jamie doom

His eyebrows may be his most distinctive quality. There is something about them, though most people forget what just before forgetting him. He lives alone in grey house that wants to be white. He had never married, though on winter nights, when the winds curl through the cracks, he is still warmed by the faint trace of a summer… On rare occasions when people mention him, they stare blankly at each other and utter meaningless phrases like,

“He used to do something, I heard. He taught or climbed telephone poles.”

He likes to be alone because it is the only time he doesn’t feel lonely.

His voice is the voice people hear when they dial wrong numbers and mutter apologies. The faint trace of his pinky has made its way into countless photo albums. The faint sound of him whistling was once heard by two strangers sharing a park bench right before they fell in love. He has held thousands of elevator doors for breathless masses. Generations of migrating birds plan their route to take them by his birdfeeder. Last week, in your car, you nodded at him when he let you into traffic, then you turned up the music. As a child, you took short cuts through his yard to the park. The broken chair his neighbor put out on the curb two years ago has been restored and sanded and painted and now proudly supports his weight each day for breakfast. He corners, picks up, and returns dropped change at gas stations at least six times a week. The lettuce in his garden always gets light and water. Last Mother’s Day, while you dined with mom it began to rain. He rolled up your car windows. Only three people on earth have ever really known him. Only one has ever really loved him. They are all gone now, like the snow that was mysteriously shoveled from your driveway when you were four. Soon he will be gone too. And only the chair and the lettuce and the birds will mourn him.

“Life is short, but art is long, as the aphorism has it. Too bad about the life thing, but as for art, the longer the better. I look forward to the journeys that lie ahead of me, in the pages of books and on the road itself: times when I will settle happily with a book for a discrete period, in circumstances that may well prove ideal for a certain type of reading.”

Sandra Seeden was lying on her back again and the crowd was going crazy. Straight overhead she saw the Chinese flag hanging from the rafters was clearly. She pivoted her head slightly to see the American flag that she knew was hanging opposite, but it was blocked by the referee’s perfectly round pot belly. Then, for the twentieth time this evening, she made her way back to her feet, shook her head, and tried to locate her assailant. Yes there she was—a boyish-looking Chinese girl adorned nattily in red headgear, matching boxing gloves, and the hint of a smile. Sandra wasn’t in pain; she was just irritated at getting knocked down so many times and the crowd’s never ending glee over it. She didn’t understand that.

  The waiting had been the worst part, and that’s how she knew this wasn’t some bad dream. Dreams, even very bad ones, move much more swiftly than this. She had arrived at the arena a good two-and-half hours ago. She saw all the television cameras outside. She even saw a few of the other American kick boxers. They had looked through her. They were serious male kick boxers. Obviously they didn’t care for her presence. She didn’t mind. Kick boxers were at the bottom of her list entitled “Eligible Intelligent Men.” For those were the only men for her. So she had waited and waited. After she gotten bored she had wandered out of her dressing room to watch the pre-match festivities from the tunnel. And for a while she had wondered if there would be any kick boxing at all this evening. Maybe she had misunderstood.

  Every five minutes the ropes in the ring were pulled apart so the next petite singer dressed in shiny, ruffled polyester could climb in and pay homage to Celine Dion. It went on and on and on, interspersed only by children dressed in blue silk dancing with swords pretending they were stabbing each other. I bet those children are encouraged to run with knives, she had thought. Later the children had laid down their swords and were pretending to kick box each other. The crowd had cheered when one of them had messed up and fallen without being kicked. Cheers of encouragement? She didn’t know.

  Finally some official looking people crawled in between the ropes and begin to make speeches. She had seen this sign before. She knew she would be fighting within the next hour. The first official looking man’s mic didn’t work. But he acted like he didn’t notice and droned on anyway. This “speech” was then supplied to the audience, in English, by a shy-acting, skinny, young, Chinese man. He switched the microphone on before he began. Haltingly spoken English had washed over the building. She had gone back to her dressing room then.

  The blaring sound of Nelly was her cue to enter the ring. As she made her way to into the ring, she decided that she hated Nelly and the entire town of St. Louis. She hoped that something bad would happen to St. Louis because of Nelly. But then she supposed something bad happening to St. Louis would be redundant.

  The crowd had clapped politely for her. That is what this was. A Chinese/American kick boxing friendly. The only kicker was that international kick boxing ruled would not be observed. This was China, and they would be fighting under Chinese kick fighting rules. In Chinese kick fighting grabbing another fighters legs is completely legal. Actually, rather than just being legal it is the main way to score points. Other kick boxers not accustomed to these rules don’t fare so well. Imagine if biting ears would get you ahead on the scorecard under international boxing rules. Mike Tyson would have enough money to act really insane—Howard Hugh’s insane. In this system boxers without the appetite for soft cartilage would be penalized. So foreign kick boxers came to China, refused to fight the Chinese style, then went home having forfeited their belts.

  She didn’t really know about any of these kickboxing rules first hand. She had heard the other American fighters complaining about it in the hallway. She really didn’t know anything about kickboxing. She was actually just an ESL teacher. Two days ago she had told the foreign liaison at her middle school that she would help out at an “important cultural exchange celebration”. Today she was being thrown on the mat repeatedly in this nationally televised event.

  Next time, she thought, I won’t sign my teaching contract until I see the English translation.

This summer I plan on returning to China. I have been struggling with that decision off and on for a while. I have already “done” China, so I wondered if maybe I should go live another country and explore and write about it.

Of course, the appealing thing about living in China is that it is a vast, unknowable, constantly changing country. Going back and “doing” China again would be like going to a different country. I am sure of that. But where should I go?

I want to work only part time, but I would work longer if necessary. I think if I only work two to three days a week, I’ll have enough time to write and learn the language better. I have experience teaching ESL, so that option is always there.

Hainan is a possibility. I have been alerted to some opportunites there, but I have already lived in Haikou before. I wonder if maybe I should experience another situation. Hangzhou and Shanghai are also interesting options. Many of my best friends living in China live in those two places. I have already lived in Hangzhou. Shanghai is a big convenient city. Neither town would make me get out of my comfort zone that much.

 So I have been thinking of going somewhere new. But where? I want a town that is no more than three million people and no less than 100,000 people. I want a place that has some natural beauty nearby. I like the outdoors and living somewhere beautiful does lift my spirits on those invariable days of loneliness and confusion. I need some help. I need some advice. If you are a China expat or a Chinese and you live in a cool place. Tell me about it. Could your town use another laowai?

I have money enough saved up to live in China for a couple of years without working. I don’t mind working some though. If I don’t hear anything exciting, I may resort to more creative decision making–a dart and a map of China.