Incensed

by Ed Lin

  “Let’s put it this way,” I said. “I only come here to tell people about my place.”

  Someone from behind the counter charged over at us. As the guy who lifted out the youtiao from the hot oil, he was in charge of the kitchen since his skill made the business. In fact, he was the Soy Milk King himself. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. His face was smooth and soft as a silent-film star’s. His retro glasses frames and animated expression completed the look.

  “Are you trying to do business here?” His Royal Highness accused me.

  You could smoke, yell, and probably even piss on the floor and it would only warrant a minor rebuke. Hand out a business card and you threatened the sovereignty of the restaurant.

  The Chinese guy held up his free hand. “We’re old friends,” he said. “And look, he just got engaged! You should congratulate him!”

  The King wasn’t buying it. “Don’t come here anymore!” he said, pointing to me and then shifting his finger to Mei-ling. “Neither of you!”

  My heart sank. Or maybe I was feeling the grease seeping through my arteries. It would really suck being barred from this place. I licked my lips. Well, it was good to the last drop.

  Then the Chinese guy did something unexpected. He dropped all the friendly play and his smile faded. “Don’t be like that, friend,” he said to the King. “I bring a lot of people through here. You don’t want to be mean to people I like. How would you like me to bring my groups to that other place, aw, what’s the name?”

  “Fu Fu,” Mei-ling offered.

  “Fu Fu!” declared the Chinese guy, saying it with conviction as if it were a Taoist deity who kept youtiao crispy. “I’m going to take my groups to Fu Fu instead. What do you think of that?”

  The King crumpled a little. “Okay,” he said in a restrained growl.

  The Chinese guy nodded and said, “Okay.”

  Dismissed, the King walked back to the fryer, his head held high.

  “God, what a prick!” the Chinese guy cracked.

  “He can hear you!” exclaimed Mei-ling.

  “I hope he does!”

  I had to speak up for a decent chef. “You have to admit he fries a mean oil stick.”

  He crossed his arms and nodded enthusiastically, using his full neck in the way Chinese people do. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  I hadn’t tried a cigarette since middle school, but I clapped the Chinese guy on the shoulder. “I’ll take that cigarette now,” I said.

  He laughed heartily and obliged. What a great guy!

  As he was lighting me up, he said under his breath, “That’s one sexy bitch you got there.”

  “She’s sixteen,” I said through my chokes. I wasn’t going to tell him her name or our family relation. No need to bring him into my confidence.

  “Age of consent in Taiwan,” he said coolly. It was a litmus test he had applied many times before. “Ah, this is my card. Sorry about the shape it’s in, but it’s the last one.” He handed me a card that said his name was Li Jishen and his occupation was “Best Taiwan Province Tour Guide.”

  Mr. Li hooked an index finger into his mouth to pick the back of his teeth. He dislodged something and I heard him swallow it as he rose to his feet. “Maybe I’ll see you soon, Jing-nan.”

  After we left Soy Milk King, Mei-ling was anxious to go out and do stuff. I casually asked her if she wanted to visit the offices in Taipei 101—a part of the landmark skyscraper the tourists never got to see—and she fell for it.

  Taipei 101 was barely a decade old but it had already become a symbol of the city, as iconic as the Eiffel Tower but loaded with an upscale shopping mall and two million square feet in office space. The food court has a number of comforts the night market didn’t offer—there are chairs and tables, and you can pay with credit cards. But the food itself? If you’re willing to sacrifice quality for convenience, well, you should learn to hold your tongue because there was nothing actually worth tasting here.

  And I was very good at holding my tongue. In fact, I had a hidden agenda for our little visit to Taipei 101. On my way to breakfast, I had messaged my old classmate Peggy Lee, who worked for her family. I asked her if she would take on my little niece as an intern as a favor to me.

  Peggy and I had gone to high school together, although we were never really friends back then. She’s the youngest generation of a well-connected and sickeningly wealthy mainlander family. I certainly didn’t fit in with her style- and status-focused crew. Still, we have a common history and know, or knew, the same people, including my late girlfriend, of whom Peggy was unabashedly jealous. Yes, Peggy had liked me, but that was a long time ago and I’m sure she doesn’t feel that way anymore.

  While Mei-ling and I were sitting in Soy Milk King and Mr. Li was regaling his table, Peggy had messaged back that she would welcome my dear little cousin as a temporary intern. Could I bring her by soon?

  I replied, one hour.

  We walked into Taipei 101’s entrance at Xinyi Road and stood in the cavernous lobby. It was like a church of capitalism. The endless windows strangely seemed to allow in more sunlight than was typically available in Taipei at noon. Tourist groups from all over the world marched off to the left for the multilevel mall and “food.”

  Mei-ling stood on her toes and took in the bigness of it all. “Maybe we should go shopping right now!” she squealed.

  “I want you to meet someone first,” I said. “Peggy Lee. She’s an old classmate.” Mei-ling nodded. “You’re going to be her intern.”

  Her eyes flashed. “What! You mean I would work here?”

  “I have to keep you out of trouble and you can’t work with me anymore. Besides, you’ll have more fun here. It’s like a hundred times classier than the night market.”

  I could already see it in her eyes. Mei-ling was lulled by the spectacle of the skyscraper’s expansive interior. Yes, this was as big as her ambition.

  I saw the stars flicker in her eyes before she blinked. “What would I be doing?”

  “Peggy runs a hedge fund. I’m sure she’ll find something. Are you good with numbers?”

  “No.”

  “Decent at typing?”

  “No.”

  “How’s your business English?”

  “Bad.”

  I crossed my arms and looked into her eyes. Mei-ling wasn’t lying about any of it.

  “Well, just pretend to be capable,” I warned her.

  The hedge-fund office was on the 88th floor behind double doors that opened automatically. A secretary was perched behind his desk, arms folded. He watched us with his cat eyes.

  “Well, hello,” he challenged.

  “Hi,” I said. “We’re here to see Peggy.”

  “Peggy?”

  “Peggy Lee. I’m her old classmate, Jing-nan.”

  “Jing-nan, is it? Hmmm, Ms. Lee doesn’t have you in her calendar at this time.” He suddenly touched his earpiece and looked to his left at an unseen terror. “Yes. Yes. Of course.” He raised his arms in defense, his eyes widened in fear. “She’ll be right out,” he stammered. I heard a door slam shut followed by footsteps heavy enough to crush nuts.

  Peggy barreled around a corner. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and black platform shoes. A panther walking upright. Her hair was cut into short, purposely messy fringes. Her eyes were cunning but not altogether devoid of humanity.

  There was a time when I disliked her strongly and that time ended not too long ago. Now I considered her a friend whom I didn’t entirely trust.

  She put her arms up when she saw me, sending metal bracelets rattling down to her sharp elbows.

  “Jing-nan!” she said. “I was so glad to hear from you!” Peggy petted my shoulders.

  “Hi, Peggy,” I said, touching her left arm.

  “And you must be Mei-ling!” Peggy held out a hand to my
niece.

  “Hello, Ms. Lee,” she said as she shook hands.

  The receptionist was standing, looking shocked. He’d never seen Peggy act so nice, probably.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Peggy. “Do you want something from the kitchen? We have fresh ramen and some really great curry beef jerky.”

  “We just ate,” I said.

  She guided us past the guardrail of a pool that held koi older than our parents’ generation. For luck, of course.

  “Those are the biggest fish I’ve ever seen!” declared Mei-ling.

  “I took care of them when I was a kid,” said Peggy. “They were the rejects from my grandfather’s pool. He didn’t think they had the right markings to compete in the koi shows. Look at them now. Meanwhile, all the prize-winning fish died long ago.”

  Peggy waved her hand above the water and a fish that was mostly orange rose to the surface and wiggled. I saw a pattern on the top of its head.

  “I think I see a lion’s face on that one,” I said.

  “I call him the Lion King. I feel like we have a psychic connection.”

  The fish, which was obviously hoping for food, turned to me and judged me to be lacking as well. It yawned repeatedly and swam away.

  We left the fish and continued down the corridor. After seeing the fish, all the wall art we passed by was a letdown. We came upon a framed unrolled scroll of a landscape of mountains, mists, and rivers. Commentaries on the art in the handwriting of several different princes were a testament to the antiquity and provenance of the scroll, which seemed to end with an abrupt rip.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” I asked as we stood just outside her office.

  Peggy leaned back and petted the back of her head. “The rest decomposed. The tomb in China that it was recovered from became partly flooded. Sucks, doesn’t it?” She cranked open her door and jerked her head at the entrance. I walked in, followed by Mei-ling.

  “Your desk seems bigger,” I said.

  “Everything’s bigger,” said Peggy. “It’s a whole new office. Didn’t you notice?” She kicked the door closed behind her with her right heel.

  “The last one wasn’t too small, either,” I said.

  Mei-ling, entranced, walked to the window at the far wall. The clouds looked like cotton balls smudged with facial oil, and close enough to pick up and throw in the trash. The city below was a Lego toyset that only included off-white, grey, and black blocks. Altogether the view was somber and yet empowering to the beholder. “Look at this view,” said Mei-ling. “I wouldn’t get anything done if I worked here.”

  “That’s the wrong way to talk to a potential employer,” said Peggy as she yanked open a drawer. “Sit down, you guys. Let’s get acquainted, Mei-ling. You want a drink?”

  “Some water will be all right,” said Mei-ling as we took our seats in soft-cushioned client chairs.

  “Water’s boring. How about an aloe drink? Or some scotch?”

  “She’s sixteen, Peggy,” I said.

  Peggy tilted her head and held out her hands, framing Mei-ling with her index fingers and thumbs. “She looks eighteen. You’ve drunk before, right?”

  Mei-ling nodded.

  “You’re not drinking today,” I said. “This is supposed to be an interview.”

  Peggy came around to the front of the desk and sat on the edge. With a wink she asked Mei-ling, “Will you work hard?” The girl nodded. Peggy slapped her knee. “Good enough for me. Can you start now?”

  I felt a great burden lift from my shoulders. I was going to have my afternoon free!

  Mei-ling turned to me with one eyebrow raised.

  “She can start now,” I said.

  “But I’m not dressed properly for an office,” Mei-ling blurted.

  “Who’s going to see you behind a desk?” said Peggy as she stood and stretched. “This is going to be a great day!” She undid the two buttons on her jacket and fanned herself with the lapels. “Now, where did I . . .” Her hands shot to her pants pockets and flapped around. She fished something out of her right pocket and held it out to Mei-ling. A flash-memory drive shaped like a salmon nigiri. The top half of it was pink with thin white parallel lines while the bottom was white and bumpy like rice. It would be convincing if a metal USB port weren’t sticking out.

  “Cute, isn’t it?” she asked Mei-ling.

  Mei-ling smiled and swung her legs. “Yes, it’s very cute. Is this a present for me?”

  “It’s more than just a present, because it’s something useful,” said Peggy. “Go to the office next door and use the PC. You don’t need a login. There’s an Excel spreadsheet on this sushi drive. I want you to update the closing prices of the stocks and funds on it.” My cousin picked up the drive gingerly. “You’ve used Excel before, right, Mei-ling?”

  “I used a little bit of it in school,” she said. It was more likely that she only saw a Microsoft commercial.

  Peggy smiled like a truant officer the kids couldn’t bullshit. “Then get to it. It’s pretty intuitive. You promised you’d work hard so show me.”

  Chapter Eight

  I met up with Nancy at the benches near Taida’s western entrance on Xinsheng Road. With wide walkways and monumental palm trees, the campus always reminded me of my school-orientation visit to Universal Studios in Los Angeles.

  Nancy had been making protest signs. She was dressed to get dirty in an old smock over thin jeans. Paint and glitter were splattered on her smock and her neck. I recognized the faded green sleeves hanging off her shoulders as belonging to a Flaming Lips shirt. She was done with the Lips now. I never liked the band. Dipping the entire shirt in bleach and obliterating the band photo would be a service to humanity.

  “I’m glad you were able to tear yourself away,” I said as I gave her a sideways hug. It was the only public display of affection along the entire entrance path apart from a foreign couple holding hands. “You’re doing something important. Our country is counting on you.”

  Nancy crossed her right leg and picked off some paint splatter near her ankles. “You could join us, you know,” she said. “You don’t have to be an activist to care about Taiwan.”

  “Someone has to feed the revolution.” I pointed at the smock and said, “I like your new dress. It’s really you.”

  She kicked me with her crossed leg. “Most people wouldn’t wear smocks today, because they’re white,” she said, picking at the straps. White is the traditional color of mourning and a white smock would be akin to a shroud. Wearing it could only foreshadow a period of mourning for you and your family. You’d have to be superstitious to feel that way but that applies to the entire population of Taiwan. “Apparently the lady at Drunken Moon Lake has been showing up again.”

  I crossed my arms and sighed. Taida, like Taipei in general, is supposedly haunted by a host of ghosts. An elevator somewhere on campus always stops on a certain floor at midnight because a worker was killed there. If a student walks through Fu Si-nian memorial garden in a manner disrespectful to the late former president of Taida, she or he will fail classes that semester. Then there is the Ghost of Drunken Moon Lake.

  There are a few different stories about a female student from decades ago (boyfriend broke up with her, boyfriend was going to break up with her, boyfriend was gay and going to break up with her) who jumped into the lake and drowned. Supposedly, when the moon is full or when something bad is imminent, a young woman in white can be seen pacing in the pagoda on the lake’s tiny island or floating around the perimeter of the lake. She may approach an unsuspecting person and ask, “What time is it?” before fading into a mist.

  “Did you see the ghost?” I asked Nancy. She opened her eyes wide and crossed herself. “What are you doing, Nancy? You’re not Christian.”

  “I’m not, but don’t use that word! Call her a ‘lady.’” Nancy cleared her throat. “I don’t believe i
n any of that supernatural stuff. Not really. On the other hand, I don’t want to invite trouble. It’s so close to the Mid-Autumn Festival.”

  I leaned back and laughed. Once upon a time when I was just a stupid kid, I believed that in order for our society to move forward, Taiwanese would have to give up all their crazy superstitious beliefs. Nobody in the world tends to more deities than we do. There are pantheons of Taoist, Buddhist, and folk goddesses and gods, all with their birthday celebrations and entourages. We flock to temples and pay cash donations to appease the divines for guidance and comfort. There are even dog deities. Dogs. I like some dogs, even my local pack leader, Willie, but they lick their own assholes. Maybe there’s a deep meaning-of-life lesson in that action, but those animals don’t belong on altars.

  What a waste of time, effort, and money it was to worship, the young me had thought.

  Now, however, I know that burning incense, throwing down divining wood blocks, or asking a fortune teller’s approval on life decisions such as home purchases or marriages is just a matter of setting one’s mind at ease, finding comfort in the moderate hell of indecision in the greater hell that life can be.

  After all, there’s always some wiggle room. Your fate isn’t really set by your bazi, the eight characters of the time, day, month, and year of your birth. People argue with diviners like haggling over goods at a market. If a goddess or god doesn’t grant your wish, then say to blazes with them and move on to the next one with a better fruit offering this time. Feel free to hop among the Taoist, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, and animistic beliefs until you get to the spirit who will give you want you want.

  I handed a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a box of cold chrysanthemum tea to Nancy. This wasn’t just any sandwich, mind you. It was from a bakery that roasts the ham slowly for twenty-four hours and tops it with shavings from sharp cheddar cheese aged more than two years. They slice both right in front of you and lay it upon their own rye bread, which has a hint of cinnamon. The top piece of bread is coated with a spicy, seeded mustard that tickles the tongue. I like those sandwiches so much I’d eaten mine on the sidewalk upon exiting the store.