A Back-Post

10-19-2008



9:35am. Getting squashed in a bus has its strange pleasures. I watch as a whisper of a grin lingers on a man’s face as he savors the guilty anonymity from being next to (and awfully close to!) that pretty girl with brown eyes, even if she is quite short… Together, we share incredulity for the thirty other people outside the bus who want to make it in. For all your discomfort, you smile (sheepishly, but nonetheless evilly) knowing that others have it worse.

北京社么都没有，就只有一大堆人！One passenger, her forehead glistening with sheen of sweat and light makeup, exclaims to her curly-haired friend. A middle-aged, balding man leaves the bus and relinquishes his coveted seat, now empty before me. I feel particularly masochistic (macho?) today and let another girl take it. In rapid 山东-accent Chinese she thanks me and chatters to her friend to take the seat instead. The bus driver’s assistant (ticketmaster...) screams himself hoarse commanding people to get on the bus through the back door. Back to back, arm against arm, head bumping into head (or armpits… or backs… or worse), the bus is a bumper car arena gone insane, jolting forward in incremental outbursts whenever the 西三环 inches forward. The driver, with clip-on sunglasses over his glasses, stoically looks forward.

…Grandmothers and grandfathers stroll through the park, their grandchildren waddling steps ahead of them. A tantalizing zephyr skims gracefully across the lake, mischievously ringing the willow windchimes along the water. Its cool, fresh touch runs with the warm smile of the 9:50am sunshine…

It seems that all the passengers are headed toward 香山. Her eyes tiny, gleaming orbs, a girl climbs onto a raised portion of the bus. The 山东girl helps her up and smiles to the girl, a radiant burst of exhilaration almost antithetical to the cramped breathlessness that permeates this bus. The mother passes a small plastic bag to her daughter to place next to her, and gently tells her to simply sit close to it—“你就不用一直拿着！”

…Kayaking on the Catalina ocean and being burnt idyllically in open seas… now I imagine skimming over a lake in tiny pedalboats in the middle of the city, the splop of fish rippling over the waters around me.

The elderly couple reclines on the stones along the lake now tentatively walk away. Her back to the stone, and her eyes barely shut, the woman rubbed her forehead with a rolling motion of her hands. As she leaves, she grabs a newspaper and says nobody in particular, “我们不该污染…”

Honking horns hoarsely upbraid each other, a contest of fury and cacophonous insanity. Jostling past each other in devoted fervor, one traveler apologies as she squeezes between two others. The bus halts, and the driver flips up his sunglasses. He extinguishes the engine as the passengers in the bus begin to complain, wondering why nothing is moving. Ahead, a vehicle has sputtered its last and rests in a chaotic mess in the middle of the street. Every vehicle behind is locked in endless limbo. Drivers come out, stretch, and smoke cigarettes. It’s the Chinese way… ‘任命了!’

“…Hehehahaha!” one man giggles, its pitch squeaky high and punctuated with punches of enthused mirth. His laugh is the sound of opened 青岛beer, of rowdy froth and golden, sunburnt bliss. Bracing his blue fold-up chair over his shoulder, he chuckles some more as he says goodbye to his two old friends, then saunters along the lakeside.

One a wheelchair, a bald man and his family glide across the same lakeside, moving in the opposite direction.

In a glorious glow, an innocent smile flashes across the mouth of a white-haired man and betrays his infinite joy. I imagine his mind is engaged in the mystery of generations as he holds the hand of his grandchild and strolls along with his elderly wife. He holds a cream-yellow cloth bag and wears a denim blue vest. As he passes underneath these willow trees, he turns to point at a group of young professional-looking women chatting on a picnic cloth.

“Married women are always too busy!” one of the women declares, rebelliously popping a cracker into her mouth as she finishes. “对对对!” the others follow. “就是吗!”

Relieved, I unzip my jacket and feel the fresh breeze as I leave the bus, still jammed in the traffic. The entrance to the park is directly in front, and although it isn’t 香山, I imagine it—like the bus ride—has stories to tell.