Dear friends and readers:
Took a week off. Life, eh? Stuff happens and gets in the way of art? Anyway, hope you all had a wonderful Armenian Christmas (Jan. 6), aka Three Kings Day, or Epiphany.
The adventures of Clete Wong continue, in which he gets to know his primary contact, Lee, just a little better. In her own way, I say Lee is just trying to make Clete feel comfortable. You'll see...
Chapter 4 might run late. I decided to resume with making a bookmark this year (Year of the Horse). Some of you know what this means. In fact, I'm going to go work on it now soon as I post this. Don't worry. I'll post it for the rest of you to see too. See you next time.
Pops
Personal Journal Entry
Monday, June 25, 2012
Project Date: Week 1, Day 2
The structure to which I was assigned, they call it “The
Guest Cottage,” is one of several prefabricated structures that were put on the
Island about 30 years ago for the few inhabitants that remained to live in.
They all have similar floor plans, basically three rooms, one large living
area, a slightly smaller room, used as a sleeping or storage area, and a
kitchen utility area where there is a sink for cleaning.
There is one
electrical outlet in each room. The electrical juice is really hot here, rather
like the Philippines. I had to make some modifications to my primary
transformer so I don’t fry all of my equipment. I did ship a small diesel
powered generator, but that is only for emergencies. The island’s generator is
not too far from us and it is major sonic presence here. However nights are
disturbingly quiet. When I got up my usual two to three times during the night,
I could hear the rustling of insects and lizards and who knows what else. You
see a lot of stars here—hadn’t thought about that. Should have asked Rhonda
over in astronomy if I could have done any night readings for her. Oh well.
In the utility room there is a small two-element cooktop,
propane supplied by tanks—which is mostly a backup. Looks like the primary heat
source for cooking is wood or charcoal with meals prepared outside in a
screened porch-like area. On the porch is a stack of cut wood and a bin of charcoal,
appears to be derived from bamboo. Lee’s cottage across the way looks like an
addition was built on.
Water comes from a faucet, fed by a system that seems to be
gravity based. There must be a water tower somewhere, probably with a power
assist if needed. This will be like living in Cub Scout camp for three months. Facilities
for showering, bathing, or toilet are shared in a separate structure. Toilet is
of the squat variety, flushed with a pail. Septic system? Maybe they compost
the human waste? Hopefully dug deep enough or downstream of the drinking
supply. But the inhabitants haven’t died of cholera yet, so it’s probably all
been perfected. My guts tremble in fear just thinking about the possibilities.
All the walls practically open up for light and air.
Screened of course. It apparently never gets cold here, which I can believe.
It’s so horribly hot and humid. I don’t know what I was thinking. Had I come to
such a place as a 20-something this would be an adventure. To a 50-something it
seems like a lot of trouble, but I’ve made my choice and I’m in for the
duration.
At daybreak, true to Lee’s word, there was a knock, but it
was not her. I opened the door to a younger version of Lee. Her most prominent
feature was that she had long, glossy black hair that fell past her waist.
Other than that, she looked like any number of Asian American undergrad coeds I
had had in my classroom back at the university. She gave me a deep bow of
greeting.
“Nihao. Or
is it English that you speak?”
“English is best for me, but nihao to you too. You must be Ling.”
“Yes. I am Lee’s
daughter, Dr. Wong?”
“No need for such formality. Call me Clete.”
“Thank you, but I think I would prefer to call you Dr.
Wong.”
“Suit yourself. But why?”
“I understand you are quite learned? You hold three
college degrees?”
“Four actually. Plus some post-doc work. However, it’s
only impressive to those in my field, and even then most of them aren’t
impressed—I’m just a sell-out oil hunter.”
“Excuse me? Dr. Wong? I don’t follow?”
“Never mind. Just the rantings of a cranky old man.
Sure I can’t get you to drop the ‘Dr.’ nonsense?”
“But it doesn’t seem appropriate for me to call you so
familiarly.”
“If you change your mind, I prefer Clete. Americans
are casual.”
“Yes, well. In any case, my mother is ready for you to
join us for breakfast. If you would follow me please?”
“Lay on McDuff.”
OK, I was pouring on the colloquial Americanisms a bit thick. I was ushered onto their screen porch area and urged to take a seat at the small table which could accommodate four if necessary. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully, as Lee entered with bowls of porridge. She nodded and grunted something at me. Must not be a morning person. She left and returned with spoons and a serving bowl filled with eggs that had been scrambled with herbs and greens. She took her seat across from me. I decided the polite thing to do was to match her countenance and demeanor. Setting my face to the seriousness of hers put me into an offensive stance and mood. We locked eyes. We sat stone still. I felt Ling’s gaze, she was sitting to my left, darting from her mother to me and back.
“Well,” Lee said breaking the impasse, “are you going to eat or not?
Why are you waiting?"
“I’m waiting for you to start.”
“I am waiting for you to start. Do not wait for me.”
“What if I pick up the spoon wrong? I’m in a foreign
country. I think I’ll watch.”
“Maybe I am waiting for you to start so I can copy you
so you do not feel uncomfortable.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You are a guest.”
“You didn’t seem to care about that yesterday.”
“You keep track of such things?”
“I’m a scientist. That makes me an astute observer. I
see things and I write things down. So yeah, I keep track.”
“To me, one day is one day, the next is the next.”
“That’s certainly an approach that has its place in
certain situations.” Back to our stone quiet impasse.
“Dr. Wong? Mother?” interjected Ling, “But I think you
should start. Before it gets cold?”
“Cold? Tell me what
the word ‘cold’ means to you,” I said.
Ling looked at me
like I was an idiot. “Cold means not hot,” said Ling.
“You are supposed to be a smart person. What’s wrong
with you? You do not know hot from cold?” interjected Lee.
“Hot and cold are relative terms. In case you didn’t
notice, I’m hot here. Maybe I need to get a thermometer and . . .”
Ling stopped me
in mid-sentence. “You may observe me if you wish, Dr. Wong. In fact, would you
like your eggs in your porridge?”
“Prep it exactly the way your mother eats it, please.”
“Mother . . .”
“Extend every courtesy to our guest and fulfill his
request.”
At this point Lee broke off the intense staring
contest we seemed to have begun and we tracked Ling’s movements. She picked up
the eggs and divided them evenly into thirds dumping them the steaming bowls of
porridge. She then took a jar with a dark oily substance in it and dropped a
spoonful into both Lee’s and my bowl.
“Three swirls and then she eats,” said Ling. “She uses
her right hand and dips the spoon with the leading edge away from her first
in.”
“Got it.” I looked back intently at Lee. We picked up spoons
in unison, made the requisite three swirls, took a scoop, and then held them to
our mouths. “Ling?”
“Yes Dr. Wong?”
“Silent or slurp?”
“Slurp.”
“Loud, medium, or soft?”
“Medium.”
“Daughter!” said Lee.
“Mother?” said Ling.
“I think I made the porridge rather bland today. Give
me two more spoonfuls of seasoning.”
Ling complied.
“Ling?” I said.
“Dr. Wong?” I’ll have the same. Exactly the same as
your mother, my esteemed hostess.”
“Do as our honored guest says,” said Lee.
“Caoni! Wangbadan!
(roughly ‘Well, fuck you, you son of a bitch’)” scolded Lee.
“Mama?” said Ling. She was surprised.
“What’s wrong with you American? My sauce is stronger
than you?”
“Ahem,” Ling spoke very delicately as I was trying to
compose myself, “I don’t like mother’s condiment there. It’s very strong. She’s
very particular about what she eats herself.”
“What the HELL is that crap?”
“This crap, as you call it, is my ‘Motor Oil Dressing,’”
said Lee, “since it reminds me of crankcase grease, but it’s made from peppers,
and from some beans that we grown and ferment.”
I took a big slug of tea. “Very apt.”
“You do not have to eat that,” said Lee.
“I’m eating it. Every bite. It’s delicious,” I said
sarcastically.
“Why, thank you Clete. So nice to get a true
compliment,” she returned to me just as sharply.
“Is your mother
always so contentious?” I said, struggling with every bite. I realized I was
going to regret the resultant bowel movement even more.
“Mother is never contentious, to me. And she is
actually a fine cook.” We finished up and Ling excused herself to perform some stretching
routine elsewhere. Lee allowed me to assist her in cleaning up.
“My job today with you is to show you the area in
which you will work this week and to show you where they set up your laboratory
structure.”
“Aren’t you going to drive me around the whole island?”
“No. You will proceed one domain at a time. That is
what we all here decided. You have 12 weeks to be here, we have 10 domains and
the Grove, the Outside, so it works out that way. You will not bother those who
live in the domain you are studying. If they speak to you, you may respond. You
may save the last week for your summary or going back to any place you missed.”
“That’s not an ideal set up.”
“It is what it is.”
“What if an area demands more of my attention than
another?”
“Why you so
pushy? Can you not take directions?”
“Is it crime
here to ask for things?”
“Abide by your
contract.”
“You want to
talk about the contract? And some of its vagaries?”
“What is that
word you just used?”
“Vagaries. Let’s just say things that are not
predictable or clear. Can we talk about it?”
“I will not discuss it. I will tell the Security
Council you are dissatisfied.”
“You do that. But I’ll cope.”
“Yes. You will. You ready to go to your research shed
now?”
“Yep.”
Since I had nothing to carry, we decided just to walk over
to the location of the porta-lab. I was told by my contractor that it had been
placed on a nice level, flat pad that was elevated about some 10-12 feet above
sea level in the interior, well drained, and partially shaded. The placement
was also chosen because of its proximity to a utility juncture to tap into the
Island’s small power grid and because of unobstructed sightline to the
satellite that my dish would be pointed to.
We walked along the primary, unpaved access road that I was
told snaked about the island. We took a cutoff and went up a dirt path and
there it was. Basically the lab was a double cargo container placed on a
concrete frame form, but insulated and outfitted inside with shelves, cabinets,
appliances, and various equipment I had purchased and had secured inside, which
I would spend most of the next few days setting up.
I opened the door, stepped inside, and did a quick
inventory. Crates had shifted, but if the packers had done their job right
everything should be intact. I stepped back down.
“Whoooweee. Is it ever stuffy and hot in there!
Goddamn!” I exclaimed. My foot almost came down on some kind of large, bulbous green
squash. “Ooo. What have we here?” I bent down and picked it up. “You know, my mother
would make soup out of this kind of thing. I think she called it doong gwah. So why is this . . . lab . .
. uh, . . .sitting on top of a . . . nice, uh, melon patch?” There were other
plants and squash peeking from under the structure.
“I think that is a very good question too. And maybe
you have some good answers for me NOW.”
And then it started; the reason she was pissed at me yesterday,
and today as well, and from the looks of it, probably as long as I will
continue to be here. The person she could unload on had finally arrived and her
grievances could be heard. And heard they were. I had been brought to the scene
of the crime and recitation of injustices commenced.
For all of my observant nature, I forgot to start my stopwatch,
which would have been nice since there seemed to be no end to the full
accounting of the suddenness of the appearance of the massive cargo helicopter
that brought the lab, the boatload of rude men who landed on the beach, and the
mess they made of things traipsing about with their boots in gardens, pinching
Ling’s ass, pissing and spitting wherever they felt like it, and so forth. I
was berated for my lack of communication and responsiveness.
She complained of
Rex who cowered in his office afraid to come out. Not sure why that was my
fault.
Judging from her account—after it had been dialed down in
intensity, volume, and spirited Mandarin profanity—it seemed that the crack
Malaysian install crew that my contractor Bo insisted was the best, didn’t
speak any of the five or six languages they speak here, but they nevertheless intended
to do a great job for him since Bo was paying them so well. Apparently they were
told to just ignore the locals and pick the best spot and install accordingly. Fortunately
for them, they left after the job was done. Unfortunately for me, I have to
live with her and the consequences of their actions for the next three months. Lee
complained that they all carried sidearms. That crew must work in some
difficult places.
And who knew that prized melon patches make great research
building locations? Make a note for future melon growers who are exiting the ag
industry.
When a break in the tirade finally occurred, I added rather
hopefully:
“It would probably have helped if you had kept up with
your e-mail or answered your phone. I wasn’t getting any feedback at all from
you people.”
“E-MAIL!? PHONE!?”
And we were off again. Apparently my expectations for
digital discourse were a bit too high for subsistence farmers.
When I offered to compensate her for the crop loss she
simply said, “Forget about it. There’s no place I can buy what was lost. We’re
on an Island, or have you forgotten?”
“I’ll have the crew come back and remove this building
when I’m done.”
“NO! I never want those horrible men on this Island
again. I will shoot them myself if they come. I will call a curse down on their
families. My beautiful patch is gone. It is just lost, that’s all there is to
it. Lost to this ugly box.”
And on and on she went but another gap soon came. I think
she was tiring out—didn’t take quite so long to get to this breathing space. We
eventually worked something out and she left me to start my setup. I just need
to make myself as scarce and as transparent as possible. I was asked, rather
ordered again, to sup with her that evening and give her a report of my
activities. No need to recount that meeting here, but it was just as lovely as
it sounds. The bad news was that I was to eat dinner with her every night and
report on my activities. Just what I needed. A fuckin’ nursemaid.
The thing that pissed me off more than anything was the
money I wasted on 90 dehydrated meals that I was planning to eat for my dinners.
* * *
Entry into the Annals - edited and spellchecked draft 2
Reporter: Qin Qin, Guardian Princess of History, Prophecy, and Lore
U.S. Date: Monday,
25, June 2012
Island Date: Dragon, Month 5, Day
7, Xingqi 1
Water Domain: 2nd Water Princess was asked to
recall her conversation with the 1st Water Princess after the
orientation meeting with the scientist
“OH MY GOD! What an awful person! This research contract
is becoming a nightmare. It keeps getting worse,” lamented Lee to her daughter.
“I thought you two were going to kill each other.”
“Is that the American way to talk? To stare SO HARD at
one another? And to use such profanity? I could barely take it anymore. It was
SO RUDE! I couldn’t stand to BE so rude myself.”
“I have heard Americans are quite blunt. But I thought
he may have been copying you mother.”
“Copying me copying him? What nonsense. And now I have
to talk to him everyday. I am so tired now and it’s not even noon.” Lee set an
item down on the table.
“Mother? What is that?”
“His bribe.”
“Bribe?”
“He called it a security, a deposit—whatever you want
to call it. After I told him his lab box was sitting on my melon patch, he gave
me . . . this.”
“I know it really bothered you. But it’s not much of a
bribe. An old knife? Why that?”
“His try to get even. That’s all. I told him I’ll give
it back to him when he gives back my patch.”
“Is it worth something?”
“Just some story behind it. That’s all. Means nothing
to me.”
“May I see it?” She examined it, opening and closing
the solitary blade. “It’s dull.”
“It’s not even a good knife.”
“What was the story? Did he tell you?”
“Says it belonged to his great-grandfather. Said he
immigrated to California as a boy to work in the mines in the 19th
century, and later the railroads.”
“Long time ago. Mother, this is probably very precious
to him. Why would he give it to you?”
“Probably because I yelled at him.”
“You . . . yelled?”
“I yelled . . . a lot. The melon patch.” Ling nodded
in understanding. “Now you’re making me feel bad. Stop looking at me that way. But
he stole my patch that I worked on for years! That was the seed crop too! It’s
probably nothing to him either, that knife.”
“Why do you say
that?”
“It’s just what
he happened to have in his pocket. Maybe it’s all a lie. Some story he made up
on the spot. People like him think we’re stupid. All of his college degrees. I
don’t know what kind of man he is. If he’s like those Malays he hired we’d
better be worried.” Lee was quiet for a while.
“So did he apologize?”
“That’s the thing! No! Not sorry at all. He tried to
make it sound like it was my fault for not phoning him.”
“So did you demand this out of him?”
“No. I didn’t ask for anything.”
“So he just offered this then?”
Lee thought about that a bit. “It got into my hand.
That’s all. He said he has no grandson to give it to. He said, ‘I have no one.’
That’s all he said.”
“He has no family then?”
“Looks like no.” Lee laughed at herself. “I took a
family heirloom from a man with no family. How worthless is that?”
“Do you think you may be too hard on him?”
“Are you taking his side?”
“I think he’s nicer than you think. You know those
extra 25 barrels they delivered? They were not on the contract punch list.”
“Did you find a place for them? What are they anyway?”
“If the labels are correct, they are 25 barrels of highly
refined diesel fuel. If we use that, you won’t have to clean and rebuild the
generator engine for two full cycles.”
“Eh?”
“I examined a sample. Hundreds of times better than that
cheap, swampy stuff we get from Indonesia. This looks like clear water. I had
them install one immediately. You know that broker just gives us his trash that
everyone rejects. The generator is running about 30 percent quieter. Haven't you noticed? Dr. Wong
maybe saved you and me two weeks of mechanical work.”
Her mother tried hard to look as unimpressed as possible.
“I like mechanical work. Don’t talk to me anymore. I need to rest.”
© Copyright 2013 by Vincent Way, all rights reserved.
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Be truthful and frank, but be polite. If you use excessive profanity, I'll assume you have some kind of character flaw like Dr. Wong. Tks!