Roman Roulette - Countryhumans America x China

Choice

Ni Hao. The name's People's Republic of China. Just call me China, it's faster to say. I have a story to tell. You should listen. I think it won't bore you to death. But I'll start at the beginning so that you don't make any false assumptions. I should probably start one busy, hot evening in the middle of July......

"Thank you, have a nice day!" I don't think my mouth could stretch any further. I don't think I can take so much smiling. I was sitting at my counter, giving customers their products, trying to look like I love my job, when I'm only doing it for a reason other than passion. If it were my choice, I'd be sitting on a rock, enjoying some mountain scenery in peace, far away from all reality. Definitely not in a cramped stir fry takeout, manning the whole place. The doorbell tinkled as the customer walked out, and the place stilled. 

"Ah," I sighed, replacing the lid to my toothpick container. "I'm so tired." My voice echoed across the empty restaurant. I watched the clock for a bit, then surveyed the dirty tiled floor. Aside from a few soy spats, the floor had gum, wrappers, and napkins on the floor. Before I could do anything, I had to heave myself up from the wooden chair, click off my 'OPEN' sign, flip down the blinds, padlock the door, and shut off the wok and oven. After I had swept the floor, I flicked off the lights. When all was dark, I blindly made my way up to my extremely cluttered flat up a narrow and creaky staircase and tried not to trip over a footstool to reach the lights. I repainted the grey walls into a nice bright yellow, but that seldom improved the atmosphere of constant stress.

It was a one room studio, and the name makes the place feel fancy, but this isn't the case here. I make the most of my square metres, so where there isn't furniture, there are bookcases full of papers and books. When the space for papers ran out, I used the floor. The turquoise linoleum painted with seashells and pearls was almost covered by stacks and stacks of printed out textbooks I was too cheap to buy. The walls and floor colours clashed horribly, so not seeing it was a win win. I was aiming to finish my fifth postdoctoral that year, and many of my findings lay scattered at my feet as I struggled to grope for the lights. I needed to use them all the time, since my tiny steamy windows pay their rent as well, meaning they too are stacked with so much wood pulp paraphernalia that you can barely see the dark street below. Who would even want to see drunks and addicts fighting on the road anyway? I don't.

To try to make my living space liveable, I placed silk hangings to hide the paper filled windows and where I had wall space, I placed old tapestries with lively scenes of festivals and dragons. Around on the tops of stacks on shelves, I placed miniature carvings of golden dragons and tigers, and a large porcelain vase made artfully by my mother stood near the bed, which was further occupied by stacks of clothing since my closet was full of binders. There was another thing, deep inside the back, and that's why I keep it away from me, under a lock. I am afraid of that closet. Little did I know, soon my nightmares would come true. Not that evening, though. That evening I was to stew my anxiety, as some higher-order people say.

You see, although I utilised my resources cleverly, I sometimes also got into bad situations. There are some days when you get too tired, too far down into a ditch and you can't do anything but wait for a good Samaritan hand to pull you up. When I had a choice so long ago, to leave my generational farm to the city, I did. Now I pay. 

The sad tale went like all of them do. A side street. A bar. At night. A drunken deal, although I don't drink often. And I didn't drink that night. I was drunk on hope. A mysterious duo passing out credit receipts, raking in banknotes like in the movies. The lighting and their hooded faces made it hard to make out their identifying features. But I did see some things. The thin man with a thick gold ring and flaming cigar. His white suit shone like the moon. A loud ringleader. A burly ex-bruiser who didn't speak, standing in the shadows. His stainless steel switch-blade, gleaming silver against black cloth. I shiver to even remember that night.