it never stayed silent or empty. His demons always chased him until they found him, then haunted him until his mind could take no more and he woke in a frenzied state from one nightmare or another. Fires, drowning, car crashes—always a tragedy he was trying to avoid but never quite succeeded.
He eyed his laptop sitting on the table across the room. He remembered being infuriated with it when once again he’d been unable to string together enough sentences to make him worthy of being called a journalist. Writer’s block . It was relentless. If it didn’t yield soon, no one would give him any more opportunities, and he’d be officially washed up. Emotionally and professionally.
On that thought, he stood. He needed a shower. He knew it was only his imagination, but the stench of smoke and fear surrounded his body like a cloud, overpowering what should have been a reminder of the booze he’d consumed.
He went to the bathroom and turned on the water and used it to try to rub away the fatigue. The man in the mirror stared back at him, a look of contempt stretched across his face.
A new day.
Another twenty-four hours to carry the pain and regret of his past. Another chance to redeem himself before he knew he would flounder again, and try to find peace in the bottom of a bottle.
He cursed at himself, then looked up at the ceiling and glared, pointing a finger at what he couldn’t see. He didn’t know what he believed anymore, other than the fact that a merciful God would’ve put him out of his misery long ago.
Five hours later, Max sat at the window of the small noodle shop, sipping his green tea as he waited for Mari. The bald-headed owner was getting to know him quite well now—after more than a half dozen visits—and had greeted him like an old friend, causing the locals to stare and mumble at his tall frame and pale hair. Max was getting used to the staring. But with the convincingly genuine greeting, for just a moment, he’d almost felt like he belonged in the small community. But the feeling disappeared too soon, and the reality hit him square in the gut—he no longer belonged anywhere.
“ Zao, peng you !” The old man called out as Max headed to his usual table. It was interesting what a bit of respect and a generous tip would do for a person. The man had smiled at him through gaps in his teeth, then waved at the waitress to bring tea and a bowl of congee, and to hurry with it. Max nodded his approval. He didn’t like or dislike the locally favored breakfast of bland rice porridge, but since he was trying to make an effort to feed his system more than a bottle of spirits each day, he’d swallow it down.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes, and she should be there. If she doesn’t back out . For weeks he’d stumbled around Beijing on his own, looking for a story—struggling with the language and finding his way. So he was glad she’d called him and agreed to take him around.
She’d sounded sad on the phone and almost a bit desperate. So perhaps this deal would be good for both of them. Moving around the city would be easier with a guide, and though he could’ve hired any number of young men or women trained to do the job, he’d not felt the need until he’d met Mari and realized she’d be good company. And he’d need that company. Today would be hard, but it would knock one more place off his list. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag, then held his breath to keep from choking. He didn’t want anyone around him to know the Chinese brand was harsher than his own American ones. He could probably go to the upper side of town and shop in the expat markets, pay twice or three times the usual price and get the comforts from home, but he didn’t want to do that. He was here to really feel China—to become a part of it and, in turn, let it consume him until he’d finished what he came to do. That was the promise he’d made, after all. And if nothing else, he was a man of
He eyed his laptop sitting on the table across the room. He remembered being infuriated with it when once again he’d been unable to string together enough sentences to make him worthy of being called a journalist. Writer’s block . It was relentless. If it didn’t yield soon, no one would give him any more opportunities, and he’d be officially washed up. Emotionally and professionally.
On that thought, he stood. He needed a shower. He knew it was only his imagination, but the stench of smoke and fear surrounded his body like a cloud, overpowering what should have been a reminder of the booze he’d consumed.
He went to the bathroom and turned on the water and used it to try to rub away the fatigue. The man in the mirror stared back at him, a look of contempt stretched across his face.
A new day.
Another twenty-four hours to carry the pain and regret of his past. Another chance to redeem himself before he knew he would flounder again, and try to find peace in the bottom of a bottle.
He cursed at himself, then looked up at the ceiling and glared, pointing a finger at what he couldn’t see. He didn’t know what he believed anymore, other than the fact that a merciful God would’ve put him out of his misery long ago.
Five hours later, Max sat at the window of the small noodle shop, sipping his green tea as he waited for Mari. The bald-headed owner was getting to know him quite well now—after more than a half dozen visits—and had greeted him like an old friend, causing the locals to stare and mumble at his tall frame and pale hair. Max was getting used to the staring. But with the convincingly genuine greeting, for just a moment, he’d almost felt like he belonged in the small community. But the feeling disappeared too soon, and the reality hit him square in the gut—he no longer belonged anywhere.
“ Zao, peng you !” The old man called out as Max headed to his usual table. It was interesting what a bit of respect and a generous tip would do for a person. The man had smiled at him through gaps in his teeth, then waved at the waitress to bring tea and a bowl of congee, and to hurry with it. Max nodded his approval. He didn’t like or dislike the locally favored breakfast of bland rice porridge, but since he was trying to make an effort to feed his system more than a bottle of spirits each day, he’d swallow it down.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes, and she should be there. If she doesn’t back out . For weeks he’d stumbled around Beijing on his own, looking for a story—struggling with the language and finding his way. So he was glad she’d called him and agreed to take him around.
She’d sounded sad on the phone and almost a bit desperate. So perhaps this deal would be good for both of them. Moving around the city would be easier with a guide, and though he could’ve hired any number of young men or women trained to do the job, he’d not felt the need until he’d met Mari and realized she’d be good company. And he’d need that company. Today would be hard, but it would knock one more place off his list. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag, then held his breath to keep from choking. He didn’t want anyone around him to know the Chinese brand was harsher than his own American ones. He could probably go to the upper side of town and shop in the expat markets, pay twice or three times the usual price and get the comforts from home, but he didn’t want to do that. He was here to really feel China—to become a part of it and, in turn, let it consume him until he’d finished what he came to do. That was the promise he’d made, after all. And if nothing else, he was a man of
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