Dragon Day Read Online Free Page A
pain most of the time. The Percocet takes the edge off. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? Iâve tried acupuncture. It helps, sometimes. So does exercise, sometimes. Tried smoking pot or hash, which helps, too, but, you know, itâs technically illegal, and with the rising tide of shit Iâm already in . . .
I feel like the little boat thatâs about to get swamped.
I sit in the back of the taxi and tell myself to think about something else. Something that doesnât make my heart pound and me break out in a cold sweat.
Like, what am I going to do when I run out of the Percocet stash that my mom brought me from the States? Thatâs really gonna suck.
Another good reason to leave the country.
If theyâll let me.
I stare out the window at the barely crawling cars on the Third Ring Road, at banks of skinny high-rises, whatever colors they once were bleached by smog, their rusting balconies crowded with laundry.
Well, at least they let me out of that cheap-ass hotel.
Another reason to leave: the fucking construction in my neighborhood.
This big stretch of Jiugulou Dajie is torn up, with temporary walls and those blue-trimmed white construction dorms and giant machinery pounding away at the earth, and I swear I feel like Iâm living inside a fucking drum sometimes. Another subway line thatâs going to hook up with Line 2 at my stop, Gulou, and while Iâm totally in favor of subways, this is really starting to suck. All my favorite snack stands are gone, swept away for no real reason that I can see. I mean, they arenât digging the line down there, I donât thinkâthey just decided to knock a couple blocks down because . . . I donât know why. No one does. Shit like this happens constantly, and you mostly have to guess at the reasons, because no one is going to tell you or ask for your opinion.
âCause if they had, I would have said, Whatever you do, keep that yangrou chuanr guy! He makes the best mutton skewers in Beijing! I used to love to watch him work, carefully dusting the chunks of meat with red spices, rotating them just so, and it was good meat, not some tiny, gristly hunks of who-the-fuck-knows-what animal. It was weird, because he was so into it, so happy doing this simple thing, it seemed like. I would stand there sometimes, waiting for my skewers, wanting to ask him, So whatâs the secret of life? Because I was pretty sure he had the answer. Something to do with taking pride in doing simple things well or some bullshit like that.
Now heâs gone, and I donât know where. I never had a chance to ask. No warning. I just walked down the street one day and all those guys were goneâall the stands in front of grey old hutong buildings, all those blackened metal grills, the little signs for chuanr made from tiny red lights on twisted wire frames. The old buildings, too. All gone. Replaced by temporary metal fencing, with slapped-on billboard murals of high-speed trains and the Temple of Heaven.
Fuck this, I think, unlocking my apartment door. If I canât sell Lao Zhangâs artwork, Iâm not going to make enough money to pay for this place anyway.
Thereâs an explosion of happy barks and yips. My dog, Mimi.
I open the door and sheâs dancing around: a medium-size, long-haired yellow dog with a dark muzzle and a feathered tail. She sees me and puts her paws up on my hips, but gently, looks up at me with this Omigod, I love you more than anything ! expression.
She needs a walk. I can tell. And in spite of the fact that thereâs major serious shit I need to deal with, in spite of the fact that what I really want to do is drink two or three large Yanjing Drafts (because thatâs what it takes to get any kind of buzz off the weak-ass beer here), what I decide to do is take the dog for a walk.
First things first, right?
We walk around the hutongs behind the Bell Tower a little while, past the community
I feel like the little boat thatâs about to get swamped.
I sit in the back of the taxi and tell myself to think about something else. Something that doesnât make my heart pound and me break out in a cold sweat.
Like, what am I going to do when I run out of the Percocet stash that my mom brought me from the States? Thatâs really gonna suck.
Another good reason to leave the country.
If theyâll let me.
I stare out the window at the barely crawling cars on the Third Ring Road, at banks of skinny high-rises, whatever colors they once were bleached by smog, their rusting balconies crowded with laundry.
Well, at least they let me out of that cheap-ass hotel.
Another reason to leave: the fucking construction in my neighborhood.
This big stretch of Jiugulou Dajie is torn up, with temporary walls and those blue-trimmed white construction dorms and giant machinery pounding away at the earth, and I swear I feel like Iâm living inside a fucking drum sometimes. Another subway line thatâs going to hook up with Line 2 at my stop, Gulou, and while Iâm totally in favor of subways, this is really starting to suck. All my favorite snack stands are gone, swept away for no real reason that I can see. I mean, they arenât digging the line down there, I donât thinkâthey just decided to knock a couple blocks down because . . . I donât know why. No one does. Shit like this happens constantly, and you mostly have to guess at the reasons, because no one is going to tell you or ask for your opinion.
âCause if they had, I would have said, Whatever you do, keep that yangrou chuanr guy! He makes the best mutton skewers in Beijing! I used to love to watch him work, carefully dusting the chunks of meat with red spices, rotating them just so, and it was good meat, not some tiny, gristly hunks of who-the-fuck-knows-what animal. It was weird, because he was so into it, so happy doing this simple thing, it seemed like. I would stand there sometimes, waiting for my skewers, wanting to ask him, So whatâs the secret of life? Because I was pretty sure he had the answer. Something to do with taking pride in doing simple things well or some bullshit like that.
Now heâs gone, and I donât know where. I never had a chance to ask. No warning. I just walked down the street one day and all those guys were goneâall the stands in front of grey old hutong buildings, all those blackened metal grills, the little signs for chuanr made from tiny red lights on twisted wire frames. The old buildings, too. All gone. Replaced by temporary metal fencing, with slapped-on billboard murals of high-speed trains and the Temple of Heaven.
Fuck this, I think, unlocking my apartment door. If I canât sell Lao Zhangâs artwork, Iâm not going to make enough money to pay for this place anyway.
Thereâs an explosion of happy barks and yips. My dog, Mimi.
I open the door and sheâs dancing around: a medium-size, long-haired yellow dog with a dark muzzle and a feathered tail. She sees me and puts her paws up on my hips, but gently, looks up at me with this Omigod, I love you more than anything ! expression.
She needs a walk. I can tell. And in spite of the fact that thereâs major serious shit I need to deal with, in spite of the fact that what I really want to do is drink two or three large Yanjing Drafts (because thatâs what it takes to get any kind of buzz off the weak-ass beer here), what I decide to do is take the dog for a walk.
First things first, right?
We walk around the hutongs behind the Bell Tower a little while, past the community
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