Chapter 15

十五

“How about an app for buying a ghost?” Man-bun Matty asked the table. His hands were raw, red with scabs and rashes, but he was in good spirits, hyper this morning, decked out in a golden traditional Chinese button up shirt and matching baggy gold pants and open toe sandals. He obviously had no fear of the cold.

Man-bun was sipping on a thermos of civet coffee, this special coffee produced by civets, the animals responsible for the original SARS in 2003...

I’d never seen it before, anywhere, the coffee, until I got to China ... The stuff was made through a process where coffee beans would be fed to civets, would then be plucked from the animals’ shit and manufactured into coffee.

While it sounded horrendous, I’d tried a sip, on a dare, and was smitten. It was a favorite of all the foreign teachers, including myself, the coffee having an especially pungent, unique taste and strong caffeine kick...

Man-bun sat scrolling on his phone, tapping his foot. His teeth looked rotten and dirty, as if he hadn’t flossed in a while. Or ever.

Raccoon Head didn’t appreciate Man-bun’s question about buying ghosts on apps and heatedly shot back, “But could you really ‘buy’ a ghost? Own it? Isn’t that a form of supernatural slavery?”

“In Laos, they sell protective spirits,” Man-bun said, didactically, “a ghost that will keep you safe, bring you good luck. The more powerful the spirit, the higher the price. I was with a bird whose aunt knows a monk who deals in them. But I don’t think there’s an app for it. Laos is more of a developing country.”

“The Laotians are Commies too, right? Do they allow that?” asked Fat Elvis, dark black bags hanging under his eyes. Today he stunk strongly of liquor.

Man-bun snorted and giggled, “You see, they’re different sorts of Commies. Them and the Vietnamese. They’re kinder, gentler Communists. They’re not as overbearing as the Chi-Coms.”

Marcoba coughed wildly, then caught his breath. For a second, I thought he was choking, that someone would have to do the Heimlich, and I didn’t know how to, nor did I think anyone else here knew first-aid.

Today Marcoba’s face was sticky with sweat, his lips were chapped, and his eyes were terribly bloodshot.

He was wearing a bright orange, dashiki type of shirt, matching genie pants, combat boots and an enormous necklace made entirely of white bird feathers, like a boa.

Man-bun pursed his lips, raised an eyebrow at Marcoba.

Marcoba sneered at Man-bun, the skin of his face constricted, and, voice rattling, he said, “One reason for the overabundance of ghosts is that the Communist Party destroyed the local temples, shrines and altars dedicated to ancestor worship and spirits. The temples were for placating, feeding the hungriest of ghosts.

“The Party prohibited fireworks. The fireworks were for the ghosts! The Party even abolished the Ghost Festival holiday, dog. They BANNED it ... They let the ghosts loose, they antagonized them, and the spirits are running wild, like feral animals.”

Marcoba cleared his throat, and then stood up, said something in Spanish and stomped off, chanting in bizarre rhythms.

Leaving the cafeteria, several Chinese teachers said hello, smiled and waved to him. The teachers and students today were all dressed in PLA military uniforms. It must have been a military holiday, but the foreign teachers weren’t told about it.

“They love Marco, don’t they,” Fat Elvis said, contemptuously, “just look how all the teachers smile, wave to him.”

“Ah, mate, it was like that with all foreigners, until a few years ago,” lamented Man-bun, “used to be you couldn’t walk down the street without people wanting to snap a photo with you, practice their English and chat or even just wave and say ‘hello’ and smile at you. Nowadays, most Chinese either ignore us, or look at us like shit on the bottom of their shoe.”