Needle and Thread and the Chinatown Night
PS: labrador is well known for its loyalty to its owners
By KELLY KINGMAN
Published: November 18, 2007
A GOLDEN phoenix and a dragon kept watch over the wedding reception at the Golden Unicorn dim sum palace in Chinatown, their tiny light bulb eyes blinking like Christmas lights. It was 7:30 on a Saturday night in September, and just as I was tucking into the second dish of the 10-course banquet, the spaghetti strap on my black designer dress snapped and hung like a lo mein noodle.
A friend suggested I check with the bridesmaids to see if any of them had an emergency safety pin. I looked at the stage, where the newly married couple were flanked by the wedding party and seemingly engrossed in the M.C.’s lengthy stand-up routine. Coming next were toasts and first dances that I was hesitant to interrupt.
But when I imagined dancing to Shakira’s pop hit “Hips Don’t Lie” while holding up one side of my dress, I decided to take my chances with the Chinatown night.
The lobby of the dim sum palace was an indoor shopping mall, its stores darkened for the night. The only people there were a middle-aged couple — a woman in a short-sleeved black blouse and slacks, and a man wearing a yellow work shirt and holding a broom and dustpan. They were conversing in Chinese. “Hello,” I said brightly, flashing my friendliest girl-from-Texas smile. “Do you know where I could find a safety pin?”
When the woman didn’t seem to understand what I was saying, I moved closer and showed her my broken strap. A sympathetic smile spread across her face, and the two of them laughed. I was about to set off on my search when the woman said something in an excited voice.
“She says if you want to wait here, she’ll go to her apartment and get you a pin,” the man explained.
I shook my head. In a city with bodegas on every corner, surely I could find something within a few blocks.
Walking the dark length of East Broadway, I thought of my mother back in Austin, where I grew up. She was always prepared for situations like this. A consummate seamstress, she had safety pins with her at all times, just in case.
These days, I saw her only once or twice a year, and we spoke on the phone only every few months. More than 10 years ago, at age 16, I’d broken away from her brand of evangelical Christianity. Although my mother is a kind and thoughtful woman, we didn’t agree on how life should be lived. After I left for New York for my last two years of college, we deftly avoided discussing anything very serious.
New York had made me highly self-sufficient. I hung my own shelves and paid the dry cleaner to hem my pants. The only things my mother could do for me were to bring my favorite tortillas when she came to visit, and to do the mending I always seemed to have with me when I visited her back in Texas. As I wandered the streets of Chinatown, it occurred to me that I could add this dress to the list of things to pack.
The Golden Unicorn is in the far eastern part of Chinatown, an area where Duane Reade and Rite Aid have yet to replace the herbalists whose shelves are stocked with ginger and ginseng. At 9 p.m., most of the street was dark, except for the lights of an occasional restaurant.
Finally I came across a small market space that housed several stalls. The words “safety pin” didn’t register with the man in the first booth until I thrust forward my shoulder, demonstrating what had happened to my expensive dress. He shook his head mournfully and called to the next stall, where a jeweler emptied out a box of metal findings, eventually locating a tiny brass safety pin.
I WAS thanking the man profusely and trying to fasten the little clasp when the woman from the lobby of the Golden Unicorn appeared behind me. I watched, amazed, as she greeted everyone in the market area, and I realized that she must have come to check on me.
Like a triumphant child, I showed her the safety pin. She nodded but kept walking to the back, toward a clothing stall. There the proprietress handed her a needle and a spool of black thread. Without a word, she returned, spit-threaded the needle like a pro, and set to work sewing up my strap.
Maybe it was the Champagne from an earlier toast, but I suddenly felt as if this woman were family, perhaps a long-lost aunt. I imagined that this would be a tale we would both tell around our respective dinner tables in our respective languages: the clueless, strapless lo fan — foreigner — wandering around in the Chinatown night, and the fairy godmother who rescued her.
I watched her sew, her grip firm, her gaze fixed. A little Chinese girl of about 6 stood looking up at us.
“She’s really good, huh?” I said, looking down at the girl over my shoulder. She nodded silently, too shy to speak.
“I’m so grateful,” I continued, happy someone could understand my gratitude.
When the woman finished, she snipped the thread with her teeth and patted me on the arm. Not sure what to do, I started to open my bag to see if I had any money I could give her, but she waved her hands in refusal. So I simply hugged her, saying thank you over and over. Smiling, she waved me on my way.
I briefly considered trying to find someone to interpret for us so I could get her name and address. I wanted to send a thank-you note as I’d been raised to do, to feel as if I could return the gift in some minor yet tangible way. But I had no choice but to accept this kindness. And when I went home to Texas a few weeks later, I had my usual bit of mending, a pair of pants with a torn belt loop, in my suitcase. |
