We Can Be Heroes For One More Day

Originally written January 24, 2007

We asked ourselves why on the brink of departing upon the most important and influential time of your life would you put yourself in harms way for someone that means less than nothing to the idea of what you have been working towards. Why would you risk it all for something that is seemingly temporary and insignificant? Standing on the train that night, looking down whatever opponent I deemed to be in my way, I knew the meaning of it all, and laughed like a maniac without a care in the world.

Why do I feel it necessary to inevitably stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves? We were asked that question again tonight.

My current living situation is a thing of extraordinary circumstances. I live comfortably on Wing Lok street where only a local would be found. The neighborhood is lined with stores selling dried mushrooms and bark, perfect for whatever soup du jour on the menu tonight at the local cramped residences. In between these buildings is my serviced apartment complex, ironically, or perhaps appropriately named, the W Studios. Twelve floors, four rooms per flight, it is seemingly what it is.

I’ve been here for quite some time, heard all the sights and sounds of Sheung Wan, and seen neighbors move in and out on a nightly and monthly basis. Two Americans, a couple, moved in to one of the smaller rooms at the end of the hall last week. About our age, the girl wakes up early, dressed professionally, and does not return until the late afternoon. The guy, who hasn’t shaved in weeks and dresses like a street urchin, sits in his room all day listening to music by himself. The professional and the freeloader, alone and together in a foreign land, living their lives separately in the daylight and lovers in the evening. On a vacation from reality, trying to capture that moment of adulthood.

Sometimes we can overhear the arguments. The cleanliness of the apartment, the behavior in public, stressful lives boiling over to the point of animosity, jealousy. Trying to hold on to the life they led not too long ago but now in a land not meant for our kind. The strain inevitably causes friction, friction that leads to shouting, shouting to crying, crying over and over…

It is four o’clock in the morning. I find myself talking to the ghosts of January past. Like a lion and if you can harness that fire it will set the pace for the year ahead. I am haunted by the memories of who I once was. The shouting begins. I can’t make out the words, but the emotion behind them, the emotion is real, that makes an impact through the door. I excuse myself from the spirits and look out my door. Silence. For a moment. Then tears, tears followed by whimpering, crying, heartbreaking sounds of someone in distress. The next two words came through clearly, please, and no.

For a moment I tell myself to settle down, return to your own problems, they were waiting for you in the darkness of your room. I closed my eyes and let myself believe I could walk away, that there were more important things that had to be done. I was lying to myself once again, there would be resolution. Before I opened my eyes again I was out the door and into the hallway. The words it’s not going to go down like this are repeated over and over again in my imagination. Shirtless with jeans, no one looks at the top of their game at this hour. There is a moment of hesitance before I knock on the door. The moment subsides, and I stand there, possessed by the spirits to make right what I have never been able to let go.

The guy answers the door. The room behind him is dark, no sign of the girl. As I have done for every moment I have been in this country, I size him up, look for a weakness. Before he makes a sound, I tell him, directly and with balls chiseled from steel, if I hear the lady make another sound like she has tonight, I will not hesitate to put your head through the wall.

I stare at him with the fire of hell behind me.

He makes a move to shut the door in my face. With my foot jammed in the doorway, six inches of space remained between me, the door, and the boy who was about to be in far more trouble than any of us realized. The ghosts had followed me into the hallway, and neither of us could escape what would come next.