Doodles

Elisa facetimes me except it isn’t facetime, it’s a WeChat video call. She wants to see Kobe, our eight month old Beagle. I point the phone at Kobe, Elisa is happy. Kobe doesn’t seem to notice. It is all about the smell for him. The kids mom took them to Guam for five nights. The kids winter break is five weeks and during that time they typically go on vacation someplace warm either with me or with their mom. A couple of times we’ve gone back to the US. Guam was picked since they’ve never been there, there would be fewer Chinese tourists because a visa is required (although I’m not sure that’s true), and because I went there five years ago. The pictures start coming in on the Kids group chat. Beach shots. Lover’s leap. The mall. Even Kmart. I remember all of them all. They go snorkeling, which I didn’t do. They go to Tony Romas, which I did do. When I went to Guam, I went alone for eight days. It was not a happy time. I drove around the island. I did sightseeing. I went to Kmart. I sat in my hotel room. I drank. I ate. I read. I wrote. I was struck by how much it felt like the US. Like Hawaii but a bit worn down. I went to the night market and ate night market things. I watched part of a high school baseball game being played under the lights. I went to the hotel gym. I went to Guam alone but I was not alone the entire time. The day before I left, I signed some papers at a lawyers office. I brought back Guam tee shirts for my kids. I went to coffee shops. I went to Ross. I texted the kids mom that it was done and I cried in the middle of a downtown street. It seems odd to me now that my kids are enjoying it there. It’s a nice enough place. My time there was about survival. A few other things that made it more than that, more than tolerable, but I’ll save that for another post. ...

I hear some people talking in the hallway outside my apartment door. I peer through the keyhole and see a woman, maybe 30, talking with the neighbors. She has something in her hand, it looks like a petition. Suddenly my apartment door is open and I’m in the hallway. The neighbors are not signing. She looks at me, I say sure, but I want to know what is it first. She shows me. It’s a birthday card for someone in the complex. I say, sure, I’ll sign it. She hands it to me and then she tells me that I need to give it to the next person to sign. And then she’s gone. I have the birthday card back in my apartment and I’m fretting what to do with it. I really don’t want to go find someone else in the complex and ask them to sign. Not exactly don’t want to. Afraid too. Getting the signature weighs on me. Yet I feel obligated to complete the task. I settle on taking it down to the 11th floor and wedging into the door jam of another apartment, maybe with a note. Then I worry what if they see me, what excuse would I have for being on the 11th floor. So I decide to try the 11th floor of another building. This plan and potential consequences weigh on me long after I wake up. The next day is my birthday. ...

The house cleaner comes so I take Kobe for a walk. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am and how untrained my dog is. Kobe does well on the walk. Well for him. Pulls when a smell excites him. Stops and lies down when he sees another dog. But on this December afternoon he’s mostly walking at my side with a couple pee breaks mixed in. We have about 10 minutes left on our hour long walk when a young man walks up to me on the sidewalk. He is bright looking. He says to me “I eat dogs”. I keep walking. He repeats, “I eat dogs”. His tone isn’t a joking one, more mocking. I say “ok”. He’s not satisfied. I ask him why he would say such a thing. I actually said “why the fuck would you say that?” and he said “because you are white”. “What?, I say. “That’s what white people think, that Chinese eat dogs”. There is a little bit back and forth after that, I was trying to express “what the fuck?” and he was trying to express that “You are white, so I think these things about Chinese”. Before he turns to leave he asks “How much for your dog?”. He then adds “I am also cheap labor, did you know that”? He doesn’t look like a laborer, I’m thinking, he is pretty well dressed and his English is decent. Then he’s off and I continue walking Kobe. 30 seconds later he’s back. I hear a voice “hey, sir. hey sir”. I turn around to see him running up to me. He’s close. He says “you know what? You know what? I’m a n(word). I’m a n(word)”. I mumble “whatever” and turn back up the street as he turns and jogs away. He doesn’t reappear. In the final minutes of the walk I replay all the clever things I could have said to him. None of it really matters as Kobe leans forward to pee like Beagles do. ...

It’s 2:30am and I can’t sleep. I know it’s 2:30am because I flipped my phone over to check. I can’t sleep because my eyes are crazy itchy from allergies. I can’t sleep because I am dealing with a work decision which for others would be a simple. I can’t sleep because I’m frustrated the house is a mess and I am the only one who seems to notice. So I put my headphones on, those original Apple iPhone ones, and stream the 49ers radio broadcast into my ears. It’s halftime, they are losing. I try to sleep but cannot. Around 4am, after Garoppolo’s third pick sealed the game for the Vikings, I unplug the earphones. I’m cold. Sleep comes. I dream I am in the kitchen. There are dishes that need washing. There are towels lying about. There are appliances that don’t quite appear right. This was what I felt before bed, when I was washing dishes after helping Elisa with her English homework. But the kitchen in my dream is different. It is a combination of the kitchens I’ve spent time in. At my parents home. At my first apartment. At my first house. At the first place I lived in Beijing. Where I live now. And as I looked around this kitchen I realized something wasn’t right. The appliances were all on but doing odd things. Microwave on with nothing inside. Juicer streaming tonic water. Bluetooth speaker working without power. Just as this oddness dawned on me I heard a cackle. I turned and then I was in my parents’ kitchen, near the front door. I looked left down the hallway and there was a young woman, maybe 20, petite. In an other worldly shadow. Looking at me with neither a smile or a hiss. I woke up. Later that morning I drop Elisa off at school and start to walk to the subway for my commute to work. I’m listening to a podcast and one of the guests is talking about driving in Ireland, on the wrong side of the road. My mind flashes to when Elisa was six months old, Lydia four, and Aidan five. We were on an island in Malaysia, driving on the wrong side of the road. Three small kids, far away road, we still managed a romantic dinner along the shore with Elisa in a crib and the elder kids playing with the waitresses. We could do anything. Until someone not me fucked it up. And I felt sad, just really sad. ...

I am in a dream. I see my father and two of my brothers walking askew. One brother slightly in front angled away. The other brother behind and at another angle. My dad walking next to a white stone wall. And then my father’s feet give way and his legs slide out in front of him. His head bangs against the wall and then the ground. There’s blood. I look away. I’m not sure what triggered this dream. I have been thinking about my father’s legacy. How to describe him to my children. I want to find a balanced view but mostly I find contrasts, contrasts that don’t balance out. I was afraid of him, like many sons are of their father, like Aidan is of me sometimes. But the fear went a lot deeper than that. I tiptoed around him. Always. Even as a middle age man. I try to avoid conflict and smooth over tension is most work and life situations. He made me fiercely independent, to the point I didn’t ask him for anything. As soon as I could afford to move out of the house, with $300 to my name, I did. As an adult I never ask anyone, except those very close to me, for anything. My father was not the most positive person. He would find the negative point of view of many things others would celebrate. New car - loses have the value the moment you drive it off the lot. Four star hotel - just a room. A meal out - just “ok” for the price. Happy grandkids playing - misbehaving spoiled kids. There was a certain lack of joy. My father coached out local baseball teams but I never figured out why. It didn’t seem to bring him any joy or satisfaction, in retrospect it seemed like a duty. He showed up. This is something I do too. He could often be a jerk, to strangers and to family. ...

I’m not sure when the dreams started or many of the details. But I remember the sense of fear and the inevitable sense of being destroyed. They would start out with me in the backyard of my parents house. I would be by myself, playing. But not at play. Tense. Something was coming. Then I move to the side of the house, behind the red wooden gate that I could not see past. Dread. Something was coming. I would then be in the house, the garage and then downstairs. Something was coming. I was alone in the house. I would go upstairs thinking it was safer. I would look out the kitchen window towards the street. I would be overwhelmed with fear; the presence of something coming. I would move to the tv room but the sense of something coming was so strong I would not stay and I would go into the middle of the house. But then I would not know if it was inside the house so I would go back towards the windows and hide. Often this is how the dream would end and I would wake up knowing that whatever was out there was going to one day get me. I was convinced of it even as the dream faded and I awoke to full consciousness. I went about life, denying that day was coming, until the next time the dream came. In other variations of the dream, I would venture out of the house and onto the street. There would be a car coming that I’d think was friendly and then realize was not. At times I felt it was lingering on the hill across from the house, in human form, waiting to come and get me. What was sure, was it would get me. Sometimes I’d be crouched on the stairs like we used to wait on Christmas morning but the biggest fear was the front of the house. The front rooms windows looking towards the street. It was coming. I feel this dream has been with me a long time but peaked after I moved to Beijing and after my third child, Elisa was born. It would recognize the dream signs early on and ride it out until I knew whatever it was, was going to get me. The dreams stopped a few years back. I didn’t really notice, like one doesn’t notice a sprained ankle healed. Occasionally it would dawn on me that I wasn’t having the dream and it would be a relief. Last month, I stayed at my parents house for the last time. They have both passed away now and it’s time to discard the things we no longer want and sell the house. The dream returned to me a couple of nights ago. But I wasn’t afraid. I walked around the backyard, the side of the house, and then inside. I was an observer, guiding my dream self to look around. The sense that something would come and get me was gone replaced with an unknowing. ...

A story about child abuse at a well funded, well known kindergarden chain in China showed up in the western media. Over the course of a few days the story changed from abuse that could be widespread, to a specific school in Beijing, then to a specific teacher at that school, and finally that a couple of parents conspired and made the story up. I have no idea what the actual truth is. ...

I am standing in front of the hotel check-in counter with my then young son Aidan. I am waiting patiently for one of the two clerks to look up from their paperwork and process us. A man walks up behind my right shoulder and talks over it at the clerks. They look up and one of them gets him his room. The other goes back to ignoring me. I am in line at Starbucks waiting for the cashier to finish processing the previous transaction. A near middle age man walks up, stands between me and the cashier, and starts to order. I tell him I was waiting and in excellent English he apologies and steps back. We are exiting the arena. There are hundreds of people trying to get down the flight of stairs and into the arena lobby. A woman decides to stop in the middle of the stairs and put a jacket on her two year old, slowing everyone down as they try to avoid them. The intersection is congested. A car is blocked by traffic from making a right turn holding up cars behind it. A driver honks, but doesn’t just honk, leans on the horn relentlessly as school children and parents walk by. I am driving and waiting on a long red; testing my patience The light turns green and I get ready to punch it when I notice an e-bike speeding in front of my car. And then another. I go into the Jack Jones clothing store because somehow I ended up at work without any underwear. A young clerk greets me and follows me as I walk into the store. There is nothing flirtatious or about it, she’s just doing her job. As she stands right behind me, and I mean right behind me, as I look at the underwear selection. ...

After dinner Lydia and I are walking to 7-11 for some snacks and she’s playfully asking me how tall Allio’s get. I say, “What do you call a tall Allio? A mutation.” She laughs. At 13 she can appreciate my wit for she has the same sometimes sharp tongue. And I feel connected. When I first started my “kids weeks” four years ago, it was loose footing as Mr. Mom. Or what I would tell the kids “baba ayi” (father nanny). There was the morning rush getting them up, some semblance of a breakfast, and into a car or rickshaw to school. Then home, out to dinner, back home making sure they did homework, endless laundry, then shower and sleep. When the following week came and I sent them off to school I would feel relieved and strangely accomplished. I would have the following week as the “single” part of my “single dad” status although mostly that meant watching TV episodes and thinking about dating. A night out would typically be with one of my few guy friends and involve a beer or two. Then I started dating and had a real relationship. Then a second, which is the current state of things. Now back in the present time, Aidan and Lydia and increasingly Elisa can take care of themselves. I cook dinner for them about half the time, about half the time we go out. It is important to me, as it was to my mom, that we sit with each other and talk during dinner. We have our routines, from pizza party movie night, to utown ramen, to taco night. Lately Elisa and I have been playing Monopoly and Uno. It is now Monday again - I keep the kids Monday to Monday - and I’m taking Elisa to school. We are not talking too much this morning, just sitting the back of our didi (China’s uber). We get to her school and my heart tugs when I say “have a good day, see you next week” and then she’s gone as loud speakers blast Chinese music that I don’t understand. I feel the same when Aidan and Lydia take off on Monday morning for their school. That I will miss them terribly. I no longer look forward to my life being single with a sense of accomplishment, the week instead greets me with a sense of longing and isolation. Isolation because I’ve become more isolated at work being the only non Chinese speaker in my group. More isolated in relationships since the few good friends I either don’t see or they have left China. Isolated in relationship since Sabrina works crazy startup hours and I often only see her during the week when I kiss her goodbye in the morning. They kids have left the house quite a mess. I guess I could clean in. But it’s a happy mess. ...

When I first visited Beijing in 2000 my then girlfriend and future ex wife took me to the Sanlitun bar street. We ordered a beer but it wasn’t just any beer. It was a warm Heineken. And it came in groups of six which the waiter opened at the table. We moved to Beijing in 2005 and the next summer was our fifth wedding anniversary. I was looking in the expat rags for somewhere to celebrate came accross Bar Blu, which was in Sanlitun but not on the main street we visited back in 2000. It was on the back street. Yea. It was empty at 8pm. I really didn’t know anything about going out; certainly not in Beijing. That would change over the next few years as we discovered place after place. Not always Sanlitun, but often. The DVD shop was the starter drug. And even if the night wasn’t centered around Sanlitun if often started there and finished there. Often at The Tree and often on the street having chuanr. We had a gang of folks who went - the steadies of Mike, Charlie, Fanny, Steve, Yang, and myself. There were many additions on any given evening and many adhoc toasts. It was a place of bonding with coworkers. Sometimes it was just a stare from across the room. The Tree was nearly a once a week pilgrimage. The rude waitresses grew on us and somehow treated us well, like a bully’s best friend. We sat near the pizza oven in winter and near the bar in summer. At some point the tree became less interesting and committed the mortal sin of having mediocre pizza. It was about that time we capped off night near our 10th anniversary and I whispered to a young woman in our party “a personal best”. First Floor was a late entry into our Sanlitun universe and was witness to some epic evenings. My brother Don even went there when he visited back in 2011. A lot has changed since then. A lot has not. First floor is where in 2012 I told my two best male friends in Beijing that my marriage was over. One’s response was to go to the restroom and cry. The other said “shame on you”. We’ve done a couple of “get the old gang” together reunions at Sanlitun since 2012. It was fine, fun, maybe healing even. But it wasn’t the same. The crews came earlier this year and tore down all the rogue shops on one side of that back alley as part of the city’s beautification project. One could argue but I won’t that replacing the pseudo illegal structures and businesses with fencing and decorations is an improvement. Like dental floss to a dentist. This past week they came in and destroyed the other side of the street. Sanlitun may rise to see another day. But it won’t be the same. These things never are. ...