Runners

Originally Published in Floyd County Moonshine

Photo courtesy Orange County Archives.

Across the street an angry white man stumbled out of a rundown apartment building covered in flaking green paint which fell away to reveal the masterful brickwork beneath. He yelled at closed windows on the second floor for several minutes. Zhāng Guóshèng stood waving his arms about at the end of Market Street in a desperate attempt to hail a cab. He wanted nothing more than to put this city behind him and get back on schedule, praying that he could find a ride before long. He did not want to get in the way of a rabble rouser.

When a cab finally pulled up, Guóshèng was distracted. He nervously watched the white man give up his tangents and climb grumbling into a 1941 Ford De Luxe.

“I don’t have all day,” the driver said.

“I am sorry.” Guóshèng shook his head, attempting to focus, “I need to get to MIT, if you could—”

“You need to get where? Are you nuts?” The driver cackled and coughed violently. The cab sped off to the next customer, spraying Guóshèng with gutter mud before he could formulate an explanation. He had studied English since childhood, but trying to get a word out in the fast-paced city of San Francisco was nigh on impossible. Overwhelmed, Guóshèng threw his briefcase to the ground and fell to his knees in prayer for good fortune. All he needed was a little bit of luck and he could do the rest himself.

“Hey mister, need a ride?” came a heavily accented voice from the burgundy Ford. Guóshèng’s stomach dropped; he looked around in hopes that the man within was calling for someone else. He waved a hairy, meaty hand out the window. Not seeing another choice, Guóshèng approached cautiously.

“Yes. I need to get to MIT. I just need to find a bus—”

The man in the car leaned back and roared with laughter. Guóshèng looked at him with a flat expression; he was getting sick of these boisterous American men laughing at him.

“Pal, you have landed on the wrong side of the country.” The man’s nose began to bleed and he staunched the flow with a dirty handkerchief.

“Are you alright, sir?” Guóshèng quickly wiped the mud off his spectacles.

“Don’t worry about me,” the man said, tossing the bloody handkerchief into the backseat. He ran his fingers on a photo of a woman and a boy pinned to the sun visor. His eyes seemed to shimmer. “It’s your lucky day. I just so happen to be headed home to New York. I’ll drop you off on the way. It’s the least I can do.”

Jet streams of polluted city air tore through the open windows as his driver, who had introduced himself as Louie B. Deacon, sped across the most opulent bridge Guóshèng had ever seen. It was a marvel of modern engineering that he could not take his eyes away from despite the dire feeling of peril that had consumed him. He supposed it was only natural to look away from one’s doom.

“That’s the Golden Gate Bridge,” Louie said, sucking down his fourth cigarette in the last twenty minutes. “I have no idea why they called it that, but they did.” Louie tapped Guóshèng’s shoulder and held out a pack of cigarettes.

“No thank you,” he said for the fourth time, waving his hand in an attempt to seem casual. He cursed himself for not insisting that he be taken to a bus station.

“We’re going to Sacramento, then we’ll take Highway 99 all the way south to Barstow.”

‘Would it not make more sense to just take another highway east?

“I think I know a bit more about how to get places here than you, pal.”

Guóshèng swallowed. “Apologies, sir.”

“Just keep driving.” Louie threw his spent cigarette out the window because the ashtray was full “That’s the thing about this place. It doesn’t matter where you drive, you’ll end up where you need to be in due time.”

“I am grateful, sir, but I need to get to MIT before classes begin next week.”

“Look, I just need to make a stop in Sacramento, then I promise—no more dallying.” Louie lit up another cigarette. He grumbled and cursed a few minutes later and threw it out the window. “Must be a bad batch.”

Guóshèng watched Louie carefully, unsure if he should dignify his addiction with a response. He cleared his throat, mustering the confidence.

“You wanna say something? Go on, say it.” Louie met his gaze, and shivers rolled down Guóshèng’s spine.

“Those are no good for you, sir. My father smoked many years, started to cough as he aged.” He waited for Louie to slam on the brakes and beat him to death on the side of the road. The Ford lurched over each crest and plummeted into tiny vallies, sending Guóshèng’s stomach into spirals.

“Yeah,” the big man said finally. “Well, what’s to be done?”

“For him? Nothing. My father is dead, you will be too.” It did come out how he wanted it to. English was a fiddly language and quickly he realized it sounded threatening. Louie stared at him with large, sunken brown eyes, bloodshot from the smoke. The whole frame of the car shook with the sound of his deep laughter.

“So will we all.”

Relieved, Guóshèng watched the black road roll past at unprecedented speed. Whoever had designed American highways should be revered as a modern genius.

“So Guóshèng, how long have you been in the States?”

Guóshèng put a hand to his chin, trying to find the words. “I came to San Francisco by boat. I spent last night in a hotel.”

“God damn and what was your plan?”

“Plan?”

“What, were you counting on some bozo driving across the country to offer you a ride?”

Guóshèng sunk into his seat. He had been trying to get a ride to the bus station, but Americans would just see him as the clueless foreigner. “I can pay you, Louie.”

“No that’s not what I mean…” He looked up longingly at the photo pinned to the sun visor. “I’m just blown away by your story. That’s all.”

Guóshèng watched the growing sunset, imagining himself back home looking over his father’s fields, reading the same few letters over and over rather than being stuck in some loud American’s smoked up sedan for the next week. “You do not know my story. I am not sure I want to tell it, ever again.”

They pulled up next to an old Victorian house in Sacramento. Louie said he would only be a few minutes. Guóshèng watched Louie knock on the door and a middle-aged woman answered. She did not look keen about the surprise visit. He could not hear what she said but heard Louie say, “Then where is she?” Louie must have not liked the answer. He stormed back to the car and slammed the door shut as he slumped into the drivers’ seat.

That night the blinding neon signs came as godsend. A cartoon boy in a chef’s hat lit up the dark desert sky. The visage was utterly abrasive, but for Guóshèng, who had not eaten since that morning, the bright lights may well have been shining down from the heavens. They parked next to a 1955 Buick police cruiser and walked through the double glass doors. A pretty woman with red lips and dark eye makeup greeted them and led them to a booth that was immaculately clean but had two large tears in one of the green cushions.

“What can I get started for you boys?”

Louie ordered quickly and Guóshèng looked at the printed illustrations as if they were made up of alien hieroglyphs. His heart skipped a beat when the waitress looked at him. “And you, hon?” Louie raised his eyebrows impatiently, tapping his fingers on the table. Guóshèng took a deep breath and placed finger randomly on the menu.

“I will have this, thank you.”

The waitress left them with a pot of black coffee. Louie filled his mug halfway and rest with milk. Guóshèng only added a bit of sugar into his.

“What brought you to San Francisco from New York?” Guóshèng ventured to ask, hiding behind his coffee, sipping eagerly at the bittersweetness.

Louie blew up his lips, shaking his head. “It’s not a happy story.”

“Many stories are not.”

“Fine, I came out here to get my son from his grandfather.” Louie gestured at his beaten face, the blood was dried and coagulated in the grooves of his nose, which was bent as though it had been broken before. “It didn’t go well.”

“I am sorry, Louie. I understand.” Guóshèng set his coffee on the table and winced at the sound.

The waitress returned a while later, dropped a burger and fries in front of Louie and a plate of lumpy white sludge in front of Guóshèng. Louie set to eating while Guóshèng prodded at his meal helplessly with a fork.

“It’s good, pal,” Louie said. “Biscuits and gravy. Classic.” Surprisingly, it was good even though it looked like the regurgitated remains of a breakfast rather than an iconic American dish.

The next day, as they were crossing the border of Arizona into New Mexico, Guóshèng saw a familiar black and white Buick behind them. He nudged Louie and pointed at the rearview mirror. Louie squinted at the reflection and lit up a cigarette.

“What in the hell do they want?” He pulled over onto the shoulder. A chubby man with a ratty mustache and a golden watch emerged from the police car, hunched over to look at them from the drivers’ side window.

“You boys coming from California?” His breath reeked of wintergreen chew.

“Yessir,” Louie said, both hands on the wheel and looking straight ahead at the red road. “My cousin and I are having a little getaway.”

The officer pulled his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose revealing intense blue eyes. “This jap is your cousin.”

Something stirred within Guóshèng, his stomach tightened and he sat up straight. “Sir, I am from Shanghai.”

“That’s my cousin, George. He’s from Shanghai. “My aunt married his pops.”

“And my aunt’s the queen.” The chubby man was losing his patience.

“Well, tell her I said hello. Anyway officer,” Louie blew out a puff of smoke. “could we make this quick? George has to get to MIT by next week and you’re putting us behind schedule.”

The officer plucked the cigarette from Louie’s mouth, threw it onto the pavement. He leaned in close; Guóshèng could see the brown mush in between in his teeth. “I know you two are runners. Give up the dope, or there will be hell to pay.”

Louie spat out a guttural snort but Guóshèng could feel icy crystals forming in his chest. He signed the cross. “God help us, we are going to prison.”

“We’re not going to prison because we got nothing to hide. See here buddy, all I’m running are my own demons.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind me searching the car.” The officer bared his stained teeth.”

“Go the fuck ahead, officer. Search away.”

The officer tore out carpeting from the backseats and cursed in frustration. Guóshèng and Louie watched on the side of the road as he did so. Then he pulled Guóshèng’s briefcase and opened to reveal various vital documents. “You some kind of commie spy, boy? What’s all this?”

Now Guóshèng felt red hot, his eyes burned and his hands began to tremble. “No sir! I am here on student visa to study at MIT. There is also immigration paperwork for my wife and her daughter. Please, do not tamper with it!”

Louie stepped in front of the officer, laying a big hand on the man’s chest. “You’ve followed us from California, you’re way out of your jurisdiction. I was a Marine, I saw the planes fly over O’ahu and lost friends there. In other words, I’ve been around and I know your type. How’s about you turn your happy ass around and we go our separate ways?”

The officer spat his chew onto the ground, returned to his vehicle grumbling and sped off in the direction he came from. Guóshèng let out a sigh and leaned back in the ford.

“So what’s your wife’s name?” Louie asked after they had been driving again for a few hours.

“She is not my wife. Not yet.” Guóshèng looked down at what was left of the upholstery and swallowed.

“Will you get married when she gets here?”

“If she gets here.” Guóshèng looked back up, watched the brilliant, bright lines of the road pass by one after the other. “Then yes, I think that we will.”

That night they stopped in Amarillo, Texas. It was a nothing town, meant only to be a place on the way to other places. The land was flat, flatter than anywhere Guóshèng had seen before. They stopped to eat at what Louie called an “authentic Texan steakhouse.” To his relief, Louie made the order for the both of them and the food was excellent, the beef seared to perfection. Louie slid a bottle of A.1. sauce to him and said it would make it taste even better. Guóshèng enjoyed the quiet atmosphere of the establishment; there were not many patrons and they received only a few incredulous stares.

“You asked me about it, so I will ask you,” Guóshèng said as he shook more A.1. onto his steak. “What is your wife’s name?”

“Sybil,” Louie said, sawing at his chuck. “And she wasn’t my wife. I proposed twice and she refused me both times. I was so confused about it for years, but she left a few months ago. Took our son to live with her pops in San Francisco so she could go off to Paris to study fashion or something. So I guess it all makes sense looking back.”

“I see.”

“I know how you feel, Guóshèng. Being separated from your family and all.”

“My betrothed is Chen ài měi, though she wants to change her name to Amy Zhang-Chen when we are married here in America. She plays the pianoforte and is very skilled.” Guóshèng produced a photo from his wallet, passed it to Louie. “I come here to find prosperity for us, Louie. She has put everything at risk by choosing me over her former husband. In China, she fights for custody of her daughter.” Guóshèng narrowed his haze, looked Louie in the eyes. “This is why I need to get to MIT. I must be worthy of her hardship.”

When they were driving through Oklahoma, Guóshèng noticed that when Louie ran out of cigarettes he did not stop to buy more, opting instead for breath mints and less conversation. In Missouri they could not find a motor inn and had to sleep cramped in the Ford on the side of a forested rural road. Louie joked that he was afraid he would hit a man named Tom Sawyer on the dark roads, but the humor was lost on Guóshèng so just smiled and nodded as he often did when Americans said strange things.

The next night, they stopped early at a hostel twenty minutes from Indianapolis. The room had a yellow tinge, the stench of stale smoke stained the air and put a bad taste at the back of Guóshèng's throat. It was reminiscent of his father’s little hut around the time he died. Louie sat on a recliner, the leather dry and cracked, looking at the photo he kept pinned in his car by lamplight.

“If I could take it all back, do it different… After the war I just got so fucking angry. She couldn’t take it anymore, I guess. She gave me ten years, and I blew it to pieces.” Tears rolled down Louie’s cheeks. The look on his face was the same one Guóshèng’s father had on his deathbed, when he had apologized for the first and last time. “You talk about being a worthy man. I wonder why that never occurred to me.”

Guóshèng lost track of the days and endless black paths that spider-webbed their way through the countryside. He forgot about the identical diners and the fueling stations but he did not forget the quiet conversations he and Louie had in the interim. Then they were in Boston, parked outside of the student housing complex. Somehow, they were a day early.

“I told you I’d get you here on time,” Louie’s tone was somber.

“Thank you, Louie. I do not know how I will repay you. I will be sure to write,” Guóshèng said and a bit of guilt fell over him. He worried about his friend arriving at an empty home.

“No, thank you.” Louie ran a hand through his hair, scratched at the overgrowth on his neck, “I needed to prove to myself I could actually do something good for someone else.”

“You can keep doing good, Louie. You are a good man.” Guóshèng put out his hand and Louie grasped it.

Louie smiled, but did not say anything as he turned back towards his car. Guóshèng waved as he drove away then turned to face the freshly painted green door. He took a deep breath and walked in the building.