Another Beer Please - 2nd Person Point of View

Your work colleagues manage to coax you into buying another beer. “You deserve it, Deputy General Manager Cao,” they tell you. You’re working hard to win this overseas project. You politely decline and they switch gears. Of course you should not waste your money. Save it. You will need it. They all think that you were transferred into their company as punishment. Rich boy is falling from grace. You want to laugh at this, double over and roll on the floor. You are Chief's favorite. You are only there to save their crumbling company.

You buy a round of beers for them, two extra for yourself. A third of you knows that is what they wanted. Another third doesn’t care. And the last third is too drunk to register anything.

It’s raining heavily by the time you stumble from the bar, past the baggage claim, and to the entrance. You finish the last beer and slam-dunk it into the trash bin, passing through the mud splattered sliding doors. You’re wet within seconds, water seeping through your briefcase. There is one cab left, all the way in the back. You make a run for it, open the back door, and slide in at the same time as a much too bright woman.

“I got here first,” you say as you spread the contents of your briefcase in front of you, inspecting the paper carefully for any signs of damage. You’ll have to get another one. Waterproof this time. You make a mental note not to use anything your co-workers give you.

The woman hasn’t left. She’s taking off her yellow raincoat, combing her fingers through her dyed red hair. It’s the cheap kind of the dye that you buy from a generic salon. You know because your ex-girlfriend used to buy the same kind. Underneath her big jacket, she wears a polka dot blouse and red jeans. Too bright. You are tempted to shield your eyes.

“Excuse me, Miss, but this cab is claimed,” you kindly remind her, your voice softer than anyone has ever heard it. You don’t want to offend her. On the inside, you’re quite nice. No one ever sees it though. In the business world, there is no room for nice. “I am going to be late for an important meeting.”

“Where is this meeting?” Her voice is a little deeper than you expect, but not bad. Just...different. You kind of like it.

You want to tell her to get out, that you don’t have time for this, but you answer her question. “Madison Hotel.” There’s a little knife digging into your chest. There’s no meeting. You just want to go to your room and get some rest. For the first time, you feel guilty. No, you tell yourself. Businessmen don’t feel this way.

“Perfect!” She beams at you, a sweet smile spreading her lips thin. She tells the driver to go and after looking back at you wearily, he does. You are about to question her, but she explains before the words even form in your mind. “I’m staying there as well! My name is Lola Simons.” She extends her pink nailed hand out to you.

Cautiously, you take her hand, give it a light shake. Are you afraid of hurting her? You stack your papers back into your briefcase; don’t even look at her when you introduce yourself. “Cao Xu Lao.”

“Zow...Shoun Low...” Her tongue crushes your name, smashes it against the roof of her mouth. It’s an ugly sound that leaves her mouth. She repeats it and you cringe. “Zhow Shoon Law.” You tell her again, slowly this time. You don’t want her to slaughter your name any more than she already has. “Ts’ao Shun Lao. A pleasure to meet you Mr. Lao!”

“Cao.” She stares at you, confusion clouding her eyes. “Mr. Cao. My last name is Cao.” Irritation is tugging the corners of your mouth into a hard frown. You sit back in your seat, glance out the window every few seconds, hope that the hotel is around the corner.

She shuffles, folds her piano hands in her lap, her blazing pink heels tapping to a song only she could hear. “Where are you from, Mr. Cao?”

“Hong Kong. Raised in Shanghai.”

She glances over at you with dreamy eyes, the kind fans get when gazing upon celebrities. “What do you do, Mr. Cao?”

You hesitate, shift your weight. “Baosteel’s Deputy General Manager.” You don’t give too many details. Your personal life is private, your business even more so.

She’s facing you now, on leg propped up on the seat. You’re glad that she’s not wearing a skirt. “You must be really important Mr. Cao! I bet you’ve traveled the world! What brings you to this small town?” You’re about to answer her with something generic, but she cuts you off. “Business! Oh, right, of course business! You have a meeting to go to. Can you tell me what that meeting is about? No! Of course you can’t! Of course! Silly me, asking these questions.”  She’s closer now, knee pressed your briefcase. “Are you married, Mr. Cao? Any kids?”

“No kids, no wife,” you tell her as the driver parks in front of the hotel. Madison Hotel isn’t so bad, even with it’s pink brick and tattered red carpet. You’ve been in much worse. The rain has died down and you are out of the taxi in seconds.

Lola lingers, taking her time bundling up again. She pulls something out of her purse, leaves it on the truck of the taxi, and walks inside without a word. It’s a business card. You pick it up, examine it. It’s not hers, but something is written on the back. 4th floor.

“No kids, no wife,” you repeat as you follow Lola into the hotel.  

Your work colleagues manage to coax you into buying another beer. A year later, you fall for the same trick, or maybe you just can’t be bothered to take the energy to deny them. Your mind wanders, trapped in a foggy past. You watch the rain drip lazily out the window; follow a drop race down the glass. Your Seiko watch ticks in a steady beat in tune with your heart. It takes a few minutes for you to stumble from the bar and out the sliding doors.

A beat up Volkswagen honks its horn and you’re almost certain that you ran out into the street and were about to get run over. That is only a hallucination. Your feet are planted firmly on the sidewalk. The yellow line of taxis start to disappear into the rain. You rub your eyes, tighten your grip around the leather handle of your new briefcase, and shuffle down the walk, heading for the last taxi.

There’s someone waiting for you.

You’d never thought you’d see her again. Lola Simmons in her bright yellow raincoat and polka dot shirts. She smiles as if she’s been waiting for you this whole time, sitting in that spot for a year. You don’t know what to say to her. You lower yourself into the seat farthest from her, drum your fingers on the top of your briefcase.

“Madison Hotel,” she tells the cab driver without consulting you. She props her legs up on the seat, the heels of her pink stilettos pressing lightly against your thigh. She smiles again, warm and inviting. “It’s been a while, Mr. Zhao. How’s work?”

You are surprised at how calm and relaxed she is, like nothing ever happened between the two of you. Maybe this was all an act and she actually felt as awkward as you did. If so, she is good at hiding it. You could never be a woman, you thought as you push your chopped short hair out of your eyes. They hold too many secrets, tell too many lies.

“Work is fine, Ms. Simmons,” you answer, matching her tone, a charming smile tugging at your lips. “And you, Ms. Simmons?”

“Perfect, Mr. Cao. Perfect.”

You almost laugh at the formal conversation going on between you. Yes, you are strangers in one way and in another, you know each other very well. You cross your ankle across your knee and fix your eyes on her. She was a stranger you wouldn’t mind getting to know.

Your work colleagues manage to coax you into buying another beer.

Lola tells you that she works with little children at a daycare. Her favorite is a dwarf of a boy named Jack. He brings her apples everyday and, although he’s the smallest, tries to keep everyone in check. Jack gets into many scuffles with Ralph, a meaty five year old with fists the size of three meatballs. She has to break them apart at least twice a day.

You learn that she’s from a small country out west where you can cradle the biggest city in your palms. There’s not much to do out there, but she liked it anyways. “It’s different from here, quieter, more peaceful. Sometimes I’d like to be able to look up and wish on a star. Don’t you?” You never really think about stars and you can’t remember the last time you saw one. You tell her this and she lifts an eyebrow. “You’re missing out, Cao. Star gazing enlightens the soul.”

Sometimes the taxi driver chimes in. He’s an old friend of her father’s. He tells you how she used to eat all the strawberry chunks in her yogurt before devouring the rest.  How she’d trick her mother into thinking that she was practicing piano by tucking a small book between the music sheets. How she was scared of going down the stairs after seeing her clumsy pug take a tumble.

When she questions your past, worry clouds your mind. You’re afraid of boring her. You are nowhere near as interesting as her. What are you supposed to say? You were born in Hong Kong twenty-nine years ago. Your parents moved to Shanghai when you were three. They wanted you to become a businessman, so you studied.  They wanted you to make something of yourself, so you did. Your versions of Jack and Ralph are two older men that steal each other’s lunch at the office.

She gives your knee a reassuring pat. “What’s Shanghai like?”

Your work colleagues manage to coax you into buying another beer.

You want to marry her, you think. She interests you in a way you never thought possible. There’s a ring in your pocket, bought as Tiffany & Co’s earlier this morning. You aren’t moving too fast, are you? It’s been six years, but you’ve been drunk every time you see her.

“Ms. Simmons, I--”

You notice the wedding band on her finger, catching the flashing lights of the street lamps passing by quickly. Your jaw snaps shut, teeth grinding, trimmed nails digging into the worn leather of your briefcase. Has it always been there?

She notices you staring and the smile disappears. She tries to explain as you order the driver to pull over. She loves her husband, but he abuses her. She didn’t think this was serious. She just wants a one day escape where she’s treated right. She can’t leave Charlie. They have two kids, Jack and Ralph. You slam the door shut and bang your fist on the top of the taxi, telling it to go.

You stand at the side of the road even after the taxi was barely a speck in the distance. You haven’t gone far from the airport. You button your suit coat and brush dust from your pants before heading back. There’s nothing going through your mind. You know you should feel something, but you don’t.

Your co-workers are still at the bar. You sit down in a stool and order a beer. They ask questions, but soon you’re too far-gone to say anything. Not that you would if you were sober. There is a hotel across the street. Not as nice as Madison, but it will do. You’ve learned not to be so picky. A semi-friend of yours has to carry you to bed.

Your work colleagues manage to coax you into buying another beer. She’s sitting in the taxi.  You have one of the employees pick you up from the airport and drive you over to meeting. Your flight back home is in a few hours.

You know you’re supposed to feel something.

But you don’t.