Gods and hot dogs

I was rejected by the Mormon missionaries, in a small Taiwanese town, bedecked with false idols, "heathens" and poly-theists.

When I saw them they were sitting outside the 7-11.Two of them. Sitting on bent up metal chairs, they were happily consuming what appeared to be mysterious, leathery hot dogs of unknown origin. At that point I had been in Taiwan for over a year, living in a polluted little town, hemmed in on three sides by petrol chemical plants on the outskirts of Kaohsiung City. I went there to finish a book I had been struggling with and as a bonus, learn what it was like to live in a toxic zone.

Seeing another white face in this town was a rare event, which was exactly why I chose it. I had work to do and unfortunately, I had little time and money to spend hanging around other foreigners, some of whom seem to have inexplicably flown halfway around the world to spend the majority of their time in westernized establishments, drinking imported beer and commiserating about the oddities of Taiwanese culture.

There weren't any foreigners where I lived, so it wasn't really an issue, but after a year of mind-bending solitude, I began to fantasize about things as simple as having a concise conversation with someone other than myself.  In a moment of desperation I made a point when exiting the 7-11 to introduce myself.

As it turned out, Elder Able and Elder Levi, both Mormon Missionaries, had ridden their bikes twenty five kilometers into my town, not for the delicious 7-11 hot dogs, but with the sole purpose of spreading "The Word".

I noticed that during our conversation - which, by the way, was very enjoyable - Able, the older of the two, seemed to eye me suspiciously. It was as though my friendly, interested demeanor had somehow thrown him off. "This guy is too easy," he seemed to be thinking.  "There's gotta be a catch."

I've always found religion to be fascinating and was a main reason for my desire to live in Asia.  Perhaps my enthusiasm, coupled with the chance to have a coherent conversation, had something to do with it. Anyway, I had class to get to, so exchanging numbers, I happily invited them over to my place the following week, which they wholeheartedly agreed was a fine idea.

The following week, in preparation for my guests, I mopped my floors, bought snacks, and in an attempt to make them comfortable, moved my Buddha images out of the front room. Oh, the things we would talk about!

On Monday morning, wanting to confirm our symposium, I dug their wrinkled Jesus flyer out of my book bag and dialed the number. No answer.

On Tuesday I called again. No answer.

Tuesday night. No answer.

Wednesday morning.

No.

Answer.

I waited around all day on Wednesday, thinking maybe they had bike trouble or perhaps they had come down with debilitating parasitic hosts after eating those hot dogs. They never did show up though. A few weeks later, I thought I spotted two peddling white shirts as I was riding through town, which only turned out to be two old Taiwanese men in white shirts and flip flops.

I never saw Able and Levi again. It's a shame, because I really wanted to hear what they had to say. I really did.

Previously published and titled "Rejected"

in EXPAT, Taiwan and

Gwangju News, S.Korea 2007/2008

                                    JUST TAKING A HIKE

               They had been out hiking since after three. The

       man walked a few paces ahead of her. She treaded along

       behind him, not really following and not quite straying.

       He could sometimes see her in the periphery stopping

       to stroke the bark of a tree, or admiring a particular

       patch of green spongy moss. He admired her curiosity,

       which he thought was brilliantly childish. 

     How’s this right here? The man asked.

     Fine, she said.

The man dropped his bag in the shade and helped pry the pack off the girl’s shoulders, like a saddle from a horse.

Shaken from the long afternoon hike and then the immediate sensation of lightness on her feet, she removed one very stubborn boot at a time and sat down in the shade. The man, her lover, for the past two weeks, taught science at her son’s grade school. He did not teach her son’s very grade of course, but being even this close to what she perceived as their tremendously scandalous behavior, was at times too much and she sometimes imagined, or over imagined it should be said, the dire consequences should they be discovered.

No matter really, the man’s head was tucked serenely between a potent ignorance and raging narcissism, a science teacher who also happened to be an ignorant asshole.

He’s the best she can do. At least that’s what she thought. It does however, out rank masturbating on the library floor. The previous evening she was spread eagle in the botanical stacks, writhing quietly between, The Tulips Of The Netherlands and  How’s You’re Hibiscus? The fact that she happened to be in the Botanical stacks had nothing at all to do with her love of flowers. On the contrary, it was her love of books, the smell of the bindings. The comforting odor of slowly decaying pulp that she found titillating. She held no particular fetish with regard to titles, or book classifications. The dewy decimal system was safe from her defiling.

As she sat in the shade, she watched the man who had been sharing her bed for the last two weeks. She thought of the ridiculous things lovers say and how possibly ridiculous she was. Ridiculous she is.

The man came over and squeezed himself into the narrow beam of shade beside her. She could have easily moved over to make room for him, but she did not. She had decided that she hated him.

WilliiamM. Reyland

July 7th 2009

wc 415

                        COAL FIRE

A glutinous Indian sun shone defiantly over the small Punjab city of Barnala. Along the shoulder of a highway a few scant meters from the rush of exhaust and twirling tornados of dust, a young boy with a food cart prepared chapattis and steaming chai, both necessary ingredients for sustaining the ceaseless supply of commerce and sun-baked lorry drivers.

Normally the chapatti cart was his Mother’s responsibility but for weeks she had been mysteriously ill and confined to bed. The boy watched with terrified fascination as her face became sallow and the light in her eyes a murky puddle.

That morning, the doctor thumped her gently on the chest as though it were a mango. Standing at her bedside, he closed his medical bag with a snap and said to his father, “In bed until I say, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day”.

The boy kissed her lightly on the forehead. She sighed heavily and gently stirred the covers around her feet.

Because he was just a boy, caught between the confusing realms of approaching manhood and his more easily conceived childhood, he would much rather be with his friends loitering the train tracks, or kicking the half deflated ball they spent an entire afternoon chasing as it floated down a swollen dike, comically out of reach. 

As for his mother, he had no doubts. After all she was his mother and what kind of God would take her from him?

The rolling chapatti cart was constructed, indeed hurled together entirely of sheet metal and held fast by whatever means. Mashed and flattened heads of rivets and rusty bolts dotted its surface like bullets shot from a hundred different guns. 

Because of its ungainly design it was an awful struggle for the boy to maneuver the cart through the crushing morning traffic. This caused him on more than one occasion to tip its contents, which decorated the grey, soiled pavement with streaks of white flour and splashes of yellow turmeric.

For protection against the heat of the relentless afternoon sun, an umbrella was jammed into a raggedly punched hole through the top of the cart. This did not prevent the sun from sneaking a hot slash across his exposed shoulders.  As the day wore on the band of hot light crept up his neck and in hot patches up the back of his scalp. Not until late in the afternoon did the umbrella provide complete shade.

While the exhausted drivers lazed about in whatever shade they could find, their idle trucks creaking and sighing in the heat, the boy worked comfortably within a cool black dot of shade preparing the last of the day’s chapattis. He watched as the amber oil swelled and rolled, joyfully accepting its due. As he cooked, tiny droplets of oil recoiled and sputtered onto the hot coals. Hissing tendrils of smoke rose and danced briefly in the afternoon breeze and brushed gently across his face. The boy winced as the acrid smoke bore into his eyes for an intense moment or two. There were a few tears.

When the sun hung well past zenith, glued to the tops of distant hills, the boy packed his wares, tied down is exhausted umbrella and rolled away along the shoulder of the highway towards home, his pockets full of coin and greasy rupees. His heart taut as a drum with thoughts of his mother.

Passing the various temples and various versions of God, he came upon a column of Jains, the sun blasting painfully off their white robes as they filed out of temple. The boy watched as they solemnly passed.  He thought it was beautiful the way they swept the ground before their feet.

From the temple, billows of sacrificial smoke danced briefly in the shifting breeze and gently brushed across his face.  The boy winced. The sacrificial smoke burned into his eyes for an intense moment or two. There were a few tears.

After the Jains had past, the boy continued on his way. The cart banged and thundered over the broken pavement.

He rolled past a group of homeless men squatted around a pathetic fire. A fat man the color of dark chocolate peddled an empty rickshaw into the setting sun. He watched as the large man strained against the rickshaw peddles and shimmered placidly away into the hungry light.

As he squinted, the bright sun burned his eyes for an intense moment or two. There were a few tears.

When the boy arrived home he was immediately told by his father that his mother had died. The news clung to the air around him for a brief moment or two. It clawed at his heart, causing intense pain.

There were many tears.

William M. Reyland

WC 722

                              Copyright © William Mathew Reyland