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Never wear white below the waist. Enough said. Never dress like euro trash unless you are euro trash. Always wear a belt. Especially with jeans. No exceptions. If you are over 30, never wear a black leather jacket. Heck, no matter you age, ditch the black leather. If you are short, never go with the long leather jacket. You will look even shorter. Never go half tuck if you are over 35. Don’t dress like you are 19 if you are 25. Don’t dress like you are 25 if you are 35. And never dress like you are a 20 if you are 40. It’s not cool, it’s absurd. Androgyny is for the young. Sexless is for the middle age. Don’t confuse the two. Ok, for the dense: ...

My subway stop is Chaoyangmen and this night is no different when I get off. I edge myself closer to the door and when it opens I push, slide, and sometimes shove my way out. I used to say “excuse me” but after a year in Beijing I realize there is no need for such niceties and they will just slow you down. And to be slowed down here means being pushed back onto the train by the oncoming passengers. I make if off the train, and head for the “wai” side of Chaoyangmen. I take the stairs instead of the escalators up three flights of stairs to the street. Very few people do this and I tell myself I do it for the exercise but maybe it’s just because I have no patience for the escalator. There is no down escalator and at this time of night I am greeted by a flood of people walking down the stairs. They make way for me as I climb up, an occasional bemused smile but mainly indifference. The stairs are a bit steep and to make eye contact going down means risking a fall. At the top of the stairs I emerge into the early evening twilight, like an old car reaching the top of a hill and feeling a momentary resurgence. It’s then that I see her, 150 meters away, but a vision. I see long flowing straight here, a lean look, outlines of a pretty face. At 100 meters shape starts to come. At 50 meters I am obsessed. At 25 I think she sees me too, but I cannot be sure. She’s about 5'4", with a round smooth face, young but not a kid, thin but hips, athletic in he walk, smart in her look. People think I have a “type”. The first assumption now is that I like Asian women because I am like in China and married to a Chinese woman. Asian women are the generalization because whites are assumed to make no distinction between the Asian races. It’s all the same to us, and it’s all good, or so the line of thought goes. While it is true that fairly late in life I discovered my, let’s say, aptitude for Asian women, it is not a “type” for me. It’s more like discovering I like vanilla ice cream too when all I knew before was chocolate. Chocolate can still be damn good. Some people who think the “know” me (all five of them) will presume that my type is “thin” or petite because I tend to go for the thin ones and once was with a way too thin one. I can’t say the thin thing ever appealed to me, but if I am honest with myself I will acknowledge that after the way to thin one became what she became I do notice the unhealthy thin ones in a disturbing way. But sometimes it is best not to be so honest with oneself. So, at 10 meters, I can see she is not looking at me. And as much as I don’t have a type, this woman is it. Everything is right. I want to trip her or something. Anything to get to know her. I can feel the initial pangs of a crush coming on. At 5 meters she stops. Makes a hacking sound with her nose. And spits a luggie onto the cement that would make a sailor proud. This is China. This is Beijing. ...

Jane read the letter for the second time. Dear Jane, It was so nice to have lunch with you today. I smiled the whole way home; I’m just so damn proud and happy to be your mother. When you were three, you used to do the cutest thing. We would be sitting on the coach, and then you would just get up and walk over to coffee table and have a conversation with an imaginary clerk. Some days you would be buying shoes, some days, apples, some days eggs. But you would always negotiate and right from the start you learned your lessons well. Never make the first offer and never accept their first. You were just so adorable then. And now, with a three year old of your own, I wonder if the scene acts itself out all over again. It’s hard to believe you’re 40 now. I must tell you, that was a hard year for me. I really felt a loss of energy and had a hard time finding my rhythm again. If you go through this, don’t worry, it will pass. You will find your step, your way again. And, how do I say this. Another big shift happened when I turned 40. I felt less attractive. The men who used to notice me, noticed me less. The side glances, the turned heads, the innocent flirtations, all seemed to evaporate at once. I adjusted, but it took some time. I had to rediscover your father again. Why am I writing all this doom and gloom? I mean you looked fabulous, you were simply beaming. Tell me, are you pregnant again? I can’t explain it, you just had that certain glow. I’m so glad to hear your new job is going well. It’s amazing they would promote you so fast. But I know you deserve it. From the day you were born I knew you were special. Are special. They say a son goes with his wife’s family and a daughter stays with hers. Well, that is certainly true in our case. You’ve taken such good care of me since Dad died. Can you believe it’s been 14 years? And here it is Mother’s day and you take me to lunch. Next week I’m taking you, it’s long overdue. I was reading the Wally Lamb book you gave me for Christmas. It ended with three things he knew to be true. First, god exists in round things. Second, mongrels make good dogs. And finally, love springs from the depths of forgiveness. May we all find a little forgiveness on this day. Love, Mom. Jane, put her pen down. Satisfied with her writing and the anger it released she tore the paper in to squares each smaller than the last. She took the remains flushed them like a dead rat. Her final stop for the night was the freezer and a pint of ben and jerrys. ...

It’s halftime of the Argentina vs. Serbia match and even though I don’t know much about soccer I know Argentina is playing damn good. They are my new favorite team. My wife likes the players with their flowing hair and clean shaven faces. A friend comments that it’s the beautiful team vs. the ugly team, and he’s right. The Serbians could use a little work on and off the field. Anyway, they have a beer chugging contest at half time. Five people compete to see who can chug a bottle of beer the fastest, the winner getting some meaningless prize ¨C maybe a new liver. It takes some work, but they finally get five contestants, three Americans and two Chinese men. It’s a little weird demographic wise as there are about 300 people in the audience, slightly more than half men, and only a handful of Americans. I can consume plenty of beer myself, but don’t chug. The contest over ¨C a Chinese man beat the Americans ¨C the second half proceeds with Argentina seemingly toying with Serbia. There is one play in particular. An Argentine player is closely guarded, so he kicks the ball through the legs of the defender, runs around him then sidesteps another defender, then curves the ball around the goaltender for a goal. It was pure magic. And, only their second best goal of the night. Game complete, the four of us head over to the Russian nightclub. I was a little hesitant to bring it up ¨C after last time ¨C but it seems the couple actually enjoyed the last time so we went. Besides, I had a bottle of vodka on hold there from the time in between the last time and this time. We arrive, and start drinking screwdrivers. The Russian hookers start to look good. After a few more drinks even my friend’s wife starts to move with the music which she’s never done before. I walk around to check out the scene. My wife is fascinated by some young Russian men at the table behind us. I remind her that men that age don’t even need 15 minutes between rounds. They just reload. This does not discourage her. They put on a dance show. A black man and female crew dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. Then a group of belly dancers one of which eventually makes her way to our table. My friend’s life is complete at this point. He could die at that moment and be happy. Me, I’ve died a long time ago as it is. Then we are treated to a Las Vegas style dance troop without the nudity. Eventually the dancers take a break and a live band comes on. They are pretty good, especially the male singer. They are Russian but sing most of their songs in Chinese. When the band is done, the dance floor opens up complete with go-go dancers. I pay particular attention to a Chinese woman dancing with her Chinese man but looking straight at a hot go-go dancer. My friend is standing directly behind the go-go dancer. Eventually he takes his wife on the dance floor. My wife and I don’t dance, can’t dance really, so we stay behind and just people watch. Feeling pretty wasted but frisky, we stumble home to our small condo. In our bed are our two children. In the tiny second bedroom are my wife’s nephew and her mom. Downstairs is the Ayi. Somehow we still manage. A young Russian man I am not, but I can pretend for¡well..two minutes at least. ...

To the average American my age, the world cup is an event that occurs every four years about a sport that you only care about every four years. Kind of like the Olympics. But in Beijing, and in most of the world I suspect, the world cup is a month long festival of soccer. If you are from Togo (and I must ask you, where the hell is that, it sounds like a sandwich wrapped in cloth) the goal scored against South Korea was not just a momentary cause for cheer but a life long reminiscence. So what if your German born, aging, playboy looking coach quit the team three days before the match only to return the day before. And a fashion tip to all you old German born playboy looking coaches. If you must wear jeans, go with the lose fit. Prefer a sweater to a button down gold chain hanging silk shirt. And by all means, do not smile in a way that makes you look like a horse with dentures. Anyway, here in Beijing, every bar, every restaurant is showing the world cup. A 600 year old temple near my home shows the world cup on two big screen TVs placed on its altar. The sun god, the reason the temple exists, must not be please. Or perhaps the sun god is a world cup fan. The first game comes on at 9pm, the next at midnight, the last at 3am. Colleagues slept at their desks after the 3am Brazil win the other night. Me, I mostly watch at home during the week. Listening to the Chinese announcers on CCTV channel 5 call the game. The only Chinese I can make out is the word for “beautiful” as in “beautiful shot”. On weekends we will go to a bar or a temple to watch. Last Saturday night we went to Browns, the latest mega bar in Beijing. Maybe three hundred people were there and they cheered when England won. England’s only goal was scored when the opponent accidentally hit the ball into their own net. Long live the king. The other night a Chinese new reporter was in Germany reporting on the activities. She was talking with a bunch of enthusiastic Mexican fans. She wore a poncho. Hot. I’m hoping the USA puts up a good fight, at least makes it to the quarter finals, but all signs are against it. If they don’t make it, well, we have another four years before we have to care about it again. ...

She found herself in the produce section staring at the green apples and not knowing why. She always wanted to know why. About everything. It drove her friends nuts. Drove them away eventually. So she told herself to relax. There may be no reason she was in front of the apples vs. say the ice cream, but since she was there she might as well take a look. And look she did. Then she picked up an apple, dismissed it for lack of color, then picked up another and dismissed for too much color. One had too much wax. Another had bruises she could see. Another had bruises she could feel. Eventually she came along a good apple. Maybe not the best apple in the bunch, but a good one. That’s all it was to her, a good apple. She bought the apple, digging through her purse for change, and returned home. She placed the apple in the center of her kitchen table. It was alone. That night, when the warm turned to cold and the only light was filtered from the bathroom, she picked up the apple, washed it, and took a bite. And indeed, it was a good apple. Sweet but not too sweet. Solid, but not dry. She took her time eating this good apple, occasionally flossing the skin that got stuck between her teeth. Satisfied, she relaxed, and sitting in the dark the world didn’t seem so scary. She drifted to sleep with the rotten core barely registering in her dreams. ...

He ordered a mixed salad, spaghetti bolognaise, and a beer. The salad was small, as was the pasta, but the beer was at least twice what he expected. He didn’t really want the bear, not after Friday night, but he figured he had to drink something. He ate in silence, reading a four day old copy of the USA today, happy for a few stories from home. Across the room sat two foreigners, that is to say Americans like him in this strange land, who managed to cross the street from their five star hotel and “go local”. Other patrons were actual locals, deciding to “go western”. He was perhaps the only who fit the scene, and he never fit any scene. There was most definitely something wrong with this picture, heck if he cared what it was. Mainly he worried if he had enough food. Worried that he had too much beer. Especially after Friday night. Too much beer can lead to, well, some things are not best thought about over and over. The two foreigners continued their talk, loud and confident as if they’ve braved a new world. How amazing they are, in this strange land, going around without a care in the world. Making it their own. Just like the one billion people who live here and could care less about them. Could care less that they will go back to their five star hotel, have a drink at world class prices, and reminisce about their day. All before retiring to their five star rooms with upturned beds and CNN. He paid his check, and stood to leave, the beer having a mild effect. His ears zoomed in on the foreigners as he passed by their table because no matter how foreign they were to him and this land, they were still something closer to home than he’s been in a while. Like his USA today, they brought comfort and discontent. He met the woman in front of the five star hotel. No, he wasn’t staying there. Just a convenient place for her taxi to stop on the way to their home across town. He wondered how to explain his beer breath. Especially after Friday night. When the cab stopped, he opened the back seat door to find her leaning on the opposite door. She wanting to keep her own breath away, not wanting to share a weakness. This is how it goes. The 30 minute ride home was filled music from the cab’s radio highlighted on occasion with polite conversation. ...

The late spring sun casts uneven shadows across her dining room table. She sits near the phone, expecting his call, with once warm tea her only companion. She’s been a widow for 35 years. She’s told herself she never wanted a companion during this time and maybe that was true. But today, with the warm summer evenings still weeks away, she feels alone. Even though she’s lived in this upscale retirement community home for 20 years, she’s never really moved in. There was no way to move in. How does one fit the contents of a Pacific Heights mansion into a nice but relatively small home? You don’t. So you either let go or become a pack rat and try to cram in everything you can. Sure, she sold the velvet wall covers, but how could she part with such classical furniture. Maybe someday she would move back into such an elegant mansion or one of her daughters would need it. No, there was no way she cold sell that stuff. She kept photos in a totally unorganized fashion and they could be found scattered throughout the house. She kept her late husband’s fishing rods from the 60s. Kept his tools. Kept some of his shirts. Basically she kept everything and even though money was not a problem, seldom updated items. Witness the 15inch non cable ready TV in the living room. Good enough to watch 60 minutes and an occasional Charlie Rose. Her mom died seven years ago at the age of 99. No one much cared, it was a small affair. Her oldest daughter came to the cemetery to watch the urn placed away. The daughter brought along he ex husband, she always liked him ok. It was three years later that her oldest daughter died too, ashes spread into the Pacific, at a special spot her husband used to drive the young family too. Drive them in that god awful pink Cadillac convertible, singing songs, waiting for the one way tunnel to open. Her youngest daughter made a heart in the sand on that day three years ago and said goodbye to her older sister. Her youngest daughter, in effect, had said goodbye to both of them years earlier. So, now her she sat, not sure what to do, waiting and not waiting for a phone call. The phone finally rings and it is her oldest daughter’s ex husband, calling on her birthday, like he always did. But he can’t talk long it seems, need to rush out with his new family. Promises to call again, tomorrow. He does, but no answer. He calls the next day, still no answer. There will never be an answer for she has died. Age? Plenty. _I first saw Berdeen on my wedding day, she sat in the back of the reception hall and stood up to give us a toast. She seemed warmed and pleasant, nothing like the impression I received from my then wife, her oldest, now deceased daughter. _ _I knew Berdeen for 16 years. I can’t say I liked her all that much, but she wasn’t all that bad to talk to from time to time. And after Mimi’s death in December 2001 I spoke with her twice a year. On the birthday and on the death day. Berdeen was the only person I could really talk to about Mimi, partly this is my fault, but mainly this is because we were both on somewhat equal footing. Not trying to comfort each other. Not afraid to talk about it. Maybe in a more selfish way, by talking about Mimi and her death, we were secretly telling each other we didn¡¯t blame each other. To let go of the guilt. To acknowledge to Mimi was amazing, but flawed. As we all are. _ _I will miss Berdeen. I will miss the connection to Mimi’s family. But we are all big boys now, aren’t we? _ ...

It started as a simple game at a bar. Friends wrote their fantasy on a scrap of paper, the paper shuffled, and then read aloud for everyone to hear. It was great fun, as everyone tried to guess who wanted a multi-way, who wanted to move to Hawaii, or who wanted to get rich. Then a simple one. “Jane”. And with that Jane blushed. People tried to guess who’s fantasy Jane was. Bob knew, because it was his, but he didn’t think anyone else could figure it out. He had a good poker face. Then he made eye contact with Jane, a flicker exchange, and she knew. Pete picked up on this started to talk just as Bob picked up the next scrap of paper. “Bob” it said. Bob looked at Jane, but she flicked a “wasn’t me look” and it wasn’t. But Jane was starting to think Bob would be a good fantasy. Especially after few 7 and 7s. Meanwhile, Bob was wondering who fantasized for him. No hints from the other woman at the table. So, he decided to ignore it and chatted up Jane. She was receptive and they found they had a lot in common. After a few drinks they decided to go back to Jane’s place and have some fun. They both felt a bit buzzed, but excited. They stopped at the restroom on the way out, better to relieve one self here. Bob was finished first and as he was waiting for Jane, Pete walked up, grabbed him, kissed him hard, and pulled his body close. Sometimes bodies react without owner intent and sometime bodies react to show owner intent. In this case both might be true. Bob met Pete’s passion with passion. Just as Jane exited from the ladies room. And this is how a simple bar game ended up with Bob making breakfast for three. ...

Fate led her to a strange place, with a burden she could not bear. It started out simple enough, a day away from the burbs and into the city for fun with an old friend from college. A boy then, maybe a man now, but always a boy in her mind. She arrived at their old lunch spot, a burrito shop in the mission. But he wasn’t there, and he was always early. Must be tied up in traffic she thought. 10 minutes passed, then 20, then 45. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, text messages equally ignored. Hunger took over and she ordered two fish tacos, scarfed them down, and wanted more. Tossing the wrapper in the trash and leaving through the side door she did not notice the man with his back to the wall stand and begin to follow her. What to do now, she thought. It was a beautiful day after all and she hadn’t been in the city for so long. So she decided to head down to the wharf, mingle with the tourists, see and be seen. Living in the burbs she didn’t get much male attention, at least from men her age. But here in the city she felt like she “fit” and she must admit she didn’t mind a look or two. And she was getting her share. She got lost in the crowd at the wharf, soaking up the sun, the fishy smell, and the action of people moving about. She realized she was dying in the burbs, that she needed to make a change. So right then, at that instant, she decided to leave her husband and move to the city. A snap decision, yes, but a final one. If the tacos were not so good, the sun not so bright, the attention not so warm, the same decision would have passed her like a warm wind. Months pass and she now lives alone in a flat in the city. A man has been courting her, but she’s not ready to be courted yet. Well, that what she says. In fact, she is more than ready to be courted, she damn well wants to give in, but she’s trying to do the right thing and wait a while until her divorce is final. Damn that Catholicism. One day she receives a call, it’s from the police. They ask her about her friend from college. Says they found his cell phone. She was the last incoming call, the last text message. In fact, she was the only number in the call history. That’s impossible, she thought, I only called him once a week or so and just to catch up. The police ask her is she knows where he is. She has no idea, thought maybe he just went non communicato. Wouldn’t be the first time. The police say they found his phone by the bridge. She’s a bit stunned, confused. Suddenly her world closed in, everything gets small, and all she can see is her hands. Worn hands. Too worn for a white collar girl. She remembers that day on the wharf and thinks of him. And wonders about her life transforming moment. And wonders about his. ...