Quinn – Minna Hong

Plaster of Paris; chapter fourteen, part one

Posted on June 25, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

I wake the next morning, Friday, feeling particularly refreshed. I did not wake up screaming from a nightmare, nor did Lyle have to wake me up. I am downright cheerful on my walk to work. I have put on a green blouse and white slacks because I feel so good. I even whistle a bit as I walk. The weather is sunny with no wind for a change, so it seems as if even the heavens are smiling on me today. At work, nobody is overtly friendly towards me, but no one pointedly ignores me, either. I pour myself a cup of coffee before sitting down at my desk. I drape my jacket on the coat rack, then power on my computer. I like to execute the same movements every morning as my own little ritual. I have emails from my sister and from Vashti as well as a voice mail message from Vashti. There is nothing from Ursula, however, which surprises me a bit. I decide to try to call her again during my lunch break. I read the email from Libby.

Rayne, thank you again for the advice. I appreciate your unique point of view. Really, I do. It’s so hard to do the right thing sometimes, isn’t it? I know I love Wallace; I just wish I loved him more. I haven’t made a decision yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.

“Hey, Rayne!” Jamal grins at me as he bounces around. I am glad that he’s gotten over being mad at me as he’s my favorite kid. He is munching a Snickers bar, and it’s probably not his first this morning. “How’s your homey?”

“He’s awake, Jamal,” I say, grinning in return. “He’s going to be just fine.”

“That’s great,” Jamal says softly, standing still for a minute. He’s lost his grin, and there’s something wistful in his eyes. “You lucky, you know?” He waves at me with the Snickers before disappearing up the stairs. I watch him fondly before turning back to my computer. I’m immersed in my work for the rest of the morning.

“Hey, Rayne!” Quinn McGowan, my coworker who used to be a quasi-friend until she started avoiding me like the plague because of the rash of murders I’ve been involved in. She interrupts me just as I’m about to take my lunch break.

“Hey, Quinn,” I say pleasantly. Even though she’s a basket case with more than a few issues, she’s still attractive. Five-feet two with generous curves, pure green eyes and glossy dark brown hair cut pixie-style, she dresses to accentuate her positives. Today she’s wearing a tight green sweater that matches her eyes and a short black skirt. I’m cautious, however, as the last time she talked to me it was because she wanted me to have a threesome with her and her boyfriend. “What’s up?”

Rainbow Connection; chapter twelve, part one

Posted on January 28, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

The next morning, I awake with a start. I impulsively call out to my mother before remembering that she had returned home the night before after delivering the edict that I was to call her if anything untoward happens. I had retorted that everything in my life these days was untoward so I would be calling her continuously. This morning, I awake with my heart pounding. I had another one of those nightmares where I can’t remember anything that happened, but I can still feel the aftermath. I stumble out of bed to get ready for work, feeling less enthusiastic about it than usual. I start thinking about changing my job. I’m almost thirty and have been a receptionist at one place or another since I graduated from college. Now, it’s fine to be a receptionist at my age if in your spare time, you’re a struggling writer or painter or musician, but not if you’re just a lazy ass who has no direction in life.

I used to derive some satisfaction for a job well done, but no longer. Each day is excruciatingly long, and my coworkers are really getting on my nerves. I see the director of the agency sit on his fat ass all day long, doing nothing more important that decide where to go for lunch. My immediate boss works hard, but she only puts in five to six hours a day. Of course, Alicia, the wonder counselor strolls into work late and is among the first to leave. It bothers me that I’m the hardest working person in the place. I know that nobody is getting paid much money, but supposedly, we’re working for a greater cause. Some of the counselors and teachers have been there for years doing the same thing year after year, sliding by. In some ways, it’s a cushy job without much pressure to improve on performance. There are no concrete objectives other than to graduate kids out of the program, which is subjectively decided, anyway. If it weren’t for the kids, I’d find the job intolerable.

I sigh. The idea of scouring the classifieds or surfing mega-job sites depresses me. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t quit my job—inertia. As frustrating as my current position is, it’s the poison I know. There’s no guarantee that a new job will be free of the corrosive office politics found at my current place of employment. Most days, this argument is enough to keep me, not happy, but complacent. I trudge to work, hunkered inside my coat. I hate San Francisco weather, though the Mission is better than the rest of the truly windy city. Other people scurry by, grim looks on their faces. San Francisco is more laid-back than NYC, but it’s slowly growing more uptight. Another reason I like the Mission—it still retains some residual funk. One such funkster holds his hand out to me, boldly staring in my eyes.

“You are truly a vision of beauty,” he beams, his dark brown eyes glowing. His frame is gaunt with his walnut-colored skin stretched tightly over his bones, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. I have a bagel in one hand, a cup of untouched coffee in the other. I thrust both at him, and he doffs his hat at me before accepting. “God will show mercy on your soul, beautiful lady,” he laughs, taking a bite out of the onion bagel smeared with cream cheese. He closes his eyes in delight as he washes down the bite with a sip of coffee. I hurry away, not wanting to be the target of his fulsome praise. I make it to work with a minute to spare.

“Did you read this?” Quinn asks, tossing the Chronicle on my desk. She hasn’t darkened my foyer since her futile attempt to procure me as a present for her ‘roommate’ but appears determined to make up for lost time. I glance at the front page, disconcerted to see Mariah’s face splashed across it.

“Second-generation Death,” the headline runs. I frown. They really need better headlines to grab people’s attention. Although, the picture of a dead Mariah clutching a rosary is more than enough to turn my stomach. I skim the beginning of the article which seems to be asking the question if death can run in a family, much like blue eyes or fat stomachs. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. There’s nothing new in the article, and it’s clear they are just capitalizing on the tragedy. I’m about to toss the paper back at Quinn when something else catches my eye—a sidebar interviewing Carol. She offers her condolences but takes pains to add that she thinks the latest death indicates there is absolutely no connection between the therapy group and the murders. She goes on in this vein for some time before sliding in the obligatory mention of her book. My mouth tightens. I can’t believe she’s done it again.

“It’s that maid’s daughter,” Quinn explains, her eyes round. I snap back to the present, pushing Carol’s comments to the back of my mind. I make a note to myself to ask Carol about the article at the next meeting and not to let her off the hook. Then I let it go. “Remember I told you about my friend who was blackmailed by that maid!” I vaguely remember the story. I wonder if Quinn has any more useful information.

Rainbow Connection; chapter eight, part one

Posted on December 24, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“It’s about time, girl!” Paris coos into the phone. “I was getting performance anxiety waiting for you to call.”

“Don’t flip out on me,” I caution him as I walk to the well-lit corner of the street.

“What? Oh my god, you’re hurt!” Paris screeches theatrically. He only turns on the camp when it’s the two of us as it is now. “Miss Thing is probably walking as we speak, ignoring what Sister Paris done told her.”

“Paris, I need you to pick me up.” I read him my street coordinates, not in any mood to joke. “Please hurry.”

“I’ll be right there.” Paris drops the act and clicks off the phone. As I wait for him, I keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. I’m afraid the car will come back to try to finish the job, but nothing happens. I’m able to relax by the time Paris comes barreling down the street towards me in his black Honda Accord.

“Hey,” I say as I drag myself into the car. I feel as if it ought to be three in the morning rather than nine-fifteen at night.

Of course, Paris wants to know what happened. I ask where Lyle is and am informed that he’s waiting at the apartment because Paris wanted alone time with me. He still hasn’t started the car, and I know he won’t move until I give him an explanation. I take several breaths before blurting out that someone tried to run me over. I quickly amend the statement, saying that perhaps the person was merely trying to scare me. Paris, who had started to pull away from the curb as soon as he saw I was going to speak, nearly runs into a lamppost. I implore him to keep his eyes on the road while I tell him my pitiful saga. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Why is someone trying to run me over? It’s not like the last time when I actively took a part in the investigation. I’m trying to keep out of this investigation, but am being targeted just the same—first by the cops, then by the murderer, if that is who tried to run me over.

Rainbow Connection; chapter seven, part one

Posted on December 17, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

The next Tuesday, I am on edge all day. I snap at everyone at work, and no one knows why. I have yet to tell anyone at work about my involvement in the therapy group because I don’t want to be the object of more pity or worse, suspicion. Quinn hangs around me looking like a lost puppy, but I pay her no mind. She’s past getting on my last nerve, and I don’t want her around. She is slow to take the hint, though, as it seems she’s used to being ignored or abused. Unfortunately, the more I ignore her, the more she tries to get my attention. I wonder why she’s so persistent about pursuing me when we are obviously such different people. I surmise it’s the thrill of the chase and leave it at that.

“Rayne! Pay attention to me!” Quinn hits the top of my monitor after fruitlessly trying to get my attention for the past fifteen minutes.

“Quinn, I’m trying to work.” I am a bundle of nerves waiting for group. The police haven’t found much concerning the new case. Rosie didn’t have a boyfriend, nor was there any strange man in her life who might have wanted to do away with her. Her surviving child appeared broken up about losing her, but looks can be deceiving. I read every bit of information I can about the murder because I desperately want the murder to have nothing to do with the group. I just can’t be involved in another investigation.

The other thing that disturbs me is that Carol was on television again speaking about the newest case. She did the rounds and declaimed the possibility that the murders had anything to do with the therapy group. She looked professional and serious and in control. I can’t shake the feeling that she is using a tragic situation for her own means. She isn’t crude about it, but she makes sure to mention her upcoming book during every show she’s on as well as the clinic. It makes me queasy to think that she will benefit from the deaths of two women even though I know it’s the American way. I have wavered back and forth about whether to attend the group tonight. I have a feeling it’ll be more upsetting than healing, but I want to know what the other women think about the murders and Carol’s behavior. If I am honest with myself, I also want to see Maria again.

“Rayne!” Quinn whacks me on the back which I find annoying beyond belief.

“Quinn, please. Not today.” I fight the impulse to slap her, but just barely.

“Then when?” Quinn is pouting again. My head starts thumping; I just want to get rid of her, so I acquiesce.

“Tomorrow. We’ll have a drink after work.”

“Great!” Instantly, Quinn’s face is wreathed in smiles as she bounces away. I suppose one night with her isn’t too much to ask for momentary peace. Zing! My sister has emailed me, much to my dismay.

Rainbow Connection; chapter two, part three

Posted on November 14, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Rayne, it’s me, Vashti.” The sound of her voice sends contradicting emotions through my body. As much as she hurt me, she still has a pull over me. My attraction to her hasn’t waned; I’m just more cautious about acting on it. I think of her beautiful dark skin, hair and eyes, her full lips and the thin gold hoop through her right nostril. Her lush curves. I banish these images with difficulty and listen to her gorgeous voice which never fails to make me shiver. “I know I have been making a pest of myself, but I can’t help it. You are having every right to be upset with me—I am upset with myself. I am wishing we can talk privately tomorrow so I can at least try to make things better.” She pauses as her voice breaks. She steadies it and continues. “You are very important to me. I will be very sad if we can’t at least be friends. But I understand. I’m sorry. I do not know how many times I can say it, but it will never be enough. See you tomorrow.”

I sit motionlessly long after the click. This is the first time I’ve heard a whole message from her as I erase them as soon as I hear her voice. The regret and pain in her voice shake me. I had created this fantasy that she had withheld information from me intentionally because she cared more about the person she was trying to protect than she did me. I needed to tell myself that in order to harden my heart against her—I needed that in order to not be stuck in the morass I found myself surrounded by. After listening to her message, however, I can’t fool myself into believing that she meant me malicious harm when she lied to me. I can’t even convince myself that she knew the other person was dangerous. Being the person she is, Vashti tried to protect someone out of the misguided goodness of her heart. She was the victim of an error in judgment—no more, no less. That doesn’t mean I’ll trust her again, but at least I can begin letting go of the anger I am nursing against her.

I finish making the cookies. I have ten dozen when I’m done, including the plate I gave to Paris. I set aside fifty for the girls, which leaves fifty (after the twenty I’d already taken out for Lyle) for Paris and me. To be more precise, forty for Paris and ten for me. That’s the ratio between us—four to one. I clean up the dishes—another gift from my mother. She is lax in many ways, but she always cleans up right after baking. She insists it’s integral to her mental well-being not to have dirty dishes sitting in her sink. While I don’t mind letting dishes sit for a day or two, I really do feel better if I wash them right after using them. Once the dishes are done, I go to the living room and flick on the television. There is a college basketball game on, Florida versus Syracuse. I’m not much for sports, but I do enjoy college hoops. Not as much since kids are jumping to the NBA so early these days thereby decimating the college game, but I’ll watch a game when the mood hits me.

The game isn’t that interesting because Florida is thumping Syracuse. There should be a mercy rule as there is in softball. I switch to Comedy Central which is having a marathon, a show I think is funny as hell. Although they killed off my favorite character, Kenny, for good, and my favorite character from the movie, ‘the Mole’ died in the movie as well. I’ll never forgive them for that, even if they did bring Kenny back. I often thought if I ever had a kid, he would turn out to be like the Mole. Bitter, cynical, brilliant, undercover guerilla. More likely, the kid would be a staunch conservative who emulated Bush Senior and wore three-piece suits to school. A kid like Libby. If there is a god, she will end up with a kid like me. I will laugh if that happens. I can’t see Libby as a mother—she is so uptight and exacting. If she has her way, her kid would eat, sleep, and shit on a schedule. The kid would be painfully neat and not have an original thought of his own. Then when he turned fifteen, he’d kill thirteen kids in his school before turning the gun on himself. ‘He was such a quiet and nice boy,’ the neighbors would say, stunned that he could do such a thing. Libby would be devastated and have to be heavily sedated.

South Park is showing one of my favorite episodes, the lesbian teacher episode. Some of the dykes I know were outraged by the episode, but I think it’s hysterical to hear these little kids talk about ‘munching carpet’ and listening to the Indigo Girls in an attempt to be lesbians. I think what I like so much about the show is that it truly captures how little kids think. Like this episode. It’s so obvious to adults that lesbians are women, but the boys don’t know that, so they think they can become lesbians by doing certain acts, listening to certain music and wearing certain clothes. Logical thinking if you don’t know that a lesbian is a woman. I become immerse in the episode, relieved to not be thinking again. Eric Cartman is the perfect antidote for depression.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter six, part two

Posted on August 20, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

My parents would try to make it better by buying me little treats or whispering in my ear how special I was in my own way. My father would take me for walks, just the two of us, holding my hand so I wouldn’t get lost. We’d stop off in Chinatown to buy some special dumplings or pastries filled with barbecued pork or red beans or whatever. My absolute favorite were the buns filled with a sweet custard. My dad would buy two and let me eat them all by myself. He never said a word about saving one for my sister or my mother. He would buy two, along with a bottle of sweetened soy milk, hand me a bun and the bottle while he held the other. When I was done with the first bun, he would hand me the second and smile in pleasure as I gobbled it up. I invariably ended up with a stomachache after finishing the two buns plus the bottle of milk, but it was worth it. We’d walk home with bags bulging with food, but no custard-filled buns. Those were mine alone, and I dearly loved my father for making that treat exclusively mine. It didn’t take away the sting of my sister’s beauty, but it helped mitigate it.

I grimace as I think of him. Even though it’s been nine years, I still ache to see him again. He was my confidante as well as my father, and he listened to me better than anyone else ever had. He would look at me, focusing his entire attention on what I was saying. No television, no radio, nothing to distract him. Sometimes, if a problem was especially tough, we’d hop a bus to Chinatown and buy some buns. Strolling through the heart of Chinatown, we’d eat, drink soy milk, and talk about my problems. I spoke mostly Taiwanese with my father, as he preferred it that way. My father was patient and wise, telling me exactly what I needed to hear. It may not have been what I wanted to hear, but it was invariably what I needed to know. He never pulled punches with me or tried to sugarcoat the truth, for which I was grateful. I knew that if my father said something, he meant it. I appreciated that quality about him.

“Rayne! I need ten copies of this yesterday!” Alicia tosses a pile of papers on my desk, a scowl creasing her fat features. Everything about her is round from the bun of gray hair on her head to her cheeks to her body. Her cheeks are so fat, they push her eyes into slits. I look away as she has a morsel of tuna melt clinging to her lower lip. I briefly entertain fantasies of telling Alicia off, but I tamp down the irritation. I know much of it is residual from Libby’s emails, so I try to let it go.

“Not a problem,” I say, standing with documents in hand. I walk over to the copier and punch the proper buttons. It collates and staples for me before I can even whistle a happy tune. I detour to Alicia’s office and drop it on her desk. She just grunts at me before turning back to her work.

“How are the invoices coming along?” Sandra, my supervisor, is at my desk when I reappear. “There were a couple last week that you were late on.” Because the counselors didn’t get them to me until after the deadline, I want to say, but hold my tongue. Sandra doesn’t like excuses.

“It won’t happen again,” I shrug, but don’t apologize. I have already decided that I’ll email Alicia once a week for the invoices, saving a copy in my send folder, which is known as covering my ass. She’ll hate me for it, but I don’t care. I don’t like being chided for something that isn’t my fault.

“Good.” Sandra nods before returning to her desk. Since her desk is in the room just off the ‘foyer’, I can see her firing up a movie on her computer. I can only assume the director is doing the same. I do a slow burn, but manage to keep my mouth shut. I work on the invoices for the next couple hours, making sure everything is up-to-date.

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