Long Journey

I wasn't sure if this was the right house when I first walked up the pathway to the house . It looked like an abandoned house with weeds growing everywhere. Yet judging from the shoe rack outside of the front door (such a Chinese way) I gathered it must be the right house. I was also tired from driving two days straight. I tried to find the doorbell. None to be seen. I knocked on the door and a young man showed up. I told him I was going to stay here starting today. He let me in, telling me Judy, the owner,  wasn't there. I unloaded  things on my shoulder in "my room" after he disappeared to his. The big trunk was so heavy that I had to unzip it downstairs, take some stuff out and carry them to upstairs, then dragged the lighter trunk upstairs one step at a time, while hoping the wooden stairs was hardy enough to take the bumping of the trunk on every step. No gentlemanly help needed -- nor was it offered.

I counted five bedrooms upstairs. There might be more downstairs. It didn't take long to unpack, although the plan was to stay here for three months. Just have to do laundry diligently and ignore following the fashion etiquette. I should be fine.

The bed is hard as cement. WiFi password left in my room by an unknown person didn't work.
I text Judy: There's only a box spring on the bed..no mattress! My bony bones can't take it. :)
Judy: It is a mattress. It's the Asian style and it's good for your back. I will find something for you to use on top of it.
Me: The WiFi password doesn't work.
Judy: I will send you a picture of the password.

What is it with Asians and the cement beds? I slept on one after mom moved back to Canada, and my back was so achy that I had to give it to my neighbors (they were going to use it as a box spring, appropriately) and buy a new mattress.

The password picture never came. I bothered the guy once more. Got a glimpse of his bedroom. Huge king sized bed with the only TV in the house. Hmmm. He confirmed there was one digit off.

Off to mom's. She seemed to be better than last time I saw her three weeks ago. The companion, Doreen, wasn't sure at times if she was going to be here much longer, which was what prompted this long trip.

Doreen asked her: Aren't you happy your daughter is here?!
Mom: Nothing...to be...happy...about.

Thanks, mom. Even in your half-lucid way you managed to make people feel great.

I don't take it seriously anymore. She can't help it, and I'm doing this for myself. I don't want her to go through this last leg of her journey by herself -- whether she likes it or not.

That is, for as long as I can take it. Our last experiment didn't go so well.

Among My Own

(Grand Bazaar, Istanbul)

It was an odd match that perhaps shouldn't have been.

Still I was going along with it. Sharing has never been easy for me, but I did the best I could, all the while trying to ignore how my unconventional life must have sounded in your ears, and how uncomfortable it was for me.

In the ninety-nine point nine percent mate-for-life world of people from “our culture”, I had to belong to the zero point one percent.

It was soon clear to me that your life might look conventional from the outside, it was really “anything but” on the inside.

Your partner, regardless of being a decade your senior, behaved childishly. He ridiculed and complained about you often. He picked fights with you over the daily mundane. Instead of sharing a life together, he hid his assets from you. In fact, you revealed to me that he mentioned the D word often enough for you to ask for referrals of lawyers.

I scouted out the names and numbers of several family lawyers per your request, but I didn’t pass that information to you.

Instead, I talked to you about the realities of being a divorced woman in “our culture.” The culture from our mutual hometown, to be exact, still looks at a woman without a husband with contempt and despise.

You will be excluded from all social events for couples. That means you will lose the majority of your friends.

Eating out will be spotty, unless you are very comfortable eating alone in restaurants.

You will be looked at as a damaged good, regardless how much you struggled to raise your children in a foreign country.

Loneliness will be your constant companion.

You will lose the purchasing power of a dual income. You will have to say NO to things you used to take for granted. You will get used to shopping at places such as the flea market or the secondary market stores.

My first apartment was furnished with a table, four chairs, and a tiny black-and-white TV--all were hand me downs. We used three chairs for eating and studying, and the fourth one as the TV stand in the livingroom. We spread the sheets on the carpet in the bedroom in the evening, and that would be our beds.

Moving was significantly easier in those days.

The blank space on the information form where it says “Emergency Contact” I had to fill out each time I enrolled the children to a new school, would make me cry every time. “Loneliness” was too weak a word to describe how I felt.

If you have young children, these will be more severe on you and them, and last much longer.
Good thing is you don’t.

There are rewarding gains to be had, of course. I wasn’t trying to scare you away from getting a divorce. After all, the decision might not be solely yours to make. But I did want you to see clearly before you jump.

I wish someone had done the same for me. But it all was a big life’s lesson I desperately needed. I can see it now--now that the tears had long been dried.

When you called to complain about your home life, I listened with sympathetic ears. When you mentioned life has no purpose for you to continue, I tried to pump you up.

When you made the comment about how hard it would be to rid your newly acquired wardrobe, I knew divorce would not be in your near future.

That was fine, though. Plunging into the unknown is not only scary, it is also a move you have to make on your own. Nobody should make you learn the lesson before you are ready to learn it.

Then I had to go away. It was the trip of a lifetime--literally. I have saved over decades for this, and it is unlikely I will be able to do it again anytime soon. I savoured every moment of it, soaking in every little detail.

I did not forget you. Over the crepe-de-chine deep blue Mediterranean Sea, I thought of you. Before falling asleep with the gentle sway of the giant ship, I secretly wished you peace and strength.

It was easy to adjust the time change on the trip, when daily excursion exhausted me thoroughly. Coming home was quite a different story.

I called as soon as I felt mostly myself again, hoping you would enjoy the Turkish Delight and all the amazing sites, of which I took sixteen hundred plus photos, I visited during the trip.

You never returned my call.

I’m not quite sure what I had done to have angered you. I know you are alive and well from your online posting, so I don’t have to worry that you had taken your own life.

After doing all I could to support you, it is proven that it wasn’t enough. I am truly sorry for that. I hope you will eventually find the happiness you longed for.

Our friendship may have served its purpose, and now you are ready to move on. Maybe you needed to cut me off in order to forget the dark period of your life. That would require a complete reversal of your relationship with your husband, which is all but impossible.

It hurts to think that you behaved just like the rest of “our society,” which would be equally unforgiving should you choose to be a single woman realizing happiness does not necessarily require a man.

Why was I surprised? I shouldn't be.

Your silence speaks loudly how futile my efforts were, but I will get over it like yesterday’s headache--painful when it happened, yet will be forgotten soon.

O Pardal do Sul

A walk in the park everyday prescribed by the doctor has gradually become a tantra among nature. He enjoys the early summer for its irreproachable weather. Everywhere he looks there are greens fighting fiercely for his attention. Flowers flaunt shamelessly with their seductive gestures, as if they knew their beauty is but a fleeting affair.

He has lived in this vast tropical land for so long that he hardly remembers his old hometown. it ’s at the tail end of the winter where he came from four decades ago. As he remembers his childhood friends, their laughter still haunts him like yesterday.

“Your father is crazy. He’s a mad man!” They chanted and smirked. Often one would push hm after the chant, adding to the provocation. He ran home as fast as his small stature allowed, into his mother’s arms with hot tears and torn sleeves. She wiped off his anger with soothing words, and mended his battle scar with meager treats she could find. A laundry woman’s pocket change never felt so warm and abundant.

He didn’t understand why his father was in the mad man’s house, as the kids called it. He did know that that was why they were as poor as the four bare walls around them. A silhouette kneading on a washboard by a tub of water with a pile of clothes next to it was what his mother toiled all day to sustain her and four children. They learned not to envy other children’s shiny new shoes futilely, but be comforted by the fact they still had as complete a family as it could be.

One day his father came home, thin in physique and vacant in the eyes. He felt the chills when his mother described how they used “electricity” on him. The far away land beckoned with a letter from their uncle, whose offer of sponsorship couldn’t be more appreciated as their way of escaping the constricting island, which pushed his father to the brink of insanity in the first place. His mind never fully recovered from the revolutionists’ persecution that forced them to flee to the island, which in his father’s eyes was a perfect death trap.

New landscape breathed new life to his father’s spirit, but the new continent extended the old struggle to the family. He did poorly at school, having to learn a new language and culture with people who, although did not chant, but teased nonetheless. He volunteered to give up school and learn to be a chef, a proposition met with reluctance. He told himself this would help his family. Deep inside he unwillingly admitted that school was not an attraction to him.

Regret? It is a useless emotion--he tells himself. He might have been doing something easier, or he might not. Who could tell? His sister hated his drinking, smoking and gambling he learned from fellow kitchen workers; but she couldn’t stop him, and the parents would never interfere. He has some regrets, but quitting school ranks low on the list.

He feels a little out of breath, and sits down on a bench nearby. Two bypass surgeries finally caught his attention to his way of living. The smoking and drinking days are behind him now. Mahjong is his only ungodly pleasure. Is it numbness on his arm, or is he imagining it? He couldn’t tell.

The fallout between his sister and him may be one of the regrets. He could’ve helped her when she asked. He had the means and ability. She took care of him and his brother growing up, as their parents were constantly laboring. Why didn’t he, he couldn’t say. Neither did his brother. From their parents they inherited the idea of “daughters are outsiders,” therefore money preceded affection without either one of them feeling any uneasiness.

He wishes he knew how to be a better husband to Rosa. His Rosa--the mother of their three children--could be his biggest regret. Their lives stopped after the accident. She couldn’t be consoled, and he didn’t have the patience for her sadness. Their youngest of three children was taken by the will of the gods. There was nothing he could do--he was grieving himself. Now he knew he wasn’t what Rosa wanted, but he didn’t know it then. He didn’t understand why Rosa had to go, and to a continent so far away no less; but his rage was somewhat lessened by the fact she left the kids behind. He heard she was happy now. He pretended he didn’t care.

His older son--his pride overflows when he thinks about it--is in medical school. He wishes his childhood schoolmates could see him now. The little poor kid they teased has a son who will be a doctor. The younger daughter is in college as well. It is a shame his father didn’t live to see this. He may be the second son, but his accomplishment is no less than the first born.

A familiar pain slows him down on his trek. They had a wonderful few years after the gemstone business took flight. If he knew how much he was hurting his health with too abundant of food, drinks, and everything else of the enjoyment of the flesh, would he do it differently? Hard to say, he shakes his head with a faint smile. Being a boy and growing up poor prevented him from self discipline and appetite control. He traveled with his brother to all around the world for business and pleasure. They feasted as if life was invincible in every sense. Were they just too naive? Life was too good to care about something seemingly distant and irrelevant. The land on the southern half of the globe has been good to them.

He has to crouch down for the pain is getting severe. Please...he thought...he just had a new daughter-in-law, he hasn’t seen the first grandson yet, he doesn’t want to leave his life that’s beginning to feel too precious to give up. Hsing--he calls out to his son, who lives hundreds of miles away--I wish you were here.

The two children smile to him in his mind’s eye, as he slowly falls onto the path he hasn’t finished, and slips into an eternal blackness.




(Sparrow of the South, in Portugese, to a life lost too early)

Tango

You glide down the freeway with all your senses acutely altered. Everything looks the same, yet everything feels different.

She says I’m not sure, but to you she means it’s not promising, and it sounds like a bomb exploded somewhere inside of you, only blood does not flow and nobody could see the hole the blast has made. You are certain if a doctor says she’s not sure, it means the odds are good that you are doomed.

You argue with _______ (God, Buddha, Allah, …) that it is not fair after telling yourself this isn’t true, this couldn’t be true and finally accepting that it is true. You do everything consciously right. You eat right. You keep your weight on the right side of obese line. You hate smokers and you drink sparingly. You even walk your dog everyday, five times a week whenever time and mood allow it. There is nothing you could have done to make yourself healthier, and if there is, you are convinced they haven’t been invented yet.

How in vain it all is. There was certainly an inarguable reason for each of the knick knack, paper, souvenir, furniture, clothes, jewelry, key chain, and all of the “just in cases” that you have to keep, but you can no longer remember why. How you fumed over the neighbor’s dog doing its mud pie business on your lawn, but now you know there may be a chance you won’t be here to enjoy your lawn much longer. And the reason why you stopped talking to ________? You search high and low in your head, but a valid “why” could not be found anywhere. There was a plausible reason you went on trips with friends and thought your life was wonderful and somehow would stay wonderful. God has a different plan for you. It was just not the right time to reveal it to you yet. The noisy neighbor’s dog barking non-stop drove you crazy, but can no longer make you angry, only sad, because you may not have to suffer it much longer. The trees in the backyard will probably be here long after you are gone, and that day could be sooner than you know.

Maybe you did something punishable in God’s eye and now is the time to repent. You fight back tears and make resolutions. You will be more patient with your mom, who has the patience of a dictator. You will forgive your friend’s little faults here and there, because you are certainly not perfect yourself. You will let your loved ones know, despite the difficulty, how much you love them, and do it often. But you will do these only if God lets you live and the result turns out negative. You are not going to do any business in a cost ineffective way.

All these are going through your mind three hundred times a day, regardless what you do to distract, encourage, or mentally slapping yourself in the face to make it disappear. Some days you are at the bottom of the ride and every minute is a torture to endure. Some days you pick yourself up and tell yourself “I can fight it. So many people fought and won. So can I.” But a little voice at the back of your head says, at the same time, “Yeah, but so many people fought and lost, too!” So the cycle repeats like the big wheels in a carnival. Days lost meaning and loved ones stopped talking to you because you are acting weird. Be that way, you say to yourself, you guys are going to regret it when you find out I have a terminal disease! But it gives you little comfort, if any.

And the call comes when you least expect it--inside of a grocery store. She does not come straight out and say it. Instead, she asks how you feel, is everything okay, is the incision healing fine, etc, etc. You warn yourself “This can't be good. She is easing me into the bad news. Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart now.” while looking frantically around for something to hold on or sit down, but there isn’t any in the bacon and sausage section. You push the cart to the side and hide your face in front of the cold freezer, so nobody can see your devastated expression. After a hundred years of unbearable chitchat and pleasantries, she finally tells you the biopsy turns out to be benign, and she will see you in a year. At this point your stress level is at the highest, and, like an overstretched rubber band all of a sudden let loose, you just want to scream “This should be the first sentence you say, dumb ass!” -- already forgetting the “be more patient” promise you made earlier.

Looking back at the dark valley you just traversed, you still seem to be able to see the intertwined shadow of God and Lucifer. Not only they are constantly tangoing together, they are exceedingly more intimate than you had ever realized.

Skin Deep

The box of glass plates removed from the display rack was heavy. Mr. Wong offered to lug it for Mrs. Liu, who was a tiny woman in her seventy’s. She was so tiny, in fact, that she had to shop her clothes in children’s department, then had them altered to fit her properly.


Mom’s display rack had some knickknacks only she found precious. The rest of us were happy to see it go--especially Mr. Wong, who was also our realtor.

I opened the front door for them. The cold air and grey skies reminded me again this was not California, and how I missed it.

Mr. Wong was supposed to hold the dolly that had the box of glass while Mrs. Liu and I unloaded the plates from the box to the back of her car.

He let go and the box fell, without my knowledge, behind my back, hitting my right heel.

I grabbed my heel and stopped breathing. They were shocked and asking me if I was alright. I couldn’t speak for a few seconds.

When the pain subsided I lifted the pant and found a piece of skin missing. Some blood was dripping and the heel around it already turned blue.

I assured them I was fine, but might need to put a Band Aid on it, and went back upstairs half limping.

Mom was either trying to call someone or playing her handheld toy. She asked me if I remember to take the keys back and I told her what happened.

She said, “You sure know how to pick a fine place to stand.” without once looking up.

I found a Band Aid and went to the bedroom.

Of all the arguments we had over throwing her possessions away, this comment hurt me the most.

It was understandable she was infuriated by my actions in the past two weeks, even though she knew they were the right actions, and she had no idea where to begin if I hadn‘t done it for her. I knew it must be hard to be parted with her worldly possessions and move eight hundred miles away.

She was not trying to be cold. I was expecting too much.

I was silly to think now that she was going to live with me, somehow I would get a loving mother that I never had.

Growing up with a pair of self-centered parents, I should know better. They both were buried in their own miseries that life, and themselves, had brought on. No one had doted on me since I was a child. I should know not to rely on anyone emotionally. I have finally learned to be happy.

So why couldn’t I stop my tears?

Am I still trying to fill that void unconsciously no matter how hard I tried to ignore it consciously? I’m relatively smart and somewhat educated. I know a lost cause when I see one--most of the time.

What stubborn and unexplainable force possessed me to think if I looked hard enough I would find what I was missing?

Sometimes, some people are just skin deep. They are what you see.

Like Thunders to Ducks

She must have been watching me. As soon as I finished the form she gestured “Can you do this for me, too?” while holding up her form.

I guessed it. I didn’t understand a thing uttered from her mouth. Thank goodness hand gestures are mostly universal. The smile didn’t hurt either.

I could see the plot she and her husband secretly came up when I was writing. “Look, she knows English! She can help us!” Two heads nodded eagerly.

I assumed they were a couple. I know her culture. She wouldn’t be traveling with a man who was not her husband. But wait, they had different last names...

Two different passports for a couple. Interesting… Maybe they were brother/sister whose life paths led them half a world apart. I have never met my uncles, aunts, and cousins from either side of my parents, except for the one uncle who fled to the island. The war tore the families apart.

“Do you have meat, poultry, or food with you?” He shook his head. I didn’t think he knew what poultry was.

“Do you have over ten thousand dollars with you?” He showed me his index finger and said slowly: “One thousand.”

That was five times of my cash on hand. No wonder she wore pure gold earrings and ring.

“Do you have any guns?” I formed a gun with my fingers and aimed it at him. He laughed and said no. This question never ceased to amaze me. Do they really expect me to say “yes” if I had a gun in my bag and somehow escaped the baggage screening?

I skipped the question about the farm. It would be too much work to explain a farm. The local agricultural bureau would have to be on guard without my help.

“Sign here.” I pointed the form and handed over my pen. They both signed. She thanked me in her dialect.

It appeared they wanted to stay quiet and subdue. They didn‘t get such luck from me. I opened the booklet and showed them the choices of snacks available for purchase. They smiled and nodded, then shook, their heads.

Our abilities of understanding each other fit the saying “like thunders to ducks” perfectly. We knew something was making a lot of noise, but had very little idea what was really happening.

This must be how my mother used to travel to see me. She always called me after she arrived home, describing the trip to me loudly. The flight was delayed. I met a person on the plane who spoke my language. My friend picked me up. I ate the sandwich you made for me. A woman at the customs questioned me on the jewelries I wore. Etc, etc.

I always thought it was silly to make a less-than-two-hour trip sounded like a big ordeal.

The couple made me see that it was a big deal for my mom. She couldn’t fill the customs form. She couldn’t order anything to eat or drink. Somebody had to help her. With a lot of patience while doing it.

My eyes welled up. I was full of gratitude to those strangers who helped my mom on the numerous flights she took. I now know why she was so excited when she got home safely.

I ordered a box of snacks and forced the couple to eat it with me.

Let them think I was a strange and crazy woman. I don’t care.


(I’m visiting my mom who broke her wrist recently. I will be mostly missing from the blog world for a while since there’s a lot to do.)

Follow

I shortened the leash and said “heel” before crossing the intersection. Coco tightened the leash right on cue as if I just gave her the command to run.


I’ve been walking and training her to heel for about a year and half now. I don’t know what her problem is. She knows to “wait” when I say so, just not “heel.” I can’t say she’s not smart, since she never misunderstands “breakfast” or “dinner.” Or the Chinese version of “come brush your teeth.”

I’m convinced a bilingual dog can’t be a dumb dog.

Yet she acted in complete surprise every time I yanked her back after the command “heel” and her subsequent running. I would tell her she was a little stinker for trying to flee from me. Maybe that’s where I did wrong. Maybe "little stinker" sounds like "good job" in Yorkie lingo.

I saw the couple on the other side before crossing the street. At first glance they looked like strangers who happened to be walking on the same side of the street. He walked a good forty feet ahead of her and seemed not at all concerned that she was about to cross the street by herself. He didn’t stop or look back, just kept on walking.

Coco and I kept our distance behind them. She had dark hair fashioned into a simple bun. It was the only part of her that didn’t say “old.” She was short and walked with a little lopsided stride in her chubby physique. He, on the other hand, was tall and agile. The distance between them made me somehow want to yell at him.

They were from the same mysterious country from the far away land of which I knew very little. Must be arranged marriage--I mused to myself. Suddenly he made a blunt one-eighty and I yelled silently--yay, he did care!

He passed her without a word or even a glance, and turned back a few feet afterward. In the meanwhile she didn’t miss a beat--just kept on walking behind him.

I was getting annoyed, despite the fact that I knew I shouldn’t. I was from the same kind of society where men walked around as if they were sent down here in golden sedan carried by God himself. I had enough of that that I didn’t want to see it here. I sometimes would get stuck in the doorway with another man from my hometown, who clearly was not familiar with the concept of “ladies first,” and I would go out of my way to ignore him and resist the urge to apologize.

They had to learn and I was accelerating their assimilation process by giving them their first lesson.

It was also annoying that “love” did not exist to us. If we were awkward adults with no clue how to show affection, it’s because we were raised where love was a hushed word, a taboo. It’s a shameful emotion that should be ignored at all costs.

Parents showed their love by scolding and putting their children down in front of others. Criticism equates adoration in their minds. They get away with it because parents command complete filial piety, one of the first words I looked up in the dictionary soon after I came here, upon their children; and because there’s no such thing as “therapy.” We had nobody to blame for our problems.

Love is to be assumed, and not expressed, between husband and wife, or lovers. My friend once told me she loved her husband, and her mother said she talked like an idiot. Did she have no shame, she wondered about her daughter.

Having a full stomach, on the other hand, is of utmost concern of ours. We greet each other not with “how are you” but “have you eaten yet,” or the latter follows the prior immediately after. Regardless your answer, we will proceed to force-feed you until your mid section is about to explode. It took me years to forgo the habit of taking food with me when going on car rides with my friend. She shared the peculiar behavior with her other friends, and they had a good laugh. I didn’t understand why it was funny just as they didn’t understand my need to feed her.

Had she known where I was coming from, she would’ve asked “Where are the chicken wings?” instead.

The couple made a turn and parted way with us. He stopped and looked back until she almost caught up before making the turn. They didn’t share a word throughout the walk, and yet there was an air they silently exuded that was so comforting. They stuck together through so many decades, and in all likelihood will be fulfilling “’til death do us part” part of the union. I watched their backs, lanky and nimble versus short and wobbly, trotting away from me for a few seconds. I wasn’t so annoyed anymore.

Coco looked at them and realized that wasn't the path we were taking. Not anytime soon anyway. We continued on our usual route home. It must've started drizzling, as my cheeks were getting misty.

Hair Therapy

The shop was sparse when I walked in. A woman sat me down and asked what I wanted. I didn’t remember her but I was not surprised. Their turnover rate must be astronomical, and the quality of their work remains not improved.

I don’t do the $50.00 haircut. I tried, but nobody ever said “Wow. Your hair looks gorgeous!” to me.
I told myself if nobody could tell the difference, it makes no difference where I get the cut.

I don’t do Lancome or Estee Lauder brand for skincare either, but only because my skin broke out miserably every time I did. I’m more than happy to save some money there, too. Drugstore brand works great in that aspect.

My mother has a good analogy for that. She told me I was born with a body fit for a royal family (that means not very strong and needs pampering), but a fate proper for a poor peasant (that's pretty self-explanatory).

Thanks, mom.

I do draw the line at Supercuts. They butchered my hair so bad once that I looked like a man. Actually, more like a woman who would prefer a female lover.

“Your hair is wavy.” The hairdresser commented.

My hair is straight, but she would hear none of it. She pointed at the back of my head, where a few strands of hair were posing in an acrobatic twist.

“Yes, it IS wavy.” I said.

She had the scissors, so I let her win. My decades of experience with my own hair merely meant she knew better than me.

I looked around the shop when she did the cutting. I’ve learned long ago they had their own minds on how you should look. It’s beneficial for my own mental health if I indulge their artistic expressions freely.

A man walked in. He was short with dark skin, but pleasant at first glance for the smile he was sporting. He looked around and proclaimed happily, “Ah, there you are—hiding in the back!”

A woman stood up and greeted him. She was his favorite, obviously. She had a knit top on, and her torso was squeezed into three sections above her waist, in Michelin Tire logo guy style.

I soon found out she was his victim, not favorite. He talked non stop all the time while she cut his hair. I tried to tune him out, but he was only two seats down. At one time I heard him asking her if she knew the difference between smart and intelligent, then proceeded to explain the difference. She murmured mindless “uh hum” every now and then while trimming. Maybe she had a good reason to be hiding in the back.

He was either in love with her, or had a bad case of superiority complex. Either way it was an urban tragedy. She struck me as the type who would value earthly pleasure more than intellectual enlightening, with which he was so eager to impart.

He had better come up with a better strategy if he wanted this to go anywhere. I would suggest lots of dining out and leisure drives in his luxury car if he had one.

As for the complex, he’s on his own. My arms weren’t long enough to reach over and slap him out of it.

She said something to her coworkers in a foreign language after he left. I had a pretty good idea what that might be. Following is just one of many possibilities:

“WTH was that? He should pay me double for putting up with all his crap!”

A haircut is not only a fun and relaxing event, it can also be therapeutic at times.

Fallen

I was sitting in my car pondering what to do next when I saw her. The parking was free after six o'clock, and I was a little early. Should I stay in the car or feed the meter?

She was wearing a coat on a balmy early evening. That should have given me a clue. She made some gesture at me from the passenger side. I buzzed the window down just a little:

"What?" I thought my parking was bad and she was alerting me good-naturedly. Maybe this is not a parking zone? Is she telling me to move?

She waved and said something inaudible. She then bent down to pick something up. I saw an empty soda can in her hand when she straightened up again. Oh God, is she homeless? Is it too late to get out of the car and run? I decided to stay put. What could she possibly do to me?

I buzzed the window up. Please go away, I pleaded silently. I have a class to go. I don't have time to be bothered.

More importantly, I needed my quarters for the meter.

She moved slowly across the front of my car and approached the driver's side. Oh no, what does she want? I felt a little panic.

She started talking and gesturing. I couldn't understand a word of it, but finally i figured out from her gesture that she wanted food. I dug into my purse for some change. I couldn't give her the quarters because, well, I needed them for the meter. I had to give her something because she was blocking my way out.

I found a few dimes and cracked the window a bit to hand them to her. She didn't take them right away - still busy talking in spite of the fact that I didn't show any signs of comprehending any of it. She showed me her wrist while she talked. There was a round bump the size of a ping pong ball near her wrist. I thought to myself, "Please don't let it be contagious."

She finally took the change I was holding (carefully - trying to avoid touching her skin in any way.) But she was not leaving. I came to realize after more gesturing that she wanted more, so I looked back to my purse with a hint of resentment. Where is her family? Have they no shame? How could anyone let their elder, who doesn't speak a word of English, beg on the street? Street in a city with the highest crime rate, I might add.

At last she took the second alms and left, but not before rambling some more of the foreign words to me. Now it was almost time for the class, so I didn't need the quarters after all.

I felt a thorny pinch in my heart every now and then for the next few days. Why didn't I give her more money so at least she could get a hot meal or two? Why did I assume she had something contagious just because her joint was deformed? Why was I afraid of an old woman who was just hungry? I shouldn't have blamed her family either. Maybe she outlived all of them, and she didn't have other means to support herself.

I prepared some small bills when it was time for the next class, but she was nowhere to be found. The redemption I was hoping for did not happen. It must be a punishment designed by God. My sin was forever etched on the triptych.

I have always thought of myself as a somewhat decent person. Not perfect, but still, not bad. I tried to be nice to people. I tried to be compassionate to my friends. I tried to do the right thing most of the time. I volunteered at the children's center and other non profits. I even donated to my friend's cancer walks. I was better than most people out there, you know?

Along came a tiny, frail, and very wrinkled old lady, and she nudged me off my pedestal effortlessly.

Long Drive Home

I barely started my first job a month ago. It was new and exciting. I was officially "man of the house" and bringing home the bacon. We had a very orderly life. We got up early and headed to our separate destinations - the kids to school together, I to the office. When I got home in the afternoon they would have finished their homework. We would have simple dinner before getting ready for bed. Life was plain and calm, but that was about to change.

I pulled out from the company's parking lot one afternoon and merged into the traffic. I stopped at the light behind some cars and thought to myself what I could make for dinner that night. All of a sudden the car started to rock as if it were a boat on choppy water - very choppy water. I was trying to hold on while wondering if I should get out of the car - not that I could. It just felt dangerous to stay in a car that was acting crazy. All I could do was holding on the steering wheel as if I were riding the mechanical bull.

It felt like forever before it was finally over. All the traffic lights were dead. Cars stayed on the road, and nobody moved. Two cars ahead of me the female driver got out of her car, and ran to the car behind her. She cried, "Oh my God! What was that?!" At this time it gradually dawned on me: we just had a major earthquake.

The normally twenty-minute drive home took me an hour and half. Every intersection was stop-and-go, one car at a time. The speed was reduced to that of a snail. I gripped the steering wheel with my white-knuckled fingers, and bit my lips to fight back tears. The kids - are they all right? They are home alone. Are they hurt? Is the house still there? Are they being buried in the rubbles? I forced myself not to imagine the worst. The houses along the road were still standing. I had some hope. There were no fires as far as I could see. The kids could be just fine.

I got home at last and everything seemed "normal." I looked at the kids and I had a strange feeling of having been away for a month. They looked the same, and yet different. The kids told me how they hid under the dining table and finished their homework there - thinking there might be another one coming. A plant was toppled over and left some dirt on the carpet. Everything was fine. We were safe.

Until this day I couldn't remember what I did for the rest of the evening. It was completely blank. The only thing I remember was crying silently in the office the next day. I couldn't work at all. The boss finally told us to go home. It was futile to tell anyone to concentrate on work. I don't remember what I did after going home either. Somehow my memories in those time periods were completely erased.

I grew up in an earthquake country. Hurricanes and earthquakes were common events. Nobody showed any emotions toward them. It was life - deal with it. My reaction to earthquakes used to be exactly like that of the kids - that was frightening and fun! Now back to homework.

My life and my feelings for earthquakes are completely different now. I used to be strong. I could deal with disasters with no problems. The long drive home that afternoon twenty years ago changed me forever.

Crabby Quest

"With wine in one hand and crab claws in another" is the ideal way to celebrate autumn, according to some highly respected poets who died long time ago. Not that I'm a wine enthusiast - I can barely finish one glass throughout the course of an evening, but who am I to argue with them? That was why I happily responded, "That's a great idea!" when someone suggested we had a crab dinner on Mid Autumn Festival, which fell on October 3rd this year.

I got up and got ready by nine o'clock - on a Saturday, I might add - and went on my hunt for live crab. I don't do the frozen crab thing - those are for amateurs. My experience told me they are the freshest if you get them on the day of the event. And they are the best if you get them from the Asian markets. Well, you really don't have a choice on the market because general supermarkets don't sell live crab. I knew exactly which market to go.

I parked the car and walked into the market, aiming straight at the seafood section. What did I see? An empty tank! There was one small part of a crab left: a crab claw on the bottom of the tank, and that was it.

Shit! I said to myself after the shock subsided. I finally flagged down a clerk in the fish section and asked if they would get more shipment in today.

"No." was the answer. No customer service training was provided to workers of this market, obviously.

"Do you know when you'll get more in?" I knew it was a long shot, but maybe there was a slim chance that they were expecting a shipment in a few minutes.

"I don't know." was the concise answer.

How could this be? The tank was always full of crab piling on top of each other. Always. What happened? Maybe I'd have better luck at the next market. I drove to the second market, half deflated.

I could see it half way down to the seafood section at the second one - an empty tank. Not even a broken claw this time. And when would they get more in? You got it - don't know.

I looked at the frozen crab in the big freezer and thought about it for a moment. The thought of being an amateur was unbearable. Nah, I'll try a third market before giving in to the second choice.

The third one was a little far out, but was worth the drive if they had the illusive commodity. Please, please let them have the crab, I said to myself while walking toward the back of the market, where the eight-legged critters would be.

I came home with a bag of manila clam for the clam chowder I was about to experiment, and three packs of frozen king crab. I was counting on the wine to befog my guests’ taste buds before dinner. Maybe they wouldn't notice the difference after the wine and the chowder.

Clearly I wasn't the only one who heeded to the gastronimic portrayal of the season. I also learned that the frozen king crab couldn't hold a candle to the live Dungeness crab - no matter how lavishly I poured the wine. Note for next year: get the crab the day before the dinner.

Downtown Class

"Ogay glass. Now let’s dalk about the dex boogs for this glass.”

...What?!

After the teacher explained that we needed two books and one optional software in his heavily accented English, my neighbor raised her hand and asked, “But which one do we need? The first one or the second one?”

The woman in front of her turned her head to see who the idiot was. I tried not to look at her so she’d know it wasn’t me. She had a deep crease between her eyebrows. I made a note to myself not to sit next to her in future classes. She looked mean.

I asked a couple of questions about the books as well, since the syllabus wasn’t so clear. When I mentioned the school’s bookstore told me they didn’t have the book and I had to check on amazon.com, he seemed to be a little defensive.

"It’s unduh another glass name.” he said.

Well, why didn’t you mention this in the syllabus? I wanted to ask. How would we know this? Then he said it would be okay to use another edition that didn’t have a CD to save some money.

I didn’t get either book before the class started, because these details were not spelled out in the syllabus. Now I would have to wait for a week for the books to arrive. It would be interesting to see how I could do the assignment without the books.

He probably had a deal with the author, I thought to myself grumpily. That was an unfounded guess, of course. I was just not happy about the extra work and delay he had caused. He is a college professor, and should be smarter than us. He showed off his extensive resume and work experiences before officially starting the class - totally unnecessary in my opinion. A great resume doesn’t guarantee a great teacher.

My neighbor didn’t have a clue what the class was about, or how it was going to be integrated with her work, or what her next step after the class should be, or her possible desire to take the test (no, you can’t take the test - the teacher said; because you didn’t pay for it - a student explained, since she didn't seem to realize there was a cost related to it) etc., etc., and asked a lot of questions. I had to look at the mean woman's face every time she turned around.

I ran out during the break just to make sure my car was still there (it was in the city of the highest crime rate in Bay Area) and that I didn’t get a ticket – sixteen quarters for two hours. It’s only free after eight o’clock. The city is in deep budget shortage, so parking fee is a good way to squeeze some money out of people who are short of it right now.

It seemed that my neighbor got herself a banquet during the break, and started to lay down the feast during the class, opening plastic boxes and wrappers and making all kinds of noise. Now I wanted to give her the dirty look. I already had a hard enough time trying to understand what in the world the teacher was saying without the noise. Thanks to the hard working air conditioner; I was able to stay awake for the entire class. How much I got from the lecture is another topic.

I stepped out of the building and the street had transformed into a deserted movie set of some ghetto scene. A couple of scary looking people were shouting to each other in the dark street. I did my best to appear brave and unconcerned while walking toward my car, praying that I didn’t look like a potential victim of robbery to them.

It's going to be a very long Fall quarter.

Edge of Abyss

I was shocked to see him. Jessica invited me to a birthday dinner for her father, who turned ninety five and still dates, dances a couple of times a week, and has a healthy appetite. Her husband, on the other hand, used to weigh three hundred eighty pounds, now reduced to close to a skeleton.

He has throat cancer for two years now. The doctor said the chemo and the radiation treatments failed to keep the cancer cells at bay, and they have spread to his bones all over his body. He told Jessica her husband might have one year to live.

We were devastated when we heard the news. Jessica seems to be handling it very well. She didn’t fall apart. She didn’t cry whenever I talked to her. Her days are going normally as if he had a bad cold and would take a while to recover. She even resumed her photography classes just to get away from it – which is probably a good thing.

I know I wouldn’t be so strong if this happened to me. I would definitely cry a lot. Instead of classes, I would probably go to church for support. I wonder if this means I’m weak.

I also wonder if her husband knew he would have to go through this before his life would end prematurely, would he have smoked for thirty years before Jessica finally made him quit?

Most of all, I feel so bad about this whole thing. I’m at a complete loss of words as to what to say to him, and I feel very guilty about it. What can I do to make him more at peace with this dreadful and hopeless situation? What can I say to a person who’s staring at the dark abyss that he will have to jump in soon?