The Wedding Banquet Page #3

Wei Wei is a squatter. A tenant of mine.

I spoke to Simon on the phone.

Simon? How's he doing?

He likes the painting I gave you.

He told me you had some family business

to attend to today.

Is this it?

Does Simon know?

It's not what you think.

You told me you're gay and I believed you.

Why didn't you just tell me

I'm not your type?

Is there some kind of problem here?

Poor Simon. I pity him!

Hey, wait. Sh*t!

Why don't they quit after dinner?

Why did you join the singles club?

I didn't. Like you, my mom did it.

I have a white boyfriend,

and I don't have the guts to tell them.

Really?

- Where did you learn to sing?

- Dong Wu University.

You don't speak like a singer.

One doesn't speak like one sings.

Is that so?

- Are you really an opera fan?

- No.

Thought so. Pity.

What is it, three more flights?

You must forgive me. I'm so ashamed.

When Simon told me the story...

I felt like jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.

No, it's for me to apologize.

You've been having so many troubles,

and all I do is pressure you for rent.

Here. I brought you an air conditioner.

But the electricity costs?

Out of work again.

I'm such a fool.

Always hoping you'll like me.

Anyway, Wai and I would like

to invite you out to dinner.

- It will be my farewell dinner.

- Your what?

Really. I can't last any longer.

No money, no job, no green card.

No stupid American will marry me.

What about Boris?

I thought he was gonna marry you.

He was. But he wanted $5,000.

What! What about Andre,

that guy you were seeing?

He wanted to marry me, too,

but it turns out he's Albanian...

and doesn't have a green card himself.

I'm such an idiot.

I said forget about it.

Don't you see?

This way Wei Wei can stay here and paint...

and you can finally

get your parents off your back.

Forget about it.

We can move her into the basement

until the immigration exam.

Take some photos, send them back

to your mom and dad, and perfect!

Forget it.

And as a married couple,

you'll be able to take a big tax break.

Got it?

We'll back up.

Wai Tung's clothes. Shirts, underwear.

He wears Jockey, but he sleeps in boxers.

And here, all the stuff

he gets from his parents.

Mega polyester,

but he saves the sh*t religiously.

The couch is his own little world.

Here, piles of unread magazines.

World Trade, Advocate, UW, and Fortune.

He's such a disgusting yuppie.

And, of course, the phone,

which he hogs like a total pig.

Extra pillows,

'cause he likes to drop off to sleep here.

Sometimes I have to carry him up to bed.

He showers in the morning

unless he goes to the gym...

which is if he's in a bad mood

or we've had a fight.

He doesn't smoke or drink,

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