The Day Tina Spoke in Rugs

You never really know the last time you’ll see someone. Sure, folks say that a lot, but it doesn’t sink in until you’re flipping through the news and a name hits you like a rake to the shin. Tina Wu. Gone.

Tina had an office a few doors down from mine when we both worked at the Regional Transportation Commission on Sutro Street in Reno. We weren’t close friends exactly, not in the way folks usually mean, but we shared hallway air, stale coffee smells, and more than a few chuckles over broken printers and doomed city plans.

We were working on a project for paratransit operations—small buses that assist people when a regular bus ain’t suitable. Tina was the design lead, and I was, well, something vaguely helpful. My title was long enough to make me feel important and vague enough to hide that I didn’t know what half the buttons on AutoCAD did.

Tina had a clipped way of speaking— originally from somewhere in Taiwan or Singapore, I think–and her English was excellent but accented enough that sometimes my brain would trip over itself trying to keep up. I’d lean in like an old hound trying to locate a squirrel in the wind.

One day, we were elbows-deep in diagrams and route tables when she said something—clear as a bell, I thought—but I didn’t quite catch it. I asked her to repeat it.

She did. It still didn’t land. I asked again. A third time. Now she squinted at me with the kind of expression you get from your Aunt Dot when you say you don’t like her lemon bars.

Then she tilted her head, all mock-serious, and said, “Do you have a problem with oriental rugs, too?”

I blinked. What?

Tina didn’t miss a beat. “I said ‘entrance plugs,’ not oriental rugs. You hear what you want to hear.”

And then she laughed. Loud, wicked, and joyful, the kind of laugh that doesn’t apologize for itself. I hadn’t realized she had that kind of humor in her.

From then on, I started listening harder, not just to the words but to the rhythm of her voice. There’s music in people if you take the time to hear it.

We drifted, as folks do. Life rolled on. I left the RTC for a slower, less bureaucratic life. Tina stayed a while longer. Our project never made it past the idea stage.

Far too many meetings and not enough follow-through. Funny how that works.

Now she’s gone, and I think about how I should’ve lingered longer in our hallway chats, could’ve brought her a cup of tea now and then instead of just nodding in the break room like a well-meaning mannequin. So here’s to Tina Wu–brilliant, sharp, and sneakier with a joke than most people gave her credit for.

And here’s hoping wherever she’s gone, they listen the first time she speaks. And if not, I pray she gives them hell—with a smile and a carpet pun.