A storm was going to hit, the first big one this spring, and I could sense the anticipation: in the tension from those around me, in the stillness of the dark clouds that swelled overhead. I slipped through the crowds in Ximending. Dusk, and the air in Taipei was cold and brisk. Three girls swept past, chattering, swathed in nervous energy, eyes bright above their face masks. One clutched a fuchsia umbrella and its tip tapped against my shin as I dodged out of their way.
I glanced over my shoulder a few times to be sure I wasn’t being followed. After five years living mostly on the streets on my own, I was used to watching my back. But Arun had warned us that his mom, Dr. Nataraj, might be under surveillance. She didn’t know by whom.
I tugged my worn blue cap lower, satisfied I wasn’t being tailed. Workers were just beginning to trickle out from their office jobs, rushing to the metros to commute home to their families or to restaurants and eateries to meet friends. Still too bright to turn on their neon signs, the windows of the shops and boutiques appeared unassuming, not yet ready for the throngs of fashionable teens and twenty-somethings to trample through once night had fallen. Street vendors shuffled and rearranged their merchandise: jewelry, purses, and shoes; I saw two cast a wary eye to the skies above. One vendor set out a colorful array of umbrellas especially coated to last against our acid rains.
I knew it would be a rowdy night, as everyone tried to stay out for as long as they could before the winds and rain hit. If it weren’t for meeting up with my friends, I’d be back at my makeshift home on Yangmingshan, reading, cruising the undernet, or working on something nefarious with Lingyi. Arun had called for an emergency meeting, and he wouldn’t have unless it was serious.
A silver limousine inched through the narrow street, hulking and ludicrous. It didn’t take a genius to know that some you teens had probably gotten their daddies’ permission to make an excursion out among the masses, to one of the exclusive clubs or restaurants pumped with regulated air, open only to those who were rich enough to be members.
Tucking my chin into the collar of my black denim jacket, I sneered as I strode past the limo. The vehicle pulsed from the music within, a steady, strong bass beat. A commercial for the limo company played across its opaque windows, featuring a gorgeous Taiwanese woman dressed in black showing off the car’s luxurious interior, lithe arms moving gracefully as she pushed buttons and was served champagne by a barbot. When I passed the back window, the flickering glass suddenly became transparent, revealing the actual interior with white seats bathed in bluish light. A you girl rapped on the windowpane, fingers curling, the other hand clutching a crystal flute filled with a liquid that glowed pink, the bubbles rising like bright stars.
The limousine had jerked to a stop, trying to navigate past the crush of people, and I stopped with it, staring at the you girl pressed against the window. She wore a silver dress beaded with crystal, the top revealing her full breasts. Though her features were Asian, her sleek hair was as deep red as her lipstick. Lifting her glass, she toasted me. Another girl leaped from the back of the car and wrapped an arm around the redhead’s shoulders, giggling. Watching them was surreal, like I was viewing another commercial projected on the limo’s window. The two dipped their heads together, animated, laughing. They looked no older than sixteen.
Pedestrians pointed, and I heard their complaints in the periphery: rich, useless you girls drunk already. There was no reason the limousine needed to be on the street—it could easily lift into the sky, avoiding congestion. Aircars were a luxury, even among the ultrarich—they could fly unpoliced above the masses and arrive at their party before they finished their drinks. The girls wanted to be in the crowds. They wanted the attention. “Get out of the fucking way!” some old man shouted and kicked at the limousine tire. The silver limo lurched forward, breaking through the foot traffic, and the girls within shrieked; I could tell by the set of their mouths, as their bodies swayed together from the momentum. The redhead then pushed her lips against the window, smearing the clear glass with the imprint of her mouth. She winked at me, and before I could react, the window was opaque once more, brightly lit with the moving image of the limo commercial.
I raised my fist, ready to pound on the glass, hard enough to scare the girl, to shock her from her comfortable stupor. But the limo had sped ahead, only to brake hard at a red light.
Forget it. Not worth my time.
“Eh!” The man who had cursed at the limo broke through my thoughts. “She wanted you for a boy toy.”
He laughed, spittle flying, and I was glad he stood a short distance away. You never knew what you could catch these days. Gaunt, with shoulders hunched forward, he looked like a grandfather. But he was probably in his forties. Dressed in rags, he shuffled toward me, finger outstretched, before a fit of coughing seized him. He doubled over, pressing both hands to his thighs, his body literally shaking from the episode. After what seemed like a full minute, the coughing finally eased, but he remained stooped, rasping, trying to catch his breath.
People steered clear of him, so it seemed we had an invisible barrier around us. Concerned, I took two steps toward him, battling my own fear of becoming tainted by his illness. But he held up his palm and fixed his sharp black eyes on me. They were wet from his violent coughing.
“If I were still young and a good-looking kid like you, I’d do it,” he said, voice grating. “Good money, good food, fun times.”
I laughed. It was short and humorless. “And be at a you girl’s beck and call? Be kept like some dog on a leash? No, thanks.” I took another step forward, my arm outstretched. “Uncle, let me buy you a hot drink. You should sit down—”
“Don’t come closer!” he shouted, his words thick with phlegm. “Are you stupid? I’m diseased. You want what I got?” He dragged a filthy sleeve across his mouth, muttering to himself before saying, “It’s easy to be idealistic when you’re young and pretty, boy.”
I turned and walked away. He didn’t want my help. And what could I do for him in the end anyway but buy him a hot tea? He needed the hospital and medicine, just like my mother had. I swallowed the sourness at the back of my throat, my grief suddenly as sharp as a fresh cut wound. There was nothing more I could offer—I didn’t have anything myself.
Another limousine zoomed by, this one overhead, followed by three muscular mei boys on airpeds—bodyguards or boy toys, most likely both. At least they weren’t adding to the rush-hour madness below.
“Truth is, reality always crushes your ideals,” the guy shouted at my back. “Just you wait and see.”