Rainier Valley
When: Sat Aug 28
This must be the place. We (there are five of us) park the car near the mouth of what looks like an unpaved private driveway. Across the street is a lively party in the open garage of a single-floor home. Among tables that are in and just outside of the festively lit garage are groups of Filipinos who are eating, drinking, and laughing at a very poor karaoke performance. This isn't the party we're looking for. We want Rajnii's party, which, judging from his directions, is somewhere in the depths of this driveway.
While walking toward a clump of dark trees, we come across yet another party. Fifteen or so young Vietnamese men are boisterously gathered on a furnished patio. We ask them if there is a house at the end of the road. "Yes, Rajnii lives down there," says one of the young men. We finally see our destination. Surrounded by big trees, the place is bulky, white, and recalls the house in the movie Eve's Bayou. On its south side are two wide and high windows, one of which frames the kitchen. From the outside, we can see people playing cards at a table that's next to the window. Because it's so dark, these people, whose thoughts are focused on the cards that fate has dealt them, seem to be in a magical cube that's floating above the ground. A few steps up and we're in the house.
There aren't many people at the party (roughly 20), which we're told has been running since 3:00 p.m. It's now 10:00 p.m., and there still is a lot of food on the table. A mountain of barbecued chicken dominates the spread, which is in the south part of a room that's dominated by a huge plant--a ficus tree. Squeezed between the plant and a wall is a fancy electric piano, presently played by a young, light-skinned brother wearing a woolly white hat. He stops, turns to another brother standing by the ficus and the food, and says hurriedly, "I need a beat, can you beatbox?" Without hesitation, the request is granted. Beatboxing and piano jazz fill the house.
We walk out onto the back porch. A young man standing behind a pair of bongos is listening to Rajnii's mother, Randee, who is sitting on the couch drinking wine. She turns to me and instantly we recognize each other. I have been here before, 12 years ago, for a housewarming party. Randee had then just moved in, and we were acquainted through the African American Writers Alliance. I sit next to her, and the following hour is spent in the distant past. "Do you remember her, Charles?" she asks me about a certain member of the literary organization. "Yes," I answer. "Well, I was depressed one day, back in 1994, and decided to call her so that she could cheer me up. Her father answers the phone and tells me she is dead. She died the night before. It was sickle cell anemia--." The mist of the past is suddenly blown away by an eruption of bongo banging. This is a musical house.
I decide to check out the backyard. Large and bordered by bushes, it's at the top of a hill that has a view of Renton Airport. From where I stand, I can see a helicopter parked on the runway. "I wouldn't go back there," warns Rajnii's mother, who is on the porch steps. "There is this big raccoon that lives in those bushes. It has a pimp walk, and when I tell it to go away, it throws up gang signs at me." Not wanting to encounter the gangsta raccoon, I reenter the house.
At around 11:30 p.m., the population of the party has dropped significantly. It's time for us to leave. As we walk to the car, we notice that the party with the young Vietnamese men is in full swing. The number of guests has doubled, and now includes several young women. However, the Filipino party by our parked car is completely dead. The garage is shut, and the tables are gone. Where did all of those people go? Not even one of them is left. Parties should never end like that--they should never just die but instead dwindle.
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