June 26, 2007 Ghosts are not those headless or bleeding creatures that would spring out of no where to spook you, neither were they going to vaporize into the shapeless and gooey monsters in the starlight. Ghosts reside in your mind and everyone has some. If you claim a total absence of ghosts, you are either lying or a no-brainer, because ghosts are like human memories – you just can’t efface them. They keep on accumulating until you are dead or become a vegetable. Like memories, not all ghosts are horrendous. Sometimes, they are not bad at all. The prom night, a bunch of roses on St. Valentine’s Day, the kiss from mom and dad, your final ascent to nomenklatura and even the first shit-storm after your constipation hit a whopper could all be counted in as ghosts. But there are those grotesque ghosts, the ghosts that haunt you all the way through your life. It could be a juicy-as-a-peach gossip on you or a bad hair style that brought about a ripple effect ruining your career. For Jeffrey McReynolds, the gruesome ghost was his late grandma. Again, it wasn’t about how an arthritis-stricken old lady paced creakily along a corridor or how a bloating corpse slowly swung her left leg out of the bathtub’s brim and tailed you to the door whose knob was stuck firmly. It was more on the spiritual level. Jeffrey’s grandma made a clone of herself in Jeffrey’s flesh. This was even more terrifying in that the ghost for Jeffrey was blood running in his body, plasma stored in his cells and tissues, and piths sealed in the bones. “So, Andy’s idle hand is on his left knee.” Jeffrey said, “Big deal?” Jeffrey’s eyes remained on the dish in front of him, a non-smile on the face and there was a trace of provocation in his voice. Seated next to Jeffrey, Andy looked flummoxed enough to be awkward, for his fast-processing brains couldn’t produce any plausible answer for his best friend’s out-of-the-blue comment. What’s worse, he didn’t even know who Jeffrey was talking to and what he would be referring to. (So, I’ve been keeping my idle hand below the table since Stone Age. Big deal?) Andy’s eyes were fumbling for clues around the square dining table. Facing him were Jeffrey’s parents whose eyes looked as blurred as his own. Then to his left, he found Jeffrey calm like the sea before a storm. Jeffrey’s grandparents sat face to face across the table, each dominating one side. He moved his eyes to grandpa next to Jeffrey and got nothing; the old man was sipping wine from a little cup. His pupils were focusing on the nectar, not in the least interested in the loaded commentary. Feeling a chill down his spine, Andy unwillingly turned to his immediate left where Jeffrey’s grandma was sitting. Andy tried his best to avoid making any noise from turning his head because for that moment, the entire dining room was quiet as a graveyard. But finally, Andy got a good shot of the old women. She was smiling her trademark beatific smile, like some sort of Buddha. But Andy felt inexplicably sick, because too many ingredients were kneaded into that smile – sarcasm, compromise, indifference and mostly annoyingly, fear. There was fear in the smile. It was the fear of a magician whose tricks went ballistic in front of a large audience. It was the fear of a double agent who got prosecution from both sides. It was more like the fear of a king who had just had his kingdom overwhelmed. Andy gave up. He couldn’t understand and he didn’t need to understand. Jeffrey was his best friend, but he was not stupid enough to pry every piece of information. He knew everyone has a restricted zone in his brains and that could be real ugly when deciphered. July 5, 2007 Sultry weather equals butterflies in the stomach and ants in pants, for it reminds you of those tragedies that had also happened in weather of the same kind. Jeffrey McReynolds was mulling over why his girlfriend had deserted him, but again, fruitless and clueless. So he text-messaged all his sadness and bewilderment to his pal Wendy Lombard, who also happened to work in Shanghai. Jeffrey lamented, “ It ’ s been two Ice Ages since I last had an iota of loving and being loved in heart. I feel real bad. I am not sure if my ability to love is lost or sealed in paraffin. I had my dinner in a greasy spoon near my leased condo. On average day, I would have a bowl of noodles and that could feed me to the neck. But today, the old favorite plus a new bowl of jiaozi didn ’ t make their way up to the middle of my esophagus. Of course, my stomach still felt puffed. It seemed I was trying to fight fire with fire. ” Wendy ’ s replies were brief, all of them within one sentence. She said, “ Love doesn ’ t come into existence by simply thinking about it. ” Jeffrey agreed, “ Right, but I still haven ’ t found the right girl, or maybe haven ’ t bumped into her. ” Wendy ’ s concise reply arrived again, “ Of course, man. If you found true love as easily as you found a summer mosquito in the grass, love would be worthless. ” The conciseness and provocation were more than Jeffrey could bear, but he was tinged by Wendy ’ s optimism. Still, he replied, “ It is real tiresome to live in this world. ” Wendy immediately rejoined, “ Right! This is human being. Such bad feelings come in snatches. I bet you won ’ t be bitching like this tomorrow morning. ” Jeffrey had to say mea culpa, but he was feeling better. Finally, he wrote this to Wendy: It is fortunate that the blue days of yours and mine are not overlapped. It is like two friends shitting side by side. Pooh, pooh! Jeffrey shitted cats and dogs. Kitties and puppies splashed really ugly, to all over the flush toilet, the ring, Jeffrey ’ s butts and parts of his pants. Jeffrey tilted his head and winced, “ You see? Shitting could be nasty! ” Wendy smiled and waved his remark off. Seconds later, ding, ding! Wendy made a neat bomb that sank into the toilet like stone. It was the sound of a shell casing clicking on a marble floor in church. It was the neatness of a professional diver. Then she remarked, “ See? Shitting could be aesthetic like this! ” Jeffrey felt it bliss to have a friend like Wendy Lombard. If she had pooh-poohed like what Jeffrey had done, life was indeed hopeless.

2007年2月15日星期四

 

1、我一个同事跟我说他今天的课上放了二十多个屁，爽死了。讲台和第一排的学生距离还很远，所以他的屁只要不是惊天雷，学生是听不到的。不过今天的最后一个屁有些特别。他转过身面向黑板，准备冲着学生放一个。他右手写板书，左手握麦克风，放于屁股后面。结果这一个屁的声音竟然通过话筒而扩大到每个学生的耳朵里。悲惨的是，我的同事没有听见。（自己站在讲台上听到的音响效果和坐在下面听的效果有些差异。）学生们都绷着脸，憋着笑。待我同事转过身来的时候，他把话筒顺势挪到嘴边，然后很舒缓的叹了口气：“啊~~~”全班昏倒。

 

2、在休息的时候，我一个同事问我什么东西的性价比怎么样。我听错了，反问：“什么性交比？”

 

3、我本想问一个同事哪天她休息一天没有课，结果说的太着急了：“你哪天休克？”我同事当场休克。

 

4、一同事问我：“走自己的路让别人说去吧。”英语怎么说，我略加思考，回答：“I walk my way, let them say, say, say!”

 

5、一个朋友最近心不在焉，总不知道在想什么。一天在饭店吃饭，点餐的时候，和他同去的一个哥们突然接电话喊了一声。这朋友怒，曰：“你喊个屁啊？我有精神病！”

 

6、我发短信问朋友：“长春雪了吗？”他答：“频雪！”

 

7、我一个姐妹在Las Vegas旅游，跟一老外聊天，提到bonus，结果由于发音不准，说成boners，说：“I like boners!”老外眼睛漏出淫光。

 

8、我讲构词法提到表示6的前缀是sex，举例子说：“The industry output has sextupled.”然后问学生什么意思。一学生很镇定地说：“工业的发展主要是靠性产业支持的。”

 

9、我讲课文提到设问句，说：“书上的例文长，上来设三次可以。你们一般都整不出来这么长，短的话设一次就够了！多设也没用！”

 

10、晚上一个男同事吃晚饭后从书包里拿出了一堆水果继续享用。大家一看，共同鄙视——两个巨小硕大的猕猴桃中间放了一个娇小的香蕉！

 

11、我讲课正起劲的时候突然听见一声尖叫，顺声望去，一个坐在教室中部的女孩子正在收回刚刚因为惊讶而伸展开的双臂，她表情痛苦，眼神中流露出一丝恐惧，一丝愧疚。我不解，问道：“你没事情吧？是不是看见老鼠了？或者小强？”她向我挥手，轻声说：“没事，真的没事！”下课我一问才知道，那厮是做噩梦惊醒了。

 

12、一个同事回忆他小学时候一个同学在百米赛跑之前正好憋着一泊大便，神情紧张，东张西望，问身边的小伙伴：“我想拉屎。”小伙伴说：“那你就跟老师说你一会儿再跑啊，先去拉吧。”他想想说：“唉，跑完再去吧。”正在这时，起跑一声枪响，那小孩白裤子一下子变成黄裤子了！

 

13、我们一帮男同事聚在休息室谈论某女同事胸平像飞机场，正巧被当事人撞见。我们都很尴尬，只见那女同事脱下外套，露出只穿紧身毛衫的上身，跟我们很愤怒的说：“老娘我有货！”

 

 

2007年2月1日星期四

 

前两天我在跑步机上跑步时竟然岔气了，胸口的右下侧突然如针扎一样的疼，不过最后还是坚持完了4000米，我很少这样的。当时我脑子里唯一的想法是：“岔气了英语怎么说？”

 

结果他破铁鞋无觅处，第二天在读Stephen King的Hearts in Atlantis时，一眼就瞄见这句话：

 

“He ran almost two full blocks before a stitch in his side forced him to first slow down, then stop.” (Page 274, Hearts in Atlantis)

 

我这一查字典才知道stitch有一条解释是：

 

“a sharp pain in the side of your stomach or chest, often caused by not breathing enough when running or laughing” (Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, 2^nd Edition)

 

我心中欢喜，就在书下脚空白处写了这句话：

 

“昨天跑步时就想这个词怎么说？他破铁鞋无觅处。”

 

欢喜过后拿起手机把这个问题发给几个朋友，都是英语高手。结果基本都没有回复或者就一个字：“晕。”最后终于捡到两条有建设性意义的。

 

Catherine的短信这么说：“一个单词的我不知道，不过可以直接说to feel a pain in the chest when breathing。”

 

Snow的短信这么说：“我不知道，cramp可以吗？俗语怎么说我就不知道了。”

 

先说Snow的cramp，嗯，cramp的确有这么个含义：

 

“a sudden painful tightening in a muscle, often after a lot of exercise, which limits movement”

 

但是这个主要是指肌肉的痉挛，我想这个和岔气还是有些差别的。

 

到了晚上，我闲着没事，决定把stitch告诉大家，就群发短信如下：

 

“我查遍了各种资料，终于找到了这个看似可以的stitch。”

 

我这么措词是害怕他们扁我，呵呵。

 

下面就引出了我和Catherine的短信战。这次对决其实让我和她都受了很多内伤，看了就知道了。

 

我：“我查遍了各种资料，终于找到了这个看似可以的stitch。”

 

C：“Amazing! You’ve been on this all day?”

 

我：“Not entirely, thanks to my delicate stomach that had rumbled twice to give me two breaks…”

 

C：“That’s incredibly amazing!”

 

我：“Actually, it was poco loco!”

 

C：“Sorry, you make me feel like an illiterate. What’s poco loco?”

 

我：“I’ve just learned it. Poco is a musical jargon that means slightly, and loco means mad in US slang. So doesn’t the loco combo of the loco buzzwords look poco loco?”

 

C：“Lovely!”

 

我：“Not really, they were hotsy-totsy!”

 

C：“And you are just trying to turn my mind topsy-turvy!”

 

我：“This is joie de vivre, isn’t this?”

 

C：“Keep working like this and you’ll be a mensch!”

 

我：“Oh, come on, my compadre, my muchacha! I’d like to be your caballero!”

 

C：“The muchacha walls on cuz she don understand no hieroglyph! Pity, tiger!”

 

我：“Si, si! Anyway, gracias! Adios, amigo! These messaging repartees can total Shakespeare himself!”

 

后记：

 

在交锋过程中，敌军和我军都动用了短距离，具有小范围爆炸性杀伤力的武器。最后把一些值得记忆的内容摘抄于下：

 

1、在Word中输入hotsy-totsy的时候，下面是划红线的。我点击右键，出现的备选是hoity-toity。我不认识，查：

 

“behaving as if you are better or more important than other people”

 

2、我没拦截住的导弹topsy-turvy。我不认识，一查才知道：

 

“(in a state of being) confused, not well organized or giving importance to unexpected things; upside down”

 

3、我再次没拦截住的鱼雷mensch：

 

A person having admirable characteristics, such as fortitude and firmness of purpose: “He radiates the kind of fundamental decency that has a name in Yiddish; he’s a mensch.”

 

在我刚刚写我这篇日记的时候，手机突然震动了两下——我有新短信，打开一看，Catherine的：

 

“OK, ciao!”

 

(Ciao: “used for saying ‘goodbye’ and less often ‘hello’”)

January 22, 2007

Sitting across the aisle on the other side, three middle-aged women and one middle-height man of their age were discussing a hot issue. The man was balding and with his back to me. He wore his hair crew cut as if to minimize the baldness, but in vain obviously. His head was a perfect round ball – forgive the pun here – no pun at all. Clamping some packet in the left hand, he was motormouthing, if not maglevmouthing, about sanitary towels, comparing different brands in market, analyzing the costs and profits of each kind and babbling about the NEW functions the product-in-hand had. One woman was sitting beside him, listening attentively as if she could get that pack after the man had finished talking. Anyway, I could only see her back and her garishly dyed yellow hair. A darker coat closed her pudgy and broad back in bulges here and furrows there.

The other two women were sitting opposite. The one to the aisle wore her hair in loose ponytail. Her face was pinkened and sweaty, which had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. It looked more like the sanitary issue did get through to her. The other one was bespectacled; through the thick glasses, a bathtub of freezing water could be heated up in the sunlight. Her face curved inward like a shoehorn. They were listening carefully, too.

Left of them four in another booth, three teenage girls were managing their own gossip club. All of them were wearing jeans, pullovers, sneakers and hairs to their slender shoulders. They snickered and giggled, even guffawed, when the man was saying “This one is more expensive…” or “It also feels GOOOOD…” or “Additional take-in of…” Of course, no matter how hard they laughed, the man was as serious as could be, instructing the three laywomen on how his new product worked a treat!

I was hoping the man would pluck a swath from the sample pack and exercise its sucking – forgive the pun here, too – ability to dry the water beads congealed on the iced coke bottles.

Then a crotchless tot was waltzing past them and halted on a decorative brassy plate inlaid the floor, head tilting towards the brouhaha of the trio and the prattling of the quartet, learning her first lesson on a thing that would accompany her for 30 or 40 years in life. Her parents came from behind and scooped her up, oblivious to the din of the surroundings.

As I was observing all these, I was riffling through Stephen King’s Hearts in Atlantis, and came across the answer Bobby had got when he asked him mother how a woman knew she was going to have a baby:

“She bleeds every month. If there is no blood, she knows it’s because the blood is going into a baby.”

January 21, 2007

Postscript to Kittie Killie

- 01 -

Every time my teaching career in Shanghai got a little herky-jerky, I planned to go back to the one-horse town where most of my childhood had been spent, but there was always someone waiting around the corner and standing me in good stead. Maybe it was my hardnosed character, or in horoscope parlance, my stubbornness, that has kept me, a wayfarer to searching for a life (only he is not sure what kind of a life it was like himself) soldiering on.

Drinking some sludge which they call coffee in McDonald’s, or peeling off to a warren of cubicles in the school where I am working with, or once in a while facing a menopausal female student who yammers what the tenor of teaching really is in a gruff voice, I would ferret out fine books by Stephen King. The bailiwick of S.K. could always give my half-hearted self a snooze. The repartees archly make me a mutant only to be found in my own world, like a naughty boy in a time-out. It’s like the Vick’s Vapo-Rub does to nasal vestibules stuck to two-week-old putrefaction of a dead body or two hundred unclean deadpans.

But I got to read S.K.’s works only since last May, when things around me were already going into orbit. Vincent’s solitaire was finally put to an end. The heft of cavalry in my heart sort of petered out.

But true gashes never heal; Chi-Chin Ting is one of them.

***   ***

When my friend-cum-colleague Laurence entrusted me with his cat guaiguai, I agreed jauntily, saying, “Tant mieux!” Because I had planned to write a horror story interweaving my foe and the wild warrior of the animal kingdom – cat. Non sequitur, the perv and the kitty didn’t really mix, but when Enzyme Pet-Sematary-by-S.K. was totted up, Chi-Chin Ting was dead… killed by a pet cat, which I hereafter named Klux.

(To be continued.)

2007年1月20日

中午去打印社的一个岔路口等红灯的时候发现面前的路上没有汽车，加上我当时比较着急赶时间，就闯红灯了。当我迈出两步的时候发现路对面站着一个小男孩，穿着蓝色的校服，脖子上扎着红领巾，胳膊上戴着两道杠。虎头虎脑，甚是可爱。他正注视着我，我心里当时不大舒服，毕竟自己没有给孩子做出一个良好的榜样。好在当时道路两旁要过马路的只有我和那个孩子，这样，我也就是自责，不会有第三个人在心中鄙视我。可是就在这个时候，让我更难过的事情发生了，那个孩子也开始闯红灯了。当然，那孩子又不傻，他是发现横在他前面的路上没有车才穿的。他是小跑过来的，他的脸上泛出一丝不好意思的微笑，好像是在告诉我：“我跟你学的，你别告诉我老师啊！”那个时候我心里特别不适滋味，更加重了我的自责和罪孽感。当他跑过我身旁的时候我特别想抓住他的胳膊，蹲下身来，很郑重的跟他说：“孩子，是叔叔不对，不要跟叔叔学，叔叔下次保证不再横穿马路了。”我的脑海中浮现的是我轻轻地抚摸着那孩子毛茸茸的脑袋，看着他天真纯朴的吃惊。另一个方面，我也在阻止自己，我不想拦下那个孩子，我怕吓坏他。并且找借口说：“社会就是这样，有好多人闯红灯，面前没有车干嘛站在那里傻等？现实生活中，别说闯红灯了，违法犯罪并且成为漏网之鱼的大有人在。”我的思想斗争很激烈，我当时就感觉我被分成了好几个部分，其中两个部分在争论应不应该拦下孩子，还有一个部分在警示自己注意左右的车辆，不要一不留神被突然出现的车撞倒，还有一个部分的自己在耻笑自己的愚蠢：这么大的人了，在周围同事和朋友整天琢磨怎么多赚些钱的时候，自己却在这里小题大做。我当时真正的体会到被撕裂的感觉。我的眼睛就锁定在那个奔跑的小学中队长身上，当他从我身旁跑过的时候，我也猛地转过身去借着看他。或许是害怕他万一被车撞倒，也或许没有什么原因，只是想看看自己小的时候，如何一步步“融入”这个社会。就在这个时候，我听见那小朋友大喊：“小冉！”我再定神一看，面对他的是一个好可爱的小女孩，橘红色的毛衣和黑色的绒裤让那女孩子成为她同龄人中的美丽公主！那小女孩正朝着那个小男孩微笑呢，而那远去的背影则加快了脚步奔向他的梦中情人。我仰天长叹：“我本将心向明月，奈何明月照沟渠！”

January 14, 2007

- 13 -

(Three months later.)

Martin was sitting in front of the computer monitor and checking his emails, while Klux was curling up around his feet, purring as tenderly as ever. Everything done, Martin shut down his yahoo account and halted there as if unsure of what to do next. Then he got google on, and needless to say, the keyword list was ready, with Chi-Chin Ting grinning at him. Actually, Martin hadn’t checked that specific term since a time well before his cat-leading trip to the unknown community.

However, Martin decided to have a try today. He clicked it and when it was framed in the search engine, he clicked the search button. There were more search results than the last time; this time, six in all. Excluding the two roster-like pages, the rest four looked the same. Maybe it was one story duplicated and relayed on different webs. In a cyber-junk whelming eon, chaste and whores were equally quadrupled.

He tried one of the news and waited until the webpage was in full fledge.

(Oh, my gosh!)

The illustrations of the news and intros inset did give Martin a shudder down to the bladder.

The first picture was a baby in a crib, as lively and lovely as any of its kind in home video stills. It had dewy eyes like those in Japanese cartoons. Mouth was giving a waxing smile like a moon in euphoria.

However, the second picture was a complete upside-down of the first, not by positions but by its keynotes. The baby was nothing but a clotted blood ball. The face was bleeding profusely, one eyeball dangling out from its socket. Parts of the lips were missing, revealing mahogany-stained teeth. Cheeks were obviously mauled. Hairs were in oxblood wisps. The liveliness was gone; death was lurking.

The third illustrative picture was about several police officers, most probably CSI, snapping pictures at a face-down female body, sprawling on the floor. The left corner caught a bit of the crib in the former two pictures, which possibly meant these were from the same room.

Martin was too shocked to read any intros inset and around the pictures, but he vaguely saw through the pictures. His breaths were becoming very heavy and he turned to look at Klux, who looked half-hearted at Martin, as if saying, “Finally, you’ve found out what I had done that night.”

… …

When Martin was doing some straightening in his bedroom, he heard something clawing on his door. He knew it was Klux. It didn’t really strike Martin as something surprising. If anything, Martin thought Klux might have gone back earlier. He didn’t know what she had done, but the hunch told him his cat had done it successfully.

Martin opened the door, the gap showing Klux sashaying into the house. She looked chipper, only equally thirsty maybe. Martin got her water and food and the softball. He sat on his haunches to watch her carefully.

Nothing really different…

… except for some red and gushy stuff that were attached to Klux’s paws and whiskers.

- END -

January 3, 2007

Sometimes we lie, we complicate issues that are not complicated at all, but we have to do that. It’s like you run into a friend, who invites you to go upstairs and have a cup of coffee and shoot the breeze. But you fend off by saying you have something very important to reckon with. Sometimes, you even sketch some details of the imaginary business. When your friend waves off to say goodbye and rain check, you smile a relieved smile, only because you have a pair of sweaty and stinky feet. You are afraid to take off the shoes, which is inescapable if you have to step into your friend’s house.

January 4, 2007

When the girl finished her recitation performance, my colleague on the panel of judges with me, asked me if I should give her a pass. Brows flicking up and down, my grinning mouth said, “She is too cute to execute!” My colleague nodded her wicked smile and cooed, “Got it!” Slipping the cutie’s form into Column A, which meant to “survive,” my colleague yelled, “The next one!” When the next contestant, also a girl, entered into the conference room, my colleague and I traded a look and grinned. According to the data in her form, she was only ten years old, but she actually looked ten years older than my grandma!

January 7, 2007

A colleague asked me with uncharacteristic piety, “How do we say 沙滩阳光 in English?” He lifted a brow, as if he had been tussling with this Herculean question since lions were still bacteria in the ocean. I was impressed by his question, but equally knocked out. I lifted both brows and answered in a voice barely qualifying a whisper, “I don’t know.” His seriousness made me feel I was the guilty boy who was caught red-handed calling the teacher a critter when the teacher herself was standing behind my back. Then he arched the other brow to pinch against its twin, gave me a toothy grin and said, “Sun of a beach!”

[I've caught a cold today and won't push to finish Kittie killie until I am better. At the same time, I am thinking about how to end the story. "Martin Cohen" :)]

[The three segments above were written on a whim. Albert Robbins :)]

January 12, 2007

- 12 -

Klux burst out with the clanks when Martin unlocked the door. That was the first time she went downstairs after Martin had adopted her. Like sliding on a frictionless acclivitous board, the furry animal was pausing on the sixth floor waiting for her owner. Martin hastily locked the door, but didn’t switch off the light within, hoping the light brimming from the seams of the door could avoid a second break-in. Then he dashed downstairs to catch up with the pioneer.

Like in the dreams, Klux was leading the way all the time, stopping here and there to wait for Martin to catch up.

Outside, rain was beginning to spit down, but the moon was playing hide-and-seek somewhere behind the clouds.

When the duo were passing the guard shack, the old security guard just smilingly joked, “Hey, son, this is the first time in my life to see someone walking a cat!”

Then nearly at the same time, they grunted a laugh, but the cat’s face didn’t even gave a shrug. Her paces were as solemn as Solomon.

Heading eastward along the road outside the community gate, Martin was becoming a little edgy, as the road only led to patches of new construction sites, which now only looked like prehistoric architectures’ silhouettes in the moonlight. But Martin felt springs in his steps as if something was pushing him forward without using his own ATP.

When they were passing through the construction sites, there were several stray cats going night food-hunting. But Klux and her friends didn’t even traded glances or nods.

(That is stupid! Really! Why should she know the others? Cats are like humans. Hardly anyone would keep a smiling face to every stranger in the street! Practically, if someone does this, he or she will be immediately recognized as an idiot… mentally.)

As Martin was still laughing at his enlightenment on the commonality between cats and humans, the construction sites were well past them and an exquisite gated and fenced community was sitting not far.

(How come I have never been here before? Is this the community in my dreams?)

No. Still taking the lead, Klux was making a turn at the curb before reaching that community and headed left. Martin so fell in along with her.

Martin couldn’t remember how many turns they had taken until a gated community as big as his own was coming into view.

No one was at the guard shack and the duo just strode in. Now the déjà vu was striking Martin as real as he was feeling his breaths puffing out white fogs.

Like everything in the dreams, Klux led Martin to a dark lane and she jumped onto the balcony on a second floor. Then she looked down and pawed him, asking him to go away. Martin wasn’t sure what she wanted to do and even wasn’t sure if she had meant he should be going. Hell, his brains were not really controlling all this; his gut was playing marshal.

Martin retraced his steps out of the gate and didn’t even bother to look up and watch for the milestones to locate his turns when coming here. His gut was helping.

Part of him was smug at the smoothness of the mission and another part of him was getting antsy, because he wasn’t going back to his leased apartment; and that apartment had the lawn on which the wraith was crawling.

His steps slowed down when he was nearing his community, and mustered up his courage to enter the gate, where the security guard was smiling again, “Hey, sonny boy. What did I say? Walking a cat, huh? Hell, no! Cats are SWAT! They can’t be walked!”

Then he was going on huh-huh-huh himself as if a glob of food was lodged in his throat. This remark and chuckle seemed to make Martin feel a little comfortable, but he knew he had to complete the rest yards all alone.

He tightened his fists in the parka’s pockets and plodded towards to lawn. Rain was ceasing, or never really began in the first place. In the dim lights from both the moonless and starless sky and scattered lights from the surrounding rooms, Martin caught sight of nothing but the lawn, the pastel brown green.

(No crawling baby. No jumping champion.)

He then walked round the lawn to get the door. Within one minute, he was home on the seventh floor. The light was still on. Martin unlocked the door and went in.

The room suddenly became colder because Klux wasn’t there waiting for him. A devastating sense of loneliness washed over Martin, who threw off his clothes and crashed on the bed.

Shoes still unlaced and parka’s hood still covering the scalp, Martin stared skyward at nothing.

(This is it? I “realized the dream?” Am I being stupid? What if something bad happened to my Klux? She is only a cat! How if those illegal kebab dealers snatched her up and made her into faux mutton kebabs? How if she just simply lost her way home? Was she leading me or was I taking her to hell?)

For a moment, Martin’s head was flummoxed. He really couldn’t see anything that had changed because of his mission, at least for now.

He didn’t know when he drowsed off but the next thing he knew, the sun was taking over and shining like it had a fever. Martin grimaced from the dousing light beams but got up. The room felt as cold as if Klux had been a brazier when she was in. But only she wasn’t.

(Where are you, girl? Are you okay? I am feeling a pang of guilt! I shouldn’t have led you there, or let you lead me there. Either way, I am feeling guilty. When will you come back?)

Martin was going to cry now, but no tears came. He rubbed his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked haggard, hair shocked and face oily as if he had been macerated in a can of oil overnight. Eyes were so bloodshot that he could not even make out if there was still black and white in them.

He was worried but he had a vague spark of hope burning in heart. Martin knew Klux would be all right. Martin knew Klux could come back, and soon.

(You will, my girl!)

January 11, 2007

- 11 -

He pushed away from the computer desk and got up from the seat, which was nothing but a sleazo tripod chair. Running a hand over his greasy forehead, as if trying to gather the secretions for frying potatoes, Martin felt dog tired and needed a rest.

He headed for the washroom and flipped the hot-water tap to the max. Then he quickly stuck his head out of the little room to hear if the heater was beginning to work in the kitchenette across the hallway. It did – there was a boom sound. But Martin was not going to take shower because of the plunging temperature those days. He was just going to wash his face and try his own reflexology in hot basin.

Within one minute, hot water was ready and he filled the basin with it. He took the basin out into the hallway and put it on a same tripod chair like the one in the bedroom, because the light in the washroom was fused or something.

He washed perfunctorily and went into the washroom to brush teeth. Eventually, he saved the hot water for his feet. Mother used to tell him having a hot bath of the tootsies would do perfect for the whole body’s health.

Everything done, exhaustion was really nagging at Martin, who promptly plopped onto the bedspread and under the quilts.

Klux was stretching a little and jumped on bed near Martin’s pillow. Martin studied her for a few seconds and crumpled his face to give a smile, saying to himself, “Oh, girl, you look scrubbed up tonight… um, like the prom queen.”

The cat’s furs were reflecting sheen of cleanliness. Maybe she just preened herself from tip to claw. Her boogers and eye gums were nowhere to be seen too. She was definitely up for a feline military operation.

Then eyeing Klux the last time, Martin reluctantly worked up from his warmed up bed sheets to switch off the light. Lying back again, Martin was just lulled into sleep by the rhythmic purring.

In the darkness, everything looked tranquil… perfect, until, finally:

The third repetition of the dream shook Martin into the dead of night again. His streaming face was speaking clearly for Martin’s fear. Like being poured a bucket of icy water from overhead in an equally icy winter open air, Martin nearly leapt to hit on the light. Light, on most occasions, worked really well enough to exorcise fear, even if manmade.

When Martin finally got himself together again, he was a little alarmed to see Klux rambling with an edge on the floor and meowing.

(Hell, she must have been meowing her guts out, but I just turned it away.)

Martin swung out of the bed to get her, but she just refused his offer by pawing at Martin’s hands. That was unusual, considering her meek nature since adopted one year back.

The cat then plodded to the room door and ran her paws, claws out, across the door frame. The sound from the friction just threw on a second skin of goosebumps all over Martin. Martin was going to shout when he was dragged to his nightmare.

(Same dream, three times, three consecutive nights. What the hell is wrong?)

As Martin was sobering up, he suddenly remembered one-of-a-classic interpretation of dreams from his mom, the one with her elder sister, Rene at the age of eleven years old.

Of course, that’d put Martin’s mother at a mere nine years old and Martin himself totally unplanned, and possibly lining up at the St. Peter’s Gate, waiting to check in from a car accident in the last reincarnation.

That was when the Cultural Revolution had just started and Rene’s grandma passed with terminal cancer. Forty nine days after the granny had died, Rene got a dream, or sort of a nightmare in the night. Then the nightmarish dream just repeated another two times until it stopped.

Rene was still regretful she didn’t do as told to in the trio of dreams. It went sort of like this:

Rene’s grandma was standing under a tall elm in stark darkness with only the space around her body glowing with subtle effulgence. Subtle, or even peaceful as the light might have been, the whole tableau was still unsettling for an eleven-year-old girl. The granny was smiling a beatific smile, benevolent enough to be a Buddha herself. The old lady beckoned at Rene, silently asking her to go toward the elm. Rene in the dream of course fidgeted and didn’t dare to move an inch forward, so the granny, the beatific smile even stronger, pointed the bare roots of the elm and nodded, as if saying those were of importance to Rene. Before the effulgent granny whirled away, she did say something, which Rene would still remember in the after world. She said, “Rene, my poor girl. Come here and get it. Come here and get the magic that’ll save you from your misfortunes. But remember, come here alone. Come here at midnight. Come here before the end of the month.”

Then Rene was in vertigo when finally having woken up. She mulled over the dates in mind without telling anyone about her dreams. Then on the night of January 31, she had her third version of the total three dreams and she was in her room, fighting with herself if she should go and visit the rendezvous. Needless to say, a small girl like Rene just didn’t bother to brave a long way to the horrendous tryst.

Rene did recognize the great elm in her dream. It was planted near the foot of a hill, on which straggling tomb heads were erected. The hill was more like a local cemetery. It was not uncommon to have such hills before the reform and opening up in 1979, when cremation was nearly mandatory.

Time just marched on and nothing unfortunate happened, until after Rene got married.

Rene’s first child was a severe Down’s syndrome sufferer, who was later sent to a private care center. Rene’s second baby was an abortion. Rene’s third child was deformed and didn’t live up to see her first birthday. Then the fourth and the last, sort of a healthy boy, was brought up by the Rene’s. But on his fifth birthday, his father got creamed when a derailed train ploughed into him.

The boy was still living with her but Rene might have to live with more than the loss of her three children and her husband, because the boy looked really ugly.

The boy, Martin’s cousin, was an incredibly nice boy only if his appearance not counted in. He had little hair on the dome, which looked like the malnourished xeric landscaping on a Las Vegas desert. Other hairs were a mess, too; the places supposed to be home to eyebrows were as smooth as his lips, except for different colors. He had small eyes and naturally pursed mouth. Complexion was rusty. Pores were dried up wells dotted on a Halloween mask. When he spoke, the sound resembled that of a sow chuckling through the snort. He was pretty big; shoulders were significantly larger in proportion and size compared to an average endomorph. Maybe a gorilla would befit his appearance.

But apart from the bias of appearances, Todd, Rene’s boy, was a warmhearted man, if sometimes not sizzling-hearted. He was nice to people, but people just avoided him like plague. Martin was one of Todd’s few friends and Martin knew life was unfair to Todd.

(Hell, life is unfair. So many bad guys live long, without being punished, like Chi-Chin Ting.)

So Martin’s mind was going over all the miseries and hardships his aunt Rene had trudged through. Maybe if she had made the visitation to the elm roots, she would have avoided the pelting streaks of rotten luck.

As Martin finally got this conclusion, he was already pulling on clothes and was prepared to materialize his trio of dreams, whatever they might be leading, good or evil. He had act up.

Five minutes later, he was dressed warmly in his parka and hell, he looked like an SAS. The cat seemed already impatient to get started with their expedition to the place where Martin (or maybe Klux herself) would recognize as a déjà vu.

Glancing at the museum piece cell phone, Martin saw 1:30 a.m. on the green screen. At around that time when most night owls were battling to keep eyes unclosed, Martin and Klux were going to realize a dream, except they, at least Martin, had no slightest what dream that was and what he could realize.