The Scholarship

“When I was young I was poor. So poor just like you guys. My parents were pig farmers and I grew up in the countryside of Vietnam. There was never enough to eat. Even though we farmed pigs we had to beg my father for the smallest scrap of meat. We were so happy when we even got a nibble of it. Compared to how we lived you, guys are so rich. When I was old enough I left the country to go to Saigon. I sold everything from scraps of wood to coal to cooking oil. I worked hard to build up my business until the war when the Viet Cong took it all away. And I had to start all over again in this country. But I knew how to work hard. I never took a day off. And look where I am now.” Mr. Tran stretched out his arms dramatically indicating to the neat, parallel rows of grapevines covering the verdant, rolling hills of the vineyard that conspicuously bore his name on every bottle, every wineglass and every advertisement that doubled as art throughout the tasting room.

“Not only this, but my factories in China are worth a billion dollars! Each of you can be like me if you work hard enough and are smart enough. Well, maybe not exactly like me,” he chuckled smugly, “but rich and successful that you can enjoy the best wines that we make at Duc Tran Winery!” Mr. Tran took an indulgent sip of his namesake red blend. “I created the Duc Tran Scholarship to help poor kids of the Viet Kieu become successful. I read through hundreds of applications and picked you guys because you reminded me of myself. And each of you guys will get $20,000 to pay for your college educations!”

In his early 70s, Mr. Tran was fit and trim with nary a paunch to be seen. A short man with thick heels, he arose early every morning to begin his fitness regimen of long power walks while exercising his lungs with calls to his friends and colleagues to drum up new business. He was still energetic, still hustling, even in his semi-retirement. Next to him sat his wife, young enough to be a classmate of his grandchildren. Her parents, somewhat similar to his, were soybean farmers. She escaped the backbreaking work of the fields by showing great beauty at a young age and a gracefulness that belied her humble beginnings. At 18 she won the Miss Vietnam contest that Mr. Tran’s organization was sponsoring and the rest was the age old story of rich, old men with young, beautiful wives. Three years and a baby boy later, she sat next to him with her back straight and blouse half buttoned. She dripped with diamonds and designer clothes down to her rhinestone studded stiletto heels. Her eyes were alert but without cunning. Her voice was soft with neither kindness nor authority. The baby boy sat at the next table clutching a sippy cup and a large Mexican woman.

The three young recipients of the scholarship sat awkwardly across from the couple, unsure of how to respond and still processing the award, their surroundings and their new benefactor. First one, then all three, offered their thanks and admiration to him. “Now, you guys enjoy and eat some lunch. I have work to do upstairs,” announced Mr. Tran. And with that he stood and walked away. Rather than attempt to make conversation with three, the wife went and sat next to her child without attending to his fussing.

Right on cue, Mr. Tran’s entourage trickled back onto the deck. First, an affable and handsome young man ambled out, bearing a box overflowing with banh mi and iced coffees from Lee’s Sandwiches. He wore a bright, eager-to-please smile, Korean pop star hair that he often raked his hand through, and leather Nikes covered in artful graffitti. Mr. Tran’s wife eyed him silently but did not acknowledge him. After him wandered in a number of friends, family members and assistants who first greeted him with fist bumps, pats on the back, and quick hugs. In twos and threes they promptly introduced themselves to the three scholarship recipients with much warmth, joviality and inside jokes that they struggled to remember the details of names, faces and relationships. After everyone had helped themselves to a sandwich and settled down to light banter over eggrolls, in strolled Jonny. Jonny was short like his father, but worked out under the supervision of a personal trainer until his chest puffed up like a hero and his hips tapered to a Michaelango-like V. He had organic, gourmet, and nutritionally balanced meals delivered to his door daily so his skin gleamed with good health and impeccable grooming. He wore designer jeans, a tight polo that showed off his biceps, aviator sunglasses and a man purse with the designer logo printed over every square inch of it. As he made his way across the veranda, there arose with him a swelling of “Hey buddy” and “What’s up man”, air kisses and swapping of compliments. Among the three scholarship recipients, their conversation slowed as they waited for Jonny to make his way to their side of the room.

“Hey guys, I want you to know how special you are,” he spoke sincerely after making introductions. “My dad and I looked through every application and thought you guys were the most stand-out and deserving. You guys are part of the Duc Tran family now. Our support for you goes beyond the $20,000 so if you guys need anything else be sure to give us a call.” He reached into his man purse and pulled out a little black notebook. As he shuffled through it, three pairs of eyes strained to discern what was scrawled on the pages of the book, but he quickly pulled out three calling cards and slipped the notebook back into his bag. “Call me anytime,” he said in parting.

After the sandwiches were consumed and the entourage had dispersed into the tasting room, offices and gardens, the three scholarship recipients were left to themselves. They asseverated how down to earth and unpretentiously nice everyone was and reaffirmed their fortuity in receiving the scholarship. “My mom serves pho at the restaurant next to one of their stores,” said Viet, his eyes intense under his thick black framed glasses. He had come to the event in a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase filled with his resume, transcript and essays. “She’s gonna flip when I tell her about this vineyard. When I got into Stanford, my parents were so happy they cried, even my dad who is usually no emo, ya know? They were so happy but right away they started stressing about how they were going to pay for it and how much debt we were going to have to take on. It was like winning the dollar slots at Pechanga when I got this scholarship! And then on top of it, everyone is so nice? This is unreal to me!” The other two corroborated his sentiment and recalled their own stories of hardship and dreams realized when they had won this scholarship.

Viet finally excused himself from his fellow scholarship recipients to search for the restroom. The restrooms by the tasting room were being cleaned so the janitor directed him to the other side of the building and up the staircase to the restroom by the offices. Gingerly, he crept up the spiraling staircase around the chandelier made of Duc Tran wine bottles. The chatter on the veranda faded away and only the occasional bursts of laughter from the tasting room disturbed the quiet of the staircase. He hesitated at the top, in part because he wasn’t sure which direction was the restroom, but also because of a feeling of having come to the inner sanctum, the West Wing where Beauty was told never to enter. The hall was dark and cool, with the sunlight hidden behind heavy oaken doors firmly shut to prying eyes, save for a few warm, yellow rays escaping from a door left ajar at the end of the hall. He softened his footsteps, grateful for the rubber soled oxfords that he had bought for this event. (Professional, comfortable and quiet!) He turned his head left and right, looking for any sign of the restroom when Mr. Tran’s voice erupted through the door at the end of the hall. “What the hell do you mean we lost the New World account? They are our biggest customer! I don’t even know how we’re going to make payroll without them!”

“Dad, calm down! Let me explain,” came Jonny’s plea.

“I don’t want to hear your terrible excuses! You do everything wrong! You’re lazy! You’re stupid! You wouldn’t be able to get a job anywhere else if it weren’t for me!”

Wrong way, thought Viet as he quickly executed a U-turn down to the other end of the hall. Past the stairs, he saw the restroom and silently pushed the door open. Inside, he heard a furtive whisper and stifled moan. He glimpsed two pairs of shoes under the stall partition: graffitti’ed Nikes and rhinestone encrusted stilettos. One stiletto, having fallen off it’s owner, lay on its side revealing its ruby red sole like an exposed wound. He jerked away from the door and looked at the sign. The women’s room!

Viet raced down the stairs as quickly and quietly as he rubber-soled shoes could take him. At the bottom of the stairs he looked back up to make sure no one had seen him. The stairs and the hallway were reassuringly empty as he crept away to the beat of his pounding heart. Safe in the public spaces, he waited for the janitor to finish cleaning the public restroom. He spent the rest of the afternoon hiding among the crowd, trying not to think of what he had just seen and heard and feeling unsure of whether to be envious or appalled. As he drove away at the end of the event, he saw Jonny sitting by himself on the veranda, eyebrows drawn together, scrawling in his notebook.