Pag.250
COMING TO
AMERICA
Los Angeles International
Airport was extremely crowded and very noisy, even by Hong Kong
standards. I had never been around this many foreigners in my life—that is
to say, Americans. I had to remember to start thinking of myself as the
foreigner!
It was very unnerving,
being on my own in a place where I didn’t know a soul and had no knowledge of
the language. Of course, I’d been in the same situation in Australia—but
at least I’d known my parents were going to be there to meet me. Here, in
America, I truly was on my own.
Willie had told me that a
Golden Harvest representative would come to meet me at the airport—an overseas
Chinese guy named David Chan. (He wasn’t related to Willie or to me. I know, it
seems strange, but Chan is a very common Chinese name.) I looked around,
pausing to examine the occasional Asian face for signs of recognition, but no
one approached me. Finally, I walked out toward the concourse on my
own.
Just as I was beginning to
think I’d been abandoned in America, a breathless voice shouted out, “Mr. Chan!” in
Chinese. I turned and saw a man about my age, dressed in jeans and a
sports shirt, holding a cardboard sign that said my name—Sing Lung.
“I’m sorry, I thought you’d
be at the baggage claim,” said the young man, who I assumed was David.
“I don’t really have any
bags,” I said. “I’ve been traveling around—I guess I packed light.”
David nodded and
smiled. “Well, welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Chan. I’ll be driving you to
your hotel. You’ll be staying at the Westwood Marquis; it should be very
comfortable.”
I had no idea what the “Westwood
Marquis” was, and so I tried to memorize the syllables, in case I needed to ask
directions in the future. Of course, I wouldn’t understand the directions
anyway, so what was the use?
The prospect of being in
America was starting to look a little less rosy.
In the car on the way to
the hotel, David chatted on about my films, all of which he’d seen. “I’m
actually a big fan, Mr. Chan,” he said. “Drunken Master is one of
my favorites. I’d show you my own drunken style, but you know, I’m driving. We
could get arrested.” David laughed at his own joke. “Seriously, Mr.
Chan—”
“Call
me Jackie, David,” I said. “We’re the same age; you’re making me feel old.”
“Sorry,
Mr. Chan. I mean, Jackie. I was just saying, I saw the script they’ve written
for your debut, and it looks pretty good,” he said. “And they’ve hired the
director and producer from Enter the Dragon. Top of the line all the
way. I’m sure it’ll be a big hit.”
I
winced. Although I was sure it was well intentioned, the idea of once
again stepping into Bruce Lee’s footprints was a little troubling.
“Here
we are, Jackie,” said David, pulling the car into the driveway and signaling
the valet. “I’ll check you in. You’ll get to meet the rest of the L.A. staff
tomorrow. In the meantime, you can get some rest.”
I
got my bag out of the trunk and walked into the lobby of the Westwood Marquis,
my home away from home while I embarked on my conquest of America.
It
was exciting, of course.
But
I found myself wondering what time it was in Hong Kong.
The
next morning, I woke up late—around 11 A.M. I was hungry, and my very first
thought was to get some breakfast.
Luckily,
Willie had taught me exactly what to say if I wanted to order in a restaurant—a
real American breakfast. “Eggs, bacon, milk, and toast,” he’d said,
repeating each word with me until he was confident I’d gotten my pronunciation
correct.
I
threw on some clothes and took the elevator down to the lobby coffee
shop. I noticed that people in Los Angeles smiled a lot, so I simply
smiled back at them. When the woman at the front asked me a question in
English, I just nodded, and she took me to a table. So far, I was doing just
fine.
Soon
a waitress came over, a pretty blond woman in a pink outfit. She said some
things in English that I assumed was a question about my order.
I
responded with a grin: “Eggs, bacon, milk, and toast.”
The
woman returned my smile, and wrote down the order. Then, unexpectedly, she
asked me another question. (Later, David explained that she was probably
asking me how I wanted my eggs. I hadn’t realized that there were so many
different options. I figured they’d just bring me fried eggs, which was what I
imagined Westerners ate for breakfast.)
At
the time, I was puzzled; had she misunderstood my order? So I
repeated it, very slowly: “Eggs, bacon, milk, and toast.”
She
blinked at me in confusion, and repeated her question.
I
was beginning to sweat! Not knowing what else to say, I just repeated my
order one more time. “Eggs, bacon, milk, and toast.”
For
some reason, the waitress seemed annoyed and walked away.
Maybe she thought I was
making fun of her, or maybe she thought I was stupid. I couldn’t tell. All
I knew was that I wasn’t hungry any longer. I pulled out my wallet,
counted five dollars in American money, and left it on the table as a
tip.
It was going to be a long
day.
My troubles continued when
I went back into the lobby. A bellboy came up to me and said something very
fast, pointing toward the front desk. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I
went over to the desk anyway. The lobby clerk smiled at me—everyone was
smiling, but I was beginning to run out of smiles—and handed me a slip of
paper.
It had a message on it,
written in English. The only words I recognized were my name, at the top,
and David’s name, at the bottom. The gibberish between the two names was
just a bunch of letters.
I groaned, and decided I
had to get some help.
“Hello, Willie?” I said
hesitantly, when the international call went through.
“Oh my, Jackie, what is it?” There
was a fumbling noise, as Willie put on his glasses and looked at his
clock. “Do you know it’s after midnight here? I’m still jet-lagged from
the plane. I’ve been asleep. I hope it’s something important.”
I gulped, and then burst
into an explanation of my situation, apologizing for waking him up. After
he heard my story, he was sympathetic as usual. “Jackie, I feel terrible
for you, but you’re not going to be able to make a transpacific call every time
you need a translation!” he said. “I know it’s difficult, but you’re
going to have to take English lessons. Leonard has arranged for a good Chinese
tutor to take you on. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Now, spell out the message
for me and I’ll tell you what it says.”
Luckily, the message wasn’t
very long: it told me to meet David in the lobby at 7 P.M. for dinner.
“Oh no,” I said. “Seven o’clock!”
“What’s wrong? Do
you have a previous engagement?”
“No, it’s just that I’m
starving,” I said. “If I have to wait until seven to eat, I’ll die. Willie,
please, if you’re my friend, tell me how to order lunch!”
We both broke up in
laughter.
I spent the next half hour
practicing the words in front of the bathroom mirror, until I was sure I had
them perfect. Then I went down to the restaurant and was shown right to the
table I’d abandoned. The waitress seemed surprised to see me, but was probably
quite happy about my tip.
Before she could say
anything, I quickly recited my order: “Burger. French fries. Coke.”
And this time, she smiled
and went off to bring me my food.
I had a lot of time before
I had to meet David, and I didn’t want to wander around and get lost. I
spent most of my time watching TV, which was much better in the U.S. than it
was in Hong Kong. The production values on American television shows
were better than on Hong Kong feature films!
I probably learned more
from television while I was in the States than from anything else. I’m not
sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s true.
That evening, I met David,
and was introduced to his boss, Andre Morgan. Andre had started out as
Raymond Chow’s assistant in Hong Kong, and was eventually promoted all the way
up to the head of Golden Harvest’s international division. When he met me,
he greeted me in fluent Cantonese, which probably shouldn’t have surprised me,
since he’d worked with Raymond for twelve years! Still, it was amazing
hearing an American speak Chinese so well.
Andre told me more about
the film I’d be starring in, Battle Creek Brawl. It would be a
period film, set in the 1930s. My character would be a happy-go-lucky
young man, forbidden to use my kung fu by my father. But when mobsters
attack my father’s restaurant, I’d be forced to go into action, effortlessly
defeating three thugs all by myself. Impressed, the mob boss would recruit
me to be a contestant in an anything-goes fighting contest, held in a backwater
town called Battle Creek, Texas. The contest Andre assured me, would give
me a chance to display my skills, just as Han’s contest gave Bruce Lee a chance
to shine in Enter the Dragon. And the budget would be $4 million—tremendous,
by my standards; about HK$20 million.
“We think it’ll be big,”
said Andre. “We’ll do publicity, put you on talk shows, everything. You,
my friend, will be a star.”
“The next Bruce Lee?”
I said, a little sarcastically.
“Bigger, pal,” he said,
digging into his steak. “Bigger. Of course, you’ll have to do something
about your English. Unfortunately, you won’t have as much time for lessons as
we’d like; shooting begins in two weeks. Time to hit the books, Jackie!”
I stared at my food
glumly. Two weeks to learn an entirely new language! And I hadn’t
been in a classroom since I was twelve years old. “Eggs, bacon, milk, and
toast,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that, Jackie?” said
David.
“Nothing.”
So for the next week, I
spent my days going to a tutor, doing my best to squeeze the English language
into my head, and my evenings watching television.
It was a terrible
time. I still had no friends, and after a week of classes, my English
was not much better than it was when I’d arrived—although I made sure I learned
the right phrases to order food.
When the weekend came, I
decided I needed a break, and took a trip to the beach. David wrote down
the address of the hotel on a card for me, so I could show it to a
cabdriver if I had trouble getting back. He also suggested that I try
something new while I was down by the boardwalk—roller-skating, a skill I’d
have to know for Battle Creek Brawl. I wasn’t a very good skater,
but the script called for a scene in which I demonstrated my roller-skating
expertise. It made sense to practice as much as possible.
The sun was beating down
furiously by the time I got to the beach, and most of the people walking around
on the boardwalk were wearing very little clothing. It was eye-opening; Hong
Kong is a pretty sophisticated city, but in California, girls—and guys—wore
things in public that you wouldn’t even see at a gentleman’s club. There
were a lot of roller skaters, so I supposed I wouldn’t look out of place if I
strapped on my skates and joined them. Even if I wasn’t wearing a thong or
a string bikini.
I learn new things—physical
things, anyway—pretty quickly. I went from stumbling around to cruising
lightly up and down the boardwalk in a few hours, but it was definitely hot
work. Some of the other skaters were doing tricks, dancing and performing
acrobatic stunts to the beat of disco music, so I decided to sit down, get a
drink, and watch them for pointers.
I skated over to a
beachfront snack bar, wiggling my butt to the rhythm, and drawing some
appreciative laughs from passersby, then finished off with a flashy toe stop
that almost sent me spinning into the arms of a surprised young woman in sunglasses.
Unlike the other tanned, blond boardwalk denizens, this girl had dark hair and
pale skin, and she was fully clothed. In fact, she was Asian—and she
somehow seemed familiar.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said
to the girl, who seemed a little shaken up. “I shouldn’t be showing off in
such a crowded place, I guess.”
The girl looked up at me
and smiled. “That’s all right.”
It was then that I realized—I’d
spoken to her in Chinese, and she’d responded in Chinese! And then I realized
why she seemed so familiar, and I let go of her shoulders with a start.
The girl I’d happened to
bump into was Teresa Teng Li-jun, one of China’s most famous and beloved
singers! I hadn’t recognized her with sunglasses on and her hair pulled
back, but there was no mistaking her features.
“Teresa Teng!” I said,
sputtering and nearly falling back off my skates. “What are you doing here in
Los Angeles?”
She held a finger to her
lips and shushed me, looking around at the
“Please, let’s not make a scene!” she said. For a big star, she seemed
remarkably shy. On an impulse, I took her hand and pulled her away from
the snack bar, skating over to a bench facing the ocean. She let out a
giggle as I awkwardly dropped myself onto the seat, my skate-footed legs
sticking out in front of me, and then delicately sat down next to me.
“It’s nice to meet a fellow Chinese,” she said, shaking my hand before
letting it go. “I really don’t know anyone out here.”
“I don’t know anyone either,” I said. “Wow, I can’t believe I just ran
into you! I’m a big fan ....”
It was then that I noticed that she was staring at me strangely. I
self-consciously realized that I was sweaty, and that I probably looked like a
mess. “I, ah, I’ve been exercising—if I knew I was going to run into you,
I’d have taken a shower. Or, well, I guess there’s nowhere to take a shower
around here, but ...” I trailed off, afraid I was beginning to sound like
an idiot.
But she didn’t seem to be listening to my babbling. “Excuse me, are
you Jackie Chan?" she said.
My mouth dropped open. I don’t know why, but it was still a surprise
to me when someone recognized me. Especially an idol like Teresa. “You
know who I am?” I said.
She laughed. “Well ... I’m a big fan!” she said.
The situation was a little ridiculous—two Chinese stars who’d never met
each other in China, running into each other, literally, in the United
States. I started laughing too, and soon we were leaning on each other,
wiping the tears of hilarity from our eyes.
“We could exchange autographs,” I suggested. That set off another
round of laughter.
As crazy as the situation was, it was also almost perfect. Both of
our families were from Shandong in China. Both of us were strangers in Los
Angeles, trying to learn English. And we were living just minutes apart—me
in Westwood, she in Santa Monica.
We began getting together in the evenings to study, which led to nights
of dinner and dancing. We talked about our hopes and dreams, and about the
good things and bad things that came with success. I taught her how to
roller-skate; she gave me vocal lessons, after I’d confessed to her that
singing had always been my secret love.
All too soon, however, a week had gone by. It was time for me to leave for
San Antonio, to begin shooting my American debut. Teresa was leaving too,
heading for Taiwan and a return to her recording career. “I guess we’ve
both spent enough time on vacation,” she said philosophically, as we studied
together one last time. “It’s time to get back to work.”
“It was nice getting to know you,” I said.
Pag.256
She smiled, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Did you really have
to cross an entire ocean just to meet me?”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “It was worth it,” I said. “Will
I see you again?”
She squeezed back. “Come to Taiwan after you’re finished shooting
your movie,” she said. “I'll be waiting.”
Waiting for what? I thought. Were we
friends, or—well, more than friends?
I’d dated other girls since Oh Chang, but no one seriously. Teresa, with
her sweetness and generosity of spirit, was the first woman I’d met who made me
feel the kind of joy I felt when I was with my very first love.
And I’d never even had the nerve to try to kiss her!
I walked her to the door of my hotel room, wondering what I should
say. “Um ...”
She turned and looked at me. “Hmm?”
Suddenly, I was too embarrassed to tell her how I felt. I found
myself saying the first thing that came to mind: “Remember to practice your
English.”
She burst out laughing, as I cursed myself as an idiot. Then,
carefully and slowly, she said:
“Eggs, bacon, milk, and toast.”
And she leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips.
“See you in Taiwan,” she said. And then she was gone.
I grabbed my English text off my desk and threw it into the air.
Waaahooo!
Jc safadenho
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