The Slots

Fang and I dripped into the hostel, our flooded footwear squelching loudly to the amusement of two smug foreigners drinking beer in the lounge area. Shanghai had apparently been witnessing a heatwave that week but we'd arrived in the middle of a bombastic rainstorm.  We quickly checked in and went to the room to greet the beds. 

There were four beds.  Bunks.  Two of which, the lower ones, were already occupied.  One of our temporary roommates, looked South American maybe, was there, lying on one of the beds with his face flashing in the spasmodic light of whatever film he was watching on his portable computerised thing.  He looked like he'd been there all day.  Get a life, I thought to myself.  The other occupant was absent, just some clothes and a towel marked his silent presence.   We decided to get moving immediately.  We had a show to attend at 10 so we only had time to change our ringing socks.

The rain had died down upon leaving, which was a blessing, but we made sure to pick up some umbrellas in a little store beside the hostel for possible security before leaping into the first taxi we could find. 

It was my first time in Shanghai.  Even in the rain and smoky darkness, it was exactly as I'd imagined.  Shadow people busying past under a messy mosaic of wet electric lights through the rain-riddled windows of the taxi.  I had to nudge Fang in the arm along the way.  He'd been nodding off intermittently since getting off the train.  It didn't surprise me.  We'd been travelling for a long time.  Kunming-Chongqing-Chengdu-Xian-Nanjing-Shanghai.  We'd stopped for at least two days in each city.  Five in Chengdu.  Shanghai was our final stop before taking the long long long journey back to Kunming.  Travelling around China can be a challenge of some fortitude.  The trek had become easier in recent years due to advancing transportation facilities.  High-speed trains racing up and down the country were now reducing the burden of painfully persisting and demanding journeys for sore travellers.  Even so, China's immense size still meant that not everywhere was accessible via these comfortably modern means.

We arrived at the gig and hooked up with some mutual friends we had in the city.  It was a noisy show with not too many people in attendance.  I expected more punters at my first gig in the Pearl of the Orient.  The venue was reasonably big, so perhaps even with 80 people it still looked kind of empty.  Fang received a second rushing wind of energy during the first band's performance and went to flirt with a girl.  I admired him for his audacity.  If he saw someone he liked, he would dart across the room and just start talking to her.  No short opening glances followed by more sustained looks of intent for Fang.  He'd just get in their faces immediately, eye to eye, no soft hints offered.  If he'd been an architect, he wouldn't have bothered with all the drawing and designing.  He'd have just dropped a billion bricks to the ground from a helicopter and hoped for the best.  

My Chinese listening was at its worst when dealing with voices sounding from a P.A in large spaces, so I was unable to fully make out the rallying speech the singer from the headlining band made towards the end of their set.  The spitty hiss on the loudspeakers and harshness of the barked dialect made it difficult.  The only words or phrases I picked up on were 'They are bad people.  You are good people.'  However I completely understood the crowd's reaction.  As the singer finished speaking, there was an explosive roar from the audience.  I observed Fang turn away from the girl he was dealing with in that instant and direct his attention at the stage as the band released an hysterical few minutes of thunderous punk rock noise that sent everyone in the room to a mental place.  I couldn't speak Chinese so well, but I was quite capable of moshing in Chinese.

We met an old Japanese man as we were stumbling back to the hostel.  We got lost on the street and we asked for directions and it turned out that the old Japanese man was staying at the same hostel.  He guided us back home.  He told us he loved the food in Shanghai and he'd been eating until all the restaurants closed and now it was time for bed.

 

I woke early the next day.  I'd been waking up early in all the cities we'd visited even after parties and late nights.  The thrill of travelling always had that effect on me.  Fang continued sleeping and I predicted he would stay there for a substantial part of the day.  I was used to his routine at this stage.  I went down to the restaurant and lounge part of the hostel.  They had a Western breakfast on the menu so I ordered it with some degree of excitement.  I'd become accustomed to various common Chinese breakfast dishes,  but I couldn't deny homesickness with regards my own culturally relevant brand of unhealthy food.  I hungrily went for it.   A fry-up in the morning worked perfectly after a night of drinking even if it happened to be lacklustre.  Lacking the dirty unhealthy but digestible fibre that made it famous in my own neck of the woods.  That's what it was, this one.  Half a sausage, no beans, bacon that was mostly fat, a fried egg that looked like the sun setting over a natural disaster. 

'Hello,' said a voice behind me.

'Hello,' I said to the voice.

It was the old Japanese man from last night.  He was dressed like he'd just been out for a run, a cerulean blue tracksuit from an 80's comedy film and a headband from an 80's music video.  He'd been out running in the 1980's. 

'Good food?' he asked.

'It's not bad,' I said.

He was very old, but remarkably nimble.  As we got talking, I became even more impressed with his vitality.  I was used to being in Dublin where the older folk were so devastated by cigarettes and alcohol that speaking was an effort for them.  Their voices were slow wheezed sounds, each word a struggle.  This elder Japanese man  eased his words out.  In eloquent English.  He told me that he came to China every summer.  He loved Shanghai and travelled alone each year.  He mostly just went to Nanjing, Suzhou, and Shanghai.  Everybody knew him.

'Hi, Kazuo,' said the hostel owner, strolling past us.

'Zhen.  Hello,' the Japanese man gladly replied.

His name was Kazuo.  He was from Osaka, a place that had intrigued me for many years, a place I had always wanted to visit.

'I hear there's a lot of good rock music in Osaka,' I said.

'Oh yes,' said Kazuo.  'Elvis lives there.'

'Elvis?'

'He owns a little apartment in the block next to mine.  I see him every day walking his dog.'

'Wow,' I said.  'I thought Elvis was dead.'

'No, he's alive and kicking.  Living in Osaka with his doctor.'

'His doctor?'

'Yes, she's Japanese.  He married her after she cured his appendix.  Her name is Yoko.  She's not a nice woman.  Very unfriendly.  I prefer her husband.'

We talked for about an hour or two about many things.  Japanese films.  Asian films in general.  Differences between Ireland and China.  Ireland and Japan.  China and Japan.  Development in modern Chinese cities.  Sake.  Baijiu.  Whiskey.  The weather.

In the back of my mind, I had a question I wished to ask him, but I wasn't sure how to put it exactly.  It was a simple question but for some reason seemed to me too loaded a query as I considered recent political spats between China and Japan.  On surface level, it was a trivial question, but I viewed it fuelled with segue, follow-up, and growth.  I was reluctant to ask, but as I ordered a bottle of beer, I found a way in and asked him, 'So what do you do, Kazuo?  By the way, would you like a beer?'

'No, no.  I'm fine.  Thank you.'

'Ok. So what do you do?'

He told me he was retired, but that he'd been a civil servant for many years.  He told me about his successes and failures.  His work preserving a Wayo temple that had been singled out for demolition by government.  His minor role aiding the protests over industrial pollution and eventual poisoning in Minimata. Following his time as a civil servant, Kazuo went into business for himself as the owner of a chain of amusement arcades and small casinos.  His company had apparently seen much illness and triumph.

'I used to be addicted to slot machines,' I told him.

He smiled and laughed off my addiction.  'Well, I hope you won't hold anything against me.'

'No, I blame myself for that.  Anyway, it wasn't so bad.  I wasted a few hundred, but it wasn't exactly  high-rolling.'

'I distanced myself from the problems of gamblers many years ago,' he said.  'It's not that I didn't have sympathy for them.  It was just the only way I could do that kind of thing.  You have to a raise a wall around you in business if you want to be effective, you know.  People and their individual problems need to be blanked out.  It's a little cold, I know.  But that's the way I was.  It's in the past.  I'm not sure if I can say sorry for it. I was successful partly because of that attitude.'

After some more discussion about gambling and further coverage of his adventures in the twentieth century, Kazuo suddenly fell into a dark silence.  The friendly energetic man was replaced by a more pensive and sombre one.

'You know, I've been here before,' he said.

'In this hostel?'

'No.  Well, yes.  But no.  That' not what I mean.  I've been in China before.  I was here many years ago.  With my compatriots.'

'Wow,' I said.  'The war?'

He nodded one single sluggish and protracted nod.  'It was maybe 60 years ago?  Maybe.  I don't recall.  Half a human lifetime ago.'

I ordered another beer, and this time Kazuo also agreed to have one.  We took gulps in unison when they arrived and he continued recounting his previous experience of China.

'We didn't ask too many questions back then.  We were all so confident.  Too confident to require any answers.  Or to show the desire for them.  Now I think that people should always ask questions.  They shouldn't be afraid to stand up in the crowd and just ask.  There are too many social shackles restraining us.'

Kazuo took another swig of beer.

'I could have asked more questions.  I knew which questions I wanted to ask.  But I didn't.  I didn't want to look stupid.  Everyone else was in agreement, so my question would have fallen on deaf ears.  And laughter probably.  I didn't want them to laugh at me.  Looking back, I realise that the others maybe felt the same way.  I'm certain they did.  But we all hid it.  I think that just made things worse.'

'Yeah,' was the only response I could squeeze out.

Fang suddenly joined us at that moment.

'Good morning,' I said, as he staggered to the table and crashed into one of the wooden chairs as though he was a malfunctioning robot being carefully navigated to safety by its concerned controller.

'Good morning,' he said, his eyes almost lifeless.

'This is Kazuo,' I said.

Kazuo gave Fang a nod and a smile.  Fang acknowledged this.  'Hey.'

'Do you want a beer?' I asked.

Fang shook his head and groaned.

Kazuo and I laughed.

'I can't remember coming back last night,' said Fang.

'Kazuo helped us,' I said.  'We met him and he showed us where the hostel was.  If we hadn't met him, it's likely we would still be out there wandering the streets.'

'Cool,' said Fang, showing his approval.

The three of us sat for another hour or so talking on softer topics.  World beers.  Hostels and hotels.  Life on the road.  Roads in China.  Roads in Japan.  Roads in Ireland.  Roads in general. 

I got up to go the toilet.  It was a strange kind of eager 'rest'room, decorated in much the same way as the hostel itself; it was like any other international hostel in the world, these toilets, sti ckers promoting DJ nights, bands (secondary, seemingly), youth  causes (still don't know them), photographs of guests in worldflung locations.  Post-it-notes saying a variety of things in all variety of languages.

Taking a shit felt like a journey through being and time.

The door started shuffling.  I was sure the person was trying to get in. I ignored it as I thought the person would ascertain that it was being used due to the door being locked.  But the door kept shaking.  As though the person thought it was jarred or something.

'Hold on,' I chose to shout.

Whomever it was kept fidgeting with the door as I was wiping you-know-where.

'I'm sorry,' I heard a sweet female voice say outside as I disposed of my dishonoured napkin.

'That's okay,' I said.

I came out of the toilet to be faced with a pretty young girl who seemed a little embarrassed about her transgression at the door.  I didn't have it in me at that time to be kind to her charms and just gave her a 'what the fuck?' look without saying anything.  Perhaps it was the few beers I'd had that had devoured my good nature, or maybe just the absurdity and aggravation of the incident.  The girl slid nervously past me into the toilet and struggled scrappily to get the door locked.

When I returned to Fang and Kazuo, they were talking about the fairer sex.  Or Fang seemed to be imparting his sexual misadventures and unfair dismissals from the night before.

'She made me buy her three drinks and then said goodbye after lecturing me about politics for 30 minutes,' he told Kazuo. ' She had strong views about the world.  I couldn't deal with that last night.  Too drunk and tired.'

'She sounds like she was an interesting girl,' smiled Kazuo.

'Not me,' replied Fang.  'Not me.'

'Are you married, Kazuo?' I asked.  Maybe impudently.  Once again, the beer...

'Yes, yes.  But she left a few years ago.  She went to the other side.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,' I said, sympathetically.

'Yes, she moved to the other side of the city with my biggest business rival at the time.  I think she was too young for me anyway.  I've never had any children.  Sometimes I think that is a good thing, and other times, I think, no.'

'I don't want to get married,' said Fang.  'Fuck it.  Too much pressure.'

I was so used to my Chinese and Japanese friends elevating the concept of marriage to peak pedestals that Fang and Kazuo's remarks came as surprising and refreshing, and also somewhat depressing.

'I get the pains of convention too sometimes,' I told them.  'I mostly don't think about it, and then occasionally I find myself dwelling on the aging process in relation to the aging processes of people around me.  You know, that there are kids twenty years younger than me getting married and having babies.'

'Well, those same kids are sixty years younger than me,' joked Kazuo.

I'd been engaged to a girl for about three years.  Being engaged for so long put us into a kind of miasma of incarceration which began to slowly put the lights out on the whole relationship.  It was never meant to be.

 'In China, the parents like their children to get married at the right age,' said Fang.

'What is the right age?'

'They say 26.'

'What if you got married at 28?'

'No, 28 is the right age for having your first baby,' Fang replied.   '30 is the right age for asking your boss for a raise.  32 is the right age for investing in property.  34 is the right age to make your first million.'

Fang was joking.  Kazuo didn't realise until the laughing started.

'My parents are not as forceful as my friends about marriage and all of that,' Fang continued.  'They would like it if I got married, but they don't say so much about it to me.'

'This is similar in Japan,' said Kazuo.  'Everyone wants to feel happy about the standards they have for family life.  It's tradition.'

'I want to have fun with the girls,' said Fang.  'For as long as I can.  I want to fuck as many as possible.  If I meet one that I'd like to spend more and more time with, then maybe I'll marry her.  I don't know.'

continued here

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