A Bend in the River

 

 

      

                    

    

                                                    A Bend in the River                                      by lee choy

 

 

     In 1959, there was this Chinese restaurant in Berkley that was between a dress shop and an ice cream parlor.  It was two stories high and I presumed that the owners of the restaurant lived on that second story.  I found the prices unbelievably cheap so I was able to eat there at least once a week.  I discovered it during my last semester in art school and it  was just a few blocks from my campus,   It had a lunch counter and booths padded with green naugahyde that was cracked and worn thin from constant usage.  I can still see the yellowish strings of cotton peeking out from the seams of the pads.  The place had the ambiance of aged grease, but the food was good: it served fresh instead of canned vegetables.  It offered both Chinese and American food, and I always ordered leg of lamb because it was a rare item on menus in restaurants of such plebian status.
 
    What I really remember was this landscape painting, high on the far wall, facing the front entrance.  It showed a boatman pushing a long pole, guiding his small sampan  
toward a sharp bend in the river.   It was done in the typical Chinese Restaurant style: flowing lines with little attempt at perspective, lots of dull grays and pinkish reds.  Hokusai figures amateurishly painted, were  standing on the banks, going on about their business and staying quiet.  Sitting in the booth, eating my lunch, I would fantasize that these crudely painted figures could think.  I would fantasize them thinking about the real people below, like me, eating, opening fortune cookies, drinking hot tea, then going out the door, leaving them behind, silently objecting, trapped forever on that plastered, painted wall.  It did seem so unfair. 

        
      Sylvia was her name.  She was in her middle thirties, and was the waitress that worked the lunch hour.  She had thick black hair, cut in a page boy style, high cheek bones, thin lips and a boney shape, creating a striking figure of a Mongolian mystic.  Her moves were quick and with a sharpness that belied her tired, dull eyes.  I tried speaking to her in Cantonese but she countered in Mandarin, a dialect I did not understand. The few Chinese living in the area spoke Cantonese, a dialect she was not proficient in, so she had few friends.  She knew her English but it was awkward and spoken haltingly, which isolated her even more.  I wanted to impress her that I still speak the language of my forbearers.  She was not impress.  And although she was married (her husband was the cook and owner) and a decade and a half my senior, I tried flirting with her because it's what art students do...with attractive waitresses. My overtures ceased when I was met with total indifference. 

     Since my class schedule allowed me to come way past the lunch hour, the place would be deserted when I arrive.  We had time to chat when she came over to take my order.  She would stand over me, her elbow on the back rest, and her hands with pad and pencil on the ready.  In that one semester, we would tell our life stories in small increments to each other.  We would have our litter of small talk with personal confessions mingled in.   Knowing our paths would never cross, other than in that small café, we tended to be more honest than we would normally.  We became unfrocked confessors.  We became, what I would call, friendly strangers.         

       She described her difficulties, living in communist China: working on the family farm, attending school, studying for exams in the dim of lighted candles, washing in cold water, the stink of animals, the outdoor privies, the flies.  She described the dirt floor in the family compound and how it was her job to sprinkle water on it nightly to keep it packed down...and always, that smell of mildew.  She described her mother, in her early fifties, already tired of life when she was born.  Both her father, and much older brothers, treated her like a distant cousin, a working donkey, only there for a prolong visit. There was no closeness in that family.  Just peasant farmers.  Her tone of voice, during most of our conversations, was like  asking...if I was ready to order!  And that I had made an excellent choice!  It was entirely neutral.
 
       I remembered her reminiscing about the time she was applying to a local university and the boundless joy she felt when she was admitted.  She said those were the most idyllic days of her entire life: listening to lectures, students mulling about, heated discussions of Mao's thoughts, drinking German brewed beers, attending English classes, the debates, the friendships, the freedom.  And always, that hope of a new life and of a bright and exciting  future.

       After graduation, she left the country side for urban Shanghai where she had high expectations of getting a job starting out as cub reporter.  It was at the dawn of the "Cultural Revolution" when things were still fairly normal.  She applied to the Jiefang Daily, the Wen Hui Boa, and the China Youth Daily. Those names were meaningless to me, but she mentioned them, nevertheless.   She never did receive a reply from any of the newspapers.  She blame her lack of connections, her not being a party member, and her diploma from a rural university for not getting an interview ( I suspect she wasn't bright as she claimed to be, and it probably showed on her resume).  She worked from clerical job to clerical job.  The closes she got to journalism was writing copy for a small pharmaceutical company.  Her trophy was a pamphlet on public latrine etiquette and where to get vaccination shots.  They printed over ten thousand copies.  We both laughed.

         In 1957, her parent's farm, like thousands of others, was turned into a commune, a social experiment that failed from the start.  The ensuing years brought on mass starvation for the rural farmers, including her family. Everywhere millions died.  It was known in China as the "Great Famine".  During that excruciating time, Sylvia met up with a former fellow student whose family resided in the United States.  His parents had a restaurant business here in Berkley.  They married, I suppose, because she was desperate to escape a country in chaos, and he wanted a helpmate and children. It was a practical arrangement. (I have no idea why her husband's family choose to send him overseas to get educated.)  And like any arranged marriage, which I suspect that it was, there would be little or no love in the beginning and, in Sylvia's case, I presumed there was little or no love in the end.  

     She arrived in Berkley in 1959 and had to set up housekeeping in the flat above the Restaurant.   The rooms were dingy, dusty and dark having only two windows in the front to admit light.  It was used for storage before they moved in. The building was rented, not owned by her husband's parents.  They had operated the business for years and had now retired leaving the business to him.  The husband had no other plans other than to work in his restaurant, save his capital, buy a house nearby, and raise a family. To succeed in this, the restaurant would have to be open for long hours and Sylvia would have to do most of the waitressing.  He would stay in the kitchen cooking and doing most of the cleaning.  Only part time help was hired.  Sylvia kept her feelings from her husband that, for her, this terrifying situation was to be temporary.  On her days off, she would look for another job, preferably in journalism.     At the time of my patronage, only his plan was on going, while her plan was on hold.  She rarely had a day off.  And when she did, it was only to go upstairs and collapse. 

     On weekends, when I was with my parents or with friends, relaxing or doing things under an open sky, a thought would flash through my mind and I would look at my watch.  No matter what time it was, I realize that Sylvia was still in that dreary restaurant, standing under the painting behind the counter, wiping it down, or waiting on a customer, or standing on aching feet washing glasses, or looking out of the front window watching people walking by, and wishing she was with them.  It was a cerebral vision tinted with horror and sadness... and quietly I turned my thoughts to the living.  The last time we spoke, she still had high hopes of working for a local newspaper.  See, she showed me her English grammar book and said her conversations with me, short but many, have improved her English.  It did not.  

     Our acquaintance ended when I graduated and went on with my life. 

     Years later, I drove back to Berkley with my wife and kids for a reunion at my old art school.  On the way, I thought it would be a good idea to take the family to lunch at the restaurant of my youth.  It was still there with the same booths and tattered pads of green.  My children express their disdain and said the place was "yuky".  The painting was yellowed with age and grease buildup from gas ranges.  Leg of Lamb was not on the menu, I was not surprised. Sylvia wasn't there and I didn't think she would be.  In a way, I was disappointed yet glad.  The waitress was white and had a Scottish accent. She was friendly and I introduce her to my family.  I told her that I ate there frequently, years ago, when I was a student.  She showed interest, and not because I might be a big tipper, not with three kids, a wife, and worn out jeans.  We became chatty between courses. So when the dessert was served, I asked her.  Did she know of a former waitress that use to work here by the name of Sylvia?

     "Oh, you mean the bosses' wife?  Her name was Sylvia."
    
     I became excited. "Yes, that's her.  Last I heard she wanted to be a newspaper reporter.  Did she ever make it?"

     She looked back to see if the cook was listening.  She lowered her voice and said, "Oh, I see you haven't heard.  Sorry, but that poor lass died years ago.  Left a grieving husband and two little kids.  Saddest thing you ever did see."

     "How did it happened?"

     "Well now, they bought a house, you know.   Those old track houses near the campus, mighty flimsy ones, if you ask me.  You know the place?" I nodded.  She continued, "They have attached garages.......and one day she went into the garage, took a rope and threw it over an exposed rafter.  Then she tied it around her neck, I suppose, climbed onto the hood of her car, and then jumped off.  It was all in the newspapers, and not just in the obituary column, I might add."

     I thanked her and as we were leaving, I looked up at the painting and thought sadly that, like the boatman with the pole, Sylvia never got closer to the bend of the river than he did.  In fact, in all that time, he never moved at all.
  

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Rain Dances

                                                              Rain Dances

     I gotta tell you, I don’t know where this country is coming to nowadays.  I mean you can’t do a damn thing on your own property unless some city hall bureaucrats give their imperial   approval. You can’t even give aid to people in dire need without first being licensed up to your eyeballs. Take my good friend Egbert  Ebenhoffer for instance.  That man is a saint and, simply by peering into your mouth and feeling the lumps on top of your head, could tell what's wrong with you.  Yea, no kidding, he could work miracles on your body with just his thumbs alone. But just let Egbert give you a bit of medical advice (for a small gratuity of course) and he would have opened a flood gate of law enforcement agents.  They would descend on him like a hoard of locust and fine him thousands of dollars for practicing without a license.  They would incarcerate him and leave him to mingle with harden criminals , and all because he believes in helping others.  I’m saying this because I want to point out how we are all slowly becoming victims of big government.

       I mean, even if you can do something miraculous, like raising the dead, you would still have to have official approval.  You want to know the real reasons why Jesus was crucified on the cross?  He didn’t have all those stamped permits when he raised the dead.  He also didn't get the city's okay when he produced all those extra loaves of bread and fishes.  And I am almost certain he didn’t have a license to walk on water.  I bet it was bureaucrats waiting for him at the other end of the pier with hammer and nails and a very large wooden cross.

     Take my case for example.  A while back, a windstorm tore a hole on the roof of my garage so it leaked a little.  I didn't care about the leak, but the roof was ancient and it looked really bad.  It was a blight on the neighborhood, and I personally took on the  responsibility of fixing it because I'm a civil minded kinda guy.

      It was summer before I could get it started.  I set about replacing, not just the hole, but  the entire roof.  I was gonna do it all by myself: don’t need hired help for a simple job like that…not that I couldn't afford it, mind you.  I'm retired and all that, but I was smart with my investments, and I stayed married.

 

     It was so nice being high up there on the roof, straddling the peak, looking up at the wide blue sky above, and down at the wide green yard below.  And there is also  something very satisfying about tearing away old nails and yanking out old rotten shingles.   Reminds me of pulling teeth.  It took me nearly three days to strip it off, and near the end, I began noticing some clouds.  Not much, just a few.  Then it began to rain.  I mean, it poured.  This is July, Goddamn it!  Who would expect rain in the middle of July?  Things in the garage got water damaged because I never thought of covering the exposed area with a tarp.  After all, we were in the middle of summer, right? 

 

     My neighbor across the street had similar work done on her roof years ago, in the middle of summer, as I recall and it rained even then.  She said that you don’t need rain dances when you want rain; just strip off your roof.  Do you know there’s a lotta truth in that?  See it happening all the time.  Didn’t particularly care for her.  Always checking through the blinds to see what I was up to.  A really snoopy old woman,

      By the time the rain stopped, my back was killing me and my hamstrings were sore as hell, but I clenched my jaw and worked through the pain.  I was half way done with the repairs when my inquisitive neighbor came sauntering over, stopping in front of the garage and drawing little circles in the sawdust with her big toe. I was bent over on the peak of the roof, about to drive some nails into the caps when she looked up and waved to get my attention.  She yelled something about how come she never saw the building inspector come by?  Now, why would a building inspector come by? I asked her.  They always do when you got a building permit, she replied.  Building permit?

 

     “You did get one, didn’t you?”  She asked.
    
     "I  didn’t know I needed one...," I replied

     “So you don't have one?.” She asked, innocently.  Who wants to know? I said.  She grinned, then went back into her house.  I could just see her, picking up the phone and calling those city hall licensing people. I was beginning to hate her.  I got down off the roof and began picking up the rotten shingles scattered all over the ground.  I began to nudge my extra tools behind the bushes, and I got paranoid everytime I saw break lights flashing on from a passing truck. I couldn’t work under those conditions so I had to  call those city hall  bureaucrats to see what the situation was.  I reached for my cell phone, looked up the number,, and quickly punched it in.   Anyways, I got an answering machine and, after pressing the pound sign a couple hundred goddamn times, my call was routed to a department entitled BUILDING INSPECTORS.

 “Hello, building inspectors?”

     “Yes sir, what can we do for you?” He had a pleasant voice but you can never go by that.  All these bureaucratic minions have soothing voices, especially the male ones.

      “I have a question....and it's hypothetical.  If a windstorm rip a small hole in a garage roof, and I want to patch it up so the neighbors don't have to look at it, do I need a building permit?  It's a little roof on a little garage that can barely squeeze in a motorbike and some garden tools.  I mean, really, does a teeny weeny little job like that require a permit?” I tired to be blasé.

     “Well, now, that all depends,” he replies

     “That all depends on what?” I ask.

     “Excuse me sir, but whom am I talking to?”

     “Why?  Is that important?” apprehension has crept into my voice.

     “No, not really...Now if you could...uh...give me the location of this garage, maybe we...”

     “I told you, the garage is hypothetical, and no, all I want is a straight answer.  Do I, or do I not need a permit to repair a damaged shingle roof over a garage.  Just give me a straight answer, that’s all I want..”

     “If I could just have your name, sir, maybe we could....”

     Suddenly, I realized, my call could be traced!  I quickly hung up, got into my car and drove across town.  It took me a while to find a phone booth that wasn't vandalized, or had sticky floors, or had stale urine odors.   I found a decent one inside a liquor store.  The cashier kept leaning towards me to get the drift of my conversion so I had to whisper into the receiver. I went through several voice recordings and, just my luck, the first real person to answer was the same goddamn person I was talking to before.  He asked the same questions and got the same answers, and when he asked for my name, I told him my name was Rond, James Rond.  He asked me if I was kidding.  I said no, I was not kidding, and told him in no uncertain terms that I resented his suspicious attitude. When he asked for my address, I gave him the address of my lawyer (he should do something for his retainer, other than playing golf with me).  I could hear him scribbling away in his note pad and hand signaling his cohorts to warm up the car.  He must have recognized my voice, I mean, he knew I was the original caller.  I could tell.

     Anyway, he informed me that if the repaired was over ten feet square, then I would need a permit, which incidentally would cost thirty dollars and only if they okay the plans.  Plans? What plans? Who needs plans? And he continued, saying that if by chance, this hypothetical person had so foolishly repaired this hypothetical roof without a permit, well then, this hypothetical person would have to hypothetically tear it down, all of it, piece by piece, every cap, every header, every shingle, every single little nail, and he emphasized ‘EVERY’.  I could tell he was a vindictive little bastard, probably wears braces on his capped teeth.    

     I hung up the phone when I realized he was just keeping me on the line so he could trace it.  You think not?  Do I see raised eyebrows?  Okay, skeptic, it’ll be your turn next.  And it will come, it will come.

       Well, I measured the repair work done and it was way over ten square feet, but I’m not going to report it.  I waited until half past five in the evening to work on the roof because those  government people don’t work after five.  Didn’t know that, did you?  It’s all part of the civil service code, and they don’t let any of their members violate it.  Makes the rest of them look bad.  The way things stand I may have to kill that nosey neighbor of mine.  I doubt if anyone would miss her.  There she is, peeping out from behind those blinds and debating whether to call the city inspectors or not. I can read her mind. She's hesitating because she knows I know where she lives.

     I admit, it’s strange, breaking the law.  Not the least bit unpleasant, and it does get you out of a rut.  You begin to see things in a different light.  You end up wanting to experiment with life,  Like going on the town, drinking in bars, patronized by customers that have tears tattooed beside their eyes, buying them drinks....and befriending them.

      So far they haven’t discovered my new roof yet, but my lawyer happen to mention the other day on the sixth hole, about this strange white truck that’s been cruising up and down the street in front of his house.  The driver had a pair of binoculars and was spying on his roof.  Kinda scary.  He asked me if I knew anything about this.  Me? How would I know?  I didn't even know that it could rain in the middle of July.