Temple St./ Deep Felt
by Uzodinma Okehi
Temple Street
(Hong Kong, 1995)
. . . Mind still reeling. Sidestepping, I’m excusing myself, bumping shoulders.
“Sorry man.” Sea of lights. I stop. Looking up, and around. The tempting, glittering promise, of—something, all directions. “Nathan road.” Like an idiot, taking the notebook from my pocket, flipping it open to write down the street name. From there, swept along. As if I could keep track. The main road, from Nathan, off into what seemed like a hand-stitched maze of buzzing, off-angle streets. Bamboo scaffolding. Huh. Through shadows, pools of light. And every unlit doorway, every darkened staircase, glistening, pressure-soaked walls, leading down, to what? Woosung. Ning Po. Warm pink sidestreets. Get caught in a crowd of guys, some with handbills. “Suit for you sah?” First one, then more, out of nowhere. Pushing my way through. And here’s something. Lit up like Christmas. Blocked off streets, no cars, choked with people, with tables and vendors under tents. The entrance, big two-story Chinese archway. What do you call these things? Get out my disposable—zip, zip, crank it, take the picture as I walk through. Shopping, haggling. What else? Sidewalks flooded with aqua light. Embroidered clothing, hanging, strung overhead. Also swimsuits, polo shirts. Silk folding fans. Toys. Wait, these tassel things? Some religious deal? Magazines. Ties. Cameras, portable TVs. Jewelry. Watches. Watches on watches. In rows and aisles of spotless opaque glass case displays. And I smell peppery seafood. Cartoon pictures of smiling crabs, paired with beer, and steam under the tents, I’m drifting through food stalls. I should probably eat something . . . Dim sum. But what’s Daan Taat? Live seafood swimming in tanks. Is that a turtle? Girl reaching in, older woman behind the tank leans over, slaps her hand, “ahhhhh”—But they know each other! Laughing, that clipped, guttural shouting. Pinyin? Cantonese? Left, turning left, going in circles. Turn right. Some guy, tottering, limping along, a backpack affixed with brightly colored paper birds on wires, dangling from little sticks. Watching him disappear down the narrow pathway, stacks of boxes, past shuttered stalls. Roofs tarped, linked together. Not even sure if I’m inside or outside, and not even browsing anymore, too much—walking, rounding corners, piles of blue jeans, belts, handbags, jewelry, on and on, bundles of incense, Buddha t-shirts, Mickey Mouse keychains. And then I’m out. An almost deserted street corner . . . Mopeds up on the curb. Couple of the red cabs. Parked, drivers leaning, talking. They see me coming over. What pops in mind is Dustin telling me about the Hong Kong escalator back in Iowa City. Which, naturally, doesn’t seem to register at all. Not quite mocking, but they’re also not interested. Saying “escalator”, stupidly, trying to describe it with my hands. I’m saying escalator and, over and over, guy with the tropical shirt, he’s saying, “Gung dou. Gung dou.” Back and forth. Stone faces all around. Until I put my hands up. No problem. Team USA with my leather jacket, right? I get it. I keep walking.
Deep Felt
Uzodinma Okehi. Lonely loner, adrift, in a sub-literary world of criminals who operate above the law: okehi@hotmail.com. Or check out the book, Over for Rockwell, out now from Short Flight/Long Drive.
