| Chapter 37
The ominous Mr. Wong
Looking around for something to build my creativity upon,
I began to examine my friend's house. To my astonishment,
it was covered in arabesque writing. Like a grand qasida
that appeared to have no end, it went on and on.
Who can interpret these polymeric symbols that
looked like they were printed on ethereal soffit?
Similar to a psychedelic watermark that radiates with life,
to look as it would if it were deep under an ocean swell.
I soon began to wonder if the dwelling itself was simply a conveyor of information.
In the same way, a solar panel reflects heat, words and emotions were translated
into codes that were laid out in text from the opposing side. As unreadable as they
were, they were not opaque in the moon's light, but rather only their meaning,
muddled. Every breath taken and every enunciation had been cleverly concealed
within the confines of the abode. Like textbook writing for the insane, it was clearly
documented. Quietly, all the repressed ideas and hermetic thoughts that ever arose
in that domicile were now seeping through.
It was sprawled out for my eyes to see,
but I could not decipher the code to this puzzle of madness.
Maybe that's how Santa knows who's been naughty or nice; I reveled in my insanity.
I laughed at the pure derangement of it all before focusing on my own life in general.
Gazing up into nothingness, past the trees lined with rows of houses,
I tried to imagine a grandiose mountain in the background. Just then,
a needle was gently placed upon a record in an old victrola.
The scratches and pops faded to the sound of a lone violin playing softly off in the distance.
At the very top of that perilous mountain stood none other than Ed Norton, who appeared
to be singing a tune to Ralph, who it seems had gotten himself into another bind again.
When you try to make fact out of fiction.
And the answer is nowhere to be found.
Look up to the sky, and don't worry,
for soon you'll be coming around.
I smiled aptly, for I knew my whole life lay ahead of me. However, that
road I fear I must travel is clouded with much doubt and uncertainty.
Subsequently, time has shown me that I am not a mannequin in the corner, neither
am I a wishing well for people to cast coins into and make wishes that won't come true.
Sadly, I am only a man.
A man who must forego his dreams because he learned a very long time ago that if you
put all your hope into something, and it should happen to vanish, then what have you?
What are you?
Just a man who has found he solely exists; for no one.
Maybe life isn't supposed to be enjoyed.
Maybe we're only alive to work all day and sleep all night.
Slaves of the big machine going from borough to borough.
If that's all you can achieve with your college degree,
then maybe there is no other way.
As for me, the only degree I had was in outer space.
I guess we're all doomed to follow in the path we choose to walk.
Pg 259
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As thoughts kindled and my mind opened up to curiosity, I began to
observe the Wong's house next door, where the writing appeared to be
noticeably different. It was more along the lines of Aztec writing or a
form of Hieroglyphics. "A paleographer's dream," I muttered, bemused.
I could now hear them in the kitchen, chattering away
in their native tongue and conversing freely.
The night now had a very peaceful aura to it,
as if it were somehow blessed.
I deeply inhaled a breath of warm night air mixed in with the essence of some
faraway flowers and sighed. Mr. Wong then caught a glimpse of me and John
hanging out in the backyard and decided to stand by the kitchen window. How
absorbed was he in our presence that he began to stare. A stare so uninspiringly
dull, I began to think that maybe he was contemplating suicide.
No, he was just an evening spy.
An observer of truth in a valley of uninteresting inhabitants.
Motionless, he loomed like a surreal picture in a picture frame till I thought
his brain would unravel. Never blinking an eye, this grave fellow stood
solemnly as if in a hypnotic trance. (Overmedicated, I guess)
Watching John sunbathe in the light of the moon like a deranged vampire might
have caught anyone's attention if anyone really cared, which they didn't. As for
Mr. Wong, he simply stared bleakly into the margins of my perimeter, ignoring
the obvious. I soon realized he was not looking at me at all but rather through
me, into the very corners of that dry fence. Nothing to worry about, so I felt no
contention. He was merely meditating on things that occurred within the time
frame of his busy day.
I could almost see a fossilized Mr. Wong shuffling about in the afternoon
hours with his briefcase in hand, giving everyone he meets a graceful bow.
A bow to the left and a bow to the right.
A bow to the North and a bow to the South.
Get your Mr. Wong compass, complete with pivot!
Now his life's in a hole; buy a rice bowl, and
he'll point you to the Hong Kong market. . .
We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
Completely detached from the world was he, as if in a state of perpetual shell shock.
After a while, I came to appreciate the emotionless figure gloating in the window while
his wife and son babbled on. Whatever was inside that oblong head of his must have
long since been erased. Irreparably damaged by someone or something, I thought.
Originally from the Liwan district in Guangzhou, China, Mr. Wong had slowly become
a permanent fixture in the neighborhood. Adhering to the social life, as would an
introvert in a totalitarian regime, he hastens home to his wife and son, Jimmy.
But for now, he stands by the double-hung window as if to be frozen in time.
Never to leave, I shout in silence, but to forever inherit that haunting space
that behooves me. When at last, the grim farewell is echoed by the well-to-do
in dreamscapes of the night, I will uncover the last ponderance; that final adieu.
They have a different set of values and beliefs than we do that they still hold dear.
While their son has become quite the American they've grown to be proud of, they
continue to remain steadfast in their own culture and practice what they've learned
through better living. It is what keeps them happy. They are honest people who have
effortlessly retained their dignity through hard work, kind deeds, and general upkeep.
The Wong's are getting up there in years and are nearing retirement.
From what I have seen through the window, on occasion, is that they are still quite
loving, but public displays of affection apart from home were rarely, if ever, seen.
A few dishes clanked together near the sink, where his wife's voice grew exceedingly
louder. "Something must have snapped in her brain," I told myself as I sat on the old
wooden bench that at one time had been painted a bright red. A rise in vocal pitch
meant Mrs. Wong was starting to get serious.
Upon delving deeply into analysis, one would find that through a moral evaluation
of the ethical character she portrayed in life, that didn't hardly seem possible.
What was the urgency to vociferate?
Surely it meant only one thing. . .
Henry Wong was wrong no matter what he did,
and there would be no walking away from it.
Pg 260
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As I continued to eavesdrop, her polyglot words made
it sound like she was overacting in a Chinese theater;
and I just wanted to approach the window and yell ‘cut’!
Her son Jimmy soon gets up from the kitchen table and
walks into the living room. Such a pleasant fellow was he.
Always helping his mom and dad with anything they asked
of him, and never did he bother anyone. He gets up, goes
to work, comes home, eats, watches TV, and then goes
back to sleep and repeats the same process.
How robotic are these Asian people? I thought with a chuckle
before realizing that my parents, along with everyone else on
the planet do exactly the same thing.
The only notable difference between us and them is that they
accept their chore of duty with nobility and honor while we
continually gripe and complain about things we cannot change.
Sometimes in the evening hours, when I'm hanging out
with John, Jimmy's friends will stop by to greet him.
“Ay there, Jimbo,” they'll say, or “How ya' doin' pal?”
They always shake hands when they meet and
usually seem genuinely happy just to exist.
Unlike me and John, who only exist to get wasted because we
either have no self-confidence or we just don't care anymore.
I could see the static reflection bouncing around on the living room
window and wondered what show he could be watching. “How
strange that they should be banqueting at this hour,” I said, to John,
in a voice that could have come from a sophisticated butler.
“They're night owls,” he replied, stargazing. I immediately
thought of White Owls and proceeded to light up a Muriel.
I thought of that silly nine o'clock curfew as I watched
the window like a detective from the nineteen fifties.
“What's up with that?” I blurted out accidentally
before finding out I would have the misfortune of
having to answer questions.
“Up with what?”
“The curfew.”
“What curfew?”
“The one that was imposed.
Never mind, it's not important.”
As her voice became more prominent, it sounded like she was angry with her husband
over something he did or didn't do, though this was pure speculation on my part.
Mr. Wong now looked like a ghost had invaded his body, and judging by the look on
his face, very soon, that fragile shell of a head of his was simply going to crack. Every
word she gibbered fell on deaf ears, and it didn't take long before his face started to
contort and his jaw began to open wider.
(((Wider)))
What the hell is going on?
Could she have talked him into a lobotomy with her circuitous voice
that was beginning to sound like a record stuck on 78 rpm?
That would explain the inanimate look in his eyes. He's going to have that same
look, I thought, when they lower him into the ground. The way she was attacking
him with verbal assaults, I felt I had a moral obligation to go inside and call the
funeral parlor because, at this rate, he was going to be dead within a few minutes.
Another stretch of time passed, and when I turned to look,
he was no longer there. The spectre departed into the night
without warning, and I now felt increasingly abandoned,
left alone to ponder my own thoughts brewing despair.
I stared into the emptiness of a dark kitchen and saw nothing;
'cept one solitary candle burning.
Pg 261
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Reviews for chapter 37
Felix Kassel - Would you mind telling me where that plane is going?
Bruce Mahony - Stumbled upon this site by accident. Great site!
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This review was posted on May/9/23
Reviewed by aamnaaaa
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This review was posted on May/17/23
kanchanninawe's review
The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 37 - The Ominous Mr. Wong
Reader's Report by kanchan
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Reviewed by yashodha_95
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iqrabashir871 's review
The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 37 - The Ominous Mr. Wong
Reader's Report by Iqra
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This review was posted on Jul/19/23
LR
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This review was posted on Jul/25/23
Reviewed by tawhida
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Reviewed by hinaspatel
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