*ALTITUDE AND ATTITUDE
Rain-laden clouds darkened the sky. On the cusp of cloudburst the landscape took on a mysterious aspect; fog in the foreground, leaden mist in the distance. And then the sky opened up, releasing a volley of large, globular raindrops that plunked hard on the roof of the car with discombobulated delight.
The sedan cooed and purred as the grade of the road steepened, wheels licking the slick wet pavement with a steady whoosh. Wonder what the purple girl was doing now?
No sooner did his close his eyes than a sharp kick against the back of his seat startled him.
“Con-ling!”
“Wha-what?”
“Do you have an ant in your pant?”
“Do I what?”
“Your hand, it is playing…”
She was exaggerating as usual; his hand had merely been resting gently on his semi, the discreet upward bulge of his crotch. But she was hyper alert, awake, her mood brighter than before, almost disconcertingly so. She was crouched in the back seat like a tiger, raring to roar, ready to rout.
“Why so serious?”
“Life is serious.”
“Why so quiet?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Does the pussy have your tongue?
“The what?”
“Meeoowww!”
Crazy as catnip, but not too far off the mark. It wasn’t the first time her X-ray vision had penetrated his X-rated mind. It was like she could read his dirty thoughts faster than he could think them.
“Con-ling! Are you sleepy?”
“A little bit…”
“Here!” she said, producing a tin of black coffee from her bag.
“Thanks babe.”
He popped open the can, keen on getting some caffeine.
“And here!” she added, handing him a powdery snowball of a mochi, wrapped in a leaf. It was his favorite kind, ichigo daifuku, all chewy, doughy and lumpy with sweet red bean paste and a strawberry in the middle.
“And here!” she added, handing him a powdery snowball of a mochi, wrapped in a leaf. It was his favorite kind, ichigo daifuku, all chewy, doughy and lumpy with sweet red bean paste and a strawberry in the middle.
What a difference dozing off could make. She made it sound like all was forgiven and forgotten.
“And here!” she taunted, slipping back into character at last. She handed him a thick wad of A4 paper.
“What’s this?”
“Work.”
“Like what, news scripts?”
“For you.”
“But hey, didn’t you hear? I don’t rewrite for VTR anymore. Remember? I’m the ex who got the ax.”
“It’s not just for VTR; it’s for SPT, too.”
“Oh. The Chinese? That’s weird. Well, I don’t work for them either.”
“Miki wants you to rewrite both sides.”
“You sure?” If his protector and mentor Miss Miki was calling the shots, he was not in a good position to say no, even with his pride on the line.
“She says she wants you to say what neither side isn’t saying.”
“Wait. Does that mean something, or nothing?”
A quick scan of the SPT headlines told him it was a bit of both; the two archrivals had more in common than either side would care to admit. If it wasn’t bullshit with a Japanese accent; it was bullshit with a Chinese accent. The same-old, lame-o snow job, all over again. The individual snowflakes might be different, the structure varied, but the precipitation of propaganda was the same on both sides of the Japan Sea. Or was it the China Sea? East Sea? West Sea? If pressed to rewrite it, he would say it was a wet sea.
“She said to make it nice, all nicey-nice.”
“Nicey-nice, like Nice News nice?” he asked, reluctantly accepting the assignment.
“Not that nice.”
Medium nice. Passive aggressive nice. By making both sides sound sweeter and smoother than they were, he could stick it the neon-nationalists who used friction and bombast to get their way.
Ho-hum. Let it snow. He raised the back of his seat fully upright and made a workstation of his lap, balancing the all-important can of coffee between his knees, much to the consternation of the driver. Knocking back the bitter black stuff until the tin can echoed with emptiness, he pored through the China-produced English texts submitted for inclusion in a joint news simulcast. No sooner did the caffeine kick than he slipped into a fugue state reminiscent of better times; he was back in the saddle, rearranging words, rewriting bullshit again. He was back in the groove, on top of his game.
Borderline enthused, mildly amused, he perused the news in need of righting. On the top of the list, an VTR press release drafted by Chairman Nakayama’s office:
“Pre-eminent world broadcasting leader VTR, under the guidance of the enlightened and inestimably correct influence of the diffident philanthropist Nakayama Jun staged today an international action symposium with the number two rated junior affiliate SPT to toast the health of his altitude and discuss the implementation of eradicating misunderstandings left in the legacy of the Showa modernization program in China, a back-laid nation which would not have fully entered the 21st century without Japan’s acquiescent aid. Tokyo’s humanitarian intercession was abruptly discontinued due to US interventionism but tide thus returned to favor prosperity lapping East Asian shores. Implicit in international friendship all abiding respect for the sacrifices of warrior ancestors and ancient war heroes who steadfastly enforced recognition of Japan’s unique beautiful identity which is totally Asian on the one hand, but totally different from other Asians on the other hand, especially the less developed Asians who were not fortunate enough to enjoy the favorable conditions of Showa style rule and integration into the prosperous empire of the East as administered from the home islands.”
A piece of cake! “VTR welcomes SPT.”
But then there was the reciprocal statement to wrestle with:
“Despite the so-called illumination of the rising sun, Japan would not be Japan were it not for the enlightening influence of 5,000 or more years of Chinese culture, language, religion, art, architecture, statecraft, war-craft and science. Thus it is with gracious generosity that we accept the tribute accorded to our great nation in the form of an invitation to the International Friendship Photo-op. In addition, we most stridently stress the most auspicious visit bestowed upon our civilization juniors by extending the honorable long arm of friendship hailing from Shanghai Propaganda Television from the motherland. No longer seen as the enemy of amity, the Nipponese race is hereby and forthwith fully recognized as not just honorary subordinates but full junior partners of greater China. Ever-greater respect for innate cultural seniority will be reciprocated with benevolence and extensive largesse. Such asymmetrical equality is necessary foundation to build an even more outrageous prosperity. Obedient integration and friendly federalization is fondly anticipated by all the upright peoples, tribes and nationalities of the greater Confucian zone which is the epicenter of world economic activity and actively engaged in the vigorous implementation of permanent world peace.”
He pared it down a bit. “SPT arrives in Japan.”
Having made quick work of that, he skimmed through the latest news bulletins from Shanghai:
-ASIA FOR ASIANS AND WHOLE WORLD IS THE BENEFITS
-KEEP CIRCUMSTANCE HARMONIOUS!
-WHEN WILL JAPAN APOLOGIZE?
-MINI SKIRTS: RISING HEMLINES RESULT IN TEXTILE GLUT
“Now there’s a story I could get into,” Collin declared, taunting his sidekick. He held up a photo of some very leggy Chinese models, flashing it for her to see.
“No one told you to re-write the pictures,” snapped Jianhong.
“But this is nice stuff, you know, for international understanding. A woman’s body is a temple of ah, niceness; it’s a kind of candy, a confection, it’s sugar and spice. Nice, nice, nice.”
“You would say that,” she complained.
“I’m just saying I could get into it, you know, doing things Shanghai-style.”
“Doing what?”
“Exploring the deep recesses of your fascinating culture.” He flinched, sensing a hand ready to slap. “Take it easy. Just a joke.”
He reached up for the sun visor, adjusting it until he could better view his nemesis in the mirror. She looked lonely in the back seat by herself. Tense and uptight, she was wound up worse than a knotted rubber band on a balsa wood airplane, loaded with latent energy, ready to fly, snap apart or sputter out.
Look at how she reaches behind her neck to adjust her necklace!
Look at those lovely tapered fingers fidget with the silky silken folds of her tight-fitting wrap!
Look at that slim, hug-me torso, the hairless legs, the pert posture!
Look at how her spidery digits dance across her lap!
Look at how she reaches behind her neck to adjust her necklace!
Look at those lovely tapered fingers fidget with the silky silken folds of her tight-fitting wrap!
Look at that slim, hug-me torso, the hairless legs, the pert posture!
Look at how her spidery digits dance across her lap!
“What’s your hand doing, Jian-jian?”
“Looking for my om-e-let,” she replied testily.
“Your what?” She really did seem to be looking for something.
“My, ah, thing.”
“Your thing?”
“Ah, here it is.”
She had a funny way of saying funny things, but he decided to let this one slip by uncorrected. That fine gold chain she wore, the one with the loose am-u-let on the end, was no joking matter to her, she wore it everyday, and took it off only at night. He knew her bedtime ritual because of that one long chaste, sleep-deprived night they had spent on the floor of his room; it was intimate yet entirely innocent.
In all their time together at VTR, what with all the office eye candy, the tea caddies and eager interns, he had never really taken the time to focus on the understated physicality of his plain old pal. Yet now, in exile from the teeming city, pressing forward on some forlorn, forsaken rain-drenched road in the misted hills, they had but one another.
There was the driver, of course, but he had taken a conversational absence without leave ever since they first stepped onboard. Nothing like being at the mercy of a silent, stoic helmsman to make them feel they were alone, in the same boat.
Bad words batted away, he let drop the pile of scripts on his lap and closed his eyes, trying to relax, slyly trying to snag a rogue thought hovering on the edge of his consciousness. She was sitting so close behind him he could hear her every breath.
The girl from Fujian rarely wore makeup, and she didn’t need to. Her naturally bronzed complexion exuded a vitality and glow that was rare in the vast Tokyo tableau of pale, passive painted faces. In contrast to her perfectionist coworkers, driven by the clock, there was a faint whiff of jungle about her, something raw, rude, anarchic and terrifying. She paced, ever ready to pounce, all the while radiating intense desire, and never more so than when incensed, which she frequently was. Fukkenese? Fukkenese indeed.
They had been drifting apart and bouncing back together ever since the day they first met. He was more than grateful when she offered him refuge in his dire hour of need; he was moved. At that moment they were closer to being close than ever before. And somehow that scared him into running off again.
What was it with her? What was it with him? Why hadn’t the two of them hit it off right from the get-go?
Okay, so she wasn’t the prettiest girl in the office, but she was pretty pretty. She was funny, even when she didn’t mean to be, and she was caring when she cared to be. She was alternately obtuse and attentive, infuriating and lovely. They had tangoed a bit, early on, later on, here and there, but they were almost always out of step.
Like the time he tried speaking Chinese to her, saying something along the lines of “What a nice rounded ass you have!” Did she appreciate his linguistic prowess? Not one little bit. She wouldn’t speak to him for a day, probably because he got the tones wrong.
Then there were times she’d say something in Chinese to him out of the blue, presumably intimate, because Chinese slang was scatological by nature, but he couldn’t say for sure, and he didn’t ask, because she bristled at being reminded she was different. When push came to shove they wanted much of the same thing, but almost never at the same time. They were not so much incompatible as forever out of synch.
If his black belt in bedding taught him anything, good sex was all about synchronicity. With the J-girls he had known, getting naked was the easy part, a mutual delight in bare skin put the mind at ease; the sex that followed set the gold standard for intimate interaction. Being fond of and wanting to fondle were almost one and the same.
The rain had stopped. The car was now careening round switchbacks wild and verdant; weeds and vines dangled from rocky nooks and crannies. The rain-slicked road was bordered on both sides by dripping, sparkling forest. He lowered the window a crack, taking in a rush of air. So moist and redolent of mud, balmy and ruggedly luxuriant, it was hard to believe they were en route to high-altitude crystalline icecap. The mountain couldn’t be seen for the trees, but somehow he could feel it pressing down on them anyway.