Bald New World

by Peter Tieryas Liu

  “Thanks?” I remembered saying to her.

  Larry and her clashed because she refused to do makeup the way Larry wanted. She made the actors resemble zombies and the actresses look like blue meat faces, which was the only way I could describe them. In between disagreements—Larry having run off to deal with some other issue on set—she would tell me little tidbits about herself, like the fact that she was named after a mythical crying flower called the Vermilion Pearl that wept to pay back the nourishing water it received throughout her life. Right after she was fired by Larry, she told me I should visit her in Los Angeles.

  I hated going to L.A. and not just because I grew up in the city, but I didn’t like having to wear a bulletproof vest all the time. Shopping malls were the only gun-free zones, and even there, you had to go through those scanners that caused brain cancer. Drones maintained a vigilant watch from far up above and traffic was a mechanical bog. With the upper 405 freeway countless years behind schedule (they’d been working on it since I was born), it was impossible to get anywhere. But I still went out there to see Linda. I had to. She was the prettiest bald girl I’d ever met.

  III.

  Of course, Shinjee’s friend, Hyori, looked nothing like Linda. She had too many tattoos on her head, including that of a mouse fighting a lion and winning. The four of us ordered a green cab and the mechanized operator arrived promptly. Taxis used to have human drivers, but every country in the world (except the U.S.) had changed to mechanized drivers for safety and traffic reasons so that 6-7 passengers could ride. Shinjee ordered, “Waitian Arcade.”

  Beijing had become a city of vapors, a metropolis of neon calligraphy burning away the surrounding gas. Pollution had become a permanent fixture in the landscape, trapped by the surrounding mountains and aggravated by dust storms. Contours shined like trailing lights, buildings appearing permeable, shifting with the perspective. We veered past cars and streetlights suffering from identity crises. Bikers were waiting at a red light, jumpsuits and WWI gas masks protecting their lungs from contamination. Store names floated in mid-air, Mandarin phrases wandered the alleys like unforgiven spirits, and a sentence cried for redemption, crucified in mist.

  I saw Hyori as a mask of colors outlined like a jigsaw puzzle, her thick red lips sauntering through dialectics as quickly as mood swings. She spoke good English, even if she had a slight Korean accent, though it was Shinjee who dominated the conversation.

  Shinjee looked like trouble. She wore long black leather boots, a red coat, and had on thick sunglasses even though it was night. A beret flopped on top of her head and the first thing she said to me was, “You bloody Americans are destroying our world for a God you don’t even believe in.”

  “What?”

  “Do you like buffalo meat?” Hyori cut in.

  “Never had it.”

  “Supposedly, the Japanese branch makes the best braised buffalo in the world.”

  “Are we going to have buffalo?”

  “Snake-blood wine,” Shinjee said.

  “That stuff makes you young, right?” Larry asked.

  “Virile,” Shinjee replied.

  Waitian was packed and there were a hundred taxis backed up, trying to drop off their customers. The attendants were dressed as videogame characters and some of the partiers even had on suits from old retro games like Mario and Zelda. We got out, Larry scanning his credit key for payment. Spotlights were beaming around and I could hear loud drum beats set to familiar game music.

  Hyori asked me, “What was your favorite video game?”

  “What was yours?”

  “Kid Icarus. That’s why I brought these!” From her bag popped out angel wings and a fake bow-and-arrow kit. Right in front of us, Princess Peach and Luigi were making out. Some Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles were bumping and grinding with their shells. A God of War stalked a Heavenly Sword. Mega Man was buying different drinks for different women to try to pry his way into their weaknesses.

  We had to pick out costumes at the rental booth. I wondered secretly if I was too old for this, but Larry, who was even older than me, didn’t seem to think so. He picked out a Final Fantasy character, Kefka, the madman who succeeded in destroying the world. I matched him with another Final Fantasy character, Sephiroth. Shinjee put on the bounty-hunter suit of Samus from the NES classic, Metroid. We were ready to retro boogie.

  IV.

  It was loud and spacious inside and there were big screens everywhere. Several top gamers were playing their games and digital editors cut footage from the sequences together. The music responded to the rhythms on screen and the sound effects responded to the jumping beats. There were thousands of people dressed as videogame characters and our booth had a holographic pad in case we wanted to get involved in the mix. Games were a low priority for Shinjee who wanted her snake-blood wine right away. The menu popped up along with our waitress, a cute holographic dragon who said, “We have a special on soma today.”

  “I hate soma,” Larry muttered. “It’s too old school. Doesn’t pack a punch.”

  “Snake-blood wine,” Shinjee ordered.

  It arrived through a panel to the side. Viscous and gelatinous, I didn’t like the look of it at all. Shinjee grabbed her glass and took it down in one shot. The blood dripped off the side of her lip and she said, “I never understood why your Adam and Eve ate the apple when they could have cooked up the snake and spared themselves all the trouble.”

  “They were vegetarian,” I suggested, took my cup, and brought it to my mouth. The stagnant odor was overwhelming and nearly made me puke. It smelled like intestines, tanned leather, and a really bad Bloody Mary.

  Hyori downed hers and even Larry made a good effort out of it, stopping a few times, coughing, but somehow emptying the cup. One sip made me nauseous and I shook my head. “No way.”

  “Oh, c’mon.”

  “No way,” I repeated. “I’ll just have an 8-Bit Blaster.”

  The 8BB was a joke of a drink, tasting like a juice cocktail. But as I saw Larry taking down more alcohol, I realized I’d have to take it easy. He was probably counting on me to get him out of trouble if we had any. Shinjee wasn’t holding back, matching drink for drink.

  “Nick used to be one helluva cricket fighter,” Larry said. “He’d control their little brains through the neural interface. Never saw a guy win so many battles in a row.”

  “Don’t remind me. I hate insects,” I said. “Still get nightmares about being a cricket.”

  “They say the Song Dynasty fell because the ruler was so obsessed with cricket fighting.”

  “That’s because he never had to live as one.”

  “You have?” Shinjee asked.

  “Hundred days is all they have,” I answered. “One season to be born and to die.”

  Hyori was watching me and I could tell she was looking for an opening to say something. But I ignored her and relegated myself to convoy service for the night. Several times, she asked questions about me. I gave pat answers and never allowed it to progress beyond that. Eventually, the two girls decided to go freshen up at the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” Larry asked me.

  “Nothing.”

  “These girls are trained in the art of love. We’ve got to find out if it’s as good as they say.”

  “I have no interest in my date.”

  “You’ve barely gotten to know her.”

  “She’s a spy!”

  “What if the earth collapses tomorrow? What if a thousand-year winter arrives? What if some plague wipes out half of humanity? We’re living dinosaurs, man. We’ll be dead anyways. Enjoy what you got.”

  “My idea of enjoyment isn’t being around spies.”

  “Expand your horizons, bro!” he declared. “Besides, you want to live a boring quiet life?”

  “I do.”

  Larry shook his head and said, “I have two big regrets in life. You know what they are?” His breath reeked of alcohol and when he leaned into me, he pressed the holopad whi
ch brought up the dragon waitress.

  She repeated, “We have a special on—”

  “My first is Renee,” Larry continued. “Holy shit, she had the best body I’ve ever seen on a woman. She was also damn smart, an architect who only built underwater complexes. Just thinking about her gets me excited. At the end of our date, she asked to come back to my place. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe this girl asked to come to my place. We arrive, and guess what?”

  “She’s a man?” Which wouldn’t have surprised me considering how these stories usually went.

  “I have to take the biggest dump of my life. My stomach was raging man. I couldn’t control it. I said, ‘Excuse me,’ ran to the bathroom, and felt my ass pour out of my stomach. The farts man; they were like mini gastro bombs. They were loud. By the time I got out, she was like, ‘Take me home right this minute.’ Never saw her again.” He had his hands out in front of him like he was cupping something. “I wish I could have seen her naked just once. Not a day goes by without me thinking about what could have been.” His eyes drifted to the past.

  “What’s the second?” I asked.

  He looked at me, lost in thought. “It was my first sexual experience. Ever. I’d fantasized about this girl for years. I had the chance to get with her and lose my virginity. But I was so drunk, my little guy wouldn’t respond. It was humiliating. I tried my best and I stalled for like an hour and she was like, ‘C’mon, c’mon.’ Nothing. Nada. I didn’t know it was the drink, thought I had ED or something. She laughed it off, but I could tell she was disappointed. I couldn’t reveal to her that I was a virgin, try to explain I didn’t even know the mechanics of it all. Can you believe I still remember her smell?”

  As he spoke, I wondered about my own regrets.

  “It’s been almost twenty years since both those nights,” Larry said, “and I still wish I could have done it differently. A woman ain’t just a body. She’s a journey. Those moments of intimacy you share. It’s like entering a different universe and I thank each and every single one. Let go of your leash, man. I’m not asking you to marry the girl. Just have a little fun.”

  Larry was an expert at philosophizing his lust and a part of me wondered, what was the worst that could happen? Neither of us had any secrets that would be valuable to them or their government. Hyori was no Linda. But she was still a very attractive woman. The two of them came back, spruced up. I waved at Hyori and asked her what kind of drink she wanted.

  It turned out Hyori had always wanted to be a librarian. She loved books and her cover story was that she came to Beijing to work for her uncle because she wanted to experience more of the world’s literature. When I asked what her favorite book was, she told me it was the autobiography of their Great Leader. “Every time I read his book and read how much he cares about his people, I cry,” she revealed. “He’s sacrificed everything for us. Without him, the world would have destroyed the integrity of our culture. Think about your world. You think you have total freedom, but that’s worse than restricted freedom because the noise drowns out the truly amazing. It’s the loudest voice that gets heard in your country, not the most beautiful.”

  “The variety of voices has its advantages. You can read and find out anything you want,” I replied. “Everyone is heard.”

  “If everyone talks at the same time, you can’t hear anyone,” she answered.

  A guy next to us moved like a robot and ten guys played a game of fake basketball as they threw out a hovering ball. Some women strapped on jetpacks and were dancing mid-air. All the screens suddenly paused and a spotlight shone at the center stage.

  It was opera as spectacle, a brunette in lingerie trying to mimic Pavarotti, or was it Final Fantasy VI and the Aria di Mezzo Carattere? Her staccatos were thinner than her thong as classical tones raged against digital drums. The performers wore iridescent masks that glowed neon and had caricatured expressions carved into them. There was lust, jealousy, happiness—personified emotions.

  Larry was entranced. So was Hyori who was also on her fourth glass of wine. Shinjee seemed annoyed that the singer was distracting attention from her and smoked a cigarette, puffing out whiffs of discontent.

  “You don’t like this song?” I asked her.

  “I think love songs are sappy and pointless.”

  “Why?”

  “Whenever you dramatize love, all the mundane stuff gets thrown out. That’s 99% of love. It’s a lie to only emphasize the 1%.” She stood up and said to Larry, “I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “My favorite dumpling shop. I feel like some dessert.”

  V.

  Hyori was inebriated and wanted to prove to me that freedom was overrated. “Does freedom really make you happy?” she asked inside the taxi. “It’s true, you have more knowledge than people did a hundred years ago. But does that liberate you or just complicate everything?”

  We arrived at our destination and as we got out of the cab, Larry whispered to me, “She likes you.”

  “That’s why she’s lecturing me?” I said out loud, wanting her to hear me.

  “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be trying so hard to convince you.”

  The more drunk and dogmatic she got, the harsher the contours in her gestures came into focus. There was something cruel in her eyes, perhaps because she’d suffered too much. If Shinjee was worried about Hyori revealing anything, she didn’t indicate it. Her and Larry were discussing the details of their restaurant commercial which he’d generously offered to finance.

  “I don’t know what they do at my factory, but they make tons of money and I’m always happy to spend it for them. My family has been making wigs for four generations. They’ve never been rich until now. Who would have thought, eh? The greatest ecological disaster in the world made my family super rich,” he said, laughing.

  I didn’t recognize where we were. We ducked under labyrinthine corridors, crossed short bridges, and came to a busy street filled with pedestrians. A man blew fire from his pipes and an awkward woman with a huge nose swallowed swords. There were long alleys everywhere we turned.

  “I’ve never seen this place before,” Larry said.

  “It’s one of those well-known secrets that’s hard to find the first time,” Shinjee said. “You just need a guide.”

  There were puppet shows of dynasty romances playing out in high-pitched shrieks and cymbals. Food was boiled in the cauldron of oil drums, cobs of corn burning with an egg pizza that smelled like cinders. Dice players reveled through their rotting teeth, gums eviscerated by poor hygiene. The street was bursting with lights, a ballet of lanterns dancing to the swell of the night breeze. There was a guy who smelled of garbage with a dog trained to speak Mandarin. The dog jumped on Hyori and barked, “Wo ai ni.” I love you.

  “I love puppies,” Hyori exclaimed.

  The owner encouraged his canine to say more, then pointed at the cap filled with coins. His swarthy eyes and his desperate smile depressed me.

  “Life becomes more poignant with humiliation,” Larry said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s an old Chinese story about a town that was attacked by fox spirits. They hired a Taoist monk to protect them so he took a bunch of paper, wrote his special Mandarin characters, and wha-lah! It came to life as a paper golem that fended off the evil spirits. But it had to be fed all the time and grew so big, it ended up destroying the town it was meant to save.”

  Shinjee, who couldn’t stop smoking, said, “I’ve never heard this one.”

  Larry shrugged. “My uncle used to tell me a lot of weird stories. He was depressed because his wife left him after he lost all his money gambling. He was part of the wig business too but hated it, thought there was no future in it, and sold his shares to my dad before it hit big. I named one of my last films Rennaili because of a street like this in Beijing he always used to talk about.”

  “What about it?”

  “More than a c
entury ago, the Empress Cixi got mad at one of the merchants and shut the whole street down. After she was deposed, people came back. During WWII when the Japanese took over Beijing, they chased away all the vendors. After they lost, people came back. During the Cultural Revolution, the officials said this place was too capitalistic and closed it down. After it ended, people came back. The place is called Rennaili— endurance in Mandarin.”

  The girls wanted to stop at a clothing store and Larry said to me, “Don’t look back, but I think we’re being followed.”

  “Where?” I said, immediately looking in the direction he’d told me not to look. I saw two butch Korean guys sporting Mohawk wigs, trying hard to blend into the crowd. They both wore sunglasses and green striped suits.

  “I could be wrong,” Larry said. “They’ve been following us since Waitian.”

  Shinjee and Hyori came back out. “Nothing we want,” Hyori explained.

  We rushed to the dumpling restaurant. It was a crowded hole-in-the-wall that barely looked sanitary. The tiled floors were dirty and there was only one waitress for the whole place. She spoke a guttural Mandarin that was thickly accented. There were old 2D photographs from before the Baldification, though even with real hair, people looked pretty much the same.

  Shinjee ordered a hundred dumplings, three hamburgers, five anchovy omelets. “I’m not that hungry,” I warned her.

  “This is for me and Hyori,” Shinjee said. “If you guys want to eat, you’ll need to order something yourselves.”

  I passed and Larry ordered more vodka. The steaming dumplings came out and I was impressed at how heartily the two ate their food. There was no sense of propriety or fake demureness. These women liked their food and I liked how they shed their artifice and devoured their meals. They used their fingers, didn’t bother closing their mouths, and chewed loudly. It was the only time this evening I felt like I was seeing a genuine side to them. The burgers were doused with Sichuan spicy sauce and Shinjee offered some to Larry.

  “Those peppers make my ass burn when I do my business,” he said. “Forgive me for being so crass.”