Village Hustler

10/8/2012

Dear reader,

I thought his name was “Red Happiness.” I had forgotten that the locals change the “h” sound into an “f”. It’s a shame, too, because his name would have been quite auspicious, combining China’s beloved color with a common character for luck and joy. I tell him of my disappointment and Hong Hu chuckles. He prepares for his next shot by extending the thin stick and balancing between his index and middle finger. The yellow light coming from the single light bulb overhead is enough to spotlight the table in the dark. Bending down to the level of the pool table, he eyes the cue ball for his next shot. The imaginary line has already been calculated with a well-practiced mind. The balls ricochet and the proper ball is sunk.

The quality of the table would make any pub owner cry. More than a few flecks of paint have peeled away from the wooden edges, while the green tapestry has been rudely upholstered in some places. The rest of the thin material rests loosely above the bumpy concrete. The entire table itself is stabilized by coarse and molding planks of wood shoved underneath its legs. Pool accessories, like the triangle rack and divoted blue chalk, are missing entirely. So are, I realize after too long of a time, the one, two, three, and four ball. Still, the remaining balls on the table are at Hong Hu’s unhesitating command.

Dingzhe.

I watch in slight awe as the cue ball comes to a sudden and complete rest, while the other ball rockets into the pocket, banging the edge of the cup rim. The game had started out of curiosity on my part, and a polite invitation on his. I knew better than to believe his modest claim that he does not play very well or very often. Yet, his skill was better than I had expected. I clutch my own stick at the nearby wall, watching Hong Hu line up his next shot.

Certainly, he is no Paul Newman as The Hustler: his couple mess-ups and extra blub around his stomach area tell otherwise. But his brown leather knock-off jacket and spiky hair, coupled with his calm demeanor, helps him pull off the same smooth-and-suave look nicely. Our game is finished in a few shots, in favor of Hong Hu. Unsurprised, we collect the balls back to the center of the table. Hong Hu takes his arms and forms an even triangle, moving the set of balls to the proper spot on the table. He lines up the cue ball and breaks, starting up our second game.

We talk sparsely, in-between shots. His accent is hard for me to understand. He mostly asks questions about America; had I ever seen Michael Jordan play basketball, what was the average salary, do I like to take pictures, could I be in a picture with him. We smile and a colleague helps take the photo. I pick up the obvious about him: he does not live with his parents and he likes photos. And, of course, the fact that he has a well-practiced hand at shooting pool.

The game has shifted away from the original competition. Instead, Hong Hu sets aside his stick and directs my shots. Like a coach, he aligns my pool stick along the table, point with a finger to a spot on the cue ball. I take my aim and shoot. The ball drops in the pocket effortlessly. He smiles congratuatorily at me. With that shot, it is clear that the game has been abandoned. Knowing that Hong Hu would have won if we had continued becomes an unimportant fact about our playing pool. He moves to my side and demonstrates how to hit two balls such that one shoots forward, while the other remains still after its collision. I try and the two balls fall into the pocket. He jogs around to the other side and takes the two balls, re-aligns them, and I bend down for my second try. This time I succeed. He moves the balls and has me shoot from different angles, off different edges. I’ve long forgotten that the table has high bumps and that it is resting on molding wooden planks.

When my colleague and I decide to leave for the night, I mean it when I tell him that I had a good time. He smiles back without so much of a pause and invites to play again some other time. He stands, weight shifted to one side, pool stick in his left hand. I figure that if he isn’t some short, tan, Chinese Paul Newman, he is Dachaoshan’s own smooth-and-suave hustler.

-Fran

The son of a pig butcher

10/6/2012

Dear reader,

Wo sha zhu.

Dragon’s father is neither smiling nor unsmiling as he speaks. His tone is bland and matter-of-fact: I kill pigs. I survey him intently. There is a gap in the top row of his tobacco-stained teeth and the brown of his lips blend in with the deep tan of his cheeks. His black hair looks unkempt and has a sheen that indicates it has not been washed for a couple days. The checkered flannel and grey pants he is wearing are caked with Yunnan red dust, just as are his legs and bare feet. I look back up at his face and meet his quiet, dark brown gaze. Around the whites of his eyes, his crinkled skin makes him look about fifty, even though I know he is only thirty-nine. My Shanghainese colleague continues with the conversation.

Sha zhu ni bu hai pa ma?

He shakes his head slowly, but cleanly, from one side to the other.

Oh.

His answer is so direct that I do not know how to react. Is it so simple a thing, I think silently, to kill a pig? A momentary quietness hangs over the wet, cool air. The concrete room has no windows. I shift my cramping knees to the side in a more comfortable position. Although I had forgotten, my legs had remembered an hour in this jiafang—house visit—had already passed. Dragon comes in from outside with a bowl of unopened walnuts, freshly steamed peanuts, and an unpeeled cucumber. He offers them to us, bowing his head and speaking quietly. Duo chi yidian. Please eat some. The snacks are typical and not elaborate—a sign that the family is lacking financially. After thanking him and taking some of the walnuts, Dragon exits. As I look at his back, I find it is hard to remember that this shy and polite boy had already been in two fights since the semester had begun a month earlier.

Ni shenme shihou mai nage zhu rou? When do you sell the pork?

Gan jie. At the Farmer’s Market.

As I make a mental note to seek him out the next time I wander through the one-day maze of make-shift tents, something moves suddenly behind me. I turn to confront an old man, of whose back is stooped over, gnarled hands clasped on top. He walks past our table and squats on a short stool about two arm lengths away. I guess that the visitor is Dragon’s grandfather. He looks at us and says nothing. I also say nothing.

In the quiet spaces of the conversation, my mind drifts. This jiafang was not chosen without tact or purpose. As his banzhuren, the class monitor, my colleague was interested to find out more about Dragon’s family and study habits. We ask any question that might provide a glimpse of his development. What was he like in elementary school? What does he do at home? What does he like to eat? Who are his friends? Does he have a brother? A sister? Cousins? What is his financial situation? How long does he study? What does he do on weekends? What is his grandfather like Where is his grandmother? And who is his mother? His father?…

Being in this kitchen area, sitting on his family’s short stool, watching as the light in the room fades as the sun goes down, I wonder how days and years have passed for Dragon. To be honest with myself, I can barely even guess. And this is not because this chufang is missing a refrigerator decorated with childhood drawings, soccer team pictures, handcrafted magnets, family photos or other mementos— most places in Big Dynasty Mountain are lacking those things. It is also not because, as I later find, his room is lacking many of the similar signs that this boy grew up here for the past twelve years. Actually, we know a lot about him and his family. Clips of information have come from his parents numerous dealings with the school. His grandmother has passed away, his father is without a stable job, their income is low to none, his older brother is without a stable job, he’s had more than a couple fighting incidents before at the elementary school…But, of course, I cannot take these clips of what I know of this rural Chinese middle school student and piece them together like some ultimate identity-jigsaw puzzle.

Dou di zhu?

I suddenly find myself face to face with Dragon. It only takes a moment to reel myself back to smile warmly and reply: Hao. Wo ye daizhe puke. Sure. I even brought cards. My hand is already reaching into my bag and pulling out the cards. Dragon rubs his hands together excitedly and pulls over a stool to the table. We quickly make the rules: loser has to teach the other two something in another language. I select Spanish, while my colleague promises Shanghainese. We cajole Dragon into teaching us some phrases in the local dialect. The rules are set and the cards are dealt. It is the first one-on-one interaction that I have had with Dragon. The three of us smile competitively, albeit a little shyly, with one another. Although I only have a half-decent hand to start, I feel like I cannot ask for more at this beginning.

-Fran