The afternoon sun cast a sharp shadow on the dirt road. Mingli had been traveling longer than he could recall. His days were turning into one long nightmare of continual abandoned paths. He set forth to America for freedom but found himself a prisoner of wasteland. Mingli watched with a concerning stare as images in the distance grew large the closer he walked toward them. He questioned if his sight were playing tricks on him.

Mingli’s slicked back black hair dripped with sweat onto his over worn shirtsleeve. Confused, he blocked his scrunched eyes from the harsh beams of light from the sun. He dragged his feet in slow steps; frayed threads from his pants followed behind him. He came to a stop when he reached a small group of buildings. Nearby, a large sign carved from wood acquired a picture of a young cowboy riding a white horse. In red paint it read: Welcome To Rusty Ville, Alabama! Hangin’ In There Like A Hair In A Biscuit!

Mingli recognized the state on the sign from boxed orders he helped ship out during his overtime in Shenzhen, China. Things looked much different than expected. He always believed America, in all of her forms, would be better developed than what he saw before him.

The buildings looked as though they were built from rotting wood. Dust winds kicked up in front of him, piling thick layers of debris on the steps leading up to each door of every building. Everything was dull. Bright colors did not exist; only minimal color schemes straight out of an old western civilization thrived.

Black smoke from one seemingly abandoned building drifted upwards to the sky and the smell of barbeque chicken flowed with the wind through the small town of Rusty Ville. I made it, thought Mingli.

“Yehaw!” screamed a native bursting through the front door of Hank’s Original Grub Café. An oversized pot-bellied pig, with barbeque sauce spilling out if its mouth, ran frantically down the road squealing along the way. The middle-aged southerner walked casually in the direction of the wild omnivore, laughing hysterically while shooting his rifle in the air. The blows startled Mingli and he hit the ground like a young soldier in war under attack. Hank turned around toward a rustling near his boots.

“Hey boy!” Hank said with a twang. He aimed his gun at Mingli. “Yeah, you. Get up now, you hear?”

Mingli stared blankly at Hank. He didn’t move. He never disobeyed orders, especially when glaring down the barrel of a rifle held by a very large white man, but the language barrier handicapped him speechless.

“Get up, boy!” Hank repeated. He took one hand off the rifle, relaxed the other, and gestured for Mingli to stand up. Slowly Mingli did, his arms were held high in the air. “Put your arms down.” Mingli’s tasseled hair and ragged clothes served no threat to Hank. He lowered his rifle completely.

“Well hell. You one of them Chinks, ain’t you? Yeah, I done heard about your kind. You’re a long ways from home. Where you come from?” Hank said. Mingli said nothing.

“You speak English boy?” Hank said.

Mingli’s eyes showed life as he heard a familiar word. In broken English he said, “English. Little.”

“You ever tackle on some true southern barbeque?” Hank said. “Hell, never mind. Follow me.” Hank slapped him on the back, which made Mingli flinch and take a step away from Hank. Mingli hesitated in fear but Hank’s smiles and gestures convinced him otherwise.

  Behind Hank’s café, Mingli found himself face to face with a large black grill. The smell of cooked chicken was potent. Starvation and dehydration settled in. Hank lifted the opening to the grill; shelves with whole chickens were being roasted. Mingli lingered on the smell in defeat.

“You hungry?” Hank said. “Well, just this one time. But I don’t do handouts. You work a full day, and then you eat. You understand?” Hank handed Mingli a freshly cooked chicken. “Go on. Take it.”

Mingli graciously accepted. He bowed his head in appreciation. He tore the chicken’s limbs apart, starting with the arms, then the legs, and finally the body. He shoveled the moist meat in his mouth, barely chewing. At least American food met my expectations. They don’t have a clue.

“I will teach you how to make roast chicken, fat man,” Mingli said in his native tongue. He smiled for the first time.

“Boy, I don’t understand a damn word you say, but you’re an okay kid.” Hank said. He slapped him on the back, shoved a piece of chicken in his mouth, and the two men shared their first meal together.