SOMETHING TO EAT
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
Business had been slow that day. And the day before. And the seventeen days since Hoy Young had moved his fruit and vegetable store to this new area of the city. Customers came in from time to time, smiled, looked over the fruit and vegetables, checked the prices, turned and smiled at Hoy sitting on his high wooden stool in front of the cash register watching them walk out empty-handed.
Hoy couldn’t understand why people would not buy his things. They were good things, he saw to that himself, and his place was clean, goddamned clean he thought in frustration, and the prices were good too. Better than any place else in the neighbourhood. Everything was good. Except business.
And Hoy was always pleasant and polite with customers. His store wasn’t like one of those big supermarket chains where you looked after yourself. Hoy made a point of being friendly. He went out of his way to appeal to people. They appreciated that. They told him so. But just the same, the big chain stores were hurting him. He knew they would squeeze him and other small vendors like himself out of business sooner or later. In the meantime, he decided he should just try as hard as he could, and worry about the future later.
He sat then, keeping a close eye on the tables out front with the apples, bananas and oranges on them because kids would come by, sneak a piece of fruit or two then scatter down the street in too many different directions for Hoy to catch them. He had to watch even more carefully while they were in the store, though the sight of Hoy pulling a baseball bat out from under the cash register always sent them back out to the sidewalk.
There were a lot of people walking by. It was a lovely, warm day, everyone dressed in shorts, summer wear and sunglasses. Hoy saw people slowing, glancing in, but not stopping. With all his Chinese wisdom, he just couldn’t figure it out.
He was perfect Chinese, Hoy was. His nose was broad and his face was completely round. His hair was shiny black and well combed. He was a handsome man, short with a slight build, a friendly look about him, a kind, often jovial look that he was finding increasingly difficult to keep up.
A man slowed as he was passing, waved to Hoy, who waved back, a broad smile for the man who had been one of his first customers in this new location.
“Jimmy in, Mr. Young?”
A boy who Hoy recognized as one of Jimmy’s friends, poked his head in the door.
“No. He’s still at school.”
The boy was silent a moment. “When’ll he be back?”
Hoy looked at his watch. “Anytime now. What’s your name again?”
“Mike. Mike Scott,” the boy replied.
“Mike,” Hoy smiled. “Take an orange or an apple on your way out, Mike.”
“Sure, Mr. Young. Thanks. I should be going. Everybody’s waiting for me over at the park. We’ve got a game going. Tell Jimmy to meet me there, will you?”
“I will, son,” said Hoy. He felt pleased with himself talking to Jimmy’s friend. He gave a light sigh, got up off the stool and went to straighten some apples, then was turning some lettuces so they showed better when the bell over the door jingled. Wiping his hands on the apron he always wore, Hoy turned to wait on the customer.
It was a lady. She had on a bright dress and a light coat and dark sunglasses.
Hoy gave the woman a welcoming smile that wasn’t returned.
“Could I have a bag of carrots, three grapefruit and, oh, six tomatoes, please.”
“Certainly,” said Hoy
Hoy drew a brown paper bag from below the counter, went and picked out the items the woman had asked for. He returned to the counter, rang up a total on the cash register, but when he went to take the money from the lady he met something he never expected. He felt sick inside. Something began to spin in his head: anger and fear, but he did not know which was strongest.
The woman had a gun resting just out of her purse.
Hoy swallowed, even though his throat had gone dry. He clenched his fists.
“How much is in the till?” the woman asked Hoy.
“Forty, fifty maybe.”
“Give it to me,” the woman snapped, waving the gun.
Calmly, Hoy drew the money from the register and handed it to her. The palms of his hands were perspiring. His fingers stuck to the bills, but with a fast move the woman snatched the money, slipped it and the gun into her purse and snapped it shut.
“Don’t move, Chink, not an inch.” Hoy didn’t like being called that. Her saying that made him hate her.
She walked out of the store nonchalantly and disappeared into the passing crowd, leaving her groceries on the counter.
Hoy bolted out the door. He could see the woman’s coat ahead, moving hastily. He ran after her. She did not notice him coming up quickly behind her, lunging for her when he caught up to her, the two of them tumbling to the sidewalk—the woman screaming, wrestling with Hoy as he tried to get her purse, open it and retrieve his money.
A crowd of people quickly forming a circle around the struggle, the woman screamed fiercely, as if in agony. But it was far from that. She pounded and kicked Hoy with all her might as two men worked to pull him away. They were big, and not the type you expected to act with kindness. They hit Hoy hard in the stomach and over and over until he collapsed, groaning as the blows continued to fall.
The one doing the most punching and swearing was calling him “a Chink, a goddamned Chink,” while the woman lay sobbing on the sidewalk.
Hoy heard none of this though. He did not hear the big man talking, or the police questioning the woman who had been attacked. She was too upset, she said, to talk. The police made an effort to console her. They muttered something about headquarters, motioned the two big men holding Hoy as they shoved him into the back seat of the cruiser and slammed the door.
After helping the woman to her feet the one policeman asked her if she was all right. The woman nodded, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.
The other policeman took down the names of the two big men, the woman, and some other people who had witnessed the whole affair. He told the woman she might have to come to the station in order to file a witness statement.
One of the big men said that he would just see that the woman had a chance to clean herself up and then he would drive her to the station to do what was necessary.
The other policeman agreed to that, got into his patrol car and left. The woman went off with the other big man in his vehicle.
Suddenly there were all kinds of people in Hoy’s store . . .
Leah Harper is a fifteen year-old writer of literary fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She is at work on new stories, poems, and an autobiographical novel about her mother, a celebrated poet, and her father, a celebrated native rights lawyer, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances shortly after my twin sister and I were born, and who have never been found.
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