Grant doesn’t think too highly of Jarrett’s literary efforts…
The man who hit Jarrett in the head with a broom spoke in a boiled accent.
Jarrett Drakes rubbed his eyes and leaned up. He’d fallen asleep on the 587 bus and he’d laid all night on his right arm, now tingling, Jarrett shuddering awake to the man’s orders in Wuhanese, the man tapping his head with the broom’s bristles.
Jarrett pushed the broom away. He peeled crusted puke off his lips.
The man wore an orange vest and two women in the same-colored vests stood at the front of the bus, staring at Jarrett and whispering to each other.
“Jī diǎn le?” Jarrett asked, tapping his left wrist, where as of last night he’d worn a watch.
The man swiped his broom at Jarrett.
“Jī diǎn le?” Jarrett repeated.
The man brushed at Jarrett again, one of the bristles nicking Jarrett’s cheek.
“Ow. Fuck.” Jarrett scrambled to his feet, the world listing to the left, Jarrett to the right. He steadied himself on a bus seat with both hands, clutching it like a walking stick.
The man continued haranguing Jarrett in Wuhanese, jabbing a finger at the crusted puke on the bus floor.
“Sorry,” Jarrett whispered. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I just — ” He closed his mouth against further words as the biting aftertaste of baijiu crept up his throat. He’d left the party promising himself he wouldn’t puke, not this time. He let out a grunt and opened his eyes. “Jī diǎn le?”
The man started yelling at him.
“Alright, alright.” Jarrett slipped past the man and his broom and the women up front paused their conversation, resuming it when Jarrett stepped off the bus.
He was in a bus depot on the western edge of Wuchang, across the river from Hanyang and somewhere out there Hankou, the three districts comprising Wuhan, China, summer 2006. Nearly three years here and he still had trouble with Wuhan’s seasons, too hot or too cold, and the respiratory infection so common it was now a companion.
Jarrett trembled. His mouth was dry. He found a restroom on the other side of the depot, a squat toilet and a cobwebbed sink. He cupped sinkwater in his hands and splashed it in his mouth, swallowing and grimacing in a stained mirror. He looked none the worse for the wear and outside he found drivers squatting flatfooted around a card game, cigarettes in their mouths.
“Jī diǎn le?”
One of the drivers showed Jarrett his phone, and the numbers sobered Jarrett up.
“Fuck.”
#
The taxi dropped Jarrett off at the mouth of Luo Jia Shan Lu, the street terminating at Wuhan University’s main gate. Jarrett paid in cash. A dashboard fan spun from driver to passenger and Jarrett basked in its cool air for a few extra moments before getting out of the cab.
The shops and businesses lining the street were mostly new. David told him the day would come when all of Wuhan would be unrecognizable and when that day came it was well past time to leave, but Jarrett thought he still had a lot of years remaining. China would host the Olympics in two years. The economy was growing. A developing country on the fast track to developed, and Jarrett was happy he was here to witness it.
Show Coffee glowed neon yellow above the streetside windows. Construction barred the way and a telephone pole lay tipped on its side, powerlines coiled in the construction dust like dead snakes. A boy reached out to touch one of the powerlines and his grandmother snatched his hand, the boy launching into a temper tantrum so brutal Jarrett thought he might be having a seizure.
“I swear I’ll never have fuckin children,” Jarrett whispered and made his way into Show Coffee, where two hostesses Western business attire welcomed him. Jarrett ignored their questions about his seating preferences, turning his head and scanning the restaurant.
Seated by the window was the editor for Willow Press, a boutique publisher based right here in Wuhan. Their catalogue consisted of travel diaries from the eighties and republished stories from the early twentieth century, tales from the period prior to the Japanese invasion, a now romantic age of opium dens and well-stocked brothels.
“Here we go,” he whispered, patting his lips for any puke. He caught the editor’s eyes halfway across the restaurant and smiled, dropping into the booth across from him. “Sorry I’m late. You weren’t waiting too long, were you?”
“Not too long,” said Grant. A balding man in his fifties, he wore his sunglasses propped up on his forehead.
“Yeah. Long night. Did you order yet?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“We could try their coffee. It’s Nescafe Gourmet in a Jar.”
“It’s what?”
“Nescafe Gourmet in a Jar. It’s an acquired taste, but once you acquire it, man.”
Grant didn’t even crack a smile. “I wanted to let you know that I read Morning on the Han River.”
“Nice.”
Grant’s eyes held the warmth of icicles. “We cannot publish it.”
“Oh. It’s okay.”
“I’ll be blunt with you: this just isn’t good writing. When it comes to writing, this needs a lot of work.”
Jarrett took this without expression. Rejection was part of publishing, and he thought it best to handle rejection with grace.
“Well,” he said. “Thanks for coming out.”
“I hate giving bad news to people.”
“It’s alright. I mean, it’s a subjective business anyways. I don’t think it’s that bad, but maybe I’m biased.” Jarrett chuckled.
Again, Grant didn’t even crack a smile. “This isn’t good writing. You know what’s good writing?”
“Apparently not.”
“River Town. Have you read it?”
“I haven’t even heard of it.”
Grant drew in a sharp breath. His body tensed like a man in a car about to crash. His lips slid back and forth. “You haven’t heard of River Town. Read it. I don’t want to make certain assumptions about your experience with the literary community, but is it too much to hope that you have read Winters with My Tomb?”
“Nope.”
“The finest China writing since River Town. It properly guides readers through this unique environment. You, for instance, at the start of your story your main character goes into a restaurant — ”
“A cafe.”
Grant’s eyes flashed. “Whatever it is, he just walks in.”
“Yeah?”
“You have to properly paint a picture. The big mahogany doors. For God’s sake, we don’t even know what your main character looks like. You — ”
As Grant laid into Jarrett’s writing, Jarrett sat there. He took it. Over a year of work, seventy thousand words, and it all amounted to this.
Grant fanned himself, chuckling. “I must remind myself not to make assumptions about one’s experience with writing groups.”
It all amounted to this.
