Rubbernecks Onward

Once again soaking up a broadcast by Shan Tian Fang, in the back of a cab.  He is talking about the war, of course.  About someone who is an “old northerner” resisting the Japanese enemy.  The theme of indignity would appear to have a much longer shelf-life than the theme of victory.  No one in the U.S. is particularly interested to listen to much of anything about how we won World War II, how we bested the tenacious Japanese enemy.  Here the Party has decided there is not much else to listen to.  Bad pop music, traffic updates, or grizzled resistance to the invader who invaded eighty years ago. 

My driver and I agree that there is almost certainly an accident, up ahead.  Even in rush hour, this section of the road, is never this bad.  I feel like just closing this lap top and closing my eyes to drift off.   The side lane is moving faster, but my driver wants to obey the laws, and avoid cameras.  I can’t blame him.   I was just beginning to nod off when we past the collision.  The front car was banged up but I don’t think anyone was hurt.  A cop was tasked with waving all the rubbernecks onward. 

Stuck in a turn on to Gong Ti Bei Lu.  Turning east which is always a dreadful progression.  Wait for three lights to change or four? I note the power of smart phones to have multiple means by which to penetrate my consciousness.  “I’ll just respond to this text.  Ahh, two more skype messages.  I forgot to we chat my daughter.  Put it down.  Ring.  Photo opp . . . “

Speaking of photo opps, I went and paid US $2.99.00 for an app that lets’ me turn my photos into something Serart or Cezanne might have done.  But it never seems to work properly.  I’ll need to do some online research to get it to work.  This will be at the bottom of a long to-do list.

Just introduced two friends over lunch.  The first, the man to my right is someone I see all the time.  The other, an old colleague sitting across from me, I haven’t seen for a few years.  He looks lovely.  He seems healthy, wearing a colorful new shirt.  His big smile is the same old big smile. And I told the man to my right that the man across the table with the new shirt and the big smile had a remarkable wife.  And this is true.  But then I labored to remember her name. 

    

I knew it was two syllables.  I could hear the way his voice phrased her English name syllables in a standard Beijing accent.  Up and down when the syllables.  But what were they?  I rifled through the possibilities and fit them into his voice and his cadence:  “Ma-ry” no.   “Su-san,” no.  “Stel-la” nope.  Relax.  Then it will come to you.  It didn’t.

Later, when it was time to go he politely told me to say “hello” to my wife, saying her name properly.  It was my turn.  I caved.  Please remind me of your wife’s name again?  “Flor-ah.”  Of course!  It flooded back, but much like wetting ones pants, the relief was a rather compromised sensation.