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Exactly one year ago today I felt I was dying. Was convinced of it. She took a final drag from her cigarette, flipped the butt away, stood up, and walked away. Behind her was her childhood house, inside her mother was preparing dinner, her older brother was playing on the computer, and her father was taking a nap. It was a normal summer afternoon. But for her, she was leaving, getting on that bus, moving to the big city, and never returning. She reached the corner and didn’t look back. At 16 she was old enough to know better, but she told herself lies and allowed herself to be lied too. She lied down with men who gave her a place to live and nice things to wear and made her feel like an adult. She knew these men were using her but the lie was easier than the truth so the lie won. At 18 she found herself on the streets again, the last man growing tired of her. She knew she could find another, maybe a foreigner this time who would think her naïve, but she was tired on living on others. She got herself a job at the 711 in her neighborhood. At first the girls there did not trust her, thought she was a bit of a slut, and she could not disagree. But month after month she never missed a shift and she took all the extra hours she could get. She moved from the room she shared with six girls two just a single roommate and then a small flat of her own. She spent afternoons looking for discarded things to decorate her humble flat with. She was patient and careful about what she brought home. The other girls at the 711 grew to respect her. One day her supervisor introduced her to a man, thinking she must be lonely. She resisted, she was done with men. But the man persisted, was charming in a puppy dog kind of way, and she relented to a date of cherries and ice cream at the city park. A funny thing happened on that date. She laughed. She flat out giggled. This 18 year old woman was a girl again. She allowed herself to be silly. Making an ice cream mustache on her face. Tossing cherries into the ear and plucking them with her mouth. She hadn’t felt this much alive, this much like a child since she was 14 and that awful uncle that she liked came by. So she had a beau. Everyone could tell from the smile on her face. She floated at work and everyone was happy for her. One day, however, her supervisor let it slip that she had been a loose woman. Let it slip to the worst possible person. Maybe she let the new slip on purpose, so envious of love as some are, maybe it was purely an accident. We will never know. The beau was crushed and rushed to the 711 and confronted the girl. Yelled at her. Called her vile names. Moved towards her. And then her anger came. She rushed at him. The other girls held her back. Then he swung at her, missing wildly. The other girls dragged her out the back door. She sat on the stoop and cried. She sat on the stoop. Lit a cigarette. Smoked it slow. She took a final drag from the cigarette, flipped the butt away, and stood up, and walked away. Tears dry, she made it to the corner and didn’t look back. For the first time in a year, I do not feel like I am dying. ...

The young men are playing basketball on the blacktop. The sun is strong and their shirts are off. Their game is athletic but lacks skill. I feel I could take them. Then my four year old son and two year old daughter take off their shirts and wander onto the blacktop. Fantasy of past athletic mediocrity deferred, I follow them, now being a father, now a bit worried they will wander onto the court and get run over. They make friends with a Chinese boy, maybe 17, who is playing by himself. My son, ever charming, smiles and the boy rolls him the ball. The ball is about half the size of my son and he has hard enough time lifting it, not to mention shooting it. I wander over, casual like, but dying to bury a jumper from the top of the key. Show my skill. I reach the court, “accidently” find myself in position to grab the ball. I bounce the ball a few times, it feels good, like a lost friend. I spin once, then the other way, then I fire my step back jumper from the top of the key. If it wasn’t for gravity I would have missed the ground. Next to the basketball courts is a running track, an oval. My kids follow me, and we race along the track. My daughter, even though she is 17 months younger than her brother, runs with a grace he will never have. She’s light on her feet and floats. My son is a plodder. He would be good in mud. Along the side of the track is a drainage ditch. It mirrors the oval running track, a few feet inside. The drainage ditch is covered, in spots, with a cement filter, allowing water to get through but not a whole lot else. This being China, the cover is in ill repair, broken with jagged edges, with yard long gaps someone could just walk into. My son notices this and says to me, “baba, look it’s broken” pointing at a piece of the cover. He’s gleeful. He’s always gleeful. I tell him, that no, the piece that is there isn’t broken. It’s the strong piece. The piece that’s missing is the one that broke. Broke for none to see. I turn my head as to not ruin his glee. ...

She looks down at her cosmopolitan, takes the smallest of sips, and then steps back onto the crowded space in front of the bar where some folks are dancing. A young man comes up to her, they start to move together, her rhythm light and natural. His rhythm is rougher but meeting hers. She is not interested in this man, and will tell him so directly after the dance. She is aware of two men watching her from the shadows, one is her husband. She is not interested in him tonight either, but plays to him during the dance, in order to pacify him and to make sure the man she is interested in notices her. But she not need to worry that he would notice her. He noticed her right away. It was the drink that gave her away. What was she doing in Beijing again? Did she know he was here? How could she, he thought. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable and suggested to his date that they leave, blow this place for some place a bit more quiet. His date said sure, but she wanted to finish her ginger ale first. He could not stand it, the pressure building inside, as he watched her dance with that young man. While the young man was quite striking he was of no concern to him, his main concern was his emotions. He was losing control of them. His heart was pounding. He would risk it all for this woman. When he saw her husband sipping on a Hogarden, he wondered for a second what he though of her dancing with another man, but it was only a fleeting concern. His main concern was his own, now out of control emotions. The song ended, she whispered “thanks, but I need to dance with my husband now” to the young stud and he was dispatched. He would be fine. She spun and smiled in the direction of the man she was really interested in, then gave her husband a flirtatious glance and whispered “dance with me” while pulling him forward. It was all to impress him. She was spinning. He husband came onto the floor and danced with her. The husband was happy. She thought he danced like a fish. For that matter her husband’s hands on her had lately felt like a dead fish. She thought of the other man and smiled and moved in her light and passionate way. The man who watched her was overcome with anxiety, a nervousness that wouldn’t let go. He stood up, told his date he would be right back, and stepped outside, hoping the cold air would settle his nerves. Mainly, it just felt cold. Zero is zero. He stepped back inside just as the women was walking past with her husband. He visibly gasped. He froze unable to move or acknowledge her. But it appeared she didn’t notice him and she kept going, out the door. He stood there, shaking, wishing he had a cigarette. After a minute or two, he pulled himself together and went inside. His date had finished her ginger ale and they left for that quiet place. After making love to her husband –she banged him hard while thinking of the other man– she rolled over and smiled. Of course she saw the man on her way out, and from the look on his face she knew she still had it. Still had him. And he would be hers once again. ...

I feel small fingers poking my arm and somewhere in the recess of sleep I hear “daddy, daddy” and I roll over. My eyes lift like tire irons and my vision is still shaky from the night before. I see my little boy holding his spiderman toothbrush, ready for me to brush his teeth. I do the best I can to sit up, feeling my stomach go “slosh”, and I take the brush from him. I just want to sleep. To die really, but sleep would be ok. I aim for his mouth, ask him to open it, and do I try to brush side to side. He likes the part when I brush his tongue and is eager to get to that part. So am I, for it will mean we are finished. Just as we do finish, my daughter comes in, with her Batman toothbrush, ready to be brushed too. Finally they are gone and I am left alone to sleep in my cold bed. I hear the ayi playing with them downstairs. My wife is in a bed somewhere, but not this one. My mind shifts to work, as it often does, and I can’t shut it off. I used to think about technology things – how to write this code or solve this problem – but now mainly I think about people. And I bitch. My bitch today is my boss promoted someone to be a manager of managers obviously before he was ready and at the same time is holding me back. Then I smile at a small epiphany. My boss is fucking the new, male, manager of mangers. Neither have girlfriends and they both have begun dressing better recently, so there is no better conclusion. Not that I care do I, I just hope they use gel so they are not constipated in the restroom and I have to ultimately put up with their smell. With this happy thought I am off to sleep for a few more hours and when I awake the house is quiet. I am alone. I turn on the TV. CNN. Wow, this is living. I stumble out of bed and smell the cigarettes on my shirt. My underwear is torn in the crotch and I wonder if I wore it our or pulled on it last night. There are flecks of blood on my tightie whities. I brush my teeth. I make coffee and down three cups and start to feel awake. It then starts to come back to me, this night before. It hits me in waves, I pick up my cell phone, and make a call. “Honey, we got to talk” ...

small crimes part 2 I complain about sleeping alone but truth be told I prefer it. I look for reasons to feel persecuted and then mope when I am. I tell my coworkers my family is my number one priority but my family knows work is. I have my best thoughts when running but forget them by the time I shower. I would have an affair if I could speak the language. My style is no style because I can’t be bothered. I want to care but don’t. I took my son for a happy meal because I wanted to eat his burger. I make love to get off. I pretend to be warm hearted. I sometimes wear a hat instead of showing in the morning. I sleep at home most nights. I would watch more porn if I had more time. My emotions are distant from those close to me and from myself too. I don’t lie unless it really matters. But, I don’t know truth from fiction half the time. My only fear is getting caught. I often want to run away but I don’t know where I’d go. I think lots of folks are stupid. I pretend to be good at what I do. Happiness is a concept I have no concept of. ...

She woke up sprawled on the coach, her throat sore, the tv tuned to cspan. It was 10am. She dragged her frail body of the coach, walked to the sink, inspected the tipped over ice cream container and put it back into the freezer. She reached for a cigarette and nicked her finger on the matchbook staple. She read the back of the cereal box with her coffee but ate no cereal. Coffee down, cigarette stubbed, she took a shower hot enough to scold must skin. Then a quick switch to cold just for the feeling; wondering if it would make her heart flutter again. She dressed and since she had a date – a real lunch date today – she put on her dead husband’s unwashed tee-shirt under the baggy knit sweater. She got in her beat up old Corolla and drove to Longs, the glorified drug store. She picked up her prescription refill even though she had at least a six month supply at home for previous hoarding and self medicating. She paid at the pharmacy counter. On her walk to the front exit she grabbed a purse without breaking stride and placed it into her own oversized purse. She did it so smoothly and effortlessly that it reminded herself of when she used to dance for papa. Back before she became a woman and papa died. She arrived home, took the stolen purse out of her bag, and placed $5 in it. She placed the stolen purse with the others, about 15 in total, and left for her lunch date. Bob was younger than her and seemed attracted to her strangeness. He was a bit too eager and somehow did not give out hardly any sexual vibes, which suited her just fine. He had a meatball sandwich. She had a cup of minestrone soup that she took occasional sips out of. With Bob, it wasn’t hard for her to see him as a dog, hunched over and sticking his mouth in the bowl. Bob didn’t seem to notice her not eating and just nodded at her frantic talk. He asked her what she was doing that afternoon and at first she thought he wanted to have some adult play time. But she quickly realized he was just making talk and the image of him dry humping her leg was only fleeting. She told him she wanted to drop some stuff off at Goodwill and that she might catch a move. Her drive home from lunch can only be described as frantic. For she was frantic and didn’t know why. Hyper, crazy, wanting to get home as fast as possible but not knowing why. Chain smoking just because she could. This was not unusual. She got home, went to her closet and put all the stolen purses in a big garbage bag. She got back in her car, starting to relax, and drove to the Goodwill drop off. The attendant smiled at her, asked what she had today, and took the garbage bag. The attendant inspected the purses, each with the $5 bill inside, and said thanks. The woman drove home feeling relaxed thinking maybe she would sleep ok for once. ...

I don’t eat on Tuesdays. Let me explain. Two months ago my doctor said I was obese. I wasn’t quite sure what this meant outside of being fat which I already knew I was. He explained to me, that at my age, obesity can lead to chronic health problems. Like the farts, I’m thinking. He reads my mind, says, no like diabetes. Heart disease. I think diabetes and think about giving myself an insulin shot and that scares me. So when I get home, I google obesity. It says 100 pounds over weight. I’m 5'7", 275, so I think I need to get down to 175. I call the doc and ask if 175 would be ok. He says, yes of course, but…but I hang up on him before he can finish. Probably wants me to go on some type of diet. But I’ve figured it out, pretty much. I need to lose 100 pounds, or about 35% of my current body weight. Each day of the week I consume, on average, 1/7 or 15% of my weekly calories. So, there, skip a day and I lost the weight. Ok, I know what you are thinking, 15% is a long ways from 35%. I had the same thought at first. But then, I figured, once I lost the first 25 pounds I would only have 75 more to go. Then all of a sudden the 35% is down to 25%. See where I’m going with this? Well, I didn’t work out all the details but I figure I can lose those 100 pounds easy enough by skipping Tuesdays. Convinced? Ok, ok. I understand, you must think I am crazy. Why Tuesdays? How about Mondays or Sundays? Well, Monday’s just suck because it’s the beginning of a work week and if you can’t scarf down a hamburger or three then you are bound to march into your boss’s office and split his head open with a baseball bat. Or a three hole punch. Sometimes one has to improvise. But I digress. Sundays are also out because you are at the in-laws and while you hate the honey baked ham with that stupid pineapple on top, you smile and grin because you want to get some that night. Not that it will help you get some, but if you skip this meal then you will for sure not get any. Wednesdays, well this is personal. There is a girl I see for lunch from time to time and that time is always a Wednesdays. My wife doesn’t know about this girl and this girl doesn’t know about my wife but I’m sure I also don’t know about her husband either. This occasional Wednesday includes a meal and I am not going to pass it up. Thursdays were a candidate. I meet my father at the rest home for breakfast. Well, he’s already there so it’s not like we really meet there. He’s been living there for six years, ever since Mom died and there was no one left to take care of him. Anyway, he’s getting more and more senile and I think I could get away with just sipping coffee and nodding but what kind of son would that make me? Not that by eating his scrambled eggs I am a good son, but he seems to like it as he tells me about coming home from the war and how no one knew his name except for Mom. Friday’s is boys night out, so that’s an obvious day I have to eat. Truth be told there hasn’t been a boys night in a while and it often consist of me with a papa johns pizza in front of the tv watching the amazing race. But for the off chance there is a boys night, I am ready. This leaves Saturdays and I don’t have to tell you why I don’t skip this day, do I? Because of that foul ham, you fool. I need to have something I like. And there it is. I skip Tuesdays. ...

As we enter the pseudo fast food restaurant, my son races towards ice cream freezer. I let him run to it and I grab a table with my wife and daughter. Once upon the freezer, he turns and looks back at no one in particular and says he wants ice cream now. When he sees me, he says “no bobie” for he knows I will not allow ice cream before dinner. His “no bobbie” went up an octave when I say, “Dinner first, then ice cream”. A moment later my son is sitting at our table. Our nanny is feeding him spoonfuls of ice cream while I look over the menu. My wife isn’t eating this evening and suggests oven spaghetti for our daughter. I get the hamburger and that is that. I had suggested the little family night as we haven’t been spending a lot of time as a unit lately. I’ve been accused of being a workaholic, which I think is pretty much true. Combine this with my recent fondness for alcohol and other forms of self gratification and you don’t have a lot of family time. Not to mention my wife’s passion for gambling and shall we say “team building”. Taking the nanny on this little family night out seems a bit out of place, maybe excessive, but at least my wife did not bring along the second nanny. The food takes a while to arrive, especially the oven spaghetti. My daughter wants some of the ice cream and my son screams because he doesn’t want to share. Occasionally the nanny sneaks her a bit or two. I’ve been thinking the nanny has been looking a bit more slutty lately. And I can’t say I mind all that much. After all I spend more time with her than my wife these days. An image from the night before: her leaning over the bed, a panty around an ankle, and nothing more. My wife starts to tell me about her day. Seems her commission will be impossible to achieve this quarter. The margins are just impossible. She goes on to tell me about some small scale, basically routine black market deal that goes on with her sales force. I tell her that someone who works for me got run over by a train today. He’s dead. I am not kidding. She nods and then continues with a story about a customer who is mad at her and that she really can’t blame him. I fondle a fry as she goes on. I’m listening, I suppose. Lot’s of head nods, lots of “yeas”. My girlfriend walks into the restaurant just as the oven spaghetti arrives. I haven’t seen her since lunch when I left her on the bed to untie herself. I am not surprised to see her now. She’s been playing this game for a while. She walks past my table, brushes her left breast against my left bicep, and makes her way behind me. She has my full attention. So to speak. My son finishes his pint of ice cream; my daughter takes a few bites of the oven spaghetti and is done. My wife twiddles the spaghetti on a spoon but doesn’t eat. My son and daughter run off. The nanny glances at me and then is off to chase them. I take a few bites of the spaghetti. My wife goes to the counter to get a doggie bag giving my girlfriend a chance to sneak up behind me and slip her hand into my crack. Then she’s gone. I’m definitely going to bring my lunch tomorrow. We pack up the leftovers. I tell my wife that this family time was good. That we should do more things as a family. She looks away and walks off. ...

Hate is a strong word, one that should not be used lightly. Real hate is not the other side of love. Real hate is not the product of fear. Real hate is not the unknown. Real hate is not bounded by time. No, real hate is as pure as the last breath you take. I don’t hate much in life but I hate this: Broccoli. I’m not sure when the hate started, but I’m sure it was before the age of five, when one of my older brothers said “Hey, want something really yummy?” and when I said “Yes!” expecting candy or some such thing I was instead treated to the most foul smelling and tasting thing I could imagine. No treat. A trick. For my entire childhood, the mere smell of broccoli would make me gag. To take a bite was almost more than I could manage, my throat and stomach would start to enter convulsions. I kid you not. My hate festered in a different age. This was not exactly the age of children. All food on the plate had to be eaten. No exceptions. Don’t want to eat that broccoli, eh? Well you can’t have anything else either then. See you at breakfast. Thanks for coming. If my dad was at the table there was no negotiation at all. For some reason, my Mom mostly served broccoli when my Dad was at work (maybe my Dad hated it too?) giving me a bit more wiggle room. I tried feeding it to the dog under the table. All this lead too was me having to eat once dogged licked broccoli. I tried spreading the broccoli into other dishes to dilute the flavor only to ruin the flavor of all. I offered my little brother the same “treat” offered me but he was already too wise. Year after year, week after week, my mom would serve broccoli. I never got used to it. I hated it. I swore I would never, ever, never ever, eat it when I grew up. And I haven’t. Not once. As an adult, in the absence of brocolii, I was less aware of my hate. It would rise up from time to time. Such as the time I tried a veggie burrito which was really a broccoli burrito. Blasphemy. Now the mere smell of broccoli doesn’t cause me to puke. I can almost tolerate it. I’ve stopped asking waiters if side of vegetables contained broccoli. When some of the broccoli bits spilled onto my mash potatoes or pork chop, I now longer refuse to take a bite, I simply brush off the bits. I like to think I have matured. But make not mistake, I still hate it. Recently, I spent the night at my parents. My mom made dinner and was sure to cook my favorites. And yes, she did make broccoli. As she got ready to scoop some onto my plate, I said “I think I’ll pass” and she didn’t blink an eye. How nice to be old. ...

When he’s mad, I know he’s mad When he’s hungry, I know he’s hungry When he’s tired, I know he’s tired When he’s happy, I’m happy He thinks my clumsiness is funny He’s looks just like me, except happy He doesn’t come home drunk at 4am and obsess He doesn’t question my work He has no fear except for dogs He has confidence except for peeing in a pot He runs to me when I come home for work His eyes light up when he smiles His feet make a pitter patter sound on our wood floor ...