Chasing William by Therese McFadden

for
doing it, but hey, some people talk to God, some people chase
fortune cookies. Who are we to say what’s crazy or not?
    The place I chose is called “China Gardens”,
fairly common if you’re familiar with Chinese restaurants. I always
make sure the place has a drive-thru before I go by myself. If they
have one, it means they’re a pretty laid-back place. If they don’t,
you run the risk of going to a “gourmet” Chinese restaurant. I’m
not saying those are bad places to go, but they usually cost more
than I’d like to spend and they aren’t too crazy about people my
age eating alone. China Gardens doesn’t disappoint (even though I
think the name is grammatically incorrect, which is a little
disappointing). It’s sandwiched in a strip mall between a generic
dollar store and a “for lease” sign. It doesn’t look very crowded
either, although it is still early for any kind of lunch crowd. The
bell above the door chimes as I walk in and the place looks a
little sad. There’s an empty buffet set up against the wall and
leather booths lining the opposite side. The floor is covered by a
plush red carpet that seems like an odd choice for this kind of
place. There are no dragons or Buddhas, not even an origami crane
or zodiac animal figurine. It looks like, well, nothing. There’s no
character anywhere. It’s the kind of building that makes you feel
sad.
    “How can we help you today?” The woman
behind the counter is very American: blonde hair and blue eyes with
not a drop of Chinese anywhere. I realize American-Chinese food
isn’t really a representation of actual Chinese food, but at least
when it’s cooked by a Chinese-American it seems more authentic.
This place just isn’t trying.
    “Umm, yeah.” I’m surprised to find that her
lack of broken-English is making it hard to order. The Chinese
place I go to when I’m home is run by an immigrant family and you
can always hear them shouting in Mandarin to each other when you
walk in. I don’t understand a word but it’s comforting anyway.
“I’ll have a hot-n’-sour soup with a fortune cookie.”
    “That’s it?” She eyes me suspiciously. I’m
not sure what she thinks I’m up to, unless someone’s just come in
and stolen all their charm and she thinks I’m back for the food.
I’d believe that.
    “Yeah, that’s it. It’s cold outside.” I
think I added that to defend my ordering soup, but
blonde-counter-lady just glares at me.
    “We don’t have fortune cookies.”
    “You’re kidding me.” What kind of a place
serves Chinese food without having fortune cookies? Ridiculous.
    “People kept throwing them away.”
    “So?” The fun is in the opening, not in the
eating.
    “So…” Now she’s pissed. Oops. “That means
we’re giving away a product that’s being thrown away unopened and
then filling up a landfill somewhere. We try to be as green as
possible. If more people stopped getting things they didn’t want,
our world would be a better place.”
    “Seriously? No one opened their fortune
cookies? I don’t believe that. And if they weren’t opened, couldn’t
you recycle them? I hear recycling and the green movement are
almost one in the same.” I smile and she glares at me. I’m not sure
why I’m giving her such a hard time, or why I’m being so outspoken.
I guess knowing you’ll never see someone again makes it easier.
    “So do you just want the soup? Or you can
add an almond cookie for two dollars.”
    “Now I know you’re kidding. You’re honestly
telling me people wouldn’t bother to crack open a fortune cookie
but they eat a prepackaged almond cookie? Have you ever met anyone,
anywhere, who likes almond cookies?” I’m laughing now. It’s
possible I’ve gone insane, and equally possible I’ve entered some
strange other dimension where fortune cookies don’t exist (though
in this scenario I am probably also insane).
    “Ma’am,” Cashier Lady sighs, “I like almond
cookies. Now, can you just tell me