Den
Mai
The Subject entered to the ring of a bell, which signified transcendence in the old Chinese tradition. Inside the arrangement was sufficiently uninspired to suggest a normal video rental store: pine two-by-four framework with slatted shelves, titles arranged methodically. Furthermore, the titles were sorted according to Chinese characters, which gave little indication as to content. Each box was emptied of its substance – the actual tapes – which were arranged alpha-numerically behind the counter, packed tightly in translucent plastic cases. There were two employees at the counter, seated before the wall of tapes. One was a red head with freckles, dreadlocks, and tattoos. His black rimmed glasses gave him the combinative appearance of a Rasta prison librarian – but of course he worked in a video store, and I assumed that his style was inspired by a youthful need for self-expression. He had an intimidating physique and was reading from Forbes, advertising contra-class. His colleague was a plumpish Asian girl who wore a red cardigan. Her hair was pulled back, her face aglow with radiation from the PC monitor reflected twice in her glasses. The Subject was acknowledged by both with lucid indifference: perhaps they viewed him as a neophyte. In any case, I followed him in. Apparently The Subject felt the urge to look for something even though he had no idea what he was looking at.
The Subject ambled along, stopping between two rooms, right and left. He went into the left room and browsed the selection of videos, which were mostly documentaries on war, revolution, and prison life (on later inspection I discovered they were in fact Kung Fu perspectives on these subjects: Kung Fu in war, Kung Fu in revolution, Kung Fu as prison lifestyle). The Subject then crossed into the right room. He inspected a few covers (as the titles were rendered in Chinese characters): mostly pieces wrought for entertainment, it seemed, sensational and indulgent Kung Fu comedies and Kung Fu romances. The Subject then left the room and turned right. Straight ahead was a closed door. The Subject appeared perplexed: perhaps because what laid behind the door was not possible for him to surmise based solely on the Chinese markings above the door. Was the room for employees? Was it a bathroom? Frustrated, The Subject looked above the door and found nothing that could confirm or deny any postulations. In any case, the door was closed.
The Subject stood at length, looking for signs and finding none. Meanwhile a short, wrinkled old black man entered the store and approached The Subject. When The Subject turned round he found the old black man standing behind him with his arms akimbo, lips pursed and head cocked, poised for these words:
“You again,” he began loudly, suggesting a pre-existing acquaintance. “Still stanin’ in the middle, uh? Cain’t you figure nothin’ out? You ain the only one roun hea. These aisles is made for mo folks n’ jes you. Now look out boi, less you wanna git knocked on yo ass. I’m goin in.”
The Subject frowned, confused, but stepped aside automatically.
The old man walked up to the closed door and opened it. Then turning back towards The Subject, he swept his arm down and around towards the room, signifying an invitation to free passage. The Subject looked back at the counter and, seeing no suspicious eyes there, went quickly inside. I followed unnoticed.
Having gone inside, the pair turned a corner revealing a short hallway that opened into a small room. Shelves like those in the rest of the store were attached to the walls, but weren’t stocked to capacity. Each shelf held only three video tapes; there were four shelves on each of three walls. A single light nearing expiration provided a subtle luminescence that cast a mysterious glow on the tapes.
The Subject shrugged his shoulders, causing the old man’s face to scrunch up at the implication, an old brown peach pit of wrinkles who’s eyes conferred reproach.
“Na look hea, young man. I pozed ta be hea. I been hea my whole long life. An what else, I doin what I poz ta be doin! I’m talkin’ bout wea I is an what I do, see? You hea too, so that has got to be where you pozed ta be. Na wa-chu gon do?”
The Subject nodded perfunctorily and yawned. He wiped his brow. It wasn’t possible to determine with certainty the source or content of his subsequent gesticulations: he moved his arms together, then apart and together again, finally pointing back to the door. Perhaps he had postulated a rare tapes room, or a members only policy.
The old peach pit turned away, shoulders heaving in silent laughter (had The Subject told a joke?), and removed one tape from the middle shelf. He flipped it over and inspected the back, then turned to face The Subject again.
“You know, boi, we really is pozed ta be in hea. Oh, yes! dea was a sign outside what said you caint go in hea. But it wasn’t no sign what you could read. Sign was inside you. Youz afraid! Youz afraid of you know what!”
The Subject shrugged and might have made a slight adenoidal reply, although this was only my impression at the time. Again, the subject became animated with ambiguous gesticulations.
“Cmon boi. I seen you hezitatin in front a dat door. Ob-vi-us-ly, you was afraid. And dis hea room is restricted, you might say. But dea jes one test you gotta pass befo you can go in: you got to act. You got to move.”
The Subject stood still, turning his head to his facial profile: his eyeball appeared twitchy and watery.
“Not ex-zak-ly,” the old man answered in reply to an unasked question. “I got you in hea, so you jes a gues. But nex time you gwan in yo damn self, aight? Now hea, you take dis an watch it.”
He handed the tape to The Subject, who regarded it with resignation.
“Don worry,” the old black man said. “They let you rent dis one. Dey know it was me dat gave it to yuh. Take dis too.” He handed The Subject a business card. It read:
SAM WOO CHINESE RESTAURANT
SINCE 1899
3600 GRANT STREET
The old black man then spoke instructions: “Go an have lunch there. That, uh, noo-rish-munt what you get at Sam’s, you cain get dat no whay else.”
Then his face froze in a smile, eyes wide staring at The Subject. All stood silent for a few moments. Just as The Subject appeared poised to speak out of discomfort, the old man cut him off.
“Na don do nothin’ else befo you watch that tape.” He then handed The Subject a post-it note, saying, “Aight, na go on. Git!”
The old man ushered The Subject out of the room. The Subject then rented the tape per instruction, and appeared to study the expression on the plump Asian girl’s face, but she betrayed nothing. Without looking back he left the premises.
The Subject walked down the road towards the nearest Avenue: he was headed towards the center. At first he walked slowly, slouching a bit, seemingly withdrawn. Then his stride gradually acquired a slight skip, a skip that sped up as it was executed, a seemingly involuntary quickening.
The Subject held the video inside his overcoat, a brown one with a belt that was left dangling, untied. Naught caught his eye; his head remained tilted forward and did not move once during the journey to either side. It is likely that he was watching the path in front of him, but unaware of his actions and movement, rather removed to some point in space where he could view his eventual destination.
After 45 short minutes, The Subject arrived in front of a house. He checked the post-it note and went up the steps and looked in the front window, left then right. He then went to the door and tried to open it. It was locked. I heard what sounded like a snuff, one quick breath through the nostrils. The subject then went down the stairs again – I was nearly detected – and flanked the house ending up at a gate that he opened deftly by reaching over the top and undoing a hidden latch. After he rounded the corner, The Subject climbed a few stairs with no railing. He opened the screen door, which creaked as its pneumatic damper was stretched, and then the back door itself.
The Subject was inside, standing perfectly erect: Homo sapiens on display, the human animal. He went down the hall looking into rooms as he went, tiptoeing but still standing erect (a strange sight!), finally selecting one with double-doors opposite the stairs that led to the basement. Apparently in the home- theater room, he turned on the TV and removed the video tape, which he inserted into the VCR. The video began with a blank black screen accompanied by a strange sound. The sound was like the tones one hears while tuning near the extremes of the AM bandwidth. Finally a title appeared in Roman letters. Written in simple red block font were the words:
The video lasted approximately an hour and consisted of three parts. The first involved a precise positioning of the fingers of the right hand, where the middle finger, ring finger, and pinky finger were sequentially wrapped around the index finger. The palm was then shown in this form and emphasis was given to the semi-cup shape the fingers made. The thumb was held against the center of the index.
The second part of the video involved a precise and slow motion demonstration of hand placement. The hand, in this form, was moved towards the chest of another actor. The contact point was just left of the sternum, center mast. A semi-circle was drawn with black pen on the chest, and was shown to correspond to the semi-cupped shape of the hand.
The third and final part showed a real-time enactment incorporating the first two parts, where the actor A folded his fingers and struck actor B in the indicated ventral region. The actor B appeared to be felled by this blow. Two more nearly identical scenes followed, with only two differences: a new actor B for each scene, and increasingly longer intervals between the moment of the strike and the collapse of actor B. The movie ended abruptly, displaying these words in the same font:
POISON
HAND
The Subject rose and went to the VCR, removing the tape without rewinding it. He was clearly agitated as indicated by his exaggerated breathing. He bumbled his first attempt at replacing the video into its case, but finally managed it after a calming deep breath. Placing the tape back in his trench coat, The Subject turned towards the back door and was on his way to it when another door opened in front of him. An old white man with silver hair had emerged from the basement with a start. The old man’s eyes opened wide and he took a deep and tensing breath, culminating in a shout: “Heeeyyy!” which began somewhat calm and became loud and angry as it ended. “I know you. What the hell are you doing in here!” The Subject, standing opposite the old man, appeared to be fumbling with something in his hands, but his back obscured the view. The old man furrowed his brow and took a few relatively quick steps towards the subject crying YA-AAAAAA! his arms raised to deliver a blow! But his moment was arrested as The Subject reached out and touch the old man’s chest. There was a sound like the uncorking of a bottle of wine, and the old man stopped – moving and screaming – and just stared. “Oh, oh,” he said softly reaching up and rubbing his neck. Curiously, half of his head appeared to darken, perhaps an effect of shadow, as he stepped aside, apparently to let The Subject pass. The Subject circumnavigated the old man and made for the kitchen, then through the doorway at speed. Once outside he fell into a full run, out the gate and down the street. I followed quickly, but was almost run over by a child on a large bicycle.
I ran after The Subject as quickly as I could, both trying to keep up and avoid being seen: not an easy feat! The Subject concluded his dash at a bus stop. When the bus came we got on, bound for China Town.
On the bus, The Subject was seated opposite a young woman. Although cross-eyed, The Subject seemed to regard her as hermetically beautiful; he nodded, perhaps in affirmation of this privilege to sit closely by: he beheld her. In fact he looked up as one is apt to do when seated across from another. As it happened, she looked up momentarily as well, raising eyes but not head, holding a handbag, and smiling tightly but with no teeth as a maid might after receiving a compliment from her wealthy but out-of-reach employer. The Subject may have smiled also depending on your definition.
The woman’s eyes were of such a deep brown that should one have seen them in any but full lighting, they would have appeared black. The Subject must have looked at those eyes for nearly a minute; not for a few seconds here and a few there, pretending to read an overhead advertisement intermittently as people often do to avoid being caught, but for one full minute. Her eyes had been cast down on her handbag for much of that minute, but surely she had some sense that The Subject had not taken his eyes off of her. Oh, but there were clenched fists and jaw muscles tensing, sinew stretched in The Subject’s neck as if he were straining mightily against something. He seemed to be constantly on the verge of saying something to the woman, lifting his head as a wolf preparing to howl. After that minute of study, fixation, and welling restraint she looked up at him: not only with her eyes, but with her whole being. Her eyebrow was raised for an instant, cuing The Stranger to act. But he was distracted by a rustle from behind: an old woman was standing up with her bags. Although annoyed by the distraction, he retrained his attention to the beautiful crossed eyes opposite, now plaintive with expectation. As he spoke the bus slowed to a halt, brakes squealing away his words. Upon hearing the sound she looked back down at her handbag with a start, her expression deflating, eyes staring; she stood and smiled again, but without looking at The Subject: it was her stop.
Although I filled with a sickening frustration over his inability to act – his tether to hesitation – my legs impelled me off the bus just before the doors closed on the stop where The Subject had gotten off.
From the gated entrance to China Town, The Subject proceeded along Thirty-fifth Avenue, turning left up Grant Street. A block up the hill on the left was Sam Woo’s. Waiting outside for a couple of minutes would allow The Subject to make his seating arrangements: I went in after some time.
The main dining area was accessible only by walking through the kitchen and ascending a rickety staircase. Upstairs, The Subject was seated by an open door with a small balcony outside overlooking the street. He had his menu open, and the Sam Woo business card the old black man had given him lay on the table, one of eight in the room. The room was decorated with Chinese objects: a Miss Chinatown calendar, a statue of some kind, a decorative fan, and poster for some kind of sugarcane drink. There was an old TV set in the corner with a yellowing swan figurine on top.
Footsteps came at once, quickly, and culminated in the emergence of a pleasant looking Chinese waitress from the stairwell. She walked slowly over to The Subject and took his order, which was barely audible from the corner where I was seated. Then she went back below, down the stairs. Minutes later she came up with his food, steaming on a plate swimming with glaze and flanked by scoops of steamy rice. Upon setting his food down, she began gesturing in some way. I made out only fragments of her talk: “why eating … I could … anytime… downstairs… no…” The Subject appeared to be affecting calmness: his facial features became so overly relaxed as to appear asleep, but his Adam’s Apple moved up and down abnormally often. After a moment he nodded to the waitress, who smiled in return.
She went downstairs, followed shortly by The Subject. After some minutes something was moved downstairs, a milk crate perhaps, something sliding across a concrete floor. Then the careful clanking of pots or pans as if someone were trying to stack them quietly rather than transport them willy-nilly efficiently. Suddenly much raucous came from below, as something being sanded or polished or planed, which lasted a good minute before an abrupt conclusion. There were some moments of quiet before I heard a single noise that sounded like someone attempting to suppress a sneeze. Footsteps could be heard after that, and a shuffling sound, then something like scraping along course fabric. The footsteps then moved to the foot of the staircase, and then ascended it.
It was The Subject. He walked back to his table after a moment’s hesitation at the top of the stairs. He then removed a jumbled wad of papers from his pocket. Among the papers were four bank notes. He left these on the table.
The Subject looked in my direction, causing me to avert my eyes, and then gathered his things. After returning the remaining papers to his pocket, he turned to look at a print on the wall. It was a rendition of an old Chinese painting, depicting a Heron on a Cypress tree, clutching a fish above a fisherman in the river below. In the Lyrical style, the painting gradually faded as it diverged from its own center, giving its subject the impression of being enveloped in a shroud of mist. The Subject turned away from the print and walked slowly back down the stairs. I listened as The Subject left Sam Woo’s, opening the door to the ring of a bell.
Written by Erik Gimness