Merry Christmas

Henry moved into Old Gary's apartment.

As the saying goes, having an elder at home is like having a treasure. Even though Old Gary was only pushing sixty, just about retirement age, his greatest value lay in his family being old-school Hollywood people.

Not that they were some high-class director or actor dynasty, nor was his whole family entrenched behind the scenes in Hollywood with connections running every which way. But they lived close by, so naturally they'd seen a thing or two.

Besides, every cat has its path, every rat its route. Old Gary couldn't help with the high-and-mighty stuff, but when it came to the ins and outs of hustling in Hollywood, that bald little old man had a whole spiel.

...Well, true or false was another matter. It was like living at the foot of Shaolin Mountain—he could rattle off phrases like "old tree coils the root" or "black tiger steals the heart" and toss out plausible-sounding tips. His bluffing game was a solid ten out of ten, perfect for fooling half-baked young guys like Henry.

Anyway, Old Gary didn't mind chatting with people. And as long as you talked it over with him, he was pretty easygoing about small changes to the apartment.

The reason we were discussing it in the first place was mainly the cooking fumes from Chinese cuisine. American kitchen designs weren't built for frying fish or stir-frying.

And the Chinese restaurants in Los Angeles? Well, those who knew, knew.

Now that he had his own place, Henry couldn't help wanting to whip up some nostalgic hometown flavors. It had been twenty years since he'd last tasted that.

Besides, he could cook before he transmigrated, so there was no reason he'd lost the skill now—cooking wasn't something that depended on muscle memory.

Still, he remembered all those horror stories from overseas students posted online, vivid in his mind. Henry took a quick look and sure enough, every classic pitfall was there.

Things like smoke alarms and weak exhaust fans. If he didn't handle it right, a house full of cooking smells would be the least of his worries—the real nightmare would be triggering the alarm, setting off the sprinklers, and getting the fire department called in one smooth chain.

After getting the go-ahead, Henry immediately drove to the hardware superstore and bought all the materials and tools he needed.

Then he shut the door, pulled the curtains, and relying on his Kryptonian speed, banged and crashed his way through the renovation in no time.

He called Old Gary over to inspect the place, then cooked a meal for them to share. It was just a West Lake Vinegar Fish, a plate of authentic Sweet and Sour Pork, and a dish of Oyster Sauce Broccoli.

All the ingredients came from the local Chinatown, and with a bottle of Heineken beer in hand, the meal was ready.

"Merry Christmas," Henry said, raising his glass at the dining table he'd bought himself.

"Merry Christmas," Old Gary toasted back. Then he added, "I really didn't expect you to invite me to spend the holiday together. I was starting to wonder if you had a thing for my old ass, or if you were feeling itchy yourself. I gotta say up front, I'm not that kind of guy."

"Fuck you, Irishman. This is my first Christmas in Los Angeles. Don't think I won't beat you into a pulp and throw you out, even if you are my goddamn landlord."

Seeing the bald old man holding a chopstick in each hand like he was about to use them as a knife and fork, Henry just grabbed him a fork and spoon instead.

Old Gary speared a piece of Sweet and Sour Pork with the fork and said, "Eating Chinese food on Christmas—that's a first for me too."

Henry, meanwhile, filled a bowl of rice for himself and deftly used his chopsticks as he said, "I told you I was remodeling the kitchen because I wanted to cook Chinese food. You're the one who didn't believe me and said you'd have to verify the results, or else I'd have to change it back.

"Besides, it just so happens to be fucking Christmas. You said yourself that if I didn't invite you, you'd be spending it alone, listening to Christmas songs and watching a bunch of idiots on soap operas.

"If it weren't for the fact that I don't like owing favors or putting off promises, and that I happened to have something to ask you, you'd have to wait until I was in a good mood to get a meal like this."

"OK, calm down, kid." Old Gary looked at the bristling young man and said, "I only said that because I thought you'd pack it in a container and offer me a taste. I didn't think you'd invite me in. Is that how you do things in Alaska?"

Realizing his behavior wasn't very American either, Henry pretended not to be embarrassed and said, "Alright, I'll keep that in mind. I just thought lovers were for Christmas Eve, and today, Christmas, was for family. Doesn't your son come to see you on a day like this?"

"Probably not until my funeral. Then him and his kind-hearted mother will show up, happy to collect my inheritance."

"Hmm, should I congratulate you on the divorce, or say I'm sorry your former family treats you like that?"

"Kid, don't say anything. Let me keep a little bit of good mood." Old Gary said meaningfully, then took a bite of the Sweet and Sour Pork. He exclaimed in surprise, "No wonder you wanted to cook Chinese food. The flavor's really good."

"Right?" Henry said smugly.

"You said earlier you had something to ask me. Go ahead." Old Gary said this while eating a mouthful of rice, a bite of food, and a swig of beer, digging in earnestly.

After Old Gary finished one can of beer, Henry immediately handed him another and asked, "I heard from Fabio that your grandfather carried a camera for Chaplin. Is that true or not?"

"Fuck, of course it's true. Truer than the queen's virginity. I've got a group photo at home of my grandfather, Mr. Chaplin, and some others after they finished filming. I think it was from The Kid in '21. Want me to go get it and show you?"

A little tipsy, Old Gary had lost some of his sleazy edge and was dropping f-bombs left and right, temporarily reverting to the way a regular old white man talked.

He went on, savoring the memory, "It's not just my grandfather who worked with Mr. Chaplin. My father, after the war, left the army and spent a good long time working at one of the eight major film studios in Hollywood. He was behind the scenes too, but he got to know plenty of big shots."

"And what about you? Did you ever make it in Hollywood?"

At that, Old Gary puffed up with pride. "Hah, you wouldn't believe it—I was in the Prop Department. I even did carpentry work with Harrison Ford.

"Then that bastard got picked by that blind fool George Lucas to play Han Solo, leaving me, the future star, in the dust. Pissed off, I decided to quit, came back to manage this building, and rent out rooms to whoever needs them."

What was this? A real-life version of "I couldn't become a big star, so I had to go home and inherit millions"?

A whole building!

Six floors total. Don't let the low number fool you—ten units per floor, each nearly eighty square meters. One person could live in it, a small family too, so some were rented solo, others shared.

The first floor was leased out as storefronts—a convenience store, a laundromat. The rest was where Old Gary lived himself.

With assets like that, Henry would never believe it came from working behind the scenes in Hollywood.

But this Kryptonian wasn't here to dig up roots. Henry changed tack and probed, "So, that means you know all the ins and outs of Hollywood pretty well, huh?"

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations—thank you~