Chinese Pencil Pushers

      

Sometimes, when I'm relaxing, whether sitting by a crackling fire on a cold winter night or lazily swaying in a hammock on warm breezy days, I let my mind wander until I drift off, as it were, to a place where all of the cares and worries of this world are left behind. Unfortunately, there are those moments when the reverie is disrupted by thoughts about things that have absolutely nothing to do with my usual fantasy involving a bottle of bubbly and me chasing a couple of freshly scrubbed half naked geisha girls with silky smooth skin the color of plum blossoms around in the garden while beneath the glow of the Autumn moon. The disruptions to my daydreams and fantasies used to be worrisome thoughts about slow pay clients, a woodpecker that pecked holes the size of Little Richard's head in the side of my house, and a deranged garbage man who, perhaps intentionally, would virtually destroy perfectly good garbage cans within a month's time. But those thoughts that disrupted my reverie have been pushed aside by a new intruder called the "dollar store". Why is that? I wonder. Could it be because I am somehow concerned that 99.7% of everything that can be bought at a dollar store is made in China and that these stores are multiplying faster than a Chinese store clerk calculating profits on an abacus after drinking a pot of expresso coffee? Who's to say? I guess I can't help thinking about how the Chinese economy continues to churn out massive amounts of mass produced junk as its GNP soars into the stratosphere year after year while sustaining enormous trade imbalances with its trading partners. But then it all makes sense when one realizes the vast number of people that live in that "developing" country and how fundamentally easy it is for multi-national corporations to pay, in many cases, much less than 50 cents an hour to a veritable slave from an ever abundant labor pool of expendable workers in a country with no labor unions.

 

When the "evil empire" , or the U.S.S.R. (as it was more commonly known), came to an end, it must have made those Chinese bureaucrats more nervous than a cat on a hot tin roof to see Russia throw off the yokes of Communism for the excesses of Capitalism. The only reason why that happened, though, is because the  Communist status quo could no longer fool the proletariat by selling it promises in the form of a system which proclaims that all men are created equal (at least as far as the state is concerned). But as anyone with a modicum of intelligence will tell you, erudite proclamations often look good on paper, whereas the application of those sorts of things, well... that's a horse of a different color.

 

At any rate, at the time of the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Chinese pencil pushers must have wondered if Russia would become a shining beacon of prosperity that the Chinese proletariat would take resentful notice of, but it never happened, and there's no doubt that the CPP (Chinese Pencil Pushers) were damn glad that it didn't, either. So while Russia's fledgling democracy went from no better than before to maybe even worse (economically speaking), the CPP watched, took notes, and eventually realized that by creating pockets of capitalism, or free market zoning, if you will, the CPP could have their cake and eat it too. In other words, they could gradually build a Capitalist economy, but only in select areas or "special economic zones" (SEZ), and yet still retain control over the people by never allowing them to vote or voice their opinions freely, either in a public setting or through the media. When you think about it, the Chinese bureaucracy (CPP) is damn clever. Since the seeds of a post-industrial revolution had been planted at Tianamen, though suppressed, it's not unreasonable to think that it wouldn't happen again in the near future. So the pencil pushers beat the revolutionaries to the punch, and now it's okay for folks to go shopping in China, which is what most people want to do, anyway. However, there's more to this picture than meets the eye...much more.

The Would-be Pugilist

        

 

Out of any given number of people surveyed, how many can honestly say that their first day in first grade was a bit scary? The percentage would probably be high if those surveyed answered honestly, but no doubt very few people would readily admit that they experienced a sort of weak knee sweaty palm sensation as they walked down the aisles of their respective new school surroundings surrounded by strangers who were for the most part considerably larger. If there’s a reason why they didn’t experience that kind of fear, it must be because they don’t remember such an awe inspiring moment.

The kid remembers. Except what he remembers is running full tilt along the concrete walkway of the one story annex building at Ortega Elementary School and sliding to a screeching halt in his well-worn canvas sneakers in front of his first grade class room. He even remembers the teacher’s name; Mrs. Echols. Or was it Ms. Echols? Well, whichever it was, her name was Echols, that much he remembers. As he came to a stop, he jumped through the door and nonchalantly headed toward the back of the room. The teacher gave the students a look that said, I’m the boss around here. Now, find a desk and pay attention ‘cause I’m gonna do you some learnin’. Actually, she didn’t give a look quite like that but that’s the way most people speak in the South. The long hand on the clock was straight up. The kid had just made the bell.

He found a desk in the back of the classroom near the window where he could communicate with the birds and scope the class for potential pals. Everything went well for the first month or so. He even developed a crush on a cutie pie. She was hard to get next to, however, as there was competition. The competition’s name was Brian. The kid and Brian didn’t like each other and for obvious reasons. The object of their attention and contention was a girl named Amy and she was workin’ it like a princess at the prom. She had those boys steppin’ and fetchin’ like their heads were on fire.  She was milkin' it for all it was worth. You get the picture. She was the cutest girl in the class.

Eventually, which is to say, within a relatively short period of time, things got a little out of hand and Brian and the kid came to blows. They were scrappin’, b-slappin’, and knockin’ each other in the head somewhat fiercely. The other kids were encouraging one or the other to “Get him! Rip his head off! (not literally of course) and other similar ring-side exclamatory remarks.

 

The teacher had left the classroom briefly but had returned about the time the kid had Brian in a headlock and was giving him a wedgie . She broke up the fight, but to everyone’s amazement and joy, she announced that the little street fighters would be able to continue their brawl during recess in a more appropriate venue, namely the playground. In the meantime, she told them to open their books to page 33 and read the chapter about Lucy, the Chimpanzee.

 

The animosity had been bottled up long enough. The kid resolved to put Brian in his place and show everyone who the king of the school yard was. Brian was thinking the same. At the sound of the bell, the teacher and the students marched single file out of the classroom. The early Autumn weather was warm and sunny on that day so the students took off their shoes just outside the classroom annex before going to the playground. The teacher had brought along some boxers’ gloves and told the kid and Brian to lace-up. Brian’s buddy, Bud, helped Brian get into a pair of well fitted Everlast gloves while the kid’s pal, Carl did the same, only the kid’s gloves were held together with duct tape and were so large they reminded him of what circus clowns use. The kid stared daggers at Brian and Brian stared darts, both with equal amounts of deadly disdain and vengeful purpose.

When both boys had their gloves secured, the teacher called them forward and she blew her whistle and Brian threw a haymaker.

The kid was wise and jumped back and dodged the swing and Brian spun around almost 360 degrees from the exertion. The kid was not at all happy to be laced up with the over-sized gloves. They were hindering him so he would just have to be creative. He rushed in with his left elbow and jabbed Brian sharply in the side and knocked him to the ground. The teacher stopped the fight and made it clear that a fair fight did not include using elbows, knees, or feet.

 

So this teacher obviously thought it was fair to give one opponent a pair of cool Everlast gloves and to the other, with whom she must have had issues, a pair of gloves that once belonged to Bozo, but why? Truth be told, Brian was a brown-noser who had played the teacher like a Stradivari from day one. Damn fine pickle! Alright, so when life hands you the proverbial lemon you make a damn fine lemon pie, considered the kid.

 

As the two brawlers came at each other, the boy with Bozo’s gloves lowered his head and butted Brian in the breadbasket. Brian let forth a loud “Umph!” but he kept his footing and rained down on the kid with a right hook, and some kind of wild punch that dazed the kid. The kid had mostly flailed with his useless Bozo gloves. While Brian was pummelling him, the kid was able to pull his hand out of one the oversized gloves and with the laces wrapped around his hand he swung it like he was hurling a

hammer and clocked Brian up-side his head and then whipped it around again, this time hitting Brian square on the side of his face. Brian’s eyes bugged out. Clearly, he was stunned.

The kid was about to deliver the coup de grace while Brian was senseless, but Brian snapped out of it and gave the kid a wicked counterpunch and knocked the kid to the ground where he lay exhausted while the students counted down in unison. It was over. Brian had won, maybe not fair and square, but there was no point whining about it. The fact was, the kid wasn’t a fair fighter either. So, fair enough. Still he wasn’t pleased about it. It wasn’t so much that he had lost since one can’t always win. He just found it intolerable watching practically the whole class dancing around with Brian hoisted up on their shoulders, yelling, “Brian beat the kid! Brian is the king! Yea! Brian! Go Brian! You showed him, Brian! Blah! Blah! Rah! Rah!”

“Enough, already!” the kid yelled angrily at the excessive show of pomp and pride.

Sitting next to the kid on the sandy ground was Carl who was, evidently, the only friend the kid had. Carl tried to soothe the kid’s wounded pride. “Hey don’t worry about it. I beat up Brian last year and made him cry. At least you gave it your best.”

The kid snarled and he wasn’t soothed, at all. In fact, he decided that he shouldn’t sit there stewing about it in the sandlot. It was time for action.

“Let’s go!”

“Where to”, answered Carl to which the kid replied, “You’ll see." Surreptitiously, like spies, they stealthily moved from pine to bush and from bush to pine being very careful not to be spotted.

When they had made their way back to the classroom, Carl asked, “So, what’s up?” The kid looked at Carl and then down at the rows of shoes lined up in front of the classroom and said, “These shoes are going up… on the roof! Start throwing!

“What?” said Carl.

“I said, start throwing! Recess will be over soon. We need to hurry!” 

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. I don’ t know and I don’t care. Do it!”

So our anti-heroes started throwing shoes bing bang boom as fast as they could grab them and hurled them onto the roof. When Carl came to his shoes, he hesitated and looked at the kid who was winding up. He seemed to be trying out for the Red Sox. “What about our shoes?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You have to throw yours up there too or else you’ll give us away.”

“Okay!” and with a reluctant heave, Carl tossed his shoes on to the roof.

The Kid and Carl had done the deed. They had crossed the Rubicon and were well on their way to being expelled if their deed were ever exposed. The kid didn’t care, though. He felt a great sense of relief and satisfaction at having expunged the pangs of distress at the kind of defeat that is rubbed cruelly in one’s face.

But they were clever boys or maybe just lucky as it was never discovered who had been responsible for the mysterious and curious incident.

However, just as carefully and quickly as before, they returned to the playground. Nobody had even noticed that they had been MIA, as it were. There were too many kids running around to keep an eye on. Who would have noticed a couple of persona non grata, anyway? When the teacher and the students returned to the classroom and discovered their shoes missing, the looks and cries of despair and confusion were almost too much to handle for Carl as he was frozen with fear at possibly being made but the kid could just barely contain himself as he struggled to hold back the laughter. Somehow they were able to keep up the charade and everyone went home barefooted.

Epilogue

 

Eventually, the shoes were discovered but by that time of course they were ruined from the rain and cracked from the sun and no one was none the wiser.