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China High
My Fast Times in the 010
By ZZ St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2009 ZZ
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-4209-6
CHAPTER 1
"Sha — bi!"
I should have totally spit onto that Mercedes S600 instead of just calling the driver a "stupid cunt." Does he not look to his left before making a right turn on red? Pay attention, Mao damn it! Had I not fixed the horn on my motorcycle just an hour ago he would easily have run me right over.
Seriously, is it not enough to put up with all those in this town who never shower, spit everywhere, and squat on the sidewalks with their littering, peddling, and gambling (collectively, the "Spit 'n' Squatters") without having this Armani Wong hog up the road as if he were Mad Max? Considering that he paid twice the regular price for his show-off wheels (thanks to China's 100 percent import duty on cars), why didn't he spend a little more and buy some class, too?
I know China doesn't have a uniform traffic law yet, but courtesy ought to be a part of human nature, right? Whatever happened to all that wonderful Chinese culture stuff that National Geographic always tells us about? Pardon my French, but even though shabi is the nastiest word in the Chinese language, it just doesn't quite capture all the stupid-cunt-ness of China's modern-day Mercedes-driving sons of bitches!
Ah, knock it off. What am I doing? It's autumn in Beijing, for Mao's sake, the best — if not the only good — season around. Blue sky, white clouds, a beautiful breeze — things that one might take for granted elsewhere but are an absolute treasure trove right around here. If I don't look too closely, I wouldn't even notice that the entire city is under construction and the pollution that once made London the foggy capital has now made Beijing the smoggy capital. No need — in fact, it'd be an absolute crime — to tarnish a rarity like this with a loogie on the windshield. What am I, a Spit 'n' Squatter?
Besides, after three years in China, I really ought to be accustomed to the One A Days by now: in any given twenty-four-hour period, something about this country is guaranteed to piss me off. But, hey, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, right? Worst comes to worst, the clock still strikes 4:20 P.M. here in China; and I am back on sin street to help make the most out of it.
CHAPTER 2
Once the boondocks for peasants too poor to live closer to the Forbidden City, Sanlitun is now Beijing's default pasture for sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. Here one can find countless bars, restaurants, lounges, cafés, massage parlors, boutiques, flea markets, kebab stands, cigarette peddlers, even sex shops with real latex vibrators.
And, of course, yours truly.
When I first touched down on this strip in 2001, the scene was a little different. For the relatively affluent the place to be was 88, a converted warehouse whose name rhymed with "get rich, get rich." From ambassadors to Internet boomers, the auspiciously named nightclub always had the most beautiful people. Whether on a Friday or a Monday, it was always packed, with some patrons who never bothered to leave the place throughout the entire weekend. Like repressed virgins, once the government decided it was okay for its people to party, everyone who could afford techno and ecstasy came out with a vengeance.
Then on those nights when I did not feel like paying 40 kuai (or a whopping US $5 at the then prevailing exchange rate of roughly eight to one) for a Tsingtao beer, the alternative strip in Sanlitun was Southie. Every night some local band would be playing "Hotel California" at a grease spot like Dirty Nellie's, where 20 kuai (US $2.50) would buy you two and a half vodka tonics. Sure, the Stoly might have been bootlegged in the Northeast and there have been stories of alcohol peddled on the street being tainted enough to blind lab rats, but I was even younger and more robust then; and no one had anything left to complain about after two rounds of the hibachi-grilled lamb kebabs that sold for 5 kuai a dozen.
But nothing lasts forever. In late 2003, Club 88 was torn down for a new residential development. A few months later, all of Southie was bulldozed to make room for a shopping mall.
Now, of course, new places are opening up in the neighborhood every day, including some rather lavish clubs such as Angel, Babyface, Cargo, and Deep. But somehow it just doesn't feel the same. For one thing, the crowd has changed. Many of those whom I used to party with have either left town or left the party scene; some have even gotten married (imagine the horror). Granted, fresh blood keeps pumping in every day from around the globe, and let's not forget the shabi Armani Wong who just flattened me (almost) into pavement pancake. Then pile on the tourists, the pimps, the dust from all the construction happening up and down the block.... Mao save Sanlitun.
CHAPTER 3
With its rusty doors, wobbly tables, and leaky glass panels that even Eskimos would condemn in the winter, Café 44 is not exactly high on creature comforts. Nine times out of ten, half of the menu items are unavailable; and the same Café Del Mar album will play over and over again until the resident bootleg salesman replenishes his stock at the end of every two to three weeks. As there is no drainage on site (hence no bathroom), the underaged kitchen crew must lug a bucket of liquid gunk across the room every two hours or so for dumping into the sidewalk sewers. And whenever they drip or spill it onto the creaking linoleum floor, which they always do, an angry mop that also belongs in the sewer will remind you that here in China there should definitely be no five-second rule if you happen to drop your food on the ground.
Yet unlike its bigger and flashier neighbors with on-site toilets, 44 holds a special place in my heart — it was here on a breezy night three years ago that I met my first ever Beijing babe.
In Chinese her name meant "Sunshine Sunshine." Fresh off the boat (FOB) from Washington, D.C., I thought that was the cutest thing I had ever heard. At twenty-two years of age she had just returned from university abroad with a bunch of similarly well-off Chinese kids who all drove BMWs. And like her worry-free peers, she never graduated, spoke almost zero English despite having lived in Melbourne for two years, and still lived at home with her parents.
But looking into her big brown eyes, I wasn't bothered by any of that in the slightest. Whether it was the way she snuggled into me when I took her on the back of my motorcycle or how she pouted her lips as the morning-after sun shined on her sleeping visage, she was the delicate flower that bathed in the rays of my masculinity.
Then after two weeks of easygoing fun, she told me that she loved me. And I completely freaked out. No man should move to a new city of fifteen million inhabitants (more than half of whom are female, by the way) and get tied down by a girlfriend in less than a month! For crying out loud, she didn't even know how to talk dirty yet, in Chinese or English.
So in a conversation that I now wish to have worded differently, I told her that I would never love her.
Yet for three more months Sunshine Sunshine hung around, spending the night several times a week, often without my invitation. We never really talked, as she usually responded to my various attempts at an adult discussion with two blinks of her big brown eyes and "Um ... never really thought about it." In retrospect, she was probably trying to make me grow more attached to her by simply being around me more. Unfortunately, physicality without communication is never the way to win someone's heart.
Then one day she told me she was pregnant.
Without having to think about it for more than two seconds, I knew that I was not ready for a child. To put it nicely, I was not fit mentally and financially. To put it bluntly, I just did not want the responsibility.
Had this happened outside China, I would probably have told the girl that I'd respect whatever choice she made while praying silently that she would indeed choose abortion over birth. Here in China, on the other hand, I did not have to pray at all.
Under China's one-child policy, the default rules of which limit any married couple of the Han ethnicity (which constitutes 95 percent of the population) to bearing only one child, abortions for unplanned pregnancies are more than just a "fundamental right" (as so held in Roe v. Wade in 1973), they are an encouraged practice. Rather than restricting abortions for pregnancies beyond the first trimester, the law prohibits an abortion only when the procedure is reasonably certain to cause death or injury to the woman. Even when a minor becomes pregnant, she does not need the consent of her parent or guardian to obtain an abortion. After all, face dictates that no Chinese girl should ever give birth to a child without having been married first, at least not yet.
So when Sunshine Sunshine told me she was getting an abortion right away, I didn't object. It was her body, her decision, my get-out-of-jail-free card. On the occasion that we managed to talk about it briefly, she said something along the lines of "Don't worry about it. Some of my friends have done it twice already."
But even so, I still went to the hospital on the day of the operation to make sure that she was all right. In the hours that I had breakfast and lunch by the steamed pork-bun stand opposite the gate (for I had no documentation to show relationship and thus could not enter the hospital), I saw many girls who looked about Sunshine's age going in and out of the hospital, alone.
From that day onward, I started showering Sunshine with more attention than I had ever given before. As relieved as I was by her decision, I nonetheless felt like a jerk. Even though she had never brought up the issue of protection during intercourse, I should have insisted on wearing a condom every time. After all, sex education was never a part of her school curriculum, and I was older and therefore should have been wiser.
But of course, no matter how many gifts, poems, or Valentine's Day roses I gave her, we could only grow apart. By the middle of my first winter in Beijing, she told me that she was not going to come around my place anymore.
In the months that followed, I kept swinging by Café 44 out of some subconscious urge to find Sunshine and patch things up as friends. Then before I knew it, I actually started to like this creaky little greenhouse. The glass panels let in plenty of light. The clientele has its share of young, friendly English speakers. And if nothing else, it is distinct from all the rest in Sanlitun by virtue of its name. Instead of abusing the auspicious 8 like everyone else, "44" sounds almost identical to "death death" in Chinese. Indeed, the number 4 is so unlucky in China that most building elevators go straight from 3 to 5, and hospitals never, ever have a fourth floor.
But if we just step outside the Chinese box for a bit, I can argue that 44 is actually a lucky number. In music, the fourth note in a scale is fa, which sounds exactly like the Chinese word for "get rich," thus making 44 no less auspicious than 88, and all one has to do to appreciate it is to watch a bootlegged copy of The Sound of Music.
Besides, had it not been for 44, I would never have met Baby Baby, Cutie Cutie, or many other girls with looks straight out of Final Fantasy and double-double names that I once thought were special; nor would I ever have found out from my fellow regulars that Sunshine Sunshine's baby might actually have belonged to a much older film producer with whom she was also cavorting at the same time as she was seeing me. Of course, no one would ever know for sure whether the baby was really his or mine, but somehow, it gave me a bit of relief. And then to help ease my guilt a little more, I just got word from her ex–best friend the other day that she had completely lied about her age and was only eighteen years old when I first met her!
No wonder we never had anything to talk about.
CHAPTER 4
Through the glass I see Lao Chu, the owner of Café 44.
A "born in the soil, raised in the soil" Beijing-ren, Lao Chu grew up in a hutong, one of the many narrow alleyways that once crisscrossed to form the Beijing map. Though his name means "Old Chu," he isn't really that old — mid-forties, healthy gait, a full head of salt 'n' pepper razed into a short, bristly buzz. As usual, he is playing dou di zhu, meaning "fight the land baron," a local card game with a revolutionary name and rules that have nothing to do with poker. And judging from the force with which he just slammed his cards onto the coffee table, this Mandarin-collared, kung-fushoe-dragging high school dropout just might make enough today from gambling to replace his rusting Chinese-made Jeep Cherokee with yet another Mercedes.
"How you doing?" I wave to Lao Chu.
But given how busy he was, my greeting was seen only by the young girl sitting to his right. Introduced to me only once (and by herself) as Wan Ren Mi, or "Desire of Ten Thousand Men," she is a winking machine who has become a Café 44 fixture. Now don't get me wrong, I was by no means trying to be flirty with her — given how many girls there are in this town who have long hair and flawless skin and weigh less than ninety pounds, I would never even have known that this one existed had it not been for Lao Chu, who came to me on a random day not long ago and said, "Hey, somebody really likes that thing."
"What thing?" I almost looked down between my legs by instinct.
"This." He picked it up. "Someone really likes this phone of yours."
"Yeah?" I studied my Nokia 2100 proudly — plain noncolored display, stubbly buttons with rubbery casing, the newest and cheapest economy model there was, simply ideal for this petty-theft-infested town at a bargain price of 750-kuai. "I just bought it today."
"Well guess what?" Lao Chu flicked an eyebrow.
"What?" I thought he needed me to translate his ever-changing drinks menu from Chinese to English again, for free.
"Did you see that doll sitting by the door when you came in?" He pointed to Desire with a chuckle. "She said that if you give her this phone, she'll spend the night with you."
"Really?" I tried to remember why I wasn't where I should have been when this offer was made. "Why?"
Okay, no need to answer that. This is China, after all, where a lot of random inexplicable things just seem to happen.
I checked out Desire from head to toe, and gave her a rating of around 6.8. It was a passable score, especially for a one-night stand. But the thing is, even if the offer wasn't some sort of a weird prank, my phone was nonetheless brand new. Granted, it wasn't exactly a James Bond gadget, but I'd still have to spend at least another hour shopping for a replacement if I actually agreed to the barter. No sex is worth that much trouble. Not around here anyway.
But to be polite, I still turned back to Lao Chu with a smile and said, "Maybe next time."
Then a few weeks later, it became apparent that Desire had become Lao Chu's ernai (pronounced "are-nai"), literally meaning "second wife." Polygamy, you ask? No, that would be illegal in today's China, even for a Muslim. Instead, ernai is the Chinese equivalent of a mistress. The deal is simple — he pays her bills, she pays him sex and time. Of course, Lao Chu never came out and said, "Hey, y'all, check out my ernai." But when a girl her age spoonfeeds ice cream to a guy his age — who is, by the way, married with a kid in high school — it is pretty obvious.
So does that make Desire a hooker? Well, not to Lao Chu or most other men in China. Conceptually, an ernai services only her keeper, which is arguably — and I emphasize "arguably" — no different from a housewife who cooks and cleans and lives on a husband's income; except that Desire definitely doesn't cook, and the only cleaning she does is of Lao Chu's wallet.
Now to anyone who goes to church on Sundays, Lao Chu might have to burn in hell for his Desire. But can you really blame him? Like most locals his age, he probably married the first girl he ever slept with. Worse yet, he might never even have seen his wife until they were married at the behest of his parents. The China of Lao Chu's youth was like that. People were too occupied with war and poverty to worry about sex and romance; and marriages were usually done out of more practical considerations.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from China High by ZZ. Copyright © 2009 ZZ. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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