Doodles

After much soul searching and years of denial, I must admit it. I am obsessive. And truth be told I am happier when I have something to obsess on. And I feel lonely when I am not obsessed with anything. Or anyone. Fortunately for me, these days my obsession is not with anyone. This can change of course as the strangest things tend to attract me. Women who remind me of her. Or her. Or her. Or women who remind me of what me is like. But that is all in my past. Right? These days, my two main obsessions are: Hoodies: I have an entire closet row of hoodies. My requirement is they need to be slightly oversized, not decorated in any way, and have zipper. Colors come and go but I tend to prefer blue. Headphones: I have headphones to exercise with, headphones to walk with, headphones for the subway, still different headphones the walk between my car and my office, the same set for the walk between my car and my apartment, and finally the headphones for the plane. Oh, yeah, also the headphones for listening to music while I work. And I’ve been thinking I am a few pairs of headphones short. No, one should not confuse obsession with compulsion. I am propelled to work, but not obsessive with it. Or am I? There are many things I am not obsessed with, such as learning Chinese, or anything language for that matter. ...

She comes to me in my dreams. I have these dreams maybe once a week; they make a strong impression on my waking hours maybe once a month. They increase in frequency in times of stress or travel which these days is a frequent companion. In my dreams, until the other night, I never see her. I feel her, sense she is near. In a restaurant, in the booth directly behind me. On the freeway, in the car I’m about to pass. In the subway station, in the subway car I’m about to step onto. At airport, about to come out of the restroom. In my house, about to come to bed. When I sense her, I force myself awake. Afraid to face what I would face. My fate. I’m not sure exactly what it would be. Or at least I wasn’t sure until the other night. I used to think I would face her anger. Her severe and un-relinquishing anger. Or worse, her disappoint of finding me a fraud. Or even worse, her pity as one pity’s a child who doesn’t know his place. The other night, however, when I really saw her for the first time, it was something different. I was walking down a small alleyway, it seemed like Rome. People were rushing past. I sensed her. I wanted to wake up, was about to, when something propelled me forward. And then she came into the clear. Just to my right, walking towards me, she appeared. Large black rim glasses. She looked, well normal. She looked healthy without being too healthy. She looked happy but overly so. She was neither angry nor disappointment in me. She just seemed like she should be. How she should have been. Time seemed to stop. We didn’t acknowledge each other but didn’t look away either. Then time moved again and she was gone. I awoke, shaken, but not knowing what to make of it. They say we are all the people in our dreams. After all, there is not one else inside or my head. Is there? ...

He knew from the moment they met that she was his, would always be his. It was the way she said he was “the one”, the one she was waiting for her entire life and had almost given up on ever finding. He told her that she was also “the one” and that in fact he had given up on finding that special person. The last bit, at least was true, for he didn’t believe in “the one” any more. Not after multiple “ones” had passed through his life. So it was with that small lie that his guilt rested. He knew he wasn’t being completely honest with her about the basis of their relationship — the “big love” as they called it — but he felt he was being as honest as he could be. After all, if not a great love, she was good enough. A good apple compared to the rest. He recognized he had won in this relationship, she would follow him anywhere, do anything, compromise her virtue and dignity for him. He was careful never to abuse this power, be he knew he had it and from time to time indulged. As time passed, his self awareness of this power receded and it just became the status quo. He wanted to move to the city, so they moved, to a nice two bedroom flat near the wharf. He poured his energy into his career, his travels, his flirtations. She took a job that allowed her to be available for him. To make dinner on the nights he came home, to watch the movies he liked, to give him space when he needed a boys night out. She cut her hair short short, when he was into that, then long long when he liked to pull. She would match her outfits to his, telling herself that he just didn’t have a sense of style. He would travel a lot, staying away on weekends in order to visit friends in remote cities, leaving her with the kids and the TV. She did a good job taking care of the house and making sure the kids were raised the right way. He did a good job at taking care of himself. One day his boss asked him fly somewhere unexpectedly, so he stopped home to pick up his overnight bag, which she always maintained for him. There was no one home when he got there, a bit unexpected since it was the Oprah hour and his wife did like that show. He grabbed his bag and rushed to the street to call a cab. He then saw his wife, sitting in a café, having coffee with a mutual friend. She looked really happy and relaxed. He didn’t think much of it, and went on his way. When he returned home the next day, he asked her how long she’s been having lunch with the friend. Her face went from relaxed to tense, her mind racing, trying to decide what lie to tell. She decided not to hide, that they’ve been having lunch “for a while” and are “really good friends”. The husband found this surprising; it wasn’t like her to hide anything from him. He joked with her, “really good friends, eh” with the innuendo just hanging there. They often played the innuendo game when she said “well, more than friends” he was totally, completely, 100% caught off guard. He sat down. She told him the whole truth, as much as he could bear hearing anyway. When she was done, he was left staring blankly forward, too much in shock to even cry. But what about “the big love” he said, that he was “the one”. What happened? She told him that when they met, she was obsessed with him, couldn’t get enough of him. That she mistook that for love and once she realized it, it was too late. She was addicted to the obsession and would, and did, everything for him. More than anything she wanted the obsession to stop, so that she could stop. Then one day, almost magically, she realized this obsession was gone, that she got herself back. She learned to indulge herself and take care of herself. The marriage, to her, was now one of convenience, something to provide the kids with a stable family, enable her to only have to work part time, provide her with a nice retirement and medical benefits. “So you love this guy”, the husband asked. She said no, that he’s just a guy, they have fun together in ways he wouldn’t understand. She wasn’t bored with him yet, but was getting there and then it would be time to make a new friend. ...

They say we have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky. Dinner was done; tonight’s menu was brown rice with slightly fried tofu, light on the oil please. They washed the dishes together, the rice pot worn through the Teflon, the plates that lost their shine a generation ago, the frayed dishtowel. She washed, he dried. She liked the feeling of warm water on her hands, the slippery feeling of the soap, and especially making something clean that once was dirty. Sometimes she ran the water hot, too hot, but just for a second, just to feel what it could be. He liked watching her, taking each dish as she finished scrubbing them, and putting them away. He didn’t care about the worn cabinets, the stained linoleum, or the thin walls. He was happy, young, and in love. They went for a post dinner walk and talked. He shared his dreams and talked too much about work. She shared memories of her childhood, riding to the beach in her father’s pink Cadillac. She was careful not to talk too much about her past, but just enough to be genuine. She loved him very much. This scared the shit out of her and it took all her will not to leave him. After the walk, the showered, made love, and showed again. They settled in front of the TV but before he could turn it on she asked him to wait, she wanted to draw his picture. She disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a single piece of sketching paper. She sketched his face in pencil. Filling in the roman nose, the parted hair, the long face. The drawing came to her fast and good. She showed it to him; he was marginally impressed and kissed her for it. She pulled back a bit too quickly and told him it was just something she had to do. She returned to the bedroom, grabbed the folder from which she took the paper, and went to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet, pulled on the picture of the other. She recognized the similarities between the two, even though one was a strapping 6'2" red head and the other a wirely 5'8" brown hair. It was all in their faces, or at least the way she saw their faces. A single tear fell from her left eye, she wiped it, leaving a slight smudge on the paper. Then a single tear on the right eye, and another smudge. She put the drawings away, flushed, and that was that. Many years later the brown hair found the picture of the red hair and he understood. He understood that: We have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky ...

I have a confession to make. But I will not bare it until this entry is complete. The other night, as I sat in the Kempinski beer garden, one 50 kuai homebrew in me, my eyes start to wander. The Kempinski is a bit upscale place – for a beer garden that is – and one of the attractions is the beautiful women who come there. There is something about a stunning woman with a half liter draft in one hand and a sausage in the other that does wonders for my disposition. On this particular night, I spot two girls that I fancy. One straight ahead of me, and one to my right at about 15 degrees. We form the perfect triangle, or so I fantasize. I try to figure out which men they are with. The one straight ahead is at a table with another woman and two men. No one seems super friendly; maybe they are real couples. The one to my right has a young buck next to her but they do not seem like a couple. He seems more like a watchdog. My wife, sitting at my side, is aware of my wandering eyes and finds it harmless, if slightly annoying. The one straight ahead of me gets up and walks right past me. Too tall, I think. So I settle on the one to the right, really find her cute, and notice that she is not afraid to look at me. While my wife is in the restroom we exchange a few glances. “Hey, friend, ni hao!” I hear. No, it’s not that voice. It’s about a 45 year old man who I didn’t notice before but is sitting in between me and the girl. I smile at him, he’s clearly drunk. He thought I was looking at him, I guess. He says to me, “Hey, join us.” I smile, and say sure, and slide our small table next to his. He has three comrades, all fit men in their mid 40s, with him. He asks me where I’m from, I tell him. He says he can tell that I am always happy. I mutter that he’s a damn fool. He wants to drink more so he buys a round of 100 kuai drafts for the table, myself included. At this point my wife returns, whispers that I am about as close as I will get to the one I fancy, and sits down. My wife has the advantage of speaking Chinese and also the advantage of understanding what is not said. She quickly ascertains that the friendly man has a military position of some importance. His friends at the table try to deflect the conversation a little. The one at my right, with gray sideburns, tells me he flew to Chicago two days after 9/11 which I thought no one did. We drank and toasted each other. At one point my wife let them know it was really the cute girl who caught my eye. This causes the friendly man to call her by name and invite her to the table. She was a bit embarrassed but sat with us a bit, only to get up and go inside to listen to the band. At the end of the night, the friendly man had to be talked into leaving by his friends. He paid for the entire bill, including what we had before knowing him. I watch them all leave, including the girl, and wonder who she is with, not wanting to face the truth. I turned to my wife and said, “that girl was damn cute”. So, here is my confession: I read magazines from back to front. Why? It’s safer than books. ...

After hitting snooze on my cell phone two times, I drag myself out of bed, tired as tired gets. I grab my socks which lie on floor – an effort to ward off mosquitoes – and step into the hallway. I glance in the small room where my wife is sleeping with our two small children. This morning’s arrangement – wife on floor, 4 year old next to her, two year old on the top bunk. In the bathroom, I drop my smelly socks into the hamper and grab my electric razor. I hate shaving. I really hate fucking shaving. Shave on Monday, more hair on Tuesday. Got to shave again. What I really don’t like about it is it takes a long time, isn’t terribly comfortable, and I’m lousy at it. I don’t do lousy if I can avoid it. I shower, which I’m told takes as long as an elephant and with similar water sounds. It makes me wonder how an elephant would fit in this shower. And once in, would the elephant face the water trunk first or butt first? I leave the bathroom, step into the hall, still a bit wet. I glance down the stairs in an effort to prevent the ayi from seeing my half naked body but secretly hoping she will. I linger a step longer than needed, then find myself in the bedroom. Flip on CNN, make sure the world is not in danger of collapse. I started this after 9/11. CNN is has it’s “world sports” show on, which roughly translates to “sports I don’t care a shit about” so I flip to CNBC which is giving an Austrian stock market update. Such are my news choices every morning as I get dressed. I can’t find what I want to wear. First, all my pants except one pair are too warm for a Beijing summer. Second, all my pants require a dark shirt and I don’t have many of these and of those that I do have, they all have round little stains on them. They look like cum stains, but I’m pretty damn sure it ain’t that unless the ayi has been having more fun washing my clothes than she lets on. Clothes settled, I make my way down the stairs, my knees showing the mileage of my running. I slip on my shoes, make my way past the ayi room – quick lateral vision – and out the door. Flag down a taxi, taxi driver says “qu nar?” meaning, “go where?”. I tell him zhichun lu, to which he responds “nar?” with a befuddled tone. I repeat. He repeats. I mention the larger area, he laughs, and says “ah, zhichun lu” and drives away. This happens almost every day. I always sit in the back of the cabs because the drivers tend to smell and I’m one of those folks who walks around with a personal space bubble. I get to my office, it’s 7:15. I make the long walk to my office, past rows and rows of empty cubicles. No one is around but the ayis who are constantly cleaning. I unlock my office door, skim the 60 emails in my inbox and see who it is I am talking to this morning. I put on my headset, click to call, and we have liftoff. ...

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” ...