Breakfast Pest

No minikin that! On my table a thin imp, barely an inch, stood barbecuing a midge. He’d kindled some twigs, held the midge on a long sliver.

“How did you light that fire?”

“I’m an imp. Fire’s a given.”

“You’ll singe my wood finish.”

“So try to dislodge me. See how it goes.”

A glint in his tiny lizard eyes.

I sighed. I rose and limped to the kitchen. Not for a stick, but to fix coffee.

Truth is, the last imp put a crimp in my hip.

Last Pings

His phone pings on the bed next to him. It’s 2 a.m. and it hasn’t pinged in at least an hour. Odd really.

He finishes reading the page he’s on, puts down the book, and reluctantly reaches for the device. He activates the screen, enters his code, but before he can see what the ping was he’s asked for the 27th time if he wants to “finish setting up” his new iPhone. As he’s not given the choice “No, and don’t ask again” he has to click “Not Now”.

The message that caused the ping tells him the water reservoir on the dehumidifier in the other room is full. His old dehumidifier had a little yellow light that appeared on top when the water was full. He’d notice when entering the room and empty it. But that machine broke down weeks ago. He had to get a new one, and the new ones notify by message.

He decides to go empty the dehumidifier, because it’s humid in fact, it’s always humid. He knew this before taking the job in Houston, but yeah, he kind of didn't know it.

After emptying the dehumidifier, since he’s already at the bathroom sink, he figures he might as well brush his teeth and call it a night.

He reaches for his toothbrush, which at the last instant he remembers is a new toothbrush. He groans as he picks it up. Of course it has a safety casing around the bristles. The little screen lights up along the handle: “Activate your new Dentbright Toothbrush?” He clicks “Okay”. It instructs him to download the App. He trudges back to the bed and gets his phone, activates the screen, enters his code, clicks “Not Now” to finish setting up his new iPhone, then searches for dentbright.com.

He downloads the App, and after entering his code again, he can open the App. He gives Dentbright his email, creates a password, opens his email for the verification code, then goes back to the App to enter the verification code. He clicks “Set Up New Toothbrush”, then scrolls down to find his model. He clicks the icon. The connection is suddenly bad so he scrambles over to the nearest window, stubbing his toe against a desk leg in the dark. The icon for his model activates, his phone slowly connects to his new Dentbright toothbrush, and the handle says “Unlock safety casing now?” He clicks “Okay”, the casing lock clicks open, and he takes off the casing and tosses it to the floor, putting his phone on the bathroom sink.

While he’s brushing his teeth the phone pings. He rinses his mouth, puts the toothbrush in his glass, picks up the phone, activates the screen, enters his code, clicks “Not Now” to finish setting up his new iPhone, gets to the message that caused the ping, which it turns out came from Dentbright: “How do you like your new Dentbright toothbrush?”

Since he’s not given the choice “Fuck off already” he clicks “Satisfied” and puts the phone back down on the bathroom sink.

Before finally going to bed he needs to piss, so he steps over to the toilet, which gives a little chirp and says “Welcome back!”

He stands for a few seconds in the dim light, the toilet now silent. He feels the coolness of the floor tiles passing into the soles of his bare feet. He relaxes his muscles and begins to piss. He’s tired in fact. He closes his eyes as the urine streams into the bowl.

In mid-piss his phone pings, causing his body to jerk slightly in irritation, the stream of piss now spraying past the edge of the toilet bowl onto the floor.

He groans and reaches for a handful of tissue. He starts to lean down to wipe up the small puddle when his phone pings again.

He stands up straight, tossing the tissue in the direction of the puddle. The tissue misses. He steps back to the sink, looks at himself in the mirror. He stands there. Looking. Then he grabs his new iPhone which has not been completely “set up” and bounces it sharply off the tile floor, splintering the screen into a spiderweb pattern. Picking up the phone, he tosses it into the toilet bowl. The toilet says “Flush now?” but he ignores it.

Stepping back to the sink, he grabs the new Dentbright toothbrush, twists it into an L-shape, and tosses it into the bowl with the phone. The toilet says “Flush now?”

He reaches behind the toilet, pulls loose the plastic casing and yanks out the wires that power it.

He strides back toward the bedroom, passing the dehumidifier. Then he stops, turns back to the dehumidifier, unplugs it, hoists it up, and smashes it against the wall. As the machine crashes to the floor he hears someone mutter in protest in the apartment next door.

He finally returns to his bed, clicks off the light, and lies in the dark, his heart racing. He thinks about his job, about Rachel. He thinks about how when he gets up in seven hours everything—yes, everything—is going to be different.

* * *

Check out Idiocy, Ltd. and begin the long, hard reckoning.

An Unwelcome Guest

I’d been in the apartment a little more than six months. Centrally located but quiet, well-furnished, 7th floor. Perfect for me. There were enough small takeout restaurants nearby that I didn’t have to cook much, and the bar scene was just right. I even got the idea that the apartment had a certain feng shui that helped me with the women. Since moving in, I’d brought home many, something that had seemed harder in my previous place.

Of course it was sheer superstition about the feng shui. The women I brought back--they hadn’t yet seen the building when they stumbled with me out of this or that bar. So how could the building be working on them in my favor?

No matter. With a new job and new digs, staying fit at a gym round the corner, women like never before, I finally felt set up in this new city. It had taken awhile, but the town was starting to seem right.

During my fourth month in the apartment something odd happened. A girl I’d brought home, Maureen was her name, had dragged herself from my bed at about three a.m. to find something to drink in my fridge. I was in bed, asleep, when she began to scream in the kitchen. Startled awake and stumbling from the bedroom, I saw she’d switched on the kitchen light and stood against the wall, frozen.

“What’s wrong?”

“You … you …” she began.

“What? What happened?”

“There’s someone in your fridge! Your father! He glared at me. He’s in your fucking fridge!”

Her eyes were wild. She was screaming, unhinged. She'd wake the neighbors, and probably already had.

For a minute I didn’t know what to do. Like everyone, I’d had to deal with nut cases now and then, but this was different. Once her words really sunk in—I was buzzed and half asleep—I thought either someone must have put something in her drink at the bar, or the girl was a full-fledged psycho.

“You think my father is in my fridge?”

“He said he was your father!”

“But … it’s impossible!”

There flashed through my mind the trouble I might be in—that she’d somehow accuse me. Just recently there’d been a widely reported case in town of a rich young perv who’d been slipping date rape drugs in aspiring models’ drinks. That guy was headed to jail.

I tried to calm her down.

“Listen. There’s no one in the fridge. Just think about it. It’s impossible.”

“I saw him.”

“My father lives a thousand miles away. You must have been sleepwalking or dreaming.”

“He’s there! I saw him.”

“But it’s impossible. Think about it... Here. I’ll show you.”

I stepped toward the refrigerator door.

“No! Don’t you open it! He’s … horrible.”

She was blinking, breathing unevenly. She did look drugged. What was I going to do?

“Okay,” I said. “But my father doesn’t even live in this town, much less in a fridge. Don’t you realize what you’re saying is literally impossible? Just try to be calm, think it through. It’s the middle of the night. Come back to bed. We can talk about it.”

“You’re sick!” she yelled at me, really angry this time. “I can’t stay here. This is SICK.”

She scampered past me to the bedroom.

“Where’s the light switch!” she yelled.

I went and turned it on for her. She dressed quickly, muttering curses as she did, then rushed back to the living room and grabbed her bag.

I followed her to door, tried to say something to calm her down, but it was no use. She slammed it on the way out.

It took me awhile to get back to sleep, but that I finally did made me feel a little proud of myself. I got in a good three or four hours before work. No use letting a psycho ruin my night and the whole next day. And as for trouble, if she was going to cause any, I’d just have to deal with it. I’d done nothing illegal.

Two days passed without any appearance from the police. I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis over.

Then one evening about two months after Maureen's fit I was putting a styrofoam carton of takeout pasta in the fridge when something pinkish caught my eye. It was in one of the door racks. I reached down to fish it out.

It seemed to be half of a set of dentures—the top half. What the fuck? It looked real enough, but was too small, about a third the size normal adult dentures would be. Was it maybe a denture made for a kid? Or a toy? But why was it in my fridge?

I took it and sat on the sofa near the lamp, to look it over more carefully. I thought back to the state of the refrigerator when I’d moved in. In fact there’d been a few items from the previous tenant: some condiment jars, a few drink bottles. Had I maybe not noticed the denture when I cleaned them out?

Then it hit me. Looming up like a wall, solid and white, menacing: the memory of that night with Maureen.

I put the denture on the coffee table, then picked it up again. Then put it back down. With a tightness in my throat, I went back to the fridge and stood staring at its closed beige door.

Then I had to laugh at myself, at how absurd it was.

I went and looked at the toy denture again. But it didn't seem to be a toy. And really: Why was it in my refrigerator?

I finally opened the refrigerator and peered in, scanning the spaces, the shelves. Drinks, white plastic bags of uneaten takeout. It was a mess. I swung the trash bin out from under the sink and, my heart starting to pound, began to empty the top shelf where most of the takeout was. Toward the back of the shelf I noticed an empty white bag stretched lengthwise, covering something. I seized the corner of the bag and yanked it off.

There he lay, on his side, blinking.

“Okay, okay!” he snapped suddenly. “It is what it is. I like the cold. What are you gonna do about it?”

I’d recoiled four or five steps, eyes trying to take it in. It was impossible.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he repeated.

“What the FUCK!” I yelled. “What the fuck is THIS?”

“This is this,” he said, glaring at me with beady black eyes. "It is what it is."

He wore what looked like a threadbare hospital gown. He was nearly bald. Shriveled in an unnatural way. From head to toe he seemed a bit over two feet. An obscene doll.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you?”

“Oh as if that's …” he began. Then: “And who are you—if it comes to that?”

“This is my apartment. I’m renting it. How long have you been in here?”

“Not quite sure.”

“You told a girl you were my father!”

“I didn’t want to scare her. She caught me awake.”

“You didn’t want to scare her?! You think finding a shriveled man in a fridge in the middle of the night is not going to scare the shit out of someone!”

“Well … I did my best.”

“FUCK!” I yelled, stepping closer to the open door.

“Yes, that’s the way. Get it off your chest.”

“Off my chest? FUCK! This is ABSURD. How did you even get in here?”

“I’ve been in here a while. I like the cold.”

“But ... why my fridge? You should be dead in there. Are you in there all the time?”

“I'm not dead. And I think I told you," he said sarcastically, "I like the cold. It helps me sleep.”

“You should be dead! You’re in a fucking refrigerator!”

“But I’m not. I can hibernate. Since I was young. I can do it. I think I’m part bear. Hah! Funny, hey?”

He made a kind of pirouette move with his hand, as if to punctuate the joke.

I was frantic. I began to pace a bit, still keeping my eyes on him.

“How old are you?” I demanded.

“I don’t keep track. It’s better that way. Sometimes I’m out cold three, four days. So as for months and years, who knows?”

“Fuck!”

“C’mon now. Let’s just keep things simple here. We can just get along. It’s no skin off your back. I only nibble a bit of your chow now and then. Couple times a month I figure. What’s it to you?”

I winced, unsure whether I was feeling nausea from the thought, or whether it was the impossibility of the whole thing.

“NO,” I finally said.

“Just be a good sort now and put my bag back over me and close the door. The light bothers my eyes. C’mon, then,” he coaxed.

“NO! Fuck!”

“What?”

“You are OUT OF HERE.”

From the floor where I'd dropped it I snatched up the bag he’d been using as a sheet. I wrapped it round my right hand so I could seize hold of him. I didn’t want to have to touch him.

“No no no!” he started, covering his face with his hands. “Just take it easy here! There's no reason to … ”

I moved closer and began to reach in toward him.

“I’ll bite you!” he barked. “I’ll bite you good!”

“I have your dentures,” I said, feeling more confident.

“You only have the top one! I’ll bite you! I swear!”

Lunging forward, I got my hand round one of his deformed little legs. He twisted himself round to make good on his threat. I yanked him out of the fridge in a single swoop.

I held him up in the air, upside down. He was screaming and writhing, trying to grab my arm to bite me. Holding him out away from me, I got to the apartment door and managed to open it. I swung him out onto the hallway floor, far enough that he wouldn’t have time to scurry back. I slammed and bolted the door.

Cussing, heart racing, I retreated to the living room. I stood glaring for a while at the locked door. He didn’t knock, didn’t make a sound. I heard nothing in the hallway.

I needed to get my wits about me. It was all too much. A hibernating imp!

I sat back on the sofa, trying to think. Then: “My dentures,” I heard through the door.

I didn’t reply.

“My dentures!” he said a little louder. “C’mon. Be a sport.”

To be done with the whole thing, to get him to leave, I took the dentures to the door, unbolted and opened it just an inch, then flicked them through the crack near the floor. I heard them drop against the hallway tile just before reslamming the door.

“Aw, you could've broke ‘em!” he whined.

“Go away!” I yelled.

I stood listening for movement, but heard nothing. A few minutes passed. He made no more noise from outside.

A half hour later I decided to go out myself and look around, to be sure he was gone. I didn’t find him in the hallway, nor on the stairs going down (he was too short to use the elevator) nor anywhere near the building’s main entrance. I scanned both ways down the street. Nothing.

All this happened a week ago. There have been no problems since. I did clean out and disinfect my fridge. And I called my father. His new girlfriend has gotten him into mushroom hunting.

"I really like it," he said. "It's dangerous. You could poison yourself."

E.M.

Check out my Idiocy, Ltd. and begin the long, hard reckoning.

歐巴桑偷了我的雨傘 (Or: Obasan Steals Umbrella, Meets Karma)

Obasan!
I was sitting atop a cement traffic pylon near a busy intersection here in Taipei. It was just before class and I was smoking one of my mini-cigars before going in to teach. I had my umbrella leaning against the pylon--not a very good umbrella, the handle kept coming off and I needed to get a new one when I had the chance.

A well-dressed 60-something woman came by with her little caramel-colored dog on a pink leash. The dog was sniffing the base of the pylon and I was thinking: “This obasan is NOT going to let her dog piss on the pylon while I’m sitting on it.”

I was wrong of course. The dog started pissing, and the stream of piss was just missing my umbrella. I didn’t look at the woman, but kept my eye on the dog to let her know I saw how rude she was being.

And the dog, no more than a foot tall, just kept up its pissing. The piss flowed voluminously, almost amazing for such a small dog, until a broad puddle had formed just under me.

Then the woman went her way.

As I stood up to go, not a minute later, my leg hit the umbrella and it fell flat into the puddle. Oh, well. I decided just to leave it there.

I crossed the street and went into a little bakery to get something small to eat. I hadn’t had time for dinner. As I came out, there was the woman circling back with her dog. She looked at my umbrella lying in the piss, then looked round her a few times to see if I was still nearby, then reached down carefully to pick up the umbrella. She’d decided to take it!

Pulling a few sheets of tissue from her high-end, oversized purse, she began to wipe the piss off the umbrella. I watched her from the shade of the awning across the street. When she was done wiping off the piss, she continued on her way, heading home with her dog and my umbrella.

But she carried the umbrella by its handle. And the handle came off in her hand, the umbrella itself dropping to the ground.

Surprised, she glanced round her again, to see if anyone was watching, then looked down at the umbrella at her feet. Finally, in a gesture of frustration, she tossed the handle down next to it. She continued walking home.

Very obasan!

E.M.

My Porn

If you live in a foreign country for any number of years, you are certain to offend people. And the more distant the culture is from yours, the more frequent your offenses will be. There’s really no getting round this. You can use your own language, their language, or a mix of both, but every couple months, in one context or other, you’ll set someone to muttering curses at you under their breath.

Just today, here in Taipei where I live and teach as an expat, I ran into Daniel, a student I’d taught five years ago when he was a senior in high school. I was waiting for a traffic light, and noticed a young man on the sidewalk a few paces away, staring at me gravely but not moving. I finally recognized it was my ex-student. I said Hi to him, he loosened up a bit, and told me he’d just graduated with a degree in finance. I wished him well on his job hunt, but explained that I had to run as I was late for my class. As I stepped away from him to cross the street, I couldn’t help chuckling to myself, wondering if he still remembered the terrible insult I'd delivered him when he was my student.

Given his initial glare as we waited for the light, I was guessing he did remember.

The insult, as usual, was an accident, actually more his fault than mine.

Back in the days when I taught him, Daniel was known in our school for two things. First, he was obsessed with magic. Rather than prepare for exams or finish homework, he spent free time before class performing magic tricks for the other students (who then likewise couldn’t finish their homework). I’d come into the classroom and Daniel would be at the front, in the middle of some trick.

“Uh, sorry,” he’d say, and sit down.

Second, Daniel was hopelessly smitten by a classmate at his high school, a girl who rejected his love and now and then left him visibly on the verge of tears. When Daniel had no one to watch his magic tricks, he could often be found sitting in a funk, staring at the floor or wringing his hands. None of us at our English institute knew who this mystery girl was; we only knew she was ruining his life.

In short, I knew Daniel as a budding teenage magician whose tricks did nothing to sway the unknown beauty he loved and whose picture he refused to show us.

How then did the insult happen?

One day after class, Daniel came up to me at the front of the room to show me a copy of a copy-shop printed magazine. He opened it to a certain page and pointed at a simple line drawing of a girl in a miniskirt on a park bench, sitting in what was supposed to be a seductive pose. There were some lines in Chinese next to the drawing.

“Teacher, this is my porn,” Daniel announced weirdly, pointing at the page.

I thought the drawing wasn’t very good, and as for porn, it didn’t even count. But Daniel was waiting for my reaction.

“Hm,” I said after looking at it for awhile. “That’s pretty bad porn. I feel sorry for you.”

I remember that his face went red at these words, and he clenched his fist, ready to punch me. But since the students had been raucous during class, and Daniel was something of a performer, I thought he was just joking, so I laughed and walked away.

Ten minutes later, after Daniel left for the night, my colleague Erica was putting away papers next to my desk.

“Poor Daniel,” she said. “He’s really totally in love with that girl. He thinks about nothing else.”

“Nothing else except magic,” I said. “Anyhow, suffering is good for art, so maybe he’ll end up being a great magician.”

“Did he show you his poem?” she asked.

And then it hit me. What Daniel had tried to show me wasn’t the lame line drawing of the girl, but the Chinese lines next to it, which I hadn’t bothered to read, and which were obviously a love poem he’d written. And the book he’d shown me must have been his school’s literary magazine, in which he was declaring to the world his true love for the girl. And when Daniel had said to me “This is my porn,” what he really was trying to say was “This is my poem.” So that, from Daniel’s point of view, our brief exchange had gone like this:

“Teacher, this is my poem [which I wrote for that girl I love].”

Teacher reads through poem, says: “Hm, that’s a pretty bad poem. I feel sorry for you.”

Student is mortally insulted, wants to stand up for himself and his love, wonders if he should punch teacher.

But before he makes up his mind, the teacher laughs in his face in front of the whole class, and walks away.

It was all so sad. I knew I’d have to explain to Daniel what had really happened the next time he came to class. But in fact, that night was the last time he ever came. It was end of semester, and he wasn’t taking summer classes.

Though this particular insult was mostly the fault of Daniel's poor pronunciation, I know for a fact I’ve also offended more than a few people thanks my faulty Chinese pronunciation. Any Westerner who lives here is fated to say at least a handful of outrageous things in public per annum. It comes from the fact that Mandarin is a tonal language, and if you get the intonation a little wrong, if you sing the words a bit off key, the words become entirely different words.

I knew one Canadian who, when he first got here, wanted to get some aspirin for his cold symptoms. He went into a pharmacy.

“Uhh . . . I have a problem,” he said to the woman behind the counter.

“Yes? What is the problem?” she asked.

“Mm . . . Uhh . . . I fuck cats.”

The pharmacist stepped back from the counter, and the other people present all turned to look at him.

What my Canadian friend had meant to say was: “Mm . . . Uhh . . . I have a cold.” But get the tones wrong, and “have a cold” quickly becomes “fuck cats”.

This is only one of thousands of possible slip ups given the slipperiness of tonal languages like Mandarin. I once left a coffee shop with all the counter girls laughing aloud at me. I’d wanted them to help me grind the beans I’d just bought and couldn’t figure out what was so funny. Later I figured it out. What I’d been saying was: “Excuse me. Do you think you could help stroke me?”

Often enough I leave people laughing or frowning, but still, later on, can’t figure out what I’d actually said.

With more Westerners in Taiwan now, the locals have grown used to these mishaps. It makes for good comedy. But still a basic rule applies: If you’re a man who makes it a decade in a country this foreign without getting punched, you’re already doing pretty well.

E.M.
Taipei

My new book Idiocy, Ltd. is now available at Amazon.

The Dangers of Marriage

A few weeks ago I taught one of my classes of Taipei teens a deliciously idiotic text by American prose poet Russell Edson, “The Automobile”. The piece opens like this:

     A man had just married an automobile.

     But I mean to say, said his father, that the automobile is not a person because it is something different.
     For instance, compare it to your mother. Do you see how it is different from your mother? Somehow it seems wider, doesn’t it? And besides, your mother wears her hair differently.
     You ought to try to find something in the world that looks like mother.

     I have mother, isn’t that enough of a thing that looks like mother? Do I have to gather more mothers?
     . . .

Then after we’d finished the reading, I gave them a half hour to come up with their own short text about either a man or woman marrying some inanimate object. Predictably, some of their tales were obscene. Flora and Angel wrote the best of them, below.

(As for Russell Edson, whose work is precious to me, the best collection available is The Tunnel: Selected Poems. For those of you who may be curious.)

E.M.

But here are Flora and Angel.

The Dangers of Marriage

by Flora Zheng 鄭佳峰

A man decided to marry the sun.

He liked to sunbathe in his yard, and was fascinated by the beauty of sunrise and sunset.

In order not to have to share his wife with others, he broadcast through the media that nobody could be shone on by her. They were not to go outside, but just do indoor activities.

The announcement spread quickly. Everyone had a different opinion.

Mr. Smith: “That’s crazy! The sun belongs to nobody. It’s nature’s creation.”

His parents: “OK! We must all respect our son’s decision. He has many challenges ahead and we should help him. It isn’t easy keeping such a marriage together.”

Of course, opposed by most, the marriage was finally not allowed. But the man was determined. He even began researching how to make an environment on the sun in which a human could live.

As global warming got worse, the man began to argue that it was his wife, she was angry, she wanted to be alone with him.

“Once the earth is finished, you will have to find a new planet for yourselves!”


The Dangers of Marriage

by Angel Zheng 鄭安婕

There was a young Taipei woman who loved shopping even more than most women. She shopped every day. One day she told her parents that she wanted to get married to a department store.

“Are you crazy?” said her father.

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I think he is strong and tall. And besides, he is rich. You should be happy.”

“What’s his name?” asked her mother.

“His name is Taipei 101.”

“But how can I get a grandchild?” asked her father.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” the woman said. “You’ll have new grandchildren all the time: the new bags, shoes and clothes I’ll bring home!”

“New bags?” said her mother. “Alright, you can marry him. But he has to get me what I want too!”

“No problem, Mom!” the young woman said.

Her father thought the two women were crazy.

The marriage happened and the young woman and her mother were very happy.

But three months later they were no longer so happy, and the father was yelling all the time, because there was no more room in the house for all the “grandchildren”.

And not only that, but the young woman’s new husband, Taipei 101, was discovered to be having an affair with a famous Taipei actress. The wife knew nothing about it until her husband was photographed by paparazzi one night in a pub with the actress. The photos showed up in Next Magazine. And there were other photos of the actress out biking with a tall building--her husband!

When she saw the news, she cried and was very angry. She slapped her husband and yelled at him. In the end, she divorced him and had to bring up the children by herself.

But her mother helps her a lot.

The Inverse World

The assignment this time was to begin with the sentence “On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world.” Students at the Zephyr English Institute (ZEI) had about twenty minutes to write out a description of this “inverse” world. Claire, as usual, wrote brilliantly (this time I had to edit her more, as some of her sentences weren’t clear) and Ryan was up to his usual ryanism. The other students couldn’t finish in time, so took the essay home. I’ll add more as I get them.

Oh, and I wrote my own too, at the bottom.

Oh, and though I wrote it while the students were writing, I cheated a bit, working it into a final draft at home.

Oh, and I’m kind of a ryanist too, aren’t I?

E.M.

Claire Fan-Chiang

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world. In that world, people do not exist until you kill them. Living, continuing to survive, is what they most fear. Once they have been killed and enter that world, work is no longer necessary; they are dead. Finally they exist.

You are dead from the second you enter that world. It is upside down in relation to the world on this side. Once there, you float up towards the ground.

Killing and maiming are virtues there, but saving and healing are vices. Whenever one heals or saves, and the operation is a success, the saved one regains life and enters the world on this side of the mirror, where we stand now, the world of the earth.

Those who are unlucky enough to enter our world from that one are disgusted by the human race. They can’t accept that killing others is illegal, while saving people is seen as good. To live is seen as shameful on the other side of the mirror.

But if too many die and enter that inverse world, the number of corpses grows too large. Slowly, some of them begin to come loose from the ground and fall down into the sky, which has the special power to give them life. This falling causes a certain panic in the inverse world. The most decayed are the noblest, while the newly dead are of the lowest rank. Fighting to hold onto death, the newly dead work to heal or restore the more decayed bodies, or push them down toward the sky. They work day and night to resuscitate them, healing as many as they can until the inverse world gains balance again, and they can feel secure in their death.

The fight starts again every time a plague or disaster reaps lives on the earth. The dead crowd into the inverse world, they understand that death is to be cherished, and they fight for their death.

--Claire Fan-Chiang

Monsieur Ryan

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world. In that world, everything is backwards.

Clerks give customers money to take their products away.

People use fire extinguishers to start fires in malls and public buildings.

At schools the students stand during the class and watch the seated teacher.

When lunch comes, everyone throws up their lunch boxes.

At dinner time, cows use steak knives to cut people into “peoples”.

People eat food with their navels.

People use parachutes to jump up into planes when they want to travel.

They use elevators as subways.

People are punched to death by punching bags.

--Ryan

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world, where disasters bring joy and celebrations end with leaders promising “Never again.”

In that world the nations compete to see who can ruin their economy faster.

The superstitious wear amulets to attract bad luck, and the beautiful are shunned.

Population shrinks yearly, abandoned land filling in with forests and fields, polluted lakes clearing one by one, new species appearing out of nowhere.

Even the lives there are backward: everyone starting out crippled and old and regressing to childhood.

Youth is thought of as a sad inevitability.

Which is why women spend untold sums keeping their skin wrinkly, adding sags under their eyes; and self-conscious men, once they see their hair start to fill in, take to wearing wigs with artificial bald spots.

But in general the people do what they can to avoid being noticed.

They have their own version of Facebook. When you sign up, you start out with hundreds of friends, most of whom you hardly know; the number slowly whittles itself down to your real friends, who then disappear one by one, leaving you finally with only your profile picture, which you delete.

Their Facebook won’t last long, however, because every year exciting new technologies are forgotten. Dumps and vacant lots are stacked with equipment the people have forgotten how to use, devices they no longer comprehend.

Idealists can dream of the day writing will be uninvented, then agriculture.

At the edge of the park the bushes mark their territory on every passing dog.

Tombstone inscriptions are tattooed on your mother’s belly after you’ve entered the womb. Her pregnancy recedes, until you are forgotten; until there’s only lovemaking, then dates, then glances across a room.

I know this because for a time I was in that world myself. I even won the lottery. They came and took everything.

--Eric Mader

In the Reflection is the Daughter of Time (by Claire Fan-Chiang 范姜詠欣)

One of the great thing about teaching kids in Taiwan is that so many of them turn out brilliant. Their keen ability to study and remember (gained during their years of hard work learning to read and write their native language Chinese) now and again results in great things--especially when a student decides to take up the pen for more than just the usual dull homework.

The following story by my student Claire Fan-Chiang (范姜詠欣) is a great example of a serious young creative mind in action. Claire is in junior high school in Taipei. She’s never lived or studied in an English-speaking country. Nonetheless, she’s got a great knack for narrative in English, and pulls of some really fine passages. Claire’s a pretty serious artist too. Her own illustration appears below.

Eric Mader
* * *

IN THE REFLECTION IS THE DAUGHTER OF TIME
A battered green car sped over the muddy road, the rain thumping on its windows. Ingrid glanced down at the fuel gauge and furrowed her brows. The pointer was closing in on the ‘E’, but from what the GPS system showed she was still far from the campsite.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

What a mistake it had been to pass the gas station without fueling the car two hours ago. As she slowed down the car made a deep honking sound similar to a horn blowing through the wind.

The driving seemed endless. Three hours had passed, but she’d seen no landmark through the length of the journey. By now she seriously suspected that the GPS system had broken down. Cursing silently in her mind, she stopped by the road and dug out the map and compass. The compass told her she was driving east when she should have been driving north.

“Ugh!”

Night was falling, and she had no idea if she could reach the site in time. She was actually more worried about the fuel. It didn’t seem that it could last much longer. Since she had no choice but to head back, she turned the car keys in the ignition to restart the engine.

But the car would not react.

“Damn the bloody hell!”

She kicked hard against the floorboard, frustrated. Still, the car made no sound.

I’m stuck in the middle of the wild.

I’m stuck in the middle of the wild with bears lurking in the forest.

The thought shot a spasm of fear through her mind. Bears are strong and fierce, and her second-hand Toyota didn’t look stable enough to defend her from a bear. But if she got out of the car she would have nothing else to defend herself than the Swiss army blade in her pocket.

However, she was overwhelmed by fatigue, and after sitting there awhile sleep crept up on her before she had made a decision.

* * * Rap rap rap. Rap rap rap.

Ingrid’s eyes shot open, her olive green irises wide and alert. Her mind raced and her heart pounded. Slowly, she glanced out from the car windows. Outside stood a man, his face slightly illuminated by the snowy moonlight. Wrinkles were etched deep into his face, and he looked around sixty.

“Miss?” His voice was rather muffled, but she could still hear a thick accent in it. “You lost?”

Ingrid got a better image of him now: the man was wearing a hunting cap covering half his forehead; a red stubby nose shaped like a tomato sat between his rosy cheeks. He was rather plump, and his hair was pepper-and-salt. He carried a hunting rifle on his back.

Ingrid’s heart pounded so badly now she could feel it beating in her veins.

Should I trust him?

“Miss? Miss, you okay in there?” The rapping went on, harder and faster. Still, she made no answer.

“Miss? Miss?” The tone begun to change, worry filled it.

“Huh?” Ingrid faked a sleepy voice, as if she had just woken up. “What’d’ya say?”

“Thank God you’re all right! Are you lost?” The old man let out a chortle that sounded like the screech of a dying goat.

“Yeah, I mean, no, not really, you know—I just got tired and slipped off...heh heh. I’m not lost, really, just tired.” Ingrid laughed with some effort, trying to persuade the old man.

The old man laughed. “Plenty of people lose their way down here, missy. No need to be embarrassed. I guess you were trying to go to the campsite north, right?”

“Um…” Her cheeks burned red. “Well…”

“I’m retired. I usually lives by myself in my villa, hunting wild doves and smoking pipes; but my family visit me every vacation,” said the old man. “My villa is not far away from here, and if you don’t mind, why don’t you come and spend the night with me and my family?”

Ingrid blinked. Her instincts told her something was wrong: maybe it was the overt kindness of the man; maybe it was the invitation to spend the night at his villa. But exhaustion won over her instincts and her head nodded before she could stop herself.

The rest of what happened was a blur. All she remembered was that she packed up her things and walked after the old man for a long time. Just as she started to feel she could walk and sleep at the same time, they reached their destination.

As they approached, Ingrid could see the villa was filled with a warm yellow light and silhouettes of people moving inside. A thirst to get inside it as soon as possible burned inside Ingrid’s mind. The scent of porridge never smelt so amazing, and the warm air seem to be calling her into a paradise. The door swung open, and a boy with bright blue eyes and flaxen hair waved at her with enthusiasm, calling her name. Laughter like tinkling glass reached her ears, and her feet moved up the porch and in through the front door.

A woman named Chelsea with red flaming hair and a man named Edward greeted her. By the fire an old lady in a grey shawl smiled at her. A girl ran over, brown braids flying behind. They took her things upstairs, and Chelsea led her to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she was sitting in the tub, foam covering her body, all the aches from her cold nap having seeped out into the water.

Then she was led to the dining room, the scent of vanilla candles intoxicating. The silverware was well polished, and the mahogany table glowed. Vases held flowers of crimson, yellow and white, while the plates served all sorts of food. Steak tartare, boeuf bourguignon, cotoletta, and ossobuco; mounds of bread and desserts extended to the bottom of the table. The fragrance was killing her.

Chairs were pulled out and the family sat, motioning for Ingrid to join them.

Dinner was fabulous; the food was amazing, the kids charming, and the adults humorous. For a second Ingrid felt that she was part of the family, and she was even longing to stay.

When it was time for bed, Ingrid crawled under the blankets, all her luggage packed neatly under the bed. The pillow was extremely soft and comfortable—the best that she had slept on in her whole life. Her eyelids drooped and sleep engulfed her, whisking her into the land of dreams.

* * * Ingrid’s eyes opened.

She had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. The moonlight slanted through the windows and bathed the woods in peace. An owl was cooing somewhere deep in the tree branches, and a few stars sparkled, like tiny shards of glass.

Ingrid swung her legs out from the quilt-covered bed, the tips of her feet touching the cold ground. It was icy, like frost in autumn. She smiled at the thought of frost. She loved the silvery-grey splinters of frost.

She stood up, stretching and yawning, hearing her joints make a faint cracking sound. She went over to the lights and tried to turn them on.

Yet there was no reaction.

She pushed hard on the button, but it stayed stuck in place, too stubborn to budge. Her brows knit, her eyes narrowing into slits of green.

After a whole minute of the pressing-the-button game (in which Ingrid lost spectacularly against the small, black square of plastic) she went across the room and dug through her pack. The large yellow flashlight was hidden deep inside her bag, and when she switched it on, it gave a strong beam of light.

Pushing the door open, she entered the corridor. The faces in the oil paintings seemed stiff and grotesque, the echo of her footsteps hollow. The corridors twisted and turned, and she was soon lost. It felt like walking in a never-ending labyrinth; she would always come back to the same place she had left minutes ago. She had never expected bathrooms to be so hard to find.

Climbing up an icy marble staircase, the ebony banisters glowing, she came finally to a new landing. The painting next to the staircase portrayed a serene woman, her pale fingers curled around a scarlet apple. Ingrid stared at it, a feeling of familiarity nagging at the back of her mind.

A hiss startled her, like the steam breaking suddenly from the lid of a copper kettle. She turned to see a hallway extend behind her; patches of white moonlight shone while eerie shadows of indigo slanted off the snowy walls. She took a single slow step, the floor creaking below her feet. At the end of the hallway was a door.

The door was dark and well polished, sleek and shiny under the silver moonlight. A brass handle glowed, not a single spec of rust could be felt on it. She knocked softly, making a dull tapping sound. No one answered. Ingrid knocked some more, yet there was still no reply.

“Hello? Can I come in?” Ingrid frowned at her voice. Somehow, it was raspy and dry. She cleared her throat several times, waiting for anybody to answer. Half a minute passed and nothing happened.

“I’m coming in,” she called. Wrapping her fingers firmly round the handle, she swung the door open, only to see a large empty bed, windows gaping wide and the curtains blowing. The room was empty, a feeling of desolation curling out from it. Cobwebs draped lazily over the chest of drawers, and a thick layer of dust could be seen on the glass panes covering the bookshelves. The shelves themselves were locked firmly, and they rattled when she tugged them. It was like the sound of bones knocking against each other.

The closet, however, was open. She shone the light at it and saw several pieces of clothing inside. They’d been thrown or stuffed into it without care, a chaotic heap. Behind them and to the side was a mirror, also dust-covered and filthy. Ingrid stepped forwards, slowly and carefully, and wiped some of the dust off. Black smudges appeared on her rosy fingers and soft white palm, resembling soot on snow.

Reflected in the mirror, however, was a smiling figure, the color of olive and putty, a conglomeration of deep purple gashes held together with strands of crimson thread. The eyes were two empty pits black as coal, and a few white hairs stuck out awkwardly from its head.

Held in his hand was a long hunting rifle; his red nose twitched.

“Hi, missy.”

In the Country of the Erics

Saturday students: Frances, Shawn, Anthony, Yoyo.
The following historical chronicle is being written by my student Shawn (莊崴翔). Shawn is a junior high school student here in Taipei, and English is a second language for him. I’d say he’s got a pretty good narrative flare and a good sense of snark besides. I’ve edited a little and provided some transitions and tweaks, but in general this is Shawn’s writing.

It’s now Sunday evening in Taipei. An hour ago, I woke from a nap and had a big cup of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee to get my wits about me. Then I decided to type out these chapters that Shawn had written and post them here, in hopes he will continue. Because I want to learn as much as I can about my people’s history.

Eric Mader

I.

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a large volcanic island about the size of Japan. With the clear water around the island, and the beautiful coral under the sea, the island would be one of the most amazing sights on earth, if we could visit it. But this island does not appear on any maps. Long ago world leaders agreed to keep it a secret.

In the 16th century, Captain Ericano Erannielcoric discovered the island. Soon he brought most of the Erics scattered over the world to live there. Thanks to Captain Erannielcoric, the dream of the Erics was fulfilled. The Country of the Erics was finally established.

Unfortunately, after the Captain died, the next king, Ericano Erannielcoric, Jr., stopped the country from communicating with the outside world. He threatened any countries that wanted to visit the island with a terrible vengeance: “We will send Erics to you.” It is for this reason that world leaders, to protect their own nations, agreed to erase the island from all maps.

The Country of the Erics is plentiful in natural resources, so that millions of people could live there. But after the centuries since its founding, still only Erics live in the country. People around the world have forgotten the island and the strange country founded of course.

People in the country of the Erics are all equal of course. That's because they’re all the same. With curly hair and fat bellies, which they swell out by drinking large quantities of coffee, the Erics have a population of millions, though exactly how many is unknown. First brought by Captain Erannielcoric, coffee plants are grown throughout the island. The Erics consider the coffee plant holy, and there are various important rituals they celebrate around it.

Even if the Country of the Erics sounds like a peaceful place, blood will soon flow over the land. The Erics will fight. With the hairy corpses left beside roads, the golden time of the country will never return.

II.

The COE’s trouble began with King Eric XXVII, who still rules the island today. How this king attained the throne and became such a hated ruler is told in the Story of the Glowing Crow. Collected by scholars in central Asia, the story is originally in the Uzbek language. It is translated here:

Long long ago there was a magical tree. It grew Magic. People around the world learned of the tree and went on journeys to find it. The search for the tree led to rumors and wars.

When the crow saw the tree, it decided to try to hide it so it could keep the magic to itself. The greedy crow disguised the tree with many other kinds of branches and learned the tree's magic powers. It got the power to defeat death and it acquired such magic that its feathers began to glow. Each feather could save a life.

Hundreds of years passed and the crow was still alive. One day an asshole discovered the glowing crow and learned something of its powers. The asshole tricked the crow and caught it. Knowing the feathers could save lives, he started to pluck them so that he could sell them.

Like all assholes, this asshole wanted to become rich.

But at the market nobody believed him. How could he prove that the feathers could save lives? Finally, as he was deciding to give up and try elsewhere, an Eric showed up.

In the Country of the Erics, where everyone is an Eric, it isn't easy to be king. Any Eric can easily overthrow the Eric on the throne because he is exactly the same. However, being the oldest of the Erics, looking much older and wiser than others, might make holding the throne easier. So Eric killed the asshole and took the crow.

Many years passed. The elder Eric, called Eric XXVII, was on the throne and the glowing crow had become the emblem of the Country of the Erics. Aging and weak, but impossible to kill, King Eric had become a total asshole. All the Erics wanted a new king, but they had no idea how to get rid of their current king because he had the power of eternal life. They didn't know the secret of the glowing crow.

And all this happened because of the greedy crow, the greedy asshole, and the natural greed of Erics.

This story, while providing information about King Eric XXVII, is also seen as evidence that Erics occasionally leave the Country of the Erics to visit other countries. For what purpose, no one knows.

III. A chapter from a history of the struggle against the evil King Eric XXVII:

“Eric!” Eric cried out. “Don’t do it!”

“You can’t stop me,” Eric said. “I’m going to kill Eric. I’ve already made up my mind. It’s for the country, for all the Erics who live under this hateful oppression.”

“But it is hopeless!” Eric said. “You’ll never succeed!”

“How has he been king for 117 years?” Eric replied. “How is it possible? I’m going to kill him and then we can build a republic.”

The cold wind blew over the darkness of the countryside. Eric disappeared into the shadows of the forest. Eric stood alone now. He’d just lost his best friend, Eric. What could he do next?

He heard someone standing behind him.

“Let him go, Eric,” the voice said. “You should trust him.”

“But . . . Eric, you know how many assassination attempts there have been. It’s hopeless! He’ll die like the others. We must stop him!”

“His mind is made up,” Eric said. “And if he doesn’t make it, he may still succeed in death. You know he is one of the most respected Erics among us. If he is killed, all the Erics will take up their weapons in revenge. . . . But now we need to rest. Tomorrow will be a day we’ll never forget.” * * *
The sun rose over a turquoise sea. Another day was beginning in the island country. But now everything was different. The country had changed forever in the course of the night.

“He’s dead,” said Eric, dropping the newspaper to the floor. His voice was full of sorrow. Eric looked at Eric. They both knew in that moment what they must do.

A page of Shawn's MS.

Jun in Taipei

It was in Tulsa. You had to be there. It will never happen again. A smallish Korean student named Jun. One of the only Koreans in the whole town. About 1995.

An American guy, white as they get, with a good heart, comes out of a campus building. There's Jun smoking. Smallish.

The American guy, Parrish, says "Hey." Jun says little, tries to say something. Parrish asks many questions. Jun feels nervous. He's just here smoking. Why so many questions?

But it goes on for awhile.

The American guy tells his friends. "I met this Korean guy. Totally hopeless. Kinda funny guy."

Parrish has a good heart. His friends have a good heart. They take him under their wing.

For fun. Because they have a good heart. Because now, Jun is under their wing.

Amazing, they find. Jun is a gambler! What the fuck? He's a gambler and played baccarat. He lost three-thousand fucking dollars last night. What the fuck?

It wasn't a mistake to take this guy under our wing. Three-thousand fucking dollars!

What the fuck?

Jun has a thing for Crown Royal.

"So I came into Louis' one night and hardly anyone was there and there was fucking Jun sleeping flat out on a table. I shook him and said: 'Jun, what the fuck?' All he said was: 'Crown Royal.'"

Jun is a total fuckup. He lost $8,000 dollars last night. He's hungover again. It's 1995. You go to his place and he just sits there with cartons of cigarettes around him and says "Uh . . . Uh . . . So bad." And he says: "Uh . . . I don't know what is worse. My hangover or I lose $8,000."

Jun is becoming a legend.

But this is not the half of it. He has a dog, a pug, he carries everywhere with him. He has named the dog Lancôme. After the cosmetic! He carries the fucking dog everywhere. The stuff of legend.

One day he calls Parrish. "You come over for dinner. I will prepare all food."

What the fuck? Jun never prepares food.

At Jun's place the table is all set Korean style. Everything is cleaned up, the whole place. There's something strange about it. Jun is twenty. What the fuck?

A Korean dinner begins. Lancôme is in Jun's lap. A woman comes out of the kitchen, bringing platters of food. She's Korean, a little older than Jun.

"She's married," Jun says, after she goes back into his small kitchen.

Parrish, who's twenty-one, just starts in on the food. The other white guy starts in on the food too.

Jun takes out a cigarette and puts it to his lips. The woman runs out of the kitchen with a lighter to light it. Goes back into the kitchen.

"She's married," Jun says in explanation, as he takes the first drag of the cigarette. Lancôme is in his lap.

"She's your wife?" Parrish asks.

"No," Jun says, taking another drag. "An American guy. Here in Tulsa."

Legend. The word begins to form in Parrish's mind. Legend. Parrish is only twenty-one, but knows what the word means. "Legend."

That was all twenty years ago in Tulsa. You had to be there and I wasn't. It is now 3:04 a.m. on the last day of February 2014. In Taipei, Taiwan. Parrish is now 40. I am 48 and live in here. Earlier, around 10:00, I caught up with Parrish, a former colleague, in the city on a business trip. We met at a local pub. Oddly, there was a guy flown in from Korea to meet him too. A quiet guy I didn't pay much attention to and had never heard of before. His name was Jun. In a white business shirt. There were a couple others who came out too. Taipei regulars.

We had two or three beers while I talked with Parrish and Rob. Then Jun started pestering me. "Singer," he said. "I need singer."

I understood eventually that Jun meant cigar. I had cigarillos in my bag. I offered him one.

"Singer?" he said, inspecting it skeptically, not used to such small cigars.

"Yes," I said. "Cigar. Mini-cigar."

Jun went outside with the "singer". I spoke French for awhile with a young guy named Laurent. He had been in Taipei fifteen months. I had been in Taipei fifteen years. I met an amazingly charming man from London named Laurence. I am never charmed by men. What the fuck?

Jun came back inside and he was different. Fourth beer. He grabbed Parrish's sleeve and pointed at the wall behind the bar with a light in his eye.

"Crown Royal," Jun said.

"Fuck," Parrish said. "He saw the Crown Royal."

"What?" I asked.

"Jun saw the Crown Royal," Parrish said. "We're fucked."

I talked with Rob and Armando from Spain. I talked with Adam from Yorkshire.

While I tried to avoid a chatty and annoying fat fuck in a Green Bay Packers polo for chrissakes Jun swept his hand across the bar a bit hastily and threw an almost empty beer glass onto the ground, where it smashed.

"Jun!" Parrish said.

'Sorry," Jun said, really apologetically.

"First glass," Parrish said.

The lovely Taipei girl who works at the bar, and who studies classical music, and who performs, and whose performances I haven't yet attended, and whose English name is actually Yeah, didn't come to clean up the broken glass.

"Jun is a legend," Parrish said, and ordered a fifth round of beers.

Then Rich appeared. I saw his head in the doorway. But he never arrived where we were.

"Rich has a thing about crowds," Parrish said.

Later we met Rich at a different and less crowded bar. And we drank several more beers. And Jun broke another beer glass by sweeping it onto the floor, where the glass shards tinkled against my feet and the beer soaked into my right sock.

"Sorry," Jun said, really apologetically.

And a girl, less cute than Yeah, came with a broom and dustpan to clean up the glass. And I talked with Adam about the Ottoman Empire and with Will about about addiction and is it genetic or learned.

And Adam from Yorkshire who has a wife and young child talked about the Venetian Empire and how he dreamed of going to Venice. And I didn't have the heart to tell him Venice was but a hollow husk. And all its wares were made just north of us, in China.

And Will and I talked of the waves of air pollution from China and whether or not Taipei real estate is a bubble. And will the bubble ever burst or will the constant influx of Chinese investment keep it bubbling.

"It will burst eventually," Will said. "We just don't know when."

Will knows a thing or two, being 44. And being in Taipei even longer than I.

"When we were young," Will said, "all we were interested in was pussy. Now we'd mostly like to get a piece of land, a garden."

And then Parrish told the story of Jun, that mild-mannered Korean guy who'd broken two glasses, about whom I knew nothing. Parrish told how he met Jun in Tulsa smoking outside of a campus building when they were both college students, and why Jun is really, no kidding, a legend.

And I laughed so hard it almost hurt. It really almost hurt my throat. The dog named Lancôme almost hurt me. And Jun sitting there straightfaced while I heard about Lancôme. Straightfaced and a little redfaced. And I lay down sideways on the bar booth and laughed like I haven't laughed in many years.

And when I asked him Jun told me he was the manager of a casino near Seoul. And had a wife and two children. And please not to tell his wife about Tulsa. Which I could never do anyway because I would likely never see Jun again.

And I laughed more until it hurt. And Laurence from London was outside smoking with Rich. Perhaps the most charming man I've ever met. Perhaps the only charming man. And it was getting near 3:00 a.m. and we were seven men at a table, not really drunk. But it was near 3:00 a.m. and I'm married too.

Thanks, Parrish, for getting me out.

Letter from Tony Roquentin

(一個與被害妄想有關的故事--寫給我的學生們 A Rather Daft Paranoid Story for my Taipei Students: Can you read it?)
Alex:

This is my third message. Why aren't you responding? Are you even getting these? Respond if you get this.

I think there's something wrong with the connection here. Incredibly slow. I'll go over it again, assuming you haven't gotten the last letters.

It happened yesterday. At least I think yesterday. I'm guessing I've been here a day. But I'm still not sure what happened. Kind of paranoid actually.

It started yesterday morning in the bathroom after I pulled myself out of bed. I flicked on the light and looked in the mirror and did a kind of double take. I looked normal, a little groggy and unshaven, but there was something odd about the mirror. It seemed the mirror was doing something--that's the only way I can put it--that I wasn't alone in the bathroom. Then I felt it: I wasn't looking at myself in the mirror; no--the mirror was looking at itself in me.

I know that doesn't make sense, but that's what it felt like. I didn't really know what it was.

Anyhow I shook myself a few times to get the feeling out of my head. Of course a mirror can't look. I put it down to the five mojitos the night before and reached for my toothbrush. I fixed my eyes on the bathroom counter so I wouldn't have to see the mirror.

Then I started brushing my teeth; and I began to feel it again: an odd kind of tickling, a pressure working from the inside. It was a kind of knocking about that made me almost lose my balance. Then I realized: I wasn't actually brushing my teeth. No, my teeth were brushing me.

I started to think someone had drugged me, thought I should go back to bed. But I didn't. I was a bit scared actually.

I dropped the toothbrush, spit out the toothpaste. I rinsed my mouth and went to the kitchen.

I took out the orange juice and poured half a glass. I leaned against the counter and raised the glass to my lips. I noticed my hand was shaking. Then as I took the first gulp, there it was again. At the faint sound of my swallow I clearly felt it, a sickening hollowness. Because I knew--I hadn't taken a gulp of that orange juice--no, the orange juice had taken a gulp of me!

By now I was starting to panic. I went to the living room to turn on the news, hoping the noise and images would clear my head. As the TV came on, I could see the newscaster at her desk. But she wasn't speaking; she just sat there, a pert smile on her lips, glaring at me from the TV. I stepped back and flopped onto the sofa. It was as if she was waiting for me to say something! This continued almost thirty seconds, when she finally raised her eyebrows at me, as if to say: "Well?"

I shut off the TV.

Breakfast wasn't an option. No. I had to get outside, get some air. Had I maybe really been drugged? Everything seemed normal about my movements, about the room. I had to get outside for air, go to the office, talk to people. I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the door. But as I was slinging my backpack over my shoulder I nearly tripped. Because what actually happened wasn't what I thought. I hadn't really slung my backpack over my shoulder. No, what it felt like was totally different, as if my backpack had slung me over its shoulder! It didn't make any sense, but there it was--I'd nearly tripped.

Walking carefully, I went straight to the bus stop and began to wait. I tried whistling to calm my nerves. People were looking at me kind of funny, like they didn't expect me there; I couldn't figure it out. Everything looked normal, but the air seemed quieter; the city was quiet too, there was no wind. I tried whistling again, but couldn't come up with a tune. I fell silent.

Finally my bus heaved around the corner and began to approach us. I wanted to get to work as soon as possible, to talk to someone, to see Marcy. I stepped off the curb to get on the bus as it pulled up, but something inexplicable happened, something impossible--no doubt it explains why I'm here, typing this now; it explains why I seemed to get to work yesterday, but then didn't; it explains this place, what is this place, I can't get the door open and nobody responds when I yell. They've got me wearing these red sneakers, too small for me; I've never had red sneakers in my life.

I remember the bus pulling up to the stop, I remember seeing the driver clearly, but I can't say just what happened then. It was my bus, 292, the one I always take to work. But something happened. Did I get to the office or not? I can't say for sure--I seem to half remember it, but not really.

Respond to this message as soon as you get it! I don't even know where they have me or exactly what happened. You've got to help me, Alex. If you get this respond ASAP!

Tony

You are what you eat

"Teacher, teacher!" Luke says as I enter the classroom. "A man in your state ate many cockroaches and died. It's really disgusting!"     
     "What do you mean?"     
     "It was in Florida. He ate many cockroaches. They were having a 比賽."     
     "Contest," I say. "They were having a contest."     
     "Contest. It was an eat cockroach contest, and he ate too many and died."     
     "It was in Florida?"     
     "Yes, I saw in the newspaper."     
     "That's disgusting!" Cindy says. "Florida people are disgusting."     
     "It was in your state," Luke continues, delighted. "Florida people eat cockroaches! Did you eat a lot of cockroaches too?"     
     "Well, I'm not from Florida," I say. "I already told you guys. I'm from Wisconsin, in the north. My parents moved to Florida."     
     "Because they have more cockroaches there," Hank says. "Your dad wanted to eat them."     
     "No. I only go to Florida to visit," I say, but then wonder: "Luke, why did someone die from eating cockroaches? Why did he die?"     
     "I don't know. It just said he died."     
     "Are you sure it's a true story?"     
     "Yes! It's true!" he yells. "It's from FLORIDA!"     
     "Why are Florida people so crazy?" Joseph asks. "Like the man who ate people's faces."     
     "It was only one face," Mary points out. "He ate a man's face."     
     "Well..." I begin.     
     "And you," Luke interrupts. "You are also crazy. Soon the police in Taiwan will catch you."     
     "I don't think so," I say. "I'm pretty smart."     
     "No! You are stupid!" a few kids yell. "They will catch you!"     
     "Well, why do you think they'll catch me? I've been here since 1996, I've already eaten three faces, and they haven't caught me yet."     
     "Ewww!" Cindy snaps. "Disgusting!"     
     "Maybe they don't want to catch him," Hank says. "He keeps the night market clean because he eats all the cockroaches."
     "Do you help the government clean the night markets?" Luke asks.
     "Actually cockroaches aren't bad," I say. "But they have to be be fresh. They're kind of 脆脆." And I mime eating and chewing cockroaches.     
     "You are DISGUSTING!" Cindy snaps. "You go back to Florida NOW!"     
     "I like Taiwan," I say.
     "Why do you like here?" Joseph asks.
     "Well. . . . The faces here are more delicious," I say, reaching toward Cindy as if to touch her face.     
     "EWWWW!" they all scream and start pounding their desks.     
     This theme of "Crazy Florida" theme is well established in at least three of my classes. Another class started on it with the news of the Florida pastor who was planning to burn Korans. And there was another previous story about something from Florida, I can't remember what, that they'd heard from the news. So they started getting on me. And I can't really blame them, since I've noticed it too. Florida makes it into the news here all the time. But it's always insanity and mayhem.
     Back when Florida messed up the 2000 presidential election, I got grief for that too. But the kids I teach now don't know about that, as most of them were babies then.     
     After getting home I did a search on the cockroach story. Not in the least surprised to find it true:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/video/2012/oct/10/cockroach-eating-contest-dies-video

Dangerous

Teaching two 11-year-old girls the word "dangerous," I ask them to name some dangerous animals.

"You're a dangerous animal," says one.

"OK," I say. "Maybe. Can you name any other dangerous animals?"

"Your hair," the other girl says. And she explains that my hair and I are actually different animals, that my hair leaves my head at night and flies around the city following girls and feeding on moths.

"It's true," the first girl says then. "I saw it."

The Droste Effect

I remember it was a Thursday afternoon. I'd ducked out of the office a bit early and decided to stop in at Moran's on the way home for a pint. When I walked in the door the place was strangely quiet, the barman wasn't behind the bar and the only soul in sight was an odd-looking fellow who eyed me as I sat down at the bar. After a moment he came up and sat next to me, introduced himself, and said: "You know, I think I can explain, because darn near the same thing happened to me! I remember it was a Thursday afternoon."

"What?" I said.

"It was a Thursday afternoon," he repeated. "I'd ducked out of the office early and decided to stop in at Moran's on the way home for a pint. When I walked in the door the place was quiet, the barman wasn't behind the bar and the only soul in sight was an odd-looking fellow who eyed me as I sat down at the bar. After a moment he came up and sat next to me, introduced himself, and said: 'You know, I think I can explain, because darn near the same thing happened to me! I remember it was a Thursday afternoon.'

" 'What?' I said.

" 'I'd ducked out of the office early,' he said, 'and decided to stop in at Moran's on the way home. When I walked in the place was quiet and the barman wasn't behind the bar. There was a fellow who eyed me oddly as I sat down at the bar. After a moment he came up, sat down next to me, and said: "You know, I think I can explain, because darn near the same thing happened to me! I remember it was a Thursday afternoon."

' " 'What?' I said.

' " 'After leaving the office,' he said, 'I decided to stop in at Moran's. When I walked in the place was quiet. There was a fellow who eyed me oddly as I sat down at the bar. He came up, sat down next to me, and said: "You know, I think I can explain, because the same thing happened to me! I remember it was a Thursday afternoon."

" ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " 'I decided to stop in at Moran's after work,' he said. 'But when I walked in the place was dead quiet. There was a fellow who eyed me oddly as I sat down at the bar. Then he came up to me and said: "I think I can explain because the same thing happened to me! It was on a Thursday afternoon."

' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " 'I stopped in at Moran's after work,' he said. 'But the place was dead quiet. There was a fellow who eyed me oddly as I sat down. Then he came up to me and said: "The same thing happened to me! It was on a Thursday afternoon."

" ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " 'I stopped in at Moran's,' he said. 'The place was dead quiet. There was a fellow there who eyed me oddly. He came up to me and said: "The same thing happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " 'It was dead quiet at Moran's,' he said. 'A fellow there eyed me oddly, then came up and said: "The same thing happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

" ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " ' " 'Moran's was dead quiet,' he said. 'An odd fellow eyed me and said: "The same thing happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " ' " 'Moran's was quiet,' he said. 'An odd fellow came up to me and said: "This happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

" ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Moran's was quiet,' he said. 'An odd fellow said: "This happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Moran's was quiet. A fellow said: "This also happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This also happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This also happened to me! It was on a Thursday."

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This also happened to me on a Thursday!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This also happened to me Thursday!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This also happened to me!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?' I said.

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'In Moran's a fellow said: "This happened to me!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'A fellow said: "This happened to me!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'A fellow said: "It happened to me!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'A fellow said: "Happened to me!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Fellow said: "Happened to me!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Fellow said: "Happened!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Fellow: "Happened!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'What?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "Happened!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Wha?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "Happened!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " 'Wha?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " '?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " '?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "!"

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " '?'

' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "!"

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " '?'

" ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' " ' "!"

By this point the fellow was gesturing and shaking as like he was in a kind of fit. I didn't know if I should prod him to snap him out of it or if I should turn tail and get outa there.

The barman Niall came out just then and his eyes widened to see the man in such a state. Seems he'd seen this before, which made me none too comfortable to be engaged in this dialogue.

Finally in his swaying and gesturing the fellow bumped against me and snapped out of it.

"It was. . ." he said looking at me in fright. "It was like that for me too!"

"Gilbert," Niall began.

"Let me be!" Gilbert said. "I know what I heard and I won't be told otherwise. It happened on a Thursday right here, smack on the same hour, and the fellow went on and on til he was shaking, just like I was telling it."

Niall didn't reply, but began pouring me a pint.

"But how did it end?" I asked the man.

Niall frowned that I was pursuing the question. He shook his head and retreated back down to the store room from where he'd come.

"How did it end?" the man repeated. "How did it end, you want to know? You really want to know?"

I thought it over. My pint stood on the wood before me, a perfect head to it. Glancing at Gilbert, I could see the sweat beading on his forward, the question he had asked still in his eyes. Clearly he was burning to finish the tale.

"No," I said. "Not today. Maybe next Thursday."

Gilbert slumped like the air was let out of him. He got up and went back to where he was sitting when I came in.

* * *
The next Thursday I was there early, waiting in a corner. Gilbert was nowhere to be seen, however, and again Niall was down in the store room. After ten minutes or so a new fellow came in, gave a look round the place, and went up to sit at the bar. I started to feel a kind of itch in me, a compulsion to speak to the man, though I'd never seen him before. I got up and walked over to where he was seated. I sat down next to him and introduced myself.

"You know, I think I can explain," I began, "because just about the same thing happened to me! It was a Thursday afternoon."

"What?" the man said.

Making the Grade in Naples, Florida

They nabbed me because of my weight. I'd been doing the best I could, thought I'd ease my way into it slowly, but in the end I wasn't gaining fast enough. So they got me. I'm just hoping I'll get out in a month or two, three at the most. It's my own damn fault really.

Cindy and I moved to Naples last year, the summer of 2019. We'd visited before and liked the peaceful, gated communities, the subtropical climate, the immaculate shopping malls and white sand beaches. It's no surprise Collier County, where Naples is located, has remained one of the fastest growing counties in America. We were convinced on our first visit. Naples is the gem of Florida's Gulf Coast, a little American Cote d'Azur with none of the unpleasantness of the real Cote d'Azur.

While still in New York we knew we had some work ahead of us as far as getting used to our new Florida home: a bit of adjusting before we'd really fit in. We'd read the Naples Community Guide to Right Living, of course, but hadn't realized before the actual move how seriously the Neapolitans took their lifestyle rules. It was only after settling in, after we saw how strict the place was, that we realized what we were in for.

In all the most important things Cindy proved quicker on the uptake than me. It was Cindy who insisted on getting the two SUVs--one red, white and blue, the other just white. And Cindy put on the pounds faster. Even our huge neighbors were impressed with how quickly she gained. She picked up all the right mannerisms too: the little gestures and movements that prove one belongs; the various saccharine expressions of delight that accompany the different Neapolitan greetings; that earnest way of pushing a full shopping cart to the car and popping the trunk to load the bags. In fact the security people hardly ever bothered us when I was out with Cindy. Still, I knew I couldn't hide under her wing forever. I had to make better progress.

I'd already been in Naples eight months when they arrested me. I'm ashamed to say that by that time I'd only put on forty pounds. It wasn't up to par, and I knew it. I knew it from the guidebook, of course, but I could see it also in the looks I got from neighbors. I guess I thought I could still claim to be a newcomer. It was naïve of me.

I should have seen the trouble I was in when Alec, the cheery man who guards the entrance to our gated community, finally questioned me outright.

"Say, Mr. Westerman," he said one day as I was pulling in.

"Yes?"

"How heavy are you now--if I might ask?"

"About 240," I said. "Or at least I was about 240 last time I checked. Why?"

"And you're over six foot tall, aren't you, Mr. Westerman?"

"Yes, I'm six foot two," I said.

Alec pursed his lips; he shook his head slightly.

"Pardon me for saying so," he said, "but a man your height should be at least 260 pounds. 260 at the very least."

"I'm working on it," I said. "I'll get there yet."

I flashed him a smile and was ready to drive off, but he continued.

"I'm just reminding you, Mr. Westerman. Just to let you know. I mean, you realize how people in this community will talk."

That exchange took place just a week before the arrest. To tell the truth, Alec's words didn't fall on deaf ears. That same night I made a new resolution: to use more butter on my scones in the morning and eat a slab of Tiramisu every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night, not just on Thursdays as I'd been doing previously. Cindy warned that this wouldn't be enough.

"You should be eating some rich dessert every night," she said. "You know what the guidebook says. Why do you always go against the guidebook?"

Cindy was right. My new resolution wasn't enough: it was too little too late. They picked me up a few days later as I got out of my car at the Waterside Shops.

"Derek Westerman?" the officer said. There was a community ethics officer with him, his huge potbelly nearly popping the buttons off the green uniform.

"Yes."

"I've a warrant here for your arrest."

"I understand," I said. "It's the weight, isn't it?"

"Just come along peacefully, Mr. Westerman."

* * *


The Naples Re-Education Center is pretty much like I'd heard it was. It's off Airport Road heading north, about two miles out of town, just after you pass the third tan strip mall with the Eckerd Pharmacy. The third Eckerd Pharmacy, I mean, the one to go with the third strip mall. The Re-Education Center is on the right, next to the golf course.

They've got me in a sumptuous room with curtains the color of Key Lime Pie and a placid scene of flamingos painted on the wall. The flamingos are in pastel tones, stepping through soft blue water, and in the background there's a scene of a golf course. The room has two queen-sized beds, one for me and one for my roommate Vern (in such a comfortable room it wouldn't be quite right to call him a "cellmate," though it's true we aren't free to leave). We've got a huge refrigerator regularly restocked with beer, pizza, cheesecake and various other high-calorie things. There are also three large TV screens on the walls, two of which can't be turned off, not even while we sleep. The screen closer to Vern's bed plays 24-hour ESPN, and the other one plays 24-hour financial news. The room has air conditioning of course, and this air conditioning works a bit too well, just as expected. The message they're trying to convey by this is subtle but irrefutable: If you're chilly at night, they seem to be saying, maybe it's because you haven't enough flesh on your bones to keep warm.

My roommate Vern is a portly man, so it's obvious he wasn't picked up for the same reason as me.

"It's because of a stupid remark I made," he admitted when I asked him what he was in for.

"What remark was that?"

"I was at the cigar lounge with some of the fellas," he said. "They started talking about golf and I said I thought golf was a stupid sport. They arrested me the next morning at work."

"Because you thought golf was stupid?"

"Well, not only that," he said. "But that was bad enough, to say something like that I mean. A man can get arrested for less than that."

"But what else did you say?"

"Well," he began, then seemed to change his mind. "It's not important really. Let's just say I made an ass of myself."

"C'mon," I prodded. "We're in this together, Vern. Just tell me. I'm new to Florida too, you know. Maybe you can save me from shooting off my mouth later on."

"Oh, alright," he said. "It was the same day at the cigar lounge. I must have had a few too many. Beers, I mean, because I remember we were drinking beer that day. Anyhow, one of the guys invited me to a patio party at his house on the Fourth of July. He said he was having a barbecue."

"And?"

"And I told him I don't like barbecues."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"You actually said you wouldn't go to a Fourth of July barbecue?"

"Yes."

"And you said it in front of how many people?"

"Five or six."

"Christ, Vern!" I laughed. "You're lucky you're in here and not the real detention center up in Tallahassee."

"I know it," he said. "It was damn stupid of me."


* * *


Cindy visited me this morning and I had to eat the cookies. It was tough because of the pancake and sausage breakfast we'd just been forced to eat. But it's a rule here that if a visitor comes they have to bring two dozen fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and the inmate has to eat them before the visit it over. They think it's good for morale.

Cindy told me about some things she bought at the Waterside Shops and about an origami class she's taking with some "gals" she met at the hair salon. Cindy really is fitting in well: she even refers to everyone as gals already. I'm thinking they might let me out early just for her sake.


* * *


Most of the inmates are in here for weight problems, but there are others, like Vern, who ran afoul of the authorities on other grounds. The young guy Chris across the hall (his room all in peach tones: wicker furniture, ceiling fan, decorative bowl of dried starfish and other sea creatures on the table) came to Naples to teach high school. But he wasn't prepared for the move. He told me that before he came down he hadn't read even a chapter of the guidebook. So when he took the I.Q Test he tried to do his best on it. I mean the Naples Residency Permit I.Q. Test, of course, the NRPIQ, which we all had to take to reside legally in Naples. Chris took the test and was rated with an I.Q. of 139. They hauled him in the very day scores were announced. They were furious. It seems they even roughed him up a little that first night, accused him of being a "subversive," an "intellectual" and other such things. They were going to send him straight to Tallahassee, but finally just kept him here. While at the Center, they say, he must try to purify his thoughts of all the "nonsense and critical thinking" such a "shamefully high I.Q." has "forced his brain to pick up over the years": "like a piece of tape dragged across a dirty floor picks up hair and dust and dead skin flakes." This is how Chris quotes their words. In fact I don't envy him a bit. He'll be in here a lot longer than Vern or I. And he may end up in Tallahassee after all.


* * *


Spent the morning at a Golf Appreciation Seminar with Vern. Then more interrogation after lunch. Today was the worst of it yet. My interrogator, Dr. Adler, hails from Minnesota and has been working at the Center for three years. He's a tough one, this Adler. If he doesn't like my answers he comes out with another big bowl of mixed nuts and I have to eat it down before we can continue.

It seems they didn't just arrest me because of the weight problem after all. It seems a neighbors had been spying on me while I was reading. I sometimes read on the back porch, and one of my neighbors must have seen me. Already at our first interrogation Dr. Adler had brought up the question of my reading European novels, but of course I denied it vehemently.

"I've never read a European novel in my life," I said. "I don't even like American novels, so why should I be reading European ones?"

"Novels are bad for the community," he said. "Studies have proven it. They lead to unpatriotic, cynical thinking."

"You needn't worry about my reading habits, doctor. Really. Besides gardening magazines and food magazines--that and the Naples Community Guide of course--besides these things I read almost nothing."

"Is that so?" Adler said.

"It is," I insisted. "I've two perfectly good TVs in my home and I've a member card to rent movies at Blockbuster, so why in God's name would I be wasting my time reading novels?"

That was at our first interrogation. I thought I'd done pretty well because Adler never talked about novels again. I thought the warning about European novels was just pro forma and I was in the clear. But today he took off the kid gloves. After pressing a bit on my interest in books and after more of stubborn denials on my part, he finally pulled a big manila folder from his desk and took out three large black-and-white glossy photos. Sure enough. Two were of me sitting on my back porch reading Thoman Mann. And in the third picture I was reading Marguerite Duras, a French writer, something that could get me in much deeper hot water than the Naples Community Re-Education Center had to offer.

"You know, Mr. Westerman," he began as I looked at the photos aghast, "you know that reading European novels is illegal all over these fifty states, and you know besides that reading French novels is technically a felony ever since the dissolution of NATO during Jeb Bush's first term."

"I have never shown any of these books to anyone else, I swear it, Dr. Adler. I've only kept them to myself." My voice was already beginning to crack.

"Whether you show the novels to others or keep them to yourself is not the point," he said gravely. "Just reading the novels is already a crime, Mr. Westerman, something I'm sure you're well aware of."

"I know it's a crime, doctor. But this kind of reading, it's just an old habit of mine, something I did before the break with Europe. I just haven't been able to kick the habit."

"Not even in an upright community like Naples?"

"No," I said, hanging my head. "I guess not even in Naples. I've been so busy trying to improve my life in other ways . . . well, I guess I didn't think much about cutting down on my reading."

Adler took the photos from me and put them back in his desk.

"It is not my purpose to push this issue further," he said. "The neighbor who took these photos and brought them to me was doing it for your own good, Mr. Westerman."

"My own good?"

"Yes. This neighbor of yours wanted you to realize how reckless you were being keeping such books in a solidly patriotic community like ours. This neighbor did it to help you reform."

"And I will reform," I said, beginning to feel somewhat at ease. "I will destroy those books as soon as I get out of here. I promise you, doctor."

"Your wife has already taken care of that, Mr. Westerman. You needn't worry about it."

"My wife?"

"Yes. She destroyed all the novels during your first week here. She agreed with me that it wasn't wise keeping them in the house. Of course I contacted her about these photos."

"I am grateful for your kindness, Dr. Adler. And I'm glad those novels are finally gone. Sometimes the only way to quit a bad habit is to go cold turkey."

"I think you are right on that, Mr. Westerman. At least if the bad habit is also a felony."

But inside I wasn't glad the novels were gone. It was my mistake to read them on the porch. Probably I'll never be able to find anything by Duras again.


* * *


I'm to be released tomorrow. Vern apparently hasn't done as well as I. Although we were arrested about the same time, he's in for at least another month. From what I've heard, his interrogator can still see how much he hates golf. He hasn't made enough of an effort.

I'm now a solid 297 pounds. My cholesterol level is dangerously high and I can hardly make it up a flight of stairs. But that isn't all. After almost two months of watching ESPN, I know about all kinds of sports teams, so I can now talk confidently about the kind of subjects proper to men of my age. I'll no longer be at a loss for words when I sidle up to the bar.

It really wasn't all that bad being in the Naples Community Re-Education Center. Of course it would have been better if I'd have managed to become a real Neapolitan on my own, without the push the Center gave me. But in fact there are many prominent Neapolitans who started with a stint in the Center, and from what I've heard it's not something to be overly ashamed of.

I'll stop typing now because the dinner bell has just rung, and to tell the truth I'm quite hungry. Some of the fellas will be having a little graduation party for me in the dining hall. I'm guessing there will be a chocolate cheesecake with red-white-and-blue candles. At least that's the proper protocol when someone graduates.

Tomorrow Cindy picks me up in the SUV. She herself has reached a whopping 238 pounds. From this day forward Cindy and Derek Westerman will be a couple to be reckoned with.

God bless America and God bless the people of this great state of Florida. May He continue to give us the great bounty that He in His wisdom has seen fit to give us so far. And may we always use this great bounty wisely in order to bring greater glory to Him. For He is indeed a huge God and He watches over us always, bringing us our three squares a day and more. Amen, and I'm off to dinner.

Taipei
2004