Laowai for Sale

By Kurt M. DiClementi

My recently completed novel entitled Laowai for Sale was written in the genre of realistic fiction, first-person omniscient. The plot of the story is the moral, financial, and spiritual bankruptcy of the American people as represented by the storys four main characters in China and the president of the United States in America. While the four main characters in China represent the hope that America can prevail against adversity and reclaim its legacy as the greatest nation on earth, the character of the president represents an America that is willing to mortgage its soul for sensual satisfaction with the risk of losing its identity and position on the world stage. These ideas are conveyed through satire and comedy in the character dialogue.

The storys protagonist, John Winston, is an Aspergers syndrome savant with a photographic memory who attained material success through his musical ability and encyclopedic capacity for knowledge on all things regarding American pop music. Unfortunately, he lost everything, as did many others in the economic times that are characteristic of todays US economy. Because of the limited social skills associated with his disability, Winston descends into a downward spiral that resulted in his isolation and drinking. Then he is whisked away to China with three other main characters in a government program to stem the mounting crisis of an unemployment rate that has exceeded 50 percent. This crisis seriously threatens the US presidents chances for a second term in office, so his chief of staff devises a plan, using the CIA, to initiate a massive, wholesale exportation of Americas unemployed labor force to China as English teachers in order to rapidly change the unemployment statistics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503555679

Kurt M. DiClementi

The author’s academic background is in education and psychology with a BA in linguistics and psychology and an MA in rhetoric from Northeastern Illinois University. Mr. DiClementi has spent most of his professional life teaching or working as an administrator in the education field. He has long held a love and admiration for poetry and is published in an anthology entitled the World’s Best Loved Poems. He lives just outside the city of Chicago, where he grew up and worked most of his life. He is currently working on an unreleased volume of his poetry and a second novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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I could only imagine the scene at the highest level of government that would lead to my becoming a laowai for sale, but Steinsman’s vivid recollection of the nocturnal melodrama brought it to life.

Mr. President, your approval level is dropping down in the polls.

And what are your thoughts, Chief of Staff?

Your campaign platform, Mr. President… High unemployment must end.

Yes, of course. It was a little over 10 percent when I took office four years ago. Where is it now?

Inching up toward 55 percent, Mr. President!

Ouch! What the hell have we been doing the last four years?

For the most part, cow-towing to the oh-so-wealthy constituents of our Republican senators and congressmen, to be precise, Mr. President. Other than that, not much… just our usual daily affairs of visiting porn shops, screwing interns, screwing high-priced hookers, and screwing the taxpayers.

I’m finished, washed up, starched and pressed, and ready to hang up in a dark closet. Ahhh! So much for one hand washing the other.

Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel, Mr. President. I have an idea.

Well, let’s have it!

"Who do we always turn to when we want something done cheaply and quickly?

The mafia?

No, no, I’m not talking about assassinations.

The Federal Reserve?

No, Mr. President. Printing more money will just create higher inflation. It won’t lower unemployment.

Aha! The Military Industrial Complex.

China.

What! Start a war with China?

No, no, no, Mr. President. We don’t start a war with China. We export our unemployed over to China to teach English.

But the majority of the unemployed aren’t teachers. In fact, next to none of them are.

It doesn’t matter.

Really? Why?

Because the American teachers can provide what their own Chinese English teachers can’t.

What’s that?

Correct English pronunciation. They’ll be teaching oral English.

You mean to tell me that we could literally wipe out unemployment using the Chinese?

Essentially, Mr. President. All we need is a good sales team to present our candidates.

I can assure you that our senators and congressmen are never going to give up their seats to recruit English teachers for the Chinese.

No, they sure wouldn’t, but the CIA would love to roll with us on this one, Mr. President.

Yes, of course, that’s brilliant! They once financed an entire operation by convincing a Saudi sheik that a huge piece of horseshit was a rare diamond. They sold it for half a billion dollars.

Yes, I remember hearing something of that one. Did the sheik ever find out he was taken for a ride?

Well, the day after the fund transfer was completed, he bought a bullet as well. I think it was Hamas, if I recall correctly.

Now I know this all sounds a bit out there, but so was the guy who really narrated this bizarre dream and believed it. Jeremiah Steinsman was one of the Americans who would soon lead me to believe that the strangest thing about China wasn’t the Chinese or their exotic four-thousand-year-old culture, but the crazy Americans they enlisted to help them teach their children. The Chinese always struck me as being very methodical, disciplined, and thoughtful people who valued manners, social order, and hard work. My American colleagues were the total antithesis of all these things the Chinese seemed to hold in such high esteem. Why they would have people like Steinsman, Washington, or Colonel Kroish serving the people was beyond me.

I remember my first encounter with Steinsman very vividly because I was sitting about five feet behind him and slightly to his right side during his interview with the counselor at the unemployment office. He had long shaggy hair and an unshaven five-o’clock shadow beard. He was wearing a beat-up old army field jacket over what looked like some hospital scrubs. As the unemployment counselor shuffled through some papers in preparation, Steinsman was slumped slightly forward with his elbow on the desk and his face braced against his hand. As if his appearance alone didn’t tell the story of why he was unemployed, he then began to snore. At this point, the paper-shuffling unemployment officer cleared his throat and summoned Steinsman from his comical slumber.

Good afternoon, Mr. Steinsman. Do you have your photo ID?

Steinsman slowly lifted his head off his hand and swayed slightly in the chair as he struggled to open his eyes and focus.

Where am I? were the first words out of his mouth.

You are at the unemployment office, Mr. Steinsman.

Really? How did I get here?

Well, I wouldn’t know that now, would I, Mr. Steinsman? the counselor said with a cheesy grin on his face, almost as if he was talking to a small child.

Steinsman cocked his head slightly to the left and said, Are you my doctor?

No, Mr. Steinsman, I am your unemployment counselor. My name is Jim… Jim Shoe. Now can I get your photo ID before we begin?

Up to this point, the situation was amusing, but Steinsman’s response to the unemployment counselor’s request for an ID was totally hilarious. He reached into his field jacket and pulled out a folded eight-by-ten photo. What he unfolded was a nude picture of him on a bed with what looked like an aging crack whore in an abandoned building. Jim raised his eyebrows and grinned.

I was looking for something like a state ID or a driver’s license, Jim said, tilting his head and grinning.

Steinsman seemed oblivious to the inappropriate nature of his form of identification. He simply thrust the picture closer toward Jim and pointed to the picture.

Well, this is me right here next to the chick. You can see the gold crown on my upper-front teeth right here, he said, pointing to the picture as he simultaneously smiled a sheepish grin and pointed to the gold crown in his mouth.

Yes, yes, agreed Jim, you definitely have a gold crown.

And notice the tattoo on my buttock in this picture, Steinsman said as he took off his field jacket and began to untie his scrubs.

Jim quickly stood up and grabbed Steinsman’s hand.

You know what, Mr. Steinsman? Jim said with a chuckle. I believe you. The man in the photo is definitely you.

Just then, Jim’s gaze lowered to Steinsman’s wrist, which was in his hand.

Well, what do we have here, Mr. Steinsman?

Oh, that, Steinsman said matter-of-factly. It’s my patient ID… Elgin State Mental Hospital. I guess I sort of forgot to take it off.

Perfect! Jim retorted enthusiastically. This will work for a state ID, Mr. Steinsman. Let me just enter this number into the system, and we can proceed.

In the few moments it took for Jim to swivel around to his PC and type Steinsman’s patient ID into the unemployment system database, Steinsman had already sat down, leaned against Jim’s cubicle wall, and began to doze off again. Jim swiveled around toward Steinsman, grabbing a stapler as he rotated and placed it on the desk upon Steinsman’s hand with just enough force to rouse him from his slumber.

So, Mr. Steinsman, tell me what you’ve been doing lately?

Well, I sleep about twenty hours a day. Yeah, I’d say I’ve been sleeping a lot lately.

Obviously, but what I want to know is what have you been doing to gain employment. Have you been on any interviews in the few hours each day that you’re semi-comatose?

Well, I went on several before I began taking my medication.

Really? Where did you interview and with whom? I’d like to enter that in our system.

Steinsman sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead.

Hmmm, let me see… This medication sort of puts me in a state of fog.

Yes, agreed Jim with a patronizing grin, you do seem to be in or on a cloud of sorts.

Let’s see… I interviewed with the NSA about a month ago.

Jim started to laugh a bit but covered his mouth and feigned a cough.

Really? he said as if fighting to hold back laughter. And what was the outcome of that?

Well, I thought I landed that one for sure.

What gave you that impression?

Well, I noticed that I was being followed around by a lot of dudes in suites driving black sedans, and these weird characters with fake glasses and those plastic sort of noses with waxlike mustaches started following me around too. I also started getting a lot of these calls where someone would just listen to me say hello, but they’d never say anything. I think they were backgrounding me. They wouldn’t have done all that if they weren’t interested in me.

Jim leaned forward as if genuinely interested but still smiling while placing his hand over his mouth, pretending to cough when he couldn’t hold back the laughter.

Well, where are you now in the process with the NSA?

I haven’t heard from them since I started on my medication.

They stopped following you? No more phone calls? No subsequent interviews?

Nothing. Dead in the water.

Interesting.

Say, Steinsman began with a serious look on his face for the first time, do you think they found out about me taking medication?

It’s quite possible, Jim said, still smiling but trying to appear serious. You know those secret government agencies, they’re very thorough in their screening process.

Yeah, they have to be, Steinsman said.

Have you had any other interviews?

I might have had an interview with the CIA.

Now was that prior to your medication as well?

Yeah, I can’t interview when I use that stuff. It makes me really sleepy. I think I’m gonna toss this stuff.

Well, that might not be such a good idea, Mr. Steinsman, so I wouldn’t do that.

Steinsman scratched his forehead and raised his eyebrows as if puzzled.

I don’t get it, he began to say. Your letter said that I was going to be cut off my unemployment.

Yes, that’s correct, Mr. Steinsman.

And also my SSI disability, Steinsman added.

Yes, that too, Mr. Steinsman.

But why? Steinsman asked with the naivety of a child.

Well, actually, you were never supposed to get payments from both agencies.

How did that happen?

Well, Mr. Steinsman, sometimes in government agencies, the right hand doesn’t always know what the left hand is doing.

I know the feeling. Since I started on these meds, I don’t know what my left hand or right hand is doing. Steinsman grinned and let out a brief sigh. "Well, I could tell you what my right hand doesn’t do much of lately… and that’s because another part of my body doesn’t know what my eyes are doing when I’m looking at back issues of Playboy in the library."

You can spare me the details, Mr. Steinsman. We don’t have time for the anatomical anomalies created by your medications.

Right, uh, hey, look, you don’t have to call me Mr. Steinsman. It seems so formal for a guy who’s going to be living in a refrigerator box on Lower Wacker Drive in a couple of weeks. I mean, I’m two months behind on my rent. I had to sell my car and cut off my phone so I could keep the cable on, and now Uncle Sam is yanking his tit out of my mouth.

Steinsman leaned forward, put both his elbows on Jim’s desk, and cupped his face with his hands.

You can just call me Jerry.

Jim leaned forward like a used-car salesman sharing a secret with a gullible prospect.

Look, Jerry, I’m gonna cut right to the chase. Lower Wacker Drive doesn’t have to be your destiny.

Keep cutting that chase, Shoe, Steinsman said with his face still in his hands.

What would you say if I told you I could provide you with a fully furnished apartment with utilities included, and you wouldn’t have to pay a cent?

I’d say I’m not so sure about a white dude with my boyishly delicate features living in the projects.

I’m not talking about the projects, Jerry. I’m talking about the exotic land of the Orient.

Steinsman sat up with his eyes open as if suddenly coherent for the first time.

Oh no, I’m not going to Vietnam and living in a tent in some snake-infested jungle with an M16. If that’s what Uncle Sam considers a fully furnished apartment with utilities included, I’ll take the refrigerator box on Lower Wacker Drive. I mean, look what happened to Rambo and that other dude played by Marlon Brando in the apocalypse. Everybody that goes there comes back messed up if they come back at all.

Jerry, Jerry, Jim said, shaking his head, I’m not talking about sending you to Vietnam as a soldier. The war there has been over for a long time.

All right, what then? Steinsman asked with a look of genuine curiosity.

I’ve got a great opportunity for you to teach English in China.

I probably had to walk all the way here to your office because I’m broke, but I just can’t remember how I got here. How am I going to get to China?

You’ll be provided with round-trip airfare to and from China, a furnished apartment, free meals, and guaranteed employment as an English teacher.

Well, uh, Steinsman began tentatively, there’s just one problem.

What’s that?

I’ve never taught English before. In fact, I’ve never taught anything before. I don’t know the first thing about teaching.

Jim made a time-out sign with his hands.

No problem, Jerry. You just stand at the front of the class and read from the book. That’s all there is to it. It’s a walk in the park.

Steinsman raised his eyebrows and leaned back as he took a deep breath.

That could be a dangerous walk if China’s anything like Central Park. I’ve heard a lot of stories about Chairman Mao’s secret police.

Chairman Mao is dead, Jerry, and China isn’t the same place it was during the Cold War. Besides, you’ll be working with kids, and you’ll be given a comprehensive orientation along with cultural training.

Well, all right then, when will this begin?

Go home and pack your stuff. You’re on the first flight out tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Look, uh, maybe I should sleep on this.

Absolutely not, Rip Van Winkle. English will be the national language in China by the time you wake up. Anyway, you can catch a few Zs on the plane. When you wake up, you’ll be in China.

Now perhaps Steinsman wasn’t the ideal candidate for a teaching opportunity as he had obviously gone down a stray path since his nervous breakdown, but he had been a white-collar professional at one time, and he did have a degree from Northwestern University.

Lester Washington, however, was another story altogether. He was a thin, wily-looking African American who seemed to be an employment recruiter’s nightmare, yet his interview was suspiciously similar to Steinsman’s right from the moment his unemployment counselor opened his mouth.

Good afternoon, Mr. Washington. I’m your unemployment counselor. My name is Ben… Ben Dover.

If the unemployment counselor’s name wasn’t enough to make you start laughing, Washington’s attitude, which was representative of African American frustration with the social welfare system, made you feel like you were at a Def Comedy Jam stand-up show. And even though he was rather loud and overly emotive in his speech, there was something about Washington that told you he was harmless.

Y’all shitting me! Washington exclaimed with his eyes opening so wide that the whites of his eyes dominated his facial features. What the hell kinda name is that? What I gotta do now… turn around and drop my drawers!

Excuse me, Mr. Washington, Ben said calmly without losing his composure.

Tell me something, Ben… why all the white people get hooked up with Mr. Shoe over there or somebody else, but every black person in this room be coming to you?

Mr. Washington, could you lower your voice a little? Ben began politely before he was interrupted by Washington, who simply talked over him.

What the hell this office trying to say? If you white, you just gonna get a shoe on your ass pushing you into the job market, but if you black, you gonna take it up the ass.

Mr. Washington, you’re overreacting…, Ben said in a quiet monotone voice that trailed off as he was interrupted again by Washington.

Like hell I am! I’m tired of taking it up the ass! I been taking it up the ass since the day I was born and then some! I am not gonna take it up the ass no mo!

Great! Ben said with a smile. You don’t have to. And I don’t want you to. In fact, every African American candidate who has sat with me before you is now employed.

They all been in prison like me… Where they had to take it up the ass every day for a crime they didn’t commit?

Some of them, Ben said matter-of-factly.

So what you be hookin’ the brothers and sisters up with? Washington asked, bobbing his head slightly from side to side. Seven-dollar-an-hour jobs at KFC with all the chicken you can eat benefits and a convenient seventy-hour workweek where you only get paid for the first forty hours, but you get a cot in the cooler to sleep on. Oh, and I forgot, you take it up the ass from a three-hundred-pound six-foot sister who thinks she’s the man all week long.

No, Mr. Washington, Ben said, pursing his lips and shaking his head in disagreement, something much better than that.

Washington smiled a wry smile of disbelief.

Let me guess… a 168-hour workweek at McDonald’s with no vacations, no holidays, no sick days, and no pay after the first 36 hours, but you get a 10 percent discount on all meals. Oh, and you take it up the ass all week from a 300-pound, 4-foot Mexican woman with a mustache who looks like a man.

Not even close, Mr. Washington. What I’m talking about is a white-collar professional job with full-time pay, a twenty-hour workweek, a free house with other benefits, and no job experience is necessary.

Washington’s eyes opened wide.

Did something happen to the president?

No, Mr. Washington, Ben said with a cool smile. The opportunity is not here in America. It’s in China.

China? Washington said with his voice rising in disbelief.

Yes, Mr. Washington, Uncle Chan wants you, but you’ll be doing a great service for your country.

So the Communists want a black dictator… Washington leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling, drifting off momentarily into his own private reverie. Oh, thank you, Mama, for all those prayers on Sunday mornings at the West Side Baptist church . . .

Mr. Washington, Ben said softly as if trying to awaken a sleeping child.

Oh, Mama, the first black president of China will be a Washington… the same as the first president in America… I wish you could see me now, Mama.

Mr. Washington, I’m not talking about a political position in China, Ben said flatly.

Washington’s face winced in confusion.

Well, what the hell other jobs are there where you get everything for free, you get full pay for doing half the work, and you don’t even need to know what the hell you’re doing? Only jobs like that I know of are in politics.

I’m talking about a teaching opportunity, Mr. Washington, and you will have to know what you’re doing. I simply said you didn’t have to have any prior teaching experience.

Well, that sounds about right, Washington said with a sarcastic grin. None of my teachers had any experience.

Yes, I’m sure it’s as you say, Mr. Washington, Ben said, nodding his head in agreement, but you’ll receive cultural training, teaching orientation, and you’ll have a simple textbook that you can teach from. You’ll also have a Chinese liaison that will assist you with your housing accommodations when you arrive and any other needs you may have.

Washington momentarily drifted off into that hazy reverie again.

Oh, I understand. I’m supposed to start out as one of the common people and rise to power slowly. Just like that other Chinese dude who almost helped us taker over in the 1970s.

Ben moved back in his chair with a genuinely puzzled look on his face.

What Chinese dude was that?

I forget his name, but he was married to this bitch that had about two thousand pairs of shoes and an ass that wouldn’t quit.

I believe you’re talking about Filamon Prados.

Yeah, Prados, that’s the mofo. But he got greedy, and the people overthrew his dumb ass.

Ben merely smiled and tilted his to one side.

Filamon Prados was the president of the Philippines, not China.

Okay, the Philippines… same shit, but he was one badass mofo. I heard he capped one of his rival’s ass right as he was getting off the plane coming back from America… just like they did Kennedy in ’63… only they didn’t need any patsies. All his people claimed they don’t know what happened.

It appears the online BA programs in prison may have some merit after all, but let’s get back to you, Mr. Washington.

Yes, let’s, Washington agreed, placing his elbows on Ben’s desk and leaning forward with a wry grin on his face.

Now, Ben, he began in a lower tone, will this Chinese lay-a-zon you mentioned a moment ago be giving me a tour of the red-light district and some tips on how to bargain on the prices for the girls?

Ben began to stroke his chin as a smile began to stretch across his face.

Your liaison will be there to assist you with any needs that may arise.

Well, there’s one need that will always be rising, Washington said with a big smile.

Ben sat back in his chair, smiling and nodding as if he implicitly understood and tacitly approved of Washington’s idea of extracurricular activity.

Washington sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a loud clap.

Ben, you all right! So how soon my black ass gonna be in China?

If you’ll bear with me just a moment longer, I’m booking your flight right now for tomorrow morning.

Oh yes, now that’s what I’m talking about! This is the first time in all my life I saw the man put a nigger to work faster than he put his ass in jail.

I tried to picture Washington in China, and all I could do was laugh. This wouldn’t be East meeting West. It would be East meeting West Side of Chicago… a whole different America than anything the Chinese might have in their history books. In fact, Washington would very well have been the subject of a scholarly sociological study that would have caused the Chinese to reassess American culture if Washington had run into the right people, but dry academic banter wasn’t his cup of tea, so to speak. He liked the nightlife.

If I had to use the analogy of baseball, I’d say Steinsman was way out there in left field somewhere. Steinsman’s clueless, zoned-out disposition was nothing less than hilarious when you considered that he was being sent on a teaching assignment. Washington was definitely a foul ball that landed right behind the ass of a merciless umpire calling all the shots in the game of life. With his bombastic verbosity and tactless manner, Washington could never be a teacher anywhere other than a high school near the former Henry Horner projects, yet he was being sent to China, a country where restraint of tongue, quiet diplomacy, and social etiquette are woven together like a silk cocoon. Then there was Col. Kendall Kroish, the last person I would see before I would learn that Uncle Chan wanted me too.

Colonel Kroish was out of the ball park altogether. He was sixty-two years old, but he looked like he was eighty-two. He was gaunt and haggard-looking with a wispy gray beard and rimless spectacles not unlike that of Col. Harlan Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Colonel Kroish, however, was no refined Southern gentleman. He muttered son of a bitch so many times under his breath before his interview you got the feeling that he was a satanic mystic repeating an evil mantra. You would’ve never imagined that he was a Catholic priest at one time or that he was a real colonel in the Vietnam War because of his course manner and frail physical appearance, but you could see an ornery resistance that refused to accept his physical limitations. Despite the fact that he used a walker with an IV solution hanging above his left handle, an oxygen tank strapped to his back with tubes leading to his nostrils, and what looked like a colostomy bag on his side, he was smoking a fliterless Camel cigarette. I guess it was his own figurative way of saying son of a bitch to medical intervention and the shitty hand that life had dealt him as he was approaching what should have been his golden years. Little did he know that his destiny was about to change in a radical way. I might also add that I would never have imagined I would hear what I did when it was his turn to interview.

His name was called by a strange-looking recruiter that bore the semblance of a man and certainly had the outward mannerisms of a man, but his face was smooth, and there was something rather different about his voice. It was almost as if he was trying to make it sound deeper than it might have actually been. As Colonel Kroish pushed himself up on the handles of his walker, he let out a grunt.

Oh, son of a bitch, he said in a raspy voice as he began to move toward his unemployment counselor. It’s about goddamn time you called me. I’ve been sittin’ in that son of-a-bitchin’ chair so long my ass probably looks like a son-of-a-bitchin’ pear.

You’re not the only one in this office, Mr. Kroish, his counselor said firmly.

It’s Colonel Kroish, you son of a bitch. You call me mister again and I’ll empty this colostomy bag all over your son-of-a-bitchin’ desk.

Being a man has its distinct advantages, but unfortunately, I’m a woman, Louise said in a low, flat, masculine voice.

Well, son of a bitch, the colonel said with a sound of genuine surprise, "you sure as hell could’ve fooled me.

Louise extended her hand in a stiff, almost military fashion.

My name is Butchman… Louise Butchman, but I prefer to be called Lou.

Yeah, of course, and why doesn’t that surprise me? the colonel said with a coarse laugh as he shook Lou’s hand. What’s your middle name… Dyke?

At that moment, Lou tightened her grasp on the colonel’s hand, and the colonel let out a gasp followed by his usual curse.

Ahhhh! Son of a bitch! That’s my right hand, Butchman. I may not be actively employed, but I still use it on a daily basis. I don’t suffer from penis envy like you!

Butchman glared at the colonel with a cold steely look that cut like a laser.

No, you certainly don’t, Colonel, she began in a vengeful, guttural tone, you just like to hold private mass with the congregation altar boys, don’t you?

I was just tutoring some of the sopranos to hit those high notes for the church choir.

Yes, I heard you had a technique that helped them reach that higher octave quite well, Butchman said laconically. Tell me, why did the church defrock you?

Because they’re a bunch of cloistered, anal-retentive sons of a bitch who didn’t agree with my progressive, passionate approach. I took great pleasure in putting all of myself into my work and my congregation.

Yes, I’ve heard of your passion, Colonel, she began with a dispassionate, analytical gaze, and how it was alleged that you took great pleasure in putting yourself into your congregation… or at least certain parts of yourself into certain members of your congregation.

Up until now, I thought the colonel was just a withered old ghost of his former self, but now I could hear the former strength and raw determination to vanquish the enemy, the fearless resolve that clothes every marine.

You best move on with the business at hand, Butchman, or we’re gonna find out just how much of a man you are.

A reluctant smile began to slowly stretch across Butchman’s face.

Yes, of course. I have some good news, Colonel.

And what might that be? the colonel began with a tone of pessimism in his voice.

I have an employment opportunity for you.

Another one of those temporary jobs at a hospital reception desk passing out building maps and giving directions to visitors.

No, Colonel. This is an opportunity where you will be able use your progressive talent and passion to facilitate the development of young minds.

A smile began to bend the corners of the colonel’s mouth, but then he pursed his lips and looked down.

Well, I can’t teach in any Catholic schools, the colonel said matter-of-factly.

No, problem, Butchman replied. This teaching opportunity isn’t in a Catholic school.

Well, I’m not certified to teach in public schools.

You won’t be teaching in public schools… at least not here in America.

Vietnam? the colonel asked with his voice rising slightly.

No, Colonel, this opportunity is in the People’s Republic of China.

Son of a bitch, couldn’t you have a least found a gook country that was one of our allies?

China was an ally of ours during World War II.

Oh no, they weren’t, the colonel fired back defiantly.

They fought right alongside of us against the Japanese, Butchman countered. I majored in history, Colonel.

Well, if you knew anything about history, Butchman, you’d know the only reason they fought with us against the Japs is because they hated the Japs more than they hated us. You do know how the Japs turned millions of beautiful, innocent young Chinese girls into sex slaves, don’t you? But after we nuked the Japs, the son-of-a-bitchin’ chinks helped our enemies in North Korea during that conflict, and they helped the Vietnamese big-time during that war, right alongside the son-of-a-bitchin’ Soviets.

As the colonel was speaking, Butchman just looked at him rather pensively as if searching for an opportunity to sell him on the idea of teaching in China; and when she did begin to speak, she struck the chord that resonated with the colonel.

Colonel, did you ever think that maybe this is God’s plan of redemption for you? The young minds of China are hungry for the Word, and they’re a developing country that needs progressive thinkers and teachers like you.

The colonel sat back in his chair, silent for a moment.

I hate to say it, Butchman, the colonel began with a slight tone of distant resignation in his voice, but I think you may be right.

Of course I am, Colonel.

How long will this tour last, and when will I ship out?

Your contract will be for one year, renewable upon completion, and you will leave at zero seven hundred tomorrow morning. Can you be ready?

Yes, of course. I don’t really have anything to attend to, and I haven’t paid my rent at the YMCA for the new week yet, so I’m good to go.

Wonderful. A car will be waiting outside the YMCA tomorrow morning to take you to the airport.

Having witnessed the last three people who were offered and accepted teaching positions in China, I would have never believed that the same proposition was going to be extended to me. The recruitment of each of them gave me the impression that something fishy was going on, although I wasn’t sharing the same opinion that Steinsman would divulge when we’d meet again later. I wasn’t an embittered old man, a zoned-out space cadet, or a tough West Sider who had an ax to grind with the system. If I had to reduce myself to the least common denominator in the scheme of things, I’d have to say that I was just another white-collar casualty of our economy… another unemployment statistic and nothing more. That, however, was precisely the reason why I would be offered the same opportunity, as I would soon learn. My name was called, and the modus operandi of my recruiter followed the same pattern. He was a small Asian man with a rather sinister smile.

Hello, Mr. Winston. My name is Oh Mee… Yu Oh Mee.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Oh Mee.

Please, he began in a low tone, it’s Yu.

What about me? I asked somewhat confused, which only added more confusion.

No, not Mee, just Yu, he replied somewhat insistently.

Yes, what do you want to know about me?

I guess the first thing I’d like to know is whether you always have such a difficult time during the introduction phase of an interview.

No, not at all, I said, still somewhat baffled by the direction of our conversation. In my mind, I was already spelling his name the way it sounded phonetically… Y-o-u O-w-e M-e. I couldn’t help wondering what was up with all these ridiculous-sounding names. It was like something out of a Second City comedy skit.

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You won’t need to do any interviewing.

Really? I said, rather surprised. How am I going to get employed without interviewing for a job?

Mee didn’t answer my question. Instead, he sat up quickly in his seat and lurched forward like a tiger going for my jugular vein as he asked me a question.

Mr. Winston, do you like to travel?

Does the opportunity you’re considering me for involve much travel?

Ah, some, but not much, he replied quickly.

Will I receive mileage compensation and travel reimbursement.

I could easily arrange for frequent flier rewards card, and you will not need to pay for any travel expenses out of pocket. The company will take care of that.

Sweet, so I’ll be flying around the country working on a regional level?

Yes, Mr. Winston. You will fly very far around this country.

You’re saying that this job already has my name on it, Mr. Mee?

No, Mr. Winston, not my name, Mee replied, rolling his eyes up but still smiling as he shook his head.

I didn’t say you. I said me.

Precisely! You keep saying Mee when I’ve said it’s Yu.

Okay, so we both agree that it’s me and not you.

No, it’s Yu and not Mee.

Look, Mr. Mee began in a tone of growing exasperation, I am Yu, and you are not me, but we are all together in this . . .

At that moment, my mind flashed back to a Beatles song, and I interrupted him.

And you are the walrus.

No, I’m not a walrus, Mr. Mee began with a hesitant look on his face. Mr. Winston, do you take any medications?

No, but I may have to start if my interview with you lasts much longer, I replied sarcastically. Could you just give me the details about the opportunity?

What would you like to know?

How about a job title and job description for openers? Maybe you could follow with salary and compensation after that.

You’ll be in the intelligence field, Mr. Winston, and your title will be that of a language acquisition specialist.

So that will be a cover title?

Well, let’s just say it’s a dressed-up way of talking about a humble title that allows you to work in a noble capacity doing a great service for your country.

And what about salary?

Ah yes, salary. It will be very competitive, to say the least.

Could you be a little more precise? I said in a rather annoyed tone.

Yes, of course. You will have a home within the same month of your arrival, and you’ll be living like a king compared to your present living situation.

When will I start?

You’ll start tomorrow.

Tomorrow? I asked with a sense of curious astonishment.

Yes, tomorrow, Mr. Winston.

Well, couldn’t I have a week to get things together? I asked.

Just then, Mr. Mee opened a manila file and started reading from a document that he extracted from it.

Let’s see here… You lost your job about one year ago. Your house went into foreclosure six months later, at which time your wife filed for divorce, which was recently granted. Your car was recently repossessed, and you are now being cut off from unemployment.

That sinister grin once again crept across the face of Mr. Mee as he glared at me for a moment.

Is there anything else to take care of? I mean, really, Mr. Winston, what’s left in your life? he began in a cold, disconcerting manner. Is there any reason you wouldn’t want to be gainfully employed as quickly as possible? It’s quite providential that I came into your life at this precise time. You need Mee.

I felt as if I had been backed into a corner there was no way out of. I mean, how could I answer his testimony of my life? It was, in the final analysis, fundamentally true. There really was nothing left in my life and no good reason I shouldn’t shift gears and move in a new direction as quickly as possible, no matter how vague the destination or how nebulous the voyage to get there. I glared back at him for a brief moment, wondering exactly how he knew what he knew about me, and then I responded with a sullen resignation to my impending destiny.

No, I answered flatly.

Very well then, Mr. Winston. A limousine will be waiting for you at your residence tomorrow morning.

The both of us rose at the same time, and Mr. Mee extended his hand. As I rose, I felt like what seemed to be a paper cut as I slid my hand across the armrest of the chair.

We shook hands quickly, and I turned to leave. Just as I was walking away Mr. Mee called out to me.

Mr. Winston, he said softly as he waved goodbye, Remember, you owe me.

Just then, I saw blood on his right hand, and I quickly turned and looked at my hand to noticed that what felt like a paper cut on my hand actually drew blood. Moreover, Mr. Mee saw my blood on his hand and smiled that sinister smile when I looked back at him. The deal was sealed in blood. I couldn’t get his last words out of my head for a while, but after I got back to my place and sucked down a few beers, I simply dismissed it as an innocent coincidence of timing. The guy was merely telling me to remember his name, and I just happened to get a small cut on my hand.

I would remember his name and his smile the next day when I would meet up with those who I saw accepting offers to teach in China, and I’d even begin entertaining some of Steinsman’s far-flung ideas in the weeks to come, when Steinsman would begin undergoing a radical transformation. I was imagining that wacky conversation Steinsman recounted in the Oval Office between the president and his chief of staff continuing three weeks down the road, after thousands of CIA operatives had infiltrated unemployment offices throughout the United States, and the agency had nearly tripled in size with a budget to match.

Mr. President, the chief of staff began enthusiastically, I have some excellent news on FOPS.

FOPS?

The Foreign Opportunity Personnel Service we had the CIA set up to ensure your reelection.

Yes, yes, where is the unemployment rate?

It’s fallen almost 10 percent and were sitting at close to 35 percent unemployment.

Phenomenal!

Indeed, but the agency is asking for increased funding, Mr. President.

Well, give it to them, damnit! Give them anything they want because I want another four years in office!

Well, sir, the agency has grown enormously, and there is the matter of congressional oversight in regard to the amount of funding and logistical support they’re requesting. I mean, quite frankly, Mr. President, I don’t see how some of these things they’re requesting fit into this operation.

What things are they asking for that don’t fit the operation?

Oh, surface to air missiles, reinitiating the MKUltra program, increased money for the psychotronic warfare program, and several NSA clone satellites.

Is that all they want? the president asked.

For now, anyway.

Ah, so they want a few toys. Who gives a shit! he responded impatiently. They’re getting the results I need, so let them have whatever they want.

Mr. President, I just don’t want this to come back and bite you in the ass down the road. Look what happened to Larry West… You do remember the Iran cartel scandal?

Yes, nothing happened to Reagan, and Larry took all the heat. I just need a fall guy, the president said, looking at his chief of staff as a wide grin stretched across his face, while a demonic glare filled his eyes. After all, it’s not like I had anything to do with the CIA’s pet baby operation FOPS. I can always hide behind plausible denial.

The chief of staff’s one eyebrow raised up, while the other sank, and his face contorted with an anxious look of unease, sensing that he could very well become a convenient patsy. He quickly extended a subtle suggestion that he wouldn’t end up as a patsy.

"Actually, Mr. President, I think you’re forgetting about the attempted assassination of President Reagan by John Hinckley Jr. While it’s never been proven that he was inducted into the MKUltra program by Colonel West, a secret service agent did say a copy of J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye fell out of Hinckley’s jacket. On the inside cover of the book were the words ‘Reagan’s a big phony, a Hollywood has-been who will never be cool until he meets you. Jodie will be yours, but you know what must be done. Your friend, Larry.’"

The president pursed his lips anxiously and inhaled nervously.

"There was never any mention of the Catcher in the Rye at the trial," the president retorted nervously.

No, because it vanished. That same day it was bagged for evidence by the secret service agent, it was boosted by an escaped mental patient who was a compulsive pickpocket artist. He was also a marine who served under Colonel West.

Apparently, after he sold it to a fence, he smoked some marijuana and went out cow tipping. As he was tipping a sleeping cow over, he lost his balance, fell under the cow, and was instantly crushed to death. It just so happened that the cow was one of Larry West’s prize Holsteins, sold to the farmer by Larry to raise funds for his legal debts. The cow was slaughtered later that day and turned into USDA prime beef. Later that evening, the farmer somehow fell off his corn thrasher as he was driving and landed right into the churning blades. He became fertilizer for his own field.

What about the fence? the president asked nervously as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

"The fence got the willies after he heard about the pickpocket, the cow, and the farmer, so he stopped shaving, grew his hair, and went to Alaska and signed on with a crew of crab fishermen in the Bering Sea. He actually appeared on an episode of the Deadliest Catch. The next day, however, he slipped on some ice and fell overboard. He froze to death before they could pull him out of the water. You’ll never believe the name of the boat he was on… the SS West."

The president froze and fell silent for a pensive moment before bringing his clasped hands up to his lower lip and abruptly changing the subject as he lowered them.

Listen, Chief, come up with some bullshit about China being a clear and present danger that has to be dealt with in a very clever manner because they’re our biggest trading partner. Details of the foreign operation in this case are on a need-to-know basis, and they don’t need to know. Besides, they can do without some of those twenty-four-karat gold toilet seats they like to park their asses on when they’re in the crapper.

So this will be handled as a matter of national security… highly classified?

Yes, my job security is a matter of national security. Do whatever is necessary to keep those money grubbing whiners in the dark. Oh, and by the way, Chief, you’ve been doing an incredible job, so I think you’re due for a nice ten-day sex tour in Thailand… on me, of course. We’ll say you’re going on official business because America wants to do its part to stem the tide of the illicit sex trade.

The chief of staff smiled and began to chuckle.

To be accurate, Mr. President, the trip will be on the taxpayers since it will be charted as official business.

Yes, of course, and why not? I put so many of their lazy asses back to work in the last few weeks that they owe me, he said, laughing in unison with the chief of staff.

Mr. President, I can hardly wait to touchdown in Thailand.

I’ll tell you what, Chief, the president said, still laughing. Go over to the closet and pull out those life-sized cardboard cutouts of you and me and place them near the window. Then let’s slip out of here using the underground tunnel. I had a new shaft built that comes up right in the basement of the new Hooters Restaurant.

Have you seen that new waitress that looks like Sheila Stravinski?

No, Chief, I haven’t, but I’m sure we’ll be able to introduce her to the shaft in the interest of national security.

Yeah, this conversation was a bit of a reach, but it certainly sounds like one that could take place in the office of a politician. Everything that matters to them becomes a matter of national security, even if it doesn’t have a rat’s ass to do with the security of the nation. In fact, I get the feeling that if you recorded the words classified for reasons of national security and played them backward on a cassette player, you would hear the words this shit will never fly with the people.

Whatever may or may not have actually transpired at any time during the Oval Office was probably as unfathomable as the role of that missing copy of Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, which allegedly appeared at more than one assassination of a significant figure in history. For the moment, my thoughts were nothing more than a caricature of American politicians in their never-ending hedonistic pursuit of raw power and the unquenchable lust for the narcissistic pleasure derived from it. In any event, I wasn’t completely convinced that I was moving toward what I thought was a career aligned with bringing their power-driven dreams to fruition. I would be further enlightened the next day.

CHAPTER 2

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A fter a fitful night of sleep filled with a bizarre dream, I awoke at 4:00 AM on the day of my departure from a life that was unfulfilling at best and one of quiet desperation at worst. I kept going back and forth between the conflicting scenarios of my so-called intelligence job. I didn’t possess any qualities that seemed remotely aligned with what I imagined would be the necessary personality profile of someone working in the intelligence field, but then again, what does anybody really know about the world of intelligence operatives? According to Steinsman, people only know the Hollywood version of the intelligence field, and Hollywood only told us what we were supposed to know, not what we wanted to know. Certain things, however, just didn’t make sense about this opportu nity.

On the one hand, how could a decision be made so quickly about a candidate for a job that requires a strong will and a very stable personality? Why would an offer of employment be put on the table before any type of screening or interview had taken place? On the other hand, what did I really know about the personality type required for an intelligence career? Moreover, how could I be sure there wasn’t any screening that occurred? After all, Mr. Oh Mee did possess more information about me than I would imagine any state employment counselor would have. Then again, there was something about the way in which the offer was presented. I felt as though it was a subtle form of blackmail, certainly a manner of persuasion that would be consistent with the ruthless means of the intelligence field. Finally, I decided that trying to figure it out was a waste of time. When all was said and done, there was one certainty—somebody from the office of the department of employment security said I had a job that started today. After a year of spending most of my time going on interviews trying to prove my self-worth and getting nowhere fast, this was good enough for me.

I had given away most of my possessions to the Salvation Army the previous day because there simply was no time to sell them or move them all into storage. All that remained were a few small items that I treasured, a picture of my ex-wife, and some clothing that represented different periods of my life. I gave the clothes to Sai Vong Ya, the teenage daughter of my Vietnamese neighbors, who always commented on how cool my wardrobe was. I felt they served a more useful purpose making her happy than reminding me of a past I wanted to forget. I decided I would leave with the clothes on my back and one additional set of casual clothes, which I would get rid of when I could buy additional clothes. The picture of my wife, which I fully intended to take with me, would meet its demise on this morning as well. There was a faint knock on the door, and I opened it to see the demure face of Sai Vong Ya.

Morning, Mr. Winston. Is it too early to get those clothes?

No, not at all. Come on in.

Oh god, the coffee you make smells so good.

Really? I exclaimed with surprise. I didn’t know you drank coffee.

Oh yeah, I love it.

I didn’t think a girl your age would like coffee. When did you start drinking coffee?

When we moved in next to you, I always smelled your coffee in the morning when I would leave for school. One morning, I asked my mom what the smell was, and she stepped out on to the porch and told me it was coffee. I bought some on the way to school that morning.

How come you never asked me for some?

My mom said it wouldn’t be polite.

Do you want some now?

Yeah, sure, yours must be so awesome because it always smells so good.

It’s because I always grind it fresh each morning. It’s my morning routine. When you guys first moved in, I brewed more exotic coffees… imported stuff like Jamaican Blue Mountain, Kona, and Kenyan AA, but these days I could only afford Columbian coffee.

So this is Columbian coffee?

No, actually, this is premium Jamaican Blue Mountain today. I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford it as time passed by, so I put a little bit in the fridge in an airtight container to keep it fresh. I was saving it for an occasion like this when I landed a job.

I poured her a cup, and her eyes widened in excited anticipation.

I’m gonna miss you so much, Mr. Winston. I would have never been able to get through my English if you hadn’t helped me all these months. Why can’t you just get a job here? Why do you have to leave?

Destiny, I guess… I just haven’t had any luck with offers in this area. Anyway, I said with a smile as I raised my cup to hers in order to change the subject, here’s to the future.

She took a sip and then smiled with satisfaction.

This stuff is awesome!

Indeed it is! Now let’s get those clothes for you.

I gave her everything I had left, and she was as delighted as a kid in a candy store, but when I came to the fringed buckskin jacket, she seemed overwhelmed.

Oh. My. God! This is totally awesome, but I can’t take it.

I know it’s a little big, but you’ll still grow.

No, it’s not that… it’s just… well, I’ve never ever seen these around. It must be rare and so expensive. Why don’t you want to take it with you?

Well, as you can feel, I said, holding it in front of her, bobbing it up and down and offering it to her, it’s a bit heavy.

I can get some money from my mom. I have to pay you something.

Just knowing that you’re happy is payment enough.

I am, she said, clutching the jacket before hugging me and planting a kiss on the side of my face.

Here’s something else I want you to have, I said, taking my watch off my wrist and giving it to her.

You need that. Why do you want me to have your watch?

It goes with the jacket.

What do you mean?

I bought the jacket because one of the main characters in a movie I liked had one like it, except for the fringes on this one are longer. Anyway, in the beginning of the movie, one of the main characters took off his watch, looked at it, and then dropped it on the ground as he and his friend road off on their motorcycles across the country.

Why did he do that?

It was a symbolic statement, I guess. It meant that time was insignificant in light of what they were seeking.

What was the name of the movie?

"Easy Rider."

What was it about?

In a nutshell, it was about man’s quest for freedom.

So are you looking for freedom?

You know, I haven’t given it much thought, but I guess all of us are seeking freedom from something.

Sai Vong Ya looked at me for a moment as if studying my response, and then she gazed at my ex-wife’s picture behind me.

Why do you keep your ex-wife’s picture?

I looked at her with a total loss of words in my head, but before I could muster a response, she continued, You said she left you for somebody else. Do you still love her? Do you miss her?

I guess I do, kiddo. Perhaps I want to be free of a past that tortures me, was the only response I could summon in the whirlwind of emotions that resulted from her questions.

I would never leave you, John, she said with the romantic idealism that is part and parcel of the teenage composition. In a cosmic flash, I became aware of a similarity between the name of my dear baby sister Savannah and my teenage neighbor Sai Vong Ya. For a moment, I wondered if the soul of my sister was comforting me through the voice of my teenage neighbor, but I humorously dismissed it.

I know… Who could you get to help you with your English homework, huh? I said jokingly as I reached out to brush the top of her head.

My mom said you’re very handsome. That’s why she always wanted you to come for dinner, and why she was always asking you to help us with things. When my dad died, she never smiled until we moved here, and she met you.

I wondered why she was telling me all of this now when she had never mentioned it before. I wondered if I had been so mired in my own self-pity that I was incapable of seeing a gift that was right across from my door. It was too late now to change the course of destiny. All I could think to do was dismiss it with humor.

Ah, she just smiled all the time because my Vietnamese was so terrible, I replied with a smile.

Actually, that was one of the things that impressed her the most. She couldn’t believe how you were able to learn our language so quickly. I’m even curious. Did you ever have a Vietnamese girlfriend?

No, I actually just bought a used self-study course. Since I had all this free time on my hands between job interviews, I would read and listen to the CDs every day.

That’s still awesome.

I paused for a moment, looking at her and then at the watch in her hand. Then I took her hand and closed it, making a cocoon wherein my watch would remain until she placed it on her wrist.

It’s nothing, I replied as she opened her hand and placed the watch on her wrist. Hey, I really gotta get going now, kiddo. It’s time to meet my destiny.

Yeah, sure, I know. I’m sorry.

She stood there looking at me as if wanting to give me another hug but feeling too shy to do so again, so I offered it to her.

Ah, come here, kiddo, I said with a smile as I opened my arms and extended them to her. I gave her a warm embrace and then a gentle pat on the back to signal my need to get going. I still have to shower before I take off, so I really need to get going, Sai. My words loosened her embrace, and she turned and reached for the door.

What about Mama? Will you come over and say goodbye to her?

I will, Sai. When I’m leaving, I’ll rap on the door.

Promise you’ll visit whenever you come back to the neighborhood?

I will Sai. I will.

Finally, she opened the door and began to shut it, but it popped back toward me.

You see, she said with a wistful smile. Even your apartment doesn’t want us to say goodbye.

I smiled and shook my head.

Sai, you know this door sticks. Now give it a good slam and be on your way, or I’ll miss my ride.

She gave the door a hearty pull and slammed it shut. As she did so the picture of my wife fell off the radiator and shattered. I decided that fate had spoken, telling me to leave the memory of her behind just as I would with Sai Vong Ya and her family after the door had been shut.

Now there was only a manuscript that both Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg had reviewed and commented on. Both had commented on the merit of the work, and Ginsberg had even invited me to Colorado to develop it, but I never made it there. Looking back, I guess it’s the living remnant of the dream that every writer has… to create that great American novel that will speak to their generation as well as leave a legacy for the generations to come. I quickly placed it into a large manila envelope and addressed it to Stew, asking him to hold on to it for me in the event that anything happened to me. I told him that I was heading out of state for an opportunity that