GraceWrites: How Not to Dicker for the Monkey King

During our visit to my mom's in Southern California, I told my sons, ages 12 and almost 9, that we'd visit Chinatown, a place they know only from books and Jackie Chan movies. I wanted them to taste real Chinese food and see people who look like their mother and grandmother, who they call Amah.

But first, we hit a couple local Oriental gift stores in search of hidden treasures.

The first store, although tiny, looked promising with all its Asian artifacts, statures of Chinese warlords, hand-carved figurines. I cautioned the boys with the usual warning: DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!

But my words, as usual, go unheeded.

The boys ooohed and ahhhed over each new item they encounter.

We were soon joined by the proprietor who magically appeared besides me. The man, sporting long black hair to the middle of his back, looked as if he had just walked off a low-budget kung-fu movie set. He wore a mandarin-collared blue jacket and black silk pants.

He asked me in Mandarin if I spoke Chinese. I responded with a tinge of regret: "Sorry, no."

He quickly assessed the situation: Get the boys, get the mom.

He zeroed in on Son No. 2, who glommed onto a 2-foot statue of the Monkey King. The proprietor grabbed an over-sized calculator and asked in English: "How much you pay?"

I begged off, saying rather demurely," No, no, just looking."

But what raged in my mind was this: "Are you kidding me??!!! I don't need anymore stuff in my house!"

The man punched a few keys and showed me the figure: $380.

I hissed at my boys: "DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!"

He took the arm of Son No. 2 and pulled him to a corner of the store, where he revealed with great flair -- a life-sized Monkey King.

I could see I was losing my son, who locked his hazel eyes on the glorious figure.

Smiling, the man punched a few more keys on his calculator: $3,800.

Panicked, I yelled at the boys: "DON'T LOOK AT THAT! DON'T BREATHE. BACK AWAY!"

Sensing my increasing distress, the man pondered for a few seconds and made a wait-I-just-remembered-something-spectacular motion. Again, he pulled Son No. 2's arm, this time to the front of the store, where he reached behind a large statue. Like a magician he pulled out a miniature Monkey King, a 12-inch figure.

Both boys now were lost. They ahhhhed at the same time.

Son No. 1 said, "Mom..."

The man grinned victoriously.

For a fleeting moment, I tasted defeat, but, no, I am my mother's daughter. I am the daughter of the wiliest barterer in the world, the woman whose limited English made an used car salesman weep pathetically. Really.

The man punched more numbers. This time: $120.

Son No. 2 blurted: "I have that in my bank!"

Sigh...He is his mother's son. Inscrutable to the core.

I said firmly, "That's too much."

The man persisted. He pushed the calculator at me. "How much you pay?" he asked again.

I said, "No, no, the little one," pointing to Son No. 2.

I backed out the store. The man followed. "How much you pay?"

Just for fun, I told my son to punch in $20.

My son looked at me, puzzled. He knows his math. And $20 is not $120.

I whispered, "Put in $20."

He did.

The man looked at the number, straightened up and said, "No, no! Too little!" He herded my other son out of the store and made a shooing motion with his hands. "Go away! Go away!"

When we caught up with my mother and told her what had transpired, she said that the man also shooed her away. She had wanted a necklace priced at $30. She had offered $10. He told her he had paid $15 for it, but would let her have it for $20. This way, he said, he'd make $5 on the deal. Mom said, "I'll give you $10."

The man shooed her away too.

My boys laughed at the thought of anyone shooing their Amah away.

Epilogue: Son No. 1 actually bought a Monkey King, the one pictured, in Chinatown. He paid a grand total of $15. And he didn't even have to barter.