Transit

Transit - It was the end of December 2017. Christmas had come and gone, another lonely one in a foreign place, and I was to go to a New Year’s Eve party at a work acquaintance’s house. It’s the type of event I would usually find myself never even considering attending, especially cuz the guy Blake is a total douchebag, but I had barely left my house in months, and I wanted to feel viable. Ever since Xiu and I’d split, I’d distanced myself from a lot of our old friend circle, still friendly when we ran into each other at shows around town, but otherwise non-communicative. Like fish in a pond. So I said fuck it. I’ll go to this pretentious party at the douchebag financial analyst from my office’s place. If worse comes to worst I’ll just drink a bunch of champagne and leave. I got off the subway and walked the last few hundred meters to the Bund. When I arrived at the lobby of his building, the guard whispered “the password is 阴.” I asked him if this was a speakeasy or the little rascals. He was unfamiliar with that lexicon. But he pushed the 40th floor button on the elevator and sent me to the top. I guess I had heard at some point that douchebag Blake’s dad was a bigshot, but I'd ignored it; so when the elevator stopped at his penthouse suite which must cost at least 50 grand a month I realized I had seriously underestimated this asshole. The butler handed me a glass of pink bubbly and swung the door open for me like I was Jay Gatsby, king of Long Island in the roaring 20s, except instead of smooth creole ragtime they were bumpin shitty trap music by some overpaid college stoner in a tux. Everything was gold. And white. Save the coral green blue and salmon Chihuly glass blown chandelier that was 50 feet up, inside the belltower, as in the Tower of David, coils slithering down like an anaconda to eavesdrop on all the party’s secrets. I was wearing a NASA t-shirt and black jeans. I had just faced a blunt down in the parking garage and needless to say I was feeling unprepared. Not even underdressed, I don’t give a shit about any of that, but just bleary-eyed. And wired. This was a ritzy ass party. I’ve seen money. Never had much of it myself, but I’ve seen it. I’ve worked hard, tasted it, spent it. Partied with the best of them. Or so I’d thought. But this spot was outta control. The entire East facing wall was a glass window overlooking the Shanghai skyline. The north wall behind the DJ was a graphic display interface. The purple lights on the Oriental Pearl Tower electrified the room. But the people were all robots. A faceless crowd, souls siphoned to the TVs, ipads, and laptops like a magnet. Smartphones fondled by the masses. I thought, as I stood there spinning in circles, that if someone from only 100 years ago was standing in this room, how amazed they would be by any single one of these contraptions. There are more screens in this room than any one person could even possibly look at all at once. How many different devices do we need to escape reality? I started to say not enough and hopelessly check my texts when a painting in the corner of the room by the marble spiral staircase caught my eye. It dragged me over, feet levitating from the floor. “Is that an original Francis Bacon?” I asked the girl in the black dress and sapphire earrings standing closest by. I finished my glass and reached to grab another from the waiter’s tray, slipping a couple dollars in his pocket. “You mean the guy who got killed by a frozen chicken?” “No, you’re thinking of the English scientist. I’m talking about the Irish artist.” “I didn’t know there were two Francis Bacons. Are they related?” “I have no idea. Probably not.” I took a big gulp. “Well anyways, it is a nice painting.” She stared longer at it. “Is that the pope? Screaming? Trapped in a cage?” “Yeah.” “Wow. That’s pretty powerful. I’m surprised he’s not more famous.” “He is. One of his triptychs sold for like $140 million a few years ago. The most expensive piece of art ever sold at an auction.” She looked at me, mouth half open. I put a grape inside. “Does Blake’s dad really have that kind of money?” I asked her, as she chewed. “I saw the Chihuly chandelier but this is….damn. This just doesn’t seem like the kind of place you would hang a fake, you know?” “Yeah I guess not. I know his Dad was involved in politics or something, but he’s retired now.” “No one ever retires from politics. Especially not one with an art collecting habit like this guy.” I walked away. I hoped the painting was a fake. The whole party was. Everyone was performing, playing not their scripted roles, but the ones they thought they were supposed to play. Like parrots, imitating. They all had different colored cues. I was just waltzing through, out of focus. I had another glass and checked the time. 10:15. Jesus, I’ve only been here 25 minutes? Feels like it’s been 3 lifetimes already. I’d been avoiding Persephone, the blonde girl from HR ever since I accidentally made eye contact with her during my Gatsby entrance. Wanting to keep that up as long as possible, the next time I saw her looking in my direction I snuck upstairs and locked myself inside the closest bedroom. In the distance, I heard voices, coming through the wall. I opened what looked like a closet door but opened instead into a long, shadowy hallway, lined with Ionic columns and terracotta busts, lit only by a scattered row of earthen oil lamps. It smelled like mothballs. At the end of the corridor stood a full bronze suit of armor, and beyond it another door, where I could see a group of people smoking outside on a large balcony with more statues and tall plants. A sort of urban garden. I walked down the hall and slid open the clear door with the black frame and pulled out a cigarette. Some girl handed me a silver Zippo lighter before I even had a chance to take out my own. I thanked her. She smiled. “You wanna smoke this joint with us too?” she asked, offering it in her hand. “Never declined before,” I said, “and there doesn’t seem to be any reason to start now.” I took it from her outstretched fingers. They were wrapped with tattoos of circles and some sort of brail or secret cipher. Mysterious graffiti black speech ran down the back of her wrist. She had long, black hair, with perfectly trimmed bangs, a septum piercing, and a tongue ring which she rolled at me when my blue eyes locked with her medusa greens. Maybe this party wasn’t gonna end up being so bad after all. Suddenly, everyone else had left and it was just her and I on the balcony, the electric cityscape a stimulating backdrop. She asked if I knew any constellations. I showed her the seven brightest stars in the Pleiades. She told me her name was Seven. And she said that astral mansion falls in the domain of the White Tiger. I turned to ask her what she knew of the Black Turtle Xuanwu, but she too had vanished, and I was sitting alone on the cold, concrete floor, feeling heavy. I started to say out loud to myself, “What was in tha-- ?” When the door slid open and Persephone walked out. “There you are!” She said. “What are you doing out here?” “Ah, I was just feeling a bit faint. Came out to get some fresh air.” “Oh, ok. How are you feeling now? I didn’t think you’d come to be honest.” She always wants to talk about feelings. Something I don’t have a lot of. “Well I’m doing alright, but now I’m afraid I’m taking you away from your friends inside.” “Oh gosh no, don’t worry about them. They’re annoying anyways. I’d rather hang out with you,” as she hooked her arm under mine and nuzzled her head against my shoulder. “Look, Persephone, I like being your friend, but I just don’t know if anything more than that is really a good idea…” “Oh, shut up. Why do guys always have to open their mouths and say something stupid to ruin a nice moment?!” She was only playfully pissed, it seemed. I hoped. “I don’t know,” I said, and went mute. It’s always a weird feeling knowing there’s a wild raging party going on inside and you’re out under the stars, brilliant in their hundred millionth year of life, while I’m 27, dim, sitting in silence with someone I don’t really wanna be with. “Why don’t you like me?” She asked, out of nowhere. I paused and thought up an answer. I tried deflecting the question. “It’s just not even something that crossed my mind honestly. This is the first time I’ve ever even seen you outside of the workplace.” “What about that time at Starbucks? I thought we had a nice chat. And you never noticed me flirting around with you all the time? I’ve brought you coffee and donuts every Friday for the last 3 months. And you never once asked what I was doing that weekend.” She seemed drunk, getting emotional, slurring her words. I needed to make an exit. “I’m sorry Persephone. At the office my mind is usually all over the place. Especially Friday mornings. Always tired, hungover, trying to get my reports in. You know how it is.” “Don’t give me that shit. I know you don’t give a fuck about the company. That’s why I like you. You’re not like the others.” “Yeah well, maybe we should go back inside. We can talk about it later. I think the ball is about to drop soon.” I had no idea what time it was, but was just praying it was close to midnight. She stood up and blocked the door. “Not until you tell me why you don’t like me.” “Oh come on Persephone, what is this shit? Don’t play these stupid games. We’re friends, alright? I do like you. You’re just…” I looked at her blonde hair. “…not dark… or damaged.” I snuck around her and slid the door open. She called out after me, “You mean my hair?” questionably stroking it in her hands. “Nah,” I said, and turned the corner. I chased down the nearest waiter and grabbed another chalice from his tray. I was out of singles so I gave him a cigarette. He said thanks. I moved my gaze to a random one of the myriad of TVs around the place to check the time. 11:57. Shit that was actually perfect timing. Still only halfway down the spiral stairs, I saw Blake for the first time that night. He was in the middle of the room, with his gorgeous girlfriend, Helen, taller than him in heels, handing out bottles of Dom Pérignon so people could refill their glasses for the New Year’s toast. Helen asked the DJ to cut the music and picked up the mic. She informed the unaware guests (me) that January 1 is also Blake’s birthday, and led us thru a painful rendition of the Birthday Song. I was totally out of it. Zoned like Christian Bale in Knight of Cups. That chick’s weed really fucked me up. I was probably about halfway thru my second bottle of champagne by now too, but it seemed irrelevant. Every conversation in the room rang in my ears in slow motion, backwards. I transcribed them, but the words meant nothing. Helen was still talking, but no one was listening. They couldn’t have anyways, because it didn’t make any sense. The signs didn’t match the objects they were supposed to be representing. The words no longer gave distinctions, abandoning their only purpose. I stood up top, witnessing the construction and deconstruction of Babel, when I linked eyes with Seven again. She suddenly stood right next to Blake, where I’d been looking the whole time, and never blinked as she drank half her glass in one swig and swished it around and down her throat, sticking her tongue out at me once more as her piercing glistened off the glass blown chandelier. People started to count, down from 10, still in slow motion but now forwards. For the next 10 seconds I stared at Seven and learned her entire story, from her disenchanted fall to her glorious resurrection. She didn’t escape unscathed; she was scarred and burnt, but enchanting. Her perfect figure and her black everything: dress, hair, tats, mascara made her green eyes and bronze skin all the more pronounced. Blake was violently shaking a bottle of White Gold Pérignon as the crowd reached 3, and in an instant, the whole world stopped. I too was frozen, but understood as it happened. She moved through time and adjusted the trajectory of Blake’s explosion so that when time resumed, as quickly as it had paused, the whole multiverse shook from the flood of coral and green and salmon and blue blown glass that rained from the bell tower, pricking people’s skin and drawing little droplets of blood as they screamed in joy for the turning of the clocks and the auspicious year to come. Arms flailed for the remaining bottles of booze which too were shaken and sprayed, golden showering the crowd with liquid diamonds, as Blake lay on the ground, laughing maniacally, making snow angels out of broken glass. Seven was still looking at me like a dark angel across the room. I walked over and told her she has beautiful hands. She smiled and asked me if I meant it. I stared her straight in the eyes and told her I'd never seen such beautiful hands in my whole life, she must be an artist, or a blacksmith. She asked me if I wanted to go burn one of her paintings. I said yes. She said we had to go back to her house and get the painting first. I said that's no problem. We left immediately and took a taxi to her apartment. She turned the key and forcefully opened the door. Her sphynx cat, Nüwa, with eyes as green as hers, was waiting for us. She told me Nüwa eats snakes. I believed her. I stepped in and asked if I should take my shoes off. She was wearing slipons, and I double knotted Converse. She said please. I sat down on a small wooden bench and started untying the laces. "This might as well come off too while you're at it," she said, pulling my sweater over my head. She sat down on my lap and started touching my chest, tracing her fingers along my tattoos. I carried her into the bedroom and threw her down on the bed. She smiled sadistically and pounced back like a panther. I flipped her over and started ripping her clothes off. Nüwa the sphynx watched. We wrestled hard for a few minutes and she asked me to fuck her. I told her if we wait it will be better. The Buildup. She asked if that’s in the Kama Sutra. I told her it’s in the Bible. She purred. We got dressed, smoked cigarettes, grabbed the picture and some spray paint. She gave me her watch, but the battery was dead. Time stood still. We stole two vulnerably unlocked OFO bikes and took off for an abandoned parking lot. I carried the canvas in my left hand while we rode for a long time. I paid attention for a few kilometers, then lost my bearings. I dream of being an urban rambler, and am experienced in the city streets, but I’d never been in this part of town before. We were out in the industrial zone. An old patch of deserted factories encircled by the new neon towers. We stopped to buy a six pack, ditched the bikes, and walked the rest of the way, wherever that was, drinking beer on the street. We made it to some surplus store. It was closed, and looked like it had been for a while. They’d blocked our way with a blue iron construction fence. Someone had chained it shut. Clearly they were trying to keep people like us out. I put my black hoodie up to conceal my identity. I had disappeared before, and I was prepared to do so again if necessary. Fade into the night. We scaled over garbage and broke through the fence, sneaking into the largest parking lot I’d ever seen in the city. There was another yellow OFO bike inside the fence, the only sign that another human had ever been there before. Otherwise, the lot had become a swamp. The entire right half was flooded and had vegetation growing wild. On the left side there was more garbage, a large pile of abandoned couches and furniture, and a graffitied shed. I thought there must be someone living there. This would be homeless paradise. Anarchy right in the heart of it all. We walked 200 meters or so, past the stacks of unwanted sofas and interior car cushions before a dog started barking like mad. It was standing on the steps outside this graffitied shed. I realized the shed had at some point been a public bathroom, but this dog had claimed the territory. It was barking so loud I thought it was gonna give us up. I had an escape planned, up the couches, over the wall, and onto the street, but hoped I wouldn’t need it. There was another yellow OFO bike around the corner and I still thought someone might be living in this lot. In the bathroom? With the dog? I felt fear and paranoia. Then I saw a small puppy come waddling out of the shed and realized the momma dog was just trying to protect her baby. We walked away slowly to the farthest corner of the lot and I threw the painting on the ground. Seven took out a knife and started cutting it up. I gathered up some of the bushweed and leaves from the random plants that had grown through the cracks in the pavement and threw it on the pile. Then I took a lighter to the spray paint, producing a flamethrower to incinerate that shit. Being the facilitator of the cycle of creation and destruction felt good, even if it wasn’t my painting. The fire roared for a few minutes on toxic paint fumes, I thought of sand mandalas, impermanence, and Tathata. The fire quickly died out once everything was torched. I asked her if she felt satisfied. She smiled, then asked, “what’s next?” I was caught off guard. Everything I’d foreseen had only led to this moment. I looked around and saw a giant crane in scope and told her to follow me. We walked back past the dog house, mother still barking like hell, and climbed the couches to hop over the wall. Back on the street, we took a left, then a right, towards the river. My eyes were fixed on the crane the entire time we walked. Seven never once asked me where we were going. Maybe she knew, or maybe it didn’t matter. But when we got there, to the derrick at the bank of the river, it was again blocked at the bottom with a sealed gate. There was no breaking through this one. But I didn’t have to climb very high before there was a landing with stairs the rest of the way up. I grabbed her hand and raced to the top. Seven told me she always feels bored, and is having trouble finding any meaning or purpose in her life. I asked her why there has to be any kind of meaning at all. “Would that make you feel validated in some way?” She said it might. I told her that I too feel empty but I have learned to embrace the emptiness. There is no esoteric solution. The answer is that there is no answer. It’s the greatest trick question ever written. Countless humans have spent countless lifetimes searching far and wide trying to crack the code. But the solution has been right in front of us the entire time. In the trees, rivers, mountains, valleys. In language, and in human interaction. In books, and music. In our breath, in our blood. The meaning of life is to be here now, and enjoy it. She laughed at my optimism. We got to the top, some hundred feet in the air, and she asked me why I’d wanted to come here. I said I didn’t even know where we were, I just saw the crane and decided to climb it. I’m always attracted to rivers. There was no kind of deliberateness about any of it. We smoked another joint and looked out onto the horizon. Climbing shit, getting high, and looking far away. It’s nice. These cranes are like manufactured mountains, good for reflection, and refuge. We stargazed again and she said it didn’t look good. Ominous omens. I told her if she doesn’t like what she sees she can change it. She scoffed. I asked her if she could swim. She said no. I asked her if she remembers her dreams. She said sometimes, but only the bad ones. She told me about a recurring dream where she’s trapped inside a big house, being chased by all these giant, white birds. There is a market inside the house selling the birds. The only way she can get out is to wake up. I tell her if she continues using this method, she will only continue having the dream. If she really wants to resolve it once and for all, she needs to take control and find her way out from the inside. She said she’s tried. There’s no way out. I tell her it’s a dream and she can do anything she wants. Find a gas mask and burn the fucking place down. She laughs. All anyone’s ever tryna do is wake us up from our dreams. We wrestled again, rough and wild on the rusty metal floor. Then I passed out for an undisclosed amount of time. But it couldn’t have been long, cuz when I woke up it was still dark. I sat up and saw Seven cutting up lines in the moonlight. We listened to Made of Stone, polished our proboscises, and climbed down the crane. With nowhere to go, we walked around in circles. A clap of thunder brought pouring rain, so we danced in the street. A bus came and stopped at a red light. We hopped on. The driver seemed pissed. There was no one else on board. His night shift was almost over. He asked where we were going. I asked where he was going. He said his last stop was the Hongqiao train station. I said we’d go there with him. He shook his head and the doors hissed behind us. I walked to the back of the bus and sat down. Seven stood near the front, hanging onto one of the dangling transparent handles, coated in advertisements. She looked back and smiled her same smile at me. I wondered why she had come into my life this way and how long she would stay. Rain emptied down on the bus like machine gun fire. Suicide missions from the clouds to the plastic ceiling. To be condensed and evaporated someday, a chance at rebirth. They were trying to talk to me, calling my name. But the tapping came in a tongue of Morse code I couldn’t understand. Lost in translation again. Someone else got on the bus and Seven moved towards the rear, sitting two rows in front of me. Beyond the back of her head was a small fold-down TV screen showing a cartoon “This is Shanghai” which teased us with prosperity and utopia. The Peach Blossom Spring. After only a few stops, we got off. We were by the wharf, on the other side of the Bund from where we’d met earlier that night. She said she wanted to take a boat. We tried to commandeer one, but they were secured to the dock. What good is a ship in harbor? The sun was rising behind the skyline, infinite and stable. She said skyscrapers are all just phallic symbols. The most physical expression of dominance men have created. I told her I’d always preferred bridges to towers, and asked her about Zaha Hadid. Lights flickered on in highrise apartment windows, randomly in patterns. It was time to start the day. I was on the ground, high as a kite, watching. I was used to being up on my 17th floor balcony looking down at others live their lives, but the roles felt reversed. On the ground I was more exposed. Still always the voyeur, but my vantage point was tainted. The sunrise was soft and bright. Subdued yet fierce. Melodious, pastel colors elegantly shattered into frames like a vaporwave. A bleached salmon pink panorama with pallid purple pillows poking thru peaches and cream. We were listening to Beach Fossils smoking Taishans. The ethereal umbra of the horsehead nebula loomed in the clouds. She passed out in the grass, her hundred pound frame snoring like a bear. Synthetic liquid flowers grew in the bushes. I tried to pluck them but they slipped through my fingers. A door opened, but it wasn’t made for me. I went home, futilely trying to fix the hands on her broken watch.

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