pierre the mundane

The 24-hour adventures of Bob “nice-but-dim” McHardy

2008-11-26T03:39:00.000-08:00

The 24-hour adventures of Bob “nice-but-dim” McHardy

Man, it sure is cold around here this time of year. November, this is. Hasn’t really started snowing yet, but the coldness is damp, seeps through your bones kind of damp. Dad has been working on the extension for what seems like months now, and three weeks ago he has gotten Uncle Ray to come every evening to patch up the old roof. Mom’s been nagging him to get a move on since Harvest Day, for the roof can’t wait till winter.

Anyhow, Ray is dad’s older brother, and lives on the farm by the lake, around 10 miles from here. He comes round on his bike. Not always ON it, though, sometimes he just pushes it. Somehow Ray always seems to have a puncture in his tyres at least once a week. He’s that kind of guy.

Today Dad has given me the unenviable task of cleaning up the extension flooring. This part of the house is going to be mum’s “den”, whatever that means. Maybe she plans to smoke opium in here, I don’t know. I hope not. She wants the floor to be nice and clean, which is kind of difficult, as no one has bothered to tell me how on earth you are supposed to clean DIRT. Yes, the flooring, is dirt. Eh?? Exactly.

“Just clean it, son. That’s what your mama wants.”

“Um… yes dad. But the floor is covered with dirt. You haven’t laid anything on the dirt yet.”

“Um… That I know.”

“…So…. How am I supposed to clean dirt? Does mum know she is getting a den with a dirt floor?”

“Stop calling it a den! It’s not a den. It’s her space. Her own, personal space. Oh, look! Ray’s here. I’d better get going with the old roof or your mum will have a fit.”

“Dad…”

And he’s out of the door.

I pretend to be sweeping the floor but actually I am just moving dirt around the floor. Evening it out, you see. My sisters Elsie and Rose are yapping away in the garden. They are supposed to be helping mom with dinner, but no. They yap instead of cook.

“Shut up! Do you mind? I’m trying to work here.”

No response whatsoever. It’s like, I’m invisible here.

I open the window a bit, so I can eavesdrop on dad and Ray. The other day I overheard them talking about the Japanese. I have no idea where Japan is or what the Japanese look like. But I have some idea that they are evil. Here are the snippets of their conversation I heard:

“….Those bastards have got it in them, I’d tell ya…”

“Damn right you are, Ray. They’ve got some balls…”

“…And those Ruskies. I’d tell ya…. Ya can’t trust them Ruskies…”

“Yeah, have you seen them ships? Some freaking big ships, I’d tell ya.”

And so on. My dad and Ray are not keen on conversing in complete sentences, you see. It’s the way folks speak around here. Their communication style is based mostly on inference (I learned this word in school last week).

I could hear them shuffling on the roof, dad asking Ray to pass him something or other, Ray muttering something under his breath. This carries on for a good half hour, where no coherent conversational exchange took place. And finally, alas! A loud “THUMP!!!!!” and I hear Ray’s ass sliding off the roof, landing on the ground.

“AOOOUUUUCHHHHH!!! MY ASSSS!!!!!!”

Dad rushes down to see to Ray, and I rush out in search of a way out of cleaning dirt.

“You okay, Uncle Ray?”

“…….noooooo….”

“Anything broken?” Dad says, as he lights up his pipe, trying to contain his smirk.

“I ~~need~~ to ~~~to lie down.”

“Bob, get in there and pour Uncle Ray a bourbon. Use that big mug with the rooster on it.”

“Yes, sir!”

I dash into the kitchen to see mom’s head buried in steam, swearing left right and centre in a language I could not comprehend. Again, I am inferring that she is swearing, just by the sound of it. Without turning around, she handed me the rooster mug.

“Pour me one, whilst you are at it. Mine in the rooster. Jar for Ray.”

“Which jar, mum?”

On hearing this, she turns round, and gives me THE LOOK, the look that tells me she cannot believe I am her son, as I have apparently just asked her the stupidest question possible in the whole of British Columbia.

“Okay mom… sorry…”

So I fetch a jar on the worktop, the one that is nearest and seems the cleanest. I sniff it out first out of instinct, and it smells of pickled onions. That’ll do.

Mug and jar in hand, I go down to the cellar to fetch the bourbon. Took a nice big swig myself, of course, before pouring it out for the adults. Poor Buff is still down here. Buff is our dog. He’s only got three legs and is about 500 years old. He gets very disoriented and wanders all over the place, urinates and defecates when and where he sees fit. I don’t mean that literally, as he is completely blind.

“C’mon Buff, come this way. Get outta here!”

He comes with me, diligently licking the drops of bourbon I accidentally spilled. Ironically, Blind Buff is moving faster than I am, as I struggle to balance the two massive drinks in my hands.

Ray is lying on his side, on a pile of hay, looking like someone who has just fallen twenty feet and landed on his boney ass. He seems to be in no hurry to down the bourbon though, so my dad decides to help him out.

“Sure you don’t wanna drink it? It’ll help ya ass heal, I tell ya.”

“Y’know, I saw another one of those zeppelins over the hills this morning. Massive thing it was. Massive. Very very large.” Ray says.

“That’ll be the second one you’d seen this week, no?”

“That’s right. You know Jones? Lives over the hill? I saw him the other day on his way to the market. He said war is coming our way. He said he’s seen at least three different zeps in the last week. He says them Japanese are ganging up with the Ruskies. Can you believe that? The Japs and the Ruskies? Ganging up?”

Ray’s got his eyebrows so high up his forehead as he says this, I can imagine his eyes popping out any minute.

“Jones is out of his freaking mind. Why would they gang up?! They hate each other’s guts. Jones is out of his mind. He knows nothing. Have you heard that story about him being kidnapped by aliens? On Christmas Eve 1904? He ain’t got all them screws on, I can tell you that much.”

“Unlike the pair of you, you mean?” Mom says, as she enters the barn, wiping her hands on her massive and very dirty apron. It’s even dirtier than that dirt floor I was asked to clean.

“Ray, this is the third time you fell off that roof this past couple of months.” Mom says as she grabs dad’s mug and pours what remains of the drink down her throat.

“Yes Lucy, I know. It’s a miracle I ain’t dead yet.” Ray is trying his best to be on mom’s good side. He is trying to be funny, you see.

Instead of wasting any more of her time in the company of what she sees as a collection of three incompetent males in her immediate and not so immediate family, she leaves us to our own devices and struts back to the kitchen.

You can see the look of relief on dad and Ray’s faces as she leaves (and mine too, no doubt). Now that she is gone, we lads can get on with more interesting and imminently relevant stuff. Like zeppelins and aliens.

“Uncle Ray, I heard you said something about the Ruskies and zeppelins. What’s that all about?”

“What’s that all about? What do you mean.” Dad grunts as he tries to shake the last drop of bourbon down his throat.

“I mean, dad, are the Ruskies coming? Is that it? Coming in those zeppelins that Uncle Ray saw?” I can feel my heart pounding as those words spill out of my mouth. I can hardly contain the taste of adrenalin in my blood. The prospects of foreigners invading, of war coming our way, of machines in the air carrying soldiers, big guns and all sorts of shiny explosive stuffs!

“Bob, my man, we live in strange times. Things are happening in the world. In THIS part of the world. We are in Canada, you know? Canada is a great country. Canada could be the make or break of the United States of America, of the whole goddam world. If we go, they go. If they go, we go.”

Needless to say, I have not got a clue what Ray was on about. What is happening? Go where? But I don’t want to come across as any more of a dimwit than they already think I am, so that leaves me no choice but to nod intently and furrow my brows as if I know exactly what he was on about. As if I am a man of the world.

“Bob, son, Ray is right. All kinds of rumours are flying about. We live in a small village but this is a strategic village. Know what I mean? STRA-TEE-JIG. There is no other way through to the town from the north west except through this valley. If they attack, it is going to be through here. Through where we are. That’s why those zeppelins’ been scouting around. Checking it out.”

Still I am not getting exactly what they are about, but I like the sound of the word STRA-TEE-JIG. It sounds kind of clinical but exciting, at the same time.

“You know, Bob…” and before Dad can finish his sentence, mom’s thunderous roar overwhelms all sound in the 1 mile vicinity: “BOB!!!!! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!!! NOOOWWWW!!!!!!”

There is a sense of urgency in mom’s voice that is slightly unusual. I run fast as I can back to the house. Shouting “Coming, MOM!!!!” as loud as I can as I run, for fear of her thinking I am not taking her commands seriously.

And there she is, in the kitchen, hands on her hips, facing the door. There is a look in her face that tells me something important is about to happen. This time, she is not going to tell me off for leaving the soap in the sink or mucking up my felt hat. This time, she has something STRA-TEE-JIG to say. I can feel it in the air.

“Yes, mom?” I am still trying to catch my breath.

“Bob. What was all that about?”

“What was all what about, mom?”

“You heard me. Stop pretending to be dim. You heard what I said.”

Why do adults always do this? They are so convinced that you know exactly what they are saying when you so obviously do not.

“Eh… I’m not so sure what you mean.”

“What were you lot talking about in there, is what I mean, Bob McHardy.”

“Oh… in the barn, you mean?” How on earth does she even know we were talking about anything in the barn at all, beats me.

“I’m waiting.”

“Oh… we were just chatting, like. Just about the Ruskies and how we are all strategic and that.”

“What about the Ruskies. What is strategic. What did that pair of fools tell you.”

“…. Eh.. well, Uncle Bob has been seeing zeppelins flying over near his house, and, and eh, I think they’re saying the Ruskies are scouting us out, and something about our valley being strateejig, and something about how if we go, the United States of America also goes.” I just realize that I have been unconsciously rolling my eyes as I recount all this.

Mom takes in a deep breath, and exhales an even deeper, frustrated, misunderstood sigh. It seems to have taken all her strength to do so. It was quite a sight to behold, as it is as rare as me giving my sisters Elsie and Rosie a hug or a brotherly pat on the heads. As if she is desperate to suck in whatever air she could lay her nose on, and exhale all her unspoken angst with all her might.

“Is it true, mom? Is it true that we are strateejig?” Man, I just love the sound of that word!!!!

“Shut the door, Bob McHardy.” Mom says calmly, hands still glued to her hips.

My heart is pounding so fast I can hardly contain it. I can feel something big coming. So big I can’t even imagine what it could possibly be that mom wants to say, which entails the shutting of the kitchen door. The kitchen door NEVER shuts. In fact, I didn’t even know the kitchen has a door!

Unidentifiable little bugs scuttered about as I shut the heavy creaking door. All kinds of thoughts flash through my tiny brain as I do. My first memory of mom laughing, when I was about four years old. She must have been laughing at I don’t know what it was I was doing, for she was looking at me, and her mouth opened so wide I could see down her throat. I remember Elsie as a baby, clutching my fingers with her wee little hand; it felt strange and warm and alien, all at once. I remember seeing mom and dad hugging tightly in front of the fire, both their eyes closed and smiling, as if they were the only two people in this world.

As I turn, mom is standing literally inches from me. The look in her eyes has somehow changed. Much softer, yet much scarier.

“Bob, I am going to tell you something. Something important. You are a big boy now, and there are things that you need to know. About me. Your mom.”

“Yes, mom.”

She put her hands on my shoulders. This is something she never does.

“Bob. All that talk between your dad and Uncle Ray about the Ruskies and the Japanese and war and all that.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Well, Bob, I AM all that. I am half Russian and half Japanese. And I am here, in this part of the world, in this tiny but strategic valley in British Columbia, for a reason.”

I can feel my jaws slowly drop as those words spilled from her mouth. My mom? A Ruskie AND a Jap at the same time? That explains the strange words she uses when she swears! And she is here or a reason??? What on earth could that mean???

“Bob, I love you dearly, you are my son, but I must tell you this, because I am not who you think I am. I am a…. I am your mom, but I am also… also…..”

At this moment the door opens, it is dad:

“What on earth! I didn’t even know this kitchen has a friggin’ door! Hey Lucy, is it okay if I take Ray home? He’s not much use today. I don’t want him to stick around for dinner either. He eats like a horse.”

“Sure.”

“Right then, you two, see you in a couple of hours.”

Dad didn’t seem to have noticed that mom and I are standing unusually close to one another, and that she’s got her hands on my shoulders. However, Elsie notices. She is the next to poke her big fat head through the kitchen door.

“Hey mom! Why are you hugging Bob?”

“I’m not HUGGING Bob, I am talking to him. Get out of here.”

“Rosie kicked me!”

“GET OUT OF HERE. NOW!”

And she is gone.

“Mom, I don’t understand… what…”

“Listen, Bob, I have to leave tonight. After dinner, when you kids are in bed, I will leave. I don’t know when or whether I will come back, but I won’t be here tomorrow. Your father is going to go apeshit. You will have to be the one to hold court. You have to be the one to keep things together.”

“You are leaving us?” I feel a huge lump in my throat, all of a sudden. “Doesn’t dad know? I mean, doesn’t he know that you are half Ruskie and half Jap? That you are strateejig?? Can’t you tell him? Can’t you work something out? Can’t you not go?” Without knowing, tears are streaming down my cheeks now. Hot tears.

“Go. Go and get your sisters in to help with tea.”

At this very moment a deafening thunder clap strikes my ears, as if slapping me on the face, a hard reality check, a wakeup call, and a split second later lightning strikes.

“Oh dear, your dad and Uncle Ray will be caught in this storm.” Mom says as she turns to look out the window. It is one ginormous cantaloupe of a storm alright. Already, the rain is pouring down. The sky has turned grey.

“Maybe they will turn round and come back….”

“No, they won’t. It wouldn’t even have occurred to them. They are a bit dim, they are. Nice but dim.” Mom says, shaking her head. I think she was about to add, “just like you”, but held her tongue. As she is about to leave and all.

“Go on then, Bob. Go get your sisters.”

“But, mom… when will I see you again? When will you come back?”

“I don’t know, Bob. I really don’t know.”

Much as I want to linger and get to the bottom of all this, mom seems determined to get me out of the kitchen. As far as she is concerned, that is the end of the conversation. She is leaving, and that is all there is to it.

I have no choice but to leave the kitchen and accept it as it is. Elsie and Rose are in the yard, getting drenched as they try to kick dirt into one another’s face.

“Girls, mom wants you to get inside. Help with tea.”

“Piss off, DIMWIT!” Elsie yells and then laughs, without even turning round to look at me.

And here I am, getting drenched in the rain, seeing the bright white lightning strike the fields in the distance, feeling strangely loving towards my idiotic and disrespectful sisters, who have not got a scoobie about all the strateejigaliosity that is going on with mom and me and the Japs and the Ruskies and all that.

Oh God. I guess that makes me part Ruskie and part Jap as well. Oh Lord.

At this point, Buff gently nudges me by my leg, as if trying to console me. As if saying, “Yes, pal. Bob. I know. I know. It’s weird, but it’s true. As weird as a blind, three-legged, five hundred year old dog.”

I drag myself back into the house, lay the table for tea, and dry myself with an old rag. Thinking, tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will be another day.

^^^^^

Meanwhile, here’s dad and uncle Ray, on Jumble, the old mare, strutting along slowly on the dirt path, getting drenched, praying to God they won’t get struck by lightning or die of hypothermia.

“Ray, man…. This is the pits.”

“OH, stop saying that. I’m feeling bad enough as it is. I think my hip bones are shattered. This pain is unbearable. You got some of that sauce with you?”

“Here, take a swig. Don’t down it all”.

In the near distance dad sees a light. A very bright, very white, very strange kind of light.

“Hey Ray. Can you see that? What’s that? What the hell is that?!”

Ray rubs and then squints his eyes. He is extremely myopic. “Nah.. what’d you mean? That’s just lightning, innit?”

“No, you dumb fool. It’s like, someone’s holding a flare or something. Except that it’s not flickering and it’s not getting put out by this goddam downpour.”

Dad is right. What could this be?

“Fumbling bells… it’s the fumbling aliens! They’re here in their space ship!” Ray says as he empties the hipflask into this gob.

Before dad can respond to this luda-crust suggestion, the light is literally in their faces already. Before either of them can say “what the f…!”, they receive the head butt of their lives. A loud “BOOIIIIIINNNG!” and then boom. They are both over and out.

^^^^^

At home, we have had our tea. Kidneys and spuds with bread and butter. Elsie and Rose chattered like a pair of drunk old ladies, while I ate slowly and quietly, as did mom. After tea she tucked the girls in and left me to my own devices. And here I am, lying in bed in the pitch darkness, hearing the rats scuttling on the roof. Dad is still out, and mom will be leaving soon, no doubt. I need to do something. I need to go with mom, or I need to get out there and look for dad. I can’t just lie here. I can’t. I don’t want to be a twelve year old orphan boy having to take care of two dumb sisters all on his own.

So I creep out of my room, and put my ear on mom’s door. I can hear some faint noises, indicating activity, but cannot make out what it is that she is doing. However, I accidentally lean too heavily on the door and it opens and I fall right in.

“Mom!” I cannot quite believe my eyes. My mom is dressed up in some kind of military gear, big black boots, goggles, hard hat and everything!

“Bob! Get back to bed! You’ll wake the girls!”

“Ma….ma…mom! I… I….”

“Listen, Bob, I ain’t got no time. I got to go. I have a job to do. I can’t stick around here and explain!”

“Can’t I come with you? I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be helpful. I won’t be no bother at all!” I can’t quite believe I just said that. I must be more tired of living than I think.

“What I am about to do, where I am about to go, is dangerous. It is important that I get this task done. I can’t afford no errors. Lives depend on me. The future of our nation depends on me.”

“Our nation?”

“Yes, OUR nation.”

“Er…. Would that be, Canada?”

And she gives me the LOOK again.

“Okay… sorry, mom.”

“I can’t say it. But you know what our nation is, Bob.”

“Can I come with you? Oh please? I want to be a part of this. I want our nation to depend on me, too!”

I can see her wavering. She is thinking about it. She is trying to imagine me as a swift, cunning, smart, deadly twelve year old soldier. No. Not a soldier, a killing machine. Yeah. A killing machine on which his nation depends. That’s me. Bob McHardy. That’s what I am.

“Bob….you are making this incredibly difficult for me. I can’t put you in a situation like that, I can’t afford to take any risks. If anything should happen to you, I would never be able to forgive myself….” She is slowly crouching down now, perhaps feeling a bit weak and weary.

“But mom, I promise, I will not let you down. If you can trust me to take care of dad and the girls, can’t you trust me to go on this mission with you?” Not entirely convincing, I know, but it’s worth a shot.

“Bob…” mom shakes her head, her hands on my shoulders again. For the first time in my life, I feel a real connection between us. A connection that is unique between us. I feel special.

“Mom, I will not let you down. I will make you proud.” I stand up as I say this,
Sticking my chest out, trying to look as tall as I possibly can.

“Oh, Bob… but what about your sisters? What about dad? What will they do without the both of us?”

“We will be back. We will do this task, and whatever else that needs to be done, and we will come back together. We will.”

I can see that she is wavering big time now, I can see you saying yes in a minute.

“Alright then, Bob. Yes. Yes you can come with me. But you must promise me. Promise me we will BOTH be back when all this is over. When our task is done.”

“Yes mom. We will. We most certainly will!”

“Alright then, go put some warm clothes on, and your big jacket. And your wooly socks and your boots. Bring a lump of lard with you from the kitchen. And a canteen of water. And a flask of bourbon. You’ll be needing them, son.”

“Yes mom!”

Whooohooooo! ADVENTURE! ME and my MOM!!!!!!

It is still raining outside but has died down a bit now. The sky is still grey and cloudy but at least there is a bit of moonlight. Mom and I, we sneaked into the girls’ room and kissed them goodnight (well, mom did, anyway). Mom scribbles out a note and pins it to the wall.

And off we go.

We walk towards the hills. No, we are marching. Mom is carrying an enormous rucksack, and some kind of machine gun. I don’t know, really, I don’t know anything about guns. But this one is big.

All kinds of thoughts fleet through my head as we march on, all kinds of emotions rushing through my body as we do. I start imagining myself in some kind of war-time fiction, involving spies, conspiracies, and horrible secrets. And totally naff weapons. Like walking sticks that turn into a bayonet, boots that have built in jets, and lumps of lard that are actually hand grenades.

“HOLY CRAP!” Mom yells, all of a sudden. She nearly tripped over something on the path.

I look down to see two bodies, lying across the path, both on their backs. We crouch down to take a closer look.

“It’s dad and uncle Ray! Mom! Are they dead?”

Mom calmly and firmly slapped dad on the face, then poured bourbon into his mouth, via HER mouth.

“Hey! Wake up! Wake UP!”

And surely enough, dad wakes up.

“Oh.. Jeez. Oh Lucy, it’s you! My GOD it’s you! Oh… my head... “

“What happened, dad?”

“What are you two doing out here? Looking for us?”

“Hey, let’s wake Ray up. Then we can talk.”

Dad slapped Ray like mom slapped him, but instead of feeding him bourbon mouth-to-mouth style, he took a sip from my canteen and sprayed water on Ray’s face.

Ray wakes up, just as confused as dad was, his head just as sore.

They both seem genuinely confused. In fact, their rendition of what happened to them seems so crazy, it occurs to me that maybe they really have been abducted by aliens. Because this is what Ray says.

“You wouldn’t believe how bright that light was! It was brighter than anything I’d ever seen. And it just moved so fast! One second we were going, what was that?! And the next, it was like, WHAM! Right smack in our faces, head butts of our lives. And we were out!”

“Yeah, it was really strange. I mean, who would want to do something like that? In this part of BC? Unless…”

“Unless they are aliens.” Ray’s voice considerably lowers as he says this.

Mom’s heard enough, “look, the pair of you. Get yourselves sorted. It’s too late to head back to Ray’s now, please go back to our house, the girls are alone in there. They need you.”

“Where’re you going, Luce? And why are you dressed like that? Heck! What are you wearing?! And is that… is that a .. a machine gun?” Dad’s voice is crackling a bit as he speaks.

“Listen, I can’t explain now. Bob and I, we need to go somewhere. You and Ray, please, please just go home and stay with the girls. We’ll be back soon. Real soon.”

“But Lucy, where are you going? This time of night? Dressed like this? With BOB of all people???”

“Hey, dad! What’d you mean by that? I’m standing right here, you know?” My feelings are hurt.

“Bob and I, we have a task to do. It has to do with a bet I made with Madeline over at St Ives. I can’t tell you the details. But if we manage this, Bob and I will win us a couple of cows and three pigs. We were going to keep this a secret, this will be our x’mas present for you all.”

“Ah… I see.” Dad and Ray says simultaneously, and smiles.

“But what if you lose?” Ray asks, quite sensibly.

“We are NOT going to lose.” Mom gives them THE LOOK as she states this as a matter of fact.

“Okay okay, alright Lucy, we hear ya, we’re heading home.” Dad puts his hands up, almost smiling. Gosh. He is such a simpleton sometimes.

“We’re running late,” mom checks her watch, “take care of the girls. And one another.”

“Yes madam!” Ray attempts to salute.

And we part our separate ways.

Mom and I marches on for what seems like another couple of hours. The rain has all but stopped now, and the moon is bright and the air is clear. We talk little, just both quietly putting one foot in front of the other, not letting anything get in our way. I feel strangely close to mom, despite not having a clue what it is what we are about to face, or who she is, I mean, who she REALLY is.

We reach the foot of the hill, and mom instructs me to sit down beside a rocky patch, somewhat shielded by brambles. We sat side by side, she checking her watch every now and then, quietly sipping bourbon.

“Bob.”

“Yes mom?”

“I love you. Watashi wa anatano suki des.”

“Eh?”

“That is Japanese, for I love you.”

“Okay, mom, watawa… I love you too.”

Just then, I can hear someone approaching us. At about the same time, a huge shadow cast over our heads. I look up first, to see a ginormous zeppelin – a ZEPPELIN!!! Then I look ahead to see a woman approaching. She is dressed just like mom. Oh. Except that she’s got no machine gun strapped round her waist like mom has. She’s got a sword instead. That’s right, one of these long, curved, heavy looking gladiator type swords!

“Lucy. Who hiss dis.” She speaks with a strange accent. Doesn’t seem like Japanese, though.

“This is Bob. He will come with us. He will be useful.”

Sword woman looks me up and down, then looks at mom, then looks at me again, and at mom again.

“He looks dim.”

“That’s beside the point, Val. He will be of use to our mission tonight.”

“Alrhight then Luce, whatdhever you say.”

Now with swordwoman “Val” on our side, we are marching ahead even faster than before. I am practically running. Boy, am I hungry. I sure could take a bite out of that lard right now.

“So, Bob. You vill do has you harr told.”

“Yes ma’me.”

“We vill reach a hidehaout soon. Venn vee ghet zheare, you vill stay, me and Lucy will go tick carhe of zings. You stay zheare, and count to five hundred. Zen you light zizz flare, and throw it hard as you can. Away from you.” She reaches into her bag and hands me a massive flare stick.

Dim wit that I am, I drop it as soon as she hands it to me. Dang!!!! What am I thinking! Possibly the most exciting, adventurous, amazing night of my life, and I am screwing up before it even properly begins!!!

“Oh ohno…. I’m so sorry, Val, ma’m….. I…. I… my hands are a bit clammy, and bit greasy from handling the lard.. .Would you like some lard, by the way?”

Like sensible, properly trained military style adult women, they both ignores me completely, as I fumble to pick up the flare and try to stick it in my bag whilst trying to keep up with their march.

The rain has stopped completely now, and the moon is shining brightly. Now I can see more clearly where we are heading. Looks like we are heading towards Jones’ farm! There is nothing much near the farm. Except for this hill right in front of it. As we approach the bottom of the hill, Val leads us to the hideout place through a detour. I have never set foot in this part of the land before, and so am appropriately surprised to find a small hut hidden behind the tall maple trees. The hut looks lived in; there is a rug on the floor, a lantern, and a few potatoes lying on a table.

“Bob, you stay here. Do as Val says.” Mom says to me, emotionless. Not even making eye contact. Meanwhile, Val is removing some floorboards, and in no time manages to dig out what looks like a hand grenade, and a leather pouch. Then she turns towards mom and hands her a hipflask. Mom takes a swift sip, then hands it to me. I do not feel like I have a choice! So I politely accepted the offer and pretend to take a sip. I am tempted to really drink some, you know? I am feeling very apprehensive about all this now. I mean, I’m not even sure if I can be relied upon to count from one to five hundred without missing a number or two. What if it is really important, STRATTEJIGGCOLLY important, that I get the five hundred thing exactly right? What if lives depend on it? What if the future of British Columbia depends on it? CHRIST!

Before I can express my concerns, the two have left the hut. Oh boy! I better start counting!!!! One. Two. Three. Four… Oh shit. Where did I put that flare again? Five. Six. Do I even have any matches? Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ele.. Did Val even give me any matches? I can’t recall that she did. Ten. No. Nine. Ten. Eleven…

It is harder than you can imagine, this having to count all the way up to five hundred business, when you mind is racing all over the place, trying to figure out what has been going on, what is going on, and what will happen. And all the time trying to find some bleeping matches! To light this freakishly large and dangerous looking flare that is the size of a small child! Throw it as far as I can? What if I drop it before I could throw it? What if I drop it ON MY FOOT??? What if this is a stick of dynamite masked as a flare? With one foot blown off, I will still have to try to grab the flare/dynamite or whatever is left of it, so that I could complete my mission and throw it! Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen..

And so, before I know it, my voice is saying four hundred and ninety. Four hundred and ninety-one. Four hundred and ninety-two. I still haven’t found any matches! I am panicking now. I dash out of the hut without even thinking, and holds out the stick of flare with both my hands, staring at the goddam thing. Four hundred and ninety-three. Four hundred and ninety-four. Just when I start thinking all is doomed to make me look like the most incompetent boy in the whole of the north western hemisphere, I realize the only thing left for me to do, is to ask for help. “Oh God, please help me. Please help me light this flare! Four hundred and ninety-NINE!” And just as my count is up, I see a flash of lighting in the near distance, my heart skips a beat, and as I count “FIVE HUNDRED!” Lightning strikes on my flare, and it lit up! I was so happy that I start laughing like a maniac! The flare is LIT!!! Ha ahhahahahahaah! So I throw it with all my might, as hard as I can.

The light was white, bright, and bigger than I’d imagined. My heart leaps all over the place. I am so happy. “Thank you so much, God! I love you!” I yell out loud to the flare. Would it not be nice to have a kind of a show for children, to teach them numbers, where there is a count (as in Count Dracula or some such), obviously he will have to wear a cape and all that, and this Count loves to count! SEE? Hhaahhaha… And every day he has to count to a certain number, and he gets immense pleasure out of it. So he reaches the number that he is supposed to count, lightning strikes, thunder roars, and then he laughs “HAHAHAHHAAHH!! FIVE HUNDRED!!!!!” More light and sounds! Man. The kids would love that.

Before I can work out the details to this brilliant idea of a show, suddenly I get a tap on my shoulders. I turn round to see two large, masked men, in military garb. One of them put one hand over my mouth, while the other starts tying me up with a rope. At this very moment, I peed in my pants. Man. I tell you. I am not proud of that.

They drag me back into the hut, and without a word, gags me with an old rag, throw me on the floor, toss a smelly blanket over me, and leaves just as quickly as they have arrived.

Five hundred and ten. I count to myself in my head. Five hundred and eleven. I think I am crying now, for I can feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Funny how one minute you feel on top of the world, God is on your side, you achieved the impossible and all that, and the next minute, you are bound and gagged and left to die.

I want to pray again, but don’t want to push it. God has done his bit. Now, it’s up to me.

^^^^^^^

God knows how long I have been sitting on that floor, feeling utterly sorry for myself. I keep counting alright, but I sure did miss or jumped more than a good few numbers. I am now at ten thousand five hundred and twenty-three. Not that that means anything, when you are in my situation.

BOOM!!! The door is kicked open!!! I can’t make out rightaway who it is, and have to squint quite hard to make sense of the face on the blurb in front of me.

“Bob. Hare you alright?” It is Val. Thank goodness for that. I want to tell her that I managed to do exactly as I was told. But I’ll have to wait till she removes the gag and bound.

Mom appears next. “HURRY! They are getting here! Hurry hurry!” I see that mom is holding the machine gun in her hands now. Man. It sure is massive. Makes mom look small and fragile holding it.

Val quickly frees me from my misery, and signals for me to stay behind her. “Mom!”
“SHHHUUUSHH!!! Stay behind us! We are in danger. We need to go.”

“Still got that lard with you, Bob?” Mom asks, as we quickly marches away from the hut.

“Yes mom.”

“Scoop it out, take a bite, drink some water. You will need the energy.”

“Yes, mom.”

I am suddenly moved by her concern for my well being. She is tough but kind. And she truly cares about me. She loves me. She is a good mom.

Just as I am chomping down on the smooth lump of fat, I see Val drawing out her ridiculously large sword. About twenty metres ahead of us are two hostile looking people. They too seem to be drawing THEIR swords out!

“STAY WELL BACK, BOB! WELL BACK!” Mom yells and I freeze.

What happens next is too much for me to handle, really. I don’t even have the words and sentences to describe it. But I will try. Mom and Val engaged in a truly hair-raising combat fight with the two men. Val was fighting with her sword, Kung Fu Panda Stylee, whilst mom was kicking hard and whacking the enemy with her massive machine gun whenever she could. I heard ouches and thumps all those graphic sounds of pain and violence that I have otherwise only heard from Uncle Ray falling off the roof or some such. I was secretly hoping that mom would starting shooting with the machine gun. I have never seen one in action before. But I guess she can’t shoot without risking hurting Val. Oh. And when I said I freezed? I really did. I literally couldn’t move my feet. I could still count though, and count I did. I also sneaked in another prayer. I know I shouldn’t, as God has already answered one for me. But this one is kind of for Val and mom, not me, or so I’d like to think. “God, dear God. Please don’t let them get hurt. Please. Please keep them safe.” Alright, not the best prayer in the world. But that’s about as much as I can manage, what with all the THUMPING and WHACKING and CHING! CLINK! CHING! of the swords, and the counting. And the fleshing out of the details of my kids show with The Count.

Val and mom did not let themselves down. It was a hard fight, and I had to count till about six hundred (give or take twenty-five) before the two men were left lying on the ground. Val is visibly tired, and she is panting hard, sweat soaking through her clothes. Likewise, mom is tired and has her hands on her knees, breathing hard.

“Bob… Pass us… passs us that canteen of yours.”
“Yes mom!”

As the two women drink their water and recover from the fight, I feel like I want to hug them.

“Val, mom. Can I hug you?”

They both give me THE LOOK. But I wouldn’t budge. “Please? Can we have a group hug?”

And before they can say no, I finally manage to unglue my feet from off the ground, and I run over to them and give them the most un-self-conscious hug I can remember giving to anyone since the age of three.

Daybreak is here, before you can say “WHAT???”

Hey! This is all true. In the last twenty-four hours, I have gone through a whole load of stuff. Most of it pretty exciting, but also very strange and surreal. And the peeing my pants part, I am not proud of, and would greatly appreciate if you never mention it to anyone.

After the group hug, mom and I bid farewell to Val, and mother and son heads home. This time, we are not marching. We are strolling. Mom passes me the hipflask, and this time, I swallow some. Okay. More than some. I bloody well emptied the whole thing. Mom is not pleased when I pass her back the empty flask. Actually, she whacks me on the back of my head with the butt of her machine gun. ‘OUCHHHH!” I scream. Okay I am faking it a bit. She only whacked me gently, of course. Just a loving gesture, from a tough, foreign (!) but loving mom with a secret identity, to a dim but not entirely useless son. And when we get home, we will be greeted by my loving father, my pain in the ass of an uncle, my two violent, disrespectful and frightening little sisters. There will be plenty of question, perhaps not as many answers. Hell this may not even be the end of all this! But we will be happy. Strateejiggcally so. The end.

Mahjong and Me

2008-09-10T23:30:00.000-07:00

The pressure is building, and she cannot decide if she is feeling it of is she seeing it. She knows nothing about the game of majhong, but sitting next to her MIL (mother-in-law), watching those fat shiny tiles knocking about the table, taking in all the banter and trying to suss out what was actually going on, was fascinating enough.

Mrs Lee has stopped talking in the last five minutes; all her tiles are face down and her eyes move with every tile that is being handled. Yingying, sitting opposite Mrs Lee, continues to slurp her bowl of instant noodles intermittently, making loud smacking noises which strangely reminds her of the movie "Gremlins". Mr Wong sits opposite MIL, and smokes a grubby looking Double Happiness as he discusses the stock market with Yingying. MIL butts in every now and then, trying to get Mrs Lee back into the conversation in the vain hope of making her let something, anything slip. She also interjects Mr Wong and Yingying's chitchat with anecdotes and grossly exaggerated "facts and figures" regarding the performance of various H-shares.

They've been playing for about two hours and as far as I can work out, Mr Wong is the biggest loser so far. He has been paying up at the end of every win and he is yet to have his first win (I might have missed it when I was sent to the kitchen to make the instant noodles for Yingying). Mrs Lee is right behind him, having only had one win so far, which probably explains her intense concentration on the game at the moment.

MIL is the real sneaky one, pitching people against one another. She might appear to be making friendly chit chat, but I know her, and I know she is not the one to waste her time on anything that does not promise a tangible gain of some sort. A right bitch, she is. She agreed to her son marrying me, because I was already pregnant with her first grandchild.

She was appalled by the fact that I do not know how to play mahjong.

Weird day

2008-07-08T05:14:00.000-07:00

Today has been a weird one, so far. First up was this pain in my neck when I woke up. I woke from a dream which seemed more like a prophecy than the random consequences of the brain rummaging through thousands of meaningless fleeting files in the vain hope of processing them in some meaningful way. In this dream, I was having coffee with another writer, Sue, who is also represented by Fred, our agent. She told me that the reason I haven’t heard from Fred for three months since sending him my latest manuscript was because he was dead. In my dream, I sprayed hot latte all over her face as she said this, as this had seemed such a ludicrous idea that I just had to laugh. She did not flinch, nor blink, nor yell at me, though, and continued staring at me with those narrow brown eyes, underscored by large, almond shaped dark circles which she no longer tried to hide with makeup. That was when I realized that Fred really might be dead. That was when I woke up.

And so, I woke up, and felt the pain in my neck. I stayed motionless in bed for a few more minutes before I went to the bathroom and scraped my tongue. I have a thing about tongues. I love tongue. Eating tongue, that is. I have about twenty ox tongues in my freezer right now, and every Sunday night I would cook one, and eat it for the rest of the week. Pig tongues are great too, and duck’s tongues are fabulous if you can get them. Goes down really well with sake.

Anyhow, I scraped my tongue. I like to have a pink tongue as much as I can. Nothing disgusts me more than the sight of someone’s yellow or grey or purple or blue tongue. I once met Will Smith at a literary event in New York, and he was taking to me – yes TO ME – we were actually chatting face-to-face standing no more than two feet apart from one another. He was every bit the charming fellow everyone imagined and described him to be – until you catch a glimpse of his tongue as he laughed a charming laugh. Man. It was a disgusting sight. I wish no one need to ever see that tongue and I was surprised no one alerted him to this highly off-putting aspect of his awesome self. I screwed up my face instinctively and had the good sense to pretend I was choking on the prawn toast I was holidng, after which I quickly excused myself.

I always scrap my tongue first thing in the morning. Then I have a wee, then I look out of the window. Today, it was way too bright and hot for my liking. I thought about my dream, and tried to note the details. I tried to recall what Sue was wearing, whether my latte was sweetened, and what time of day it was in my dream when our little exchange took place. I tend to mull over my dreams a bit more than I used to, these days. Helps me slow the day down.

Then I took out my camera and took a picture from my spot. I mulled over that for a while, as well, and thought about the picture I took yesterday. It was a hot day as well, not as bright, but hot.

Then the phone started ringing. It was Fred. Thank God he isn't dead.

"Hello."
"Hi Fred."
"Hey, yeah, listen, listen to this."
"Yeah. I'm listening."
"Don't say anything. Just listen to me."
"..."
"Listen. It is not there anymore. Okay? It is not there anymore."
"..."
"I'm going to hang up now. IT IS NOT THERE ANYMORE."

And he hung up.

I looked at the handset, as one does, and then I hung up too.

What the fuck was that?

I thought about ringing him back, in case he was going through some bizarre drug-induced paranoia that he needed waking up from. I thought about calling Sue, I thought about going over to Fred's place. Then I thought about what he said. IT IS NOT THERE ANYMORE.

What the fuck was that? What is not where anymore?

That was all a bit too much for me to take in that early in the morning. Yes it was early, I looked at my phone and it told me the time was 9:05am. Why on earth was he calling me so early? It was definitely him on the phone. His cigarette and alcohol wrecked voice, his non-descript accent, his caller-displayed phone number.

Like I said, it was all a bit too much for me. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a weak whisky soda with plenty of ice. Then I went to lie down on the couch with the drink my my hand. I took a sip of it and was very glad I had scraped my tongue.

Fred doesn't really have a drug problem, but he is prone to paranoia, as many successful people tend to be. Some of the biggest names in literary fiction in the 1990s were managed by him. He has a knack for spotting writers that sell bucket loads. Unfortunately, his streak ran out in around 2001, when one of his authors commited suicide and apparently left Fred a suicide note. Nobody but Fred knows what the note says, but that seemed to have changed everything. Since then, he hasn't represented any bestsellers. Which would explain why I am living in this shit hole trying to live off a part-time lecturer's salary teaching creative writing in a community college in the middle of nowhere.

Sue's predicament is different in many ways. First off, she is plenty loaded, so money is not an issue for her. Secondly, she loves Fred. I mean, she chooses to have Fred represent her. She is a fan. She is also clinically insane and yet unbelievably boring to talk to.

She has been institutionalized twice, during which she wrote a collection of poems which sold big in Finland and Sweden. And you would think that a nutcase would be interesting in some way, but not Sue. In fact, you would probably need some convincing to believe what I just told you about her.

And before I knew it, I had finished my drink. I don't have a drink problem, I just like to drink. I don't believe drinking before noon necessarily makes you an alcoholic. I hardly ever drink at night.

The phone started to ring again. I looked at the caller display, and it is Fred again. I hesitated about picking it up. If he sprang any more weird shit on me I might be incapacitated for the whole day. I am not very good at processing weird shit.

And so I just let it rang, and rang.

After a while the ringing died off, and two minutes later it started again. That carried on for about eighty minutes, during which time I had another three whisky sodas.

I decided to check in on Fred by calling his daughter. She works in an advertising agency in town. I dragged my ass to the study to locate her business card. I dialled the number.

"Hello. Can I speak to June please?"
"May I know who is calling?"
"This is Jack, Jack Stone."
"One moment please."

"Hello Jack?"
"Hi June. Morning."
"What's up?"
"Listen, have you spoken to Fred recently?"
"I saw him last night. Why."
"He called me this morning and said some weird shit. I was wondering if everything is okay with him."
"What do you mean? What weird shit?"
"...it's a bit hard to explain. Listen. Can you call him and check that he is okay? When he called me he forbade me to speak."

June roared out laughing.

"Is this part of a feasibility study of one of your plots?"
"No."
"You're fucking joking."
"Listen, just give the ugy a call. Okay? I'm just a tad worried."
"Have you been drinking? You sound slurred."
"Just call him, then call me back. Okay?"
"Jeez... I'm just about to go to a meeting..."
"Just call him."
"Okay. Jeez."

And she hung up.

Jeez. Indeed. I'm so glad I am childless.

I poured another drink and went back to my couch. I waited for half an hour, but June did not call back.

I waited till noon. Nothing.

I allowed myself to drift into sleep again, when I had another dream about Fred and Sue. In this dream, I was again having coffee with Sue, and again she told me that Fred was dead. Only this time, I did not react as if this was the biggest joke. I told her that I knew Fred was dead. She asked me, as if surprised, how I knew. I told her I knew because I was the one who killed him. My cell phone rang as I said this to her, and it was June. She asked if I could call Fred. As she was afraid something might have happened to him.

Then I woke up. Someone was frantically ringing my door bell, and my phone was ringing at the same time.

Me in the shop

2008-02-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

Am I paranoid to think the fan heater is going to explode any minute?

Saw Woody yesterday, again, at the gym. He was being chatted up by a couple of guys and he looked evidently uncomfortable. I gave him a wink as I passed by and he frowned ever so slighty as our eyes met.

The shop is quiet today, despite the festivities. Since 10 am, there has only been me, the fat cat, the fan heater, and this computer to keep me company.

I am logged on to all my usual guilty pleasures but there hasn't been much action all day.

The phone rang once today, a business call. A woman called to ask about our delivery services.

"Hello, do you do deliveries?"

"Yes, any order over $500, we deliver. $600 for outlying islands."

"Oh..."

"You want to place an order, ma'm?"

"Oh.... what do you mean... outlying islands...."

"... Lantau, Cheung Chau, Peng Chau... anywhere outside of HK island, Kowloon and the New Territories, ma'm."

"Oh... so... listen... how much do I get for $600?"

"...beg your pardon?"

"How much do I get? I mean, like, weight wise?"

"Depends on what you are ordering, ma'm."

"What have you got?"

"... well... we've got lots of different stuff.... Have you checked out our website? All our products are listed there. Or do you want me to fax you the price list? If you don't have access to the internet that is."

"The internet?"

"Yes, we have a website and all the information about our services and products are on the website."

"Hang on a sec..."

She put her hand over the phone and yelled something out to another person.

They had a bit of an exchange but I couldn't get what they were on about. She put a tight grip on that receiver, that's for sure.

"Okay..."

"Yes ma'm. You want to place an order? We can deliver tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh... even for outlying islands?"

"Yes that's right."

And then she hung up.

Girl on a swing

2007-07-15T10:14:00.000-07:00

My name is Marissa Lourdes McKay. I am eleven years old. I live in Fresno, California, with my mom (housewife), my dad (facilities manager at the university), my brother (loser) and our cat (he’s a bit old). Their names are Gloria, Steve, Anthony and Jammie, respectively. My dad Steve, he had another family before he married my mom and had me and my brother. His ex-wife is called Verena. I have only ever seen pictures of her, shown to me by my step sister, Vanessa. My dad said Vanessa is my step sister, but Verena is not my step mom. Verena re-married after she left my dad and apparently her husband is Vanessa’s step dad. My dad said Vanessa's step dad has no relation to me, either. It is all a bit confusing.

Vanessa lives with her mom and step dad in Edmonton, Canada. I’ve never been there but Vanessa told me it gets very cold in the winter. She comes to spend two or three weeks with us every summer, and we usually go on a trip somewhere together. I like Vanessa because she is like an older sister to me. Even though I only see her once a year, we catch each other online during the week and she sends me cool stuff through the mail like colourful earrings and stripey socks (I love stripey socks). She has lots of useless crap I like but can’t have, like shimmery eye shadow and fake nails (I have eye shadow too but only in pastel blue – my mom won’t let me have any shimmery stuff). Vanessa is sixteen years old, has blond hair, and is a bit fat. I’m not saying that to be mean, I only say it because that is something she herself mentions a lot, and objectively, she is a bit fat. Like, she’d say “Look at me I am so huge!” or “God I can’t eat any more I can’t afford to gain any more weight” or “Marissa I look like a gigantic hog whale standing next to you!” and so on. Regardless of what she says and what her measurements are, I think she is very pretty; she has pale blue eyes and nice big boobs but she is a teenager, and I guess that’s what teenagers do - focus on their imperfections. Maybe I will be like that too, in a couple of years' time.

I guess she takes it after dad. Dad is bit of a whale, and sometimes my mom teases him about it. But of course she is the one who puts the fried chicken and meat loaves and fried potatoes on the dinner table. She likes to feed us. My mom is tiny compared to my dad, and compared to most women her age in Fresno. But here in the Philippines, she looks quite large, even though she is a Filipina. Women here are quite skinny, I’ve noticed, even the middle aged ones.

So we are in a the Philippines, right now. This is the first long trip for us as a family. We arrived three days ago at this place called Cebu, where my mom's relatives live, and we are staying three more. After that we are going to a place called Borocay, and then to Manila, then to Singapore, and then back to California. Vanessa will not be flying to California. She will be meeting her mom and step dad in Singapore, and they will spend a few days there, before they head back to their home in Canada.

Right now, my parents and Anthony and Vanessa are vegging by the pool, or having lunch (hamburgers and mango smoothies, would be my guess) and I am here on the swing. I am not a great fan of swimming pools or beaches. It gets very hot if you don't swim. I can swim, but I don’t like to do it much, if I can avoid it. I can’t do it for pleasure, like I can with skipipng or swinging. I don’t like the feeling of not being able to breathe under water. Yesterday we all went out on a boat and we went snorkling. It was lovely seeing all the fish and the coral and all that but I did not like the taste of the plastic in my mouth nor the taste of the sea water. If I were a fish, and could breathe under water, like, if I had gills, I think I might like it more.

We are staying at this very nice hotel which has three swimming pools and its own private beach, and lots of stuff for kids to do. I am not really a kid, although my mom and dad still thinks I am. They tried to sign me up for the hotel’s “kids club” activities the first day and it was just so embarrassing as I am clearly not a kid. So I said to them, really, I’ll be okay, I am happy sunbathing and reading and playing videogames and playing on the swing. They weren’t convinced, especially dad. He thinks us “kids” need to have activities all the time or we will start drinking alcohol or take drugs or even worse, discover masturbation. I know this because I overheard him saying this to mom (she just laughed). I told him, dad, really, I just want to go play on the swing. He didn’t believe me just like he hardly ever does. I was glad when Vanessa said to him, in her usual assertive manner, that he should just let me be. He listens to Vanessa, but not to me. But that is okay. Because I like Vanessa.

This set of swings is a bit crappy as the seats are only about eighteen inches above the ground and my legs are too long for that. I guess they are designed for younger kids, although not many younger kids come round to play on them. Also, the seats are made of canvas so I can’t stand up on them. I don’t wear a watch so I don’t know what time it is now, exactly, but I guess it would be around midday, judging from the heat of the sun right over my head. Here is a graphic representation of what I am doing:

I have my earphones on, although the battery in my i-Pod is dead. On the first day it was still good so I was listening to the new Maroon 5 for the whole day but on the second day it was flat and I didn’t bring a charger with me. But it’s okay. The songs are already in my head and I play them in my head even though they are not really playing.

I can do this kind of thing, with my head, quite well. Right now, I am writing this in my head as I play the songs in my head (I drew that picture of me on the swing in my head, too). I don’t know if this is some kind of unusual skill that only some people have, I never really shared this with anyone. But I am glad to have it. Now I know what people are going to say, if they read this. They would ask, so can you do real complicated sums in your head, too? Answer is, I can’t, thankfully. I don’t want to be able do big sums without using a calculator or pen and paper.

Vanessa just walked over to check that I am okay. I told her I’m fine. She asked me if I wanted some food and I shook my head. Then she smiled at me, mouthed something, and pointed at her watch. I smiled back, and she walked back to the pool.

I have been here on the swing since after breakfast, so that would make it about three hours. Yesterday I was here pretty much all of the day, apart from breakfast, lunch and dinner. The day before that, I was here the whole afternoon. I like being on the swing. Last night, after dinner, I played video games for a little while and then I came out here to the swings again. It was nice and cool and dark and the air smelled lovely. It felt different from swinging in the daytime because you felt as if you were going faster and higher even though you were not. I might even have let out a little yelp or something out of excitment, at first. Then there was an old couple strolling by and they both stopped to look at me. It was hard to focus on them because I was swinging pretty hard and it was dark, but they looked at me for a good while. They even sat down on the bench right by the swings to look at me. I think they probably stayed around half an hour or so. I don’t know if they were talking to one another but they were holding hands the whole time. They smiled and waved me good bye when they got up to leave.

This morning, three boys, probably around my age, stood around, looked at me, pointed and giggled. Then they got on the swings next to me and in front of me, and tried to get up high like me. I am not a huge fan of boys my age; they are predictable, and this is exactly the kind of thing they will do, if you know what I mean. They just had to be as good, if not better, at doing anything that any girl they come across happens to be doing. Unless it is something obviously girly like painting their toenails or braiding their hair.

I hoped they would manage to get the momentum going but none of them did, though they tried many times. Eventually they left and one of them said (for me to hear, I suppose, for he was very loud) “This is stupid anyway, girly stuff” and the other one said “Yeah, stupid game! For stupid girls!” and the third one said “C’mon, let’s go to the pool”. Then they all ran off.

One part of me was glad they left, another part of me wanted to get down, chase after them and say “Look, it’s not stupid at all! And it’s not that hard. If you like I can show you …” But I didn’t get down and I didn’t chase after them. I could almost hear what they would have said, had I done that. I would have put them on the spot, and they would have found it hard to be nice to me in return. If I were not a girl, if there was just one of them instead of three, then it might be different.

Quite a few people like to sit on the swings and pose and have their pictures taken. On the first day, I nearly kicked a man on his head, not on purpose of course, as he was trying to get the best angle to take a picture of his girlfriend looking lovely sitting still on the swing. I let out a small cry and my heart went racing for a few seconds, but he didn’t seem to have noticed, even though I could feel my big toe brushed just so against his gelled up hair. It would be funny, though, if I had kicked him on his head and knocked him unconscious, broke his camera, and then him and his girlfriend trying to sue my parents for compensation.

Shortly after that couple left it rained, and it was lovely to feel the rain as you go up and down and high as you could on the swing, especially if you keep your mouth opened. The grounds emptied, and I saw hotel staff busy putting away equipment, dashing about taking the cushions off the deck chairs by the pool. They were very efficient, and reminded me of ants. I got pretty soaked after the shower as it came down quite heavy (although it lasted only about four songs’ worth), and after that my mom rushed out and tried to throw me a towel to dry my hair.

"Come on down now and dry yourself!” She yelled. I said “It’s okay mom I’ll dry in a minute, the sun is coming out already!” But she was not happy with that and said, “Will you for once do as I tell you? You’ll catch a cold!” “No I won’t catch anything! I promise!” “How can you promise something like that? You can’t! Come on down!” “I can’t stop now! Just throw me the towel!” At this point she had her hands on her hips, towel on her shoulder, looking cross. I knew she wouldn’t give up so eventually I did, and as I was about to come down, Vanessa came to my rescue, again, and said to my mom she would stay with me for a while so mom could just leave the towel to her. Mom did as she was told, and left us in peace.

Only that Vanessa didn’t ask me to stop, nor throw me the towel. She just stood and looked at me, and we smiled at one another, for a few seconds. Then she left. I like Vanessa.

I think I will stop writing for a while, now. The sky has turned all grey and the winds are stronger. I think it is going to rain again, soon.

So, good-bye for now. I hope you will all try swinging for many hours at a time, like I do. I know you will like it.

I was a hypnotist

2007-06-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

My son said, "can you tell me some stories from your childhood?"

I thought long and hard. "Sorry, I don't remember very much."

"Any story will do, just anything."

I thought some more, "sorry, what I remember are not very nice stories."

He went quiet for a while. "You can just make some stories up, yeah? About your childhood?"

This is not an easy task for me. But I tried, anyway. So here is one I made up:

When I was around your age, I shared a room with my younger brother. As you know, he is two years younger than me so it is not surprising that I found him, at the time, to be the most abnoxious little turd there can be (not unlike how you feel about your brother, you see?). I was already an avid reader by then and I loved to read out loud to myself. My brother was still very much a large baby and each time I started reading a book, he would come over and try to do something naughty, like snatch my book or make silly noises to annoy me.

Whenver this happened, I used to get really angry and would throw my book at him, or put my hands around his neck, or try to ignore him, if I happened to be in an exceptionally good mood (which is not very often). Whenever my mum heard us fighting, she would came into the room, quiet as a mouse, put her hands on her hips, and gave us this piercing look which seemed to burn holes through our shirts.

One day I came across a book in the school library about hypnotism. I couldn't understand all the words, but the pictures were big and clear enough for me to work out what one had to do, to hypnotise someone else (I have seen it on television also). I borrowed the book and read it on the school bus. The hypnotist in the pictures was a grown man, wore a dark suit and a moustache. He had a quizzical look (which I worked out was made possible by his ability to raise one eyebrow independently of the other), and there was not one picture of him smiling. He used a gold chain to perform his hypnotism on a woman. She had curly red hair and wore a blue blouse. In the book, he made her do all kinds of crazy things like pretend to be a mouse and hop on one leg with both hands high above her head.

When I got home, I read over the book again, then careflly tucked it under my mattress, as far back as my hands could reach. Then I looked in my mother's drawer and took out one of her many necklaces. She had some gold ones, but I couldn't find them. I took one that is silver with lots of little black beads on them. I made a mental note of where it came from and remembered that I must put it back in exactly the same place when I'm done. Then I took a black marker, and drew a moustach on my upper lip. I made the ends curl up, just like the man in the book. I practised raising one eyebrow in front of the mirror after that. To my surprise, this came quite naturally to me. I was pleased with my preparation so far and looking at myself in the mirror, with my moustache and my one raised eyebrow, I felt a mild surge of excitment going through my body. My father had a dark suit similar to the one worn by the hypnotist in the book, but I had no idea where he put them. So I went to my own closet and took out a dark grey duffle coat, and put that on.

My younger brother was having his snack in the kitchen, as usual, and I was all set up when he came into the room for his nap. I had my back to him, pretending to be reading a book aloud. Predictably, he came over and started making his usual annoying noise. I turned around, stared at him with my one raised eyebrow, and held out the necklace in front of his face.

"Look at this. Look. Follow the swing of the necklace in my hand."

He was caught by the unfamiliarity of this and stood speechless for a few seconds.

"Follow the swing with your eyes. You are getting sleepy."

The little turd proved to be harder work. "NO I'M NOT!! ME NOT SLEEPY!" came his screechy little voice. He tried to snatch the necklace from me, but I had seen that coming and moved my hand away faster than he could put his chubby little fingers around it. I noticed that his eyes, however, remained glued to the necklace. Another surge of adrenalin went through my body. With utter determination, I then said:

"You ARE getting sleepy. You ARE going to fall asleepy."

He started frowning, his hand still in mid-air, his eyes following the swing of the necklace.

I felt powerful, all of a sudden. This was not a familiar feeling for me, and it scared me a little.

"You are going to close your eyes. I am going to count to three, and you will be asleep when I am finished. When I count to three again, I will clap my hands and you will wake up."

It was amazing! I remembered I thanked God at that moment. He stood motionless, and his eyes began to close.

"One, two, three."

His arm flopped down to his side.

"Sit down now, on your bed."

He did.

"Lie down, and sleep."

He did.

"Stay there."

He did not move.

I was overjoyed! I was so excited I didn't realise I was soaking with sweat (the duffle coat was thick and it was the middle of June). I wanted to jump up and down and tell everyone. But I was also afraid my mum would kick my ass if she found out. Somehow I realised this was not all totally legit. So I took my coat off, lied down in my own bed, my heart pounding, and replayed what just happened in my head. I was proud of myself. I might have even grinned. After I had cooled down a bit, I got up and retrieved the book from under my mattress. I read through it again, pleased with myself that I had followed the instructions so well. I felt a tremendous sense of freedom, because I no longer had to live under the terror of my little brother! I would now be able to read in peace! I am a hypnotist!

I went over to look at him, now lying motionless on his bed. I put a finger under his nostrils, to check that he was still breathing. I studied his face for a little while. He looked so peaceful. Almost likeable. Almost cute. And out of nowhere I suddenly started missing him. I poked him gently with my hand, but he didn't wake. The room seemed awfully quiet. I looked around, and suddenly a fear grabbed hold of me. I felt that I had maybe done a very bad thing. I looked up to the ceiling hoping that God would tell me whether it really was a very bad thing, when in fact I already knew. So I put my coat back on, looked in the mirror to make sure my moustache was still in place, and checked my book again.

"One, two, three. Wake up now!" I clapped my hands.

He opened his eyes, sat up, and looked at me as if nothing had happened.

"NO! ME NOT SLEEPY!"

First really hot day of the season

2007-05-03T02:22:00.000-07:00

First really hot day of the season. Cloudless sky, humid, a public holiday. Surprisingly few people in the swimming pool though. Despite the heat, the water was cool as it was still early in the morning.

After ten gentle laps I took a rest, stretched my arms out by my side, supporting my weight at the edge of the shallow end. A family of three plus maid arrived. Slightly pale chubby husband (he reminded me of Babe), wearing what looked like cycling shorts and goggles. Wife was even paler and had the figure of a woman who had just given birth three months ago, even though their child was toddling. She wore an olive coloured one piece swim suit. The maid was thin, young, brown. She carried the bags, the towels, the floaties, following her employers. She wore a long t-shirt over her swimsuit.

The husband proudly paraded by the pool side, doing warm up stretches, splashing water onto his hairless chest, patting it loudly. Wife fiddled with toddler, fiddled with stuff, instructing the maid. Maid nodded, speechless.

Toddler was placed inside a giant floatie with wings, and parents and maid all looked on joyfully. I smiled, the wife caught my eyes and smiled back.

More adoration and smiles and cooing sounds and clapping, then the husband paired up with the maid, and the wife carried on playing with the toddler.

Husband proceeded to teach the maid to swim. Husband instructed with authority, chest out, stomach in. Maid listened coyly, giggled, uncoordinated. Husband held maid by the ankles, showing her the breast stroke kick. Husband held maid by her arms, showing her the breast stroke moves.

Wife checked over her shoulders every so often, keeping distance. She moved further and further away.

Another 40 minutes later, it started to rain, they packed their things and left. I swam some more.

Ersatz

2007-01-25T22:58:00.000-08:00

I lie there upon dirt and rocks and rubbish, looking at the sky. The discomfort of all that against my back feels strangely reassuring.

The sky is a half-hearted shade of blue, the sun hiding behind thin clouds. I mouth: "pathetic" at the sky and thought, why don't you try harder?

I must be frowning deep, because I can feel the drips of sweat altering their course, going down my nose instead of gather at my eyebrows. The beads tasted strangely sweet. All the saccharine they put in cheap chap sticks these days....

I take a deep breath and feel the heavy of sadness in my lungs. I exhale, and it moves towards my face, creeps up behind my eyes, forwarning me of impending tears.

I close my eyes and try to rest.

I try to rest. Just as my breathing started to ease, I feel a shadow over me.

I open my left eye, squinting. A man. Is standing over me. The sun is right behind his head and I can not make out what he looks like. I look away from the light, towards the ground, and see that he is wearing a white vest and fleece trousers. I am still squinting, with my one left eye. He is still motionless, we are both speechless, his arms hanging down his sides. I look at his shoes. He does not seem to be wearing any.

I try to shift my head a little so I can get a better angle to look at his face, but it is too uncomfortable to move my head over all that rubble beneath me. I will have to get up, if I want to see his face. It is not normal that someone stands over me, dressed like he does, in a place like this. I want to know what the hell is going on. But I am too tired to move. Under normal circumstances I would have been concerned, scared even. But today, I am neither. I can't give a flying FUCK! The thought of this makes my heart beat a little faster. Maybe I am not as dead as I think I am, afterall. I close my eye. FUCK IT.

"You are not dead, you just feel that way. Just now."

The voice comes from my left. I shifted my head slightly and open my left eye. The man is now lying next to me. He just spoke.

"What?" I mutter, somewhat pointlessly, at him. He is not answering.

How come I did not hear him move? I did not even hear him lie down next to me. Have I gone deaf? Have I gone to hell? His face is about two feet away from mine. I now have a clear-ish view of the right side of his face. A non-descript face. He looks clean; I detect no off-putting odour from his direction. He looks as if he hasn't shaved in months, but his hair is quite short. Still, no response from this stranger. Minutes seem to pass by. Then he raises his arms, slowly, and examines his fingers. His hands look clean, too. For a split second, I am moved by the sight of this. I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to fuck him.

He gives out a restrained laugh, his teeth clean. "Unprotected sex with a stranger in the wilderness! Not sure that's a good way to go!" Then he drops his hands and places them on his stomach. He seems to be smiling now.

"What?" I mutter again, this time, mostly to myself. I have heard that before. I know that voice...

****************

Around this time last year, I still had Judy. Now, I only have myself and not much more.

It was her birthday. I bought her a brand new Audi TT (I had the four rings of the logo covered in Swarovski crystals), in deepest shiniest purple, of course. She wanted me to cook her dinner, and then head out to Yuen Long to see an arthouse film. I don't mind the cooking but I hate going to cinemas. I hate the darkness, the quietness, the stillness, the need to concentrate, sitting amongst strangers who smell. We were living in Stanley at the time, and Yuen Long seemed like miles away. She was eager to take her new car for a spin. It was her birthday. I obliged.

Some Finnish art film called Broken Windows? Break the Window? or was it Breaking Wind? I can't recall. We had a bottle of champagne with dinner. I tried to put my hand up her skirt a few times but neither that nor the booze seemed to affect her in any way.

The cinema was hidden behind a bus depot, next to a few sad stalls of Dai Pai Dongs, smelling foul of tripe and cheap fat. The cinema didn't smell,though. I was disappointed at this because I was wrong.

The film was about a man who hit some kind of existential wall and was going mental without realizing it himself. He was roaming around town having sex with strangers. Men, women, tramps, waiters, hookers, school children. It was boring the pants off me and I started texting Paul on the phone, when all that sex in dark alley ways was going on. Judy was too engrossed in the film to tell me off. Paul and I were exchanging jokes about poofs and tits and piss and the woman he was with. We were arranging where to meet afterwards. I loved Judy, but I could not stand being alone with her in public places for prolonged periods of time.

As the film was nearing its end, a man sitting behind us shouted out these words:

"Unprotected sex with a stranger in the wilderness! Not sure that's a good way to go!"

Several heads, including mine, but not Judy's, turned round to look at him. This man was sitting by himself, had plenty of hair, and his teeth gleamed in the dark.

A warm flow of mild rage rised in my chest, and I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. But I was scared of him. I didn't want him to ambush me outside the cinema, or piss on Judy's new tyres, or worse still rip those crystals off the damn car. My eyes met his, though. And his eyes were smiling.

And here we are again, my eyes meeting his. Something is telling me to look at his face. I am looking at his face, for sure, but that something is telling me to look at his face some more.

I do not want to move closer to him, the situation being unusual as it is. Not because I fear he might suddenly transform into some demonic creature and rip my head off or spew acidic green slime over my eye balls. I may be miles off from any normal context for human social interaction, but years of having excelled in functioning in such context has left a deep imprint upon me. Something is telling me I should look at his face some more, but not move closer to him. I know I should, but I am not moving closer. I can't.

Involuntarily I squint again, and his face comes into a sharper focus. He has a strangely human face. Strange because it seems so unusual and so perfectly ordinary at the same time. Reminds me of the kind of face that supposedly beautiful people have. Perfect proportions, beautiful bone structure, bright eyes that smile naturally. What has he got to be so smug about. Why is he looking so perfect.

"What are you smiling about?" Those words came out gentler than I had expected.

"Nothing in particular. I am just smiling as I look at you." Those words came out less creepy than they should be. His head tilted slightly, his eyes looking into mine.

"What do you want. I don't have any money. I don't have nothing."

He laughs, as if he is really glad I said that. "I know".

"What do you have?" Those words came out of my mouth, I'm not sure what I mean by them.

"I don't have much, as you can see."

"I could eat something." I put my left hand on my stomach. I look at my watch. It has been 27 hours since I last ate. "I could do with a drink, too". 10 hours since I last drank. My lips are cracked. I lick them and tasted blood.

He shows me a loaf of bread, and a plastic bottle of water.

"Hey! Where'd you get that from?"

"Eat now, regain your strength."

The bread is a medium sized rustic loaf. It is still warm as he handed me a large chunk that he ripped off. I eat it, and it smells fresh and mildly acidic.

"Sourdough," I said "right?"

He laughs again. This time, I laugh with him. He takes a sip from the bottle, then hands it to me. I drink from it. I laugh some more.

When was the last time I feel like this? Genuinely laughing whilst eating and drinking in the company of another stranger? I vaguely remember the last party I went to, before my downfall. Perhaps I should say, one of the last parties. Just like all the others. I drank, I smoked, I ate, I mingled, I flirted, I did all the things I do at parties. I faked laughing, too. Strangers.

I let out a long sigh, and tears are welling up in my eyes. I feel so fucking sorry for myself. Right now, I do. For some strange reason I feel like fessing up to this guy. I feel like telling him how fucking sorry I am feeling for myself right now.

I turn to look at him, still chewing the bread.

He smiles at me.

"Let's go." He said.

"Okay." I replied

We get up. He smiles at me some more, and I smile back.

I'm happy, and I don't know why.

----------THE END--------------

Social interaction

2007-01-18T07:31:00.000-08:00

I find it harder and harder to engage in normal social interaction, these days. I hope I am not alone. I find people increasingly weird, boring, stupid, and inapproriate. The kind of social unease that only used to taunt me at parties when I was in my twenties is slowly creeping back.

It is unfortunate, for me, that society expects older people (as long as they are not senile old) to have more social grace than youngsters. It frustrates me as I become increasingly aware of my incompetence in this regard, and I have been trying to figure out some way of coping with it.

I have tried to smile when I do not feel like smiling. It seemed to have worked for a while, but when I by chance catch a glimpse of my reflection doing my fake smile, it is always clear that I am a fake. And that is condesending. Looking bewildered and bored might be better?

When I was not faking my smile, when I am with people whom I find boring or stupid or strange, I can feel my face showing every emotion every thought. And I think to myself, oh com'on now, either hide it, or be more forgiving. Your contemptuous facial expression should be erased, NOW.

My latest strategy is to think happy thoughts when in such situations.

A ball of twine

2007-01-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

A ball of twine, not much to look at.
Feel it in your hands, go on, pick it up.
Place it between your dry red palms.
Roll it back and forth, pretend, even,
that it is a massage ball.
Close your eyes, as it sends tingles down your spine.
To your scalp even? If you give it time.
Loosen it, if you could,
Untangle it, as if you should.
Leave it, should you have better things to do.
Throw it towards the sky, go on, hard as you dare.
Keep your eyes on it as it moves, amidst the cold wet air.
Keep your eyes on it as it falls, loosened or not?
Still a ball, or not at all?
Is it going to hit you on the head and bounce right off?
Or land at your feet, sad, limp and bored?
A ball of twine I now stare at, thinking,
how lovely it is, helping time pass me by.

In the train

2006-11-21T07:27:00.000-08:00

Sitting opposite me was a couple in their mid to late twenties.

The man was thin, and had a moustach. His skin was pale but clear. His features were angular, and he seemed painfully thin. His hair was thick and black and wavy and comes down to his shoulders. He was wearing a graphic T-shirt with some arty logo on, a black jacket, and jeans that looked very dirty and frayed at the hems. His black converse shoes were just as dirty. He gazed mindlessly at the TV monitor, which only ever shows cable news and advertisements about health products and distance learning courses. His eyes hollow but very black. Occasionally he would touch the woman's hand, then mindless retrieve it to touch his moustach or scratch his head.

The woman had an oval face. Her eyes were small, her features delicate, her skin smooth. She had masses of thick curly black hair. The first thing I noticed about her was her footwear. A pair of flat red pumps, with bits cut out here and there, giving you a glimpse of her red swollen flesh. Bits of glitter were stuck on it, and it looked like a DIY job. Her jeans were bleached on the thighs, and she had a black knitted poncho on. Like her companion, she stared into nothing most of the time, and occasionally darted me a look which I would not describe as friendly.

I guess I stared too much.

They did not look at one another nor talk to one another during the journey. When the train began to pull into Hung Hom Station, the man leaned over to the woman ever so slightly, and gave her the slightes peck on her left cheek. Then he got up and went to stand by the door. When the train stopped, he walked out.

Once the doors were shut again, the woman retrieved a compact from her bag. As the train pulled out from the station, she started putting on concealer around her eyes and the wings of her nose, carefully. Every now and then she glanced out of the windows, I guess to check if her companion might still be seen. Then she took out a black kohl pencil, and skillfully drew around her upper eyelids. Next were the eyelash curlers, and mascara. Then blush. Then powder. The whole operation took about three minutes. I know, because by the time the train arrived at the next stop, she has already been transformed. She looked glamorous and sexy. Before she got off the train, she took off her poncho to reveal a slim fitting black t-shirt with a low cut neckline.

Based on a true story

2006-11-18T08:05:00.000-08:00

Memories are never quite as reliable testaments to events and thoughts and reasons and behaviours as we'd like them to be, but they are often the only things we got, to remind us of who we are and where we came from.

My childhood memories are few and far between. Why is that? I do not know. But this one, I remember. I remember this in quite some detail.

When I was about three or four years old, an older man came to live with our family. I was told he came from Guatamela, had lived there all his life, and that he was a distant relative, even though he did not share either my mother or my father's last name, or that of my grandparents'. I was told to address him as "great uncle". He spoke with an accent. He was old. Exactly how old, I did not know. He was older than my parents. His hair was thin and grey. His skin was dark, and he was wrinkly.

My parents boarded off a corner of the dining area and made that his room. Inside was a bed, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. It was always dark in his room. The walls and the boards were painted a ghastly green. When the lights are off his room is pitch dark.

I was told he had a small business in Guatemela, and now he had retired. He had never been married. He sat around a lot, sometimes helping out with small tasks, like wiping my bum after I've had a poo, when my mother was too busy playing mahjong.

I did not like him. At the time I did not know why, but now I think I do. He came from out of nowhere. He looked strange. I wasn't convinced by his story. He was wrinkly. Why was my mum so nice to him? And it was mainly my mum, because my father was hardly ever around.

****************

How much inexplicable hatred can a child show on her face?

I hated this "great uncle" who came out of nowhere. I jealously guarded the boundaries of what I understood as family. He was an intruder, a pathetic scrounger. The only reason I could come up with, to account for my mother's kindness towards him, is that they were lovers. My contempt for him escalated when my mother became pregnant. I knew nothing about how babies were made, but somehow I knew that this was not my father's baby. It's his baby.

As my mother's bulge grew, I gave up all attempts to disguise my hatred towards him. I would stare at him as if he was dirt. I practised in front of the mirror. I caught glimpses of the trailers for The Poltergeist. I tried to make myself look evil.

What exactly was I hoping to achieve? I had no plan. It was difficult enough to articulate my own feelings, in my own little head, let alone come up with some strategy to do something about them. I was trying to hurt him. I tried to make him know that he was unwelcomed. He could never be one of us.

And it seemed to work. Slowly, his posture began to change. He stooped more. He lowered his head. His voice started to quiver for no apparent reason. He could not finish his sentences when I was around. He started avoiding first my stabbing gaze, then me.

And then, my sister was born. She was an angel, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

********************

My baby sister, she did not look anything like me.

She looked like my mother. She had large, dark eyes, thick lips, tight curly hair. She was beautiful. Me, I was anything but beautiful. I didn't need to practise my evil looks in the mirror no more, those looks had become part of me.

When my sister was 1 month old, my father splashed out for the family to have our pictures taken at a photographic studio. My father, in his best suit, my mother, in her best Sunday dress, my baby sister, in a pink cashmere shawl that my grandmother sent from Shanghai, and me, in a yellow dress that was too short, too tight, too pretty, too stiff. I still have that picture. In it, everyone was smiling, including me. Everyone's eyes looked blissful, joyous, thankful, except mine.

Three weeks after that photo was taken, my sister died. She stopped breathing in the middle of the night. I was the first to see her that morning, her face blue, her limbs stone cold. I screamed. And then I laughed. And then I cried.

***********************

I do not have much recollection of what happened in the months immediately after my sister's death. It was one big blur. I remember people in and out of our apartment, I also remember my mother sitting motionless, a lot, and I remember my father being away a lot of the time, as usual.

I remember pouring a pan full of boiling hot congee over myself one morning. I can't remember if I'd done it deliberately or not. I remember staying two nights in the hospital. I remember the funeral, where I let off a loud fart, where my mother slapped me.

I do not remember how "great uncle" was, during that time. I have some memory of what people said about me, to my mother, in my presence, as if I wasn't there.

"What on earth is the matter with her. What on earth have you been feeding her. That child is.... is.... not right, I tell you."

"It's the shock of it, it's a lot for a child her age, give her some time."

"She needs a good beating. And give her a haircut for fuckssake."

"...call this number, this guy know stuff, tell him I send you... he will sort her out"

I stopped looking at myself.

One night, I woke up, darkness all around me. I got out of bed, and walked towards my parents' room. My feet cold, the wooden floor colder. The door to their room was shut. I opened it, slowly, turning the handle with my left hand. It was very dark inside. It took me a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
I saw the contours of a person sitting up in the bed. Just the one person, in the middle of the bed. I could not make out who it was. Its back against the headboard, both hands on its lap. I opened the door a bit and then some more. I wanted to get a closer look. The light from the streets casted a shadow on the wall, the person remained motionless. I took one more step forward, then squatted, then squinted. The shadow on the wall, now I could wee, was the head of a person.

The shadow of this person had two small horns on the side of its head. My heart skipped a beat as I realised what I was looking at. I felt blood draining from my head. I felt naueous and something acidic was coming up from my guts. I covered my mouth with my right hand. Hot tears started filling my eyes and I wanted to see who this was. So I took another step forward, then another more. I was about six feet away from the person on the bed. Then I saw its face. It moved, and it turned slowly towards me.

It was him. He gave me a look.

I screamed. Then I woke up.

-------------The end-----------

A kind of car wash

2006-10-31T04:12:00.000-08:00

There are three carparks where I work. An underground carpark, a ground level covered carpark, and one open-air carpark. You can have your car washed daily for a few hundred dollars a month, regardless of which of the three you park in. Add another hundred and you can have it waxed every two weeks.

Everytime I go into the underground carpark, as I swipe my card through the gate, I will see a few guys sitting around on cheap plastic chairs, staring at me. They watch every car that comes in. If I go in later in the day, say after 10 am, I will see them scattered around the carpark, cleaning cars. When I drive past, they stop what they are doing, and turn to look at me. Not all of them work all of the time. Sometimes one will be standing around, smoking a cigarette, or slouching on a chair, dozing off, or just standing, bucket and duster in hand, staring into space.

I never see them talking amongst themselves. Apart from a young woman, who is no longer seen now. She was the supervisor, I think. I saw her telling the men what to do. Pointing at cars, pointing at wheelcaps, sometimes with her hands on her hips.

I never see them smile, either.

These guys, they don't wear uniforms. They wear short sleeved polyester shirts, t-shirts, trousers, tracksuit jackets, in various shades of grey, off-white, dark blue, more grey, light brown. Some wear sandals with or without socks, some wear trainers, some wear flip flops. Even in winter.

Ex-cons? Care in the community? I do not know.

On the ferry

2006-10-15T20:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, the Star Ferry was busy with tourists. The air was thick, humid and polluted. I got onto the ferry and found a seat next to two young women. They were busy chatting. I looked down and saw that I was wearing identical flip flops as the woman next to me. Her toes long and skinny, her toe nails dark red.

The ferry was full and a few people had to stand. I have never seen this happen before.

It was noisy, and seemed as if everyone was talking to someone, except me. The woman next to me had her head turned towards her companion, whilst twisting a lock of hair with her fingers. I thought her hand might touch me. The seats were very close.

She spoke with a North American accent, in a stream-of-consciousness kind of way. She was doing most of the talking. I thought they might be exchange students. She seemed to be commenting on life in Hong Kong. All her sentences began with "... and you know what?..."

".... and you know what? .... social studies class yesterday.... like, we are the top two percent elite! .... we have access to books, films, art.... you know what? If we don't do something about... it's up to us, you know? ... and you know what? .... a mission... must do something, we can really do something...."

I wanted to turn round and look at her face. I kind of did, a little, but all I saw was masses of curly brown hair, her fingers twisting around a lock.

Social Studies class? That would be high school.

Me, very friendly

2006-10-13T00:20:00.000-07:00

I have been making a deliberate effort to put on a fake smile when I encounter other people. Even if they are people I do not know. Especially when I am not wearing my glasses or contacts.

I do this by turning the corners of my mouth slightly upwards, whilst relaxing the rest of my face. I have been practicing this in front of the mirror. I think I am quite convincing. I imagine the consequence of this somewhat inane effort is that people would perceive me as a friendly person, when in reality I am not. I have seen other people do it. It seems to work for them.

On the train

2006-09-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

As I got onto the train, I see three empty seats next to an old lady. Like so:

Old lady - Empty seat - Empty seat - Empty seat

Two school boys, pre-pubescent, entered one step before me. They looked at the empty seats, then looked at me. First boy sat down, then signaled second boy to sit next to him.

Old lady - Empty seat - First boy - Empty seat

Second boy looked at me. I was standing next to the Empty seat furthest away from the old lady. I said "you sit la", he said, blushing, "no, no". I said, "sit la!" "no, no, you sit". Finally I said, "you sit here, I sit there, okay?" I sat next to the old lady, and he sat next to his friend.

Old lady - Me - First boy - Second boy

Took me a while to figure it out. He didn't want to sit next to the old girl, and he thought I wanted the seat that he wanted.

At the optical shop

2006-09-15T00:36:00.000-07:00

One of the plastic studs attached to the clasp on my glasses have been broken for months. Today I took it into an optical shop and asked if they could replace it. The man at the shop said they don't have an exact replacement but could change both the studs for $20. So I said okay. It took him a couple of minutes. He handed me my now repaired glasses, and I tried them on. They are perfect. I thanked him, and pulled out $20 from my wallet. He took the bills. He thanked me and said bye please come again if you have other optical needs. I said sure. I looked at him. He looked at me. Is he going to give me a receipt for that? I thought to myself. Still, he wasn't moving. He was waiting for me to leave the shop. So I left the shop.

Why didn't he offer me a receipt? Is it because he's pocketed that $20? If so, why didn't any of his colleagues say anything? Do they do this all the time? This time it's your turn to pocket the small change, next time it's me. Is $20 too much to pay for two little plastic studs? Should I have asked for a receipt? Why didn't I say anything?