Why Magpie has been wanting to buy a 2.5 ton truck ex-military vehicle since 2006 isn't a question I can answer. All I know is he wanted one. The holdup had always been how to get the giant vehicle in an unknown condition transported home. So he sat and he lurked on government liquidation websites and craigslist waiting for the idea to come.
The truck he found on craigslist was 5 tons instead of 2.5 tons. It gets a glorious 5 miles to the gallon. A gallon of what you ask? Pretty much anything, the engine plate reads "fuel spec - all petroleum distillates up to a maximum octane rating of 85m-95r." Magpie offered $2500 on a whim, expecting to be laughed out.
The offer was accepted but the owner remained skeptical it would run without towing. It had only been driven about 15 miles since being purchased, and Magpie would have to drive it 550 miles to get home. The owner offered to send more pictures of the truck that weekend so Magpie could think this over, but Magpie had already started packing.
Magpie, Lion and CoLo drove all through the night Friday and arrived at the owner's place at 7AM, where they discovered that people don't answer their cell phones at 7 in the morning on a Saturday. Around noon they found him. The owner thought they had bailed on the offer and that they were completely crazy, but also was delighted to see them.
In Magpie's words, the owner had "a large quantity of approved lawn art and fun toys," including a lifted Jeep Grand Cherokee with big tires, a few spare transmissions and engines, a jeep c10 pickup, a stack of tires, and a jeep cj on what must have been at least 38" tires. The owner himself rolled up in yet another jeep with 56" mud tires in the back. I can understand why the two of them liked each other so much.
A few quick repairs on the military truck later the thing is ready to roll, and Magpie realized he didn't know how to drive stick, so they found a parking lot and started practicing.
Mall security was highly distressed to find Magpie with all 10 wheels and 20,000 pounds of military grade near-tank learning to drive stick in the Macy's parking lot, but didn't really seem to know what to do about it. Never to be taken for not being in charge, they had Magpie to solemnly promise to not run over anything, and permitted him to continue.
On the road home the group split up at about 10PM. CoLo had some friends to see in another city, and Lion and Magpie wanted to take the truck off-roading. Lion trailed Magpie in his vehicle to make sure he didn't break down, and promptly lost him as everybody's cell phone simultaneously stopped working. Lion arrived at the campsite at midnight, but Magpie didn't get in until 5AM because he looped back to find Lion. The whole affair was rather miserable seeing as the truck had no roof and it was absolutely pouring.
3 hours of sleep in Lion's car later they wake up, still soaking wet, to find the rain hadn't let up. Determined to still go off-roading, they demolished some trees with their 20,000 pound military cargo truck, and empirically verified how bad their turn radius was. The mirrors seemed slightly in danger of coming off, but the rest of the truck didn't seem to mind the abuse in the slightest. The military made this thing rock-solid and no frills: no roof and no muffler. Magpie drives it with earplugs.
On the road home Lion was in fine spirits, driving loops around the truck since it topped out at about 55 mph. He saw a large number of chunks of what he assumed was one of Magpie's 10 tires blowing up, but when he saw Magpie continue driving, he assumed everything was ok and didn't say anything.
Turns out Magpie had lost the air compressor belt, which took the tachometer belt with it, which took the water pump and fan belts with it, which in short order caused the truck to have zero air pressure, the alternator to stop charging the battery, and the engine to heat up. He tried to pull over, but he had also lost mechanical assistance to the brakes, and wound up more or less standing on the pedal for half a mile on the shoulder before the truck finally ground to a halt 180 miles from home. Lion was terribly amused, and Magpie wasn't.
The inside of the hood was covered with bits of belts but both the phones and the data plans were working again. An auto store, a few belts, and four gallons of coolant to top the tank off at a nice even ten later all the important bits were spinning again, and the truck was drivable the whole rest of the way home.
Come Monday morning, Magpie decides his life isn't interesting enough, and so opted to drive his new vehicle to his very respectable cube-farm of an employer where he was forced to park it across three parking spaces to fit it, but politely left enough room for the neighboring Prius to back out. He was sorry for being late, and explained that his new truck needed 15 minutes to warm up, 5 to cool down, and topped out at 55mph. One question led to another and once his boss had confirmed that Magpie had somehow managed to fit this monstrosity in the parking lot, he started laughing.
"Bet that thing is a real chick magnet!"
It was meant as sarcastic, but two girls about Magpie's age overheard the conversation and were the first to go out and see his prize. When he drove it to work a second time on Friday apparently every girl in the department came out to see it.
And that is the story of how Magpie got four hours of sleep on a weekend, bought a battle wagon, learned to drive standard, and won the attention of all the ladies.
Showing posts with label CoLo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CoLo. Show all posts
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Fox and the Bear
It may be beyond my skill to describe being a Waldorf child for seven years in a way that will resonate with you if you weren't one yourself. CoLo laughed when I first mentioned it, "That explains so much; I've never met one of you who came out normal."
Lets start with something simple: beeswax. Beeswax is an art material provided to children frequently during Waldorf education. It is made (rather unsurprisingly) from the wax of bees and is dyed a variety of vivid colors. In the warmth of your hands it will become soft and mailable, but when left alone it will cool to hold its form. Its given to children in class and used in a similar manner to clay.
The older kids got to use beeswax, so we all were terribly eager for our first chance. I remember our teacher holding a wooden bowl at the front of the class and tipping the brim forward to show us its contents. Inside were about thirty-five pieces of wax. About half of them were vivid orange and half were a dark, warm, and vaguely royal purple color. The bowl was passed, down one row and up another, as I hungrily watched each student select a piece and pass the rest along.
"What is the difference?" I asked.
"They different colors," my teacher said, and couldn't be persuaded to say any more.
The interest was overwhelmingly in favor of the purple wax, so much in fact that by the time the bowl came to the last row there was nothing but orange left despite the fact that there were easily one and a half times as many pieces of wax as there were students. I remember holding the bowl in my hands and looking at both of hues, thinking that they were both very pretty, but eventually deciding that while the orange was slightly prettier, all of the cool kids were taking the purple and that I wanted to be a cool kid too.
"There once was a fox and a bear," the teacher said, and we all hushed to listen to story time.
"And one day the bear found the fox eating many delicious fish. The bear asked the fox how he caught them, and the fox said that it was very easy. He promised to teach the bear how to fish if the bear promised to listen very carefully to his instructions. The bear agreed and they went to the lake where the fox taught the bear how to make a hole in the ice.
'That was easy,' said the bear.
'Oh yes,' the fox smiled, trying to flatter the bear, 'I am sure for somebody as clever and strong as you it was easy. You can probably do anything, but here is the hard part: you must now sit with your tail in the hole and wait a very long time for the fish to come and bite your tail. Then you can pull up all of the delicious fish and eat them.'
So the bear sat with his tail in the hole all day and all night, and when the sun rose the next morning he thought he felt a nibble so he stood up. However, when he stood he found that his long and beautiful tail broke off in the ice, and now he only had a short stubby one. The bear went home very angry because he had been tricked, and whenever the fox thought of him he laughed. This is why bears have short stubby tails. but foxes have beautiful long ones."
I looked down in my hands at the purple wax and thought for a moment but was interrupted by the teacher.
"Now I want all of you with brown wax to make the bears, and all of you with orange wax to make the fox from our story."
Brown? I looked at the wax again. To a seven year old a teacher might as well be the voice of God himself, and so I immediately and wholeheartedly believed that my beautiful purple ball of wax was brown and ugly. What was worse was I was making the loser for the story. I turned to see the back row of the class grinning because they were all going to make the winner.
One student asked to trade her brown wax for orange wax but the teacher did not permit it. Dejected, I formed the very best bear I could from the wax and placed it on the counter along with all of the other student's work.
The figures sat there for almost a week before we were permitted to take them home, and when my mother asked me about my bear I didn't want to talk about it.
I remember daydreaming in class though and looking at the little figurines. If I do whatever everybody else does, I thought, I will only ever be as happy as everybody else is.
If I want to do better, I need to do something different.
Lets start with something simple: beeswax. Beeswax is an art material provided to children frequently during Waldorf education. It is made (rather unsurprisingly) from the wax of bees and is dyed a variety of vivid colors. In the warmth of your hands it will become soft and mailable, but when left alone it will cool to hold its form. Its given to children in class and used in a similar manner to clay.
The older kids got to use beeswax, so we all were terribly eager for our first chance. I remember our teacher holding a wooden bowl at the front of the class and tipping the brim forward to show us its contents. Inside were about thirty-five pieces of wax. About half of them were vivid orange and half were a dark, warm, and vaguely royal purple color. The bowl was passed, down one row and up another, as I hungrily watched each student select a piece and pass the rest along.
"What is the difference?" I asked.
"They different colors," my teacher said, and couldn't be persuaded to say any more.
The interest was overwhelmingly in favor of the purple wax, so much in fact that by the time the bowl came to the last row there was nothing but orange left despite the fact that there were easily one and a half times as many pieces of wax as there were students. I remember holding the bowl in my hands and looking at both of hues, thinking that they were both very pretty, but eventually deciding that while the orange was slightly prettier, all of the cool kids were taking the purple and that I wanted to be a cool kid too.
"There once was a fox and a bear," the teacher said, and we all hushed to listen to story time.
"And one day the bear found the fox eating many delicious fish. The bear asked the fox how he caught them, and the fox said that it was very easy. He promised to teach the bear how to fish if the bear promised to listen very carefully to his instructions. The bear agreed and they went to the lake where the fox taught the bear how to make a hole in the ice.
'That was easy,' said the bear.
'Oh yes,' the fox smiled, trying to flatter the bear, 'I am sure for somebody as clever and strong as you it was easy. You can probably do anything, but here is the hard part: you must now sit with your tail in the hole and wait a very long time for the fish to come and bite your tail. Then you can pull up all of the delicious fish and eat them.'
So the bear sat with his tail in the hole all day and all night, and when the sun rose the next morning he thought he felt a nibble so he stood up. However, when he stood he found that his long and beautiful tail broke off in the ice, and now he only had a short stubby one. The bear went home very angry because he had been tricked, and whenever the fox thought of him he laughed. This is why bears have short stubby tails. but foxes have beautiful long ones."
I looked down in my hands at the purple wax and thought for a moment but was interrupted by the teacher.
"Now I want all of you with brown wax to make the bears, and all of you with orange wax to make the fox from our story."
Brown? I looked at the wax again. To a seven year old a teacher might as well be the voice of God himself, and so I immediately and wholeheartedly believed that my beautiful purple ball of wax was brown and ugly. What was worse was I was making the loser for the story. I turned to see the back row of the class grinning because they were all going to make the winner.
One student asked to trade her brown wax for orange wax but the teacher did not permit it. Dejected, I formed the very best bear I could from the wax and placed it on the counter along with all of the other student's work.
The figures sat there for almost a week before we were permitted to take them home, and when my mother asked me about my bear I didn't want to talk about it.
I remember daydreaming in class though and looking at the little figurines. If I do whatever everybody else does, I thought, I will only ever be as happy as everybody else is.
If I want to do better, I need to do something different.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Broken Mind
The street is absolutely packed. At first I was darting between the openings in it only to find that I had inadvertently dodged through several groups taking photos. Slowing down I begin skirting these events only to be caught by the photographer of one.
"Excuse me, can you take a photo of us?"
"Of course," I respond taking the camera. I hold the viewfinder up near my face and watch the last face slide into the camera.
It occurs to me that I can outrun any of these people who I am photographing, especially in a crowd. People stretch out nearly too tightly packed to move for blocks and blocks. There are easily a million people here, and almost no cops. I could take this camera and pawn it for about 100 dollars, and there would be effectively no consequences. There is literally nothing stopping me.
"Say cheese!" I smile and click a picture. "Alright, hold on, let me get a second one for you."
"You're so sweet!" the camera owner grins as I hand it back to him.
"Excuse me, can you take a photo of us?"
"Of course," I respond taking the camera. I hold the viewfinder up near my face and watch the last face slide into the camera.
It occurs to me that I can outrun any of these people who I am photographing, especially in a crowd. People stretch out nearly too tightly packed to move for blocks and blocks. There are easily a million people here, and almost no cops. I could take this camera and pawn it for about 100 dollars, and there would be effectively no consequences. There is literally nothing stopping me.
"Say cheese!" I smile and click a picture. "Alright, hold on, let me get a second one for you."
"You're so sweet!" the camera owner grins as I hand it back to him.
***
"Yeah I slept on the grass here my first night here before my dorm opened," he shrugged.
"Yeah, there's like no security here. You want to climb that tower?"
"What?"
"You know," I pointed to the top of the nearest clock tower, "see what's at the top."
"There's something wrong with you."
I laugh and put one hand on the back of my head and laugh, running my fingers through my hair nervously, "Oh, well I wouldn't say..."
"Those people you hang out with have broken your mind. All you see now are ways to break society."
"Yeah, there's like no security here. You want to climb that tower?"
"What?"
"You know," I pointed to the top of the nearest clock tower, "see what's at the top."
"There's something wrong with you."
I laugh and put one hand on the back of my head and laugh, running my fingers through my hair nervously, "Oh, well I wouldn't say..."
"Those people you hang out with have broken your mind. All you see now are ways to break society."
***
When I was 17 I considered retroactively getting myself a second birth certificate under a fake name. I was going to say I was 14 (I looked young enough). With a second certificate I could get a new passport and driver's license, and from there I figured I could get anything else I wanted. I'd take the exam to get a GED, and then I wouldn't need to attend a second high school to be a credible person. It was going to be a whole second me, just in case I screwed up and really wanted to start over.
It was also because I realized how absurdly easy it would be at a young age such as that to legally speaking become two or more people. Until you are 18 there is little to no record of your existence, and few consequences for messing around are fairly small. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I was just itching to do it, just because I knew I could.
It was also because I realized how absurdly easy it would be at a young age such as that to legally speaking become two or more people. Until you are 18 there is little to no record of your existence, and few consequences for messing around are fairly small. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I was just itching to do it, just because I knew I could.
***
$57.67, got one two three of these...
I flip the checks over to sign them, then copy the amounts onto the deposit slip.
Why is a check secure? Does anybody check my handwriting? I have friends who sign their credit card receipts with stick figures and dicks and nobody ever seems to notice that. Does anybody even know what my handwriting or signature even look like? How could somebody tell if I forge it?
This thought brings me to the front of the check. How hard would it be to make a fake birth certificate, show it to the DMV to get them to print you a fake driver's license, use it to open a fake bank account, scan and photoshop the checks, print a whole series of them, and write yourself 100 dollar checks until they start bouncing. There's no real security in checks, and everything I'd need to print fake ones is on a single check.
***
I flip the checks over to sign them, then copy the amounts onto the deposit slip.
Why is a check secure? Does anybody check my handwriting? I have friends who sign their credit card receipts with stick figures and dicks and nobody ever seems to notice that. Does anybody even know what my handwriting or signature even look like? How could somebody tell if I forge it?
This thought brings me to the front of the check. How hard would it be to make a fake birth certificate, show it to the DMV to get them to print you a fake driver's license, use it to open a fake bank account, scan and photoshop the checks, print a whole series of them, and write yourself 100 dollar checks until they start bouncing. There's no real security in checks, and everything I'd need to print fake ones is on a single check.
***
"This country need stricter gun control," she says.
"Why,"
"Because people can't be trusted."
We already trust people on a very basic level. Our society is drastically insecure, and all that really keeps it going is a combination of the ignorance of some and the good faith of others to not dismantle it brick by brick despite the abundant chances around us.
"Why,"
"Because people can't be trusted."
We already trust people on a very basic level. Our society is drastically insecure, and all that really keeps it going is a combination of the ignorance of some and the good faith of others to not dismantle it brick by brick despite the abundant chances around us.
***
I'm holding two silver dentist-tool like implements. The pick has a smooth handle which narrows to bulb out again into a small circle on the end. The torque bar was a thin piece of metal which was twisted into an L.
"These," Colo says, "are what I started with."
"What now?"
"Now you practice."
In the short time between Magpie's graduation and the beginning of my internship that year I learned to melt through a whole stack of masterlocks. I think if people realized how little was put into these locks they would not have such faith in them.
"These," Colo says, "are what I started with."
"What now?"
"Now you practice."
In the short time between Magpie's graduation and the beginning of my internship that year I learned to melt through a whole stack of masterlocks. I think if people realized how little was put into these locks they would not have such faith in them.
***
The crowds of people flow and ebb like an ocean and lap against the stairwells between wharfs. I duck from the crowd and run up a stacked pallet to jump onto the side rail of the stairway, swing over it, and then onto the back of the fence. Somebody shouts "hey" at me but I'm back into the crowd before anybody can catch me.
Funny, that fence is locked with a masterlock.
Funny, that fence is locked with a masterlock.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Busted
I've been attending to other matters but out of the corner of my eye I'm minding the table.
A blond girl with a beach bag of a purse approaches the table from the wrong angle to be coming off the table where you assemble a burger. She takes her soda from the table, then throws it in the bag, then a second. Emboldened by her success she grabs another one in each hand and begins moving them to her bag.
"What are you doing?"
The girl is cool as she keeps pocketing more sodas, "Our hotel doesn't have a soda machine, I'm stocking up. You know what I mean..."
"No, I don't."
The girl turns red and keeps taking the sodas "I'm just taking a few." She's probably taken at least 8.
"Stop."
"I'm just getting them for my team!" The girl is shouting now, "I don't know why you care!"
I stare at her for a moment. She takes one last defiant soda and stalks off in the opposite direction. Honestly if I cared about the girl I would have made her give them back, but I honestly was too pissed to care if she learned a lesson or not from all this. I have enough kids of my own that want to be taught for me to take on more that don't even want to change their ways.
Looking back on it though, I probably did that kid a disservice. Success only makes you bolder.
The next few kids try to take two sodas just to prove they can. I roll my eyes and give them a hearty "You're pathetic" look. Kids rarely respond to adult's rage, but anybody who ever survived middle school should know that people drop dead if you can combine disdain with any inner source of their guilt.
"Don't be such pigs."
One kid who already has two sodas in his hand takes them to prove he's not scared of me, but the line goes back to one a person after that.
I guess that's the latest and greatest in the American way. If you get busted, pretend you're right, and if pressed, its the messenger's fault. After all, we're all delicate and unique snowflakes right? Being wrong might hurt somebody's ego.
What I find most impressive was that these kids were also jacking what I personally thought to be some pretty nasty soda. When was the last time you saw high schoolers buy fruit seltzer?
Once when I was in Hong Kong I was on the subway with about 20 non-native kids from my university when in walks a little girl and her mother. The child is holding her mother's hand by the thumb. I smile and wave at her. The little girl looks at me for a long moment and then says to her mother in Cantonese, "Look mommy, there's a devil here."
Chinese body language is so subtle compared to ours, but I don't see any visible reaction from the mother. She instead walks to a hand loop and puts her arm in as she guides her daughter to a cherry red pole to hold on to so she can weather the movement of the train.
"Mommy," she continues still in Cantonese, "There are so many devils here."
There's not hatred in this little girl's voice. The sentence wouldn't have sounded a whole lot different if it had read "There are so many chairs here." She continues her ramble, but her speech is becoming progressively more complicated and I have trouble following it.
"Mommy, I have never seen so many devils together here."
I feel bad calling out a little girl, so I sit quiet and turn to smile at her.
"Devil's looking at me!"
By this time we're all looking at each other, and a few of us are chuckling nervously. We had read how in Hong Kong the language barrier meant that racial slurs had just become part of the language. If somebody started calling me names in America I might fear for my physical safety but here there was supposedly no need to fear. We had all read that this wasn't culturally meant as a serious insult, and that it carried no threat of harm, but we all felt a little awkward being cursed out and not knowing what the socially acceptable thing to do about it would be.
"Devil's are laughing!"
I remember looking around the train for any sort of social cue at all but everybody on the train, including the kids from Hong Kong University who were helping us learn our way around, were avoiding our eyes. For a brief few seconds I could hear every clatter of every wheel on the train track. The little girl turned away from us and was quiet.
I remember being very impressed that the mother seemed to share in the shame she thought her daughter should feel rather than ignoring its existence or handing it all back to her kid. What I found more bizarre was that everybody on the train seemed to share the kid's shame, like one bizarre cold shoulder of an apology. Oddly enough, the shared guilt which created this neat little line between "us" and "them" was more alienating than being called names in some sense.
Half in defiance, and half from not knowing what else to do with ourselves, being called out as "ghosts" after that became a sick little game. I would wait until somebody went on a reasonable rant calling me a ghost and a devil, and then turn and respond in my politest Cantonese, "yes."
The response was always the same. The speaker would always look away in shame, and sometimes even apologize in Cantonese a few times. Apparently most white people didn't learn to speak any Cantonese there, so they were not use to being caught. I was amazed though that none of them ever got in my face about it, they just acted embarrassed.
Where did our society lose that skill of admitting we are wrong when we are?
"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"
Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.
"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."
The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"
"Look," I interrupt, "Officer, we're sorry and we have given you everything. Please let us go."
The officers tried hard to rattle us after that and we pretended to be appropriately terrified of jail time or not graduating or whatever they were theatening at that moment (for portions of it, I'll admit, I did not have to pretend). Then they took our fireworks and left. I remember being thunderstruck. All they wanted to see was a little fear in us, scare us into saying sorry and hopefully into not doing it again.
A blond girl with a beach bag of a purse approaches the table from the wrong angle to be coming off the table where you assemble a burger. She takes her soda from the table, then throws it in the bag, then a second. Emboldened by her success she grabs another one in each hand and begins moving them to her bag.
"What are you doing?"
The girl is cool as she keeps pocketing more sodas, "Our hotel doesn't have a soda machine, I'm stocking up. You know what I mean..."
"No, I don't."
The girl turns red and keeps taking the sodas "I'm just taking a few." She's probably taken at least 8.
"Stop."
"I'm just getting them for my team!" The girl is shouting now, "I don't know why you care!"
I stare at her for a moment. She takes one last defiant soda and stalks off in the opposite direction. Honestly if I cared about the girl I would have made her give them back, but I honestly was too pissed to care if she learned a lesson or not from all this. I have enough kids of my own that want to be taught for me to take on more that don't even want to change their ways.
Looking back on it though, I probably did that kid a disservice. Success only makes you bolder.
The next few kids try to take two sodas just to prove they can. I roll my eyes and give them a hearty "You're pathetic" look. Kids rarely respond to adult's rage, but anybody who ever survived middle school should know that people drop dead if you can combine disdain with any inner source of their guilt.
"Don't be such pigs."
One kid who already has two sodas in his hand takes them to prove he's not scared of me, but the line goes back to one a person after that.
I guess that's the latest and greatest in the American way. If you get busted, pretend you're right, and if pressed, its the messenger's fault. After all, we're all delicate and unique snowflakes right? Being wrong might hurt somebody's ego.
What I find most impressive was that these kids were also jacking what I personally thought to be some pretty nasty soda. When was the last time you saw high schoolers buy fruit seltzer?
***
Once when I was in Hong Kong I was on the subway with about 20 non-native kids from my university when in walks a little girl and her mother. The child is holding her mother's hand by the thumb. I smile and wave at her. The little girl looks at me for a long moment and then says to her mother in Cantonese, "Look mommy, there's a devil here."
Chinese body language is so subtle compared to ours, but I don't see any visible reaction from the mother. She instead walks to a hand loop and puts her arm in as she guides her daughter to a cherry red pole to hold on to so she can weather the movement of the train.
"Mommy," she continues still in Cantonese, "There are so many devils here."
There's not hatred in this little girl's voice. The sentence wouldn't have sounded a whole lot different if it had read "There are so many chairs here." She continues her ramble, but her speech is becoming progressively more complicated and I have trouble following it.
"Mommy, I have never seen so many devils together here."
I feel bad calling out a little girl, so I sit quiet and turn to smile at her.
"Devil's looking at me!"
By this time we're all looking at each other, and a few of us are chuckling nervously. We had read how in Hong Kong the language barrier meant that racial slurs had just become part of the language. If somebody started calling me names in America I might fear for my physical safety but here there was supposedly no need to fear. We had all read that this wasn't culturally meant as a serious insult, and that it carried no threat of harm, but we all felt a little awkward being cursed out and not knowing what the socially acceptable thing to do about it would be.
"Devil's are laughing!"
I remember looking around the train for any sort of social cue at all but everybody on the train, including the kids from Hong Kong University who were helping us learn our way around, were avoiding our eyes. For a brief few seconds I could hear every clatter of every wheel on the train track. The little girl turned away from us and was quiet.
I remember being very impressed that the mother seemed to share in the shame she thought her daughter should feel rather than ignoring its existence or handing it all back to her kid. What I found more bizarre was that everybody on the train seemed to share the kid's shame, like one bizarre cold shoulder of an apology. Oddly enough, the shared guilt which created this neat little line between "us" and "them" was more alienating than being called names in some sense.
Half in defiance, and half from not knowing what else to do with ourselves, being called out as "ghosts" after that became a sick little game. I would wait until somebody went on a reasonable rant calling me a ghost and a devil, and then turn and respond in my politest Cantonese, "yes."
The response was always the same. The speaker would always look away in shame, and sometimes even apologize in Cantonese a few times. Apparently most white people didn't learn to speak any Cantonese there, so they were not use to being caught. I was amazed though that none of them ever got in my face about it, they just acted embarrassed.
Where did our society lose that skill of admitting we are wrong when we are?
***
"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"
Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.
"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."
The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"
"Look," I interrupt, "Officer, we're sorry and we have given you everything. Please let us go."
The officers tried hard to rattle us after that and we pretended to be appropriately terrified of jail time or not graduating or whatever they were theatening at that moment (for portions of it, I'll admit, I did not have to pretend). Then they took our fireworks and left. I remember being thunderstruck. All they wanted to see was a little fear in us, scare us into saying sorry and hopefully into not doing it again.
***
"So what happened then?" I asked.
"Not a whole lot," Magpie shrugged, "The kid who ratted got suspended for a year, the kid he ratted on just went on academic probation."
"But I though that was part of his plea...he turns in his cohort and..."
"Guess the campus hearing board didn't feel that way for very long. Ratter didn't apologize in his closing statements, CoLo did."
"And that made..."
"All the difference I guess."
"Not a whole lot," Magpie shrugged, "The kid who ratted got suspended for a year, the kid he ratted on just went on academic probation."
"But I though that was part of his plea...he turns in his cohort and..."
"Guess the campus hearing board didn't feel that way for very long. Ratter didn't apologize in his closing statements, CoLo did."
"And that made..."
"All the difference I guess."
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