The Hacker and the Ants by Rudy Rucker Page A

short hair, and an expensive suit cut from folk-art fabric. Susan Poker was holding a sheaf of papers and acting extremely friendly, punctuating her remarks with many smiles and nods. Zzzt, I thought, mentally zapping her out of existence. ZzzzzzZZTT!
    I parked behind the bank and walked half a block to a croissant bakery to grab some lunch. The bakery was run by a Vietnamese family, and I was half in love with a girl who worked behind the counter. Her name was Nga Vo.
    Nga was taut and young, dressed always in black, with long hair worn poufed way up on one side. She had quick sneaky eyes that could narrow down to up-curved slits. She had a full, pouty, red-lipsticked mouth made yet more perfect by a roughness in the line of her left upper lip. I wanted to kiss and kiss that lip. She had a soft clean jawline and a weak yet stubborn chin, a California Girl chin. Beneath her face’s pale skin was an intricately expressive play of muscles: now molding a fleeting chipmunk cheek, now forming a quick corrugation across her sweet brow.
When Nga wrote out a sales check, she would rest her hand on a piece of paper she’d folded in four out of some ritual of Saigonese penmanship. Every time I talked to her, I did my best to stretch out our conversation.
    â€œA medium roast beef croissant,” I said to Nga. “And a seltzer, please.”
    â€œYes,” said she. “Six forty-nine. How you doing today.”
    â€œFine.” I wanted to say so much more. How did you and your family escape from Vietnam? Do you like life in America? Do you have a boyfriend? Could you ever be attracted to a Western man? Will you move in with me?
    â€œIt’s such nice weather,” I managed, as she counted out my change. “I hope you don’t have to work all day?”
    â€œI here till six o’clock closing time.” Nga gave a quick laugh, breathless as a sob.
    â€œWould . . . would you like to have dinner with me?” Yes! I’d finally said it!
    Nga looked at me blankly. “What do you mean?” Her mother and aunt were watching us now, and the pushy pig behind me in line cleared his throat preparatory to placing his order.
    â€œA date for dinner. You and me.”
    Nga slid her eyes to one side and spoke in rapid Vietnamese to her mother. Her mother gave a very brief answer. Nga cast her eyes down.
    â€œI no think so.”
    Wearing a numb, frozen smile, I took my soda and sandwich outside to sit down at one of the bakery’s sidewalk tables. From inside came the chatter of Vietnamese voices. I swallowed the food too rapidly and it made a big painful lump in my throat. I was fat and old and crazy and nobody would ever love me again. Were those tears in my eyes?

    A Vietnamese boy came out to clear the tables. He giggled when his eyes met mine.
    â€œAre you Nga’s brother?” I asked desperately.
    â€œShe my cousin.” He nodded his head towards the bakery. “My name Khanh Pham. Nga say you ask her go on dinner date.”
    â€œYes,” said I. “Just to talk.”
    â€œIn traditional Vietnamese date, boy must come visit girl family. Maybe you visit us, then Nga go on dinner date.”
    â€œUh ... where do you live?”
    â€œOn East side.”
    God. What if some of the Vo family were Carol’s students? I glanced down at my left hand, noticing the dent where my wedding ring had lived so many years. Asking Nga Vo for a date had been a stupid idea.
    â€œHere our address,” said the boy, handing me a neat square of paper inscribed with Nga’s fine script. “Bakery close every Tuesday. Maybe you come visit tomorrow.”
    My breath rushed out of me. “Yes. Yes, I will come!”
    When I finished eating I took my paper plate and my seltzer bottle back. Nga’s mother, aunt, and cousin were there, with her father in the hallway out back. Nga slipped me a couple of bold, sneaky glances. “See you tomorrow!” I sang out.
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