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In the FINAL installment to the Homies, Lovers And Friends series, everyone will be tested, but will they all make it? Kelsie is pregnant and in love with Milli.
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Point Three: Nonetheless, it would take more than mere monetary consideration to prompt Eunice to love me. How could I take advantage of that fact re: Eunice? How could I trick her into aligning her youth with my decrepitude? In nineteenth-century Russia, it was apparently a much simpler task. I noticed that some of the first-class people were staring me down for having an open book. I quickly sealed the Chekhov in my carry-on, stowing it far in the overhead bin. By this point the young man in business-casual attire had returned with his video camera and just stood there at the front of the aisle recording the fat man with a trace of dull, angry pleasure hanging off his mouth his quarry had buried his head in a pillow, either sleeping or pretending to be.
I was looking for clues on Eunice Park. I had to go at her laterally, through her sister, Sally, and her father, Sam Park, M. I zoomed in on a series of crimson-tiled haciendas to the south of Los Angeles, rows and rows of three-thousand-square-foot rectangles, their only aerial features the tiny silver squiggles that denoted rooftop central air conditioning. Inside one of these homes Eunice Park learned to walk and talk, to seduce and sneer; here her arms grew strong and her mane thick; here her household Korean was supplanted by the veneer of California English; here she planned her impossible escape to East Coast Elderbird College, to the piazzas of Rome, to the horny middle-aged festas of Piazza Vittorio, and, I hoped, into my arms.
I then looked up Dr. The California house they left was worth 2. The mother did not have any data, she belonged solely to the home, but Sally, as the youngest of the Parks, was awash in it. From her profile I learned that she was a heavier girl than Eunice, the weight plunged into her round cheeks and the slow curvature of her arms and breasts. Even with her weight, she could live to be if she maintained her present diet and did her morning stretches. I noticed the links to something called AssLuxury and several L. I beheld the numerical totality of the Park family and I wanted to save them from themselves, from the idiotic consumer culture that was bleeding them softly.
I wanted to give them counsel and to prove to them that-as the son of immigrants myself-I could be trusted. Next, I did the social sites. The photos flashed before me.
Mostly they were of Sally and her friends. But then I looked again. There was something else. I magnified the image by percent and focused on the eye farthest from the camera. Beneath it and to one side, I saw what looked like the leathery black trace of burst capillaries. I zoomed in and out, trying to decipher the blemish on a face that would tolerate no blemishes, and eventually distinguished the imprint of two fingers, no, three fingers-index, middle, thumb-striking her across the face. Okay, stop. Enough detective work. Enough obsessiveness. Enough trying to position yourself as the savior of a beaten girl.
Our plane had been surrounded by what passed for the United States Army. They were inside the first-class cabin. And then it began. They grabbed him by both arms and tried to drag him to his feet, his vast bulk passively protesting. We felt it before we even heard the sound of his voice, which, like the rest of him, did not conform to the standards of our time: was weak, helpless, despicable.
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Look in my wallet. I have a first-class ticket. I told the beaver everything he wanted.
And yet I sensed these exurban white guys were from nowhere near New York. They were slow and unwieldy, tired-looking, as if someone had poked them in their pupils and then circled their eyes.
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I looked back to see his baggy, ill-fitting pants, too big for his oddly tiny legs. My Ohio-shaped bald spot felt cold against the headrest of the seat. What had I done? Had I been too compliant? Would they drag me off the plane too?
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My parents were born in what used to be the Soviet Union, and my grandmother had survived the last years of Stalin, although barely, but I lack the genetic instinct to deal with unbridled authority. Before a greater force, I crumble. And so, as my hand began the long journey from my lap into the fear-saturated cabin air, I wanted my parents near me. I wanted us to face this together, because what if they shot me as a traitor and my parents would have to hear the news from a neighbor, from a police report, from a potato-faced anchor on their favorite FoxLiberty-Ultra?
Deploying the satellite powers of my mind, I zoomed in on the undulating green roof of their humble Cape Cod house, the tiny yuan valuation floating over the equally minuscule green blot of their working-class backyard. And then I wanted Eunice next to me, sharing these last moments. I wanted to feel her young powerlessness, my hand on her bony knees stroking the fear out of her, letting her know I was the only one who could keep her safe.
Nine of us had raised our hands. The Americans.
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No questions asked. I held out my device in a particularly supplicating gesture, like a shamed young cub showing the mess he had made in his cage. All I could make out were his arms, ropy with lawnmower strength. He cocked his head at me, sighed, then looked at his watch. The first-class cabin disembarked with great haste. We ran down the stairs and onto the cracked JFK runway, which shuddered beneath the armadas of armored personnel carriers and roving packs of luggage carts.
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The summer heat stroked my wet back and made me feel as if a fire had just been put out all over my body. I took out my U. I remember how my parents would talk about the luck of their having left the Soviet Union for America. Oh God, I thought, let there still be such luck in this new world. We walked toward a strange outcropping, amidst a landscape of forlorn, aging terminals heaped atop one another like the vista of some gray Lagos slum.
We surveyed the tired buildings of a prematurely old country; in the far distance, away from the tanks and armored personnel carriers, construction cranes loomed over the half-built futuristic complex of the China Southern Airlines Cargo Terminal. A tank rolled over to us, and the nine first-class Americans instinctively raised our hands.
The tank stopped short; a single soldier in T-shirt and shorts popped out of the hatch and planted a highway sign next to it, black letters against an orange background:. The Italians, convinced that the worst was behind them, had already started talking about the last ten minutes as if they had been through a thrilling geopolitical adventure; the women among them were already discussing handbag shops in Nolita where they could take particular advantage of the ailing dollar.
My passport had fallen out of my hands. The Italians were saying something sympathetic in my direction. They were quite alert to illness, those gentle ancient people. Be a GlobalTeen forever-switch to Images today!
Sup, slut? I really wish you were here right now. I went up to Lucca with Ben the Credit guy and he was so super nice, paid for all my meals and this gorgeous hotel room, took me for a walk around the city walls and to this insanely good osteria where everyone there knew him and we had a euro wine.