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The Bully

Dena Linn

    The doors between the train cars open and slam without pause. Coal-filled air streams in, like a long, gray silk scarf; my top lip is gritty, moist. My memories are floating; my hand removes the lid from my teacup. I frown. My eyes only see the pale, thin depression circling scar-like around my ring finger: what’s missing is my yang to my love’s ying. Refocus, she’s gone. I grasp the mug’s rim, anticipating hot, bitter tea. Oh, burn away my guilt, bring my love back. Then I realize it is empty except for tea dregs. Shoulders jostle against mine sharing the bottom bunk cum bench. We observe each other—six strangers to six sleeping bunks, all westbound Beijing to Xian. I spy their hands, fingers elegant or dark and calloused; one man’s hand shows his thumb, three fingers and an angry stub. For a second, I wonder his story, but my focus, my angst remains: they’re part of a family unit, a partner by their sides, and the metal bands circling around their ring fingers are proof. I’ve learned that with love, water is enough, and without love, money never satisfies.
    Hot water, a voice ricochets down the train’s corridor. Chatter ensues as passengers bring their giant thermoses forward to refill. To my mind, a simple train employee turns to face our bunks. Outside the coal-dusted window, the landscape plods along. I see legs in crisp blue slacks and hands, clean and calm. His right with a wedding band so tight his ring finger pulses. The official train company cap perches atop his head, a stiff shallow bowl on a flat, shiny, black expanse. My alarm comes. Below his cap’s brim, eyes flare in disdain. It’s him—the one we teased behind his back when we were boys. We jeered, calling him Da Tou, ‘Big Head’. However, my father drilled into me: Da Tou is not Han, of superior Chinese stock. You are pure Han! Those bullies will be in your dust.
    Da Tou sees me before I can turn to avoid his black steel gaze. The train wheels rattle, the vibrations reaching my knees, reaching my teacup. I try to breathe, face the window; everything blurs. My stomach clenches, my thin dress shirt sticks to my back. I worry that out of spite, Da Tou will refuse to refill our thermos. My spine curves to a ‘C’, and I try ignoring his shadow’s looming presence, but I feel again his weight straddling my back. He shouts: Fists of fury! He laughs, pummeling my shoulders, ears, and head, my glasses broken beyond my sight as the other boys hoot. I hear, Teacher’s pet, you’re all wet. And then Da Tou wrenches my arm behind, calling Ki Yah!, as my shoulder pops and he empties my water canteen over my head.
    The train lurches. My chin hits my chest and my grip around my teacup whitens. Da Tou’s voice is smooth, collected. “Good trip, sirs! And good fortune, I see. Lin Ciao, you are well, as all these years have been prosperous for you.”
    Da Tou leaves down the train’s passage, and I hear the older man in our group speak to me. “Banker Lin, hand me your cup, we have new hot water!” My stuffed briefcase is tight between my ankles stuck in stiff dress shoes, my Rolex itches under my bespoke white shirt. Wedding finger is naked, no family, I’ve no longer my ying, and my nails are bitten raw. Father replaced those glasses Da Tou broke, but I’ve never learned to see.

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