The Place of Wind and Ghosts

Back in my days working for the local cinema chain, there was a Chinese restaurant tucked into the same shopping center as our second run/sub-run theater. Though located in an otherwise respectable part of town, the strip mall had gained infamy as a place best avoided at night. Near as I can tell, it picked up that reputation after a couple of WWF wrestlers got jumped in the mid-90s. The shopping center has since undergone extensive urban renewal, but that's neither here nor there.

Owing to its close location, the Chinese place became a favorite lunch spot for the theater employees, myself included. Their egg rolls were especially delectable. When his son came of age for his first job, the restaurant owner sent him to work for our cinema chain. Contra Asian stereotypes, the kid outweighed and towered over me despite his relative youth. He loved Star Wars, as everyone was starting to do again, and we became fast friends.

One early autumn night on the closing shift, when darkness, drizzle, and thick fog were keeping the customers away, the restaurant owner's son told me this story.

Years before he opened his restaurant, my friend's father--whom we'll call Mr. Lee--left his native China for America in order to pursue his education. He attended culinary school and worked tirelessly to become a professional chef. Having established himself in his profession, the time came for him to marry. At the urging of his family, Mr. Lee returned to the motherland to find a suitable wife.

Of Mr. Lee's travels in China, only the last enters into this tale. He had won the hand of an eligible young lady and was set to return with her to the United States. On the eve of his departure, some old friends with whom he'd reconnected threw him an engagement celebration in the city from which he was to depart--Hong Kong.

Drive any thought of crystal towers awash in LED light from your mind. This was before the Handover from Great Britain to China; before the glittering skyline and international banking money. It was still the Hong Kong of the Shaw Bros. and the dime rack spy novels, if such a place ever existed.

Mr. Lee's bachelor party consisted of a truly epic pub crawl by any reasonable standard. The festivities began in the brighter, more touristy parts of the waterfront. As the evening progressed, the band of old school friends delved deeper into the dim, noisome bowels of the island's winding streets.

Sometime after midnight, Mr. Lee found himself in a hole-in-the wall dive bar crammed into a block bounded by streets scarcely able to accommodate a single car. Nature called--unsurprising, considering the quantity of libations consumed--and Mr. Lee slouched away from the handful of friends who remained in his party.

The search for a men's room led Mr. Lee to a locked door behind which someone was being loudly ill. Necessity drove him through a much stouter door at the end of the hall whose deadbolt he had to unlock to exit.

Mr. Lee found himself standing in the Platonic ideal of a Hong Kong back alley. The oppressive air swallowed all sounds of drunken revelry from the bar behind him. A melange of cabbage, stagnant water, and vomit assailed his nose. Walls dotted with dark windows rose up to a narrow strip of sky half-covered with tattered clouds.

Seeking as much privacy as possible, Mr. Lee ambled over to a collection of garbage bins clustered at the dead end a few yards to his left. There he unzipped his pants and got down to his urgent business.

A low, forlorn groan from the shadows before him brought a sudden and involuntary stop to the waterworks.

Mr. Lee hastily zipped up and loudly asked who was there. Only a doleful sigh answered.

Concluding that someone nearby needed help, Mr. Lee made a search of the immediate area. Even for a man in his state of inebriation, the task presented little difficulty. Aside from himself, a dozen or so garbage cans, and random heaps of detritus, the alley proved empty.

In his puzzlement, Mr. Lee wondered if the mournful voice hadn't come from one of the windows facing the alley. But no, the sounds' point of origin had definitely been right in front of him--close enough, in fact, to piss on.

A voice called out Mr. Lee's name, nearly startling him into emptying the rest of his bladder's contents into his pants. The voice, it turned out, belonged to one of his friends, who'd ventured into the alley in search of him.

When asked where he'd been, Mr. Lee related the preceding events to his friend. The local man paled and fell quiet, except to insist that the two of them return inside.

After fully relieving himself in the now vacant restroom, Mr. Lee met back up with his friend, who'd waited for him in the hallway. He pulled Mr. Lee to one side and in hushed tones, issued a dire warning.

"That was a ghost you ran into out there," said the friend.

Mr. Lee hadn't the sobriety or the patience to hide his incredulity. "A ghost?"

"Yeah, this part of town's full of them. You just pissed on one."

His years of study in the West hadn't blotted out the ancient traditions Mr. Lee had eaten, breathed, and lived in his youth. Raised in a Confucian household, he knew the misfortunes that could befall a man for disrespecting the dead.

Though he and his fiancée had an early flight, Mr. Lee rose still earlier to make a formal offering as expiation for his transgression. He then returned to the US, started a family, and in time opened a restaurant of his own.

We may take this to mean that the ghosts of Hong Kong can be most forgiving.

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