Kiko and Kevin


Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko start to make a new friend among the bikes of delivery guys. Again, I’m self conscious about dialog, and I’m trying broken English, so let me know if it sounds like a minstrel show. There’s more the pipeline, though if I don’t start getting some feedback… And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

Kevin stood up and introduced himself by the restaurant he worked for, “For-King Path Garden,” he said pointing to himself and, vaguely, his bike, “Kay-vin. I like ride, not cook,” he said with a chopping and stirring motion below a face of sneering disgust that reminded Kiko of the face his little brother “Paco el Guero” had made the first time he had seen a pig slaughtered.

Wary of his new friend Kiko admitted he’d rather ride than be the restaurant’s slave: “oh, pinche cut, fucking clean, pinche, fry patatas and fucking boil: siempre-always- food sin sabor-no flavor. I only like outside. Mejor que I ride bike snow than open cans and boil noodles with no flavor,” he said excitedly, having finally found someone from his tribe.

“Ye-ah, cook like work in hole, deep hole with hot,” Kevin continued the narrative seamlessly in another accent. “Coal mine grease under Mulberry street,” remembering his father’s job in China and connecting it to the restaurant with the terracotta façade owned by the Hong Kong college boy’s parents. “Boss no work, almost no pay too,” airing finally his biggest resentment.


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