Peter Liu - Bald New World

“I did promise to help her make an ad for her restaurant,” Larry answered. “We’re going to talk about it with her later tonight.”

“What?”

“It’ll be fun. Don’t worry about it, man.”

“Where are we meeting them?”

“Here. We’ll head over together to this super swank arcade near Houhai.” Every instinct in me blared caution. But Larry, knowing my soft spot, said, “Her friend has a thing for photographers and I swear to you, she’s your type. She kind of looks like Linda too. I think you’ll like her.”

Damn me for caring.

II.

I blamed Linda Yu, my ex-wife, for all my woes with women. Next to her, all the women I met were like baby frogs croaking next to a falcon gleaming through the cold blue moonlight (I mention that specific image because she painted a portrait exactly like that). Linda Yu lived in Los Angeles when I first made my home in Beijing. She flew out to help Larry do makeup. Linda was a makeup artist who liked coloring people in ways they hadn’t imagined. Often, the results were ugly, but always startling. She begged people to resist looking like a magazine cover, the anorexic’s dream of a heaven without calories. It was ironic because Linda looked like she belonged on a magazine cover. But she disdained her beauty and often made her wigs resemble roosters. She told me later she was initially attracted to me because I looked so strange.

“Thanks?” I remembered saying to her.

Larry and her clashed because she refused to do makeup the way Larry wanted. She made the actors resemble zombies and the actresses look like blue meat faces, which was the only way I could describe them. In between disagreements — Larry having run off to deal with some other issue on set — she would tell me little tidbits about herself, like the fact that she was named after a mythical crying flower called the Vermilion Pearl that wept to pay back the nourishing water it received throughout her life. Right after she was fired by Larry, she told me I should visit her in Los Angeles.

I hated going to L.A. and not just because I grew up in the city, but I didn’t like having to wear a bulletproof vest all the time. Shopping malls were the only gun-free zones, and even there, you had to go through those scanners that caused brain cancer. Drones maintained a vigilant watch from far up above and traffic was a mechanical bog. With the upper 405 freeway countless years behind schedule (they’d been working on it since I was born), it was impossible to get anywhere. But I still went out there to see Linda. I had to. She was the prettiest bald girl I’d ever met.

III.

Of course, Shinjee’s friend, Hyori, looked nothing like Linda. She had too many tattoos on her head, including that of a mouse fighting a lion and winning. The four of us ordered a green cab and the mechanized operator arrived promptly. Taxis used to have human drivers, but every country in the world (except the U.S.) had changed to mechanized drivers for safety and traffic reasons so that 6–7 passengers could ride. Shinjee ordered, “Waitian Arcade.”

Beijing had become a city of vapors, a metropolis of neon calligraphy burning away the surrounding gas. Pollution had become a permanent fixture in the landscape, trapped by the surrounding mountains and aggravated by dust storms. Contours shined like trailing lights, buildings appearing permeable, shifting with the perspective. We veered past cars and streetlights suffering from identity crises. Bikers were waiting at a red light, jumpsuits and WWI gas masks protecting their lungs from contamination. Store names floated in mid-air, Mandarin phrases wandered the alleys like unforgiven spirits, and a sentence cried for redemption, crucified in mist.

I saw Hyori as a mask of colors outlined like a jigsaw puzzle, her thick red lips sauntering through dialectics as quickly as mood swings. She spoke good English, even if she had a slight Korean accent, though it was Shinjee who dominated the conversation.

Shinjee looked like trouble. She wore long black leather boots, a red coat, and had on thick sunglasses even though it was night. A beret flopped on top of her head and the first thing she said to me was, “You bloody Americans are destroying our world for a God you don’t even believe in.”

“What?”

“Do you like buffalo meat?” Hyori cut in.

“Never had it.”

“Supposedly, the Japanese branch makes the best braised buffalo in the world.”

“Are we going to have buffalo?”

“Snake-blood wine,” Shinjee said.

“That stuff makes you young, right?” Larry asked.

“Virile,” Shinjee replied.

Waitian was packed and there were a hundred taxis backed up, trying to drop off their customers. The attendants were dressed as videogame characters and some of the partiers even had on suits from old retro games like Mario and Zelda. We got out, Larry scanning his credit key for payment. Spotlights were beaming around and I could hear loud drum beats set to familiar game music.

Hyori asked me, “What was your favorite video game?”

“What was yours?”

“Kid Icarus. That’s why I brought these!” From her bag popped out angel wings and a fake bow-and-arrow kit. Right in front of us, Princess Peach and Luigi were making out. Some Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles were bumping and grinding with their shells. A God of War stalked a Heavenly Sword. Mega Man was buying different drinks for different women to try to pry his way into their weaknesses.

We had to pick out costumes at the rental booth. I wondered secretly if I was too old for this, but Larry, who was even older than me, didn’t seem to think so. He picked out a Final Fantasy character, Kefka, the madman who succeeded in destroying the world. I matched him with another Final Fantasy character, Sephiroth. Shinjee put on the bounty-hunter suit of Samus from the NES classic, Metroid. We were ready to retro boogie.

IV.

It was loud and spacious inside and there were big screens everywhere. Several top gamers were playing their games and digital editors cut footage from the sequences together. The music responded to the rhythms on screen and the sound effects responded to the jumping beats. There were thousands of people dressed as videogame characters and our booth had a holographic pad in case we wanted to get involved in the mix. Games were a low priority for Shinjee who wanted her snake-blood wine right away. The menu popped up along with our waitress, a cute holographic dragon who said, “We have a special on soma today.”

“I hate soma,” Larry muttered. “It’s too old school. Doesn’t pack a punch.”

“Snake-blood wine,” Shinjee ordered.

It arrived through a panel to the side. Viscous and gelatinous, I didn’t like the look of it at all. Shinjee grabbed her glass and took it down in one shot. The blood dripped off the side of her lip and she said, “I never understood why your Adam and Eve ate the apple when they could have cooked up the snake and spared themselves all the trouble.”

“They were vegetarian,” I suggested, took my cup, and brought it to my mouth. The stagnant odor was overwhelming and nearly made me puke. It smelled like intestines, tanned leather, and a really bad Bloody Mary.

Hyori downed hers and even Larry made a good effort out of it, stopping a few times, coughing, but somehow emptying the cup. One sip made me nauseous and I shook my head. “No way.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“No way,” I repeated. “I’ll just have an 8-Bit Blaster.”

The 8BB was a joke of a drink, tasting like a juice cocktail. But as I saw Larry taking down more alcohol, I realized I’d have to take it easy. He was probably counting on me to get him out of trouble if we had any. Shinjee wasn’t holding back, matching drink for drink.