Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered and Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order

The sign in front of my noodle shop has faded so far that the two words "Co Sau" can only be read by someone who already knows them. This afternoon the painter stopped by and asked if I wanted it redone, and I said I would think about it. The shop is closed now, I am sitting rinsing table rags, the broth pot still giving off its river-crab smell, and in my head two voices begin talking to each other.

Neither voice is right and neither is wrong. I am writing them down nearly word for word, because hearing them talk to each other is easier than thinking alone.

This morning I was up at four. The crabs had been pounded the night before, the broth simmered on the charcoal stove, the crab fat rising in yellow patches. At half past six Mr. Tam arrived, same corner table, same hour as every morning for about ten years. I had not even said hello when he pulled out his chair.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: Repaint it. Thirty years selling noodles and the sign looks like it belongs to someone who gave up. When I stop, who will know there was a shop here.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: Mr. Tam, outside corner table. Little noodles, lots of scallion, no water spinach. This morning you set it down before he opened his mouth. He looked at the bowl, said nothing, nodded once.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: That nod is gone by tomorrow. I am talking about the long run, about what is left after me.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: How long is the long run? I really am asking. You say "left" and I have not yet heard where it is left, or for whom to read.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: Picture it. Some afternoon a child walks past, looks up, reads "Co Sau Crab Noodles," and asks a grown-up whose shop this was. Someone can answer. That is all I want.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: That is a nice picture. I am not arguing. But where is that child standing in the day you are worried about? From the way you tell it, that child is somebody who is not here yet.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: Then on the sign. In the name. In whoever passes by being able to read two words.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: Someone who walks by and reads those two words remembers nothing about you. They read, they walk on. But the lottery-ticket girl at noon, she stopped for a portion to take home and said "Auntie, two spoonfuls of the fat broth, please," and you never asked her whether she liked it that way. You just knew, and you do not know since when.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: That is remembering somebody else. I am asking about people remembering me.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: Yes. I know. But think: who is remembering you right now, this minute, with no sign needed? The boy who delivers greens has never asked a price, because you have never short-changed him. Your granddaughter knows where you keep the table rags, because she has watched you keep them in one place for years.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: Easy for you to say. What do I get from remembering Mr. Tam's bowl? Tomorrow Mr. Tam switches shops and I become someone who was never here.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: If Mr. Tam switches shops, you are still the one who carried him thousands of bowls, and nobody can take that back. You are measuring against a ruler that does not exist yet: the day you are finished, standing and looking back, asking whether it was worth it. That day has not arrived, and this afternoon is real.

I stop rinsing. The water keeps running over my fingers, the smell of soap and crab mixing. The first voice goes quiet for a while, longer than it ever has.

Me-Who-Wants-to-Be-Remembered: But what if one day nobody remembers anything at all.

Me-Who-Remembers-a-Regular's-Order: Then maybe that is how it goes. I will not promise it is not. It is only that right now there is Mr. Tam at the outside corner, little noodles, lots of scallion. I see you doing something clear right in front of you, and I do not want you to skip past it to worry about something not here yet.

The first voice does not argue back. It does not agree either. It just sits down, like a customer who has not ordered yet.

Out in the lane a motorbike revs, someone calls out to a neighbour at the mouth of the alley, the smell of fried rice drifts over from the shop next door. Late afternoon is when everything around here changes hours, and I hear all of it because my hands are half idle.

I wipe the nearest table, Mr. Tam's. At the head of the table there is a burn mark from a glass of iced tea last year, and I never did scrub it all the way out.

The sign is undecided. Maybe tomorrow I call the painter, maybe not. What I know is that both voices are right where they belong: one looks far, one looks near, and I need both, only not both talking at once while I rinse the rags. If you want to put it in writing so the first voice can rest, a day of noting when I felt useful is something I have tried. And when the two voices argue so hard you cannot sleep, learning to talk to yourself like a best friend can help on nights like that.

If the feeling that nobody remembers you, so what are you living for, stays for many weeks, along with eating and sleeping thrown off or no wish to do anything, please talk with someone who has professional training, because you do not have to carry it alone. And if there are moments you think about hurting yourself, Emergency Support is always there.

The rags are wrung out and hung on the wire behind the stove.

Outside, the sign keeps fading, the afternoon sun slanting across its wooden edge.