We’re eating peanut butter noodles in a hole in the wall on a street I call Rodeo Drive because it is lined with palm trees. That’s about as far as the comparison goes. This is not Gee’s favorite noodle place; there is a smaller, even dirtier dive in a back alley off Huaihai, inside a rickety building. You go upstairs, like you’re eating on the second floor of someone’s home, which you probably are.
“This is the real deal,” Gee announced with immense satisfaction when he took me there.
But the real deal is pork and who knows what else, and so today he humors me and Ian, who is also vegetarian, and settles for peanut butter noodles.
It’s not easy being vegetarian in China. And I’m beginning to think it wasn’t smart, either. I came here so yoga-teacher, my-body-is-a-temple sure of myself. Now, two years into this relo, my health seesawing, I’m beginning to wonder about all the salads I ate, all that raw food, especially after we went on the outing to the organic farm and discovered that it was sandwiched in between two factories. Sure, they don’t spray the zucchini with pesticides, they’ve got butterflies fluttering about, but toxic smoke billows all around that farm. It took some of the shine out of our home-delivered, overpriced, locally sourced, organic tomatoes, that’s for sure. We’d have been better off buying groceries from a veggie stand down the street, boiling the carrots beyond recognition, dousing them with vinegar and oil and sugar, like the Chinese do. That’s why they say, “Eat like the locals.”
Sometimes I feel like a sports announcer giving a detached commentary on the stuff that has gone wrong with me here. First it’s a blow to the head: eyes wiggy, throat scratchy, bloody cough (not British “bloody”—red blood). Then it’s digestive problems, weight loss (okay, that was kinda cool), hair loss (not so cool) … No, wait, it’s a full-body press, an infection that seems to have taken up permanent residence inside me, just casually making the rounds, popping up as a mysterious rash or a boil on my thigh that spreads into something that looks a lot like flesh-eating disease. And then the final indignity, the tooth that disintegrated from the inside out, leaving just a shell of enamel.
I wish my mom were still alive; she would counsel me to get the hell out of Dodge, but Gee can’t acknowledge what’s happening, can’t let my health get in the way of the job he came here to do. He has a hard time juggling conflicting thoughts. Shanghai is super cool, and it’s toxic. I have a great job, but it’s killing my wife. His head might just explode.
I had this dream recently. The three of us were in the car—Gee was in the driver’s seat, I was in the passenger seat, and Mom was in back, and then Gee turned around and started talking to my mother.
“Gee!” I screamed. “Pay attention to the road!”
Next thing you know, his butt was in the windshield and he was sandwiched between two bucket seats, trying to climb into the back with my mom. No one was driving the car. And my mom said, “Emma, take the wheel.”
Nobody loves you like your mother.
Three giant bowls of noodles arrive, so big the three of us could easily have shared one dish. It’s more food than I usually eat in one sitting. Ian and Gee are laughing about the cockroach, trying to get a reaction out of me. They think I live in a bubble, spending my days with the tagalong ladies, eating at trendy, sanitized expat restaurants. Restaurants with powder rooms and toilet paper. And I do, mostly, but also I spend time in the real world.
“They have this latrine,” I say, “in the school where I teach English to the children of migrant workers.” I’ve never seen a latrine in a women’s john before. It’s like a trough. “One end is elevated; then it slopes down until it gets to the other end, where there’s a hole in the ground. That’s for number two. So the pee flows south across a bank of individual stalls and naturally flushes the poo. It’s an elegant solution, don’t you think? And energy-efficient. Not to mention a bit of a workout, great for the glutes. Nowhere to hang your bag, though. That’s the gross part, putting your purse on the ground, and you have to, because it takes both hands, in a squatting position, to keep your clothes from touching the concrete or getting wet. One hand to hold up your dress and the other to pull your panties forward, in front of your pee. It requires balance; you gotta lean into it, but not too far, or you could tip over. You don’t want to have to put your hand on the ground, not even to steady yourself, because the latrine is narrow, you’re supposed to straddle it, and, well, sometimes a girl misses the target.” I pause to slurp some noodles, then continue, “I took a picture of it. Wanna see?”
Gee’s mom has this rule about “the things you can’t talk about at table, dear, the three Ds: death, dirt, and disease.” Pretty much that cockroach under glass covers all bases, but if Gee’s breaking the rules, so can I. I’m still eating, the whole time I’m recounting this scatological story. My peanut noodles are yummy, by the way, on a lazy Saturday afternoon in Shanghai when we have nothing better to do.
Only now I have something to do, something I really want to do, back in Los Angeles. This morning, Andra emailed to say she’s starting to rehearse actors for our show. It feels like I should be there. Not that she needs me, but it feels like I’m missing out on something kind of important. To me.
“How are the noodles?” Gee asks.
“Pas mal,” I say. “A blend of oily and creamy. Is there a word for that?”
“Creamoily?”
“Oily with a hint of peanut.”
“Nah, it’s more than a hint.”
“Slippery, with a legume base and a hint of roach,” Ian chimes in with the definitive description.
I’m looking at that cockroach trapped under the glass. He’s fucked. He can’t dig a hole in the table, can’t slip under the glass. He’s just gotta hope he can hold on ‘till they clean the table, and then, if he’s lucky, they’ll swipe him off the top, as opposed to smashing him, and he’ll live to see another day. Cockroach like that, big and fat—that bug’s been around awhile. He’s a survivor. Me? I’m turning out to be not so hardy.
As a tagalong wife, I have weathered loneliness and infidelity, marginalized my career, and traded community roots for life experience, all with ballsy, can-do, must-keep-it-together aplomb. But underneath that steely persona is flesh and blood, an immune system that can be taxed beyond its limits. I am apparently a sensitive being.
“You can go home, Em,” Gee says. But he doesn’t say it like he means it. He says it like it’s an insurance policy against a future argument, so I can’t throw it back in his face someday that he made me move to Paris or made me stay in China. He says it while we’re in bed and he’s holding me so tight that I know I’m as much his life preserver as he is mine.
“What odds do you give him?” Ian asks.
Gee goes into his cockroaches-will-survive-a-nuclear-holocaust thing.
Because they are adaptable?
No, because they are a simple organism.
Like Gee. Not that Gee’s a cockroach, but he is a man of simple needs. He’s sort of an unconscious Buddhist, meaning he wants exactly what he has. Most of us spend years in down dog, trying to get to that place of peace, the feeling that we have everything we want. I’ve been following Gee all over the world in a mad attempt to have it all. In the process, I’ve lost the very thing I really need: my own life.
Thick Dodger-blue eyeglass frames perch on Gee’s nose. He bought them in Tianzifang for one hundred quai, which is about ten US dollars. I tell him how cool they look, but in truth they’re borderline-midlife-crisis sports-car glasses. Still, I love that he’s embraced color, that he’s beginning to loosen up and be more like the guy I married, the punk rocker with the Mohawk. It occurs to me that it’s Gee who’s trapped: by a career he set in motion years ago, a résumé that says, Have passport, will travel.
“I’m just about done with my noodles,” I announce.
“Wow,” Gee says, “I’m impressed. You ate the whole bowl.”
“That,” I say, “is because I am never, and I mean not ever, coming back
here again.” I wipe my mouth on my sleeve; a place like this has no napkins.
The boys decide to go to Boxing Cat Brewery, Gee’s favorite watering hole, for a beer. “Wanna come?” they ask.
“No, thanks. I don’t feel like tagging along. I’ve got stuff to do.”
After they leave, I compose an email to Mina, notifying her that I want to repatriate as soon as possible. I hesitate for a moment before pressing send. Part of me still feels like it’s not fair to leave Gee here alone. And it’s chickenshit of me not to tell him first. But any discussion with him would just end up with me compromising more. So I cc Gee and send the message. My days of being a human petri dish are over.
On my way out of the restaurant, I free the cockroach.
Maybe Gee will get a Chinese girlfriend. Maybe he’ll go to Bar Rouge or M1NT, the club with the shark tank, and pick up some easy, pretty Chinese dream girl for a night. Perhaps he’ll get a deep massage with a happy ending at the down-and-dirty spa on Wulumuqi. I like to think he’s wised up some and will choose a superior foot rub with Ian. Whatever. BU YAO. All caps. Using my big-girl voice. Don’t want to buy another fake market purse or spend another day tagging along on this post. I’m going home.
GET LOUD
Andra and I launch our show in the North Hollywood Arts District: ten monologues written by me. This is my version of jumping off a cliff, about as far out of my comfort zone as it gets. Yogaman would be proud.
The show is sold out, and the theater is filled with a smattering of friends and a whole lot of strangers. In a little bit, they’ll all know way more about me than they do now. More about me than my own family knows, perhaps. If I could slink down low in the back row, wearing sunglasses and a wig, I would.
“Welcome to Growing Up Girl,” I announce, standing center stage, wearing black skinny jeans and a white muscle T-shirt that reads Get Loud in big block type across the outline of a guitar. I can’t see a thing because of the spotlight in my eyes, which doesn’t make sense because we didn’t hire a lighting designer.
Andra didn’t want to pay for stage lights. Not surprisingly, that didn’t go over well with the talent, who are performing for doughnuts and coffee. The lights (or lack thereof) caused a mini-mutiny behind Andra’s back among her actors and put me smack in the middle, not wanting to choose sides. Andra and I have been through a lot together—my marriage, her divorce, a few jobs—but this is our first solo endeavor, and we’ve had some creative differences. For one thing, she encouraged the actors to weep all over my words.
“I want my voice to sound fierce.”
“People need to feel your pain, Em,” she insisted.
That was bullshit; she was using my writing to showcase her theatrical chops. Being the writer is like being a tagalong all over again: The director has all the power. You hand your stories, which in this case amounted to my life, over to the director and hope that they have your best interests at heart. That they will not treat your work opportunistically. I might have stayed quiet if it hadn’t been for her take on “Rape Me.” Andra wanted the actress to sit on a stool and tearfully deliver a piece about sexual assault that was meant to be slam poetry, not a sob story.
“She needs to stand up,” I said during rehearsal. “And she can’t cry.”
You could hear all five actors suck in air. The writer is not supposed to challenge the director—it’s totally taboo—but I’d had enough of going along with other people’s vision of how my life should play out. I let Andra run the whole production side of the show—casting, blocking, lights—even though I suspected the actors were right about the lights.
“We don’t need stage lights,” Andra insisted.
“You need lights, Em,” my husband contradicted over the phone.
He’s a global show producer with a bazillion-dollar budget, so he expects a different level of professionalism on set; this is just a theatrical reading, very loving hands at home. We’re not even in the same league. Or on the same continent.
“Andra says house lights will be fine,” I told him.
“How’s it going otherwise?”
“I’m nervous. I wish you could be here.”
“I’ll try to make it,” he promised.
That’s what people say when they know they can’t do something. You mean well, but you can’t commit, and most likely you won’t make it, but by not saying no outright, you avoid a fight. And husband number three and I don’t fight. We’re partners. We just do our best and hope it’s good enough.
“You should tape it, Em,” he suggested.
Now I knew for sure he wasn’t coming. He wanted me to tape the performance so he could watch it later. That way, at least he’d be able to see it. But it meant he wouldn’t be there to support me if it was a disaster. And having Ruby and Rio there wasn’t the same thing; they’d sit next to me, but they wouldn’t hug me if it was bad. Maybe that was okay; maybe I wouldn’t want anyone to touch me if it bombed. Maybe I’d slink off into the woods alone.
“Please try to come. I’m in a bit of a head spin,” I told him. “I’m worried no one will show up, or, worse, they’ll come but they won’t laugh. And it will be awkward. And—”
“I’ll try, Em.”
“Love you,” I said, before hanging up. He might not be able to make it to my opening night, but I wasn’t about to let his absence ruin the experience for me or strain our marriage. I’ve learned a few things along the way.
My first husband was a roadie. We were madly in love. We were that couple at a party who are always glued to each other, smiling. He was my lover, my best friend, and my personal tech support. He hooked up our stereo, backed up my computer, checked my oil and brake fluid, even put air in my tires.
“I take good care of you,” he’d say.
And he did. He filled in the blanks where my own skill set was weak; he knew stuff I didn’t, about sound systems and cars and earthquakes. The first time I felt the apartment shake (me, a girl from the D!), I ran around in circles—The sky is falling!—before crawling underneath the bed … only to discover I might be claustrophobic.
“I can’t stay down here!” I screamed. It was like someone had hit the panic button and cranked it up to eleven.
“Em, it’s an earthquake,” he said calmly, still tangled in sheets, holding the energy of a sleeping baby. He was just a boy, really. Ripped T-shirts and a ponytail. El Niño.
“Stand in the doorway,” he suggested.
I half suspected he was pulling my leg, that he just wanted to stare at me totally naked, standing there like an idiot in the doorjamb, but then he explained about reinforced framing and load-bearing walls, and I believed him. It’s not true—you’re not safer in a doorway. You’re better off under a desk next to a wall. But that’s not the point. The point is that he made me feel safe. And I made him happy. Whenever one of us got a raise or a promotion or a new job, I’d throw a celebratory bed picnic, with finger foods—olives, cheese, chocolate-covered pretzels—and champagne. We were just kids staring into the future, and it looked pretty perfect. Then his career took off and he left me waiting for the phone to ring. Packed his bag. Turned off the light. Closed the door behind him.
My second husband was a bit of a shit, but he was the father of my children, so I stayed with him, followed him all over the world, tagging along, me and the kids—make way for ducklings. It was all about his job, his project, his career, his bonus, his next gig. Him telling me to put my eggs in his basket and me saying I wanted my own damn basket, thank you very much.
“We’re a team, Em,” he said.
Only one of us was actually on that team; the other was sidelined, watching the game from the bleachers. This is a metaphor, but it could so easily wind up being a literal description of a person’s life. When we lived in Paris, he signed up for a twenty-four-hour rollerblading relay somewhere in the middle of France that took place on my birthday.
“You can come,” he suggested.
“Lemme get this straight. F
or my birthday, you want me to tag along on your boy-bonding, blade-running weekend?” It was a rhetorical question, but he answered it anyway; he was that obtuse.
“All the wives will be there,” he said. “It’ll be fun; you and the kids can cheer me on.”
We were so French by then, politely extending invitations intended to be declined. My birthday is in June, during les soldes, the Paris sales, and I wasn’t about to miss that for a seat in the bleachers. Instead, I treated myself and a dear friend to lunch at Tour d’Argent, the oldest restaurant in Paris, deliciously musty, ridiculously expensive, known for its extensive wine cellar and breathtaking view of the Seine, and then we went shoe shopping on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.
Husband number two treated me like his assistant, so I treated him like my own personal ATM, making him pay for all of it: the traveling, the jobs I quit, the promotions I’d never get. Sometimes you get stuck in a dysfunctional relationship out of fear, imagining that it might be worse on your own, but what happens is that you rob yourself of the possibility that it could actually be better. I guess that’s what Yogaman meant by “playing it safe.”
I’m standing center stage, shielding my eyes from the glare, about to give the “power down your cell phones” speech, wondering, How come there are lights if we didn’t hire anyone to run them? In the wings, stage left, Andra is holding up her ring finger, mouthing something I can’t quite make out, pointing at the control booth. That’s when I realize that he’s here, that it’s Gee shining the light in my eyes. Husband number three (and two and one). The way I look at it, I’ve been married three times to the same guy. A boy, a jerk, and a life partner.
“You came,” I say, covering my heart with both hands. Then I take a breath and step into the moment.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book owes a huge debt to the support of the Thursdays with Al writers group: Mary Birdsong, Paul Hughes, Terry Maratos, and Courtney Rackley. There would be no book without you guys, it’s that simple. Thanks also to those who generously offered to read early drafts: Louise Davis, Claire Doble, Corine Gantz, Marilyn Mandel, Joseph Simas, and Edee Simon-Israel. I continue to be appreciative of my amazing writing teachers, Anya Achtenberg, Laurie Wagner, and Al Watt. Shout-out to my overseas lifeline, Writers.com, an online English-speaking writers’ community.
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