A Rainy Day
It was raining heavily when I took subway to meet James for my first part time job. It was windy and chilly as well. I only wore a pair of sandals and jean shorts and thin sweater. The sloping rain wetted my sweater soon after I got out of
the subway and walked along the European-styled busy roads with James.
He was as talkative as the first time when he invited me to the pizza restaurant
. He told me he had come to live in Shanghai some one year. He said it took him
for a while to like this bustling metropolis. I wondered how he got through the
first stage without friends and with language barrier. He said he had to get up
that morning damn early to teach kids around the Railway Station. It was rainingin the morning as well. He said he hated the rainy days. He hated wearing dank,
slimy pants in the rain.
We walked a long way together. I tried to remember some distinct buildings. I hated going outside alone on the busy roads. It was nettling to walk with damp clothes and slippery saddles. The unavoidable puddles on the bumpy roads accompanied along. I had to tread in so as to pass them. I liked leaning on futon with soft cover on, let warmth come through the whole body. I liked the cozy touch thecover left on my fingertips. I wondered when the rain would stop.
James talked nonstop along the way with an easy-going tone. He said I would facilitate a great deal what he was doing for the moment. He was taking Mandarin course now. He might wait for a while. Time whooshed along notwithstanding. He wondered if I could give him a hand, help him deal with stuff he couldn’t handle alone. I didn’t know why he had to be so nice. I was paid to assist him. I wish people were all nice to one another like him. Was he as nice to others as well?
I remembered my last part time job. The woman treated me as nicely as she could.
I remembered to ride my bicycle along the road. I smelled the fragrance of spring. The flowers bloomed furiously along the two sides of the road. The river flowed mellowly and twinkled under the rays of sun. I wondered if and when I couldforget the road and my student. He grew swiftly during the four yeas I tutored
him. He must be nearly my height now. Once he was only my neck height.
James talked to me under his umbrella on the sidewalk. He told me what my duty was this time. Turning around the corner, he pointed to me his place on the nineteenth floor. The elevator was dank, dark, and made echoing noise. I followed himto the gate. His roommate scared me. I was working on his laptop. There was not
much to do. I didn’t feel very good when the time was due. I didn’t get everything done. My body grew stiff. My sandals became sticky. My heart felt heavy and
moody, if it could feel heavy and moody.
I wasn’t sure the way coming back. All the dissimilar buildings looked alike now. Standing at the crossway, I only remembered the muddy puddles. I stumbled intothem. My feet became cold afterwards. I became hungry. I wish I had some to whet my apetite. The continuous rain had blurred the outlook of roads, made one differ none from another. I wondered next time if I would get lost again. I was always bad at recognizing roads. I wondered maybe I should carry a compass along
next time.
P.S.: I am reading A Portrait of The Artist as a Yong Man, by James Joyce. It
took me a while to get used to and like it. The writer was well-known by his writing style, which belongs to the school of stream of consciousness. Writings of
the style usually tell a story by the flowing of the mind, instead of spatial
or chronological order. I thought I might have an experiment with it. Maybe it
was too clumsy and far lacked of dexterity.
