I guess this is as good a place to start as any. I’m getting close. I’m near the end. I think it was Kurt Vonnegut who said that you should start the story as close to the end as possible. Here I am. I’m on an overnight train from Jinan to Shangqui. I know, unless you’re Chinese, you’ve likely never heard of these places, but they really exist. You may be surprised about how big they both are. I am. They both have between five and ten million people living in them. And, they are both growing. How big they are isn’t part of the story. I only wanted to start here to put me, the main character in perspective. I’m just this guy, you know. Just one guy among millions. Just like you, insignificant. Until about two years ago I wanted maybe what you want, maybe what everyone wants. A comfortable life. One without too much pressure. A home and a happy family. I was just a regular guy. I worked for the local newspaper. No, I wasn’t a reporter. This isn’t the novel I always wanted to write. I didn’t play it safe and get a degree in journalism. Nope. That’s too serious for me. Too organized. Too planned. I sold advertising. I sold lines and columns. I sold agates, not the rock but the point size. I was good at it. I liked it. It was the kind of job where I could check in at the office first thing in the morning and last thing late in the afternoon and do pretty much what I wanted in between. As long as “my numbers” were good it was a dream job, at least it was for the first seven years. Frankly, it was getting harder and harder convincing my retail advertisers in the last few years that they should continue spending money on advertising in a newspaper with a declining readership. But it was ok. it wasn’t all gloom and doom, like newspapers people like to pretend. The mood was bad. The politics was intense. But that’s not why I quit. I quit because dogs started talking to me. One piece of advice I remember that my father gave me when I was just out of high school was to get a job in a growing industry. More room for advancement. But he was from that time, when things were expanding and growing. Just like China is now. No one ever said anything about talking dogs. I thought I was going nuts.
Here’s what happened. I have a dog. Her name is Chichi. She’s a good dog. She was the runt of the litter, the second last one the Mennonites had. Her personality is very obedient and docile. I was fond of saying that she’s the last dog I’ll ever own. I don’t say that anymore. The day I discovered talking dogs eliminated that for me. I probably would have gotten another dog after Chichi dies anyway. I used to say that I would never get another dog because Chichi is so good, no dog can ever come close to being as good. She’s a golden doodle. Golden doodles are a cross between a Golden Retriever and a Standard Poodle. They require a lot of exercise. I take Chichi out for a good walk everyday. It was on one of our regular walks that I was first spoken to by a dog. It was a little white dog. It was in the park. It had an owner, but like Chichi, it was off lease. His name was Barney. Barney ran up to me like dogs sometimes do, to say hello, except Barney didn’t say hello. He said, “What’s your dog’s name?” And then he just looked at me. I looked back. “What? What’s my dog’s name?” “Yeah” I looked again. I had started drinking again. Not a lot, but regularly. Every night I’d open a new bottle of wine. I remember when I had stopped drinking. My overall mood had improved. I could think and communicate better. I was more expressive. I also slept better, longer and deeper. When I had stopped drinking I had a headache for a week. I had started drinking again. I simply could not resist the cheap beer at a Chicago Walmart and then duty free wine from California. As a result, I wasn’t as sharp as I had of been otherwise. “Chichi”, I said. “Thanks, I’m called Barney”, the little white dog said. “I’m going to have Chichi help you find something”. “What?” I was confused. I couldn’t believe my ears. “A key”, said Barney the little white dog. And then he turned and ran back in the direction of a girl on the other side of the park. “A key?, I thought. “Chichi is going to help me find a key?” What the hell? I took off after the little white dog. I took off in the direction of the girl on the other side of the park. I guess I should tell you at this point that I’m not a great runner. I never liked running. Even when I was a kid and I played soccer, I played defense not only because I had little skill, but because it required little running. For me to set out running is akin to picking up a bug and eating it or picking a fight with a bouncer or jumping from a high place. I just don’t do it. When I got across the park, I was out of breath. I was lightheaded and the girl was wondering why I was running directly at her. As I approached and slowed (actually I had been slowing since the first twenty steps) I could see the concern on her face. Was I a nut? What could I possibly want? Am I dangerous? Is this rape? All these thoughts seemed to cycle through her mind. I could see them on her face. “Hi” I said. My hands on my knees. I was staring at the ground. “Sorry to run up like that...It’s about your dog. “Oh”, her voice seemed a little stressed. I was staring at her shoes. Yellow high top Converse I noticed idly. “he’s off his leash...but yours is too”. “It’s not that, give me a second”, I had to think. I took a few deep breaths. I straightened up. Barney and Chichi were sniffing each other like dogs do. I said, I was afraid he was lost. I just wanted to make sure he was yours. “He is. His name is Barney.” “Wild”.
When I think back I have so many questions about the encounter. If I could do it all over again I wouldn’t care about what she thought of me. I would have just blurted out that her dog had spoken to me. I would ask If he ever spoke to her. There was nothing unusual about the girl. As I said, she worn yellow high tops. But that’s not that unusual. She also wore a yellow bandana in her hair. That’s not too unusual either, not in itself. It’s kind of retro, but who am I to judge fashion. I once owned a yellow bandana. I tied a couple of knots in it and wore it around my neck for a couple of months. I wore it on my head once or twice too but then I started to think it looked stupid. When I saw other guys wearing bandanas on their heads I thought they looked idiotic. Back to the girl, nothing unusual. But that’s not unusual. I’ve discovered that people who dogs talk to don’t tend to give it away outwardly. I’ve met some since.
Looking back. I didn’t linger long with the girl. I was reeling and she found an excuse to break away. “Well, I’ve got to be going”, she said. I should have lingered longer.
I shook it off. I continued on my way, around the outside of the park with Chichi. She ran ahead along the tree line, sometime disappearing inside. Eventually, we came to the end, where the park meets the road and Chichi stopped so I could put her leash on. I had shaken off the whole encounter with Barney the little white talking dog. I had convinced myself that it was all in my mind. I had decided to dry out and quit drinking again. I’ve always had an active imagination. I have vivid dreams about post apocalyptic scavenging through South Dakota, or sex dreams about a small girl with three nicely formed breasts sitting in a hanging cage, a cage hanging from the ceiling in a smokey Bangkok club. Vivid. My imagination is a nuclear bomb. My imagination is my mind’s weapon against reality. My mind was blown, but now I’ve rationalized. “Chichi, I said as I bent down to attach the leash, “there’s something you want to tell me?” “There is. But I’m not ready yet”, she said. My mind is blown.
The train car is hot. All the trains, except for the new high speed link between Shanghai and Beijing are hot. At about 10pm they opened the gate and checked the passengers tickets and let us all onto the dark and grimy platform. Our train arrives and I pile on with the rest. I'm in car 12. I was lucky to get a sleeper at such late notice. I’m lucky to have found the Mandarin key. I speak, read and write Chinese fluently. It’s fabulous. I still think in English. When I look at Chinese text, my mind does an instant translation which is interesting because I understand everything except for the proper nouns. Where is Shanghai? Who is Den Xiopeng? hWe I speak it comes out in fluent Mandarin. I hear it and my brain somehow translates it back to english. No I think it in English and understand it when I hear it. It’s weird. I’m going to Shangqui to find the next key. I’ve been on the quest now for almost three years and I feel like I’m getting close. I feel like I’m almost there.
The berths sleep six - two stacks of 3. I find my bunk. I'm sharing a berth with five gymnasts from Hebei University returning home from a week long competition in Qing Dao. I say hello in Chinese and they are eager to talk. We sit on a lower bunk and I show them the pictures on my camera and on my iPad. They share their road snacks of sweet dried plums and salty crisps. Another group plays cards in the next berth over. People are milling around. Wearing flip flop shower slippers. The matron comes and gets my ticket, exchanging it for a red card. She says she'll wake me at 2:30. That’s when my train stops at Shangqui. It will carry on to Kaifeng after that.
I wonder idly how I got here. The station was a scary place. I had problems finding a place to sit and wait. When I bought water, I felt every pair of eyes in the station watching me. I’m one white guy in a people sea of Chinese.
The train rocks though the night and I sleep a fitful sleep. The train lurches and clanks out of the stations. Our top speed is moderately slow, feels like we are just slowly rolling through the countryside. It's hot and humid and I'm sleeping in my clothes. I'm completely beaten down. This is my third night in China. The fatty pork chop I had for dinner isn't sitting well. The toilet is a steel squat that is slippery with piss. In fact, the whole train smells of urine as it is tracked out of the squat toilet stall. The girls brush their teeth at a three sink communal.
I’m among a very small knot of people who get off the train in Shang Qui at 3:10am.
I’d asked the car matron about where to stay in Shangqui. She said I could try out the Shang Qui Bing Gwan. There are taxis waiting in front of the station. It’s gloomy. It’s cool and humid at the same time. I forget to demand that the taxi driver turn the meter on so when we arrived at the hotel after a bumpy ten minute ride he said I could pay whatever we wanted. I gave him a $20 Yuan. But that wasn't enough so I gave him $50 more. I don’t know what things cost in China. I’ve been here three days and I don’t even know what an accurate conversion rate is. I think you divid by 6, but for simplicity I divid by five giving a skewed version of the truth. I jut gave the driver $10 for a ten minute ride. I’m a chump. On the ride, the driver asked if I’d been to Shangqui before. I lied and said I had a few years ago. I don't know why I lied. I didn't like the question.
He talked and laughed for the duration of the journey but I’ve heard it all before (in the three days I’ve been in China) and just wanted to lay down and get some sleep.
I checked into the hotel. We I’m waiting for the elevator to arrive and a group of young people came in behind me. it’s 3:30am. There were four of them - two couples and it looked like they might have spent the previous few hours drinking. The room has two double beds. I take off my pants and fall asleep on top of the bed.
I’m weary from all the travel I’ve been doing. It's only been three days in China but I have arrived in the place where I’ve been told I’ll find my next key.
Loading comments...