The Kindness of Strangers

The following short story first appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

I’m walking to the door of my apartment building. Moving quickly, and leaning into the February wind as it bare-teeth howls its way down the Albany streets. I’m carrying two plastic shopping bags full of weekend groceries, and although I’ve only just gotten out of the car, my fingers are already numb.

As I step into the doorway of my building, I see a man standing at the street corner. He is hunched over, arms wrapped around himself, staring at the ground. I watch him for almost a minute. He doesn’t move, other than to tremble from the cold.

Then, on impulse, I walk over to him. “Do you need any help?” I ask.

He looks up, eyes unfocused, blinking.

“You’re just standing there. Is there anything I can do to help?” This is awkward, but I wait for his answer.

“Got any money?” the man asks.

I reach in my pocket, feel some cash and pull out two twenties. I hesitate; I didn’t plan on giving him that much. But his posture seems familiar, and suddenly I see the profile of another man; one who I last saw almost twenty years ago. As I hand over the cash, I wonder if it is as much restitution as generosity.

“Thanks, dude,” the man says, and shuffles away.

Better late than never, I think.

***

1987

We had been on the plane for nine hours and had nine more to go before we’d arrive in Tokyo. Refuel, then on to Hong Kong. From there, find our way to Beijing. Me, Kristine and Lori.

None of us could speak Chinese. I was a business major at SUNY Albany, ready to graduate the following semester. But the year before I had broken up with a longtime girlfriend, Georgia—“broken up” as in she dumped me, for reasons that aren’t relevant and would not reflect well upon my character— and in a fit of college-boy despair I had decided to spend the fall of my senior year in China, full of romantic notions of forgetting her while seeing the world.

I had no idea what I was getting into. My family thought I was nuts. “Is it safe there, Jesse?” my mother would ask, never satisfied with an affirmative answer, despite such answer being given any number of times by any number of people. Since the actual trip was a year off when I had committed to going, I soon forgot about it and continued bumpily along through the rest of the school year and following summer, chasing Georgia to no avail until late August when she threw me out of a party at her house. It was her birthday party and I was not invited, so it was understandable. And that, as they say, was It.

Then came September, and all of a sudden I was on a plane and not coming back for four months. Up to that point, China was about as real as Mars; it wasn’t as if I’d always dreamed of going there or even thought much about it. All I knew was that it was big. It was far away.

As for my traveling companions, I sort of knew Kristine; she used to date a buddy of mine. She was a native of Long Island, with an older sister who worked for MTV. Long, curly blonde hair and a great, if artificially enhanced, tan. Just-shy-of-spectacular body, and a wearer of white boots and jeans.

Lori was from SUNY Plattsburgh and she was short, I mean really short, 5’1” or something. She was skinny, with a dark complexion and straight black hair. She came from Jamestown, and it didn’t seem that there was much money out in those parts, not to put too fine a point on it. She was nice enough, but a little uptight. During the flight she kept wanting to plan things to do and see while in Hong Kong. “It’s our first exposure to another culture,” she would say, “and I think we should make the most of it.”

Finally Kristine turned to me and said, “Actually, Jimmy Brett—remember him, he bartends at the Hill Street Cafe? He told me to check out this place called ‘Paradise Found’. It’s supposed to have Mai Tai specials all day long. Cheesy karaoke too.”

“Cool,” I said.

Lori got the point and kept to herself after that.

We arrived before the serious jitters set in and I found myself wandering around the humid streets of Hong Kong, marveling at how strange everything was. It was similar to New York or any other western city: tall buildings, people in suits and sunglasses, McDonald’s, cars zipping smartly about, the clash of smells and sounds. But the people in the suits were Asian, English was spoken only in scattered pockets between the rolling clips of Cantonese, the buildings were more colorful, and half the signs were in Mandarin. Nicely surreal, actually, if you got a whiskey buzz before wandering around.

It took us a day to figure out the best way to Beijing, about 1,100 miles north. We could fly, but Lori hinted—several times—that it was too expensive. I figured she should have thought of that before she signed up, but kept it to myself. A ship would take too long, and no one was up for renting a car and driving, if that was even possible. So we decided on the train. It would require an hour’s scenic boat ride up the Pearl River to Guangzhou, on the other side of the border. From there, all we had to do was find the train station and we’d be off.

Guangzhou was a mildly unpleasant surprise. I’d assumed that like Hong Kong, the city would be … modern. The difference was immediate. We got off the boat and walked boldly through customs, a shabby, lime green concrete structure with bored guards in military uniforms manning wooden tables, stamping our passports with careless thumps followed by brisk gestures to keep moving. No smiles or “welcome to China.” No a/c, no fluorescent lights, no coffee shop, magazine shop, bar, gift shop or long, soft couches on which to recover one’s reserves after a long night of Heinekens in a garish H.K. karaoke bar. There was only the open door through which the flies buzzed about, leading to the dusty street outside.

Walking over the cracked pavement, we quickly learned to stay well clear of the road, as the drivers seemed to consider traffic rules as polite but completely discretionary suggestions. Lori almost got nailed, stepping out to cross the street on a red light, jumping back just in time when she realized that the driver of a small truck that was overloaded with cabbage had no intention of letting a mechanical device dictate his behavior. Communist Party or no, the Chinese had fully embraced a chaotic form of automotive democracy entitling each to his or her own set of road-safety values.

It was also clear that the cool folks all lived in H.K., as the denizens of the Guangzhou streets all seemed to adopt a fashion best described as “Socialist Drab” in terms of style. Lots of nylon, bad sunglasses, all sandals.

There were no signs for any train station. At least none in English. We had just assumed that there’d be a clearly marked tram or bus or walkway that would lead us to the station and all would be hunky-dory in minutes. A half-hour’s worth of trudging around the back streets of Guangzhou unburdened us of such notion, and Lori was getting seriously cranky about not being able to find a Coke machine. “I know they have fucking Coke; it was all over the news when they allowed them in a few years ago, remember? Maybe there’s some inside here,” she said, and she ran into some sort of commercial establishment, its nature not clear other than a hand-painted, battered wooden sign leaning against the flaking wall by the door. She soon came back out, looking scared.

It wasn’t the contents of the store that scared her, “cooking stuff, I think,” she muttered, but the fact that indeed, she might be so far from home that there was no Coca-Cola available. I thought she was going to cry, and Kristine and I walked silently ahead to give her some space.

I was getting worried, too. It was a ridiculous problem but we just couldn’t find the station, nor could we find anyone to ask; our several attempts causing no small amount of confusion. One person we seemed to have somehow offended, as he sputtered indignantly and stomped away. Eventually I settled on the idea of sticking two fingers on one hand out like a horizontal peace sign and running the other hand over them while saying, “choo-choo, choo-choo.” When my little performance was over, I’d put a hand over my eyes and pretend to scan the horizon, then hope that the befuddled stranger we’d accosted had understood.

We hit pay dirt on the second try, the woman instantly aware of our dilemma, and in a burst of enthusiasm gave us detailed directions to the train station.

It was all in Chinese, of course.

I was starting to wonder if it was too late to catch a boat back to Hong Kong, when a Chinese gentleman walked up to us. He was young, in his late twenties, wearing cargo pants, sneakers and a green jacket with a Kinks T-shirt underneath. He had a black fisherman’s cap with a red communist star affixed to the front above the brim, and round, gold-framed glasses, like John Lennon’s. A bit shorter than me, with thick, black hair. I started in again with the whole “choo-choo” thing when he held up a hand.

“Yeah, I know. Follow me,” he said with a slight British accent, and started walking.

We looked at each other and hurried after him. He was laughing when we caught up. “I saw you talking to that lady over there. Good idea, but you have to be able to understand the directions!”

“Well, glad you came along, we were just about out of ideas,” Kristine said. “I was thinking we might have to go back.”

“So was I,” said Lori, in a tone that suggested it was still a viable plan to her.

“Can’t go back now, the last boat left half an hour ago. Where are you going, anyway?” he asked.

“Beijing,” we answered in unison.

“Well, so am I. What for?”

“School,” Kristine replied, “We’re there for the semester.”

He smiled. “And again, so am I. Which school?”

I pulled out one of the several slips of paper the folks at Albany had given me. It was covered with Chinese characters, and apparently identified me as a student trying to get to Beijing; offered the name of the school and its address; and listed my allergies and contact information should something go awry.

He studied the paper. “Shifan Xueuan. That’s Beijing Teacher’s College. I thought it would be Beijing University; that’s where they usually put the foreigners.”

“Is it a good school?” Lori asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, if you want to be a teacher, you could go there, but there are a lot of schools like that. I’ve heard of it. It’s small, that’s all I know.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Beijing University. To study electrical engineering.”

“Where are you from?” Kristine asked.

“Hong Kong. And my name is Peter Li.” He stuck out his hand first to Kristine, and then shook all our hands as we introduced ourselves.

“Your English is so good,” Lori said, “I thought you were from the US.”

“We speak English in Hong Kong too,” he said. “My father worked for the British consulate, so he had to speak it.”

“What did he do?” Lori asked, “Was he an ambassador or something?”

Peter smiled and said, “He cleaned the offices.”

As we approached the train station, Peter said, “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ll do the talking. They’ll take advantage of you, try to put you in an overpriced, first class cabin.” He paused. “I’m assuming you don’t want that. I mean, if that’s fine with—”

“No, no, please, whatever you recommend,” Lori broke in.

I sighed. I had loads of cash and liked the phrase, “first class.” But I just shut up and nodded.

“Well then,” Peter said, “second class it is. Each cabin has four bunks, so you might end up sharing with someone. But it’ll be clean and much cheaper.”

“OK,” I said, “sounds like a plan.”

“Right, “he said, “Ah, if you each give me…”

He turned to look at the sign above the line of teller windows. “Give me 70 yuan each, I’ll get your tickets.”

Suddenly I was a little concerned about giving him the money. It would have been the perfect scam to play on a bunch of fool American college kids. I could tell Kristine was thinking the same thing by the look on her face. Lori seemed as happy as could be.

Peter must have picked up on our thoughts; he looked embarrassed and kept his eyes down. Not at all the sort of behavior I’d expect from a guy who was going to rip me off—I’ve had it happen, and they are much more cheerful—and I felt guilty for suspecting him as I handed over my cash.

Peter was walking to the nearest window when Lori called out, “Why aren’t you going to take the fourth bunk?”

He stopped and turned. “I need to save my money; I’m taking 3rd class.” Then he grinned. “It’s all right; I will have friends in high places.”

***

“God, it’s hot,” Lori said, for the fifth or sixth time. She was sitting on the bunk opposite Kristine and me. In Hong Kong we went from air-conditioned hotel rooms to air-conditioned bars, via air-conditioned cabs. I had assumed the Chinese would resist the raging heat with the same technological vigor. By providing air-conditioned trains, for example.

I learned that they just sweat.

We were all staring out the window as the train lurched its way down the tracks, drinking the beer that Peter had recommended. “Chinese beer is very cheap,” Peter told us. “You’ll like it.”

It was pretty good, and six quart-size bottles cost about $4 at the station kiosk. Our first effort at a meal was less successful. Shortly after the train started moving, a man in a uniform came by and handed us what appeared to be menus, then stood there, pen and pad in hand, smiling and nodding as we pondered the indecipherable characters smudgily printed on the rough paper. We had to choose something, and in the end randomly pointed to whatever gibberish looked like it had potential (there was a certain character that I had come to believe, based on nothing other than its interesting shape, represented moo-shoo pork).

What came back was a small piece of pickled cabbage (not bad), two bowls of very thin soup (watery), and something chicken-based, complete with bones and organs (untouched and covered up). We split the cabbage, I sipped some of the soup, and then we all sat back and stared out the window into the twilight, wondering if we could survive the three-day train ride to Beijing on just pickled cabbage.

Our contemplations were interrupted by a knock at the door of our compartment, and it slid open.

“Peter!” Lori said, “Please, come in. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, sitting down next to her. “How are you guys doing?”

We related the story of our failed dinner and he chuckled. “Yeah, you’re not going to get any American hamburgers on this ride, and certainly no menus in English. If it helps, I’d be happy to translate for you next time.”

We agreed that this was a wonderful idea, offering to buy his meals in exchange for such services.

“No, no, I just want to help, you don’t have to do that.” But we insisted and without much prodding, he agreed. I think he was relieved; I couldn’t help but notice that he only carried a small black nylon duffel bag containing his belongings for a semester. Altogether, the three of us had eight or nine bags, all of them larger, better quality and representing a sacrifice of the possessions that didn’t fit.

“Why don’t you just stay here, Peter? No one else took the forth bunk. We don’t mind, really,” Kristine said.

“You don’t understand. You are strangers, they don’t get many meiguorens—Americans—on the train here. They’ll be checking on you just out of curiosity, and they’ll certainly look at my ticket. If I’m found sleeping here, they’ll throw me off the train.”

And so it was agreed that for the rest of the trip Peter would remain with us during the day and sleep in his 3rd class car at night.

It worked out great. At meal times, he would read from the menu, offer recommendations, and order for us. The food was O.K., sufficient at least to stave off hunger until we rolled into Beijing Station.

The second night, after Kristine and Lori had dozed off, I got out of bed and headed to where Peter said his car was located. I went through two second-class cars like ours, staggering with the roll of the train as I made my way down the aisle, passing couples and families who were stretched out on bunks, reading books, idly smoking or just watching the countryside go by. I passed between cars for the third time, wincing at the roar from the tracks below, and opened the door to the third-class car.

It was dark, lit only by a few bare bulbs affixed along one wall of the car. Wooden benches with low backs lined either side of the center aisle, people packed four or five deep on each bench. About half were sleeping, slumped against their neighbor with their belongings sitting between their legs, covered by a protective hand. It was very hot; everyone was sweating, and I felt instantly awash in my fellow traveler’s fluids.

Most of the other half seemed to be drinking; copious amounts of beer flowed into throats, onto shirts, the floor, the pant legs of slumbering neighbors. All of them were smoking. Aggressively so, sucking hard on their cigarettes, creating a dense cloud that the open windows could do little to dispel. Although everyone was trying to be quiet, their joint effort at hushed conversation created a din that complemented the mechanical clanking of the train’s wheels on the tracks.

I didn’t see any other foreigners. A couple of guys smiled and said something to me, I could only grin and nod back. Someone handed me a beer, and I smiled even broader and thanked him, causing much mirth among his friends. Sipping the warm beer I scanned the faces for Peter, eventually finding him in the back, facing me, head resting on the shoulder of an elderly man who was calmly smoking a cigarette and staring back at me. Peter’s mouth was open and he coughed in his sleep, hunching over and hacking audibly before returning to his original position.

I raised my bottle to the guys who had given it to me, offering a bad “zai jian”—goodbye. They tried to get me to stay, gesturing for me to join them. But I didn’t want Peter to know that I’d seen him; it seemed too intimate a view of our discrepancy of lodgings. I returned to our compartment where the girls were sleeping and watched the fields go by in the moonlight.

***

It was early afternoon and raining when we neared Beijing. We were watching the flat fields slowly give way to small brick houses held together with crumbling mortar, and soon the dirt roads became paved, the houses replaced by two and three story cement apartments.

Suddenly, the train lurched to a halt and Lori asked, “Are we there yet?”

“I don’t think so,” said Peter. “We’re still on the outskirts.”

I sat back and cracked a beer. Peter rejected my offer for one, as he had throughout our trip, instead taking occasional sips of tea from a red flask that seemed to last him an entire day. The girls gave me a look, suddenly all prim, but after an hour of sitting there they had begun to drink too.

We got into a discussion of our favorite bands—Peter was very knowledgeable about western music, pulling a Replacements reference out of nowhere—and we were arguing about whether hair metal had any merit when suddenly a woman in a blue uniform appeared in front of us. She was small, with flecks of grey in her black hair, but carried an air of martial authority as she glanced at us. In a sharp tone, she said something to Peter. He replied softly, gesturing at us, but she shook her head and repeated whatever it was, only louder. Peter stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “I can’t stay here. I don’t have a second class ticket.”

“But we’re your friends. It’s not like you’re sleeping here or anything,” Lori said.

“I know, but you don’t understand—” he was cut off by the woman’s repeated demand, and she took a step into the cabin to tug at Peter’s sleeve.

“No, wait!” Kristine said.

Lori was nodding her head and pointing at Peter, repeating, “It’s OK, it’s OK.”

But the woman only smiled at us—a sudden and truly wonderful smile, a “welcome-to-our-city” smile if I ever saw one, and for a moment I thought everything was going to be all right. Until she turned and barked even louder at Peter.

Peter stood up. “OK, I have to go. Sorry.” He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I’ll see you guys when we get off.”

“But why now? You’ve been here the whole trip! We’re getting off soon, what’s the difference?” Lori asked, but he was already gone, escorted down the aisle by the woman.

The train sat for another two hours, then began to crawl ahead, arriving at the station just before midnight. I was regretting the beer, by this time I’d had more than a few and was a little tired. I couldn’t remember where I’d put the directions to the school, and was wondering how we were going to get there anyway.

“Where’s Peter?” Lori asked as we carried our belongings off the train and onto the platform. “We don’t have his address or number or anything. I thought he’d catch up to us.”

“I did,” a tired voice said, and there he was behind us, carrying the small duffle, looking as if he’d spent the intervening hours sleeping underneath the train. His clothes were rumpled and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he was still smiling.

We explained our dilemma while walking out of the station onto the street, the crowd of fellow-travelers quickly disappearing into waiting cars or walking off into darkness as a light rain fell. Unlike every other city I’d known, Beijing was distinctly quiet at night. Few cars terrorized the roads, and there were only a handful of people riding by on bicycles, ignoring the drizzle as they pedaled by with plastic bags hanging from handlebars or boxes strapped to rear fenders.

“Didn’t your school make arrangements?” Peter asked.

“They gave us these.” Kristine pulled a note out of her backpack, handing it to him.

“It asks the reader to guide you to a cab and tell the driver to take you to Shifan Xueyuan. Not a bad idea, most people will help you out.” He looked around. “Assuming, of course that there are cabs available to take you there.”

“Well, how were you going to get to your school?” I asked.

“Walk, actually. Beijing University is only a couple of miles away.”

“Do you know where Surefan Shu … our school is?” Kristine asked.

“No,” he replied, “but that will help.” He pointed towards a large map set behind a plastic shield that was screwed into the outer wall of the station and we groggily shuffled after him.

After studying the map, he frowned and said, “It’s too far to walk. You need a cab.”

We all turned to face the empty street. “Shit,” I said.

“Wait here,” Peter said, “Let me see what I can do,” and he went inside the station.

“What would we do without him?” Lori asked. “They didn’t prepare us at all for any of this.”

I sighed. I had to go to the bathroom, and scanned the building’s exterior for sign of a men’s room. Nothing. I decided that I couldn’t wait and went inside. Peter was talking to a guard, who was shaking his head. Peter reached into his pocket and handed him money. The guard paused, then turned and walked away, heading towards the door of what appeared to be an office.

Peter saw me and came over. “A cab will be coming in a bit.”

“Yeah, thanks. Um, what do we owe you? I saw you give that guy money.”

“Oh, that’s all right Jesse,” he said.

“No really, I don’t mind, I appreciate the help.” I started snapping my fingers and tapping my foot, all jittery and anxious. I had to go bad now, and would give him whatever, after I took care of more pressing business.

“Well,” he began.

“Is there a bathroom around here?” I broke in. “I really gotta go.”

He looked around, then pointed to a doorway at the opposite side of the room. “There.”

“Thanks,” I said, and half-ran for it.

***

The cab pulled up in front of the school’s gate and a guard stepped out. There were a lot of guards in China. Not that they were necessarily needed; it was a very law abiding country. But there were so many people to provide jobs for, the government apparently decided to guard every building, park, newsstand and large tree.

Peter leaned out of the cab and said something to the man, who then turned and opened the gate, motioning us inside. I was exhausted, Kristine had nodded off and Lori was getting short-tempered, having already chastised me for lowering the window in the cab and letting in the rain.

I didn’t mind though. I had been contemplating my future with Kristine; during the last few hours on the train, she had been touching my arm and leg whenever she spoke to me, and had provided a quick back massage, promising a “much better one”—complete with a wink—when we were settled in.

We got out, hefted our luggage, then turned to the cab. “Peter, do you have an address or a number?” Lori asked.

“No,” he said, “Not yet. But I’ll stop by in a few days.”

“How will you find us? You don’t know what dorm we are in.”

Peter smiled. “It won’t be hard to find the Americans. The school officials will know where you are.”

“Peter, thanks for everything,” I said. “Ladies, I’m beat.” As I turned towards the gate, I heard Lori and Kristine say their thank you’s and good-bye’s.

Following the guard as we walked towards the nearest building, I heard Lori say out loud, “Oh! We stuck him with the cab fare.”

And a twinge; I forgot to repay him for the money he gave to the guard at the train station.

The Dean of the school had been waiting for us, and in fairly good English she offered a welcome, complete with tea and biscuits, then showed us to our rooms. We were on a floor that housed four other Americans, who were in the midst of a party when we arrived. Two girls, Annette and Jackie—cute and less cute, both dark haired, large breasts and piles of money, judging by their clothes and jewelry—were from Colgate. One guy, Ryan, was from some school in Pennsylvania (quiet and good looking to the point of competition, possible jerk). The other guy, Matt (obvious stoner) was from Bowdoin. The Dean admonished them for drinking too much and having the music too loud, although I sighed with relief when I heard The Police. I had forgotten to pack my tapes. But she soon left us to resume the party in full, if slightly muted, swing.

We told the tale of our journey; it was much longer than theirs as they had all flown directly to Beijing and were picked up by a limo.

“Sounds like you guys had a pretty cool adventure,” Matt said. “I wish I’d done it that way.”

“We were lucky,” I reminded him. “Without Peter it wouldn’t have been much fun.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So, you guys smoke? Hash is fucking cheap here!” he said as he pulled out the bong stashed under his bed.

***

The strange environment, the fact that we all were in the same classes, went on the same tours of museums, to plays, historic sites and so on, created a bond fairly quickly, and time passed even faster than the normal whoosh of youth. Kristine flirted a lot with Ryan at first, but something happened by the end of the first week and she was flirting with me again by the second week, sleeping with me by the third week. It had taken a little longer than I had thought, but she eventually stopped by for that special massage.

I hung out a lot with Matt; we shared the same tastes in music, beer and weed. With respect to the latter, while at first I couldn’t take a hit without reruns of “Midnight Express” running through my head, a few days worth dissipated any fear of official reprisal. “They don’t know what it is, I swear,” he told me one night. “They think they are American cigarettes. I told the cleaning girl they were clove, an American thing.”

It was the end of the first month and I was lying in bed on a Friday afternoon, listening to Matt’s “Making Movies” tape and staring at the ceiling. There was a knock on the door, and I thought it was Annette, who despite my obvious relationship with Kristine, was acting very friendly, often coming into my room when Kristine wasn’t around, to “chat.” Sometimes wearing only a black athletic bra and silk boxers. It was nice, and being a former Boy Scout, I didn’t discourage her. Best to be prepared in case of unexpected need.

But when I opened the door, Peter was standing in front of me. He was wearing the exact same clothes as when I’d last seen him. Clean. Just the same.

“Hello Jesse. How are you?” he asked.

“Great, great. Come on in,” I said, pointing to the bed. “Have a seat.”

He sat down, looking around at the drawings and flyers I had taped to the walls.

“You like Chinese art?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually. It’s pretty cool stuff.”

He frowned, looking at a flyer with a swan logo on it. “You like Chinese tools?” He asked.

“What?”

He pointed to the flyer. “You have an ad for a tool sale at the Chaoyang Factory. Special on wrenches.”

I laughed. “No, no, I just liked the picture of the bird.”

Lori, walking past my room, saw Peter and got Kristine and everyone else, gathering them in a semicircle around him. “This is the guy,” she said proudly, her arm around him, “The guy who saved us!” Peter grinned and looked down as she reiterated the tale of our journey north. To my slight annoyance, she left out the part about my clever imitation of a train, which I felt would’ve gotten us there sooner or later. When she finished, there were some nods, a “way to go,” then a moment of silence.

“So, who’s hungry?” Annette asked.

“Right,” said Ryan. Jackie was already walking out the door to get her coat. They had been a couple from the start, and never went anywhere without the other.

“Peter, come to dinner with us,” Lori said.

He hesitated. “I just wanted to say hello. I didn’t plan on going out.” I noticed bags under his eyes. He was smiling easily enough, but there was an air of fatigue about him.

“Partying too much?” I asked. “Hanging out with a wild crowd?”

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t have many friends here. Most of my classmates live with their parents; we don’t socialize much in school.”

“Got to get yourself a babe,” I said, receiving a swat from Kristine. “Ease your mind.”

He looked at me, his face serious. “Not here. I don’t have any money. The girls at my school don’t want to date the son of a laborer. Maybe after I get my degree and get a job. Not now.”

I was only trying to lighten the mood, but let it go.

“So. Where we gonna go? Try something local?” Matt asked.

“I’m told there’s a nice place not far from here,” Peter said.

We looked at him. “I can show you,” he said.

“Cool,” Matt said. “Lead the way, Peter my friend.”

It was a short distance, but we never would have found it on our own. Peter lead us several blocks down the street from the school, then turned into an alleyway. We walked to the end, turned right and went another few yards down a narrow street lined with tiny homes, most of them made of stacked brick, no mortar or anything. As we passed an open door I saw a single room with a bed against the far wall. There was a couple huddled over a small kerosene heater, and a child standing in front of the bed, playing with some string. It looked like they had a few things on some crude shelves, pots and pans and such, but the place was otherwise bare.

Peter turned and walked through the narrow stone doorway of a slightly larger concrete structure. Following, we entered a rather nice, vaguely western-looking restaurant. There was a bar, and tables and chairs that matched. Not that I ordinarily cared about such things, but you tend to be more observant when everything that’s usually different starts to look familiar again.

“Well,” Peter said, “I think you’ll like this. I found it a few weeks ago when I was looking for you,” and he glanced at Kristine and Lori and me, “but no one was around. I got to wandering, saw this place, and … ” He gestured to the door. “Anyway, I wasn’t planning on eating, so I think I’m going to—”

“Wait!” Lori said. “Peter, you have to join us.”

“Well … ”

“We’ll pay,” Kristine said.

He hesitated long enough to pretend that wasn’t the issue, then, “OK, if you don’t mind.”

Peter resumed his role as guide and ordered for the table. We bought round after round of Beijing beer, punctuated by several courses of what turned out to be excellent food—spicy noodles with lentils, some Mongolian hot pot beef (cooked in an ornate silver boiler that sat at the center of the table), rice with steamed vegetables in peanut sauce, dumplings and some sort of sweet yogurt-thing for dessert. And more beer. The whole deal cost us about $5 apiece, and we stumbled out several hours later, quite drunk, happy and ready to resume the party back at my room.

“Hey Peter, why don’t you come with us?” Lori asked, but Matt shushed her.

“What?” I heard her whisper. Peter was several steps ahead, apparently oblivious. “Well, you know, the weed and all,” Matt said. “What about it?” She demanded.

“Well, I don’t know him, you know? Don’t want to go looking for trouble.”

“I thought you said they think they’re clove cigarettes,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

“Yes, the folks from here think it’s clove,” he replied. “Most do, anyway,” he added, alluding to a close call with the police while riding a bus a few weeks back. “But your buddy is from Hong Kong. They know about it there.”

“No problem,” Lori said. “Don’t smoke. Peter!” She called out again, “Come with us!”

He turned around. The smile was still there, but faded, and he looked at Matt before he said, softly, “No, thank you. I have to study. Big test tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s a Saturday.”

“Yes,” he replied. “See you soon. Maybe we can go get some coffee somewhere.”

“Great idea,” Matt called over his shoulder; he was already walking away.

“Yeah, coffee,” Annette said, following Matt. Ryan and Jackie were also on their way.

I mumbled something and turned away. I should’ve hung out with him, offered to go for coffee right then, but … Kristine had been rubbing my leg between dessert and the final beer, and it had been a couple of days, at least. I was looking forward to some of Matt’s weed and quality time with Kristine.

***

Another month went by. By this time, Kristine and I weren’t getting along, which was a drag.

She was seeing this guy we had met at a hotel bar, some Aussie who worked at the embassy. But Annette and I were increasingly friendly, and I had much optimism with respect to our relationship.

I was walking around the city one afternoon, bored. My classes were a bit dry and the tests were easy, so I figured attendance was optional. Besides, I was here to “absorb the culture,” not listen to someone yap on about a series of eight hundred year old power struggles by a bunch of psychopathic horsemen.

Hands stuffed into a new leather trench coat, wraparound shades in place and grooving to some Lou Reed on Matt’s Walkman, I was looking for a coffee shop, the “Imperial Palace.” It was supposed to be a decent joint that catered to Westerners. I was told that it also provided hash for those in the know, or so Matt had heard from some guy he knew from another school. I had invited him along, but he had been absorbing the culture more than I of late, and needed to study to pass a makeup.

Suddenly, I saw Peter. He was standing outside a small shop, eating a cup of yogurt. He looked a bit thinner. Same clothes, still, but there was a stain on the pants and his jacket was wrinkled. Half the collar was twisted up; whether he didn’t notice or didn’t care I couldn’t tell.

“Hey Peter,” I called, pulling off the headphones.

He looked up, seemingly alarmed, then saw who it was and relaxed. “Jesse.”

“What’s up, guy? How are things?”

“OK,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Having a blast. How’s school?”

He paused. “I’m taking a break at the moment. My parents were supposed to send the rest of the tuition money last week, but it never came.”

“Whew! You want to give them a call, get on top of that.”

“They don’t have a telephone, Jesse,” he said. His voice was oddly quiet. “I sent them a telegram and am waiting to hear back.”

“So, what, the school won’t let you in class until you pay?”

“No. I can’t come on campus at all until I pay.”

“Yikes,” I said. “So hey, how about that cup of coffee? I buy,” I said to avoid any awkwardness. I figured he’d have to save his cash.

“That would be nice,” he said.

“OK. Ah, how about 6:00 tonight? Marriott Hotel on Xisanhuan Beilu?”

Peter hesitated. “They … discourage Chinese from going there. Foreigners only.”

“But you’re from Hong Kong … ”

“It is a distinction a bit fine for them, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re my guest. Wait. I’ll meet you out front, and we can go in together, you’ll be my guest. You gotta try it, the coffee’s great,” I said. “Best in town.”

He paused again, then said, “OK, Jesse. If you really want to.”

“Fantastic!” I said. “Gotta go.” Annette was done with class in about an hour, and I thought that perhaps we could hang out in my room for awhile. See what might develop.

“Bye, Jesse,” he said.

“See you later, dude,” and I slapped him on the shoulder. “Zijian-a!”

An hour and a half later, things had developed better than I had hoped. Annette’s demonstration of affection was nothing short of enthusiastic; seems she felt like she had to make up for lost time. All intentions of going anywhere diminished with every whack of the bed against the wall.

I woke up a little after six that evening, saw the time and said, “Shit.”

“What?” Annette asked. She was lying half on top of me. It felt great.

“I was supposed to meet Peter at the Marriot.”

“Oh,” she yawned, “your friend from the train?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Sort of now.”

“Hmmm,” and she was silent, breathing deeply almost immediately.

I should go, I thought. Throw on my sweats and get a cab. But then Annette started to caress my thigh. Turned out she wasn’t really sleepy after all.

In class the next day, I told Lori about seeing Peter and forgetting to meet him for coffee, although I left out the details as to exactly why.

“Yes Jesse, sex will do that,” she replied, and I was reminded of how small our expat community really was.

“We oughta see him some time. I don’t think things are going well for him.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Kristine ran into him last week. He’s been staying in some dollar-a-night place. She thinks it might be the basement of one of those factories that lets people sleep on their grungy floor. Isn’t that illegal? She said there’s a lot of TB spread in those places.” Lori bit her lip. “Do you think he needs help?”

I didn’t know. What were we supposed to do? Give him money? Let him stay with us? I’d have to sleep in Annette’s room, which wasn’t bad in itself, but still, there was the hassle of someone in my room. Loaning him cash wasn’t a problem per se, but I’d have to cut back on my expenses a bit if I gave him some, and I had planned some serious fun with the money I had.

“What does Kristine think?” I asked.

“She was going to go see him the other night and have a talk, but I guess her Aussie friend wanted her to go to some function with him.”

“Do you know where he is? How we can find him?”

“Kristine knows,” she said. I nodded my head, thinking that Lori would report our conversation to Kristine, who was in possession of the most useful information, and a plan would be formulated from there. Someone would get back to me with the details. I’d help where I could.

But Lori, I’m sure, assumed that I’d talk to Kristine, and that we would form the plan from there. I guess. Who knows? We had agreed that he needed help, that we were the ones to help him, and just moved on. Annette and I went to Tianjin for the weekend. Kristine and Lori did their own thing. Peter just did whatever he had to do.

***

I saw Peter only one time after that. Three couples—me and Annette, Matt and some girl from another school, Kristine and her Aussie—had rented a limo and were riding around one night, drinking the Jack Daniels that Matt’s cousin had illegally mailed from the States, hitting all the spots that we had managed to unearth over the semester. We had some regular club friends, mostly young embassy-types or kids from other schools, and we had managed to create for ourselves a nice, jet-setty little world. We were on our way to “The Great Wall,” a new jazz bar owned by a Chinese-American from Boston who was making a go of it with some relatives. It was cold, winters in Beijing are as cold as upstate New York,maybe colder. But we were fortified against the elements in our black limo, with some Grateful Dead on the stereo and the JD, balanced nicely with hits from the bong that Matt had made out of bamboo and an empty soy sauce jar.

It was about 11:00 pm, and we were at a traffic light. The wind was so strong it was causing the light to sway on the wire. I was staring out the window, nodding my head to “Playing in the Band” and zoning. Annette sat on my lap, wiggling nicely now and then, talking to Matt about the best places to visit before we went home. Matt wanted to go to Thailand; he heard that it was some sort of adult Disneyland, while Annette said she was thinking about taking the trans-Siberian railroad from Vladivostok to Moscow, look around for a bit, then home via Paris. She wasn’t very clear on how to get to Vladivostok from Beijing, but I didn’t bother to point that out. It didn’t matter, Annette was just talking. I knew she had already bought a ticket for a flight straight home from Beijing. We hadn’t discussed the issue of what we were going to do when we got back. Although we were having a good time together, I think we both wanted to keep our options open. I did, anyway.

I had been thinking a lot about my options. Option, actually. Potential option, really. Wondering if Georgia really meant it when she said she never wanted to see me again. Screamed it, to be accurate, but after sucker-punching the guy who had just given her a birthday kiss—his status as her current boyfriend notwithstanding—I had to admit it was a possibility.

Then I saw Peter at a bus stop.

The buses don’t run all night in Beijing, and he must’ve been waiting for the last one. He was alone. Same clothes, but his pants were ripped above the right knee. He had on a knit cap and a scarf, maybe a turtleneck under the dirty green jacket, but no way was he warm. Even from a distance I could see him shivering, and he hunched over to cough, practically hacking his guts out. Out of the corner of my eye I could also see Annette pulling off her sweater—the wonderful shape of those breasts forcing a full glance—and I heard her complaining about the heat. I looked back and Peter was weaving a little. I wondered if he was drunk. Then he leaned against a light pole, folded his arms and stared at the ground.

I just sat there until the light changed and the car pulled ahead. I looked past Matt, at Kristine who was sitting next to the opposite door. She had to have seen him too. But she was staring, hard, at the floor of the limo, her lips pursed in concentration.

We had a party to go to.

***

That was it. The party was a good one; they were all good, and they lasted another two weeks, one every night, until I flew back to New York.

I don’t know what happened to Peter. I did try to see him again, two days before I left. It was right after I’d broken up, somewhat inartfully, with Annette. The inartful part involved her finding me in bed with Kristine as a sort of “farewell” gesture. Annette was crying, weeping actually, asking me how I could be so awful—didn’t I know what I meant to her?

It was the same sort of thing Georgia had said to me, the last time I’d made a similar gesture with someone else.

The next morning, hung over, feeling guilty, I got the address of the place where Kristine thought Peter was staying. It took almost an hour by bus, to the edge of the city, and another 30 minutes walking in the rain, wandering through a maze of dirty back streets that spliced clusters of smoke-retching industrial plants and small chemical shops.

It was a three-story brick building, tucked down an alleyway behind what appeared to be a paint shop. I went through a crooked doorway into a large room, bare but for a couple of broken chairs at one end and a pile of foul-smelling cans at the other. A few workers shambled in from a doorway at the opposite end of the room, heading for the street, but no one stopped to give me a second look, not even when I pleaded, in my bad, bar-learned Chinese, if anyone had seen or even heard of Peter. I only got, “bu”—no—and a listless shake of the head. They didn’t even break stride.

I walked around the neighborhood for a while, looking for a glimpse of him, hoping for one more chance encounter, where the luck of a friend’s benevolence would flow his way for a change. I had money, $500, and was going to give it to him for decent shelter, a train ticket home, a good meal, whatever.

I never found him, of course, and as the overcast sky turned dark, the dull fatigue of homebound laborers was replaced by the more interested and slightly feral stares from the deepening shadows. I left and halfway home found a bar. I don’t remember getting back. Seems I spent almost all the money, though.

***

I got back together with Georgia a month after I returned to the states. Finished my senior year and we got married. We stayed in Albany, started careers, had kids, the whole thing. I got a job with a bank, starting out as a midlevel manager and ended up doing all right for myself. Survived two buy-outs and a merger; a higher salary and fancier title every time we changed the name above the front door. The recession? Hey, someone had to make money on all those collateralized debt obligations. The view of my financial outlook now requires sunglasses.

We got divorced last year. It was hard. It wasn’t my fault, although most of my friends didn’t believe it until they got independent confirmation. My kids live with her and her new friend in our house. Her house, technically. I let her have the dog too. That was a mistake. My apartment is too quiet.

I’ve learned some things.

I pour a whiskey and sit down, leaving the groceries in the hallway. I haven’t even taken off my coat; I just want to think.

I wonder how Peter made out. Not well, I know that now. I knew it then. Stranded on the streets of Beijing, too poor to get home or to send a message for help. It was harder than most people here can understand. Maybe he got thrown in jail for vagrancy; it was a common solution to homelessness. Maybe he got sick. Either way, he might as well have been stranded in the desert.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll do something. I have lots of time this weekend. Most weekends. Maybe I’ll volunteer at a homeless shelter. I should donate to a charity; I have the means to make a difference.

I’m a little lost, now. That guy on the street is lost, in a more fundamental way. Peter was lost, alone and at the mercy of callous souls he mistook for friends. I think about my children, and hope they never have to seek favor from an indifferent heaven.

I owe Peter something. The money I gave to the guy outside is a start. A measure of kindness to strangers, the best I’m able, offered as an apology for the kindness that I never bothered to offer him. It won’t repay the debt, but I hope it mitigates the interest on my conscience.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart