Summer Vacations

A thesis presented to

the faulty of the College of Arts and Sciences of Ohio University

In partial fulfillment

of the requirements for the degree

Master of Arts

Wen‐Shin Lee

June 2010

© 2010 Wen‐Shin Lee. All Rights Reserved.

2

This thesis titled

Summer Vacations

by

WEN‐SHIN LEE

has been approved for

the Department of English

and the College of Arts and Sciences by

______

Joan Connor

Professor of English

______

Benjamin M. Ogles

Dean, College of Arts & Sciences

3

ABSTRACT

LEE, WEN‐SHIN, M.A., June 2010, English

Summer Vacations (82 pp.)

Director of Thesis: Joan Connor

Summer Vacations contains five short stories about a Taiwanese boy’s childhood. It starts with a piece of fate verse and a fortuneteller’s prediction. Each story focuses on one particular accident happening to the boy. When the boy faces the physical accidents, he also has the chance to think over his relationship with his family and friends.

Approved: ______

Joan Connor

Professor of English

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract………………………………..…………………………………………………………………………… 3

CRITICAL INTRODUCTION………………….………………………………………..……………………. 5

SUMMER VACATIONS………………………………………………………………………………………..16

Prologue……………………………………………………………………………………………….. .16

One: The Athletic Leader …………………………………………………………………………21

Two: Heading for Heaven………………………………………………………………………. .36

Three: The Earthly Paradise …………………… ..……………………………………………44

Four: Spicy King………………………………………………………………………………………54

Five: The Name ……………………………………………………………………………………....68

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CRITICAL INTRODUCTION

Listening to Young Voices: Child Narrators in Fiction Writing

I remember how I enjoyed setting off fireworks when I was a little girl. I was

always afraid that I would become blind and deaf when the fireworks were

exploding and sparkling around me. Two years ago was the last time I played with

fireworks. The bright lights were only high to my waist and the noises were not loud

enough to cover my talk with my brother.

“I used to think they were huge,” I said.

“That’s because we are taller now. We’ve grown up,” my brother said.

I kneeled down to recapture the scene in my childhood, to see what I couldn’t

see with a grown‐up’s eye.

The time length of childhood is as long as the other ages in one’s life, but I

keep wondering why a single day and a little thing in one’s childhood can turn out to

have an immeasurable significance. And I realize that the key point is the mind of a

child. Christopher Morley said, “We call a child’s mind ‘small’ simply by habit;

perhaps it is larger than ours is, for it can take in almost anything without effort”

(Crowe, 34). The mind of a child, where most adults merely see innocence and

simplicity, is full of mysteries and is able to carry so much weight. The virtues and

habits identified by adults may not work in the children’s world, and children share

their own rules and values according to their understanding of things. Their value

system may knock against the ideology in the adult’s world when they grow to

maturity. Most children will be educated and corrected and therefore gradually lose

their original naiveté and pure perspectives. 6

I am driven to write about children because of my fascination with the child’s

naiveté and how it may collide with the common values that I have obeyed since

long before. A kid sees the same thing an adult does, but is able to understand it in

another way. A different perspective can cast the same events with a new angle and

then tell different stories. Even though Tim Love, a British critic and writer, points

out in his reading notes that, “most stories of this type use a third‐person‐privileged

point‐of‐view, though a first‐person treatment is possible.” I am willing to employ a

child as the narrator in my writing and tend to give the child narrator more ownership. Through a child’s eyes, the adult readers are able to put their mature

perspectives aside, to depart from the traditional thinking patterns, and to find

delights in understanding things as children do.

The Development of Child Narrators

The use of child narrators is not rare in literary writing nowadays.

Nevertheless, it is a comparatively new device in Western literary history. According to Marah Gubar, the narrative device originated from a juristic reformation in the

Victoria Age when children’s testimony was admissible for the first time, but this new way of writing did not become generally acceptable until the late nineteenth century. Charles Dickens’s Holiday Romance, published in 1868, is recognized as the first novel with a child narrator (Gubar, 40). After Dickens, the technique had waited for thirty years for its second success: The Story of the Treasure Seekers written by

Edith Nesbit and published in 1899. Meanwhile, in the United States, Mark Twain’s 7

Huckleberry Finn (1885) is identified as the pioneer in employing a child narrator in

storytelling.

However, things are slightly different across the Pacific Ocean. In traditional

Taiwanese literature, child characters and narrators are rarely seen in adult fictions

since most literary trends and movements in Taiwan are associated with the social

development. In the 1940s, Taiwan was still an agricultural society and children

were dependents who lacked productive forces. At that time, most adults did not

pay much attention to their kids in real life, not to mention to read the literary

works about children. Later on, as Taiwan transformed into an industrial and

commercial society, child characters gradually found their places in literary works.

Yet still quite a few works chose to focus on a child protagonist. A child character

usually appeared in two ways: a son or daughter of the protagonist and a part of the

protagonist’s childhood memory. It is not to say the existence of child characters is

simply decorative. On the contrary, a child character may stir the development of

the plot through certain ways. One of them is that a child character plays a role like

the kid in the end of The Emperor's New Clothes, who unintentionally reveals the

truth out of child naiveté. For example, The Son’s Big Doll, written by Chuen‐Ming

Huang and first published in 1969, is a story about fatherly love. The protagonist of

The Son’s Big Doll works as a sandwich man with a colorful clown dress every day.

But one day his son cannot recognize him after the father removes all of the

advertising sign and makeup. The boy’s emotional reaction provides his father an

opportunity for self‐examination and also reflects the powerlessness of the lower

class workers. 8

A child character who served a crucial part of the plot was common at that

time; however, both Taiwanese writers and readers still paid little attention to the

possibility of employing child narrators until Wen‐Yong Hou, a modern Taiwanese

writer published Funny Stories in 1990 and its sequel in 1992. Funny Stories is a short story collection about boyhood. In his writing, Hou puts himself in the position of a little boy and displays a kid’s mind in his process of growth. Hou picks out the common materials in every Taiwanese kid’s life, such as origami, a baseball game, seeing a dentist and learning to ride a bicycle. The basic settings of his stories are

family and school life. Through observing and experiencing the world in his own

way, the mischievous narrator shows a kid’s innocence as well as a rebellion and an

attempt to escape from the adult’s world.

Interestingly, when Hou started writing these stories, his target audience was

mainly teenagers instead of grown‐ups. Yet his stories evoked the collective

memories of the older generation and also created alternative communication

between the youth and the elder. After Hou’s books brought unexpected resonance

among adult readers, more and more Taiwanese writers started to employ child

narrators in their writing. For example, Ta‐Chuen Chang, the author of My Younger

Sister and The Weekly Journals of a Young Boy, centers his stories on an imaginative

teenage boy who is being forced to grow up and is struggling with the transitional

period from a child to an adult. The young narrator’s confession allows Chang’s

readers to see the change of a young mind. Chang’s writing includes humorous

interpretation of life and childlike wisdom, and at the same time, reveals the

ruthlessness of reality. 9

The trend of using child narrators also affected the theatre performance and

movie production in Taiwan. The use of child narrators in literature and theatre

gradually entered Taiwan mainstream culture since the last decade of the twentieth

century.

Why a Child Narrator

The device of child narrators has gained acceptance and popularity

worldwide, and a writer can do many things with a child narrator. One of the most

direct advantages is the language of children which generally gives a story the

quality of simplicity and freshness. And it is easier for the readers to get into a story

told in a simple language even though the story is going to deal with serious themes.

Besides, through a child’s eyes, which often catch the details that an adult ignores or

fails to see, the readers are invited to rediscover something they might not see from

an adult perspective. For example, the little girl, Scout, in Harper Lee’s To Kill a

Mockingbird (1960), leads the readers into the book with her soft and simple

descriptions of her childhood life, her neighbors, her schoolmates and playmates.

Scout’s original and fresh perspective turns little trivia into interesting adventures.

After the book moves to the second half, the development of the plot touches upon

sensitive issues such as racial equality and rape. Scout sees into the adult’s world

but still maintains her pure language style. Through her innocent but clear eyes,

Scout gradually reveals the prejudice, discrimination and hatred hidden in the

culture with objectivity and gentleness. The little girl has not been socialized and

does not fully understand the ideology and rules of the adult’s world, which provide 10

her a fair position to observe and depict the events happening around her without a

tone of accusation or judgment. Since the child narrator seldom judges, and does not

bring the common values in the adult’s world into her judgment, the room for

judgment and self‐examination is left to the adult readers.

The contrast is even clearer when the readers are allowed to see the

comparison between a kid’s and an adult’s perspective within one story. For

example, The Go­Between (1953) by Leslie Poles Hartley starts when the old man

Leo looks into his childhood memories and the point of view shifts back to the little boy Leo. With this change, the readers are able to compare the two narrative styles which in fact are the same person at different ages. Hartley uses the child narrator’s juvenile voice and innocence and further examines little Leo’s childishness by connecting him with the adult’s world. At the same time, Hartley also tests the manhood of old Leo by putting him back in his childhood. The readers are able to see the parallel or distinction between the two voices. A more recent example is Jodi

Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper, first published in 2004. The novel starts with Anna and her sister Kate, and then moves to their parents. Picoult keeps changing the narrative perspectives as the novel proceeds. The author has multiple characters speak around the same events, but these different narrators do not intersect with each other. The readers may know the viewpoint of each character, but the characters do not have the chance to communicate. The readers are therefore allowed to fill the gap, with their own reading and interpretation.

The moment when readers understand things that a narrator sees but the narrator himself or herself does not can be powerful, especially with a child narrator. 11

The knowledge difference between a child narrator and an adult reader is what a writer can make use of when employing a child narrator. On the other hand, although inexperienced and innocent, a child narrator can also comprehend and introduce things in the kid’s world to which an adult reader has no access. A child’s imagination can turn a commonplace into fresh stories. As Elizabeth Baines says,

“children can have instinctual knowledge which we adults can lose, and these

insights yet gaps can be the stuff of dramatic conflict and motor a story” (Love, 1).

An Experiment in Child Narrators

Nevertheless, most child narrators we have seen come from an unusual

background, family or society, and the child narrators themselves are also more or

less irregular in comparison with their peers. In my writing of Summer Vacations, I

want to establish a child protagonist who is simply an ordinary schoolchild and to

move along with the process of his growth.

Summer Vacations is about the lives of Taiwanese children, and therefore the

writing incorporates Taiwanese cultural marks as well as the collective memories

belonging to the generation I aim to depict. The cultural marks provide a particular

trait of the boy narrator’s words and thoughts. For example, Taiwan youth and

popular culture is under the influence of Japan. Japanese comic books, entertainers, dramas, music and fashion design are the targets that the youth of Taiwan will follow and admire. The protagonist‘s saying and doing also reflect the attitude.

When he plays basketball, his athlete icon is a character from a Japanese comic book.

In a certain way, the narrator is no different from other Taiwanese boys. He is an 12

ordinary high school student, having an ordinary life and sharing the same habits

with others of the same age. What makes his boyhood different is not really his unfortunate experience, but his way of understanding it. Therefore, I take a first person perspective to present the eyes of a teenage boy, and spend much time building up the juvenile voice, which is sometimes sarcastic and humorous in a kid’s way, especially when he has the accidents. His voice usually creates contrasts to the development of the plot when the boy narrator interprets the heavy and terrible events happening to him with a light and funny tone. The events are told and explained in his way, and his telling not only reveals his world but also his mind.

Besides the physical pain the boy narrator suffers, I am also interested in his mental transition as the narrator grows up from a boy to an adult. The first story opens when the narrator is eleven years old, and the last one ends when he turns eighteen. When he gets closer to the adult’s world, he is no longer free from the social responsibility and expectations; and his attitudes and reactions to the accidents consequently change. He used to be a boy who only cared about his own interest, yet after the accidents again and again test his relationships with others, he gradually starts to respond to the people around him. Moreover, in the beginning, he is a powerless and passive boy who lacks the control over his own life, but he grows up and becomes a more independent and active individual.

In the prologue where the boy narrator meets the fortuneteller, the use of the boy narrator presents the distinction when the readers are aware that something is going to happen, but the narrator himself is not. The narrator’s language echoes his flippant attitude which mostly comes from his inexperience and innocence. He has 13

not stepped into the big world, and he constructs his little world with his own

knowledge. In his little world, a lousy amusement park is awful enough. He does

everything he can to mock the place and escape from it. He thinks he can be his own

master, and he has decided not to waste time on uncool things, and not to think

about things faraway. It is an age for fun, and not for sorrow and anxiety about the

future.

In the first story, The Athletic Leader, the boy narrator meets the conflict between his childish desire and the regulations made by adults, and he senses his duty which is his academic performance. He is no longer carefree as before.

The idea of challenging the adult authority crosses his mind, but he soon compromises. He accepts the rules and chooses to find new enjoyment in the new situation. Here I use the boy narrator to display how kids comprehend the same thing differently from adults and how they convert the rules in the adult’s world with their own understanding. For instance, playing basketball, for the schoolteachers, is a part of the education; but the narrator’s interpretation turns it into a playground with his friends. In spite of the pressure put on him from the adult’s world, he has a child’s mind and even makes fun of his injury when the accident happens. But he has not realized that the accident will become a test of his friendships with other boys, and opens a chance for him to think over it. In the end, the narrator finally loses the blithe voice when he loses something he cares about.

In the following two stories, Heading for Heaven and The Earthly Paradise, the focus turns from his school life to his family relationship. The journey is a combination of his physical adventure and his emotional obsession with his parents. 14

The boy narrator works with his mother as a team for most of the time which provides him a channel to glance into adulthood. But his child naiveté prevents him from fully comprehending his mother. For instance, in the air turbulence scene, he sees his mother but does not necessarily understand what she is thinking. He has a wonderful family, but he barely feels it. Besides, as he grows older and experiences more, the boy narrator is getting more control over himself when the accident of banana boat happens. Although his anxiety is obvious in his voice, he does not only wait for the things to come to him, and is eager to figure out what will happen next.

In the next story, Spicy King, the narrator is a high school student who has stepped deeper into the adult’s world. He follows the rules made by the adult society but constantly wants a break from it. His teenager cleverness gives him pleasure but eventually leads him into another accident. He shows the signs of maturity, and for the first time, he tries to be responsible for his own behavior by telling his father the truth, although he steps back at the end. The narrator does not tell everything to the other characters in the story, but the readers are able to see what is in his mind.

In short, Summer Vacations are stories about a boy’s growth. Through the boy narrator’s eyes, the readers are invited to see his mind, his family, his school life, his country, his culture, his childishness intersecting with his maturity.

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Works Cited

Chang, Ta‐Chuen. My Younger Sister. Taipei: Unitas, 1993. Print.

‐‐‐. The Weekly Journals of a Young Boy. Taipei: Unitas, 1992. Print.

Crowe, Patty. Quotes on Children and Childhood. Ed., Laura Wertz. Arlington: Richer

Resources, 2009. Web. 24 May, 2010.

Gubar, Marah. Artful Dodgers: Reconceiving the Golden Age of Children's Literature.

Oxford; New York: Oxford University P, 2009. Web. 17 April, 2010.

Hartley, L. P. The Go­Between. New York: New York Review of Books, 2002. Print.

Hou, Wen‐Yong. Funny Stories. Taipei: Chiu Ko, 1990. Print.

Huang, Chuen‐Ming. The Son’s Big Doll. Taipei: Crown Culture Corp., 2000. Print.

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960. Print.

Love, Tim. “Child Narrators in Adult Fiction with Elizabeth Baines and Charles

Lambert.” LitRefs: Tim Love's Literary References. April, 2009. Web. 17 April,

2010.

Picoult, Jodi. My Sister’s Keeper. New York: Washington Square P, 2005. Print.

16

SUMMER VACATIONS

Prologue

That was the day of our outdoor education trip. Although it was called

education trip, everyone knew that we were going to have fun. Like other boys, I

couldn’t resist any chance to get out of the classroom. Especially when I heard that

our destination was a huge amusement park in southern Taiwan, I couldn’t fall

asleep on the night before the trip.

Next morning, we gathered in the hall of the school and got on the bus,

heading to the heaven of excitement. On the bus, most of my classmates were busy

sharing snacks, talking about the cartoon last night or exchanging game cassettes for

SEGA and GAMEBOY. The rest of them were the nerds whose parents didn’t allow

them to watch TV at home, so they were focusing on the small television hanging on

the bus ceiling. It only took me one glance to know that it was playing Jackie Chen’s

film Police Story, the very first episode, which I had seen a thousand times on cable

TV. I decided that I had to save energy for riding roller coasters, for running to get

the first seat, for screaming my lungs out and for mocking the cowards who didn’t

even dare to look up to the sky where the roller coasters flew to.

The bus arrived at our destination after three hours. Ken shook my shoulders

to wake me up. “Here we are. Here we are.” His mouth and eyes both opened widely,

and he pointed out something through the window with his jaw. I followed the

direction.

“Yeah, here we are. Here we are at, at, at Pisneyland,” I said. 17

We frowned together. The ridiculous name almost dampened my passion.

What was the owner thinking about when he named the place? I wished I were still sleeping and this was just an illusion in my dream.

But it was not. “Welcome to Pisneyland.” The park’s name was carved on a rusty signboard which was made from an iron sheet, and the bulbs which were supposed to shine at the rim produced weak sparkles like an old man trying hard to breathe one more time before a never‐ending sleep. We could see that the first straight stroke of the “P” was shorter than it should be. We got off the bus and the

teacher led the class under the signboard. Ken and I stood at the entrance,

wondering if we should sneak away. We tried to comfort each other. Pisneyland, it

was just a name. It didn’t mean anything. But curiosity defeated our unease. We

followed the line, going into Pisneyland.

Soon I realized that the name was the biggest attraction. The park was as old

as an abandoned village waiting for renewal and the variety of the rides was far less

than my kindergarten. I would rather sit on the baggage carousel in CKS

International Airport than to try the super slow roller coaster as if it were pulled

forward by buffalos. The body of the dodgem car looked like the bronze from Shang

Dynasty, and a player had to drive under a firework festival as the antennae rubbed

against the electric net on the ceiling. When I stood under the Ferris wheel, I could

still hear my classmates’ talk when they were sitting in the highest cabin. Not to

mention the spooky mansion that was barely bigger than a public toilet. It would be

a waste of time to stay one more minute in such a place.

“I want to leave here as soon as possible,” Ken said. 18

While we were still thinking about where to go we saw three of our

classmates walking towards the exit. After making sure that we were safe from the

teacher’s eyes we quickly followed them.

The street next to Pisneyland was in an old style, like a scene in a drama of

my mother’s generation where people still went everywhere by bicycle. Most of

them were one‐floor cottages and the tallest building was a temple at the end of the street. Ken and the others immediately decided to go in but I’d learned from a TV

show that you couldn’t worship unknown gods; otherwise they would follow you back home and bring you bad luck.

“Ban yae bu pa guei chou men.” Ken murmured some stupid old saying in my ear which meant you didn’t get afraid unless you’d done something bad. In order to act strong, I strode over the door sill with my pouting mouth. None of us ever went to a temple without the company of an adult. Of course we didn’t know the correct way to offer incense and pray. We simply imitated others’ gestures: lighting the incense, holding it high and facing the god statues, drawing three circles in the air before inserting the incense into the kiln and bowing three times at the ending; then came the most interesting part which was predicting your own fate by choosing a bamboo stick. I was the last one waiting for the explanation of the number and verses on my lot. The fortune teller stared at my fate poem and fell into silence. As his eyes closed and his lips pursed, I felt like my mind had dropped down one meter.

He kept shaking his head and sighing. I got impatient. He finally spoke. “You have to meet with several accidents in your life, but you are bound to have good fortune after you survive.” 19

His words tickled my mind. What an unclear and tempting answer. How

could I resist asking more? But the fortune teller only gave me a sinister smile.

“Let me know your name,” he said.

“Lee Kai‐Jung.” I wrote down the three words on a piece of paper.

“What’s your Chinese Zodiac?” he asked.

“I am a monkey,” I said. He counted with his fingers. “So you are eleven,” he

said.

I nodded.

“Your name may bring you into adversity but can also make you safe and

lucky,” he said.

“What will happen to me? How can I protect myself from those misfortunes?”

I was eager to know more details and kept asking more practical questions. But he

just repeated the same unclear answers.

“Be careful in summers. That’s the main active period of the spirits,” he said.

“What you love most might hurt you the worst,” he said.

“People around you are the key to save you,” he said.

He didn’t say anything practical. I became bored with the same trick. And I

would not change my life style because a quack said something stupid. As soon as I

moved my right foot out of the door, his old and bantering voice flew in the air again.

“Boy, be careful, you will have a hard time before you turn twenty years old,” he yelled. His sneer placed a chill in my heart.

“I will be fine. Don’t curse me and don’t treat me as an underdog,” I said as I walked out of the temple quickly. 20

I was only a fifth grade student, waiting for the coming of summer vacation.

How could I know that his words would change my life? How could I know that one

day I would be afraid of every summer vacation? The coming of summer vacation

was like death, like a hammer, cracking down on the happy pace of my youth.

21

One: The Athletic Leader

In the first few days after the visit to that odd temple, Ken became terribly

suspicious and he called me at least three times a day.

“How do you feel today?” Ken asked. “Is there anything unusual?”

I didn’t know why he had to use a guttural voice when he spoke to me. “Nope,

I just got up,” I said. “My alarm clock didn’t sound this morning. Is that spooky

enough?”

“It’s not funny at all,” Ken said.

“Come on. I’ve never seen an eleven‐year‐old boy being as superstitious as

you are,” I muttered to the phone.

“I googled the temple. People say it is very efficacious,” Ken said. “You know,

an old guy died in a car accident after visiting the temple because he didn’t believe

the fortune teller.”

“It’s just a coincidence,” I said.

“Why don’t you trust me? The website also says that a young lady made fun

of the door‐god when she passed through the temple, and after that a ghost

harassed her every night.”

“Okay, okay, stop please. I am very safe and I am talking to you. Isn’t that

clear?” I said. I hung up the phone. Walking back to my room, I found the piece of

verse in my bag. The writing had been blurred, and I felt my consciousness had been

melted by the sultry weather as well. I fell asleep on the ground. I seemed to see a

little girl with a straw puppet in her hands. I walked closer. That was my name on

the puppet’s face. The girl was holding a needle and humming an unknown song. She 22

jabbed the needle through the puppet. Her giggle became the background of my

scream.

That was just a dream, just a dream. I tried to calm myself. But somehow the

fortune teller’s and Ken’s words hovered in my mind. After I read all the examples

on the website, I feared that the same thing would happen to me. Especially in the

daytime, Dad and Mom had gone out for work and I was at home alone. I felt there

was a pair of eyes staring at me as I walked. I ran to the ringing telephone, but no

one spoke after I said hello. The television in the living room turned on

automatically. I started to sleep with the lights on. I hung an amulet on my bedside

lamp. I didn’t dare to look into the mirror when I showered. I’d heard too many

rumors about a long‐haired female ghost who stood behind you when you were

combing you hair, and she would pinch your throat until you suffocated.

###

Two years had passed since that summer vacation, and I was a first year

student in junior high school. The fortune teller’s words stayed in my mind, but I

stopped taking them seriously. I hadn’t met anything bad in the two years.

Sometimes I thought of the fortune teller. I took it as a joke and shared the

memory with my new friends in junior high school. Whoever heard the story agreed

that the fortune teller was trying to persuade me to buy some protective talisman or

pay for the rituals to drive out the evil spirits from my life. I was too clever to be

defrauded. What a stupid fortune teller and what stupid accidents he predicted. All

bullshit! I believed that there was only one way to define my life: safe and good. 23

Besides choking once on marshmallows when I was five, I didn’t even know how to

spell the word “sick.”

I had things more important to worry about. I was about to become a second year student after the next summer vacation. In a private school, the preparation for senior high school entrance often started earlier than in public schools. The coming year only meant one thing to my parents and me: to pass into a good senior high school. The upcoming summer vacation was my last chance to enjoy my youth. After two months, I would not be my own master. The devil of study would take over my life. I couldn’t imagine my future. Maybe I would become a fatty because I sat at the desk and spent all day studying. Maybe I would forget how to dribble a basketball because my fingers could only function normally when I held a pen or flipped through pages. But I couldn’t change the coming of doom. All I could do was to make merry when I still could. If my life must turn black and white, then this summer vacation was the last colorful page.

It was the last class of the semester. I could hardly keep my bottom on the chair, and the teacher kept repeating tedious routines. “Take care of yourself. Do the homework. And remember to exercise regularly.”

Why did he mention exercise in particular? I was studying in a private school where education was the first priority. The school, however, didn’t want others to regard us as bookworms (although they already did), so it tried to let us look like perfect students with balanced development in every aspect. The teacher passed around a statistical table for the exercise hours in the summer. During the vacation, we had to go out and exercise together with our classmates and record the hours on 24

the table, and turn in the records in the beginning of the next semester. Everyone

must reach the minimum required hours, and those who earned the most hours

would be awarded a certificate with the title “I am so strong” or “I am so healthy” on

it.

I was still a sportsperson then. To dribble or to shoot was not challenging for

me. Therefore, I didn’t hate the assignment very much. But the assignment had an

immoral coercion, just like what the communists did in China during the period of

the Cultural Revolution. The teacher divided the whole class into many groups of

three, and all members of each group had to exercise together and take records for

each other. If one of the three shrank from the duty, the other two could report it to

the teacher and gain extra points. Although it was true that we could fake the

records, how could the school distrust its student? How could the teacher try to

harm our friendship by asking us to watch over each other? What I was truly

worried about was what I could do if I was in the same group with someone who

was unfamiliar or someone who was so honest and so obedient as to follow the teacher’s rule?

Oh, shit. I was so out of luck. When I saw my name next to the class chairman and thought of his broad smile and thick glasses, I felt my summer vacation shatter.

I’d only talked to him about ten times this year. We were like two different species in class, and there was a huge gap between us, in both the ranks of our academic grades and our circle of friends. The chairman jumped up and down in the corner of the classroom looking for me and walked between the desks. He stood before me. 25

“Wow, I think it was a perfect arrangement. The most responsible me and the

most athletic you are now partners. How do you want to start? Huh? How tall are

you exactly?” he said as his hand measured my height.

“183 cm,” I said.

“Tell me. Tell me. What do you eat every day? I will ask my mom to make that

for me,” he said. “Can you teach me to dunk? You must know to do that, don’t you?”

he said.

It was such a nightmare to be forced to go out with someone who was not

even your friend, especially when that person was so good at uninteresting

conversations. I looked for the other partners in the classroom as if trying to find

driftwood when drowning. Come on, I didn’t want to exercise for the whole summer.

We decided to earn enough hours in the first two weeks by playing basketball every

day and then we would be free.

###

On July 3rd, the fourth day of the summer vacation, I walked to the basketball

court with my Nike sports bag. It was about a twenty minute walk from where I

lived to the park. Our group was going to meet there with other groups and play

basketball together. It had been raining a lot recently so it was the first day in the

summer that I went out. It didn’t rain that day, but the gray sky told me it was still

not a day for outdoor activities.

My height made me popular when it came to choosing team members. The

imposing power when I stood on the court was like how my mother stood in the 26

kitchen. At that time, the Japanese manga SlamDunk was popular among teenagers. I

always thought that I was like the protagonist, Sakuragi Hanamichi, an instinctive

basketball player waiting for someone to discover my talent. By the time I made it

into the NBA, all my friends today would be flaunting, “I played ball with him when

we were young.”

We had done the team‐up by rock‐paper‐scissors, and I was certainly the top

player on my team. We had to cheer ourselves on before the game started, and the

easiest way was to do it by insulting the opponents.

“You have nothing besides your height,” one player in another team said.

“You know what? It takes a T‐Rex six seconds to react after something hits

his back, because he is too tall and his brain is too small. But don’t worry. I will

remind you three minutes before playing ball,” Wang‐Fu, the shortest boy in my

class, said, his nostrils aiming at my neck.

Their laughter pierced my ears. Confucius said that a man would prefer death

to humiliation. What I hated most was when someone attacked my height. It was my

time to show them how excellent I was. The boys were too childlike to understand

how cruel the reality was. If Yao Ming was the player who shined for China in the

NBA, I would do the same for Taiwan. My height was not just decorative. It made me

an irresistible giant when I had a basketball in hand.

As soon as I heard the whistling, all my muscles got tense and my nerves

tightened. The game was incredibly violent. A layup was not merely a layup. You had

to avoid an elbow or a knee attacking your belly as you jumped. And you had to be

ready for a slap on the face instead of a beautiful block when you shot. We didn’t 27

have a referee and that meant no one could foul. Even pulling another’s hair and

taking someone’s pants off were acceptable strategies.

There were four teams competing for the championship, and all of us had

reached an agreement that the champion team could ask the losing team to do one

thing, whatever they wanted. Although we were only junior high school students,

our minds were pretty mature. It was not a problem to imagine vulgar and shameful

things that the losers might have to do. In order to protect ourselves from being the

class joke for the next year, everyone was playing the game with dignity.

Outside the basketball court were running tracks. While almost every park in

the neighborhood had used PU paving material, this park still retained its original

muddy tracks with rocks on them. Now it was summer vacation and many teenagers

went out for exercise, but the District Office didn’t clean up the park often. The

weeds got wild and the tracks looked khaki and mottled green. A few people were

jogging. Some children were riding bikes on the running tracks. Like the basketball

game, it was a park without regulations.

I was engrossed in the game. All I could see was the ball, and the ball, and still

the ball. It was a crucial moment because the other team had gotten five points. Only

one more shot and they could end the game. If they made it, we would get a black

mark. They circled together to discuss the best offense. A strange solemnity filled

the air.

The game restarted after the short timeout. They took the offensive

immediately. I watched as the guy’s sneakers left the ground. His knees bent. His

arms rose, and his wrists drew two parallel arcs. The ball bounced on the hoop but 28

then fell down. The rebound, right, I couldn’t give up the rebound, the rebound that

would change the game, the rebound that could save my reputation. I did all I could

to touch the ball. I could feel the orange rubber rubbing against on my fingertips. I

got the ball.

Bump. A sharp pain hit my lower back and the pain stole my control over my

body. I fell to the ground. I couldn’t stand up. Strangely, my lower back didn’t feel

pain anymore, but the pain shifted to my foot. No, this was not pain. I couldn’t name

the physical feeling but just held my left foot, and my tears blurred my eyes.

“Ooh,” I howled. I guessed our opponents and my team members thought I

was pretending to be injured in order to steal some time to rest. But when they

heard my shrill cries, they gathered around me. I could see their mouths open, but

the injury and my moan muffled what they were saying. As soon as I raised my head,

they all fell into silence. I still sat on the ground, and sweat dripped from my pale

face. No matter how hard I grabbed my ankle, I couldn’t stop the feeling of pain

running upward along my shank, thigh, spine and passing into my brain. It should be

enjoyable to have a breeze in such a humid day, but now even the acoustic wave

when someone spoke stirred the nerves of my sprained ankle.

The college students who were playing in the next court walked over to us

and pushed my friends aside. One of college students was still dribbling on the

ground three feet from me. Did he really love basketball that much? Huh? I couldn’t

tell if he was making the ground shake or if I was trembling. If my injured leg could

do one more thing before it was amputated, I would kick him in the face. Another of 29

the college students squatted and a bead of his sweat dropped on my forehead.

Before his right hand reached my ankle, I squeezed out a word, “No.”

“He sprained his ankle,” Si‐Yuan explained.

“Oh, that’s easy. You need a hot compress,” one of the students said.

“No, you need an ice pack,” another said.

“Actually, you just need to knead the muscles for a while,” the other said.

I tried to observe if they had the school name on their jerseys. I swore I

would never go to that college. Anyway, I just sprained my ankle, no big deal.

“I think I’ll just take some rest,” I said.

I couldn’t and I didn’t want to move at all. The college students lifted me over

to the side of the basketball court. I sat and watched my friends playing the game.

The game went on and the bet was still valid. I knew my friends too well. I wouldn’t

get any privilege because of my injury. If my team lost, I couldn’t escape from the

punishment. I focused my attention on the game and cheered loudly for my

teammates. Maybe I had become used to the sprain. It was less painful. Although it

was the tensest moment, two wins, two losses , the last battle, I decided to go home

and said goodbye to my classmates.

“I am leaving, bye,” I said.

“Call me next time if you guys are playing again.” I raised my voice.

“I am walking home now, bye,” I said, waving my hands high.

“Don’t forget to tell me which team wins.” I was almost shouting.

“Okay, I got to go. Bye,” I said. 30

After the eighth time waving goodbye, I turned my back on my merciless

friends.

None of them asked me to stay and nobody came to help me as I tried to

stand up. I didn’t live far away from the park. Forget it. It was not my first time I’d

sprained my ankle, and it always got better after a couple days. I would head home as soon as possible. Once home, I could try an ice compress. Then it would be fine.

Wow, it was really painful when I moved the first step as if the foot were going to break away from my body. The way I walked back home was like the way that Hsuan‐Tsang walked to India to get the Buddhist Scripture. Although there

were no alluring spiders or a bull monster trying to kill me, the biggest monster had

rooted in my foot. I had to wait through three green lights to cross one road, because

I walked slowly and had to stop at every traffic island. It took me forever to get

home. I even thought about buying a sleeping bag and camping in front of the 7‐

Eleven. I arrived home one hour after dinner time. Dad was worried about my safety.

He got more anxious when he saw my face.

“I sprained my ankle.” I made it simple and sat down on the porch, trying to

take off my sneakers. I almost fainted when I untied the shoelaces. I couldn’t take my

shoes off, and a sharp pain swam along my nerves, pricking into my brain. My

scream covered the sound of the fan in the kitchen.

###

Sitting on the backseat of Dad’s motorcycle should be safe, but even a slight

vibration as the motorcycle passed over a manhole cover on the road made me 31

shriek. All of the drivers and passersby turned their heads toward me. It was torture to walk from the parking lot to the emergency ward. Dad finally got a wheelchair at the registration desk. But the real problem happened after I entered the consulting room. The doctor wanted to check my ankle but I couldn’t get it out of my sneakers.

Eventually the nurse cut my sneaker off. I gave a bloodcurdling scream when the scissors touched my swollen skin.

The doctor frowned.

“It looks very serious. It’s a huge swelling. When did you hurt it?” he asked.

I told him.

“How could playing basketball hurt you so badly? And why didn’t you come here earlier?” the doctor asked. I told him everything, including my journey back home.”

To my surprise, he gathered all of the doctors and nurses in the emergency ward.

“Miss Lin, Miss Chen, and you two. Come over here,” the doctor said.

“See, he walked home with this ankle. How brave, how crazy. Huh? Now it has swollen. It will take him much longer to recover.”The doctor’s index finger harshly pointed at my ankle. The interns and nurses were surprised and opened a discussion as if the eighth wonder of the world had just emerged in front of their eyes. I was angry. But I suppressed it. I was afraid that the doctor would make me into a cripple. I had better choose to be an obsequious yes‐man.

I waited until nine o’clock to get my X‐ray report. The bone of my ankle was broken with a ligament contusion. I had to wear a plaster cast, all the way up to the 32

knee, and use crutches. It was the end of that summer, and also the end of my NBA dream. What could I do for the next two months after July 3rd? I even had to use a two‐step process to sit on the toilet.

###

The plaster was removed before the next semester began, but my lower leg had slightly withered because I didn’t exercise the muscle for a long time. On the day when the term began, Dad wanted to drive me to school. He had been pacing up and down in the living room since my first nibble of my breakfast.

“Dad, I just broke an ankle not lost a leg. Don’t worry,” I said.

“But you haven’t gone out alone for two months,” Dad said.

“I am already thirteen. Only a kindergarten baby needs a ride to school,” I said.

“It is the time when people are heading to work and schools .There will be many cars on the road. What if a taxi suddenly rushes at you? Can you dodge it?”

Dad said.

“I am not walking on the road. I promise, I will keep myself on the sidewalk,”

I said.

Dad still insisted on walking me downstairs. Before I stepped out the

apartment gate, he repeatedly examined my legs. Dad even retied my shoelaces for

me. I had two classmates who lived on the same street as I. I hoped they didn’t see

this awkward moment. Dad stuffed a cell phone into my pocket. “Call me when you

are about to leave school this afternoon,” Dad said. 33

“Um,” I said but I didn’t tell him that students were not allowed to use cell

phone at school.

It was hot, and my school bag was heavy because we would have a review

exam right after the school opening ceremony. With a weighty bag on one shoulder,

I could hardly maintain balance as I walked with two legs. And I was very afraid to

hurt my recovered ankle again. I handled my steps with care. I first settled my right

foot on the ground and put down my left foot gently. And I lifted my right foot up

and depended on the strength of my waist to pull up my left foot. Right left, right left,

one two, one two. I beat the tempo for my walk. It was not that hard. Dad’s anxiety

was unnecessary.

My shirt was wet through when I arrived at the school gate.

“Kai‐Jung.” Someone called me from behind. It was Jen‐Ying, my classmate.

“I heard that you sprained an ankle during the break. Are you all right?” he

asked.

“Yep, but I am pretty fine now,” I said. But as soon as I ended my words, my

knees buckled and I fell suddenly. Jen‐Ying grabbed me by my armpits and

supported me into the classroom. I felt like I had become a sixty‐year‐old man and

he was a boy scout helping me to win a medal of honor. Dad had told the teacher

about my condition so I was free from attending the opening ceremony. Finally

there was something good I gained from the injury. The principal’s tedious speech

lasted for one hour. I stayed in the classroom and pitied my poor classmates. The

whole class marched into the classroom. The teacher agreed to give the class a short

break before the review exam. 34

“How about let’s elect the new class leaders now?” the teacher said. The whole class cheered. It was not because we were eager to be leaders but because it was a tricky and breathtaking part. If you wanted to tease someone, you could nominate him as the discipline leader so that he could never chat in class. The cleaning leader was a not bad position, for the person had to clean the classroom and take out the trash every day. The vote was a test of friendship and one’s relations with others.

“Okay, now it is the athletic leader. Who wants to nominate?” the teacher asked.

“Lee Kai‐Jung,” one of my classmates said. I saw my name being written down on the blackboard. I was certainly the best qualified candidate. I’d been the athletic leader in the past year. And I was the tallest student and the fastest runner in my class.

“Anyone else?” the teacher said. The whole class was quiet. “It looks like Kai‐

Jung has done very well in this position.”

I suddenly felt embarrassed to look into the teacher’s eyes.

“He couldn’t even run to the playground now.” A voice rose from the back of the classroom.

I turned back to search for the person. Some of my classmates became restless.

“Be quiet.” The teacher hit the rostrum.

“Kai‐Jung, how is your injury now? And do you think you can do that?” the teacher asked. 35

The newborn cartilage and ankle bone were still fragile. They brought me

trouble when I was running. But I didn’t want to admit it to the whole class. “I would

like to yield the position to someone who hasn’t done it,” I said.

The class continued to nominate and elect.

After the election, the teacher told me that I was allowed to waive my PE classes for the whole year which I had not requested. When I walked home in the afternoon, I felt my uninjured leg also become heavy. Staring at my long legs under the uniform and my big foot, I found it was my first time to really feel the solidity of the ground, and my first time to really hate my height.

36

Two: Heading for Heaven

It was the end of a semester again. It was the coming of summer vacation again.

It was the class announcement before summer vacation again, and it was boring as

usual. Yet I was so excited that I was able to bear any babbling from the rostrum.

“I know you all like to play in the water. But please remember safety first. If you

are going outdoors, go to the places with safe water marks. If you are going to

swimming pools, go to the certified ones.” The teacher was busy repeating the

matters needing attention, but my heart had flown out of the classroom, flown out of

Taiwan.

The work in a private middle school was very stressful. After I begged, Mom

allowed me to join her on her company trip. Every morning during these two weeks,

when I saw the date under the red mark “Bali Island,” I got excited and couldn’t stop

smiling, especially when I thought of my nerd classmates having to stay at cram

school while I would be enjoying the beach and sunshine. Finally, the numbers on

the calendar reached July, 13: the day we left for Bali, the earthly paradise. I hopped

out of bed before the clock pointed at seven. No tooth brushing today because my

toothbrush was packed. No face washing today because my washcloth was locked in my travel bag. No dull school uniform today because I would wear my beach tank and cargo shorts.

“It’s still early in the morning. Go back and get more sleep. I will let you know when the shuttle comes,” Mom said as she walked into my room.

“I am not sleepy at all. I always got up at this time when I had school,” I said.

“You are getting too excited,” Mom said. 37

“I’m not,” I said as I combed and sprayed my bangs. “Oh, Mom, my mirror is

getting too dirty.”

“I told you not to squeeze your pimples,” Mom said. “Don’t overdress before

you get into a plane. And haven’t I told you that we are going with a group of ogisan

and obasan? You won’t see any young face there,” Mom said.

“I just want to be fully prepared,” I said.

“Whatever,” Mom said.

Mom went out and sat down on the couch, writing on the post‐it notes she left

for Dad. Dad insisted on not going with us and his reason was “there must be

someone to look after the house.”

But Mom was worried that, in the five days, Dad would starve himself or be

buried by the piles of dirty clothes. “The neckties are in the second drawer. Don’t

forget to get the shirts from the laundry on Friday,” Mom murmured as she wrote,

“What else?” She was biting the end of the pen.

“Dad is not a three‐year old boy. He knows very well how to take care of

himself,” I said.

“You are one hundred percent like your papa. A troublemaker father and a

troublemaker son,” Mom said.

“Didn’t you help him make me?” I said.

I saw Mom giggling as she lowered her head to check our passports. Mom’s cell

phone rang. It was her colleague calling. “Ok, let’s go,” Mom said. Mom dragged me

by my hand while walking to the airport shuttle standing at the end of the alley. She 38

pushed my head into the shuttle which I disliked. “Say hello to uncles and aunties,”

Mom said.

“Good morning.” It took me a while to greet and nod to all of Mom’s colleagues before being seated. Not to mention those who pinched my cheeks, touched my head

and asked me the routine questions about age and school.

“Be patient, be patient, the paradise is waiting for you,” I told myself.

###

I was sitting in the airplane taking me to Bali now. Mom fell asleep immediately

after boarding. To cover her snore, I put on the earphones and focused on the main screen in front of me. I was absorbed in the movie Tornado until a sudden shake

distracted my attention. “Air turbulence?” The seatbelt sign lighted up. After

fastening my seatbelt, I glanced at the man sitting behind me. He looked

unconcerned. “Hey, boy, air turbulence is not a big deal, just like an earthquake in

the sky. Don’t worry,” he told me.

Even though I was nervous, I held the armrest and stared at the screen to avert my attention from the shaking. But it was useless, for the shaking never stopped and even became more and more violent. Some other passengers also woke up. Mom was still sleeping. Outside the window was grayish dark. Maybe it was raining.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, “we are now passing through weak air turbulence. And the weather…"

Shoo! A deafening sound and a vigorous shaking interrupted his speaking. All lights shut down like dominos falling down from the tail to the head of the plane. 39

The screens also turned black. My heart felt like it was taking a high‐speed elevator

up to my forehead while the airplane suddenly dipped downward. The period of

complete darkness was less than ten seconds, but being in an iron cage located at

thirty‐thousand‐feet, who can stay calm? Those who were screaming were relatively

bold because timid people could be possibly urinating. Some people were sleeping

earlier. Even a dead body would wake up now.

The cabin was clamorous. The flight lights were trying hard to shine again like a

dying man trying to open his eyes to see his beloved family before their reunion in

Heaven. The main screen restarted and was showing the movie again. The shouts in

the movie matched the screams in the cabin. They sounded like a chorus of fear.

The captain announced again with a slightly discomfited voice. “Ladies and

gentlemen, we just passed through the rain area. The chief engine has a short circuit

caused by lightning. The maintenance crew will make repairs and we have already

started our backup system. Please follow the directions from the flight attendant.

Thank you.”

I couldn’t stop imagining the worst possible result. Our flight was still near the

heavy rain area. What if another lightning bolt hit the plane? What if we had to make

a forced landing on the center of the Pacific Ocean? We were still inside the air

turbulence, and I wanted to wash my face and calm down in the restroom, but I was

unable to walk. What else? The clever engine chose this perfect moment to break. I

could complain for one hour when the elevator in my apartment was broken. Okay,

and “Please follow the directions of the flight attendant.” Why didn’t you just tell

everyone to put on the life jacket and mask right now? If anyone wanted to produce 40

a more terrific action‐packed film about flight than Con Air, he shouldn’t miss what

was happening in this sky jail.

The man sitting behind me started chanting the scriptures in Buddhist sutra.

What was that for? He was definitely trying to seize a good position in Heaven. I was

born without composure. My face was pale like ghost money now. How convenient!

My friends didn’t have to burn any money to me after I ended my life in this huge

but useless iron box. I could just show my face, and then I could shop in hell.

My shaking cold right hand suddenly felt warm. I turned and looked to my right.

Mom was already awake, but she was silent. She held my hand tightly with a typical

loving mother smile. It was a tender expression without panic and fear.

“Mom…please…I am not ready to die…don’t show me that face.” If Maitreya Buddha

were on this plane, he would also have a poker face.

Time went slowly. We finally passed the air turbulence, but the weather was

still terrible. I hadn’t recovered from the fright yet. The plane flew steadily, but my

heart was still badly shaking. My eyes looked out the window, and my hands

grabbed the armrests. The flight attendants all stood in the aisle telling passengers

that the backup engine was working well, and we could leave our seats if we wanted.

Their comfort was like a cardiac stimulant to everyone. But the atmosphere was

strange. Dead silence replaced the former noisy confusion in the cabin. Until the

airplane landed, no one was sleeping, no one was chatting, and no one asked for new

poker cards from the flight attendants.

Feeling my feet stepping on the landing ladder, I wanted to spend all my money

having a ceremony to celebrate the moment that I stepped out of the cabin. No 41

wonder that everyone said the air in Bali Island was fresh. I now felt it was really,

especially fresh.

Yet Mom’s silence seemed to last particularly long, but that was understandable.

She must be either seriously frightened or exhausted. From the time that we got off

the plane until we checked into the hotel, she didn’t speak at all. She held my hand

while we walked, but her gesture made me feel awkward. I was at least twenty

centimeters taller than Mom. To keep step with her, I had to bend my body, lean

forward and walk with split steps. She didn’t walk very fast nor put much strength

in her hand which made us look like two trained monkeys on a Japanese TV show.

###

It was late evening when we arrived at Bali Island. Sitting in the hotel room,

Mom had been trying to call Dad for thirty minutes. But the front desk said that the

hotel was having some unexpected problems with long‐distance calls.

“Mom, did you hear what the tour guide said in the lobby?” I asked. “We have all day water activities tomorrow. We must try it.” I moved closer to her to make sure that she was listening to me and not the doo‐doo sound from the telephone.

“Go take a shower,” Mom said. “The only thing we must do right now is to reach your father.”

The phone still hadn’t been fixed after I got out of the bathroom. Mom commanded me to keep calling as she was showering. The sound of Mom using the hair dryer was mixed with the rings from the telephone, and together became my lullaby. I lay down in the bed, falling asleep until Mom took my glasses from me. 42

“Come on. Lie down well,” Mom adjusted the pillow, “Dad wanted to talk to you,

but I told him you were sleeping.”

Without the buzz of the hair dryer, I found I couldn’t sleep anymore. Without

my glasses, the engravings on the ceiling looked closer but blurred. The people who

sang and laughed on the beach outside had stopped.

“Mom,” I called, “are you sleeping?”

“Nope,” she said.

“What were you thinking during the air turbulence?” I asked.

“H’m, I was wondering if your father could find the necktie for his shirt

tomorrow morning,” Mom said.

I thought about the family picture in our living room. Dad was wearing a light

green striped shirt and a purplish red tie in the picture, and the tiepin was slanting.

On the day we took this photo, Mom came to pick me up after school, and Dad met

us later in the photo studio. Dad was late. He ran across the road with a paper bag

from the Shin Kong Mitsukosh department store. He bought a new tie without

Mom’s approval. Dad used to mock himself saying, “The only correct choice I made

in my life was your mother.”

“I don’t recall if the camera is fully charged,” I said as I got up to rummage

through my bag for the battery charger. “We should take as many photos as we can

to show Dad,” I said.

“I think he would love to see it,” Mom said.

I put the camera on the bedstand in case I would forget it tomorrow. 43

Mom was whispering into her pillow before I fell asleep again. Her voice was

soft and gentle, like the waves relaxing on the shore in the night, like a lullaby from a

thousand miles away.

44

Three: The Earthly Paradise

If Bali Island was listed as one of the top ten tourist spots in the world, then the

water sports here must be on the top of ten things to do in Bali. If you travelled to

Bali Island without enjoying the water sports, it was a waste of your time and an insult to the earthly paradise. After a refreshing sleep, I said goodbye to that cowardly me on the airplane yesterday and got ready to exhibit my perfect skills in the water. The slight air turbulence wouldn’t deter my determination to relish the trip. Just like the Chinese tradition to wash away your bad luck by taking a bath, I believed that the world‐famous water in Bali would bring me fortune and pleasure.

The water activities included snorkel diving, jet ski riding, boat sailing and banana boat riding. The banana boat was the most famous sport in Bali. You straddled an inflatable banana, were dragged by a speedboat and got a frozen face before being flung into the seawater by an unexpectedly sharp turn. Wow, how exciting it could be. But Mom asked me not to play. I bet she hadn’t recovered from the shock yesterday.

“It’s too dangerous,” Mom said. She’d found herself a spot on the beach to rest.

“Come on. If it is dangerous, how come we’ve never heard about any accidents?

How come everyone recommends it? Right?” I tried to persuade her.

“It’s too frightful for me,” said Mom.

“Mom, think about this. What do we come here for? Certainly for the sea and the water sports,” I said.

“We can sit on the beach and still enjoy the seascape.” Mom was perverse. But if

I annoyed her in our first day in Bali, I was going to bring trouble to myself. I had no 45

choice but to stay with her. Our tour guide was waving his flag to assemble the tour

group. Watching other members kick up sand grains as they ran, I buried my head

between my knees. I poked my thumb into the beach, dug a hole and filled it. I dug a

second hole and filled it. I was about to dig a really big one.

“Okay, you can play one sport. Only one,” Mom said.

“The banana boat,” I said and ran to the tour guide. “There is someone left,” I

yelled.

Other members of the tour group and I stood in order on the beach. The local

coach gave everyone a life jacket, and, and nothing. That was all. But it was enough

to protect me from drowning, which was the most terrible thing. The design of the

life jacket was perfect. It was very light and handy and would not inhibit your movement in the water. Actually, it might be an overstatement to call it a jacket.

Wearing it was just like hanging two sausages on your shoulder. The two air cushions near your chest kept you afloat. The iron buttons were rusty and decayed, and the surface was all scrapes. I guessed its age was older than mine.

“At least, it’s safer than using a McDonald’s paper bag,” I told the man standing next to me.

“You like an exciting trip or a peaceful one?” the coach asked.

“He means, do you want the boat to overturn?” our tour guide translated and added. “The overturn is excellent. Everyone screams every time. And they can show you three levels of excitement. Very nice! ” 46

His words made everyone audacious. One of Mom’s friends who was in his late

fifties, yelled that he wanted the most exciting one. I couldn’t ruin my reputation as a

young and energetic boy. I followed him and shouted, “Let's enjoy the adventure.”

Our banana boat was not far from the shore. Azure sky, blue water and the

yellow boat, Bali was absolutely beautiful. The sands on the beach glittered under

the sunshine and the seawater was clean enough to see the ocean bed.

After we put on our life jackets, the coach led us to the banana boat. The water

was pretty shallow, and we could just wade through it. The life jacket was useless. I

was ready to get on the banana and I found the height of the water only reached my

belly. Seven people including me climbed on the banana, held on, and started the

speed trip.

The trip became more amusing because of our proficient boatman. The

speedboat dragging us constantly changed, fast and slow. The boat swayed,

threatening to overturn or not. Our bodies balanced between being relaxed and

nervous. When it speeded up, it was just like speeding across the sky, mounting the

clouds and riding the mist. The banana was not moving in the water, but flying

above the sea. And then we had the first sharp turn. The moment of being flung out

was as if the sky and earth were spinning around. The wind shouted in the air. The

screams and laughter drilled into my ears. Then it was quiet. I found myself falling

several meters from the boat. Being choked on the salty water, and trying hard to

keep balance, I stood up: “That’s called Banana!”

But after standing up, I found I was able to step on the sea floor because the

water was only as high as my chest. The life jacket now became annoying. Since it 47

was only two linked air cushions, it kept floating and hitting my cheeks with salty

seawater flowing into my eyes and mouth. My life jacket was floating but I was not. I

had to press it into the water again and again while walking back to the banana boat.

The boat man waved his hand to indicate to me to straddle the boat by myself.

The power of the sharp turn was great. I was pretty far from the boat. Shallow water

and the stupid life jacket made it hard to swim. I walked and jumped in the water. As

the passengers got close to the banana boat, all of them grasped a rope and sat on it

again. The last lady couldn’t climb on it by herself, and the coach just dragged her

from the boat. She looked like a 300‐pound‐tuna being caught. I wished my camera

was waterproof, so that I could share the rare image with Mom.

Everyone on the boat was puffing and blowing but we were ready to have a

second round. The boatman sped to the extreme while setting out, and the guy who

sat near the stern immediately rolled back into the sea. I was now the one who was

near the stern. I couldn’t adjust my body to the power of the boat immediately. The

banana was moving right and left in the water, and the rising and subsiding waves

kept lifting the boat. I felt like I had sprained my back muscles. I tried to grasp the

rope, but I was in the water again. Searching for the boat, I started walking and

jumping again. I couldn’t wait for the challenge of my next turn. My pace became

rapid. The huge banana was in front of me. I kept jumping, jumping, jumping with

the waves.

While I was waiting to get on the boat again, my right foot felt strange. It was

not hurt but numb. The clean seawater was a big cup of blue coffee and someone

poured red milk inside. The red milk surrounded me like thin threads, spiraled 48

upward from the sea floor to the surface and was diluted with the blue coffee. To see

it clearly, I tried hard to lift my right foot. But the cumbersome life jacket got in my

way. After drinking almost one gallon of seawater, I still couldn’t see my foot at all.

I was afraid my blood would attract a shark as had happened in the horror movies.

Yet I was too afraid to speak. Even if it was under the sea, the wound on my foot was shining bloody red rays and caught everyone’s eyes. The tuna lady cried out first, and the man next to him yelled out. Another little girl screeched and looked for her dad. The boatman and the coach heard them and knew something had happened.

The boatman changed the direction of the speedboat and drove to me. The coach threw a buoy to me even though the water was only as high as my diaphragm, and

he grasped my arms and tried to pull me up to the boat. My feet left the seawater.

The salty seawater and the fresh air caused extreme pain and then spread out to all my pores and nerves. I couldn’t stop howling. Unable to stand on my feet, I crawled and leaned against the railing. In the few seconds after I got on the speedboat, blood had flowed over my right foot. But the wound was still clear and the piece of skin under my big toe was removed. The skin widely opened from my foot like a clam. It reminded me of the traditional Chinese dim sum “golden smiling dumplings.” And it was smiling broadly.

The coach was in a flurry and just covered my bleeding wound with a rag used to wipe the speedboat. I knew he did it to avoid excessive bleeding, but I didn’t want to die with tetanus. Pushing his hand aside, I took a towel for myself. The boatman announced that we had to turn back right now. 49

###

After he drew the speedboat alongside the shore, I had another problem. Our

boat was ten meters from the dry beach. Even though it was shallow water, I was

unable to walk again and could see my blood streaming down and becoming

another red sea.

“Come on.” A big brother came to me, squatted down with his back facing me

and patted his back.

Calamity is man's touchstone, I thought. Hot tears blurred my eyes. The wound

suddenly didn’t hurt. I leaned on his back and held his arms. His stepped haltingly

forward. He had the warmest and strongest shoulders I’d ever touched.

He carried me on his back. My arms locked his neck. His hands held my legs.

Mom saw my bleeding foot and rushed to us. The big brother was eager to tell her

about the whole accident.

”Oh, your son.” His mouth opened and his hands released.

I fell down.

My legs fell down from his back.

My legs fell down from his back on the white sand beach.

My legs fell down on the white sand beach at an amazing angle.

The feeling was marvelous. Like the girl rejected you last week showed up with

your best friend hand in hand. Like knowing the instant noodles you just finished

expired two months ago and you were having serious diarrhea. Like you got one

hour after school detention because you brought your PSP to school and you found 50

it lost on your way home. Like the wound was big, and was torn open and then inserted into a bowl of salt.

The guy kept apologizing, but I couldn’t hear or answer him at all. I thought I was polite enough because I had a big smiling face on my foot. I kneeled down and hugged my legs, summoned all my courage to glance at the wound. It looked very yummy, like two pieces of toast with sweet peanut powders inside.

The others dragged me into the canopy and let me sit on a wooden bench. The blue water was still licking the sides of the yellow boat. But the white beach was divided into two parts by a long bloody road. There were countless bacteria and sand grains in my wound, maybe a hermit crab or two. People surrounding me were talking at once. The coach was the only one being calm. He talked to our tour guide:

“His foot is probably injured by the coral reefs. It has happened before. Right now, it’s very important to clean the wound. I’ll go find clean water.”

The coach came back in two minutes. The hose in his hand was so long that I couldn’t see where the faucet was. He walked to me, sat down and gave me a “don’t worry” smile. He aimed the hose at my wound. His left arm raised up slowly, gradually became higher than his head. Then the strong left arm drew a wonderful arch in the sky. Someone opened the faucet. The hose started dancing on the beach.

A white dragon flew out from the hose, swept off my foot and turned into a red dragon. The diameter of my wound now reached ten centimeters at a blow.

“Oh! I am sorry. I am sorry.” He waved his hand and asked his friend to lower the waterpower. I gave up struggling. Just let the water flow slowly, the blood from 51

my wound flow slowly and my tears on my face flow slowly. But it was helpful. Most

of the sand grains in my wound were gone. Only some stubborn ones remained.

While waiting for someone to take me to the hospital, I saw an old truck driving

on the beach. It only had two seats in the cabin, and its back was loaded with

cardboard boxes and hemp ropes. The tour guide suggested Mom let the local driver

take me to the hospital first.

“I’ll try to call another car to drive you there,” the tour guide said.

”Okay.” Mom had no choice.

I covered my wound with the towel, but the driver was very curious about it. He

turned his head often to glance at my foot while driving.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

Sometimes he pretended to express sympathy and care for me, but I knew he

just wanted to see my wound. He was unable to pay attention to his driving. I was

worried that a car accident might end my life.

###

After parking the truck in front of the hospital, the driver supported me walking

in. The hospital was a two‐floored wooden house painted white. It looked like an

unadorned church. The registration desk was as simple as the drive thru at

McDonalds. The guy sitting behind the window asked me several basic questions but he seemed not to be listening to my answers. I was the only patient in the hospital, so the guy called me in directly. I walked through the wooden door, but there was no

partition separating the operation room from the waiting area. I was able to see 52

through the operation room, the sickbed room and other medical equipment, even

the open storage cabinet for medicine. The doctor was the same guy who had helped

me to register. Seeing me limping and my foot still bleeding, he gave me a sign to lie

down on the sickbed. Removing the red towel from my wound, he started talking

with the driver in Balinese, or maybe Indonesian.

The doctor was in regular white dress. He had long hair and an unkempt beard

and kept chewing something which made me unable to hear clearly what he said. I

could only guess his meaning. He pushed a trolley with surgery knives and needles

on it. The green liquid in the needle spurted out as he pressed it.

“A narcotic needle?” I asked.

The doctor didn’t reply. He lifted the skin on my foot and injected the anesthetic

directly into my bleeding wound. I trembled so hard that I was about to crush the

sickbed, and my groan was able to drill through the ceiling. But the cold‐blooded

doctor didn’t stop or pacify my pain. He only injected once. All the injection ran into my foot at once. My foot inflated with the injection, then turned numb, on the instep and heel.

After five minutes, the doctor wanted to make sure if the anesthetic had worked.

He just pulled my skin from different angles again and again and asked me: “Pain?

Pain?” And he patted my foot and asked: “Okay? Okay?” I was too weak to stop him from harming my poor body even more. Sometimes it was better to know nothing and see nothing.

“Do anything you want, just keep me alive.” Murmuring in my mind, I closed my eyes and prayed that I would open them again. 53

The surgery finished in twenty minutes. But the stitch was a mess. My foot

looked like the shoelaces of a little boy’s sneaker. Mom was there and sobbing. The

doctor commanded her to pay my medical bill before talking to me, her only son.

The money we paid was enough for me to hire a professional killer to murder the doctor. While waiting to leave the purgatory, I cursed all the authors of travelling books who ever said Bali was the only earthly Paradise in the world.

54

Four: Spicy King

The summer of the Year 2007 was the time for my senior high school

entrance exam. To everyone’s surprise, I got the offer from Cheng‐Gong High School,

the third best boys’ high school in Taipei. The meaning of Cheng‐Gong in Chinese

was success. What a good sign. Would high school be the end of my misfortune? Did

it mean that it was the turning point of my fate? I learned to expect less after those

accidents happened in the past few years, so I dared not say that. But such a

comparatively long safety had cheered me a lot.

My first year in Cheng‐Gong was full of happiness. Dad and Mom gave me

more freedom as a reward for my hard work. I joined the pop music club although I

couldn’t sing at all. Becoming a member of this club and going to school with a guitar

on my shoulder helped me catch the eyes of girls. Cheng‐Gong was a boys’ school.

The best place for me to meet girls was the cram school. There was even an informal

survey result circulating in our campus of which cram school had the hottest girls.

Besides, being a student in a good high school meant that you had to enter a nice

university after three years. Therefore, going to cram school after class became a

crazy fashion among high school students.

###

It was a Wednesday in early June. After a whole day of classes, my classmates

and I, seven people altogether, walked toward the bus stop from the school gate and

headed to the cram school to prepare for the final exams. All famous cram schools

were located in one street near Taipei Main Station. The bus was crowded by high 55

school students with various uniforms. Some boys had just played basketball, and

the smell of their sweat, melted into the perfume of the girls. Most students were

exhausted and too lazy to chat. We were saving energy for the upcoming tedious

harangue of the teachers in cram school. The bus stopped at our destination. I felt as

if I weren’t getting out of the bus by myself but was being squeezed out by the other

passengers behind me. The bus left slowly. Its dark smoke rolled up the dust on the

ground. I adjusted the strap of my schoolbag. Across the road was the building of our classroom.

“Have you ever heard about the newly opened hotpot restaurant on the next street?” Jay said. We all knew the hint hidden in his sentence. Jay took the high

school entrance exam twice to get a better offer so he was one year older than us.

His girlfriend was a college student. He always had the cutest ideas and knew to have fun. We were still hesitating about skipping class. I would be grounded if I couldn’t get good grades in the final exams.

“People said that the chef was from Chongqing, so they have the authentic spicy soup base,” Jay said.

“And my brother told me that the waitresses there are cute, and they dress up as maids to serve the customers,” another classmate said.

“Forget the exams. If you are going to fail, all of us will fail together. Eating spicy hotpot in an air‐conditioned restaurant is one of the biggest summer pleasures,” Jay said.

“Okay, okay, let’s go. But I need to be at home before nine,” I said. 56

Hunger and curiosity speeded up my steps. We were standing in front of the

restaurant within five minutes. Spicy God Hotpot. The name of the restaurant was

written in bright red and there were patterns of flames and chilis encircling the

words. A waitress came to greet us after we were seated. I looked around the

restaurant and found that she was the least attractive one. The skirt of her uniform

couldn’t cover her buttocks. She could barely pass through the room between two

tables. I felt fooled. When she explained the menu to us, she smiled so hard that the

corners of her mouth almost reached her ears. I was worried that the powder of her

makeup would fall into our hotpot soup.

“We have special combos for students. Do you guys want to try it?” the

waitress asked. None of us wanted to reply. We just looked at each other and she

kept talking.

“You can choose two different soup bases, and that’s the only thing you need

to pay for. Besides the base soups, all of the meat, vegetables, and hotpot ingredients

are free. Isn’t it wonderful?” She tilted her head, as if she were a cute girl, when she

finished talking.

We had many options of soup bases: kimchi, curry, tomato, milk, Chinese

sauerkraut, pig bone and of course, the Sichuan spicy soup base. I was thinking

about the chicken broth. Mom told me it was nutritious. But the price was high and

no one seconded my suggestion.

“We’ll have two Sichuan spicy pots,” Jay said to the waitress.

“And which level of spice do you want?” she asked.

“Super spicy, please,” Jay blinked at the rest of us as he ordered this. 57

The restaurant deserved its name. The food was really spicy, in a good way.

And I felt great stealing some time before the final exams, hanging out with friends.

The only problem was that the tutor in the cram school would check the attendance

and call every student who didn’t go to class. If the tutor couldn’t reach the student

himself, she would even call his parents at home. We started making up excuses to fool the tutor. If one of us needed to practice basketball for a game, then the other was hit by a basketball in a game. If one of us was suffering from diarrhea, then the other would have the problem of constipation. We ordered a dozen beers. Guilt and excitement had pushed us to the extreme of transgression. But we didn’t care to do anything crazier. Everyone was full and it was time for our favorite activity. We poured all the food, drink, and the remains of the soup into a bowl, stirred it and set it in the middle of the table. We played rock­paper­scissors to decide on the loser who would have to empty the bowl in ten seconds. And the rest of us would only need to enjoy the taste of victory and watch the loser’s face changed complexion. I was so lucky that I didn’t lose at all in the first five rounds. It was my day, I thought.

We came to the sixth round. Inside the bowl was a raw piece of pig’s intestine. After several rounds of rock‐paper‐scissors, the game became a duel between Jay and me.

“I will win the game,” Jay said.

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Rock, paper, scissors, rock, paper, scissors.” Yes, I won.

Jay clenched his fist tightly and his nails pricked on his palm as I waved my open hand to everyone at the table. Jay swallowed the intestine without chewing it.

We were all waiting to hear his feeling about the taste. 58

“Okay. The next round, only you and me,” Jay said. His index finger pointed at

my nose. I could see the fire burning in his eyes. But I knew how lucky I was today. I accepted his challenge without a second thought. Seeing Jay and I were ready for a tense showdown, the other classmates started making a bowl of spicy noodles. Each strip of the noodles was soaked in the spicy oil for at least ten seconds and was covered by a thick layer of chili powders. The spicy oil was recommended by the

waitress. The color of the oil was not red but white. She said that it was made from the essence of chilis. There was no impure material, only the spice in the oil.

Jay and I were standing on the chairs. “Rock, paper, scissors.” Jay yelled out the word scissors when he used his scissors to cut my paper. My open palm was shaking and looked as if it were waving goodbye to my dear friends. I had no idea how I would be after the noodles abused my body. When the first drop touched my lower lip, it swelled immediately. The chopsticks brought a whole strip of noodle on my tongue. It was like lightning in my mouth, and I felt like my tongue was going to unhinge from its root. I couldn’t feel any taste, just numbness. My friends were still

shouting around me. I felt like the noodle became as big as a pillar in my month so

that I couldn’t swallow it. I dared not close my mouth because it would only give the

spice a perfect sealed room and the spice would run into the other parts of my head.

I kept my mouth open and wished the spice could be neutralized by the cool air. My

saliva began coming out, and then the tears and snot. All of the holes on my face were watering at once. But I knew it would be much better to just get it over with rather than give the noodles more time to ruin me. I emptied the bowl as fast as I could. Seeing the tears in my eyes, the waitress applauded and treated us to more 59

bottles of beer. I felt like my heart was beating on my tongue. And the burning heat didn’t fade even after I drank more beer. My friends were joking but I could only speak with a lisp, even when I cursed.

###

It was almost nine and we all had to go home. Some took the bus from the same stop, and others walked together toward the MRT station. I waited for the bus with smelly sweat. The bus came. I tried to find a seat. But most students had just finished the classes in cram schools so the bus was still crowded. Feeling tired, I stood near the front door on the bus, and my hand grasped the handle. It was about five stops to my home. My legs turned weak, and my knees felt powerless. My limbs were as soft as if I had become a huge Gummy bear. My vision blurred, and my knees kissed the ground. My hand was still holding the handle. Some passengers had noticed my strange behavior. Not wanting to embarrass myself anymore, I tried to stand up again hurriedly. I felt much better after my legs stretched straight, as if my body was working normally after a short circuit break. I am fine. I am fine. I talked, nodded and smiled to myself.

“Young boy, are you okay?” an old lady sitting near me asked.

I was not sure she was asking about my physical health or my mental condition. I just realized how weird it was to see a 187‐centimeter tall boy kneeling down and later standing up with a secret smile. She kept saying that she would like to give me her seat, but she didn’t move her buttocks at all until I got off the bus.

60

###

Besides being tired, I didn’t have the same problem as I had had on the bus. I

walked to the bathroom, took a shower and washed away my sweat and the crazy

memory. Dad couldn’t wait for me to finish the shower. He knocked on the

bathroom door.

“I got a call from the cram school,” Dad said. “The tutor said you didn’t go to

class today.”

“I did, but she didn’t see me. I was there much earlier before she checked

attendance,” I said.

“Really?” Dad asked.

“True,” I said.

After showering, I lay down on my bed. The clock read: 10:10. My head stuck

in the pillow. Dad said that he thought it was abnormal for me to go to bed so early.

But I couldn’t sleep. I kept dreaming and waking up. My body was cold but warm at

the same time. I glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was only two

o’clock but I was totally awake. Stretching my hand under my body, I touched the

soaked sheet. How come? Could it be possible that I had a bedwetting problem?

After pulling myself together, I found that it was my sweat. But the air condition was

working. Covering my whole body with the blanket, I tried to fall asleep again. But I

was wet and very uncomfortable. I kicked the blanket off but soon started shivering.

My throat felt so dry that it could split. I wanted to get some water, but my legs

didn’t belong to me anymore. I sat on the side of bed but couldn’t stand up straight. I

got nervous about my loss of control of my own body. But the harder I tried to get 61

up, the more I sweat. I rose, and I crawled into the kitchen slowly. I guessed my body

was getting ill; otherwise, I wouldn’t feel so cold and hot at the same time. It was probably a symptom of dehydration. A sudden abdominal pain interrupted my thought. I can’t poop here, I thought. I summoned all of the remaining strength in my legs, stood and ran to the toilet.

As soon as I pulled off my boxers and sat down on the toilet, water immediately fell into the bidet. I thought it was normal to have diarrhea for one or two days after having such spicy food, but the water kept running for five minutes.

For one instant, I even wished I had anal atresia. Then I started being afraid that the toilet would fill. The physical pain made me lose the train of thought. Holding my breath and drawing my buttocks tight, I temporarily stopped shitting. But what I saw next was even scarier. The toilet paper turned soaking red after wiping my anus.

Blood. I screamed in my mind.

I thought about standing up and seeing what was inside the toilet more clearly. I felt dizzy and lightheaded as I moved my body. After trying to stand up a couple times, I gave up and just rested myself, sitting on the bidet. As I sat back on it, my belly began running again. I had no idea how long I had stayed in the bathroom.

Finally I grasped the edge of basin and turned around to flush the toilet. My hand froze before it reached the handle. Not only the water inside the toilet was red, the white ceramic was painted vermilion. I’d watched on TV that someone who suffered from blood loss needed to add water. I walked along the wall into the kitchen again.

My hand stretched to the kettle. The kettle was the last image that I remembered.

62

###

My face was lying on the floor when I next opened my eyes. My forehead

ached. I guessed I had fainted as I poured out the water. The kettle was tipped over

on the dining table and water dripped on the floor from the corner of the table. It

was about three A.M.. Dad and Mom were both still asleep. I couldn’t stay in the

kitchen until the following morning, especially when my stomach was still twisting.

A flash hit my mind. I raised my left hand to drag the tablecloth. I pulled, pulled,

pulled. The kettle fell down, just a couple inches far from my ear. Dad was awakened

by the loud sound. He entered the kitchen and picked me up in his arms without

asking any question.

Darkness swayed intermittently. I was lying in an ambulance. When we

arrived at the hospital I was too weak to walk. The nurses in the emergency ward settled me on a sickbed. A young doctor came to me.

“Can you speak?” the doctor asked.

“H’m.” I squeezed out the answer.

“I will only ask you a few questions,” the doctor said. “When did this condition begin?”

“About 2 A.M.,” I said.

“What have you eaten today?” the doctor said.

“Spicy hotpot,” I said and looked into Dad’s eyes. “And spicy noodles.”

Dad and Mom looked at each other, not knowing what to do. I closed my eyes and pretended to faint. But I really lost consciousness later. 63

My symptoms came unexpectedly, like circuit breaks, and I didn’t know how

long they lasted before I passed out and after I woke up. When I regained consciousness, the doctor was taking my blood pressure.

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It’s just a common digestive problem. You will be

fine.” The doctor gave me a comforting smile. But he soon turned to my father. “Mr.

Lin, I need to know your son’s blood type, and also yours,” the doctor said. Was my

condition so dangerous that I needed a blood transfusion? Dad left with a nurse for a

blood test, and another nurse came to draw my blood. I was suffering from pain and

anxiety and couldn’t fall asleep until the sun rose.

###

There was no spare room in the hospital. I would have to stay in the wheel

stretcher in the hallway in the emergency ward. I was not the only medical orphan.

Observing other patients became my only entertainment. The young guy whose

sickbed was next to me was injured by a car accident. His parents said he rode a

motorcycle while drunk and hit an old man riding a bicycle. In my first day in the

emergency ward, Dad spent a whole afternoon chatting with his parents.

“Not his fault. It was a red light but the old man still rushed to the road. He

didn’t have enough time to brake,” the young man’s mother explained.

“Drunk driving is never right.” Dad frowned. “If he had not been drunk, he

would have seen the old man before hitting him.” 64

“But the old man is too unyielding. We already promised to compensate his

loss. He just broke a bicycle, and had some grazes. But look at my son. His face will

be marred by scars from now on.” The young man’s mother burst into tears.

“He should recall this lesson every time he sees the scars.” Dad was adjusting

my pillow. He didn’t look at the parents at all when he said this.

“How old are you, boy? You should be in a senior high school, right? You look

very tall. Are you a member of your school basketball team?” the young man’s father said to me.

“My son went to Cheng‐Gong High School,” Dad said.

“Wow, you must be studying so hard,” the young man’s father said.

“He studies too hard and takes no rest, so his resistance against diseases gets weak,” Dad said. “But he knows to enjoy youth as well. He plays excellent guitar but it's his voice that draws you in.” I turned to face the wall, hid my head under the blanket and wished Dad’s talk could be muffled by the siren of the ambulances outside.

The clock read seven. The doctor told me that I was going to have my first test, intravenous photography. The purpose was to detect the bleeding point in my body. The doctor would insert a very thin linear camera into my vein, and the camera would travel along my large veins to find the bleeding spot. It sounded scary, but what I was really worried about was the preparation before the photography.

The patient had to be naked and have hair razed in order to avoid infection. My

problem was mainly at my abdomen, so the doctor would start with the vein at my

groin. I was only a teenage boy. I dared not imagine how embarrassing it would be 65

to be naked in front of a sweet and kind nurse. What if I had a physical reaction

during the process? I realized that I was worrying too much when I saw the nurse

walk in. She was in her fifties. Her face was shaped like a baseball home plate, and

she was very stern in speech and manner. She cleaned my skin with alcohol swabs.

A burst of ice spread on my skin but the air between the swab and my pores soon

turned hot. The nurse remained straight‐faced even when she heard my groan.

“Drink this. It’s developer.” She passed a small cup of translucent liquid to me,

which was less than 50 cc. I didn’t know the components of the developer, but if I

had choice, I would rather to drink a bucket of spoiled durian juice. But it was not

the end of the torments. I had to wait for the developer to flow into my digestive

tract and I was completely naked in the longest twenty minutes of my life. The

doctor finally entered the room. He injected anesthetic into my thigh and blocked

my vision with a hanging curtain above the sickbed. I was sober but I had no idea

about what was going on with the lower half of my body. I heard the instruments

working and the doctor murmuring.

“It seems that the bleeding has stopped, so we can’t find the spot so far,” the

doctor said. “But you still have to remain in the hospital for a couple days, in case of

contingency.”

I was sent into a single ward right after the intravenous photography. I was

still recovering from the anesthesia. It was not partial anesthesia so the lower half of

my body was totally insensate. Although I had the desire to urinate, I couldn’t find a

proper way to do so. I was afraid it would sprinkle everywhere. Dad had to be

prepared with a urinal as long as I felt a urinary desire. 66

“I told your teacher about your situation. She said she will contact other

teachers and you need not take the finals,” Dad said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Remember to thank them when the next semester begins,” Dad said.

“I will,” I said

“Your body is still weak. Don’t go out too often during your summer vacation.

Take more rest.” Dad kept talking, “I quit the cram school for you and used the tuition to buy you a new Taylor guitar. If you want to practice during the break, you can.” He cleaned up as he spoke.

“Dad,” I bawled out.

Dad stopped for a while but soon continued cleaning my ward. “You were born in this hospital. At that time, every mother was jealous of your mother. People said that this pretty boy had long hands and legs, a big head and wide ears. He would become a great athlete or a doctor,” Dad said. “But they didn’t foresee that my son wouldn’t play sports at all. And he is far from being a doctor.”

“But I visit doctors quite often,” I said.

“Ha, that’s for sure,” Dad said.

Dad leaned his back on the chair. The sky got darker, from orange to dull red, then to grayish blue and finally turned dark blue. Dad opened the window to let the heat drift out.

“Why don’t you sing me a song? What’s the latest chord you learned in the guitar club?” Dad asked, but he started humming alone. His hand patted his thigh lightly. His head swung with the melody. A fierce wind slid into the ward though the 67

window, blowing up Dad’s hair. The sound of the wind muted his singing. His hair

was flying on his face. I couldn’t guess the lyric from his mouth.

68

Five: The Name

X‐rays exams, blood tests, stool tests, a gastroscopy test, a proctoscope test,

an entercoscopy test and daily diet control, all of these had kept me in the hospital

for two weeks. The doctor told me that my problem was upper gastrointestinal

bleeding caused by eating too much spicy food. He said it happened to many spicy

food lovers, but such a serious case like mine was rare. Most of my blood vessels

were inflamed and the bleeding had stopped, so the doctor couldn’t find the initial

bleeding spot. At least, I’d stop pooping blood, which was good enough for me.

Otherwise, I had to map out a pad‐purchase plan when I went to a 7‐eleven,

pretending that I was buying them for my girlfriend or my sister. I also promised

Dad that I wouldn’t have spicy food from now on. Honestly, even if Dad had not

asked, I would never give any chili a chance to get close to my lips. I was finally

allowed to leave the white prison.

When I came back from the hospital, Mom already finished cleaning out my

room. She boiled a bowl of noodles with pork trotters. I’d stopped believing that it

could get me out of bad luck since long before. Grandma used to cook this every time

after someone in the family recovered from illness or met something terrible. If

nothing had happened, Grandma would also feed us with the noodles and trotters in

order to keep misfortune away. I guessed it was because she had become friends

with the butcher, and cooking trotters had become one of her habits. Mom learnt the

recipe from Grandma. But the trotters in front of me were different. Usually they

should be stewed with thick soy sauce, but they looked plain and dry now.

“That’s too greasy for you,” Mom said. 69

All right. I held my chopsticks, jabbed into a trotter but found my chopsticks

got stuck in the fat layer. Mom didn’t simmer the trotters and just steamed them.

The trotters had turned cold and must be hard to bite through. I thought it might be

better to start with the noodles. The very first bowl after the lethal spicy noodles,

after my rebirth. I tried to move the trotters above the noodles. Mom started

cooking the noodles this morning, and they had become sticky and twisted together.

I didn’t even know if it was still proper to call them noodles since they had evolved

into a new form of existence. I was not eating them strip by strip, but dollop by

dollop.

I looked around my room as I swallowed these flour products. Mom had

rearranged the books on the shelf. I was far from a bookworm but somehow I

missed them. The books stood on the shelf from high to low, from thick to thin. On

the top level were my animation figure toys. Batman, Joker, Killer Vincent, Captain

Jack, Octopus, I carefully reviewed my troops. Wait, what was that in my Joker’s

hand? It was not the original poker card. I did tell Mom not to touch my figures. I

stood on tiptoes to get my Joker and finally saw what the little Heath Ledger was

holding. It was a piece of verse. Although it also had a portrait on its back, it was the

image of a god. Mom came into my room to collect the empty bowl.

“Mom, where is the joker’s card?” I asked.

“What joker’s card?” Mom said.

“The card in his hand,” I said.

Mom’s eyes moved toward the Joker. “Oh, I was wiping them last week. You

had no idea how dusty they were. I left the window open, and the small card just 70

flew away. But I found that piece of verse in your drawer. They look alike. No one

will notice the difference. Don’t worry,” Mom said and blinked at me.

After Mom left, I cupped my face in my hand, pursed my lips and stared at the

verse on my desk. I read the verse word by word. How familiar the verse was. I

thought of that temple and the eccentric fortuneteller years ago, and related his

words with my poor experiences these years. The fortuneteller did warn me about

summertime. Ha said that I would meet some accidents in my life. All he had

predicted was right. Let me think, what else did he say? He said the bad luck was

because of my name. I guessed my name must be enrolled on the god’s list of bad luck. As soon as he came up with a new calamitous situation, he picked a name from the list and made an experiment. My math teacher said that if an experiment was well‐designed, the probability would be random and even. I was chosen every twelve months. No more and no less. How accurate.

After being a jinx for years, I dared not overlook the verse this time and my name with hard luck. Maybe they really had something to do with my fate. I recalled that Yu‐Hong told me there was an efficacious fortunetelling website. I found his name on the class contacts and dialed the number.

“Hey, where have you been? Are you okay? The teacher said you were sick,”

Yu‐Hong said right after he recognized my voice.

“Oh, yep, but I am fine now. Hey, listen, I don’t have time for chitchatting. I am calling for something very important,” I said. And I asked him about the website.“Give me the web address.”

“Of course I can tell you. But the website is simply a gimmick,” Yu‐Hong said. 71

“How come? You told me it was powerful,” I said.

“I thought it was. But last time I entered my name Yang Yu‐Hong, and then I

tried Yang Hong‐Yu. The results were the same,” he said.

“It doesn’t mean the website is wrong,” I said. “I still want to see it.”

“What’s wrong with you? You blamed me for being superstitious when I told you about the website before,” he said.

Yu‐Hong threatened me he wouldn’t give me the address if I didn’t tell him

my reason.

“You promise me you won’t tell anyone.” I covered the phone and lowered

my voice.

“Sure,” he said.

I told Yu‐Hong about the temple and the fortuneteller.

“Oh yeah, do you buy it?” he said.

“I didn’t before. But now I have to. I can’t deny the verse,” I said.

“Well. Let me find the link, but I think you are just too bored in summer

vacation,” he said. “Triple w, dot….”

I keyed in each letter he said into the address bar. A chanting sound came out

as I opened the webpage. My mouse cursor became a small lotus. How solemn. How

classic. I could feel the website was not joking at all. I entered my name Lee Kai­Jung,

and waited for the result.

“Hello, hello, are you still there?” Yu‐Hong said.

I was absorbed in the prophetic words on the website. “Listen to this, the

website says that I barely enjoy brotherly love. It’s true. I am the only son. I don’t 72

have a brother,” I said. “And it’s also right in saying about my parents. Let me see if

there is a sign about the accidents.”

Yu‐Hong laughed aloud over the phone. “Do you remember what we read in

Chinese class? Mencius said that, if god wants to give someone an important task, he

must try the person’s ability first. The god will afflict his mind, fatigue his muscles

and bones, starve him and destitute his property.” Yu‐Hong paused. “I think the

accidents are tests on your ability,” he said.

Come on, if god was testing me, I would rather surrender. Mr. God, I was not

the person you were looking for. Please change your target. Besides, if there was any

important task before me, that would only be my university entrance exam.

“Ah, let’s not talk about this,” I said

Yu‐Hong started gossiping about our other classmates. Shi‐Chi cheated and

got caught in the final exam. Jay got a new girlfriend. Li‐Ming’s father bought him a

motorcycle. Yi‐Tai dropped out because his parents decided to send him to the US.

“Do you keep logs of other’s lives? You are like a radio station,” I said.

###

I was grounded for the whole summer because Dad and Mom were anxious

that I would have a relapse of bleeding, and the doctor asked me to revisit every two

weeks. Before the school opened again, Yu‐Hong had broadcasted my worry about

the fate verse. I became a joke in my class. I got an astrolabe and a constellation

magazine as my birthday gifts. When we had blind dates with girls, my friends

introduced me as Prince Star, Mr. Bad Luck or verse keeper. 73

The ridiculous nicknames were like reminders of my pitiful life. I became

very cautious in the following year. I remembered the fortuneteller said the

misfortune would follow me until I turned twenty. Before that, I wouldn’t risk my

life anymore. I counted my steps as I walked. I swallowed every drop of water

slowly. I spent most of my time working on my schoolwork.

The summer vacation was coming again. Unlike my excited and wild

classmates, I welcomed the first day of July with a discreet and respectful mind. I’d

been thinking about this for weeks. The school was closed during the break. Dad and

Mom wouldn’t be at home in the daytime. If anything happened, no one could help

me at the first place. Therefore my safest choice was to stay at a cram school. Dad

and Mom both felt surprised that I would like to take lessons again in a cram school.

“I want to enter a better university,” I said.

The summer vacation before the third year in senior high school was very

crucial to every university examinee. It was my best time to defeat other students. I

decided that a single‐subject cram school was not enough. I needed to enhance my

grades in all subjects. Most cram schools began class since the first day of July. I was

already behind. On July 2, I went to the cram school street with two friends who

were also looking for one to attend.

Shiao‐Wei, Yen‐Peng and I already did some research at home, and we

decided to check the three most famous cram schools in Taipei. We walked into the

first one. A young tutor led us to look around the classroom and showed us example

videos of the teachers here. All looked good. But we still wanted to see all of the

three before deciding. We turned to the second one. 74

“Excuse me,” I said.

The lady sat behind the front desk was painting her nails and didn’t hear us.

“Excuse me. We are here to ask about all‐subjects course,” I said.

She pointed at a guy behind her. “Go talk to him,” she said.

A bearded man walked to us and led us to sit at a round table behind a

bamboo divider. He threw himself on a chair, rested his belly on the edge of the

table, and took off the slippers under his slacks. He pushed all the DMs and leaflets

on the table to us.

“Please have a look. I’ll go get some green tea,” the bearded man said and got

up with barefoot.

It was about 38 degrees Celsius today. We’d walked a lot this afternoon. I just felt thirsty. The bearded man looked weird but he was sweet.

He came back with one glass of green tea in his hand, and sat down next to us.

Shiao‐Wei, Yen‐Peng and I suddenly turned still. There was only one glass of green tea, only one for him.

“All right, boys. It looks like you’ve read all of these. Do you like the courses?” he said. He gulped his tea up. “Urrr.” He belched.

We three didn’t respond. He turned to look at me as he snapped at the straw.

He raised his eyebrow in front of me. “How do you think?” he said.

I didn’t know what he expected me to say. Should I say “the green tea looks

fine on you?” He could be casual in entertaining his customers, but I did care about hospitality. A glass of green tea was not expensive at all. Didn’t he know how to spell the word generosity? I’d almost made up my mind that I wouldn’t choose this cram 75

school. But to think better of it, the curriculum was the key point. After all, I came

here for a summer course, not for the green tea. And this was a cram school, not a bubble tea shop. I asked him about the curricula details. It turned out that he was

the manager here, but he knew very little about the course. He was not sure who taught history. He had no idea who the math teacher was. Okay, how about Chinese teacher?

“Chinese? Do we have Chinese class here? Let me ask someone else,” he said.

Shiao‐Wei and Yen‐Peng looked impatient, and I felt the same way. But the manager kept looking up the DMs with slight discomfiture. We didn’t have the heart to leave immediately. Seeing us falling into silence, the manager came to his main point. He pushed us to sign up today. Although I told him that we wanted to compare with other cram schools. He pressed my shoulders to keep me from standing up and leaving. At the same time, a lady put three pieces of contracts in front of us. Most cram schools in Taipei guaranteed that their students would pass the university entrance exam. But then every student had to sign an agreement to ensure that he would attend class regularly and study hard here.

“If you sign up today, I can give you some discounts,” the manager said.

We were hesitating but didn’t know how to refuse. My cell phone rang, which gave me a perfect excuse to go outside. It was Dad. He said we would have dinner with my uncle tonight, and he would come here to pick me up after he got off. When

I turned back to the round table, everyone was staring at me.

“Why are you looking at me like this?” I said to Yen‐Peng.

“We are waiting for you. We already paid the deposit,” Yen‐Peng said. 76

“What?” I said. My jaw almost fell to the ground.

“Because you didn’t say no. And it’s already late, so we think we just sign up here,” Shiao‐Wei said.

“This is your student ID number,” the manager said and passed me a small card.

“How much is the deposit?” I asked.

“Two thousand dollars,” said the manager.

I felt a little unpleasant because I hadn’t checked other cram schools. But I

also felt relaxed because I was done with it. We three left after finishing all

registration procedures. It was ten to seven. Dad should be here soon. I said goodbye to Shiao‐wei and Yen‐Peng, and headed alone to the end of the street. The grease smell from a deli covered my face, and the students who just got out of class were talking loudly around me. I felt uncomfortable and speeded up my pace.

Across the road, I saw Dad’s motorcycle standing in front of an ATM room. I

waited for the green light, and kept glancing right and left as I walked on the zebra

crossing. Who knew if there would be a careless driver running the red light and hit

me? The glass door of the ATM room opened. Dad walked out and saw me standing

by his motorcycle.

“Your uncle caught a big grouper, so he invited us over for dinner,” Dad said.

“Oh yeah,” I said. To visit a relative meant I had to play the role of a good boy.

“How’s the cram school?” Dad asked as he inserted the key and started the

engine.

“It was okay. I will have class from every Monday to Friday,” I said. 77

“No pain, no gain,” Dad said. He knocked at his head. “Ah, I forget my crash

helmet. Hold the handles for me.” He left the motorcycle to me, and turned back into

the ATM room.

The engine was vibrating under the seat. The exhaust pipe puffed hot gas at

my shanks. I didn’t want to get scalded, so I straddled the motorcycle. The posture

drew me back to what I used to play in an arcade. The riding game had been my favorite. I leaned my body forward on the seat. A black‐and‐white flag waved in front of me. The countdown gun shot. I was riding along a dam in a desert. The tires rolled up sands. Another motorcycle running ahead of me kept moving left and right.

I had no chance to overtake it. I couldn’t lose the game. I must do something. I turned the handle before I woke up from my imagination. It was too late. The motorcycle was dashing forward.

“Kai‐Kai,” I heard Dad called me.

I turned the motorcycle front right, so at least I wouldn’t ride to the center of the road and get crashed flat by buses. Dad tried to seize me from the backseat but he failed. I grabbed the brakes but the front wheel was still rolling straight toward the ATM room. People who saw me through the glass door all jumped aside. The motorcycle bumped into the door. A crystal flower bloomed on the glass, and its petals spread out like brilliant rays. In the center of its pistil was my palm, my stiff palm holding the handle. Some glass fragments dropped on the ground, but most of

them landed on my wrist or pierced into my fingers. My blood gushed out, flowed

along my arm and dripped down from my elbow. Dad ran to me and pulled me out

under the motorcycle. He raised my right hand high and hailed a taxi to the hospital. 78

I wasn’t sure which hand the taxi driver actually saw, my bloody one or Dad’s

trembling one.

###

Of course I didn’t eat the grouper in my uncle’s house that night, and I didn’t go to the cram school on the next day either. Dad finally couldn’t put up with my

mischievous behavior. He thought it was not an accident because I asked for it. He

deducted my pocket money to compensate the bank for the broken door, and he

took my cell phone and laptop even though Mom had interceded with him for me.

My face was slashed by the broken glass, but luckily, the wounds didn’t leave scars. My right hand was wrapped in bandages for weeks. I couldn’t hold a pen and couldn’t write at all. I spent my whole summer at home. My Batman figure had two

movable fists, but I only had one usable hand. I ate with a spoon. I had to raise my

right hand high when I showered. I let my pants and boxers fall to my knees when I

peed. When I slept I couldn’t turn my body over even if the left half of my body was

already numb.

After living alone with my one hand, I almost became a left‐hander at the end

of summer. I could pick my ears, spin a pen, do math and underline my notes with

my left hand. People said that usually a lefty was smarter. Perhaps my right brain

was opened up when its counterpart was at rest. On the first day after the school

began, the teacher wrote a huge “302” on the blackboard to remind us of how many

days we had before the entrance exam. As the number cut down, my grades had

made huge progress in my third year of senior high school. I felt more and more 79

confident as the exam approached. The fortuneteller also foresaw it. He said I could

always get good out of misfortune. But Mom was getting extremely nervous as if she was the one who had to take the exam on July 1.

During the last two weeks of June, Mom had prepared many lucky talismans from at least ten temples, and decorated my bedside with red candles and an oil lamp. According to the guy who sold these to her outside a temple, the candles and lamp would light up my intelligence when I slept. I only felt they might end my life after I closed my eyes. Who would sleep with a row of candles burning beside them?

However, in order to please Mom, I pretended that I believed in them, but I blew them out every night and lighted them up every morning before Mom got up. I guessed the amount of the carbon dioxide in my room was enough to open another ozone hole.

Before the day of the exam, Mom came home in the evening. “Kai‐Kai, Kai‐Kai.”

She kept shouting my name since she stepped into the living room.

“What?” I said. I knew she was standing by my room door, but I was busy for my final review and didn’t look up at her.

“Wear this tomorrow. I’ve checked the almanac. Orange is your lucky color

this year,” Mom said.

I looked at what was in her hands. It was a plain orange T‐shirt.

“Mom, I don’t want to dress like a persimmon,” I said.

“Shh, don’t be rude to it. The T‐shirt will bring you luck,” Mom said.

“It’s too conspicuous,” I said. “I will just bring an orange towel with me

tomorrow.” I turned back to my notes to memorize the math formulas. 80

“That’s not enough,” Mom said. “Look at this.” Mom turned the T‐shirt to

show me its back. A huge Buddha’s image was on it. Actually, the whole back of the

T‐shirt was filled with a Buddha head. The Buddha’s eyes were widely open, and her thick lips tucked into her mouth. There were some Sanskrit marks under the image.

“Mom, the Buddha will scare others,” I said.

“That’s not bad. They cannot concentrate on the exam,” Mom said.

“I can’t either. The T‐shirt is embarrassing,” I said.

“Embarrassment is nothing if you get high scores,” Mom said. She left the T‐ shirt on my bed. “Sleep with it tonight. Maybe you will dream about the exam questions.”

On the following morning, Mom got up so early to watch me put on the T‐

Shirt. To hide the mysterious Buddha, I had to wear a hoodie as I took the exam. I almost got sunstroke before the Buddha displayed her magical power.

###

However, the exam result was much better than I expected. The score was high enough to send me into National Taiwan University. I looked at the score report and thought of what happened in the past few years. Maybe my misfortune was gone. Just like what the fortuneteller said, I would gain something after I survived from the accidents. I had suffered so much in exchange for a bright future. The best university was waiting for me. I kept imagining how I walked under the coconut trees in NTU campus until the day of the admission announcement.

81

###

The exam center said that the admission result would go online at eight A.M.

But according the experience in previous years, the website would be crashed by too

many users connecting to it at the same time. Everyone was anxious to know the

result; therefore, if I logged in the site at eight o’clock, I could see nothing. Dad and I

sat in front of his laptop beginning at seven thirty. Mom was making breakfast in the

kitchen. The internet was getting super slow and the computer screen kept showing:

The page cannot be found.

“Dad, hit F5,” I said.

The time was a quarter after eight. The webpage was still loading. I saw the

logo of the examination center. The top half of the page had appeared, but the

bottom half was still blank. Dad and I kept reloading the page.

“Come here. Have breakfast first, okay?” Mom said. “The result won’t change

whenever you check it.” But she peeped at the screen as she walked back and forth

between the kitchen and the dining table.

“Breaking news. Lee Kai‐Jung, a freshman‐to‐be at National Taiwan

University,” the anchor of the morning news said.

Lee Kai‐Jung? That was my name. That was my name before my dream

school. Dad, Mom and I all turned to watch the television.

“He went out with his friends to celebrate his exam result last night, but got

involved in a gang brawl and got stabbed in his neck, back and his belly. The knife

went through his viscera. His parents have arrived at the hospital but their son is

still in the ICU now.” The anchor finished her report and the TV screen jumped to 82

the scene of the hospital. A pair of parents was crying outside an emergency room.

The mother fell down from a bench. The father held his head in his arms. Their facial

expressions were taken by the camera from some distance. But the howl was shrill

enough to cover the reporter’s microphone. The other Lee Kai‐Jung’s photo was

shown on the lower right corner of the screen with the visual effect of bloodstains as

its background. The reporter also captured the webpage of his admission result:

73401018 Lee Kai­Jung

Department of Civil Engineering, National Taiwan University

Dad took up my exam ID on the table. That was not my number, but his name

was totally the same as mine.

The television had been turned off and no one spoke. We three had our

breakfast in an awkward silence. I could hear Dad cut the fried egg. The edge of the

spoon knocked at the porcelain plate. The yolk flowed out. The spoon scraped the

surface of the plate. The yolk moistened Dad’s mouth. He swallowed it. Then it was

Mom. Her fingers reached for her mug. Her wedding ring kissed the handle. The

orange juice inside the mug shook slightly. Mom sipped the juice and put the mug

back on the table. But the mug was tipped over, and the orange juice was spilt over

the table. I pushed my chair away, and rushed to the kitchen to get the napkins. The

icy juice went through the napkin and permeated into my fingers. I drew back my

hand and felt a cold shiver and sneezed. I got another piece of napkin and continued

to wipe the table. The yellow stains were cleaned off. The glass surface of the table

was transparent again. My hand stayed on the rumpled napkin. Mom’s hand came to

hold mine, and Dad’s hand joined us on the top.