fishermen.
Stan used his ping-pong paddle and bounced an orange ball up and down. Bill stood at the other end of the green table, waiting. The single bulb above the middle of the table flickered as the light dimmed. Brownouts were common these days and electrical grid repairs constant.
“Think the lights will stay on tonight?” Bill asked.
Stan grunted noncommittally. They had played four games of ping-pong already, tying at two wins each. Their wives talked upstairs as the children played board games.
“Just a minute,” Bill said. He moved to a shelf and checked his cell phone. “It’s getting late. Should we call it?”
The bulb stopped flickering then as the light strengthened.
“We can’t leave the series at a tie,” Stan said.
Bill nodded. “It’s more fun with a winner. Since this is the last game, should we volley for serve?”
“I lost the last game. Loser gets first serve next game.”
“Oh, okay,” said Bill, with an at-least-I-tried grin.
Stan kept bouncing the ball on his paddle. There was a distracted look on his face. He had been trying to forget about his dilemma all night. Trying to beat Bill had done that, but now…. He hadn’t wanted to bring this up, but after this game, he’d be leaving.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Bill.
Stan nodded. “It’s Sergeant Jackson.”
“The police officer?”
“I think he wants to bust my dad.” Then the words gushed out as Stan asked, “Is it wrong to hold a grudge?”
“Do you mean is it wrong for the officer to hold a grudge against your dad? Or is it wrong for you to hold a grudge against the officer?”
Stan looked up, letting the ping-pong ball bounce on the table and onto the floor.
“Bitterness never helps anyone,” Bill said.
“I know.”
“You need to forgive Sergeant Jackson for what he did to your dad.”
Stan scowled. “I understand what you’re saying….” He shook his head.
“Well, think of it like—”
“I’m sorry,” said Stan, as the bulb flickered again. “It’s late. We’d better finish the series before the power cuts off.” He retrieved the orange ball and took his serving stance.
“I know this can be a hard topic,” Bill said.
Stan didn’t want to think about it anymore. He should have known Bill would tell him to give his worry to God. Now Bill would start talking about it. Stan decided to put an end to the lecture, serving the ball, using a crafty spin.
Surprised by the serve, Bill moved too late. He still managed to hit the ball, but it zoomed into the net.
“One to zero,” Stan said.
Bill glanced at him. “One to zero,” he said, his voice changing from its reflective pastor’s tone to his competitive voice. Then the two friends began to play in earnest, this being the final match of the night.
BEIJING, P.R.C.
Jian Shihong rode in the back of a limousine as he passed big Chinese cars. City traffic moved past massive buildings in the heart of Beijing. The construction boom had altered the city. The rich lived in palaces, sprawling villas with gold inlaid marble, redwood furniture and magnificent gardens. The latest craze was having a zoo on one’s property with tigers, leopards, pandas, baboons—Jian had purchased a polar bear. He was inordinately proud of it and hoped to buy a male so he could mate them.
The heart of Beijing possessed titanic structures, showing the opulence of oil-rich China. It was a tribute to the nation’s greatness, to its power. Above the massive structures was the even larger Mao Square with the Politburo Building and the Chairman’s quarters. Glass towers reflected the sun’s light, while gigantic statues beggared the imagination. The Chairman had a mania for architecture. He wanted to show the world and China’s millions that nothing could compare with the present government. The construction boom flowered throughout China’s coastal region, and particularly here in Beijing.
The big cars manufactured in Chinese automotive plants moved
Stan used his ping-pong paddle and bounced an orange ball up and down. Bill stood at the other end of the green table, waiting. The single bulb above the middle of the table flickered as the light dimmed. Brownouts were common these days and electrical grid repairs constant.
“Think the lights will stay on tonight?” Bill asked.
Stan grunted noncommittally. They had played four games of ping-pong already, tying at two wins each. Their wives talked upstairs as the children played board games.
“Just a minute,” Bill said. He moved to a shelf and checked his cell phone. “It’s getting late. Should we call it?”
The bulb stopped flickering then as the light strengthened.
“We can’t leave the series at a tie,” Stan said.
Bill nodded. “It’s more fun with a winner. Since this is the last game, should we volley for serve?”
“I lost the last game. Loser gets first serve next game.”
“Oh, okay,” said Bill, with an at-least-I-tried grin.
Stan kept bouncing the ball on his paddle. There was a distracted look on his face. He had been trying to forget about his dilemma all night. Trying to beat Bill had done that, but now…. He hadn’t wanted to bring this up, but after this game, he’d be leaving.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Bill.
Stan nodded. “It’s Sergeant Jackson.”
“The police officer?”
“I think he wants to bust my dad.” Then the words gushed out as Stan asked, “Is it wrong to hold a grudge?”
“Do you mean is it wrong for the officer to hold a grudge against your dad? Or is it wrong for you to hold a grudge against the officer?”
Stan looked up, letting the ping-pong ball bounce on the table and onto the floor.
“Bitterness never helps anyone,” Bill said.
“I know.”
“You need to forgive Sergeant Jackson for what he did to your dad.”
Stan scowled. “I understand what you’re saying….” He shook his head.
“Well, think of it like—”
“I’m sorry,” said Stan, as the bulb flickered again. “It’s late. We’d better finish the series before the power cuts off.” He retrieved the orange ball and took his serving stance.
“I know this can be a hard topic,” Bill said.
Stan didn’t want to think about it anymore. He should have known Bill would tell him to give his worry to God. Now Bill would start talking about it. Stan decided to put an end to the lecture, serving the ball, using a crafty spin.
Surprised by the serve, Bill moved too late. He still managed to hit the ball, but it zoomed into the net.
“One to zero,” Stan said.
Bill glanced at him. “One to zero,” he said, his voice changing from its reflective pastor’s tone to his competitive voice. Then the two friends began to play in earnest, this being the final match of the night.
BEIJING, P.R.C.
Jian Shihong rode in the back of a limousine as he passed big Chinese cars. City traffic moved past massive buildings in the heart of Beijing. The construction boom had altered the city. The rich lived in palaces, sprawling villas with gold inlaid marble, redwood furniture and magnificent gardens. The latest craze was having a zoo on one’s property with tigers, leopards, pandas, baboons—Jian had purchased a polar bear. He was inordinately proud of it and hoped to buy a male so he could mate them.
The heart of Beijing possessed titanic structures, showing the opulence of oil-rich China. It was a tribute to the nation’s greatness, to its power. Above the massive structures was the even larger Mao Square with the Politburo Building and the Chairman’s quarters. Glass towers reflected the sun’s light, while gigantic statues beggared the imagination. The Chairman had a mania for architecture. He wanted to show the world and China’s millions that nothing could compare with the present government. The construction boom flowered throughout China’s coastal region, and particularly here in Beijing.
The big cars manufactured in Chinese automotive plants moved
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