“You think that’s the reality?”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “I hope so… What about you? What’s your dream?”
“Mine?” I thought about it. “My life here in China, being with you — it all feels like a dream. I don’t want it to ever end.”
“Then don’t wake up,” she said.
The workout gave her an appetite, and she devoured our dinner.
The next day, she had a new rule. “You have to sit while you play.”
I sat down. “What about you?”
“Of course I get to stand,” she said.
She gave me a good beating as usual.
Afterwards, I told her, “Congratulations.”
“You’re too easy. I think I need to find better competition.”
“Are you talking trash to me?” I asked, laughing.
She looked over at me, a worried glint crossing her eyes. “Okay, rematch.”
“What’s the rule this time?” I asked.
“Whoever makes a basket, we both get a point.”
“But then no one wins.”
“Actually, it means we both win,” she said. “Now c’mon, I’ll let you take out.”
The Wolf’s Choice
I.
v=Hd was the equation for the rate at which galaxies sped away from one another, the H standing for Hubble’s Constant, the v, for the vapid volume of velocity. The third variable was d, representing distance, the diametrical disposition of difference. And somehow, these three digits summarized the universe into a trinity of letters, simplicity exemplified. It struck me, when I first learned the variables, how it would have taken a thousand times more energy to resist change than to accept it.
I’d spent eight months wandering through the honeycomb of Asia, shifty Bangkok, grand Beijing, contemporary Shanghai, futuristic Tokyo, all convicted in the nexus of modernization and unshackled faith. I was adrift, tugged and pulled by the gravity of solitude, a festering hunger driving me like a relentless martinet.
“When did you get so afraid of loneliness?” May, my ex, had asked a month before I left. “You used to love being by yourself.”
She always talked about the beginning of time, the constant motion of the universe.
“Everything in life is us trying to reproduce that first moment,” she said. “That frenzy of unsustainable energy exploding into a billion directions.”
Was she trying to reproduce that moment when she poured Drano into her coffee? She melted her esophagus and stomach, bombarded her entrails with acid and left as the shell of a dead star. I became an imago mired in puberty, a roach who woke up one morning and found he’d metamorphosed into a human.
When I returned to my workplace in the States, I’d overcome the manifestation of my inner turbulence. In the hospitals of Seoul, I’d cut my cheeks, reshaped my nose, incinerated my brows, elevated my chin. When I first took off the bandages, I thought the doctors had pulled a joke on me: I couldn’t see any difference. Only after I compared my mirrored image with old photos from two months before my convalescence could I see how much I’d actually changed.
My first day back, several colleagues entered my cubicle, about to welcome me when they stopped, confused by my appearance. “Did Keith move seats?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s me, Keith.”
There was a momentary pause followed by uncomfortable glances.
“How come you look completely different?”
“I had plastic surgery.”
“What?”
I explained in more detail. They weren’t sure how to respond, staring at me for a long time, leaving as quickly as decorum would allow. For the next few days, everyone responded similarly, discomfited by my transformation. My actions didn’t help the situation: I withdrew completely, unable to take part in their subtle machinations against one another, the politicking of leverage and advancement as cubicled alphas rammed each other over email.
I thought I could find solace with my family.
“How could you change the face you were born with? It’s a disgrace,” my dad said.
“I needed change in my life.”
“By cutting up your face!”
“…”
“Look, your mother is having a really difficult time dealing with this. We’ll talk later.”
My younger brother called me an attention whore who’d betrayed all my values. “Don’t send me any pictures!” he shouted. “I don’t wanna see the freak you’ve become.” He and my mother held prayer vigils for my soul, calling members of their congregation to help me find my way back.
Back when I was getting surgery, they ran a psychological profile to make sure I was mentally fit. One of the questions was, What is heaven like? I told them about a dream I had, a big throng of people from all different religions having gone to hell. We were outraged because we didn’t know which religion was right and we wanted to know what happened. A horrendously disfigured monster came down and said, ‘You just left Heaven.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hell is a factory to make Heaven — Earth — and we spend millions of years building it so we can live there. Before we go back, our memory gets wiped so we can forget the suffering we endured here. But we always end up destroying it so we get sent back to build a new heaven.’
Surprisingly, the doctor found the answer refreshing. “When do you want to start?” he asked.
II.
I was a programmer for an online game where everyone got to play as a customizable plant. Our company did well and a big publisher purchased us about a year ago. Immediately, they looked for ways to reduce costs while my supervisors started training candidates from the India and China branches. “We’re training our replacements,” they sarcastically commented, then taught them everything they knew.
Traveling through Asia, I saw the inevitability of the shift towards an Eastern labor force, their hunger and passion blazingly palpable despite working at a tenth of our cost. I found it difficult to attend meetings and engage in bullshit jargon to raise declining morale. What was the point, when it was all going to be outsourced anyway? My supervisors sensed my negativity, stuttered directions awkwardly, their eyes peeking furtively at the contours of my re-sculpted nose.
It took them seven weeks to garner the courage to tell me they were making ‘cutbacks.’ And even then, they sent their lackeys to do the dirty work.
“We love your work, but we can’t afford to keep you,” the thin red-haired HR girl named Nikki told me.
“It’s okay,” I answered.
“Thanks for understanding. Here’s all your documents… Hey, I have a strange question.”
“Yeah?”
“I feel terrible about this whole situation. How about I take you out for a drink?”
“Excuse me?”
She shook her head. “Forget it,” she said, embarrassed.
“No no. I… I’m free.”
“Really?” she sparked up.
Nikki was tall with sapphire eyes, a gait filled with frivolity and taut sensuality. She was known for her elaborate dresses, her flashy business suits that vaunted as much flesh as they hid. Lightly freckled with flaring lashes, there was an exotic intangibility in her aura, a riveting sheath that could blind and tantalize.
“Let’s meet at 6:30.”
I went back to my desk, packed up. Even though I’d expressed nonchalance during my termination, I was disappointed no one came by to say farewell. I headed down to the underground parking lot with my belongings. Waiting by the valet, there was an elderly male with grizzled hair, a gold tooth, and suspenders for his white collar shirt. He had ruddy cheeks and a pimple on his nose. I recognized him as one of our vice presidents.