The Hong Kong Steeplechase

There was a girl in my bed the other night. Yes, a girl in my bed.

Let me explain . . . I can explain. The other night I was coming back from Hong Kong to my hometown here in China on an overnight bus. And as you might imagine they have beds on these buses. Two walking aisles separate three bunk-beds lining the bus like this: [] [] []. In case you can’t imagine a bus with beds as I’ve tried to show you imagine a bakers cart lined 3 wide with knotted dough.

So, as you know me, I was talking to a very smart, pretty and funny young lady (23) from Hong Kong. It was nice. She was nice. But there was a slight problem. A man had come in between us. To be more honest he was snoring in between us. This was our first relationship problem and it needed to be fixed. And to fix it: she being the more beautiful, kind and graceful of us sacrificed her seat and came over to my bed. Thus I had a girl in my bed the other night. But nothing naughty happened. We listened to music and shared food and other innocent things like that. And besides . . . her mother was far too close.

That said: our (mine and the girls) departure was much too brash. I was marshaled off the bus with flashlight glaring in my eyes at four AM to a rainy and cold place somewhere 10 miles outside of the city. I was then packed into a small-grey-van-taxi with what appeared to be characters straight from a William Faulkner novel. The driver was busy puffin’ on his new cigarettes from the big city as the rain from his window cracked against my cheek like prickles of ice. All of this was happening while the girl on the bus – warm and snug – went away without me.

Well that’s not really where I wanted to begin this story. That’s more the end of my story about Hong Kong than the beginning but I thought I might grab your attention by telling you that I had a girl in my bed the other night and you know it probably worked for those of you who are either erotically or morally inclined (for different reasons of course – though there’s probably not too much of a difference if you think about it). No matter what, I’m pretty sure Zach Allen put this down a long time ago. TLDR he might say (love you Zach).

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FOUR DAYS BEFORE I HAD A GIRL IN MY BED:

I had to go to Hong Kong to acquire my work-visa.

To be honest, this might legitimately be the most adventurous thing that I’ve ever done. I like to think of myself as taking to adventure. I’ve been in some tight squeezes around this world. But I’ve never been to Hong Kong. I’m being completely candid by saying that I was real nervous about this one.

I’ve done some pretty “adventurous” things…sure. But as I was telling Solomon, if there is any brilliance to be found in my adventures . . . if you can salvage anything from them . . . then it is that there has been somebody else planning of guiding or leading most of those adventures. Not me. I’m not a leader. I’m a wingman. I can admit that. The world needs more wingmen in my opinion like Barney is to Fred, or Robin is to Batman or Shaggy is to Scooby.

Solomon soberly says, “You’re going to the most western city that you’ve ever been too.”

I agreed, “yeah, but I’m going alone.”

I’m half-brained most of the time. I get lost in the rush and cluster of fast things. Fast things scare me. Hong Kong scares me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being lost. It excites me. It awakens that “inner child” in me if I can say that. I love it. It’s a thrill. It really is. But only when somebody else knows where I am . . . or where I should be. I get lost and turned around in Joplin, Missouri for Buddha’s sake.

I went to bed the night before whispering, “Hong Kong, here I come.” That means I was scared but up for the challenge.

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NEXT MORNING: THE DAY OF RECKONING

Took the 7:05 bus across the city. Ate my McDonald’s breakfast chicken sandwich (horrible) at the bus station. A big white shirted man with a hairy lip was sleeping behind his desk. He had a gorilla head. One of those oversized jobs. I sat and ate beside him in relative silence. He was sleeping. I said good morning a few times and eventually had to rattle and tap my cup against his desk. I wouldn’t have done it but I needed to know if I was in the right place. The ice startled him. I stepped back. He put his big glasses on his big gorilla head and nodded to my question. I was in the right place. Good to know. He motioned me to sit down. I sat down. His big hairy lip plopped back out.

A few minutes later his counterpart a short dumpy man came and tapped at his desk. He put his glasses back on and motioned me to follow this man to his small-grey-van-taxi. I got in. The door grunted shut. I turned to see an old couple who would be traveling with me. So this was how we were getting to the big city. I listened as they talked in the local dialect which happens to sound more rhythmic to my ears than Chinese. And I just have to tell you that we drove on a few side-walks (it’s very common here).

He took us to the real bus station. We met other people. Other travelers. Somebody said go outside and we went outside in the back ally and stood for about five minutes with our luggage and knap sacks. A colorful bus with plush reclining leather seats stopped to pick us up. So this was how we were really getting to the big city.

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ON THE BUS: A CHINESE COUNTRYSIDE

Its looks real nice about 20 minutes removed from the sounds and sights of concrete and traffic. Out here farmland lay for kilometers and kilometers on end. Little shack villages and perfectly lined fields. Greens and Browns spread out so far and wide.

Big round wicker Chinese hats dot the land. You see scarecrows and motorcycles and little brown paths connecting each field and lakes and creeks with skinnier cows than ours bowing ever so gently to the earth. The hats bob in and out of focus . . . up and down they went in that continuous harmony sweetened with the hum of the engine. I dozed off in this dreamlike wonderland. And I awoke as the hum of the engine died down. We were at a rest stop. The old women travelling with me smiled and motioned that it was time for lunch.

After living in lands where I don’t speak much of the language I guess I’ve learned to survive with motions and hand gestures. I could change and just learn Chinese but that would be too easy. Charades is too much fun for that. I’m getting pretty good at it.

We ate lunch, the old women and I. The old women got up. It’s time to leave. I’ve noticed that when Chinese people are ready to leave . . . they leave. It happens fast. You have to be ready for it or you’ll get left behind. Not one to be left behind . . . lunch was over.

This thought occurred to me as we pulled out of the parking lot. Here I am on this bus in this tiny little corner of our big universe puttering from this city to that city and there you are on your little clod of earth. Why?

I have two thousand or so dollars (RMB) tucked into my socks. Who’s walking on twenty Chairmen Mao’s and has two thumbs? This guy!

At the next rest stop I picked up an apple pie and a coffee from McDonald’s. This stuff is going to kill me I know. But you have to understand that the coffee and pie make me feel like a real journalist and I like feeling like a real journalist.

I wonder if these peasants out here farming this green and brown land know anything about the Hong Kong skyline. What does the major city I come from and the major giant city that I’m going to have to do with these people? I don’t know. But then again what does a quiet little place like Carthage, Missouri have to do with let’s say Chicago? I don’t know.

I read the other day that there’s this push in Shanghai to outlaw the eating of dog meat in China. That’s good and all I guess. I mean, I love dogs but out here it just seems arbitrary. It doesn’t seem like it would make much sense to these farmers grinding plows against the earth. A posh Gucci sunglass wearing Audrey Hepburn look alike walking her French poodle in Pudong Park spouting off about animal rights just doesn’t make sense out here where survival seems a tad bit more important than a dog. I guess you could say that these two people live in two different worlds . . . two different realities . . . two different cultures . . . two different countries.

As we came nearer I had to pee. That part about being a real journalist (coffee and pie) has a downside . . . and it was catching up with me. I guess I don’t have what it takes to be a journalist after all. Thinking of dry arid deserts and squeezing my legs together I just remembered that I don’t have anyone meeting me when I arrive. It’s nice having someone meet you. But not this time. Not today. Today it’s just me and that city.

A friend that I made on the bus named Mickey helped me find my hostel. Thanks Mickey, I couldn’t have done it without you. Crowded streets. Bright lights. The rush of the city comes over a guy. With barely a pot to piss in I’m set up with a bed and a mirror and a make-shift sink to wash my face in the morning. This place was small but cheap and apparently safe. I bargained for the price and won or at least that’s the story I was fed by the fast talking owner Mr. Cheng. He quickly left me and moved on to his next victim/customer.

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DOWN AND OUT IN HONG KONG:

This morning I’m in Burger King eating a sausage egg and cheese croissantwich (personal favorite). I think I’m addicted to fast food. I’m getting fatter every day. I have to tell myself that I’m not 22 any more. But myself doesn’t listen. I’m a theo-environmentalist/economist hypocrite. This stuff doesn’t sit in the physical or moral stomach quite the same way it did a few years ago. (Burger King and McDonald’s are sinful on nearly every front). Sitting, drinking coffee and looking out of the 2nd floor window I watched the street below. Imagine a bunch of really cute well-dressed Asians running intently every which way with newspapers tucked under their arms. That’s Hong Kong at 9AM. I figured it was a throw back to the London days. You don’t see this in the mainland (people reading newspapers) or at least I don’t see it.

I took the subway train and found the embassy and did what I came to do. I came to apply for my work-visa. But that’s not interesting. Well, I guess, tomorrow we’ll see if I get to go back to China…cross your fingers.

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Afterwards I went and had a cup of tea downtown and read this J.D. Salinger quote from TIME Magazine in the memories of his recent death, his character Franny was quoted as saying, “I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.”

I think he’s on to something.

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I’m staying on one of the busiest foot streets in the world . . . Nathan Road in Kowloon. Trust me; Hong Kong is fantastic except for the Indian/Pakistani hustlers trying to get you to buy the greatest watch at the greatest price in the greatest city in the world. Or his best friend trying to show you the finest suit made out of the finest fabric for a fine tailored price just for you my friend. They are constantly in your face jockeying for your attention. I feel that their biggest mistake is assuming that I’m rich. I’m not rich. I teach English in China. The Chinese are rich. The greatest pleasures I can afford are those Chai Tea Lattes with shots of Vanilla-extract from Starbucks . . . and I did. Everyone is so well dressed here. I’m clearly third class. No watches or tuxes for this working class peasant.

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THOUGHT FROM ANOTHER DAY FOR THIS DAY: I’ve noticed that an indulgent man knows for certain that either this world is coming or that this world is going depending on his temperament. Whereas a moralist only assumes that he’s preventing this world from being. But the world keeps defying him and continues spinning. The indulgent man nonetheless has scars that the moralist is quick to point out. But the moralist doesn’t know what the indulgent man knows.

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I had a dark, cold and smooth Guinness on tap and it was good.

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I ate a giant bacon cheeseburger at a British Pub with a cute girl from Thailand that I met there named Lamii. She was nice enough to grace me wither her presence. She made a seemingly normal lunch by my lonesome way more interesting. I’ll probably never see her again but that’s okay. Here’s a secret: Lamii was hot!!

Looking over Lamii’s dainty and tanned shoulders I had a view into the kitchen. My burger was much too large and greasy for me to stomach and especially with Lamii sitting there I didn’t want to look oafish or anything like that. So I sent some of it back and from over those flawless shoulders I saw the old Filipino cook, they called her mamma, take a bite or two from my lunch and toss the rest in the trash. Why do I see things like that? Things like that soften my heart and expand my mind. But things like that make me stop enjoying lunch with hot Lamii and I like hot Lamii.

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QUESTION FROM ANOTHER DAY TO THIS DAY: Why did the British Empire give this place up? You know they could have kept it if they really wanted too.

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When I went out this morning I went down the back stairway and into the ally. I saw an Indian/Pakistani sleeping on old potato sacks burrowed into the hard concrete by his DVD and trinket stand. This softened my previous judgment of the hustlers the night before. Why do I see things like this? But I still don’t want to buy a damn watch.

“I pity the poor immigrant who wishes he would’ve stayed home” -Bob Dylan. More often than not that song is about me.

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The human eye is far superior to the camera lens I said to myself while sitting at one of the most famous harbors in the world on a normal Wednesday afternoon in Hong Kong. I guess you could say that this skyline ain’t bad. It has some color and neon.

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Walking down Nathan Road standing waiting to cross the road I check out this Indian food restaurant banner on the corner. An Indian/Pakistani young man summons me and says he’ll take me to this place for dinner. I say okay. So I followed Malik (Malik means King in Arabic) to an obscure location up a dimly lit elevator shaft to the sixth floor to his restaurant called Ziafat (I don’t know what that means in Arabic). “Why is it on the sixth floor” I ask Malik in the elevator. With the thought lingering in the back of my mind that he’s either going to rob, kill or take me as a hostage because as it is I happen to have some racist and prejudices thoughts towards people who look like him. He patiently says, “Because it’s too expensive to have a store front.” “Oh, okay!” “So where are you from” he asked me, “America.” “You?” “Pakistan.” Ding.

I see a young man smoking a big hookah pipe surfing Facebook on his MacBook and two younger guys playing dominoes and drinking Coke. Malik sets the table and a short wrinkled old lady with smiles brings out my Chicken Masala and Naan! Aren’t we at war with Pakistan?

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Down at the harbor again. Looking at that humble skyline again. Especially that building that Batman jumped off of in that Dark Knight movie. Have you ever noticed how dumb people are when they take pictures? We are weird you know. People stand hugging big plastic things massed produced for any city in the world and like that snap goes the camera lens. Why? It’s raving mad. It’s mostly girls. I don’t know how that kind of picture could bring any joy or happiness or memory into any ones life. Ask Tyler Payne how to take a picture if you don’t know.

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The next day at the Hong Kong Art Center I read something painted on the floor by a piece of art that the artist was exploring the connection objects to their maker. He said, “A thing becomes a thing because of the vigilance of a mortal” –from the The Missing Parts Gallery.

I think he’s on to something.

I couldn’t help but think again about the mortal vigilance that went into that humble little skyline outside at the harbor.

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Subway sandwiches, Captain Crunch and Dr. Pepper need I say more. Those things take some kind of mortal vigilance too I guess.

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I met a Dutch girl with really flat hair at my hostel. Sorry that was my first impression of her. We talked a little and she says I’m reading the Message in the Bottle and I love it. “Really, I say. I’m shocked! The Message in the Bottle by Walker Percy? That’s one of my favorite books!” She scrunches her bland nose in a fit of doubt. Hair doesn’t move. She pulls out Message in the Bottle by Nicolas Sparks from her bag. I should have known better. A flat haired Dutch girl will never be cool. Next.

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Walked into the Chinese Embassy like Clint Eastwood and walked out with my work-visa. I get to go back to China. Thanks for crossing those fingers back there.
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INTERESTING FACT FOR SOME OTHER DAY: Wikipedia says that there are more people living or working above the 14th floor in Hong Kong than anywhere else on Earth making it the world’s most vertical city.

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THIS IS COOL: I met up with my old friends JC Vandegevel and Aaron Carmichael and we went climbing up the tallest escalator in the world.

Later Aaron and I followed the white rabbit down the hole for about 10 city blocks underground. She was flawless. I ask, “Why is she walking so fast?”

“She probably thinks someone is stalking her,” Aaron says.

”There is. We are,” I say. He chuckles.

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Aaron and I took the Lords Supper that day with Dr. Pepper, Chocolate Milk and Ruffles with ”big ass ridges.” Communion never tasted so good.

On this one street corner on a normal Thursday afternoon sat two young men from Carthage Missouri in the prime of their lives in the one of the most progressive cities in the twentieth-first-century. We sat in front of a chic Hong Kong boutique and ate Ruffles with big ass ridges. Thank you Plano Texas for giving us these cheesy ridges. A young girl looks back at us from her mothers side and I say for Aarons amusement only, “those are chips little one.” Aaron chuckles.

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Later he sees me off. I think we hugged goodbye but I can’t remember.

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Back to the beginning of my story. 4:27AM in that tiny-grey-van-taxi outside of the city with William Faulkner characters next to me. There was this old man, who looked blind, forced in the back seat next to a younger peasant couple gnawing on stalks of sugar cane and who happened to be talking very loudly. The blind mans wife was helped up front by a genteel gentleman in a black raincoat. She was old and frail, tight thin onion skin pulled hung against the sharp rigid bones in her face. I don’t know why but my stomach has always turned a little whenever I see old people.

There were these other two indistinguishable but warm bodies pressed against my shivering shoulder. The spiritual thing was, was that I could see myself in the rear-view-mirror. Driver was still puffin away on his new smokes from the big city and I was still getting sprayed with sharp spikes of cold rain. With the soft yellow glow from the dome light bending and twisting in the smoke I again checked my existence in the rear-view mirror.

And then the driver starts shouting “money” at me. He wants me to pay. I don’t have patients or time for this shit. I’m not rich. For Christ sake, the cute girl was warm and snug in her bed on that bus in that other story and here I was in this new story getting wet and irritable. I tried to woo him but he wasn’t having it.

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He dropped me off at a bus stop. I told him too. Again, I stepped into the cold and rain and climbed into bus number one. My body cringed as it met the hard cold dead plastic of the seat. It’s still dark but 5AM is coming soon I reassured myself. Shivering. It starts up. Rumbles. Plumes warm smoke comes out of the wet pipes and enters the cool wet air outside. Fog lay in the windows. We picked up one, two, three . . . old people . . . women mostly. Where the hell were they going? They ignored me. I must have blended in. I was glad that I blended in. They talked and squabbled like all old women do.

My chin was involuntarily bobbing up and down. One lady took off her shoes and socks. She was rubbing and massaging her frail foot on this cold morning bus. My stomach turned. I hate when old people do things like this. It makes me nervous. I mean it looks like they’re going to break and fall apart.

Was this a secret society of old people? Let me remind you that nothing was going on in the city. 5AM. No lights. No nothing. Where were they going? They all got off at the same stop. My stop. I got off. They pitched their umbrellas and walked in a single file line into the shadows of the dawn. I heard them squabble some more from a distance but I dared not follow fearing rain and hoping for warm sleep. Someday I’ll find out what those frail stomach turners are up too.

I stood alone shivering under a bus awning. Bus 71 was beaming its cockeyed lights at me and the driver was perched in his seat. He was dry and warm. He taunted me. But he wasn’t ready for riders yet. I almost took a taxi but that would have cost me a lot of money and it would have defeated the purpose of not paying the small-gray-van-taxi. You got to live by principles or you’ll die in this world. Eventually the door opened and I got on and warmed my hands with breath and friction and fell asleep almost instantly in those cadaver plastic seats.

Nauseous from the jerking of the bus and sleep and with a body temperature that flirted with death I made it to my bus stop. With water puddles everywhere. I ran home. Running. Red lanterns hung in the trees. Orange bars of light were trying to shoot up from the foggy horizon. Cloudy. Rainy. Home. I fell. Slipped right on that slick marble slab that happens to be put everywhere in this country. Hurt. Pissed. Tired. But beautiful and ugly. I was home. Back in China. In that Clint Eastwood fashion.

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