast. Don’t say it , I pray, but out it comes: “I mean egg loll and fly-lice.” He never disappoints. Tiff doesn’t get it.
    â€œChinese people are like Indian people,” His Lordship explains. “Very loyal to family. Children very loyal to parents, parents very protective of their children.”
    Tiff looks to me for help. “I never thought of that,” she says.
    â€œI think we’re very Greek, actually,” I say.
    Mother says, “Greek people eat meat wrapped in leaves.”
    â€œGreek myths,” I say.
    â€œWhat myths?” His Lordship weighs in. “All European myths are comic book versions of Indian myths.”
    â€œI was thinking of Atreus,” I say, to deafening silence.
    On the walk back, Tiff asks, “What’s that Atreus thing you said?” Just the usual incest and slaughter, I answer. Gross, says Tiff. Then she says, “your dad and Al Wong actually rented a house in Palo Alto? Lots of hot action, I’ll bet.” Among Chinese, Al Wong is a little bit famous.
    But she doesn’t know my father. My father and hot action — in the linguistic interstices, all things are possible, I guess. And the third guy, a Parsi, went back to India. But then she says, “You won’t get mad if I ask a personal question?” My life is nothing but very personal secrets. “Go ahead,” I say.
    â€œYou and Borya, you’re getting it on, aren’t you?”
    â€œGetting it on? What does that mean, exactly?”
    â€œI don’t care if you are or if you aren’t. I was wondering about, you know, his thing. How big is it?”
    â€œBig, meaning long, or wide, or what? It’s a meaningless question, Tiff. Big as a function of his pinky finger? Big as a function of his arm?”
    â€œForget about it,” she says. And I wonder if she already knows that she’s next. And Tanya Ping is lined up, just after her. “Just, what’s sex like?”
    It’s like a puppy of some rough, large breed that just keeps jumping up and licking your face. It’s shaped like a candle,