They asked me what I was going to do. I told them I was meeting some friends for some drinking. In fact, I was heading home alone, my head too clear and awake.
Dearest friends,
What I love about Virginia Woolf is that the emotion depicted in her writing is so vivid and modern, even now, more than fifty years after it was written, it still feels like she’s talking about me. Do you remember the scene of the traffic in Mrs. Dalloway, when different characters in the story that weren’t aware of each other cross one another on the street? Have you ever walked past someone on the street and then felt that you were connected by that very moment? I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I haven’t. I would love to think so, though.
The menu
It is a very small restaurant, only able to host twenty people at a time. But the food is fantastic and the atmosphere very cozy and free. It attracts a lot of celebrities. And it is popular in its own way.
Jia-chan has to work at the paper on Thursday nights. So Emily called me and asked me if I could come in until they find someone else. I said, “sure.”
Waiting on tables in a small restaurant might be a little different than it seems, considering you don’t do just that. You have to arrive hours before it opens to clean the restroom, wipe the tables and mop the floor. You have to get the tables and chairs out and sweep the sidewalk. You then start preparing stuff for cocktails: juice, diced fruit, herbs, syrup. Sometimes you have to help make jam for the dessert or go get bread, toast, or when the ice maker is out of control, ice cubes from the store.
When the customers arrive, you seat them nicely down, pour them glasses of water, hand them the menu and then chat a little. And when you eye someone else coming at the door, you assure the first customers that you’ll come back for them, then you turn and start the same routine all over again. And when you are done with your hello-there move for the second customers, it’ll be time to go back to the first ones and tell them about the daily specials. If lucky, you’ll get the orders done as well. Be prepared, though, someone takes forever. But don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of other stuff to do, and guess what, people start pouring in.
When something, say the soup, is ready, someone in the kitchen will holler “Service!” from the counter, you then, depending on the situation, answer “oui” in return, indicating that you’ll make the deliver. I never get why French, it’s an American Italian (long story) restaurant located on a quiet street of Taipei city. Shouldn’t we at least use “si”?
You make time to visit the washing room/pantry, and get whatever dishes done as you can manage. Remember, you have to polish the silvers right out of the washing machine lest the water leaves stain-like marks. Then you dash right out to the dining area to pour some more water, to chat some more, and call the next course.
It’s Thursday night, second round, approximately around eight. The first round had made me a little sweaty and moody, it wouldn’t be a good timing to ask me what exactly is in the crab risotto. Two sangria with red wine was ready. I delivered them to table four. The kitchen yelled service. I answered oui, put some napkin on table twelve and then went to the counter and deliver the daily fish special to table nine, eyeing the water glass was half empty at table eight. Then they came in, two men, one Asian, the other westerner, probably American.
I seated them down, poured them two glasses of water, and handed them the menu. I refilled the water at table eight, bused finished plates to the washing room/pantry, and went back for their order. The American told what he wanted to the Asian. Then the Asian translated it to me, but still, something got missing, for example the American wanted fries instead of mash potatoes, but luckily, I got it. Why didn’t I just take the order in English in the first place? Well, it’s complicated, for people here don’t expect waiters to know anything sophisticated, so it’s better to make it seem that they were right. Plus, it would embarrass the Asian to know that my English is better than his.
The girl at table three came over to ask for an autograph from the Asian. Then so did some others. I assumed he’s famous, but didn’t pay too much attention to it. It seemed like he enjoyed it. Plus, I had to deliver the spaghetti carbonara to table five, the garden salad to table eleven, and the soup to the celebrity couple while the man at table one raised his hand, probably for the check.
As I walked past them again, the Asian grasped my arm and asked for the wine list.
“We don’t have a wine list. But would you like to see the beverage menu again?”
The sidewalk
I had something like six beers already. I was out smoking when the beefy Caucasian came out. I could tell that he’s the kind of guy that visits the gym like five times a week. He was wearing shorts with a blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He took one brief look at me but then quickly turned away. Then, of course, he took out his iPhone for whatever, maybe a facebook update.
A kid around twenty came out. I think he followed the man. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t do anything really. He just stood a few feet off till he gathered his courage and walked up to the man, another iPhone in hand, ready to add a new contact.
But then two other kids came out, all skinny, and drunk. The Caucasian turned to them and ignored the poor kid.
The three of them got into a taxi. The kid went back in, looking kinda pissed off, well, he should be, while the cigarette in my hand was not even half finished.
There had been a box full of condoms in the restroom of the bar. Later, when I went to use the restroom again, the box was nearly empty. I wondered how many they took, or maybe none at all? And what about the kid? Perhaps he took one already? Did he find someone else to use it with? But after a second thought, what kinds of people take condoms from the restroom of a bar? Isn’t it gross? Or is it just me?
The status
In 2008, I visited the States on a F-1 visa. It’s easier to get approved if you can provide an I-20 form with your application, compared to a regular tourist visa. But the down side is that it’s only good for that one time. Once you say goodbye, there’s no coming back. Or you have to apply for a new visa again. In Taiwan, if you don’t have your rich daddy and mommy’s money in your pocket, you can just forget about it.
I spent my three-month stay in New York City. I like the city a lot. I could just walk the streets all day and indulge myself in a strange kind of calmness and satisfaction. They say you can survive in the city without an identity. Some work for Chinese people who are always willing to take the chances when there’s an opportunity to pay less. Some lay low till they find someone to marry and become recognized and legal. And I suppose if choose to, some can always work the streets, with their own bodies, or selling something else under shoe-hung electric poles. They say there’s always a way.
I’d been taught to follow the rules. And in Taiwan, you’re told not to hassle with US government. When my permitted stay was over, I came back to Taiwan, where I imagined that there’d be something for me.
George and I worked together at a café. The owner is a good man. He didn’t pay him any less because George doesn’t have the status.
George is anal. He’s very specific about things which unfortunately can not be explained to another human being. So we all learned not to interfere lest it gives him a stroke. But apart from that, he’s nice and sweet, and considering his age, very, uh, youngish, when it comes to the way he dresses and the way he talks. He’s 38, but he wears shorts, skateboard shoes, and belts with nailheads. He uses ‘bughead’, ‘shit me’, and something like ‘oh, my lady ga ga’ in his conversation.
George’s from Malaysia. He came to Taiwan when he’s sixteen. According to his own testimony, he came to visit his big sister who’s studying in Taiwan at the time. He’s got offered some part-time jobs which paid better than that in his home town. And before he was aware of it, his visa expired. So he just decided to stay. Simple as that.
He had worked as a bartender. He had worked in a kitchen. He had sold skateboards and skater outfit. And he once pulled money together with a friend to open a bar in Taoyuan and lost it all. During his two-decade, illegal stay in Taiwan, he never phoned home, he never wrote any letter, and he said he had forgotten what his families look like.
He lives with a married couple who never forget to save breakfast for him in the kitchen. And as odd as it might appear to be, he always encourages people to read Buddhist transcript which, according to him, calms one down. We also learned not to argue with him.
George’s parents posted an ad in the paper. And when they finally got into contact with him. They arranged a trip and came to visit him a few months ago. I wasn’t there when he took them to the café. But people said it’s very moving and they said they’d never seen him smile so childlike.
I remember when he first told us his story, we had a hard time understanding how he could stay in a foreign country for more than twenty years. He in turn asked.
“If you had the chance to stay in a place you know it’s what you want, wouldn’t you do the same?”
I never had the chance to answer that question. I would. But I’m afraid the point is that, I didn’t.
The stare
Meowvelous, the restaurant where I work sometimes as a one-time waiter, just hired a new chef. Chef Jen-ling is tall, good looking, heavy eye brows, soft voice, polite and nice ass (I once walked in on him, ACCIDENTALLY, when he’d got nothing but boxer shorts on, I nearly died, of being too happy).
There’s also, what we joked, the brownie chef who’s actually the dessert chef. He comes in after the hours to make the dessert, nothing high profile, just brûleé, tart, and things that wouldn’t be too complicated to put together without him. We call him Boss. Boss is also tall, always got beard, and always looks like he just wakes up. We have a term in Taiwan pronounced as shin-nan, meaning a guy with stylish appearance. I suppose you can call Boss a shin-nan, a lazy and careless sort of variation. But I just have to remark on the fact that his eyes are slightly out of focus, as if he’s wasted like all the time.
It would be sort of nice if either one of them suddenly turned to me and hissed. “I see you.” But unfortunately, part of my job here is to be invisible.
It’s another Thursday night, we were just about finished, just waiting for the bartender/cashier to announce ‘alright, folks, nothing’s missing. Fuck off.’ I lifted my head, smiling, at Chef Jen-ling, now changed, leaning on the counter, looking at Boss, smiling admiringly, as if he’s about to say something.
If only Boss would turn and look at me, wouldn’t that be interesting? Ar, the tragic triangle love story. But I guess it’s not meant to be. Maybe for these two, they would make a lovely couple.
The straw
I called San-lung years later to confess that he’s the first boy I figured I ever loved. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about, but he had always appreciated me as a friend. I hated how his voice sounded familiar, the way he called my name. We hadn’t kept in touch after military high school. It would be very easy to break off again. But I just had to let him know before we went our separate ways for good.
San-lung had been shorter than I was. He had always been popular. He’s funny. He had a good voice when he sang. And without knowing it, he’s always a great dresser. In fact, it’s hard not to like him. I don’t think there’s anyone who didn’t.
We got really close in the third year of our military high school training, for we were assigned to the same post supervising the juniors. We both played the guitar. So it’s only natural we hanged out together a lot. Plus, I had a private bath.
One afternoon, we were hanging out in my room. We weren’t doing anything in particular really, just talking while he flipped through the magazine. He was lying on my bunk, stomach down, his elbows supporting his upper body as he read away and once or twice threw in some nonsense to say. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I don’t know how it happened. But without being aware of it at first, I ended up resting my head on his lower back, the way you see a college couple out picnicking in a park. And it felt so comfortable and secured to lean on someone. But then I realized that and got up.
I tried to avoid him after that. I wonder now if he ever noticed, what did he tell himself. I was almost eighteen, maybe eighteen already. And it’s probably the first time I realized that this maybe what people call gay. I had no one to turn to and ask. I had no role models before me, in real life. And I had not yet figured out how to look at myself.
He came to borrow my guitar one day, I had no reason to say no. When he returned the guitar, one string was missing. He bought a new pack of strings for me. He told me he brought the guitar to a get-together where a bunch of girls was trying to hook up with a bunch of guys. I didn’t want to touch the guitar anymore. I felt betrayed.
One afternoon, I was the last to leave the classroom. I looked around to see if anyone forgot anything when I spotted the juice box at the corner of a desk compartment. I cursed at first, for how many times had I told them not to litter after themselves, and how hard could it be. But then I remembered it was San-lung’s juice box.
I took the straw out of the juice box and put it in my mouth, like a country boy chewing grass.
Then one day I had a dream: San-lung was on a bus parked on the lot. He was wearing uniform with the duty strap across his chest. And I couldn’t get to him. I woke up and went to his room. There was no one in the room. And his bunk was empty, tidied but empty when I saw it through the screen door where there’s plenty of afternoon sunlight outside.
As much as I adore the tension, I never really like spy/detective novels. It just seems to me, invented. But I don’t know why that bothers me. What’s different about real life is that these details, they connected for nothing, no reason at all.
It would be nice to hear stories where people were connected through sheer coincidence. But to me, as essential as it is to be romantic about life, I think it’s better to leave it a pure chance. What’s most beautiful about it is that those moments, they are never meant to fall through. And I suppose the thought comforts me. Since one encounter turns out to be innocent, so much more remain possible. And it wouldn’t be too big a deal, if nothing, nothing ever comes out of anything at all.
After all, you know what people say about parallels, don’t you? Scientifically speaking, they never meet.
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