The Joy Luck Club

"Listen, June, I don't know how to tell you this. That stuff you wrote, well, the firm decided it was unacceptable. "

"You're lying. You said it was great. "

Waverly sighed again. "I know I did. I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I was trying to see if we could fix it somehow. But it won't work. "

And just like that, I was starting to flail, tossed without warning into deep water, drowning and desperate. "Most copy needs fine-tuning, " I said. "It's…normal not to be perfect the first time. I should have explained the process better. "

"June, I really don't think…"

"Rewrites are free. I'm just as concerned about making it perfect as you are. "

Waverly acted as if she didn't even hear me. "I'm trying to convince them to at least pay you for some of your time. I know you put a lot of work into it…I owe you at least that for even suggesting you do it. "

"Just tell me what they want changed. I'll call you next week so we can go over it, line by line. "

"June-I can't, " Waverly said with cool finality. "It's just not…sophisticated. I'm sure what you write for your other clients is wonderful. But we're a big firm. We need somebody who understands that…our style. " She said this touching her hand to her chest, as if she were referring to her style.

Then she laughed in a lighthearted way. "I mean, really, June. " And then she started speaking in a deep television-announcer voice: "Three benefits, three needs, three reasons to buy…Satisfaction guaranteed…for today's and tomorrow's tax needs…"

She said this in such a funny way that everybody thought it was a good joke and laughed. And then, to make matters worse, I heard my mother saying to Waverly: "True, cannot teach style. June not sophisticate like you. Must be born this way. "

I was surprised at myself, how humiliated I felt. I had been outsmarted by Waverly once again, and now betrayed by my own mother. I was smiling so hard my lower lip was twitching from the strain. I tried to find something else to concentrate on, and I remember picking up my plate, and then Mr. Chong's, as if I were clearing the table, and seeing so sharply through my tears the chips on the edges of these old plates, wondering why my mother didn't use the new set I had bought her five years ago.

The table was littered with crab carcasses. Waverly and Rich lit cigarettes and put a crab shell between them for an ashtray. Shoshana had wandered over to the piano and was banging notes out with a crab claw in each hand. Mr. Chong, who had grown totally deaf over the years, watched Shoshana and applauded: "Bravo! Bravo! " And except for his strange shouts, nobody said a word. My mother went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of oranges sliced into wedges. My father poked at the remnants of his crab. Vincent cleared his throat, twice, and then patted Lisa's hand.

It was Auntie Lindo who finally spoke: "Waverly, you let her try again. You make her do too fast first time. Of course she cannot get it right. "

I could hear my mother eating an orange slice. She was the only person I knew who crunched oranges, making it sound as if she were eating crisp apples instead. The sound of it was worse than gnashing teeth.

"Good one take time, " continued Auntie Lindo, nodding her head in agreement with herself.

"Put in lotta action, " advised Uncle Tin. "Lotta action, boy, that's what I like. Hey, that's all you need, make it right. "

"Probably not, " I said, and smiled before carrying the plates to the sink.

That was the night, in the kitchen, that I realized I was no better than who I was. I was a copywriter. I worked for a small ad agency. I promised every new client, "We can provide the sizzle for the meat. " The sizzle always boiled down to "Three Benefits, Three Needs, Three Reasons to Buy. " The meat was always coaxial cable, T-1 multiplexers, protocol converters, and the like. I was very good at what I did, succeeding at something small like that.

I turned on the water to wash the dishes. And I no longer felt angry at Waverly. I felt tired and foolish, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind and discover there was no one there.

I picked up my mother's plate, the one she had carried into the kitchen at the start of the dinner. The crab was untouched. I lifted the shell and smelled the crab. Maybe it was because I didn't like crab in the first place. I couldn't tell what was wrong with it.

After everybody left, my mother joined me in the kitchen. I was putting dishes away. She put water on for more tea and sat down at the small kitchen table. I waited for her to chastise me.

"Good dinner, Ma, " I said politely.

"Not so good, " she said, jabbing at her mouth with a toothpick.

"What happened to your crab? Why'd you throw it away? "

"Not so good, " she said again. "That crab die. Even a beggar don't want it. "

"How could you tell? I didn't smell anything wrong. "

"Can tell even before cook! " She was standing now, looking out the kitchen window into the night. "I shake that crab before cook. His legs-droopy. His mouth-wide open, already like a dead person. "

"Why'd you cook it if you knew it was already dead? "