I dial Kim again.‘You have dialed the Harris County Policenumber…’ Wile E Coyote smiles from thescreen, the little pink hearts rotate above his head. And what didyou expect, Road Runner? By the way, why this stupid Road Runnerleft such a wonderful cargo trike? You could do perfectly well withyour panic while some unnamed fellow from the Koreamerican-3 was puffing onpedals. And now – you must finish the ride on your own. I pull thegloves and throw my body on the skate, ready for my little Tour deFrance. Back during my middle school years, they kept showing thison TV. Presidential program Bicycle-2020: every American mustget a bike. Bike propaganda, my ass! Before the Meltdown, there were idiots whoraced bicycles over mountains, while other idiots paid good moneyto watch the racing idiots. And even the bikes were impractical,totally idiotic: with thin tires and no cargo platforms. It waslike a TV soap opera, only about riding bikes.Unbelievable.

The good news, I am pretty close to home:one hundred yards on concrete, then four hundred – on the dirtroad. If only concrete, even two miles on skate is no big deal.Unfortunately, nobody builds any new concrete roads now, and evenfixing the old ones is not on a priority list. No probs, ourtailless mermaid will have very strong arms.

***

Twenty minutes later, thetailless mermaid, in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France, wellahead of the peloton, blasts though the last stretch of the dirt road and passesthe finish line in the KoreamericanPatch-1. The spectators yell and applaud. And Iam not even out of breath. Getting better at this stupid sport, Iguess.

In our Garret Road Slum, there are nostreets, only ‘Roads’ and ‘Patches’. A ‘Patch’ initially meant ‘aplot of land’, but over years the meaning shifted. Now it's morelike ‘village’ or ‘compound’, although our ‘Patch’ is not yourtypical city block. Explaining how the Amerasian Patch works to thehardened individualist Yankees from the North is not an easy task,but I will try anyway.

So, the Patch. If you squint real hard, youmay imagine yourself in the middle of the Fifteenth Century Asianvillage. Endless vegetable beds are all over the place. Two girlspush a water-lifting wheel. Farmers in conical hats return from therice field. And all the rest is as expected: rickety huts onstilts, a tiny Buddhist shrine amongst these huts, chickens andpigs digging through the dirt, barefoot kids playing at the villagecommon grounds. Got the picture? Now just unsquint a little, andyou discover yourself in the XXI Century Asian village, with allthe advancements: all the above, but the roofs are made of rustedmetal, complete with TV antennas and solar panels. Bicycles areeverywhere. Not those Tour de France contraptions on ridiculouslythin tires, but our real work bikes with strong frames – you canhappily load five hundred pounds, or even more, as much as you canpush.

And if you are tired ofsquinting, the XXI Century Asian village turns into the standardXXI Century Houston slum. One wall still bears faded sign ofthe IHOP restaurant chain, plastic film glitters in the window frames,tarpaulins and old tires are used in shack construction instead ofpalm leaves and bamboo poles. Dressed in T-shirts and shortsinstead of exotic sarongs, two girls at the water-lifting wheelhave stereo earbuds and step over the wooden planks clearlyfollowing some pop-music beat. The village kids at the commongrounds are not playing some antiquated Asian game. It's modern andsophisticated weekly match of softball, as they proudly define it,‘with fast serve and full rules’. The boy at the home base haswhacked the ball with high-tech aluminum bat. By the way, the yellsand applause for the imaginary Tour de France leader are real –from one of the softball teams. After the mighty strike, thefifth-grader has passed the second base and now is flying towardsthe third, stomping dusty ground with his bare feet. Sometimes Iwish I can play softball too.

“Home run!” the umpire declares. The boymakes a little winning dance. The opposing team exhales a defeatsound and throws the ball to the pitcher.

“Anyoung haseyo, Auntie Kate!” askinny teenage girl delivers first a traditional Korean bow andthen a traditional American smile, waving her home-made catchingglove. A little break in the game: the kids smile, nod, and wave tome. So cute.

“Are you from the Beat, Auntie Kate?” theumpire-cum-scorekeeper inquires. Fourteen-year old, he is probablythe oldest here and naturally in-charge of the entire show. “Do youneed something from the market? We can send a runner. Rightaway.”

We are not relatives. The Slum Rules aresuch that every woman of about my age is called ‘auntie’ by all thekids in the Block, and I must call them ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’. IfI was two or three years younger, they would call me ‘big sister.’And I must call ‘auntie’ every woman who is eight or ten yearsolder than me.

I smile to the kids andwave my gloved hand. “Anyoung! Thanks, I amOK.”

I have always marveled how polite theAmerasian kids are in here. To be honest, when I first came toHouston I had strong preconceptions about Asian slums. But Iquickly learned to appreciate this lifestyle and the Slum Rulestoo. It's easy to get used to good things. A city block in mynative Michigan differs from the Amerasian ‘Patches’ in Houstonslums not only by the absence of proper streets, the water-liftingwheel and the Buddhist shrine. In Detroit, an adult approaching ateenagers' game causes nothing but a wild-animal stare. And thewild stare is the best possible outcome. Let say, if it was me onmy skate, the conversation might go along very different path. Oh,who do we have here? A freaking legless vet! Hey, cripple, can weborrow your skate? We will return it. Maybe. And show us insideyour bag. And inside your pockets. Or you prefer a knife? Ofcourse, I would never give them my skate. Want to see inside mybag? And what do we have in here? Click! Surprise! I have a niceblade of my own. Come close, shit. I see you don't need no balls nomore… So the things might turn rather bloody – on both sides. Thekids in Detroit never play softball. Knife throwing (for distanceand accuracy) and setting abandoned buildings on fire (for extrawarmth and awesomeness) are two least violent street sportsup-North.

Leaving the softballplayers behind, I push my skate along the dirt path. The paths inour Patch-1 are wide, almost like roads. This place was builtimmediately after the Meltdown, at that time many believedthat the crisis was temporary. The gas would become cheap again,and the cars would return. After the following fourteen years, thegasoline did not get any cheaper, so the rusted frames of partiallydisassembled cars became storage shacks or chicken pens.

O-ops! And who is that oldlady, cunningly waiting under the communal kitchen shed? Naturally,this is my mother-in-law. Captain has the bridge! First Officer,punch the General Quarters, if you would! All to the battlestations. Comms, signal to the Space Fleet: detected by theopposing force at the traverse of Kitchen, engaging the opponent.Scotty, are you done with your Shield repairs? Get lasers and spacetorpedoes hot! For our USS Enterprise – surrender is not anoption.

Don't get me wrong. I am not at war with mymother-in-law. But she is a walking ultimatum, with energy of aCategory-5 hurricane and decisiveness of an attack submarinecommanding officer. She hates me because I am not ethnic Korean.She loves me because our hut looks Korean, and because I keep itmeticulously clean, exactly as a proper Korean wife is supposed todo. She pities me for my missing legs. She admires me for my medalsand my job in Police. She complains that I never ask her to help.She praises me for not complaining and doing everything myself. Allat the same time, and with Category-5 hurricane intensity. Mostimportantly, she wants to make sure that my husband and I consumeenough calories and right amount of protein every day.