“I had plastic surgery.”
“What?”
I explained in more detail. They weren’t sure how to respond, staring at me for a long time, leaving as quickly as decorum would allow. For the next few days, everyone responded similarly, discomfited by my transformation. My actions didn’t help the situation: I withdrew completely, unable to take part in their subtle machinations against one another, the politicking of leverage and advancement as cubicled alphas rammed each other over email.
I thought I could find solace with my family.
“How could you change the face you were born with? It’s a disgrace,” my dad said.
“I needed change in my life.”
“By cutting up your face!”
“…”
“Look, your mother is having a really difficult time dealing with this. We’ll talk later.”
My younger brother called me an attention whore who’d betrayed all my values. “Don’t send me any pictures!” he shouted. “I don’t wanna see the freak you’ve become.” He and my mother held prayer vigils for my soul, calling members of their congregation to help me find my way back.
Back when I was getting surgery, they ran a psychological profile to make sure I was mentally fit. One of the questions was, What is heaven like? I told them about a dream I had, a big throng of people from all different religions having gone to hell. We were outraged because we didn’t know which religion was right and we wanted to know what happened. A horrendously disfigured monster came down and said, ‘You just left Heaven.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hell is a factory to make Heaven—Earth—and we spend millions of years building it so we can live there. Before we go back, our memory gets wiped so we can forget the suffering we endured here. But we always end up destroying it so we get sent back to build a new heaven.’
Surprisingly, the doctor found the answer refreshing. “When do you want to start?” he asked.
II.
I was a programmer for an online game where everyone got to play as a customizable plant. Our company did well and a big publisher purchased us about a year ago. Immediately, they looked for ways to reduce costs while my supervisors started training candidates from the India and China branches. “We’re training our replacements,” they sarcastically commented, then taught them everything they knew.
Traveling through Asia, I saw the inevitability of the shift towards an Eastern labor force, their hunger and passion blazingly palpable despite working at a tenth of our cost. I found it difficult to attend meetings and engage in bullshit jargon to raise declining morale. What was the point, when it was all going to be outsourced anyway? My supervisors sensed my negativity, stuttered directions awkwardly, their eyes peeking furtively at the contours of my re-sculpted nose.
It took them seven weeks to garner the courage to tell me they were making ‘cutbacks.’ And even then, they sent their lackeys to do the dirty work.
“We love your work, but we can’t afford to keep you,” the thin red-haired HR girl named Nikki told me.
“It’s okay,” I answered.
“Thanks for understanding. Here’s all your documents… Hey, I have a strange question.”
“Yeah?”
“I feel terrible about this whole situation. How about I take you out for a drink?”
“Excuse me?”
She shook her head. “Forget it,” she said, embarrassed.
“No no. I… I’m free.”
“Really?” she sparked up.
Nikki was tall with sapphire eyes, a gait filled with frivolity and taut sensuality. She was known for her elaborate dresses, her flashy business suits that vaunted as much flesh as they hid. Lightly freckled with flaring lashes, there was an exotic intangibility in her aura, a riveting sheath that could blind and tantalize.
“Let’s meet at 6:30.”
I went back to my desk, packed up. Even though I’d expressed nonchalance during my termination, I was disappointed no one came by to say farewell. I headed down to the underground parking lot with my belongings. Waiting by the valet, there was an elderly male with grizzled hair, a gold tooth, and suspenders for his white collar shirt. He had ruddy cheeks and a pimple on his nose. I recognized him as one of our vice presidents.
“You too?” he said.
“Yep,” I answered, surprised he’d received the axe as well.
He sighed. “It’s all about numbers.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he asked. “I missed one mortgage payment while I was off in the Bahamas. A day after the deadline, three of my credit cards were canceled. I spent four weeks fixing the problem, screwed up a big contract, and now they’re giving me the can. Can you believe it?” He sighed. “What’d you do?”
“I had surgery on my face and no one wants to look at me anymore,” I answered.
He burst into laughter, then turned grim. “Too much wit killed you, eh? Personality, charm, individualism—quirks of the past. You want to survive now, be like a virus.”
“A virus?”
“Symmetrical, methodical, easily reproducible, but still susceptible to improvement and change. The perfect employee.”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so?” he said, and a mad glint flared across his eyes. “You’re a number, I’m a number… but I’ll show them I’m not just any number.” Around the corner, the valet was bringing a SUV. The VP charged out in front, arms wide open, about to get run over. I sprinted at him, slammed into his body, both of us rolling as the SUV skidded to the side.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Saving your life!”
“My life is already over! What am I gonna tell my wife? I’m just a goddamn number they replaced?”
“Being a number isn’t so bad,” I said. “It’s the most guys like us can hope for.”
He looked at me, said, “I’d rather die than be a number.” Then burst out crying. “Can you hold me?” he asked.
A minute later, the valet pulled up in the VP’s Porsche. He didn’t say good-bye as he drove off.
III.
Nikki met me outside our office building and we decided to walk towards a local bar.
We chatted about the charm of a childhood driven by infatuations, wondered why drugs had become so emotionally trendy, then pondered which new disease would end up destroying civilization.
“I used to work at an epidemiology office,” she said. “The disease center I worked at thought we were due for a big plague that’ll down the population in half.”
“Half?”
“Yeah, half.”
“Were there any diseases that were especially nasty?” I asked.
“Lupus.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when your cells start committing suicide and your immune system makes antibodies that attack your own tissue, making your face bloat up like a wolf.”
“How’d you go from there to here?”
“Be surrounded by diseases or people all day. Which would you choose?” she asked.
We arrived at Dash, a three-story bar filled with young, rich singles. In Asia, I was used to people’s friendliness: you could approach almost anyone and strike up a conversation. Here, I saw the disdainful looks from girls who’d size me up and dismiss me, the millions of unspoken rules that were inviolable. I’d forgotten how divisive love could be.
Certain I was doomed to futility, I was surprised when Nikki downed three Long Islands and said, “Ever since I first saw you, I thought you were hot.”
“You did?”
“You know, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but a lot of girls are really attracted to you. Is it true you had surgery?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Well I didn’t see you before, but it looks great. I had my boobs done and I’ve had a tummy tuck too. If it looks good, who cares, right?”
“Right.”
“Why aren’t you drinking?” sh
e asked.
I shrugged, looked at the bar. Saw some ketchup and mustard. “Wanna see something gross?”
“What?”
I grabbed bottles of both, asked for a cup, poured a mix of the two in.
“You’re not gonna actually drink that, are you?” she asked.
I took the cup and downed it.
“Oh my god.”
“When I was in China,” I explained, “I had a craving for American food but everything tasted a little off, so I started drinking ketchup and mustard.”
She burst out laughing. “I’ve heard of people going crazy for their cravings, but you’ve just taken it to another level. Tell me more about Asia.”
“Like what?”
“Something that sticks out.”
I thought about it. “In Thailand, I saw a bird that got caught in a spider web. It was tangled up and there were hundreds of baby spiders crawling over it, sucking its life away. I felt so sorry for the little thing.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go back to your place right now.”
“What?”
“I can’t bear to see you sad. Let’s go,” she said, her breath reeking of alcohol.
“I’m sorry, I’d rather not.”
She appeared stunned. “Excuse me?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“I’m saying let’s go back to your place to, you know,” and she twisted her hips back and forth.
“I know. And I’m sorry, but I’d rather not.”
“You really are a freak, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Yeah, everyone thinks you’re a freak. Why do you think we got rid of you?”
“There’s no need to be hostile.”
“You’re such a freak. I’m glad they got rid of you.”
I bit my tongue, stood up.
“Yeah, get out of here you freak! FREAK! FREAK!” and she stumbled.
“Nikki,” I said, helping her to get up.
“Get away from me!” she yelled, splashing her drink in my face.
A guy with a crew cut and muscles the size of boxes rushed to her aid. “Is he bothering you?”
“Get him out of my sight!”
“You should leave,” he admonished, prince to the rescue.
“Nikki.”
“Didn’t you hear her?” he said. “Get out!” And he swelled his chest up in a menacing pose, clenching his fists.
I stared incredulously.
“Did you hear me?” he demanded.
“I heard you. So go ahead, hit me.”
“What?”
“Go ahead and hit me.”
“You crazy?”
“Yeah I’m crazy, and if you’re gonna threaten me, carry through.”
“You’re nuts.”
And though he glowered, I glowered back.
He shook his head, backing down.
I turned around. Saw him trying to comfort her as I made my exit.
Outside, I was fuming, the muted blast of hip-hop resonating through the street. Drunkards staggered along the block, ranting about misplaced desire, while swarms of women were being chased by horny guys hiding their loneliness with exaggerated machismo. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with Nikki. Quite the contrary. It’s just, I could still feel the embers of May shining light-years away even though she’d supernova’d into nonexistence.
I walked without direction, traversing aimlessly. While I passed an alley, I heard a shuffling sound, a pile of garbage collapsing on itself. I looked more closely. A scruffy dog emerged from the bundles of trash. He was an ugly mutt, hair patched together. He crashed into the wall, dumbly falling over. Was he blind? He stumbled his way over and growled suspiciously.
“It’s okay, I’m…”
But he made several rapid barks before charging me, biting my arm.
I could have lashed out but didn’t. Instead, I petted him, trying to soothe his rage and calm his nerves; he was scrawny and I knew he just wanted food. After a minute, he let go, his anger sated. He actually looked guilty, wagging his tail and standing there helplessly. “Wait here,” I ordered.
He followed despite my command. I bought some bandages and snacks at a store, tossed him scraps while I sat on the curb and cleaned my arm.
The dog nibbled on his food, sidled next to me. I stared at him, found myself in a talkative mood. “I went on a trip to Asia to change everything about myself, but even after it was over, I felt like nothing was different. It’s bizarre because everyone’s treating me so differently. But I don’t feel different inside.” The dog stared blankly, tongue sticking out. I thought of an old tale I’d heard in China. During the life of every wolf, they’d become a human for one day. They’d live, sleep, eat, shit like a human. Afterwards, they could either go back to the pack, or change into a dog and serve humans, understanding how lonely mankind truly was.
“What was your day like?” I asked.
A Beijing Romance
I. Temple of Cats
There was something terribly unromantic about falling in love in Beijing. And yet it was the most romantic city I’d known. Several million people were squeezed into the metropolis that was undergoing constant surgery on its ruptured streets, a gallery of stenches from boiled pigeon to fried pig feet wafting through the polluted oblivion of its emblazoned skies. The face of modernization effused proudly from the immense skyscrapers and shopping malls tag-teaming across the shoebox landscape. Somehow, beneath the grandeur of it all, there was love: strident, audacious love showing its face as both quiescent and clamorous. Affectionate couples went on their first date to McDonald’s; a young man prepared a picnic for his wife at Beihai Park; a desperate teenager asked a girl out forty times before she relented. I met Faye through a friend and the first thing she said was, “I collect stray cats and make them fat. They love kung pao fish and spicy chicken,”
“Aren’t you supposed to feed them cat food?” I asked.
“If you had to eat vitamins your whole life, would you like it?”
I suggested she give them milk instead of water.
“Cats like milk?” she asked, astounded.
“I thought that was common knowledge.”
“I’ve never heard that. I thought milk made them sick…”
“No no, it’s the opposite—they love it.”
“In Chinese culture, the blue cat god is in charge of fortune. You make a cat sick, you have bad luck the whole year.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
She laughed and I started talking about an opera without music, conjectured about the possibility of recreating the Aurora Borealis using only sound, wondered at the implications of a world without smell. She was intrigued, told me about the genealogy of her woes, the birth of bliss, the tidal wave of circumstance that rendered her fragile in the face of desire. I bought her five cocktails and tried to kiss her. She blew vodka-breath in my face and said, “Only if the cats like your milk.”
She gave me her phone number and after we sang our hearts out at the personalized karaoke station of KTV, I asked, “Are you busy this weekend?”
“Very. I won’t have time to do anything.”
I ignored her and called her for a date. Surprisingly, she agreed. We went to the most posh restaurant I knew in Beijing, the Blu-Lobster, renowned for serving lobster-themed dinners.
“There’s something I should tell you,” I said before our ten-course meal started.
“What?”
“I head back for America at the end of this week.”
“For how long?” she asked.
“Indefinitely. I signed a contract for a job that starts in a week.”
She stared at me, confused. “What was the point of asking me out, then?”
I twisted my lips, trying to find the right way to explain. “Do you think there’s a minimum amount of time to fall in love with someone?”
“Don’t tell
me you’re already in love with me,” she said.
I laughed. “I just don’t want time to hamper our possibilities.”
She played with her napkin. “You’re either really confident, or misguided about the kind of girl I am.”
“Neither, actually. But let’s enjoy dinner, see how it goes. Afterwards, you can leave if you want and never call back.”
She glanced at me. The waiter served the lobster bisque soup.
“You’re lucky my cats loved your milk.”
II. A Beijing Taxi
Our second date took off like a Beijing taxi with broken brakes. We skidded down the raucous, car-infested streets, brakeless in the advent of a fleet of blind truck drivers who weren’t paying attention to the streetlights. We fought about everything that morning: my past girlfriends, her past boyfriends, little annoying quirks that already got on her nerves. I was convinced we were doomed. Then we spent the evening in joy, discovering an exquisite restaurant that cost less than three dollars, finding an acrobatic show that used dental floss to balance, discussing how different fashion would be in a world without hair.
Faye was a beauty among beauties, but she didn’t wear her beauty like those who vaunted it. She was a Mandarin lioness with her fierce brown eyes and billowing lips that sparked incendiaries rather than words. Her gait was starkly unfeminine, impatiently brisk and abrupt in its efficiency. She wore jeans and t-shirts, disdaining dresses and the charades of courtship with their peacock superficialities.
“What were your relationships like in America?” she asked.
I thought about how almost every girl I met came with cartloads of baggage and a hurdle of impossible expectations. Now, I was the one carting distrust and suspicion, heaps of cynicism about the whole facade of romance.
“What about you?” I asked.
She was the opposite, someone who’d resisted the weaker, easier path of disillusionment. The flaring conflagration of her love was so pure and simple, even the sun would have been burnt by it.
Sunday morning, I felt ill. The bull entrails and the deer blood soup from the night before had wreaked havoc on my belly. Faye bought me rice porridge and cooked ginseng soup in my hotel, regaling me with amusing stories from her childhood. Monday came and she called in sick to take care of me (she was a producer for an outsourcing company that built computer joysticks).
Watering Heaven Page 3