A Novel in Progress by Mitch Cullin & Peter I. Chang: Chapters Twelve & Thirteen
[12] Already the sun is arching toward the western horizon. A feeble breeze rustles through the warm atmosphere, and huge palm fronds wave gently above the streets. Sprinklers make a lazy racket on the grass of trimmed lawns. Cats find refuge under the hulls of parked cars, curling into themselves near the Rorschach-like blots of leaked engine oil. The afternoon has begun its gradual, almost unapparent waning.
When Samuel enters a residential alley and cuts between backyards on a
narrow byway strewn with weeds, a scraggy crow heralds his approach from the plastic lid of a trashcan, blinking voided eyes that are darker than its feathers, craning its neck to release a distressful caw before bounding into flight. The alley²which should be enlivened with the voices of kids yammering behind wooden fences or cinder block walls, with patio grills flavoring the air, and with bodies splashing into swimming pools²is hushed;; the aluminum doors of the garages are shut, and the lane seems like the dusty main thoroughfare of a vacant village in an old samurai movie. The only noises come from dogs suddenly stirring in the shade of their respective territories, barking out furious warnings that spread like a contagion from yard to yard as he goes by.
Exiting the alley, Samuel veers onto sidewalks that will eventually be awash
in the orangish light preceding dusk²turning left, then right along suburban avenues he doesn't recognize²all the while trying to intuit the proper direction home. He pauses now and again while brushing sweat off his face, scrutinizing
corner street signs for anything remotely distinguishable in the white-on-green lettering, decoding each individual character with painstaking effort and mixed results, but ends up mouthing formidable names that are as unknown to him as his surroundings: Woodward Ave., Elgin St., N. Stoneman Ave., Chico St.. He repeatedly glances over a shoulder, searching for something tangible he might have missed, and wonders where or how a wrong turn was taken after leaving the schoolyard fence. Somewhere nearby, though, he is certain there are those people who, like him and his mother, haven't yet spent a moment of their lives here as real Americans²those students and young families who had made their way to this country, existing primarily among a community of their own kind in Los Angeles;; if he can only locate them and the busy shops they all frequent²the blocks of restaurants, markets, specialty boutiques, hair and nail salons²then the road back home should be much easier to find.
The afternoon feels endless, the hours deceptively pliable, and Samuel
continues onward in what seems like a continuous circuit of identical streets, stopping twice to let the revolving spray from lawn sprinklers blast his face, almost quenching his thirst and cooling his forehead. Finally, he pauses again when the far-off whir of traffic is barely heard. Shutting out the drone of an unseen airplane, he fine-tunes his ears so as to divine the location of where vehicles travel en masse upon a broader artery of pavement. This way, he tells himself while shifting his body to face north. Then he presses on, cutting across avenues as if a trail leading from wilderness had been discovered. Minutes later, he arrives at a corner that, like a slender shoreline running parallel to an expansive river, banks a six-lane boulevard conveying a stream of cars, buses, and motorcycles.
As with the more subdued streets Samuel has just left, everything in front
and around him is both commonplace yet unfamiliar. The brick or stucco-covered storefronts²save for a nearby liquor mart and a Quik-Suds laundromat²are empty, several of which have For Lease signs taped high on their broad windows. Aside from the vehicles crisscrossing the road, a desolate aura pervades on each side of the boulevard, offset slightly by blue, red, silver, and black graffiti painted beside the forsaken shops, like the lavish calligraphy of some
mysterious  culture.   To  the  west,  the  boulevard  slopes  downward,  winding  for  blocks  among  strip  malls,  parking  lots,  and  large  warehouse  structures;Íž  to  the  east,  the  road  rises  sharply  in  the  distance  and  meets  the  sky,  the  traffic  there  either  materializing  through  the  ether  or  plummeting  over  the  edge  of  the  world.  Â
But  nowhere  in  sight  are  the  bustling  businesses  he  knows  well,  or  the Â
easily  understood  Chinese  characters  adorning  store  windows.   Nowhere  upon  the  sparsely  populated  sidewalks,  as  best  as  he  can  gather  from  such  a  vantage  point,  is  a  face  like  his  own.   At  that  moment,  a  full-Âblown  sense  of  panic  might  have  loomed  up  within  him  had  his  vexed  gaze  not  dropped,  landing  on  a  small  folded  piece  of  greenish  paper  resting  in  the  curbside  gutter.   Instantaneously,  his  expression  transforms  to  become  one  of  wide-Âeyed  surprise²as  though  a  great  reward  were  now  being  offered  to  him  after  having  escaped  the  residential  maze.   Rolling  closer  for  a  better  look,  flattening  a  hand  against  the  sidewalk  when  stooping,  he  fishes  the  paper  from  the  gutter,  the  dull  markings  unmistakable  even  before  he  unfolds  it  to  confirm  his  lucky  break:   a  frayed,  neatly  creased  $5.00  bill,  a  torn  corner  of  which  has  been  repaired  with  Scotch  tape²a  portent  of  further  good  fortune  to  come,  he  is  convinced,  and  the  obvious  reason  for  why  fate  has  led  him  to  this  particular  corner  at  this  particular  time.  Â
Lest  the  actual  owner  suddenly  return  for  the  lost  money,  Samuel  rises Â
quickly  while  re-ÂIROGLQJ WKH ELOO DQG JODQFLQJ DERXW WR FRQILUP WKDW KH LVQÂśW EHLQJ watched,  tucks  the  currency  inside  his  sweat  pants,  securing  it  behind  the  elastic  waistband  of  his  underwear²where,  like  the  house  key  dangling  underneath  his  shirt  on  a  knotted  length  of  nylon  string,  the  money  presses  against  his  body.   He  gives  the  gutter  a  cursory  inspection,  making  sure  there  is  nothing  else  to  collect.   And  once  satisfied  that  no  other  rewards  are  forthcoming,  he  instinctively  heads  east,  scanning  the  curbside  gutters  at  a  leisurely  pace.   Any  direction,  he  now  EHOLHYHV LV WKH FRUUHFW GLUHFWLRQ HDVW RU ZHVW RQ WKH ERXOHYDUG LW GRHVQÂśW matter²because  soon  a  bus  stop  would  be  encountered,  and,  as  luck  prescribed,  the  money  sticking  to  his  skin  is  more  than  enough  to  pay  for  the  ride  home.  Â
The  first  bus  turnout  Samuel  reaches  consists  solely  of  a  bench,  and  lacks Â
the  dark-Âgreen,  steel  shelter  that  usually,  for  him,  denotes  its  purpose.   Yet  a  pole  stands  near  the  bench  displaying  a  white  Metro  sign²two  orangish  stripes Â
underscore  the  circular  transit  logo,  the  number  79  in  black  beneath  it²although  this,  too,  isn't  what  he  expected.   The  stripes  are  supposed  to  be  yellow,  and  the  number  should  read  258  or  260.   Still,  as  no  one  else  is  waiting  at  the  stop,  he  sits  down  for  a  moment,  stretching  his  legs  on  the  bench.   Bending  forward  to  rub  his  sore  calves,  he  looks  around  again  for  anything  recognizable  that  might  reveal  itself  to  him:   the  San  Gabriel  mountain  range  peeks  over  the  tops  of  low-Âlying  buildings,  a  billboard  for  Taco  Bell  hovers  at  the  corner  of  an  empty  lot,  the  skinny  tendrils  of  benign  weeds  sprout  as  if  by  design  at  the  sidewalk  fringes,  overstuffed  trash  bags  sit  in  clustered  heaps  on  the  landscaped  islands  dividing  the  boulevard,  cars  and  more  cars  speed  by²all  of  this  having  been  glimpsed  many  times  previously,  just  not  here.   Then  it  occurs  to  him  that,  before  today,  he  hadn't  dared  to  explore  anywhere  new  without  his  mother  at  his  side,  never  in  Taipei  and  certainly  never  in  Los  Angeles  county.   Even  when  going  places  alone²violin  lessons,  school,  sometimes  for  dinner  at  her  workplace²Louisa  had  already  drawn  the  lines  on  which  he  was  allowed  to  travel,  whether  walking  or  riding  a  bus,  instilling  in  him  the  easiest,  safest  route  from  A  to  B.  Â
Everything  his  mother  had  dictated  became  like  the  simplest  of  equations Â
stored  within  Samuel's  head:   walk  two  blocks  to  the  bus  stop  on  Atlantic  Blvd.,  take  the  260  bus  to  the  intersection  of  Fair  Oaks  Ave.  and  Laurel  St.,  walk  another  EORFN WR 0UV +RQH\ :DQJÂśV DSDUWPHQW IRU YLROLQ OHVVRQV UHWXUQ KRPH WKH VDPH way  but,  of  course,  in  reverse  order;Íž  or²if  meeting  her  at  New  Kang  Kang  Garden²walk  three  blocks  to  the  closest  stop  on  Commonwealth  Ave.,  take  the  258  bus  to  the  intersection  of  Freemont  Ave.  and  Valley  Blvd.,  walk  less  than  half  a  block  to  the  restaurant.   At  the  ends  of  both  routes,  north  for  the  260  and  south  for  the  258,  ubiquitous  landmarks  indicated  logical  stops  of  departure²an  In-ÂN-ÂOut  Burger,  a  Blockbuster  video  store²sites  she  had  pointed  out  while  initially  riding  the  buses  with  him,  making  sure  he  took  proper  notice.   Moreover,  she  had  explained  about  the  stripes  on  the  Metro  signs  always  being  yellow,  the  bus  numbers  always  the  same,  and,  until  now,  he  hadn't  really  considered  the  possibility  of  this  information  only  applying  to  him;Íž  as  such,  there  would  also  be  different  colored  Metro  stripes  and  alternative  bus  numbers  serving  other  parts  of  the  valley,  none  of  which  were  meant  for  his  use. Â
Â
Nevertheless,  Samuel  imagines  that  any  local  Metro  bus  could,  at  the  very Â
least,  bring  him  near  enough  to  home,  providing  he  can  somehow  tell  the  driver  where  roughly  he  lives  in  Alhambra,  south  of  Main  St.  and  two  blocks  west  of  $WODQWLF %OYG Âł$K-Âta-Âlan-Âti-ÂFR ´ KH SUDFWLFHV Âł$KWD-ÂODQWLFR ´ )RFXVLQJ RQ the  enunciation  of  that  single  name,  he  is  deep  in  thought  when  the  bus  materializes,  slowing  as  it  climbs  the  sloping  boulevard  towarG KLP ,W LVQÂśW TXLWH like  the  older  buses  he  has  ridden,  but,  rather,  a  much  newer  model²sleek  and  clean,  silver  and  red²a  round  Metro  logo  emblazoned  on  the  sides.   A  digital  marquee  blinks  large  yellow  words  above  the  sweeping  windshield.   With  its  approach,  the  loud  groan  of  the  engine  shakes  him  from  his  thoughts,  and  he  immediately  swings  his  legs  off  the  bench.  Â
Yet  after  the  skates  touch  the  ground,  his  tired  legs  resist  rising  in  spite  of Â
his  efforts  to  stand.   Then,  momentarily,  he  fights  a  brief  civil  war  with  his  own  limbs,  the  listless  legs  mooring  him  while  the  hands  and  arms  struggle  in  opposition.   He  pushes  himself  up  as  the  bus  flies  past  the  turnout  without  stopping.   The  carriage  flashes  across  his  vision,  its  seats  completely  unoccupied,  and  the  blinking  words  on  the  side  marquee  are  observed  yet  exist  beyond  his  ability  to  understand  them:   NOT  IN  SERVICE.   A  fragrant  breeze  blows  warm  upon  his  skin  in  its  shuddering  wake,  transporting  the  smells  of  summer²fresh-Âcut  grass  and  honeysuckle²and  for  a  while  he  stands  at  the  curb  with  a  disquieting  feeling  of  invisibility  as  the  bus  curves  from  view.   Soon  a  sigh  of  resignation  puffs  out  of  him,  and  he  launches  himself  on  the  blazing  sidewalk²proceeding  like  someone  trudging  through  knee-Âdeep  water,  trekking  uphill  to  find  another  bus  stop  where,  perhaps,  a  bit  of  shade  might  cover  him.  Â
Before  long,  Samuel  goes  from  one  side  of  the  boulevard  to  the  other, Â
hurrying   along  a  pedestrian  crosswalk  so  that  he  can  make  it  to  the  next  stop.   But  as  with  the  turnout  he  had  left  behind  minutes  ago,  no  sort  of  shelter  defines  the  location²only  a  bench,  a  public  litter  bin,  and  a  metal  pole  erected  for  a  Metro  sign  that,  once  again,  shows  two  orangish  stripes  and  the  number  79.   This  bus  stop,  however,  is  located  within  the  spacious  shadow  of  an  imposing  magnolia  tree,  the  light  encompassing  it  dim  and  soothing.   Squatting  directly  in  front  of  the  bench,  facing  the  curb  and  bobbing  on  the  balls  of  his  feet  as  if  agitated,  a Â
young  white  guy  in  his  early  twenties  holds  a  walkie-Âtalkie  to  an  ear,  listening  LQWHQWO\ ZKLOH DOVR PXWWHULQJ Âł8K KXK²uh  huh²uh  huh²yeah,  uh  huh²I  know  that²EXW FÂśPRQ²´ $ FLJDUHWWH EXUQV DW D FRUQHU RI WKH JX\ÂśV PRXWK WKH WRS WZR joints  of  an  index  finger  are  curled  into  an  empty  16oz.  plastic  Coke  bottle;Íž  DFFRPSDQ\LQJ KLV ERG\ÂśV UHSHDWHG ERXQFLQJ WKH LQGH[ ILQJHU UK\WKPLFDOO\ WDSV the  bottle  against  the  ground,  rattling  a  discarded  piece  of  chewing  gum  around  inside  it.  Â
Discreetly  seating  himself  at  an  end  of  the  bench,  Samuel  wipes  his  brow, Â
savoring  the  welcome  reprieve  from  direct  sunlight,  and  eyes  the  white  guy  with  ERWK DSSUHKHQVLRQ DQG FXULRVLW\ +LV VXUUHSWLWLRXV JD]H WUDYHOV DERXW WKH JX\ÂśV crouching  form²the  arched  spine  visible  under  the  cotton  fabric  of  a  skintight  tank  top,  the  dark  strands  of  glistening  armpit  tufts,  the  baggy  pair  of  khaki  Dickies  hanging  low  enough  to  expose  the  blue  boxer  shorts  worn  beneath  it.   7KH JX\ÂśV EURZQ KDLU KDV EHHQ VKDYHG EDUH RQ WKH VLGHV RI KLV KHDG \HW WKH UHVW LV long  and  ample,  slicked  straight  back  across  his  scalp  and  tapers  to  the  base  of  his  skull.   Then  realizing  that  whoever  is  communicating  with  the  guy  must  be  nearby,  Samuel  glances  up  and  down  the  street  but  sees  no  one  else  speaking  on  a  walkie-Âtalkie²nor,  for  that  matter,  does  he  hear  the  crackling  voice  of  someone  HOVH WUDQVPLWWHG WKURXJK WKH JX\ÂśV KDQGVHW  Â
The  white  guy  suddenly  blurts  something  at  the  walkie-Âtalkie,  his  voice Â
carrying  the  incredulity  of  someone  unjustly  accused,  the  intonation  recognizable  in  any  dialect.   Shaking  his  head,  he  listens  for  a  second,  and,  still  bobbing  as  he  squats,  lifts  the  Coke  bottle  above  his  head,  flicking  it  off  his  finger.   The  bottle  spins  like  a  boomerang,  striking  the  rim  of  the  litter  bin  and  rebounding  to  the  pavement,  rolling  over  the  curbside.   With  that,  his  balance  is  almost  lost,  his  body  falters  and  lurches  forward,  the  walkie-Âtalkie  remaining  pressed  to  an  ear;Íž  but  at  the  same  time  he  quickly  flattens  a  palm  on  the  sidewalk,  bracing  himself,  and  promptly  regains  his  equilibrium  without  missing  a  bounce  of  his  sneakers:   ³8K KXK²uh  huh²´  Â
Had  an  aura  of  menace  not  hampered  the  scene,  Samuel  would  have  been Â
entertained  by  the  manner  in  which  the  guy  crouched  there²legs  bent,  thighs  splayed,  and  backside  jiggling  inches  above  the  sidewalk  as  if  a  defecation  were Â
underway.   But,  instead,  a  less  amusing  thought  springs  to  mind,  that  of  the  punishment  enforced  by  school  teachers  at  Wu-ÂShing  Elementary.   Few  students,  if  any,  were  spared  such  degradation,  not  even  him.   On  a  daily  basis,  the  smallest  of  transgressions²a  middling  grade,  dozing  during  class,  passing  a  note²could  summon  the  arbitrary  wrath  of  an  instructor,  the  consequences  being  pain  and  public  humiliation.   The  offending  student  was  made  to  assume  an  inflexible,  half  squatting  position  in  front  of  the  entire  class  as  lessons  continued,  silently  facing  his  or  her  peers  while  keeping  the  spine  erect,  the  arms  outstretched  symmetrically  like  a  dive  into  water  was  imminent:   at  about  three  minutes  the  knees  and  thighs  began  to  shake  uncontrollably;Íž  around  five  minutes  the  arms  lost  their  rigidness,  alternately  dropping  and  rising;Íž  by  seven  minutes  gravity  became  the  enemy,  attempting  to  tug  the  body  downward  as  the  pain  increased  throughout  the  legs  and  spine  and  arms;Íž  should  ten  minutes  approach,  VWUHDNV RI VZHDW DQG WHDUV XVXDOO\ PLQJOHG RQ WKH VWXGHQWÂśV DJRQL]HG IDFH ,Q UDUH instances  when  the  punishment  exceeded  fifteen  minutes,  nothing  short  of  complete  physical  collapse  was  expected²the  student,  then,  hitting  the  floor  as  if  having  been  shot,  often  finding  it  difficult  to  stand  for  a  while  afterwards.  Â
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enjoyed  administrating  discipline  more  than  Mr.  Lu²a  wiry,  slight  in  stature,  bespectacled  geography  instructor  with  a  nasally,  high-Âpitched  voice  and  an  opinionated  view  of  the  world  he  taught.   The  landmasses  that  comprised  the  continents  of  the  earth,  he  had  once  explained,  were  like  various  ceramics  fired  in  a  kiln.   Africa  and  its  people  had  been  fired  too  long.   Europe  and  its  inhabitants,  on  the  other  hand,  were  failed  creations  as  a  result  of  having  not  been  fired  long  HQRXJK :KHUHDV $VLD DQG WKRVH EHORQJLQJ WR LW ZHUH OLNH WKH %DE\ %HDUÂśV porridge  that  Goldilocks  ate,  cooked  to  perfection²no  pinkish,  fuzzy  bodies  with  pig-Âlike  epidermis,  no  translucent  skin  or  inflamed  freckles,  no  hair  or  faces  the  color  of  fecal  waste²just  excellent  craftsmanship,  with  shiny  black  hair,  smooth  surfaces,  appeasing  features,  and  vast  intelligence.   This  biased  yet  seemingly  affirming  information  was  imparted  within  several  feet  of  four  half  squatting,  miserable-Âlooking  boys²among  them  Samuel  and  Ming-Âsheng²who  had  found  WKHPVHOYHV VLQJOHG RXW IRU SXQLVKPHQW EHFDXVH WKHLU WH[WERRNV ZHUHQÂśW DOUHDG\
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The white guy now yells into the walkie-talkie, bouncing upright from
where he had crouched. Wearing a flushed expression of outrage, he paces back and forth before the bus stop, his free arm gesticulating²the wrist twisting round, the fingers grasping at air²as if communicating wildly in sign language. He shifts his voice to a softer level, and after spitting the cigarette at the gutter, he listens again, nodding. But when he resumes speaking the volume intensifies, each word louder and louder. He brings himself to an exasperated halt, pulling the walkie-talkie away from his ear, regarding it in the palm of his hand with a look of complete contempt, and then screams at it, his jugular veins bulging. And in one fluid movement, he jumps high, raising the walkie-talkie, and slam dunks it like a basketball as his sneakers touch the earth.
At that very instant, Samuel recoils in fear, averting his stare to focus on
the laces of the skates. Nervously sucking at his bottom lip, he hears the hard crack of the walkie-talkie striking the pavement, breaking into pieces, its parts scattering. A portion of the speaker lands beside the litter bin. Fragments of the handset rain across the sidewalk. Transistors and a circuit board whiz over the curb. The stubby black antenna slides toward the bench, entering his downcast field of vision and comes to rest between the skates. Thereafter, an uncomfortable silence prevails, disrupted only by the hum of traffic, and, seconds later, the advancing jangle of a chain. Lifting his chin a bit, he sees a surprisingly tall elderly woman stroll past the bus stop, walking a tan Chihuahua. She wears a red sun visor, and her purplish gray hair billows above it like wispy fluffs of cotton candy. The Chihuahua pauses to sniff at a remnant of the walkie-talkie on the sidewalk, its little body fidgeting spasmodically, until she gives the chain a harsh yank, jolting the dog into motion.
Then with their passing, the white guy is once more scrutinized: squatting
again by the curb, his neck bent so low that he appears almost headless. His hands comb the length of his scalp, coiling hair around fingers, eventually seizing the long, thick strands inside clenched fists. Right when it seems as if the hair might get wrenched from his head, the fists loosen their hold, the hair falls into place on his scalp, and he releases an audible sigh and climbs to his feet.
Searching  the  ground  without  a  trace  of  the  anger  that  had  possessed  him,  he  begins  stooping  here  and  there  while  collecting  the  wreckage  of  the  walkie-Âtalkie.  Â
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not  be  obvious  in  doing  so.   Yet  when  the  guy  starts  moving  his  way²gathering  the  minutest  shards  of  black  plastic,  claiming  the  remaining  pieces²he  drops  his  stare,  avoiding  any  chance  of  eye  contact,  and  watches  uneasily  when  the  antenna  is  grabbed  from  between  the  skates  by  a  slender  hand  with  fingernails  chewed  to  the  nub.   Then  the  guy  takes  a  seat  on  the  bench,  choosing  to  sit  right  next  to  him  as  if  they  were  traveling  together.   The  parts  of  the  walkie-Âtalkie  are  cupped  in  dirty  palms,  cradled  there  like  some  fragile,  tiny  animal.  Â
The  guy  glances  casually  at  him,  nodding  a  few  times  for  no  clear  reason, Â
and  Samuel  considers  going  elsewhere,  maybe  waiting  at  the  curb  or  by  the  litter  bin;Íž  except  he  worries  that  such  a  deliberate  move  could  cause  trouble.   So,  instead,  he  stays  put,  slumping  with  shoulders  drawn  in²his  head  lowered,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  skates²  anticipating  the  arrival  of  the  bus  that  will,  at  last,  allow  KLP D SURSHU H[FXVH WR VDIHO\ OHDYH WKH EHQFK )RUWXQDWHO\ WKH ZDLW LVQÂśW PXFK longer,  and  when  the  bus  brakes  and  whines  into  the  turnout,  it  is  the  guy,  not  him,  who  scrambles  from  the  bench  as  the  doors  clatter  open.  Â
After  the  white  guy  has  boarded  and  can  be  seen  moving  along  the  aisle Â
through  the  window,  Samuel  rolls  across  the  sidewalk  to  the  entryway.   He  peers  up  the  steps  at  the  black  driver  who,  it  seems,  is  wearily  contemplating  the  road  beyond  her  windshield,  appearing  indifferent  to  his  loitering  presence  below.   +HU KXONLQJ ERG\ REVFXUHV WKH GULYHUÂśV FKDLU KHU PHDW\ ILQJHUV JULS WKH ZKHHO and  her  cumbersome  profile  reminds  him  of  the  stoic  buffalos  glimpsed  beside  rice  fields  in  Yilan.   He  climbs  gingerly  from  the  curb,  one  skate  at  a  time,  but  goes  no  further  than  the  bottom  step.   All  at  once,  the  driver's  large  head  swivels  ninety  degrees  on  her  neck,  cranking  down  several  notches  to  assess  his  irresolute,  placid-Âlooking  face  with  an  interrogatory  expression,  her  eyeballs  bloodshot  and  watery.  Â
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Confident  that  he  has  been  understood,  Samuel  gives  her  a  definitive  nod Â
while  withdrawing  the  folded  bill  from  his  waistband,  and  squinting  at  her  inquisitive  face,  he  extends  an  arm  upward  to  proffer  the  money.   To  his  confusion,  though,  she  immediately  refuses  the  bill  with  a  dismissive  wave  of  her  right  hand.  Â
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Samuel  and  the  driver  stare  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  but  still  holding Â
the  money  for  her  to  take,  his  gaze  is  the  more  abstracted  of  the  two.   Something  isn't  clear,  he  thinks,  and  something  is  getting  misunderstood.  Â
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OLJKWO\ ZLWK KHU ULJKW KDQG Âł6WHS RQ RII GHDU ´ ([FHSW KH UHPDLQV SRLVHG XSRQ the  bottom  step,  the  money  and  his  arm  retracting,  and  blinks  at  her  while  wondering  what  else  to  do.   The  amplification  of  her  voice  increases,  her  speech  becomes  staccato  DV LI KH ZHUH KDUG RI KHDULQJ Âł7KDW²side²of²VWUHHW ´ VKH says,  her  index  finger  jabbing  past  her  head  in  correspondence  with  each  DFFHQWXDWHG ZRUG Âł<RX JR 7KDW VLGH ´ 7KHQ VKH VKRRV KLP DJDLQ GLVPLVVLQJ him  as  decisively  as  she  had  the  money.  Â
Carefully,  Samuel  retreats  backwards,  one  skate  at  a  time,  and  no  sooner Â
does  he  reach  the  curb  than  the  door  folds  shut  before  him.   When  tucking  the Â
money  behind  his  underwear  waistband,  the  bus  shudders,  easing  forward  with  hydraulics  hissing,  drifting  from  the  turnout  like  a  ship  departing  a  dock.   Leaving  him  marooned  near  the  litter  bin,  it  glides  into  the  boulevard,  joining  the  westward  flow  of  traffic²where  already  a  few  headlights  glow,  and  the  sky  it  travels  toward  is  cast  in  hues  of  orange,  red,  and  now  the  darkest  of  blues.   As  if  hours  had  somehow  passed  in  a  matter  of  seconds,  the  shade  of  the  magnolia  tree  has  merged  with  the  creeping  shadows  of  dusk,  becoming  imperceptible.   The  sun,  too,  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  masked  by  buildings  or  the  outgrowths  of  palm  fronds.   The  sidewalks  are  dimmer,  the  air  much  cooler,  and  the  sweat  on  his  forehead  is  gone.   Realizing  that  the  day  is  ending,  a  profound  sense  of  helplessness  suddenly  manifests  inside  him,  bubbling  at  the  core  of  his  gut,  infusing  his  veins  while  racing  his  heart.    Â
Then  Louisa,  as  always,  swings  from  tree  to  tree  in  the  back  of  his  mind, Â
and  within  the  darkness  gradually  spreading  like  liquid  around  his  feet,  another  scene  emerges²one  in  which  an  empty  tip  jar  sits  on  a  stool  in  front  of  crowded  tables,  the  hands  of  a  wall  clock  tick  relentlessly,  and  his  mother  counts  the  minutes  until  he  and  his  violin  are  expected.   By  now,  he  suspects,  she  has  probably  called  the  house  at  least  twice,  double-Âchecking  that  he  has  showered,  reminding  him  via  the  answering  machine  to  arrive  early.   And  if  only  she  ZRXOGQÂśW EH DQJU\ KH PLJKW FDOO KHU IURP D SD\SKRQH H[SODLQLQJ ZKDW KDV happened,  asking  her  then  about  how  to  get  home  so  he  could  shower,  dress,  and  catch  the  258  bus  on  time.  Â
He  knows,  however,  that  entertaining  such  a  notion  is  pointless,  especially Â
VLQFH KH KDGQÂśW PHPRUL]HG WKH SKRQH QXPEHU IRU WKH UHVWDXUDQW 3OXV WKHUH LV the  shameful  issue  of  the  skates,  an  unfilial  secret  that  if  found  out  would  surely  lead  to  both  the  pilfering  of  her  figurines  and  truly  painful  circumstances.   No,  he  WHOOV KLPVHOI LWÂśV EHWWHU ILQGLQJ P\ ZD\ RQ P\ RZQ $QG ZLWKRXW DQ\ RWKHU obvious  choices  available,  he  heads  downhill  under  the  dwindling  sunlight,  intending  to  go  back  over  the  same  suburban  avenues  that  had  thrown  him  off  course  in  the  first  place.    Â
[13] Once again, Samuel roams about the neighborhood streets for a while²going left and right, north and south²the pain in his ankles numb to the point that it hardly bothers him anymore. But in the evening dimness, he finds the uniformity of each block to be even more baffling than earlier, offering not a hint of where he had come from or which direction he should go. And so²once again²he eventually escapes the labyrinth of those streets, bringing himself to the corner of another boulevard, albeit a less populated and traveled one.
The daytime is now reduced to a vaporous crimson and indigo border, the
heavens stretching beyond it mostly black. Headlights beaming, three semi-trucks grunt slowly past Samuel on the boulevard, their long white trailers emblazoned with the red Wei-Chuan logo, the sight of which makes his stomach grumble. Then after watching the caravan rumble by, he proceeds on the empty sidewalk, passing a row of shuttered businesses, and very soon a warehouse district of readable characters and familiar brand name logos looms up around him like meaningful signposts: Kimbo, Ve Wong, Kong Yen, Lee Kum Kee, Wei-Chuan, Taisun. Many of the larger, industrial-looking buildings are set back on fenced-in property, their logos illuminated beneath lamps at the apex of concrete or corrugated-metal structures. He moves steadily forward, staring here and there at both sides of the boulevard, glancing ahead at the various buildings and their logos. While no one else is visible, he deliberately maintains a determined expression, hoping that nothing on his thoughtful face will reveal how worried he feels or, as is also the case, how badly he needs to urinate. He
stops  at  a  crosswalk  that  leads  across  the  boulevard  to  an  avenue  of  rundown  buildings  and  vacant,  weedy  lots²a  good  area,  he  figures,  in  which  to  relieve  himself.  Â
On  the  other  end  of  the  crosswalk,  facing  Samuel  and  waiting  for  the  light Â
to  change,  stands  a  young  businessman  with  wire-Ârimmed  spectacles.   He  holds  a  briefcase,  and  wears  a  navy  blue  dress  shirt,  a  black  tie,  and  slacks.   His  face  is  unmistakably  Chinese,  although  hardly  a  mainlander  by  the  looks  of  him;Íž  for  he  is  too  sharply  dressed,  his  haircut  stylish  in  a  way  that  is  counterintuitive  to  those  raised  under  communist  rule.   He  must  be  Taiwanese,  Samuel  suspects,  or  at  least  American.   The  businessman's  expression  is  gravely  serious,  impatient,  as  he  taps  a  foot  on  the  pavement,  then  hurries  upon  the  crosswalk  when  the  light  changes,  sprinting  as  he  goes.  Â
But  Samuel  weaves  directly  toward  the  businessman  like  a  magnet, Â
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Nevertheless,  Samuel  is  heartened  by  this  fleeting  encounter,  believing  he Â
must  at  last  be  on  the  right  track.   Then  following  the  sidewalk,  he  observes  that  the  shops  along  the  narrow  avenue  are  either  closed  until  Monday  or  closed  for  good,  based  as  they  are  at  the  bottom  of  decrepit  red-Âbrick  buildings  with  faded  Chinese  characters  marking  their  storefronts.   From  the  gloomy  apartments  occupying  the  floors  above  the  shops,  laundry  hangs  outside  of  several  windows  to  dry,  floating  in  the  air  like  shapeless  ghosts.   The  age  of  the  buildings  alone  indicate  that  the  area  had  somehow  been  circumvented  by  progress  and  time  itself,  cast  aside  to  now  fall  apart  successively  in  a  hidden  pocket  of  the  city.   With  the  vacant  lots  and  gapping  alleys  spaced  between  the  old  buildings,  the  whole  avenue  feels  like  a  mouth  that  is  missing  teeth,  and  its  entire  atmosphere  suggests  that  the  children  who  were  once  raised  here  had  ultimately  fled  elsewhere,  leaving Â
their  aging  parents  and  elderly  grandparents  behind  to  fend  for  themselves.  Â
After  a  minute  or  two  upon  this  avenue,  Samuel  slips  inside  an  alley  so Â
dark  that  it  seems  like  a  tunnel  instead  of  an  open  passageway.   But  he  only  goes  a  few  yards  to  where  a  shopping  cart  sits,  its  basket  stuffed  with  junk  and  covered  on  top  by  a  blue  tarp.   Positioning  himself  in  front  of  a  wall,  he  tugs  his  sweat  SDQWV GRZQ D SDOP VDIHJXDUGLQJ WKH ILYH GROODU ELOO EHQHDWK KLV XQGHUZHDUÂśV waistband.   As  his  bladder  empties,  the  urine  spatters  against  bricks,  puddles  at  the  ground,  and  bifurcates  into  rivulets  near  the  skates.   When  finished,  he  hikes  his  sweat  pants,  carefully  avoiding  the  urine  while  turning  around.   Then  he  glances  up  and  notices  that  someone  else  has  arrived  there.   Standing  not  five  feet  away  by  the  shopping  cart,  a  stooped-Âshouldered  Chinese  man  with  flowing  gray  hair  and  wearing  a  grimy  blue  baseball  cap  is  watching  him²one  arm  GDQJOLQJ DW KLV VLGH WKH RWKHU DUP GLJJLQJ KDVWLO\ XQGHUQHDWK WKH FDUWÂľV WDUS DV LI searching  for  something  vital.   The  man's  mouth  forms  a  straight  line²his  forehead  etched  deep  with  creases,  his  chin  and  upper  lip  embellished  by  long  wispy  strands  of  facial  hair²but  his  eyes  shine  on  Samuel  like  beacons  sent  from  a  lighthouse.   It  is  the  type  of  face  that  he  would  expect  to  see  working  hard  at  a  Night  Market  stall²the  sort  of  person  that  he  and  his  parents  might  only  refer  to  as  Old  Uncle  without  ever  learning  his  real  name.  Â
³0LVWHU GR \RX VSHDN 0DQGDULQ"´ 6DPXHO DVNV ZLSLQJ ERWK SDOPV DFURVV
his  sweat  pants  as  if  to  thoroughly  clean  them.  Â
Old  Uncle  nods,  his  fingers  rifling  blindly  inside  the  cart  among  aluminum Â
cans,  plastic  grocery  bags,  and  bundles  of  clothing.  Â
Âł'R \RX NQRZ ZKHUH WKH VWUHHW $WODQWLF LV"´ Â
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accent. Â Â Â
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Samuel  moves  quickly  to  where  the  man  stoops,  gazing  hopefully  into Â
glittering  eyes  that  seem  wise  and  benevolent.  Â
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alcohol  than  nicotine,  yet  smelling  of  both. Â
Â
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Â
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help  \RX *RW DQ\ FKDQJH"´ :KHQ 6DPXHO QRGV 2OG 8QFOHÂśV DUP VXGGHQO\ VWRSV GLJJLQJ LQVLGH WKH FDUW Âł+RZ PXFK \RX JRW"´  Â
6DPXHO SXOOV WKH IROGHG ELOO IURP KLV ZDLVWEDQG DQG VD\V ³7KLV PXFK ´
while  lifting  it  between  them.  Â
Old  Uncle  peers  at  the  money  wiWK KLV PRXWK ULVLQJ RQ HLWKHU HQGV ³,V
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Âł, FDQ WHOO \RXÂśUH D JRRG ER\ VR , WUXVW \RX ´ 2OG Uncle  slides  his  arm  from Â
WKH WDUS UDWWOLQJ FDQV DV KLV ULJKW KDQG HPHUJHV Âł0\ IULHQG QHHGV WZR GROODUV IRU KLV WURXEOH 'RQÂśW ZRUU\ ,ÂśOO EULQJ \RX WKH FKDQJH ´ 7KHQ KH UHDFKHV LQWR D pocket  of  his  jeans,  removing  a  red  handkerchief  that  is  shaken  open  and  draped  RYHU WKH IODWWHQHG SDOP RI KLV WUHPEOLQJ OHIW KDQG Âł,WÂśV LPSRUWDQW WR GR EXVLQHVV RIILFLDOO\ ´ KH VD\V KROGLQJ WKH KDQGNHUFKLHI RXW Âł3XW WKH PRQH\ KHUH ´  Â
Hesitating  for  a  moment²glancing  again  at  the  warm  eyes  that  shine  on Â
him,  scanning  the  wrinkled,  amiable  face  that  looks  as  if  it  could  have  never  been  young  or  unkind²Samuel  finally  yields,  and  at  the  instant  that  the  five  dollar  bill  is  deposited  on  the  handkerchief,  the  red  fabric  consumes  it  wholly  like  a  9HQXVÂśV-Âflytrap  devouring  a  pest.  Â
³'RQœW JR DQ\ZKHUH ´ 2OG 8QFOH VD\V SDWWLQJ 6DPXHO RQ WKH VKRXOGHU
ZKLOH VOLSSLQJ WKH KDQGNHUFKLHI EDFN LQWR D SRFNHW ZLWK KLV RWKHU KDQG Âł-XVW ZDWFK P\ EHORQJLQJV ´  Â
Samuel  nods  twice. Â
Â
Âł,ÂľOO JR JHW P\ IULHQG :DLW KHUH ´ Â
Â
All  at  once  Old  Uncle  turns  and  ambles  from  the  cart  as  if  he  were  on  a Â
mission,  rounding  the  corner  with  a  slight  stagger  in  his  walk.   Then,  for  a  time,  6DPXHO VWDUHV DW WKH FRUQHU RI WKH EXLOGLQJ DQWLFLSDWLQJ 2OG 8QFOHÂśV UHWXUQ ZLWK his  friend.   But  after  several  minutes,  he  squats  by  the  cart  where  the  odor  of Â
garbage  is  stronger,  rubbing  at  his  ankles  while  still  expecting  help  to  come.   Streetlights  hum  and  flicker  into  life  out  on  the  avenue,  throwing  a  hazy  fluorescent  glow  that  circles  the  pavement.   Craning  his  neck  upward,  he  looks  at  the  strip  of  blackish  sky  cutting  between  the  buildings.   The  night  has  now  consumed  the  day.   A  feeling  of  dread  drops  in  his  stomach,  but  he  calms  himself  with  the  knowledge  that  everything  might  work  out  fine:   if  Old  Uncle  and  his  friend  will  simply  hurry,  he  can  probably  make  it  to  the  restaurant  in  good  order,  albeit  a  little  late  and  without  having  showered.  Â
Just  then,  a  nebulous  figure  materializes  at  the  corner  of  the  building, Â
seeping  into  the  alley  from  oII WKH VWUHHW ,WÂśV WRR WDOO WR EH 2OG 8QFOH DQG LQ WKH darkness  the  sluggish  figure  appears  like  a  spindly  shadow²its  limbs  seemingly  elongating  with  one  movement,  contracting  with  the  next,  its  body  impossibly  flat  for  a  person.   Maybe,  Samuel  thinks,  LWÂśV 2OG 8QFOHÂśV IULHQG +LV LQVWLQFWV however,  think  otherwise  and  urge  a  speedy  retreat,  something  he  resists  doing  because  Old  Uncle  has  trusted  him  to  protect  the  cart.   Plus,  the  only  direction  in  which  he  could  escape  is  farther  down  the  murky  alley,  a  forbidding  option  that  feels  more  ominous  than  the  figure  moving  his  way.   To  be  safe,  he  pulls  at  the  nylon  string  around  his  neck,  yanking  it  from  under  his  shirt  so  that  the  house  key  can  be  gripped  in  his  fingers  like  a  knife.   A  couple  of  stabs  with  this,  he  reckons,  and  the  shadow  should  disintegrate,  becoming  a  formless  mist.  Â
$ UHIOHFWLYH JOLQW RI VLOYHU VSDUNV PRPHQWDULO\ DW WKH ILJXUHÂśV FKHVW DQG DV
WKH VKDGRZ GUDZV FORVHU LW WDNHV D VHFRQG RU WZR IRU 6DPXHOÂśV H\HV WR DGMXVW $ tall  black  man  comes  into  focus,  holding  an  armful  of  crushed  aluminum  cans.   When  approaching  the  cart,  the  black  man  skids  the  soles  of  his  shoes  evenly  across  the  ground,  keeping  his  legs  rigid,  as  if  the  act  of  lifting  them  would  cause  great  pain.   He  looks  to  be  fifty  or  sixty,  even  though  his  shuffling  legs  make  him  seem  much  older.   His  face  is  thin  and  quite  oily,  with  a  skeletal  boniness  about  it  that  disturbs  Samuel.   But  his  clothing  is  curiously  immaculate²a  pinstripe  suit  and  a  gray  tie,  the  kind  of  attire  that  would  be  worn  to  an  office  or  a  formal  RFFDVLRQ 6WRSSLQJ DW WKH FDUWÂśV KDQGOHEDU KLV WKLFNO\ KRRGHG H\HOLGV ULVH DQG his  lethargic  gaze  briefly  regards  Samuel  squatting  there  yet  shows  no  real  interest. Â
Â
Leaning  forward,  the  black  man  peels  back  the  tarp  before  emptying  his Â
load  into  the  overfilled  basket,  the  cans  then  falling  from  his  arm  and  striking  RWKHU FDQV 7KDWÂśV QRW \RXU FDUW 6DPXHO IHHOV OLNH SURWHVWLQJ DOWKRXJK WKH VDPH instinct  that  had  urged  him  to  run  is  now  encouraging  him  to  do  nothing.   Soon  the  black  man  sorts  through  the  cans  with  busy  hands²pushing  them  here  and  WKHUH PDNLQJ VXUH WKH\ GRQÂśW FRYHU XS WKH EXQGOHG FORWKLQJ RU SODVWLF JURFHU\ bags  that  also  share  the  basket.   Then  as  if  to  dismiss  any  question  about  who  is  the  actual  owner  of  the  shopping  cart  and  its  belongings,  he  reaches  inside  a  grocery  bag,  removing  a  square  swatch  of  pinstripe  fabric  that  matches  his  suit,  and  dabs  the  material  on  his  sweaty  face.   Thereafter,  the  tarp  is  brought  over  the  cart,  its  edges  tucked  into  the  basket,  and  with  his  fingers  curled  around  the  handlebar,  the  black  man  begins  what  surely  is  to  be  an  arduous  journey,  his  shoes  sliding  him  and  his  possessions  toward  the  pitch-Âdark  recesses²where,  moments  later,  no  trace  of  him  is  discerned  save  for  the  receding  squeak  of  the  FDUWÂśV ZREEO\ ZKHHOV  Â
But  already  Samuel  is  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  alley,  his  mind  awash Â
in  consternation  as  the  reason  for  why  Old  Uncle  would  lie  about  the  cart  dawns  on  him,  and  then  he  grips  the  house  key  tighter  and  stabs  its  jagged  tip  at  the  air  and  spins  to  face  the  street,  hurling  himself  forward  in  order  to  rescue  his  money.   6ZLQJLQJ KLV DUPV DV WKRXJK GDVKLQJ PDGO\ IRU KLV OLIH LW GRHVQÂśW WDNH ORQJ XQWLO he  spots  the  outline  of  Old  Uncle  a  half  block  or  so  away,  staggering  alone  down  the  sidewalk  below  the  periodic  radiance  of  streetlights.   He  accelerates  after  him,  creating  his  own  breeze  that  fans  through  his  hair.   He  clatters  off  the  curb,  angling  his  skates  to  the  asphalt,  and  then  races  upon  the  street  with  his  body  VWRRSHG ,Q PDWWHU RI VHFRQGV KH DUULYHV EUHDWKOHVV DW 2OG 8QFOHÂľV ULJKW HOERZ VWDUWOLQJ WKH PDQ ZKHQ SDQWLQJ Âł0LVWHU ZKHUHÂśV P\ PRQH\" <RX JLYH LW EDFN ´  Â
As  his  dried-Âup  face  contorts  to  assemble  a  sneer,  Old  Uncle  keeps  walking, Â
muttering  harshly  in  Cantonese,  and  brushes  Samuel  aside  with  a  hand  that  now  clutches  a  brown  paper  sack  betraying  the  shape  of  a  large  bottle.   His  lips  are  wet,  his  whiskers  fringed  by  tiny  white  bubbles.  Â
Âł, ZDQW P\ PRQH\ PLVWHU ´ 6DPXHO VD\s,  seizing  Old  Uncle's  elbow  from Â
EHKLQG Âł*LYH LW EDFN ´ Â
Â
Old  Uncle  slows  some  and  drags  himself  several  feet  with  Samuel  still Â
clinging  at  his  arm,  spitting  irritated  Cantonese  words  as  the  skates  roll  behind  him.   His  formerly  genial  expression  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and,  instead,  he  wears  the  cornered  look  of  a  mangy  dog  that  could  bite  at  any  time.  Â
Âł0LVWHU²´ Â
Â
Old  Uncle  stops  in  his  tracks.   Without  success,  he  wriggles  his  arm  to Â
shake  Samuel  loose,  flapping  it  wildly  like  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing,  cursing  all  the  while.   Then  foamy  white  liquid  starts  spurting  out  of  the  paper  sack,  geysering  a  few  inches  as  if  released  by  a  hose,  drenching  the  sack  and  his  wrist,  VSODVKLQJ WKH VLGHZDON Âł$K-ÂDK ´ LV WKH PRUWLILHG XWWHUDQFH WKDW TXHOOV 2OG 8QFOHÂśV wrath,  his  attention  shifting  abruptly  from  Samuel  as  his  pursed  lips  intercept  the  spewing  liquid.   He  buries  his  mouth  into  the  top  of  the  sack,  exposing  the  amber  neck  of  a  40-Âounce  beer  bottle  while  sealing  his  lips  around  it.   And  stemming  the  flow,  hH VZDOORZV DQG JXOSV ZLWK D VLQJOH EUHDWK KLV $GDPÂśV apple  bobbing  fast  like  a  piston.   Â
$W WKDW PRPHQW 6DPXHO OHWV JR RI 2OG 8QFOHÂśV DUP DQG UROOV GLUHFWO\ LQ
front  of  him,  staring  up  with  unforgiving  eyes  and  sucking  hard  on  his  bottom  lip,  thinking:   <RX GRQÂśW KDYH D IULHQG DQG \RX OLHG DQG \RXÂśUH D WKLHI DQG \RX QHYHU ZDQWHG WR KHOS PH DQG VR ,ÂľOO ILJKW \RX LI \RX GRQÂľW JLYH PH P\ PRQH\ 5DLVLQJ KLV KDQG KH SRLQWV WKH WLS RI WKH KRXVH NH\ DW 2OG 8QFOHÂľV VWRPDFK WKH Q\ORQ string  attached  to  it  pressing  tautly  against  his  neck,  and  when  doing  this  an  edgy  chuckle  greets  his  ears.  Â
³2ND\ RND\ ´ 2OG 8QFOH VD\V LQ (QJOLVK QRGGLQJ WKH VDFN ORZHULQJ IURP
KLV VPLUNLQJ PRXWK Âł'RQÂśW XQORFN PH ´ +H ZLSHV KLV OLSV GU\ ZLWK WKH EDFN RI D hand,  his  contentious  demeanor  changing  as  knuckles  and  fingers  pass  across  his  chin.   Then,  like  magic,  it  is  the  other  Old  Uncle  gazing  down  at  Samuel,  eyes  shining  bright  underneath  the  diffused  radiance  of  a  streetlight.   And  with  that  transformation,  his  language  also  changes,  conveyed  in  the  Mandarin  that  they  ERWK FDQ XQGHUVWDQG Âł'RQ W EH DQJU\ ´ KH VD\V KLV YRLFH VRXQGLQJ JHQWOH DOPRVW FRPSDQLRQDEOH Âł,WÂśV \RXU PRQH\ DIWHU DOO /HW PH JLYH LW WR \RX ´  Â
%XW 6DPXHOÂśV JODUH VWD\V IL[HG +RZHYHU XVHOHVV LW is  as  a  makeshift Â
weapon,  he  keeps  the  house  key  poised  and  ready,  saying  nothing²nor  does  he Â
flinch  when  Old  Uncle  carefully  sets  the  paper  sack  upright  on  the  ground,  and  then  retrieves  the  red  handkerchief  from  a  pocket,  unraveling  it  on  a  palm  to  present  the  sum  total  of  two  lackluster  quarters.   Â
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6DPXHO Âł*R DKHDG WDNH LW ´  Â
Sucking  so  hard  on  his  bottom  lip  that  it  hurts,  Samuel  gingerly  claims  the Â
two  quarters,  wrapping  them  inside  a  fist,  and  wonders  how  much  strength  it  would  take  to  slice  Old  Uncle  in  half  with  the  key.   Then  surprising  even  himself,  he  kicks  a  skate  at  the  paper  sack,  knocking  it  over,  telling  Old  Uncle  at  the  same  instant  that  beer  begins  streaming  onto  thH SDYHPHQW Âł)XFN \RXU DQFHVWRUV ´  Â
Âł$K-ÂDK ´ 2OG 8QFOH VLQNV WR KLV NQHHV DV LI KH KDG EHHQ VKRW Âł$K-ÂDK ´
he  yells  again,  his  hands  fumbling  about  to  right  the  bottle  and  save  what  remains  of  the  flowing  beer.  Â
By  then,  though,  Samuel  is  already  gone²sailing  along  the  deserted Â
sidewalk,  the  house  key  dangling  at  his  chest  and  the  quarters  held  tight.   Shortly  thereafter,  his  nerves  settle,  the  beat  of  his  heart  grows  calm,  and  with  the  night  so  quiet  in  this  part  of  the  valley²no  freeways,  no  buses,  few  cars  and  fewer  people²he  feels  as  if  he  were  drifting  in  the  sky,  somehow  unburdened  of  everything  he  had  withstood  from  that  afternoon  until  tonight.   As  the  skates  coast  him  downhill,  his  brain  envisions  the  comfort  of  his  bed  and  the  bowls  of  leftovers  in  the  refrigerator  and  the  unending  pleasure  of  watching  television.   %XW KH VHQVHV WKDW KLV KRXVH LVQÂśW DQ\ZKHUH FORVH DQG WRR KH UHDVRQV WKDW ZKDWHYHU UDQGRP GLUHFWLRQ KH FKRRVHV QH[W SUREDEO\ ZRQÂśW JXLGH KLP WKHUH VRRQ Still,  whether  he  ultimateO\ PDNHV LW WR WKH UHVWDXUDQW RU QRW KLV PRWKHUÂśV GLVDSSRLQWPHQW DQG DQJHU ZLWK KLP LV E\ WKLV KRXU D FHUWDLQW\ KH KDVQÂśW \HW DSSHDUHG IRU KLV SHUIRUPDQFH DQG VKH LVQÂśW KDSS\ 7KH TXDUWHUV WKRVH WZR FRLQV imprinting  his  skin,  then  become  a  final  option²the  least  perfect  answer  to  his  predicament  while  also  surfacing  as  the  most  viable  one.   Calling  the  house,  he  decides,  is  the  best  thing  he  can  do  now,  leaving  his  voice  on  the  answering  machine  so  that  Louisa  can  discover  his  message  later,  telling  KHU Âł0D , GRQÂśW NQRZ ZKHUH , DP ,ÂśP ORVW ´ ,Q WKH WKLUW\ VHFRQGV RI DOORWWHG UHFRUGLQJ WLPH WKH area  must  be  described,  the  street  signs  translated  if  possible,  the  address  of  the Â
QHDUHVW EXVLQHVV PHQWLRQHG DQG ZLWKRXW IDLO WKH QXPEHU KHÂśV FDOOLng  from  repeated  at  least  twice.   After  which,  he  has  only  to  wait  for  her  in  that  place,  both  welcoming  and  dreading  the  moment  when  she  eventually  finds  him  there.  Â
Before  long,  Samuel  arrives  at  a  payphone  situated  beside  the  roll-Âdown Â
security  gate  of  a  closed  business.   Painted  across  the  gate's  metal  shutters  are  fading  black  characters:   Yung  Ho  Antiques  Wholesale  Center.   Reaching  for  the  payphone,  he  hesitates  before  lifting  it,  pondering  the  correct  numerical  sequence  that  will  summon  the  answering  machine.   Since  he  is  usually  home  when  not  attending  school,  the  need  to  call  the  house  has  never  presented  itself  until  this  night.   Even  so,  he  has  no  doubts  about  the  phone  number  starting  with  3-Â5-Â7,  although  the  exact  grouping  of  the  last  four  digits  proves  elusive²either  6-Â5-Â0-Â3  or  6-Â0-Â3-Â5.   He  shuts  his  eyes,  imagining  the  number's  printed  location  in  the  living  room,  displayed  on  a  small  white  label  affixed  to  the  handset  of  the  telephone.   Somewhere  within  his  mind,  he  is  now  peering  at  the  handset  label,  a  finger  slowly  drawing  an  invisible  line  underneath  the  numbers:   3-Â5-Â7-Â6-Â0-Â3-Â5.   His  eyes  blink  open.   6-Â0-Â3-Â5,  he  assures  himself  while  lowering  the  payphone  to  an  ear,  the  dial  tone  enveloping  his  hearing  like  a  lifeline.   He  drops  the  remaining  two  quarters  into  the  coin  slot,  ignoring  the  vague  sense  of  uncertainty  WKDW VWLOO IOXWWHUV DURXQG KLV JXW DQG ZKLVSHUV Âł -Â5-Â7-Â6-Â0-Â3- ´ DV WKH QXPEHUV are  punched  on  the  keypad.  Â
%XW LQVWHDG RI ULQJLQJ WKURXJK WR DFWLYDWH KLV PRWKHUÂśV RXWJRLQJ Pessage Â
on  the  answering  machine,  the  call  is  interrupted  by  the  pulse  of  a  busy  signal.   Samuel  quickly  hangs  up,  fishes  the  quarters  from  the  coin  return,  and  tries  calling  again.   Another  busy  signal  throbs  at  his  ear.   He  hangs  up,  fishes  the  quarters  from  the  coin  return,  and  only  then  does  he  pause  to  reconsider  the  SKRQH QXPEHUÂśV DFFXUDF\ 'HFLGLQJ D PLVWDNH PXVW KDYH EHHQ PDGH RQ KLV SDUW he  feeds  the  coin  slot  once  more,  except  this  time,  while  tapping  the  keypad,  the  last  four  digits  are  pushed  tHQWDWLYHO\ Âł -Â5-Â0- ´  Â
And  when  the  receiver  begins  ringing,  he  emits  a  sigh  of  considerable  relief, Â
feeling  a  glimmer  of  encouragement  that  is  obliterated  after  four  rings  and  UHSODFHG ZLWK WKH VKRFN RI KLV HUURU +LV PRWKHUÂśV SUH-ÂUHFRUGHG YRLFH GRHVQÂśt  greet  him,  nor  does  an  answering  machine  ever  beep,  allowing  a  message  to  be Â
left;Íž  rather,  it  is  a  foreign  man  with  a  heavy  accent  who  picks  up,  seemingly  asking  questions  in  a  language  that  is  as  unknown  to  Samuel  as  any  he  has  ever  heard,  muttering  intensely  as  if  the  dead  silence  on  the  other  end  was  somehow  FRPPXQLFDWLQJ YROXPHV Âł.XO KDUUD ´ WKH PDQ VKRXWV 6WDQGLQJ WKHUH dumbstruck,  Samuel  listens  all  the  same²the  frustration  and  confusion  of  the  past  hours  suddenly  condensed  to  a  saline  fluid  that  starts  welling  around  his  H\HV Âł,OD MDKHHP PDÂśLN ´ 7KHQ DQ DEUXSW FOLFN UHVRXQGV IURP WKH UHFHLYHU DQG WKH OLQH IDOOV TXLHW :LWK WKDW WKH SD\SKRQHÂśV UHFWDQJXODU ERG\ FODWWHUV internally,  digesting  both  quarters  in  a  one  metallic  gulp.   Yet  he  continues  holding  the  phone  for  a  while,  conveying  not  a  single  emotion  even  while  tears  streak  down  his  face,  and  stares  blankly  at  the  coin  return,  fully  aware  that  it  no  longer  has  anything  to  give  him.                     Â