Chapter Six: Tidying Up the Shop

Ariel? Coffin definitely wouldn't stay for a bowl of beef ramen. Nor did Qiu Fengyu intend to invite her; after all, Coffin had just given that young man a stern lesson, making him obediently scrape the chewing gum off the wall, which left Qiu Fengyu feeling quite disgusted.

Seeing that Qiu Fengyu had no intention of continuing their conversation, Coffin prepared to leave. But after a few steps, she stopped, turned back to him with a smile, and asked, "Did you masturbate last night?"

"What? No, absolutely not!" Qiu Fengyu was startled and instinctively denied it.

"You've got something nasty on your pants."

"Ah, impossible, I definitely wasn't wearing..." Qiu Fengyu hurriedly looked down, but halfway through his retort, he abruptly stopped, swallowing the rest of his words.

Damn it, women are all wicked.

Ariel Coffin burst out laughing and strode off without so much as a backward glance.

Qiu Fengyu scratched his head, feeling rather bored, so he went back inside to cook himself another bowl of noodles. Now, these noodles would be proper noodles, at least with decent seasoning. He really didn't care for the stuff Americans ate; their appetites were outrageous, fattening themselves up on food fit for pigs.

Indeed, most Americans Qiu Fengyu had encountered were overweight. While he was still eating his noodles, Sheriff Brick called. Qiu Fengyu was surprised, but soon understood—most likely Coffin had given the sheriff his number as well.

So he made another trip down to the station. As soon as he entered, Qiu Fengyu shook his head and said to Brick, "Why is it still so small?"

Brick was taken aback, thinking he’d misheard. "What did you say?"

"I said, why is it still so small?" Qiu Fengyu patiently repeated.

"What's so small?" Brick asked, perplexed.

Qiu Fengyu glanced around and finally explained, "The police station is still so small. I thought that after some time away, it might have expanded, but it's still just this size."

What kind of comment was that? Brick really couldn’t understand this guy’s way of thinking. Suppressing the urge to handcuff him and crack open his skull, he patiently asked Qiu Fengyu to sit, then said, "I just need to confirm something: someone saw you in a fight."

"That was a few days ago," Qiu Fengyu admitted readily.

"No one's pressing charges, so I'm not taking any action," Brick continued.

"A wise decision," Qiu Fengyu nodded. "I think you could at least make a choice."

"What choice?" Brick realized his conversation was being derailed.

"You caught that Mexican, so you did a good job. At least you shouldn't have to stay in this little place, or maybe they could enlarge your station. It's really too small," Qiu Fengyu said seriously.

Brick decided he shouldn't waste words on this man. He cleared his throat and said, "I know you caught that Mexican, but you’re still classified as a dangerous individual under supervised residence. Until your term is up, you can’t go anywhere, and you mustn’t cause any trouble—like fighting, at least not in this town."

"Understood," Qiu Fengyu nodded, very obedient.

Sheriff Brick nodded in satisfaction, then told Qiu Fengyu, "You can leave now. Leave this place."

Qiu Fengyu stood up and flashed a white-toothed grin at the two female officers at their computers. The younger one smiled back.

"If you're looking for a woman, there are plenty at the bar. Don’t try it here—" Brick grunted, clearly displeased.

Qiu Fengyu left, feeling the whole matter was tiresome. He was already getting warned by Deputy Coffin nearly every day; there was no need for Brick to call him in just to repeat it. Dismissing the thought, he headed out, intending to buy a fishing rod, but after some searching, he realized there wasn't a single place in town that sold one.

So instead, he bought a bicycle and rode out toward the town’s outskirts. The countryside around the town was open and bare, with gentle slopes near the ranch. They could hardly be called hills. There were real mountains in the distance, but Qiu Fengyu couldn’t go that far, or he’d be violating his residential restrictions and end up branded a fugitive.

After a ride around, he returned home to find Britt in the shop, lounging with a newspaper in the only rocking chair with a backrest.

"This is trespassing," Qiu Fengyu decided to give him a lesson in American law. "If I chopped you up and made you into dumplings, even Sheriff Brick wouldn’t care."

At the mention of dumplings, Britt’s eyes lit up. He quickly put down the newspaper and stood up. "I know American law better than you. First, this shop is mine, you’re just staying here for now. And...where are the dumplings? I did some research on your cuisine when I got home—everyone says dumplings are the best!"

The man had really become a foodie. Impressive, at his age, to be so fixated on this. Qiu Fengyu lazily found another chair and sat down. "There aren’t any. If I had dumplings, I’d have eaten them myself. If you keep bringing crowds over, you’ll eat me into poverty."

"We’ll pay you!" Britt exclaimed. "Isn’t that good enough?"

"No," Qiu Fengyu grumbled, finding his chair uncomfortable. Seizing his chance while Britt stepped aside, he darted over and claimed the rocking chair for himself, sinking into it contentedly.

"Ten dollars a bowl, that’s a good deal," Britt said through gritted teeth. To eat something delicious, he had to be resolute, and his pained expression was meant to show how determined he was, what a sacrifice he was making.

"I’m not short of money right now," Qiu Fengyu said, turning his back to Britt.

"Eleven dollars..." Britt figured if he kept increasing the price, Qiu Fengyu would agree eventually.

"Fifteen dollars..."

...

"Thirty dollars—" Britt realized he couldn’t keep raising the price, and, regretting the large figure he’d just blurted out, hoped Qiu Fengyu would mercilessly refuse.

"Deal—" Qiu Fengyu suddenly flipped out of the rocking chair and reached out to shake his hand.

Britt felt an immediate pang of regret, but shook hands with Qiu Fengyu. "I can only speak for myself...it's just a verbal agreement..."

"You’ve given me a great idea. I think a bowl of noodles or dumplings should be worth thirty dollars," Qiu Fengyu said, feeling rather pleased with himself. If that was the price, no one would be pestering him for this or that.

But things were far from as simple as Qiu Fengyu imagined. Opening a small restaurant in America involved a lot of paperwork. Before opening, one had to choose a business structure under which to register the restaurant. Usually, Chinese eateries were sole proprietorships. The registration process was straightforward—just fill out a form at the city government office, register the restaurant’s name and Qiu Fengyu’s personal details, and pay a hundred-dollar fee.

Of course, after that, you had to run an ad in a local paper. Once the company was officially registered, the owner could negotiate leases and open a business bank account. It was necessary to set up a restaurant-specific business account before opening.

You also needed a business license, a retail permit, a health department certificate, and a sign-hanging permit from city hall. Most crucially, you had to pass the local health operations exam to earn a hygiene permit.

So, despite the thirty-dollar-a-bowl price, Britt figured something was better than nothing, and since it was only a verbal agreement, the final price would probably be lower. He had experience running a shop, and he explained all the necessary procedures and paperwork to Qiu Fengyu.

Qiu Fengyu listened until his head ached. Why bother with all this? He instinctively wanted to refuse, but the very next morning, Britt brought over the neighbors. They enthusiastically helped Qiu Fengyu set up the noodle shop.

The tables and chairs were already there; then came the big clean-up. These people were truly helpful—around twenty of them came and, after a morning’s effort, the little shop looked respectable. There were booth seats, a cashier’s counter—even Britt contributed his cash register and credit card machine.

"It’s time for some Chinese food!" Qiu Fengyu clapped his hands. "Wait here, I’ll go cook the noodles."

That was what everyone had been waiting for. Immediately, the group stopped their work, took their seats at the booths, chatting absentmindedly as they waited for the food.

Cooking the noodles was quick—within an hour, the twenty bowls were ready.

Once everyone had left, Britt sidled up to Qiu Fengyu and asked, "Can I get a bigger discount for helping out?"

"Spit it out," Qiu Fengyu said, not in the mood to guess.

"Thirty dollars is too expensive. I’m going to be living here for decades..." Britt grinned. "This is a long-term business..."

In fact, Britt was a genuinely good person, or so Qiu Fengyu thought. So in the end, they reduced the verbal agreement by ten dollars—a bowl of ramen now cost twenty dollars. In local currency, that's over a hundred and twenty per bowl—if anyone tried to charge that much back home, their shop would be trashed, or they'd be drowned in spit.

But...should he open a noodle shop here? Maybe sell some dumplings on the side. Qiu Fengyu was conflicted. He had planned to travel all across America, but clearly, twenty thousand dollars wouldn’t be enough. What about his future? Keep wandering, or settle down here?

At twenty dollars a bowl and twenty bowls a day, that was four hundred dollars daily—twelve thousand a month, a hundred and twenty thousand a year. That was almost white-collar income in America.

Clearly, his math teacher must have been his gym teacher.