The Finest China Writing Since ‘River Town’

Grant doesn’t think too highly of Jarrett’s literary efforts…


The man who hit Jarrett in the head with a broom spoke in a boiled accent.

Jarrett Drakes rubbed his eyes and leaned up. He’d fallen asleep on the 587 bus and he’d laid all night on his right arm, now tingling, Jarrett shuddering awake to the man’s orders in Wuhanese, the man tapping his head with the broom’s bristles.

Jarrett pushed the broom away. He peeled crusted puke off his lips.

The man wore an orange vest and two women in the same-colored vests stood at the front of the bus, staring at Jarrett and whispering to each other.

Jī diǎn le?” Jarrett asked, tapping his left wrist, where as of last night he’d worn a watch.

The man swiped his broom at Jarrett.

Jī diǎn le?” Jarrett repeated.

The man brushed at Jarrett again, one of the bristles nicking Jarrett’s cheek.

“Ow. Fuck.” Jarrett scrambled to his feet, the world listing to the left, Jarrett to the right. He steadied himself on a bus seat with both hands, clutching it like a walking stick.

The man continued haranguing Jarrett in Wuhanese, jabbing a finger at the crusted puke on the bus floor.

“Sorry,” Jarrett whispered. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I just — ” He closed his mouth against further words as the biting aftertaste of baijiu crept up his throat. He’d left the party promising himself he wouldn’t puke, not this time. He let out a grunt and opened his eyes. “Jī diǎn le?

The man started yelling at him.

“Alright, alright.” Jarrett slipped past the man and his broom and the women up front paused their conversation, resuming it when Jarrett stepped off the bus.

He was in a bus depot on the western edge of Wuchang, across the river from Hanyang and somewhere out there Hankou, the three districts comprising Wuhan, China, summer 2006. Nearly three years here and he still had trouble with Wuhan’s seasons, too hot or too cold, and the respiratory infection so common it was now a companion.

Jarrett trembled. His mouth was dry. He found a restroom on the other side of the depot, a squat toilet and a cobwebbed sink. He cupped sinkwater in his hands and splashed it in his mouth, swallowing and grimacing in a stained mirror. He looked none the worse for the wear and outside he found drivers squatting flatfooted around a card game, cigarettes in their mouths.

Jī diǎn le?

One of the drivers showed Jarrett his phone, and the numbers sobered Jarrett up.

“Fuck.”

#

The taxi dropped Jarrett off at the mouth of Luo Jia Shan Lu, the street terminating at Wuhan University’s main gate. Jarrett paid in cash. A dashboard fan spun from driver to passenger and Jarrett basked in its cool air for a few extra moments before getting out of the cab.

The shops and businesses lining the street were mostly new. David told him the day would come when all of Wuhan would be unrecognizable and when that day came it was well past time to leave, but Jarrett thought he still had a lot of years remaining. China would host the Olympics in two years. The economy was growing. A developing country on the fast track to developed, and Jarrett was happy he was here to witness it.

Show Coffee glowed neon yellow above the streetside windows. Construction barred the way and a telephone pole lay tipped on its side, powerlines coiled in the construction dust like dead snakes. A boy reached out to touch one of the powerlines and his grandmother snatched his hand, the boy launching into a temper tantrum so brutal Jarrett thought he might be having a seizure.

“I swear I’ll never have fuckin children,” Jarrett whispered and made his way into Show Coffee, where two hostesses Western business attire welcomed him. Jarrett ignored their questions about his seating preferences, turning his head and scanning the restaurant.

Seated by the window was the editor for Willow Press, a boutique publisher based right here in Wuhan. Their catalogue consisted of travel diaries from the eighties and republished stories from the early twentieth century, tales from the period prior to the Japanese invasion, a now romantic age of opium dens and well-stocked brothels.

“Here we go,” he whispered, patting his lips for any puke. He caught the editor’s eyes halfway across the restaurant and smiled, dropping into the booth across from him. “Sorry I’m late. You weren’t waiting too long, were you?”

“Not too long,” said Grant. A balding man in his fifties, he wore his sunglasses propped up on his forehead.

“Yeah. Long night. Did you order yet?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“We could try their coffee. It’s Nescafe Gourmet in a Jar.”

“It’s what?”

“Nescafe Gourmet in a Jar. It’s an acquired taste, but once you acquire it, man.”

Grant didn’t even crack a smile. “I wanted to let you know that I read Morning on the Han River.

“Nice.”

Grant’s eyes held the warmth of icicles. “We cannot publish it.”

“Oh. It’s okay.”

“I’ll be blunt with you: this just isn’t good writing. When it comes to writing, this needs a lot of work.”

Jarrett took this without expression. Rejection was part of publishing, and he thought it best to handle rejection with grace.

“Well,” he said. “Thanks for coming out.”

“I hate giving bad news to people.”

“It’s alright. I mean, it’s a subjective business anyways. I don’t think it’s that bad, but maybe I’m biased.” Jarrett chuckled.

Again, Grant didn’t even crack a smile. “This isn’t good writing. You know what’s good writing?”

“Apparently not.”

River Town. Have you read it?”

“I haven’t even heard of it.”

Grant drew in a sharp breath. His body tensed like a man in a car about to crash. His lips slid back and forth. “You haven’t heard of River Town. Read it. I don’t want to make certain assumptions about your experience with the literary community, but is it too much to hope that you have read Winters with My Tomb?”

“Nope.”

“The finest China writing since River Town. It properly guides readers through this unique environment. You, for instance, at the start of your story your main character goes into a restaurant — ”

“A cafe.”

Grant’s eyes flashed. “Whatever it is, he just walks in.”

“Yeah?”

“You have to properly paint a picture. The big mahogany doors. For God’s sake, we don’t even know what your main character looks like. You — ”

As Grant laid into Jarrett’s writing, Jarrett sat there. He took it. Over a year of work, seventy thousand words, and it all amounted to this.

Grant fanned himself, chuckling. “I must remind myself not to make assumptions about one’s experience with writing groups.”

It all amounted to this.


Wuhan, China. Summer 2006: Jarrett Drakes teaches English at Wuhan University, caught between his desire to become a writer and the expectation that he return to America and go to business school.

When his best friend, Molly, unexpectedly leaves China after three years, Jarrett is adrift in the expat world of debauchery as he struggles to gain acceptance in a literary scene increasingly dominated by rich white kids and passive aggressive housewives.

this is so great!

Walter and Blake are two writers having a conversation at a cafe.

Walter: How’s your book doing?

Blake: Good. It’s got some reviews. And Sarah, she’s been really supportive.

Walter: She has?

Blake: Yeah. A five star review, promoting Lost Millennial Hope on her Instagram. She really likes my book, I just never expected this.

Walter: Sarah didn’t read a single word of your book.

Blake: What?

Walter: She didn’t read it.

Blake: But…but why do you say that? I mean, she gave it a five star review. She said, ‘This is so great!’ With an exclamation point.

Walter rubs his face.

Walter: Okay, you’re new to this, so let me break it down for you: Sarah did not read a single fucking word of your book. She glanced at the blurb, and maybe, maybe skimmed the first couple pages. Then she made up some ‘nice’ things to say, slathered it all in bullshit and created her review.

Blake: That’s just…

Walter: She has deemed you useful. She thinks you can be of use to her. Plus, you’re a male writer.

Blake: What does that have to do with anything?

Walter: She’s a housewife who only supports other women writers. Or did. Come to think of it, I can’t recall a single male writer she’s ever supported. So in your case, you ought to be extra-suspicious of her motives.

Blake: I just…I don’t think so.

Walter: Let me ask you something. Are you going to review her book?

Blake: Yeah.

Walter: Are you actually going to read it?

Blake: Of course.

Walter: Why? If you’re going to review someone’s book, why in the hell would you waste time reading it?


 

The Cradle (new spec fiction)

We have a rule: once a kid reaches the age of ten, we
don’t use them to spread the fire anymore.

I took my son to the cradle the day after his ninth
birthday. Nine is a good age for this. When kids are little, they
have no comprehension of how the world works, relying on
you for guidance. They trust you. Tell them they’ll be okay,
and they’ll believe it. The youngest one we’ve ever used was
four, a boy, and he gave me a thumbs-up right before he ran
towards the fascists’ checkpoint. A thumbs-up and a trusting
smile. I’ll never forget it.

Read more in the Summer 2022 issue of The Colored Lens: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B5MCV7T5

Humbled again to be included with such fine writers. Support small pubs like The Colored Lens, and if you really want to show your support, pick up the Autumn 2015 issue where they published another short story of mine, A Long Fall.

The Homeless Man & the Stranger

 

 

From a homeless man’s chance encounter with a suicidal businessman to a lifelong wanderer’s last drink, this collection of short stories from Travis Lee (author of The Seven Year Laowai) also contains Diving (previously published by Fourth & Sycamore) and The Traveler (previously published by Dual Coast Magazine), as well as never-before seen stories like A Drink before Victory and Bomber Men.

Amazon

Smashwords

 

-versary

It’s tempting to build a narrative.

And it almost got me, a few years ago. In 2018, I moved to Japan, and 2018 after all was ten years after I first moved to China, August 2008 vs November 2018. The circumstances were different–millennial enjoying an extended adolescence versus a millennial dragged kicking and screaming into middle age–but I thought I should say something about it. Just recently, a couple on Facebook shared their “Chinaversary”, Hainan their home since 2005. Seven years seems to be a pretty decent marker too, and I started to make some attempt at acknowledging it.

My heart just wasn’t in it. I didn’t care. I mean, what’s the point? Though I’ve made several return trips since, I was ten years removed from that environment. This year makes twelve. The students I taught back then have gotten jobs; some got married, and now have kids of their own who can now inquire as to whether their foreign teacher likes NBA or how his chopsticks skills are faring.

There was a time when I could have seen myself going back to that life. Adjusting to life in America and the Navy was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. You go from a relatively bohemian lifestyle, no responsibilities, this quasi-college lifestyle where you can drink every night, play computer games all the time, show Frasier to your classes and play All Things Considered for their final exam. Buy a crate of Singo from the shop, maybe a dusty bottle of 5 RMB baijiu. Extended adolescence doesn’t do it justice.

There’s a persistent question that keeps demanding an answer: what would have happened if I hadn’t left China? My wife and I moved out of China on December 30, 2010. The ten-year anniversary passed and I forgot about it till she brought it up a few weeks later. Even as we celebrated the New Year by watching a livestream from Kyoto, I didn’t think about our first New Year in America, mini-golf in Jackson, TN, the visit to the recruiter a couple months in the future, boot camp over a year away, our daughter’s birth and our decision to treat as a career what is in reality a limited period of service. One enlistment, two, twenty, thirty years, at some point the Navy kicks you out and it would behoove you to face it with dignity.

In the year 2021, would I still be in Wuhan, teaching English? I don’t know about Wuhan. The expat community back then was less connected: Facebook, Twitter and YouTube worked for a time, and free VPNs did work. No one was rounding up religious minorities for their “reeducation centers”, one man’s reeducation center is another man’s concentration camp, but I would still be teaching English. What else could I have done?

Out of all the people my age who went to China in those recession years, I don’t think any of them are still there. Some left after one year, some after two, three…but all the same, they left.

The older people present a different challenge. In the original Seven Year Laowai posts (inferior to my Seven Year Laowai book, available at a low price here) I concluded it by calling China “The Graveyard of All Ambition“. I gave it that name because for us, that’s exactly what it was, so long as you stayed. Oh, they sing that gospel with their hands to the heavens, don’t they? Let’s see…

– I’m starting my own school

– I was a millionaire before coming here

– I’m starting my own restaurant

And my personal favorite: I’m going to do real teaching. Yeah, real teaching; I accompanied another teacher, an older Englishman who was in the inspiration for Jack Stearns (in The Seven Year Laowai, available for a low price here) to a high school where he was interviewing to teach Chemistry. Know what they really wanted him for?

This post was brought to you by the letter E.

And the schools and the restaurants, the future businesses, it was coming next year, next year, two years from now, ten

Never.

What happened to those guys? Are they still in China? Are they okay? The fate of those teachers (and if you’re wondering, the real-life Jack Stearns is still alive, now in Thailand) has come up over the years. What are they doing today? Well, we know what I would have been doing.

So I think we can guess their fate too.