Rusty Nails
I’m always wrong. They say so. They tell me it’s my habit to come up with excuses, to blame it on anything else but me. They tell me to stop it. They tell me to stop hiding in my room and do something useful around the house for a change. They stopped telling me things because I stopped calling. Just like last time. And now, for the second time, I’m… somewhere. Home is where the heart is, so I’m not sure if this is home. I don’t think I was ever sure of that.
I stepped on a nail, a rusty nail. I was in a good mood, right before I stepped on the nail. She and I had just come back from a shopping mall. We walked around, just like old times, when I was much younger. When I wore what she picked out. Actually, how did I end up in a good mood? She actually didn’t put me in a good mood when we met each other at the mall. I’d arrived earlier, and was doing some exploring of my own. I saw a shop selling musical instruments, and I went in to look at their violins.
I love the violin. They probably don’t think so, because they judge based on how much I was motivated to practise. Back when I was… 12, I believe. That’s when I stopped taking lessons, after only achieving Grade 4. I regret that, and I want to pick it up again. So I ask the people in the shop about lessons, and leave feeling good about myself, like I had done something worthwhile. They would disagree. I didn’t think about that, or I wouldn’t have decided, when we finally met up, to share what I’d learnt with her. I asked if she thought RM399 for a violin was expensive. “YOU HAVE ONE, DON’T YOU, WHY ARE YOU BUYING A NEW ONE?” was my mother’s response.
Who wouldn’t cringe? I did, anyway. Still, she did have a point, and I recovered quickly enough, hastily mumbling that I guess I’d forgotten, of course I’d use the old one if it still worked. Then I made the mistake of telling her I probably would have to start at a lower grade. “WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO HUMBLE? YOU SEE, THAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOU AND US, WE ARE NOT LIKE YOU, YOU ARE ALWAYS TOO HUMBLE! WHY DO YOU WANT TO SELL YOURSELF SHORT? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT WHEN YOU’RE IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD, THEY WILL ONLY WANT TO KNOW THAT YOU HAVE ACHIEVED GRADE 4, NEVER MIND THAT YOU HAVEN’T BEEN PLAYING REGULARLY, WHY ARE YOU WASTING ALL THAT MONEY?”
Was I now a vampire, to be staked through the heart so? I seized upon the first thing I could to retort. “Is this about money? Is that the first, most important thing that you’re worried about?”
“Yes.”
Fine. I allow that she’s concerned with money. After all, that which she spent on me seems only to go down the proverbial drain. So I say, “I understand you don’t want me to waste my money, which I will be spending to pay for this, once I have my own income. If that’s the case, I’ll just practise on my own until the instructor, who will be assessing my proficiency after 10 years of not playing the violin, is satisfied that I am a grade 4 student, as I should rightfully be. How’s that?”
“Ohh, going to spend your ‘own money’, huh? Well go ahead! Don’t let me stop you from spending your ‘own money’ once you ‘have a job’, since you’re so independent. Go ahead! Let the instructor assess you then, start from a lower grade, why not?”
I am quiet. I knew it would come to something like that. I could have shut up earlier, but where would that leave me? Misunderstood in her eyes yet again, forever the child? I cannot agree that she’s right, and I cannot tell her she’s wrong. Even if I try to make it my own burden, I’m still wrong. I want to tell her how her “outside world argument” doesn’t even make sense in this context, I want to tell her how it hurts that she drew a line between me and some ambiguous “us”. I want… but it’s useless. It’s just useless. She’s my mother.
She cheers up after some shopping. I just follow quietly behind. She’s excited about the delicious laksa we had. I speak up when I remember I have some things to send back to my girlfriend, and she’s impressed when I can write down her address and my –mom’s–home address from memory. More shopping. She’s excited at finding some cheap orchids, and I have a good time helping her by picking out those I think have the prettiest flowers. Now you know why I was in a good mood.
Fast forward to home, about 8-ish in the evening. I want to help her water all her beloved plants. The poor drooping gerberas, the other orchids near the wall, the lime shrubs, too. I want to do something nice for my mother. I want to show her I can do something useful around the house for a change. I don’t watch my step, and suddenly I am pierced. I look down and see, in the dim light, several planks laid in a scattered, criss-cross fashion. Most of them have nails, rusty ones.
“What happened?” she asks, upon hearing my yelp of pain. I said I stepped on a nail.
“WHY DID YOU STEP ON A NAIL, THERE’S SO MUCH SPACE THERE, WHY DID YOU STEP ON THE PLANKS, CAN’T YOU STEP AROUND THEM? WHY DID YOU STEP ON THE PLANKS?”
I lost it. I really lost it. “WHY MUST IT ALWAYS BE MY FAULT? IT’S MY FAULT THAT I STEPPED ON A RUSTY NAIL ON THE PLANK, IS IT? WHY DO YOU HAVE TO ASSUME I STEPPED ON THE PLANK WHILE LOOKING STRAIGHT AT IT? WHY CAN’T YOU ASSUME THAT I JUST WANTED TO WATER YOUR PLANTS AND ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON THE PLANK? I’M INJURED AND THE FIRST THING YOU DO IS YELL AT ME?”
“Fine! Come inside!” she says, still loudly, but relatively calmer. I move to obey– “STOP! Go wash your foot!” I grumble under my breath, “tell me to come inside then tell me to go wash my foot, make up your mind!” as I get some water and proceed to wash the wound. From behind me, she goes, “Just splash some water on it! What are you doing, cleaning out the wound?”
“I thought that was the POINT of washing,” I say through gritted teeth as I finish up and walk towards her.
Inside, we head into the dining room. She hasn’t said a word since, and maintains her fierce silence as she takes out the first aid kit. She pulls out a chair and I misunderstand, placing my foot awkwardly on it, sole up. “Sit down!” is all she says, before handing me a piece of cotton wool. I sit, and she leaves the room. I wonder if this is her way of telling me that she’s done with me, that I know full well what to do now, so I rummage in the first aid kit for some antiseptic. I find a bottle labeled “antiseptic” just as she returns. I ask her if I should use it, but am greeted with silence. Instead, she brings out a different bottle, and proceeds to pour that onto the piece of cotton wool. I wonder if I should refuse her help, but I imagine it would set her off one some mad tirade again, so I let her do her motherly duty. Her duty done, i.e. my wound disinfected and protected with a clean cotton swab, she packs up the first aid kit. I take this opportunity to go and see what I can do about the rusty-nailed planks. I think I should flatten them, but I want to ask her if I should, in case she needs the nails in for some unknown purpose. I find her sitting at the dinner table, flipping through the newspapers.
“Mom, should I flatten the nails in the planks?”
“No, don’t do anything! I’ll deal with the planks!” I can’t understand why she’s still shouting.
“But mom, I’m free now, just tell me if it’s okay for me to flatten the nails in the planks. If you need them for something else I won’t but if you don’t, tell me so I can do something about the nails.”
“I SAID I’LL DEAL WITH THE PLANKS! WHAT IS IT THAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND? YOU MADE ME ANGRY AND NOW YOU WANT ME TO JUST SWALLOW ALL THAT IRRITATION? I CAN’T DO IT! I JUST CAN’T, SO JUST DROP IT!”
I am pierced again, through my heart this time, not my foot. “I MADE YOU ANGRY? HOW DID I MAKE YOU ANGRY? I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T STEP ON THE PLANKS INTENTIONALLY!”
“MUST YOU ARGUE UNTIL YOU’RE PROVEN RIGHT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? YES, I ADMIT I WAS WRONG TO PUT THE PLANKS THERE, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? DO YOU WANT ME TO APOLOGIZE TO YOU? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY THE PLANKS WERE THERE? I TOOK THEM FROM THE OPPOSITE HOUSE, ALRIGHT? THEY DIDN’T NEED THEM SO I THOUGHT I’D USE THEM TO COVER UP THE HOLE OUTSIDE SO YOUR SISTER’S CAR WON’T FALL INTO IT WHEN SHE PARKS THERE! I WAS GOING TO DO IT TOMORROW, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW YOU’D GO AND STEP ON IT TONIGHT? I ALREADY SAID I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KEEP STRESSING THIS ISSUE? WHY?”
All the noise brings my father down. “What’s going on here?”
I speak up first. “I stepped on a nail, dad.”
“YOU COULD HAVE STEPPED AROUND IT, THERE WAS LOTS OF SPACE THERE, COULDN’T YOU SEE THAT THERE WERE BOARDS SCATTERED ALL OVER, COULDN’T YOU USE YOUR BRAIN AND WORK OUT THAT THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH THOSE PLANKS AND AVOID THEM?” is what my mother said.
“I wanted to ask mom if I should flatten the nails, and she started yelling at me.”
I should have known better than to expect my supposedly logical father to side with me, but I did, and he didn’t.
He began with an exasperated sigh and a disapproving shake of his head. “I don’t know what to say to you. Why are you like this? Why can’t you make a decision?” He was going to say more, but I didn’t interrupt him. Mother did. She told him to forget about it, that I was just trying to prove myself right, this was a pointless argument, she didn’t want to hear any more about it, and more along those lines. They turned their backs on me, again.
How many times? How many rusty nails have they been leaving in my heart, poisoning me? I let her lead my father out of the room, then spoke to her. “Why is it that no matter what I do, I’m in the wrong?”
She whirled, furious again. “HERE YOU GO AGAIN, ALWAYS FORCING THE ISSUE UNTIL YOU CAN BE PROVEN RIGHT. WHY CAN’T YOU JUST ACCEPT THIS? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LET ME BE? I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, THAT’S IT! JUST ACCEPT THAT!”
“Fine,” I say, “if you want to be left alone, I will leave you alone. Now I just want to find out why Dad thinks I’m wrong too.
“WHY, SO THAT YOU CAN BE PROVEN RIGHT? HOW LONG DO YOU WANT TO KEEP ARGUING? I AM YOUR MOTHER, YOU KNOW? I HAVE THE RIGHT TO SCOLD YOU!!”
…
..
.
I mutter, “as a person, I have the right to fight back,” and I walk out of the dining room as she repeats cries of “COME ON THEN, FIGHT! FIGHT BACK!”
I find my father outside, hammering out the rusty nails. So this is what he meant by making a decision. I see his point, but before I can say anything, he does what he always does. What they both, I suppose, have always done. “How, son, how are you going to work for anyone? Nobody wants someone who has to ask so many questions before getting any work done. Nobody. People in the outside world want their employees to know how to do the right thing without having to ask all the time! Nobody wants to be bothered with stupid questions. Look at these nails. Couldn’t you have just taken them out on your own? Is it not enough that you got hurt? Do you want to leave them in for someone else to step on them? Why didn’t you exercise your judgement instead of asking your mother?”
I want to tell him how I have worked with people who hated me for doing too much on my own, I want to tell them that some people value an employee who takes the effort to get things straight before doing things. I stand there, thinking, and he attacks again with “Why are you just standing there? Get something and help me!”
I can’t ask too many questions, so I ask where the hammer is. He answers with the most useless answer imaginable: “In the toolbox”. Of course, silly me, I might have thought it was in the refrigerator otherwise! Afraid to ask more, I spend too much time hunting for the hammer, and by the time I find it he’s almost done. I still manage to hammer out a few nails, and no more discouraging words are said. No encouraging words, either, but even you, reader, know what to expect.
I walk up to my room, not even feeling the little twinge in my left foot because of all the rusty nails I’m starting to sense inside of me, scattered through time. A deep, pervading sense of injustice, of good intentions but poor expressions, and a kind of loneliness. Is this what it means to come home after 3 years being abroad?
Pure and simple things.
Last Sunday, I went sledding with my brother, sister-in-law and girlfriend. It was great.
Sighing
I
shuffle into the room.
It feels cold. Empty.
I
blink
and wipe a speck of dust
(it must be dust)
from my eye.
I
shuffle out of the room
sighing.
The dare
It was a dark and stormy house. It did not so much face the east as scowl at it, perpetually resenting the intrusion of the sun’s light into its gloomy solitude. A lone tree burst through the bare ground of the front lawn like a ghastly arm, its arthritic fingers bent, clawlike, reaching up to shield the windows from the glare. The porch was a jaw that jutted brutishly, with fences like square, yellowing teeth. I didn’t like the house when I was eight, and nearly four years of hurrying past it on my way to school and back did nothing to change my sentiments. Which is why I was regretting ever opening my big mouth, as I stood on the sidewalk, facing the house that looked like it should be joined to the neck and shoulders of a terrible giant. Many a boy had fallen foul of the words “I dare you”.
At least I was right. I turned to Bob and Paul and said, “See? I told you this was the scariest house in town.”
“Y-Yeah, right. The only person scared of it is you!” Bob taunted, to hide his own unease.
“So go in ahead of me, why don’tcha?”
Paul thought for a minute, and responded with, “Well, you led us here, so that makes you Leader. And, and the Leader should go first.”
Brilliant. I didn’t have a good comeback. Being called Leader was kind of cool, though…
“Fine, I’m Leader, I go first. But you have to follow my orders!”
I thought, it’s just an empty house, right? It’s not like we’re breaking in to anyone’s property. I still hadn’t convinced myself, but I took a deep breath, and stepped onto the dirt lawn anyway. I took another step, then another, and looked back. Bob nudged Paul, and they quickly caught up with me.
Despite the midday sun, my hand felt clammy when I finally touched the doorknob. The two of them behind me seemed just as fearful and excited as I was. I had heard of hyperventilation, how people who are really, really excited breathe too quickly and it’s not good for you, so I tried to control my breathing. In, out. In, out. I gripped the doorknob, feeling the smooth, cool metal surface press against my palm. I was almost afraid it might bite me. I squeezed my eyes shut… and turned it.
The door was locked. I should have expected that. I was a little disappointed, but feeling more relieved than anything else, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding, and the wind on the nape of my neck told me they had, too. Locked door, too bad. It was the perfect excuse to go home.
“It’s locked. Let’s go.” They nodded eagerly. We turned, as one, and got as far as the last step, when a gust of warm air blew. From right behind us. It carried a smell, too, the smell of old things, like the section of the library where they keep books that feel like they could fall apart in your hands. Only wrong, somehow. It reminded me of the time I found a poor dead bird on the street, its feathers all torn and bloody, beak crushed and where its eyes should have been, there were only black, sunken pits, covered, like the rest of its body, in flies and tiny, moving white things. I almost puked at the sight, but I held it in this time. Barely.
I wanted to keep running, away from the ghastly thing that I now knew was not a house, but my feet had lost all their strength. I stood there, trembling helplessly, my heart desperately trying to hammer its way out of me and away from the monster. I swallowed, and fought my curiosity, because I was sure…
“Paul, Jake, look, the door… the door’s open…”
“I thought you said it was locked?”
I turned back and saw Bob take a small step towards the door, a strange smile on his face, like he was listening to a favourite song. His head was tilted back, mouth hanging slack, and his eyes were fixed on the windows. He took another step.
Paul had been looking at me, but now he turned his head towards the house slowly, his body swaying slightly, eyes open but not seeing, and nodded in response to some question I could not hear.
“Guys, it’s a Bad Place! Let’s just go home. I lost, alright? Let’s go!”
I could hear the voices now, too. Soft, soothing, cajoling voices. Come in, they said, be a good boy, now. We have toys, and interesting rooms to explore, and you would never go hungry, no, we’ll take care of you…
I imagined us falling down a giant hole, straight into a pit of acid, or lava, or the fires of Hell…
I imagined giant rats in the dark, the never-ending pitter-patter of their claw-tipped feet, the chitter-chatter of their sharp fangs following us, surrounding us, tightening around us, the gleam of their wicked eyes as they got closer and closer…
I imagined portraits tracking us with their eyes, and animated suits of armor stalking us, clankety-clank, until we ran out of breath, and the cold steel of the raised claymores would reflect our wide open eyes, our hands raised in reflex, and I’d be screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs…
I opened my eyes to find myself crouching on the sidewalk, Bob and Paul gone. The sun had tainted the sky red, and I glanced around frantically. Did they see me crouching? Did they laugh and leave me? Or… inside! they went inside! I gulped, and stood, shakily. I kept my eyes away from the house, and stumbled home. I had never had a headache before, but I knew what it was to have one now. What now?
I still hadn’t come up with a plan by the time I reached the corner of Froth and Emerald, just two blocks from my house. I looked up at the sign, just to make sure. When I looked down, Bob and Paul were standing a little way ahead of me.
“Hey! Hey Bob! Paul!” I hurried to meet them.
They turned slowly, precisely, in the same direction.
They’re not really Bob and Paul, they’re only shells, only shells
That shocked me into silence for a moment, but then Bob grinned, and held up a hand.
“Yo.”
I smiled, tentatively, unsure of what to say.
“Where did you go?” said Paul, now wearing the same grin that Bob was.
Grins too wide, too wide
“Err, the… the house, down by Zircon street…” I spluttered, “I thought you two…”
“What house? We’ve been waiting here for you all day.”
I looked behind me and back at them, confused.
“C’mon, it’s time to go home. We’ll play basketball tomorrow,” said Bob.
I nodded, still trying to process everything. They were there! Right behind me when I tried the door! How–?
The House took them, took them and spat them out, empty inside zombieszombieszombies
It was crazy.
but you know it’s true, it’strueit’strueit’strue
I shook my head to try and forget about it all. My friends were still here, still alive, and that was what mattered. Although, whenever we played basketball, it seemed like they didn’t react as fast as they used to. Maybe I just got better as I grew up. Or they were tired, or
zombies
something.
It’s been two years since my family moved away, and they must have moved too, because nobody ever picks up when I call. Sometimes I think about going back there, just to pay a visit, but it’s not like we have relatives there. My parents would never take me. Then I remember the house, and I think, just as well.
Copyright 2010 Zhi Hong Li
HIRE ME PLEASE
QUALIFICATIONS
Efficient, detail-oriented Chemical Engineer with strong problem-solving skills. Quick learner, works well alone but also excellent team player. Willing to travel.
EDUCATION
Illinois Institute of Technology, Chicago, Illinois
B. Sc. in Chemical Engineering (May 2010)
Cumulative GPA: 3.28/4.0
EXPERIENCE
Museum of Science and Industry, Chicago, Illinois
Facilitator II (May 2008 – August 2008)
Demonstrated and explained scientific concepts to groups of 5-20 people, aged 5-60, 5 days a week.
Handled flammable chemicals and worked with fire in front of 20-30 person audience.
Developed and performed original demonstration explaining aircraft flight with household materials.
INTI College Subang Jaya Financial Office, Selangor, Malaysia
Finance Intern (September 2007 – December 2007)
Removed errors and discrepancies in database, clearing up to $1,000 in errors.
Performed cashier duties, handled up to $200 in cash payments.
Designed a standardized system of documentation to efficiently organize audit worksheets.
INTI College Subang Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia
Laboratory Assistant (May 2007 – August 2007)
Prepared precise solutions of common reagents (NaOH, HCl, et c.) for classroom use.
Improved on existing inventory system for greater efficiency.
ACTIVITIES
Student Union Board, Lead Events Programmer (August 2009 – April 2010)
Researched performers and negotiated contracts to bring quality entertainment to the campus.
AIChE, Member (January 2009 – Present)
Attended North-Central Regional conference; involved in logistics and preparations.
SKILLS
Proficient with Microsoft Office Software Package.
Process modeling with HYSYS.
Programming with MATLAB.
Designing data acquisition programs with LabVIEW.
Fluent in English, Mandarin, Cantonese (spoken) and Bahasa Melayu.
My hair
Loooooong……
snip snip snip
“OI! NOT LIKE THAT! LIKE THIS, SEE? NOT THERE, HERE!”
“Hmph! I shan’t finish the job if you’re going to be so cross!”
“Oh please do, I’d look horrid otherwise!”
“I’ll never do this again!”
snip snip
“Hmm, not bad!”
“Told you so.”
snip
snip
^_^
Short.
Hartford
Officially sucks donkey balls. Kids in Hartford are so bored of this joke of a city, this badly planned, no life, dead end excuse for a town, that they THROW EGGS AT PEDESTRIANS WHILE DRIVING BY. Who the hell still does shit like throw EGGS, dammit? The fuck is wrong them? With Hartford? Shit like this never happened in the places I’ve been. Hartford has to be top 25 in the WORST PLACES TO LIVE. And people who fucking throw eggs don’t make it better. I’m going to go out on a limb and blame the fucking ghetto kids, who eventually grow into ghetto adults, who live and breathe the stupid, narrow-minded, self-righteous “culture” that breeds more stupid kids who do stupid shit like this. HARTFORD FUCKING SUCKS, YOU HEAR ME? HARTFORD SUCKS!
Happiness is…
having a friend who has a place in his/her heart for you, even when you haven’t spoken in a long while. Your continued friendship fills me with inexplicable, indescribable joy. Mbd, here’s to you! Cheers!
Fantasy
Another winter inspired story in my cellphone… COMPLETELY FICTIONAL. ALL SIMILARITIES TO ACTUAL PERSONS OR EVENTS IS COINCIDENTAL.
***************
The world has gone monochrome. The roads are black, if they happen to be cleared, while everything else is blinding white snow. The sun has lost its edge, seeming to strengthen, rather than melt, the indomitable masses of snow and ice all around me. Indomitable, and treacherous. Sheets of mischievous ice lie hidden, waiting to trip unsuspecting pedestrians. In fact, that was how we met. We both slipped on the same sheet of ice that day, do you remember? I helped you up, you helped me gather my things. Because of you, or because of that, I have begun to think that Fate may not be such a ridiculous idea after all.
I’ve always had to act a little bit to fit in, but not with you. I remember when you dragged me out of that fancy restaurant to take a moonlit stroll on the beach. I don’t believe in magic, but to this day, I cannot find a single logical reason that explains why everything felt so right that night. I imagine you shaking your head and laughing at my silly Thinking personality when you read this.
You are vibrant. Vivacious. Bursting with life. With you, I feel so much more aware, so much more alive! Your every touch, your every breath, your every look, electrifies my soul. I am not simply happy, I am euphoric when I am with you. In my mind, you were all light and color, so discovering your quiet, contemplative side was a surprise. It felt so satisfying, being able to connect to you on a deeper level. I think it was then that I finally understood why you stuck around a schmuck like me when you could have had your pick of the litter. We fit like yin and yang.
I smile at this thought, and turn away from the window to look at you. With your head on my shoulder, you look up at me and smile. And just like that, you fill my world with color, like you always do. The world is no longer monochrome. Spring is here again.
Old writings
I wrote these on my cellphone some time ago, about a year, I’d say. I forgot about them, but re-reading them today spurred me to share them.
Winter
Winter is not old, nor male.
So fickle is she!
One day all dazzling, bright allure,
the next, a merciless storm to fear.
One can’t help but love her, when
she blankets the earth with soft, pure snow.
Such gentle grace, such fragile beauty!
Is that why we bear with her still,
through her wild, bone-chilling fury?
Spring is shy,
Summer lazy,
Fall fleeting,
but Winter,
ah, Winter!
She has my heart and soul.
Sunset
As if to make up for the ice and snow this time of year, the sun sets fire to the horizon every evening. It is spectacular to behold. Intense, deep shades of peach and ochre fade gracefully into orange, then yellow, a tinge of green, blue and finally navy. The light parts as a lover would, reluctant and with many a backward glance. It is poignant, sublime.
