A “Nail” in the Neighborhood

Waiting for his son who’d, gone “astray” to turn back again, that was, this elderly man’s, persistence, in being, a “nail” in the neighborhood, and, his son had, finally, turned back around, alas!  Translated…

The very first time I arrived at Uncle Buns’s home, he carried out that urine bag, smiled, and walked, toward me.  It was, a heated, summer afternoon, the water rumbling away from the steam basket on the stoves, and, the scent of freshly steamed traditional Chinese buns filled up the air.

Uncle Buns is a famous “nail” in the neighborhood, more than a decade ago, the builders bought the whole lot, and readied to build the tall buildings, Uncle Buns, in order to wait for the homecoming of his son who left, refused, to sell his share of the lot, he’d, dealt with the builders for years on end, and, in the end, there were, two twenty-story buildings that were built up, around his short home, and his home got, enclaved in-between, became, an odd sight in the, street of tourist attraction, and because the elderly man was ill, the windows and doors were, closed shut year-round, and, there would be, the rancid smells that came out of his house every now and then.

Uncle Buns was originally, almost dead, suddenly, he’d, come back to life again, and this was because, a barely noticeable thief went into his home, and, he’d not taken anything of value, and saw the buns on the tables, and, picked up a few that’s already, moldy.  And, as Uncle Buns woke, and wanted some food, and found that the only food he had was missing, he’d started, crying hard, it must’ve been his son, who loved the buns he’d made, who’d, snuck in.  Uncle Buns, he’d carried the hopes that his son will return again, got his zest back, started, taking out that dusty old steam basket, and started making the buns every day, he’d started, sweating day in and day out, just like, how it was when he’d sold of the buns he’d, made.  The originally foul smelling home now had, the aromatic scent of the dough from the steamed Chinese buns.

illustration from UDN.com

The weekly visits I’d made to his home, and Uncle Buns would always give me his, freshly steamed buns, and I’d heard him told and retold, of how his son loved his buns, and he’d started learning to make the buns from someone from his hometown from China, and he’d, used the money he’d earned from selling the buns, bought this place he lives in now; as his son was in his teens, he’d gotten involved with the wrong crowds, and, at one time when the two of them fought, he’d, left, and, was never heard of again.  And, started from that day onward, Uncle Buns started, selling his buns, and looked for his own son, until he was elderly, and wasn’t able to move around so easily, that was when he’d, stopped, going out and around, looking for his own son.

With the onset of Uncle Bun’s dementia, the original aromatic steamed buns started smelling burned, and several times, he’d, almost, caused the fires in his neighborhood, and the head of his borough advised that he shouldn’t be making the buns anymore, but he’d refused to listen, he said, that after his son came home from school, he’d, wanted to have some.

That day, I’d gone to visit Uncle Buns again, and the sound of the steam, not being contained by the steamer came from the stoves, but Uncle Buns wasn’t at home, I’d looked for him all over, and finally, found him, at the entrance of his street, looking flustered, he’d gone out for some soy sauce for his son to dip the buns in, but couldn’t, find his way, back home again.

I took him by the hand, walked him back to his short house, and, the light flickered on inside, and, there was a shadow of a man walking around, Uncle Buns picked up that bottle of soy sauce, with tears in his eyes, walked, into the house, trembling.

And so, this, is a father’s, waiting for his son who’d, gone astray, to come back home finally, and the man finally had, and that, was precisely why the elderly person REFUSED to sell his house, so the neighborhood can be, gentrified, and, this also showed, how many stories of “little people” are out there in the communities, waiting for us to hear, to listen, to find out about, and in this case, the story ended well, with the elderly man’s son, finally, come back home.