American Adventure: My Uncle is Don Quixote-Chapter 53 - 49: If You Want to Eat, You Have to Snatch It from Someone Else’s Mouth
"You want to be the Godfather of Brooklyn, too?" he asked. "Just last month, we were struggling to get by in a basement in Sunset Park. How are we supposed to fight the Italian Mafia? Just the two of us?"
"We don’t have to get into a direct conflict with the Gambino Family," Don Quixote explained. "Besides, we won’t be fighting alone. Susan said she knows some very capable lawyers who can handle the trouble for us. And I already have a detailed plan."
"No matter how you slice it, it’s too dangerous," Li Wei said, shaking his head. "That’s the Mafia we’re talking about. A criminal organization with guns."
"Not necessarily—"
Don Quixote was about to say more, but Li Wei cut him off again.
"Uncle Don Quixote, it’s already a huge improvement that we moved from that basement to this big house in just a month," he said. "And I believe things will keep getting better. There’s no need to pick a fight with them now and take such a risk!"
Don Quixote suddenly fell silent.
"Think about yourself. Think about me," Li Wei pressed, striking while the iron was hot. "If that’s not enough, if you run into trouble, what about your daughter?"
"You..." Don Quixote looked up and pointed at himself. "Li Wei, do you know how old I am?"
"I don’t know," Li Wei said, shaking his head. "But if I remember correctly, you should be 42—"
"I’m 45 today, Li Wei," Don Quixote said softly. "As of today, I’m 45 years old."
Li Wei’s lips tightened. He said dryly, "...Happy birthday, Uncle."
"I don’t have as much time as you do, Li Wei," Don Quixote said, touching his thinning hair and the wrinkles on his face. "I’m not young anymore. How many 45 years does a person get in one lifetime?"
"I’ve been living in a basement for years," he said. "I used to work two jobs a day and even had to sell my blood every month. Tell me, Li Wei, how many more years do you think I have left? I’ve already reached the average age of death for the lower class in the United States of America."
Li Wei opened his mouth but said nothing.
The average age of death for the lower class in the United States of America is 45 for men and 42 for women.
In contrast, the middle-to-upper class and the wealthy often live to be 90 or 100, which pulls the national average up to a prettier number, around 75.
"Malnutrition, irregular heartbeat, anemia, rheumatism, gout... More than once, I’ve wondered if I would even wake up the next day," Don Quixote said, ticking off the ailments on his fingers. "I can’t afford to go to the hospital. I don’t have insurance. I don’t even know if I have other health problems. I’m too scared to get a checkup, terrified they’ll print out a long list of conditions. Then I’d just fall apart completely, lose all will to live."
"That won’t happen, Uncle," Li Wei comforted him. "It won’t. You’re as strong as an ox."
"I really envy you, kid. Sometimes, I’m even jealous," Don Quixote sighed. "You’re so young. You’re only 17. In the morning, you must be hard as steel. A single glance at a female classmate’s fair thighs at school could probably rip through your pants. Seventeen... that’s really the best age. There’s still time for everything. Nothing’s too late."
As he spoke, he opened another can of beer. In just a short while, he’d already had three.
"But—I—HIC—I’m old now. I don’t have that much time left," he slurred. "I want to get back on my feet quickly, buy myself some health insurance, and get a physical. I want to fight for custody of my daughter and live long enough to see her get married. I want to personally give her away to a man I can trust. Only then can I die in peace."
"That’ll happen soon," Li Wei reassured him. "I’ll get a scholarship to Yale, then I’ll get into the NFL and land a multi-million USD contract. Even after I retire, I can become a lawyer or go into business—I’ll become a huge star, and then I’ll pay off your debts, get you medical treatment, and win back custody of your daughter. I promise!"
After hearing Li Wei’s words, Don Quixote just shook his head and said, half-mocking and half self-deprecating, "You don’t get it, kid. You really don’t."
"When I was your age, I was a genius in my high school, too," he said, pointing at Li Wei and then at himself. "When I was 17, I got A’s in all 13 of my AP courses. I scored a 1570 on the SAT, which had a perfect score of 1600. I scored better than 99.5% of test-takers. I got a full-ride scholarship to the University of Chicago. Even at JPMorgan Chase, I was the youngest VP in the entire company."
"But look at me now, just look at me. I used to manage billion-USD projects, and now I’m running around scrambling over a few dozen bucks for a goddamn bill," he forced a smile that looked more painful than a grimace. "When fate decides to mess with you, it doesn’t go easy on you just because you’re young."
"Even though we’ve managed to live like human beings for a month, I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t stand it," Don Quixote said. "Forget about water, electricity, and internet. Gas is 150 USD a month. Mandatory car insurance is 200 USD a month. Street cleaning tickets are at least 80 USD a month to start... On top of that, I have a mandatory child support payment of 2000 USD a month. The damn court just reaches into my bank account and takes the money. I worked for a whole month and couldn’t even save 50 USD."
"Not everyone is like Susan, willing to give you a chance," he said, calming himself down. "The opportunities you get to seize in life are limited. At least in terms of luck, the second half of my life doesn’t seem to be going too well. I have to wonder if this is the only chance I have left."
