Muddled

Lying awake in the bunk bed he shared with his mother, Xiaohei had one simple question to ponder— how to sneak off of the top bunk without shaking the bed below. Sweat drenched his skin. The room’s swelteringly stagnant air and the dually mischievous and innocent expectation of adolescent adventure formed a potent combination. Xiaohei’s heart pounded. He loved his mother with everything, but tonight she was the primary barrier to a world of untold freedoms and possibilities, baijiu and beer, beautiful girls and brawls—the world of men.

Hey lay there. Breathing heavily, Xiaohei attempted to break the stalemate with his nerves. He’d made it out before, and that night was no different.

Old Mr. Yan in the room next door stayed up late every night watching war films on his television set. The imposing presence of the man and the echoes of gallantry that emanated from his room each night had always fascinated Xiaohei. His mother struggled to keep him in school and pay the rent for their small room in the workers’ dormitory each month, let alone afford such luxuries as a television. But one night months before, Xiaohei was lying awake in bed, listening to the murmurs of gunshots and artillery reverberate through the dormitory walls when he could no longer contain his curiosity. He leapt down from the top bunk, past his sleeping mother, out of his room, and over to the sliding plastic doors that separated Old Yan’s room from the common area hallway. He peaked around the slightly ajar doors and saw the back of Old Yan, eyes locked on the People’s Liberation Army advance unfolding in front of him. A silver trail of smoke meandered away from his strong but weathered hands, filling the room with the harsh yet sweet stench of Chinese tobacco. Xiaohei stood there watching, strangely entranced, when Old Yan suddenly turned around. Xiaohei set to flee, but the man beckoned him in. Instead of a scolding, Xiaohei got his first cigarette. Panda Lights to be precise—brand of choice for both Chairman Mao and Xiaohei’s father.

That night Xiaohei witnessed the full military defeat of the Kuomintang from the Communist’s Long March to Mao’s triumphant speech in Tiananmen—dramatized in a CCTV special, color commentated by tales from Old Yan’s glory days as a PLA officer, and punctuated by what seemed to be a never-ending supply of cigarettes. As the first puff of tobacco hit his lungs, Xiaohei felt the innate urge to cough but used all of his will to hold in the feeling. How humiliating it would be, he thought, if Old Yan were to know this was his first smoke. Did his grasp of the cigarette or facial expressions give him away? He’d seen thousands of men light up countless times in his day, but suddenly when it seemed to matter most he was clueless as to how they made it look so effortless. After the fourth cigarette, the harshness of each puff began to subside, and by the time the credits rolled Xiaohei felt like a natural. Old Yan bid him farewell, and Xiaohei snuck back into the little room he and his mother called home feeling like a man—or a little more like one anyway.

That night stuck out in Xiaohei’s mind ever since. It seemed he was a few steps closer to the light at the end of the tunnel. What he would find there, Xiaohei did not know. He had no guide, but he strove onward nonetheless—using guesswork and hints gathered from cameos in his life.

The same feeling of confusion and excitement he felt at Old Yan’s now pulsed through him with every heartbeat, but Xiaohei’s destination was far from the dormitory next door. Seizing a passing moment of courage, he leapt from his bunk and landed with a dull thud on the concrete below. He waited. No movement. Relieved, Xiaohei rapidly gathered his clothes and dressed. He was reaching for the door when his mother abruptly turned, facing straight in his direction. Xiaohei froze, terrified. He could always say he was off to the restroom down the hall, but his jeans and sneakers would clearly give him away. Ten long seconds passed with no disturbance or sound, and a rattled Xiaohei silently slipped outside, down the stairwell, and out into the freedom of the night.

His first destination was the liquor store, where he purchased a pack of Panda Lights. Walking down an alley, he promptly tore open the wrapper and lit up. To his great delight, the smoke tickled his throat but caused no urge to cough. On the contrary, the nicotine coursing through his veins calmed his senses and added a boost of confidence to his step. He set off down the road to meet up with some new friends—an older group of guys he had met around the neighborhood. They were meeting at one of the many illegal gambling dens that dot Beijing, but it was a far cry from the halls frequented by the business and government elite through which millions of Yuan pass each night. The dilapidated bar off the alley of Guanying road served primarily as a late-night hangout for a few of the many restless and poor young men that populate the city.  It was a good thirty-minute walk from Xiaohei’s dormitory, yet with the help of a few hopped fences and cross-park shortcuts he thought he could shave about ten minutes off. Just when he thought he’d lost the way, his eyes caught the neon green glow of the bar’s Tsingtao Beer sign. Approaching the entrance, he spotted a guy down the alley taking a piss.  The figure turned and a familiar voice called out.

“Xiaohei!” it yelled. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a bottle of baijiu waiting man.” His classmate hurried over and the two disappeared down the stairs and into the bar below. The smell of smoke sweat and cheap grain alcohol seemed to permeate the air and everything else. Objects and people seemed surreal when seen through the filter of cigarette smoke and dim lighting.  It was the type of aura only possible in the seediest of Beijing locales on the hottest of summer nights.

Probably thirty young men crowded the small room. Packed around card tables filled with countless beers and a handful of baijiu bottles, they joked, swore, bragged, and bet.  Xiaohei and his friend navigated through the mess and over to a table near the back wall filled with a few familiar faces. Before he could even say hello, there was a shot of baijiu in Xiaohei’s hand. Seconds later the liquor burned a fiery trail down his throat. The camaraderie of the shared pain heralded the start of the night. Xiaohei had never been gambling before and had only been drunk on a handful of occasions. Tonight he simply planned to watch the games, drink, and smoke with the rest of the guys. It was a raucous time, bringing to mind a few of Old Yan’s stories from the war of liberation. Xiaohei smiled. He was drunk with the excitement of the new, and it didn’t take too many more shots before he was sufficiently intoxicated with alcohol as well. Reality started to blur, but something in Xiaohei felt a little clearer. The night passed by each song, howl, drag, and shot at a time. He settled into the moment.

As the empty cans began to pile up, someone suggested Xiaohei join in the gambling. When he declined, his friends began to nag and joust, yet one taunting voice turned nasty. “You afraid your mama will find out?” he laughed. “You gonna go run back to her tonight before she gets too lonely.” It was a tall cocky kid named Youqi from the neighboring high school. Xiaohei knew of him, but they had never been friendly. On the contrary, they had always been antagonists. While mothers are the brunt of the majority of Beijinger’s jokes and curses, use by anyone other than close friends are almost exclusively fighting words. Xiaohei retaliated with a few insults of his own, and attempted to make his way outside for a cigarette to escape the tension-filled atmosphere. But his taunter followed.

“I guess she has been a little lonely lately. I can only afford her company a few times a week.”

In an automatic reflex, Xiaohei spun around and swung with full force. It was not the smooth swing of a fighter, but awkward—as if unexpected by Xiaohei himself. Still the blow landed straight above the right eye with all of the force Xiaohei could muster and Youqi fell back stunned. The next minute flew by in a blur of adrenaline as blows were exchanged and the bar erupted in commotion. Before too much damage had been done the two were separated. Such disruptions were by no means uncommon among such clientele, and apart from the cursing of the managers, the bar soon settled into its usual state. When Xiaohei finally regained his senses he made his way outside with a friend.  Saying nothing, they both lit cigarettes.

As he exhaled the last puff of smoke, two other friends emerged from the bar. They explained that they had successfully calmed both the bouncers and Youqi. Neither was hurt badly, but Youqi clearly looked the worse off—his eye was already swollen and beginning to bruise from the first punch, while Xiaohei had only a few cuts and bruises. Rattled, Xiaohei thanked them, handed over a few hundred kuai bills, and told them he was heading home.

The flare-up inside tore him from the youthful forgetfulness of the moment. Reality reigned for a second, but the pendulum swung across to a darker place where thoughts and feelings held sway.  At that moment his mother was passed out at home, exhausted from the twelve hours of labor each day that kept them together in Beijing, and yet Xiaohei was off smoking and drinking away the little cash that was left. Overwhelmed with guilt, he made his way home with muscle memory, seeing nothing while lost in his mind. Time, usually so constant and dependable, began to play its tricks. What a short time before been a twenty-minute walk seemed to last for hours.

Just as he was nearing the halfway point, four figures emerged from an alleyway. Xiaohei saw Youqi’s face, then felt the rough texture of concrete scraping his back as he was forced against a wall. He heard the crunch of his nose collapsing beneath the force of a fist. A metal crowbar landed on his arm, bone splintered, and then he felt nothing at all.

When Xiaohei’s eyes opened the intensity of the pain was nauseating. He immediately threw up. A combination of sweat, blood, and stomach fluids drenched his clothes. It took a few minutes to come to, but the dawn of reality only left Xiaohei feeling even more helpless. He had only one choice.

With his still functioning right arm, he pulled out his cell phone and called the only person he could think of in such circumstances. It had been years since they had spoken, but Xiaohei knew this situation was different. No matter the distance between a father and son, in Beijing’s world of reprisal violence and vigilante justice a father always provides a last line of defense.

“If anyone gives you trouble,” his father had told him numerous times as a child, “you come straight to me. No one screws with my son.”

Retribution was the last thing on Xiaohei’s mind. He was lying in the middle of an apartment complex park at four in the morning throbbing with pain and able to move—he needed help. He dialed his father’s number three times before a gruff voice answered.

“Wei? Who is it?” Xiaohei’s jumped up to his knees. He really was there.

“It’s Xiaohei,” he replied, biting his lip.

“Xiaohei? What the hell are you doing calling me in the middle of the night?”

“I’m in trouble,” he hesitated. “I, I need your help.” He wanted to go on, but the words weren’t there. For years had wanted to talk with his father, and that night—of all nights—was the moment when it had to finally happen.

“Where’s your mother?” came the cold reply.

Xiaohei began to break down. “I don’t know where I am. I think I’m in a park.  I mean, I think my arm’s broken. There’s lots of blood. I—I don’t know what happened. In the bar I got into a fight. Then I was walking home, these guys came with weapons. Please, I don’t know what to do. I—” his voice trailed off. Against all of his remaining will, tears began to stream down Xiaohei’s face. He waited.

“You’re eighteen—a  grown man. Is this how that fucking woman raised you? What the hell are you doing screwing around with gangs anyway? Don’t call me again.” The call ended.

Xiaohei stared at the cell phone for a second, then collapsed to the ground as all of his muscles seemed to go limp.

The night sky burned a dull orange as Beijing’s countless tiny lights reflected off of the pollution wrought by the city’s millions of little lives. In a nondescript park somewhere in Haidian district Xiaohei lay bloodied and drunk—but more awake then he had ever been. His tear-filled eyes stared up at the starless yet glowing sky in realization.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel, no destination to run towards.

 Life is like the polluted, imperfect, but somehow—despite it all—still beautiful Beijing night sky. Everything’s all mixed up. Stars and sky, light and darkness, night and day.

What does eighteen mean anyway? Despite his father’s assertions, Xiaohei was born only fifteen years earlier. But then again, it didn’t really matter. He knew these names meant nothing. Fifteen. Eighteen, Twenty. Simply markers along a lifetime of groping through the dark.