I was at the Chinese supermarket the other day and ran into the same clerk (the one who seems to only speaks Mandarin).  See here for my previous encounter:  http://elusivewords.xanga.com/748874894/a-minority-within-a-minority/.  In my broken Cantonese, I asked for 7 chicken legs.  He looked puzzled.  I said “7″ in English and then Mandarin and held up 7 fingers.  He nodded and went to fill the plastic bag.  I took a quick look at the meat section to see what else I needed.  When I turned back he was still filling the plastic bag.  I thought that was odd and when he lifted the plastic bag onto the scale, it was jammed pack with chicken legs.  I didn’t know what to do when he handed it to me.  I just took it and placed it in the cart.  I figured I would not be able to make myself understood. When I got home, I counted 17 chicken legs.  I put some in my stockpot and the rest in the freezer.

While my fragmented Cantonese and almost non existent Mandarin is a minor inconvenience at grocery stores here, I’m sure it will get me into trouble if I was in China.  I can just imagine myself at a gay bar, surrounded by curious Chinese gays who aren’t sure what to make of me.

I’m sure at some point in the night, fueled by hormones and alcohol, someone will ask me “So how big is your thing?”

I proudly declare in Mandarin “It’s 7 inches.”  (please note – this part of the entry is completely fictitious). 

“Ai ya!  17 inches?” 

I smile and nod politely because I won’t have a clue what he said.

I’m sure the rest of the evening will just be a disaster.  When I leave the gay bar, I’ll run into the clerk from the supermarket and he’ll be laughing at me. 

I prefer to do my shopping at night at the local Asian supermarket.  I avoid the crowds and get in and out without wasting my time.  When I got there a couple of weeks ago, it must have been hairy Asian night.  The Asian guys with hairy arms, hairy legs & facial hair outnumbered the smooth skin Asians guys. While I don’t look like a werewolf, I don’t belong with the smooth skinned tribe.  So it was nice to see my brothers out with me.

When I got to the meat section, I asked for 7 chicken thighs in Cantonese.  The guy behind the counter responded in Mandarin.  I figured he was asking how many.  I had to count quietly from 1 to 7 in Mandarin (eee, err, sam, siii, wu, lieu …) and then my mind went blank.  He stood there while I gave him my famous dumb look.  I resorted to my fingers instead.  He nodded and said “chee” to confirm?  I think he is just tormenting me.  

Is chee = 7?  My Mandarin teacher would have whacked me for not remembering this.  I smiled and nodded back.  I figured if chee meant 17, I would just freeze what I didn’t need.  Such is the fate of jook sings.  When I got to the checkout counter, the cashier and the young man who was bagging the groceries were bantering in Mandarin.  I was next.  After she scanned everything, the cashier looked at me and just gave me the total in English.  I get this all the time.  Even when I used to buy Chinese newspapers for my mom.  I figured that would fool them.  Sometimes it did.   They would say something in Chinese and I would give them the dumb look.   The cashiers can pretty well know when a jook sing is in front of them.  When J goes to the cashiers, they just start talking to him in Chinese.  When I go up, 90% of the time they will speak English to me first.

I need to find a tribe to belong to.  Is there a tribe for scruffy, gay, jook-sings?  A minority within a minority – that’s how I feel.