I fall back onto the bed again. I guess this means I probably don’t have time for an outing to Miyun with Mom and Andy. Which on the one hand is a relief.
On the other I kind of wanted to do it. For the clean air and all.
The next thing that happens is I hear the chime that tells me I have incoming email.
Honestly, I don’t even want to sit up again. Because it’s probably junk mail, or if it’s relating to the art business, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.
But I do sit up, because I figure I should take one of my fancy shirts to the laundry and see if they can have it ready for me in time for this fancy dinner with another one of Sidney’s insane children. I mean, I have to figure she’s insane, based on my experiences with the family so far.
Whatever. As long as she pays the tab.
I’m not expecting the email that’s landed in my inbox.
“You Cannot Miss This!”
My heart starts to thud, before I even take it all in.
“This is our Pick of the Year! We don’t see this slowing down! We know many of you like momentum!”
Spam, you’d think, right? For some bullshit phony stock. But I’ve gotten this email before. It’s a signal, and I know what it means.
“What do you think?”
My mom hovers near the table, clasping her hands in that way she does when she’s nervous.
“Really good.”
She’s made these spicy eggs with bits of pork belly, chives, and her homemade pico de gallo, stuffed into something that’s a cross between a flatbread like you’d find in Xi’an and a thick corn tortilla.
I’m not lying. In spite of the fact that the last thing on my mind right now is eating, I actually have to stop and savor what she’s made, because it’s delicious.
“I wish I could find more avocado,” she says. “It would be good with some avocado, don’t you think?”
“Everything’s good with avocado.” I shovel more into my mouth.
“It’s not exactly Mexican food, but it’s better than most of what I’ve had here. I don’t understand why you can’t find good tacos. I think Chinese people would like tacos. Andy likes them.”
“Mmm.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. I need to get going. “So I can’t go to Miyun with you guys. Something’s come up. A meeting.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yeah, well, you know. Artists,” I mumble, and I push the rest of the eggs onto my fork with the last piece of flatbread.
“Oh well, I understand.”
“Thing is…” I look up. She’s still standing there with her hands clasped, like she hasn’t moved. I can feel my cheeks reddening, and I’m not sure why. “Can you take Mimi with you? You know, so she can get some fresh air?”
I mean, why should I be embarrassed? Mom and Andy love that dog.
“Sure, we could do that.” She frowns a little. “There really aren’t a lot of places for dogs in Beijing, are there? You’d think with all the dogs here, they’d have a dog park or two.”
“Yeah, well, the whole pet thing is pretty new. Lots of places in China, they still think of dogs as taco stuffing.”
My mom shudders. “I don’t know,” she mutters. “I really do like it here, but… there’re some things I just can’t get used to.”
I shrug. I could say the same thing about anywhere.
I take the subway to the Yonghegong stop and find a coffeehouse south of the Lama Temple, past the gilt-embellished peaked roofs that rise above the red-washed walls. Typical coffee place-menu drawn with multicolored chalk on a blackboard, scarred wood tables, mismatched chairs, curling black-and-white photos of old Beijing and Red Guards stuck up on burlap walls with thumbtacks. The brewed coffee here sucks, so I order an Americano. Get out my new MacBook Air, launch my virtual private network, and open a browser.
The spam stock email was a signal from Lao Zhang, telling me to log on to the Great Community.
No network is safe. Anything on your computer or on the Internet can be accessed. Hacked. I know that. But I at least don’t want to make it easy.
I copy the string of numbers from the bottom of the email that look like random computer gibberish, place it into my browser’s address bar, put periods in the right places, and hit enter.
And find myself on the “Welcome” page of the Great Community.
On a beach, where choppy grey waves crash against the sand, an animation that looks like it was done in brushstrokes. A three-legged dog that barks at an incoming wave. The giant Mao statue, which before was faded and half buried in sand, looks even more battered now, encrusted in barnacles that have climbed up to the top button of its tunic. It’s about to fall over, propped up by the outstretched arm holding a Little Red Book. Farther up the beach, one of the Twin Towers has toppled. The other one sways in the pixel breeze.
It’s a virtual community, a secure environment that Lao Zhang created after he disappeared from Beijing last year, where he could make art, where it was safe to hang out and chat. I don’t know who hosts it, where the servers are, who’s paying for it. Better not to know, right?
At first it was just for the two of us-at least that’s what he told me-but I don’t know if that’s really true. Other people showed up pretty quickly. Other artists and musicians and writers. He kept adding to the place, and so did the newbies, until there was a whole virtual village, with galleries, houses, nightclubs, stores, bizarre sculptures, performance pieces. A safe place to say what you wanted, be who you wanted.
Funny thing is, I never spent all that much time here, especially after it got busy. I never even gave my avatar a cool outfit. Just the same jeans and white T-shirt she was created with. There wasn’t all that much for me to do here, other than chat with Lao Zhang. Some of the concerts were okay, and some of the art, but I wasn’t making any art. Wasn’t playing any music. The Great Community was just another place where I stood around and watched other people do stuff.
I figure I’ll take the path along the cliffs that leads directly to my house. Usually the three-legged dog runs ahead, stopping now and again to wag its tail and bark, until I catch up.
This time the dog does something different. It turns inland, on a different path, the one that leads to the town square.
The last time I was here, there was lots of stuff going on. All kinds of avatars, text boxes popping up faster than I could read them. A poetry reading by a fountain that spouted multicolored sprays of gems, butterflies, stars. A couple of dinosaurs lumbering through the plaza. Who knows why?
Today it’s empty. Hardly anyone here. The fountain is motionless, a pool of standing water. A lone avatar dressed in a samurai outfit stands by a building that looks like a cross between a cathedral and a rocket ship. As I pass, the building suddenly pixelates. Then vanishes. Just like that. Deleted.
The samurai avatar stands there for a moment longer. Then he, too, disappears. Pop. Gone.
I shudder. The real me, I mean. My avatar continues to trot through the deserted town, following the three-legged dog to the path that leads to my house.
The house looks the same.
Same stone house, same wooden deck, same pine trees around it. The orange cat sleeps in a spot of sun by the front door. Purrs when I cross the threshold.
Same as always.
I go inside. The lights come up as usual. I sit my avatar down on the couch facing the wall-size window that looks out over the animated beach.
There’s no time for even the giant goldfish animation before the knock at my door-this script has sound, two hard raps on hollow wood.
I click on the door to open it.
In the Great Community, he’s called Monastery Pig. My friend, Lao Zhang.
yili, ni hao, appears in a text box above his head.
Like me, he never did anything fancy with his avatar. Just cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, and a beanie skullcap-the hat changes, from time to time. I’ve seen him in baseball hats, Mao caps, even in a cowboy hat once. But today it’s the beanie.