Maggie May

I hate waiting. It's cold: I'm pacing furiously to keep my blood from freezing. I’m not used to snow, on a night like this in Boston, I feel like the Little Match Girl. He better show up soon. It’s taken me nineteen years and half the world to track him down: I'm not going home empty handed. The pessimistic side of me knows that his track record is by no means reliable. It starts snowing again, typical. I can see a bar in the distance, calling out to me.

Daddy was barely ever around, being a busy lawyer in the city. He would leave early in the morning and come home late at night. Well after my bedtime, but when I could, I would stay awake until I heard him come in. I would jump out of bed and hug him as he went past my room on his way to the bathroom. He seemed to alternate between smelling nice and smelling awful. I didn't realise that it was either perfume or whiskey until years later. When I was eleven, I waited up to show him a prize I had won at school. I was so excited and I was so sure that he would be proud of me. I waited and waited, but he never came. When I awoke in the morning, I rushed into my parents’ room and lunged at the bed, jumping on it to hug Daddy. I landed on my mother and she was furious with me for waking her up. She turned to her side to get Daddy to yell at me, but he wasn’t there.

I check my watch: it's eight thirty. He said he would meet me at eight o'clock. Perhaps he was delayed: I'm sure Daddy just had to work late. I keep pacing, I see a man approaching in a coat and hat, he could be my Daddy, but I cannot tell. He walks past me. Maybe he doesn't recognise me either. I jump a little at every well-dressed man about the correct age who walks by. One man, overweight, definitely not my father, winks at me as he walks past. I’m not soliciting: walk on, buddy.

Nine o'clock: I try his mobile phone. No answer. Nine fifteen: same again. Nine thirty: yet again, no answer. I give in. I'm going to the bar. I walk in and drop my fat bum on a stool. Through frozen lips, I say "Scotch." The barman can barely hear me over the noise, but I point and mine, and eventually the message gets through. I sit down and numb myself out.

They turf everyone out at midnight. I prise myself off the barstool and force myself out of the bar. I hail a cab back to the hotel. As I stumble inside, the girl at the front desk tells me that a man came by and dropped off a letter. I thank her and hold back my tears. She coughs for a tip, so I slap the last $10 from my purse on the counter. I go back to my room and open the folded piece of hotel stationery.

Dear Maggie,

                I must apologize for keeping you waiting, but please understand that I never wanted to be a father. I loved your mother, but after even a single year of marriage – I knew I couldn't be the husband she wanted, let alone the father you needed. I had hoped that the two of you would move on and forget me. Your mother was still attractive: she could have had any man she wanted. I wanted to free her from me. I couldn't live the lie with you and her any longer.

                I have my life the way I want it now. Please do not try to find me again. I cannot be the man you want me to be. I could try, but it wouldn't make either of us happy. I am sorry about your mother, but you must go on and live your own life. It was good to see you.

Best wishes,

                Elliot. 

Unfinished piece about China (version 0.092)

Let me know what you think

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© 2010 Chris Cash

Five years ago, I left my life in Newcastle on a crazy whim. I took a job teaching English in China. I’d laughed at the exact same ad six months before. This time, why not? I had my doubts, of course: the organisation was built from sticky tape and promises, but I would pull though. I was going to Qiqihar, in North-Eastern China: year-round average "low" temperature: -1.5°.

That was that: 2005 seemed like a horribly cold winter, which I was glad to see over. By the time it had begun to warm up properly, I was on a plane with a busted toilet and wet carpet, on my way to China. After two flights and a painful customs inspection, we were squeezed into hotel rooms along gender lines. The men woke early, and took a walk around the block. Every mundane thing we saw was like a holy vision: whether it was a woman berating her daughter for staying out all night or elderly tai chi practitioners.

Then began my six-month long war against breakfast: while in China, I barely ever had a satisfactory morning meal or cup of coffee. I compensated by pigging out at lunch and dinner. Northern Chinese food is a bit of a shock if you’re used to Cantonese-style Chinese meals. A lot more salt, chilli and oil and some unfamiliar ingredients and combinations. I was served sheep’s intestine, pig’s trotter, candied sweet potatoes, and donkey dumplings, but escaped the tiny frog soup.

It was a massive turnaround for me: a new country, things were cheap and everything was an adventure. The first two weeks were designated as "training": we didn’t teach so much as see the sights, meet local teachers, have banquets thrown in our honour, try out bars, shopped, gawk at the strange new sights and be gawked at in return. I was nervous to begin, but soon learned that my blue eyes and freckles were more important than knowing the differences between you’re and your. I was never so proud to be Ginger.

Each week we would do the rounds of schools in and around the city. In given week, you might do a few classes at bizarrely named local schools, like Railway Number Five or Factory Number One, early in the week; then out of town to an outlying county to teach at one or two schools. The timetable would change each week, and just when you started enjoying a particular town, you’d be swapped off somewhere else. Fularji , Fuyu, Kedong, Tailai, Nenjiang, Longjiang, Gannan, Ang'angxi, Meilisi: the names of counties and districts I visited in the four months blur into various catches of memory, faces and incidents.

We arrived at the end of the Manchurian summer, the streets were dusty and local men rolled their shirts up to expose their bellies in the afternoon heat.

My first long-haul trip was to Kedong. I did a half-day at Fuyu, then several hours on the impossibly slow train eastward. I arrived, in the dark. I met two teachers from Kedong Number One High School’s English department, perhaps more. In the dark of the taxi to town showed off their mastery of the F-word. I hadn’t heard anything even faintly profane out of a Chinese mouth since arriving, but now heard such gems as “He is always mad at me because I am always fucking his wife.”

They took me to a "barbecue" restaurant – a local speciality, shredded meat cooked in front of you, much like Korean barbecue, except the lettuce often ends up getting fried as well. I enjoyed my first few visits to Kedong. I enjoyed the company of Mr. Zhou and his foul-mouthed friend. Once, the very friendly head teacher, Mr. Han, thought I might enjoy saucepan warmed beer as much as he did, grease and all. Mr. Han was perhaps the only non-smoking Chinese man ever met: in a film I saw later, a non-smoking policemen, was told “a man who doesn’t smoke is like a woman with a beard.”

High school students’ days begin at 7 or 8 am, with four or five classes and 15 minutes daily exercises by lunch time at 11:00am. Fortunately, lunch is two hours long, to allow a siesta. Four more classes at 1:00 pm, and at some point, eye exercises. Thanks to these, I will probably never forget how to count to eight in Mandarin, but left me confused if I needed to use 9. When 5 o’clock comes it’s time for dinner, an hour’s break (two hours in summer), and the day rounded by another three classes. That’s seven days a week, most of the year. The majority of schools I taught at were boarding schools, centralised, servicing the whole county. For 40 minutes a week, English was a relief of sorts: a funny-looking, funny-acting person would jump around for a while and then leave. If kids slept in my class, I let them be. Who could blame them?

At Kedong, and most schools, I would eat dinner in the school cafeteria. It was a surreal experience, with the local teachers are trying to ply you with beer (or worse, vodka-like baijiu) being surrounded by Chinese Coca-Cola posters featuring Chinese Hero Yao Ming, Taiwanese pop stars and World of Warcraft promotions. I thought the Olympic Gold Medal winning hurdler, Liu Xiang, was a pop singer because of his Coke endorsements. On the way to the school one morning, I asked what kind of job most people did in Kedong. To my horror, I was told it was unemployment or at a stretch driving taxis. There was a fireworks factory in town, but naturally there weren’t enough jobs to go around.

My real “welcome to China” moment came on my first return trip from Kedong. The guy who sat next to me was falling-down drunk, nice for him, not so much for me. He knew a few words of English, so asked me where I was from, but would not believe I was anything other than Russian. Every so often he would ask me "Russia?" to see if I’d changed my mind. After about half an hour of this I wanted to scream "If you say 'Russia' one more time, I will hammer and sickle you in the eyes." It wasn’t the best trip.

I got used to hearing the words Mei Guo ren wherever I went, meaning American person, typically you're expected to be either American or Russian in the north east. 

Feathers (draft/incomplete)

© 2010 Chris Cash

Kayla was getting tea together. It was simple fare: baked beans for her daughter and younger brother, salad for herself. It annoyed her that the dog ate better than they did most days. Rodney paid the child support once in a while, but the lazy bastard was back on the dole. He even had the cheek to ask her for money on his last visit.

She had met Rodney at a friend’s wedding when she was 17. Back then, Rockin’ Rod played guitar and broke hearts – now, he was broke and played with himself. They met up whenever he was in town for a wedding, party or whatever gig his band could get. She hadn’t wanted to settle down, least of all with him. Rod had a fiancé in another town, and probably a couple more, besides. Then came baby Sabrina, Kayla hadn’t wanted a baby either, what was she going to do with it? Rodney convinced her to keep it, and promptly moved in. After a month of cold showers, Kayla’s father paid the bond on a unit down the road. Close enough for her to visit or have her mother babysit, but far enough away from Rockin’ Rod’s woeful guitar solos.

Sabrina Annabelle was the kind of baby that you fell in love with instantly: with her head of loose blonde hair, bright blue eyes and chubby cheeks. Kayla couldn’t help herself – she dropped everything: no more work, no more parties and not much of anything else. Rockin’ Rod even became Rodney Stimpson: bank teller, four days of the week; just so they would have regular cash flowing in.

Naturally, Kayla got sick of him quickly. Those three days a week with him at home were a chore, so she got some of her old shifts back at the supermarket. It wasn’t ideal, but anything was better than listening to Rod butcher Stairway to Heaven for hours on end. Rodney hogged the bathroom, the bed covers and Sabrina. He would do the washing up, but that was about it. One Friday afternoon, Kayla came home early and rushed straight to the bathroom. Looking in the bathroom mirror, she saw a teenage girl cowering in their shower, half-dressed in her school uniform.

Three years later, Kayla seemed to have things together. She was worked as a secretary for a forestry company. She’d been seeing Tom, the new PE teacher at the high school, for over a year now. They were getting ready to go on holidays together. Her parents adored him and so did Sabrina. Last time she’d visited his place, she’d found a ring, hidden poorly in a kitchen cupboard. And she had Jason, her 12-year-old brother. He visited most afternoons after school. He usually volunteered to babysit if she and Tom went out.

Jake was watching Sabrina as she played with Muttley the dog.

The microwave beeped itself off, and Kayla emptied the kids’ food onto their plates before placing everything on the kitchen table. With a sigh, Kayla stepped out onto the verandah and called out for the two.

They weren’t there. She heard the toilet flush. Slightly relieved, Kayla had found Jake. “Where’s Sabrina, Jake?”

He shrugged, “I ‘unno, left her out front. I was busting.”

“Aw Jake. Jesus. She’s gone.” Kayla realised she was shaking the boy. She let go and frantically ran around the house, jumping the flimsy garden fence on her way around, swearing under her breath the entire time. She ran out to the front footpath, no sign. She knocked next door, and called out to Mrs Morris who lived next door. Nothing.

Jake called out: “Sis, there’s something on the verandah.”

“Is it your niece? Or the dog?” Kayla jogged back into her own garden.

“Nah, it’s a letter I think.”

“Bloody-well open it then”

“Aw Crap, Kayls – It’s one of those ransom note things you see on telly, with the cut-out words from magazines.”

“Fuck.” She blushed. “Shit, sorry Jake – and you watch your mouth, too. What’s it say?”

“Guess who’s got her.”

“Give us a look.” Kayla took the envelope. A cockatoo feather fell to the ground as she took the note out. “Aw, what a dickhead.”

Jake coughed.

“Well he is. A melodramatic di... jerk. Rodney’s taken her to the circus. Friggin’ drama queen. I’m gonna skin him alive when I see ‘im.”

Kayla tossed her head side to side, quickly mulling it over. There was no way she was going to wait for him to bring her daughter back. Kayla ran inside, straight to the telephone. She tried Rodney’s mobile. As the phone hummed and ringed, she muttered to herself, “If the prick’s got it turned on...” The phone rang out. “That’s it,” she said, “Hop in the car, Jake. I’m taking you back home. Then I’m going to find the prick.”

They got in the car, a small, functional Asian number: nothing fancy. “You got everything?” Kayla asked Jake.

“I want to go with you.”

“Alright. Call Mum on the mobile, so’s she knows where you are. And buckle-up too, last thing I need right now is a ticket.”

Jake hung his head, “Yes, Sis.”

Kayla stepped on the accelerator, ploughing down the street, and onto the main road. She tried to remember where the circus normally plays when it comes to town. She headed towards the showgrounds.

“Kayls,” Jake lifted his head, “There weren’t no signs up for the circus in the shops and that. No-one at school’s been talking about it. I mean, even if one’s at Baradine, kids talk about it, y’know?”

“Crap crap crap,” Kayla was afraid of just that. Ten minutes later, they came to the showgrounds. It was deserted, save for a group of teenagers in the centre, laughing and drinking. A dark haired boy looked up, seeing the car. Kayla recognised him, and sang out, “Oi Brandon! You seen Rodney or my Sabrina ‘round here?” She began walking over to them.

“Nah, no idea, hey.” The boy shrugged as he called back, “Why, what’s happened?”

“Prick’s run off with her.”

A red-haired girl gulped and piped up, “I sawr’em earlier. They was at Old Walshey’s petrol station.”

“You see which way they went after?”

“Nah, Soz, Kayla.”

“Ah, thanks anyway, Becca,” Kayla made to leave, she turned briefly to lend advice, “Don’t you lot stay out too late, alright?”

“Yes,” they chorused dutifully.

Making sense

Right now, I'm trying to make sense of things. I have several writing projects I seem to be juggling. So many ideas, but can I follow through on them?

For uni I have at least 3 things I need to work on.

In Travel Landscape & Place, I wanted to begin with a piece on China. I've tried numerous times to make sense of my time in China. I wrote 7 or more drafts for a piece on working there - drawing some inspiration from Paul Theroux's "Riding the Iron Rooster" - brandished by a colleague when we first arrived there; especially since most of my travel was by train: local trains: across Qiqihar prefecture, subway-trains in Beijing & Shanghai, and intercity trains - most notably my trip from Shanghai to Harbin without a seat at Chinese New Year (not recommended). I began like a school teacher, trying to sound knowledgeable about all the things I learned after leaving China, rather than what I pieced together while I was there, the confusion & chaos that I faced daily. Being immensely frustrated by my work, being unable to let up at times, since I had to cover others; classes. The fact that I was sick for most of my time there.

I desperately need a second piece for the subject, we've been advised against further memoir-type pieces, with which I agree for the most part. A bit annoying though, I whipped up a piece for workshopping about the property which I grew up on.

I also have Writing for Screen, which has found me struggling to find a theme. I began with an idea initially based around Kim Jong-Il, with elements of Prince Harry and Blackadder creeping in. I've scrapped it for now, since I couldn't seem to wrap a plot around the bloke.

Other things are nagging at me. I joined Suite 101, but am lacking inspiration for non-fiction articles to place on there. Typically, I have a couple of ideas floating about up there, but lose focus once I fire up the word processor.

The other is a story I'm meant to be writing for a writers' group I'm involved in. It's based around the word "feather," as yet my story has practically nothing to do with the theme word, a feather makes a cameo, and seems only to function as a Tropfest item. I may post what I've done so far.