The light green hotel phone, the only connection with my wife seven thousand miles away, sat abandoned on the long pine bureau. I longed to hear her smooth comfortable voice, but I knew if I did I'd lose my nerve and spend another night alone in this strange hotel in an even stranger land. Above the phone, my eyes stared back at me from the depths of the cheap rippled mirror. I gazed fearlessly into their cool blue pools daring them to look away. Like a cat - 'God anointed keeper of human wisdom' -- they were undefeatable.

"Who are you staring at?"

On the Chinese news program on the television, gray-garbed policemen stood before a crowd of ten thousand people demonstrating the proper technique on how to beat the bottom of a frying pan with a wooden spoon.

I'd forgotten. Today was the day we'd all been laughing about in the bar. Peter, the Ugandan exile who shared his time equally between running the joint and sampling its many exotic tastes, had a calendar which counted down the days until this once in a lifetime event. It was easy for us to laugh. We were Westerners. For us participation was optional--for the Chinese, it was law. Karl, leader of the German contingent, had planned elaborate costumes to celebrate what was becoming known as China's New Population Control Program. At least that was its unofficial name, or more realistically, what we called it.

The Western community in Shanghai was an extremely close knit conglomeration of people. So alien was the Chinese culture that any Western similarity was a comfort for those of us who were far from home. Whenever we got together it was like a family reunion. And we got together a lot.

I was looking forward to the flowing beer and uncontrolled mirth--any excuse to get out of the hotel. Even more, I was looking forward to Monica, beautiful blonde tempting Monica with her petulant nose and perfectly incredible English accent.

As I rose from the bed, I accidentally glanced in the mirror, again. It was only a second, maybe half a breath, yet it was enough--my guilt chased me into the bathroom.

Aren't you married?

What are you doing?

Questions I didn't want to answer.

I turned on the faucet and heard the pipes knock out their complicated message in the walls. Eventually, a stream of yellow water cascaded into the basin. I waited until it cleared and began to steam before I looked into the mirror. I told myself it wasn't really cheating. If my wife never knew, she'd never be hurt. It wasn't as if I didn't love her. I certainly wasn't going to tell her. Hell, there was no way anyone in China would ever bump into her at the supermarket.

Like a mantra of China's exiled monks, I said this to myself constantly. If I said it enough, I might start believing it. It was lunatic to feel lonely in a country of over a billion people, but being an ocean away from any love, from any emotional comfort, from personal conversation, from that delicate sugary touch of a loving glance, was almost beyond my ability to cope.

Truly, was it my fault?

Since birth, I'd been basted in the myriad flavors of love. Like anything done to excess, it had become an addiction. If there was a cure, I'd try it. If there was a patch, I'd use it. No matter how desperately I held on, however, I was bound to fall off the wagon. And if I did, Monica could surely catch me, kiss my wounds and put me back on.

Halfway out the door, I leaned into the closet and pulled out the long black umbrella I'd purchased the day before. I rested it against my shoulder and skipped down the wide paneled hallway toward the elevator feeling both English and foolish. I nodded to the wizened woman sitting behind the table and pressed the down button.

"Ni hao ma?" I said as a greeting.

Her reply was a cold stare.

Determined not to give this minion of the secret police the satisfaction of me being uncomfortable, I pursed my lips for a whistle. Her stare was a warning. A silent threat. Bring no Chinese home with you tonight, it said to me. Then she smiled and lifted her chin to the umbrella. I nodded back and casually searched for her pan. She had none. Keeping Chinese out of the hotel's Western floor must certainly be an important job to exempt her from today's duty.

The elevator dinged, allowing me a quick escape. Thankful, I stepped quickly on, certain that within a few more minutes, had I stayed, all my secrets would have been laid bare. The quiet emptiness of the elevator was refreshing. The doors slid shut revealing my eyes, once again staring back at me, as threatening as the woman's. Cool blue pools everywhere I turned. I was in a mirrored steel cage. Like a cow in the neck-vice of a Mid-Western slaughterhouse, I couldn't look away.

I peered into the back left corner of the elevator and smiled into the camera, as I did every day. In the Western sections, cameras were as common as the pigeons. Every corner, light pole, power line, tree and building had cameras in various stages of visibility. I imagined a great building with a thousand rooms. In each room were fifty screens. Before each screen was a person, cataloging the Westerner's every movements, painstakingly filling out forms indicating important events such as professional meetings, casual liaisons, tourist shopping and the ever present jaw droppings of even the most intimate foreigner as one watched the minutia of everyday Chinese life.

Many of my friends were infuriated at the obvious surveillance. I felt sorry for it, so in the camera, my smile was always genuine. Maybe in front of a monitor in a room in a great building somewhere in the city, a worker would pause and smile back.

No place in America can match the sensual assault of a Chinese street. From second to second the nose was teased with the mundane and the exotic. Delightful smells were mixed with the stench of excrement and decay in a never-ending mosaic of odor. The eye passed serenely over the institutional gray that was the predominant color in today's China. The buildings, the Mao suits, the streets, all lulled one's vision into a false sense of ease, and then -- WHAM! A rack of silks would push by like a box of brand new crayons, as bright as new snow on a sunny Colorado day.

Sound was the most prevalent, however. A country of a billion people can never be silent. Shanghai at midnight is as quiet as it gets, yet has all the noise of New York in rush hour. Then there are the people. Such is their poverty many of them would see the American homeless as advantaged. Struggling through the eternal humidity of Shanghai, they trudged in their pursuit of the government-promised privilege of work and food. Tin and wooden hovels were built against the sides of towering glass and marble skyscrapers. Parked next to these were the government supplied Mercedes and Volvos of their day jobs. At each corner was piled cabbage and rice. Never did the Chinese take more than their share.

I took a shortcut to the bar through an alley that sold wares to Westerners. The items were overpriced by Chinese standards, yet a bargain for even me. I paused at a stall with several dozen intricately woven cages swinging gently with the rush of air disturbed by the passing masses. A singing white cockatiel perched inside one of the larger ones. A fluff of red, stood rakishly at attention atop its head. The bird regarded me with one blue eye. An eye smaller, but disturbingly similar to my own.

I glanced over at the young man almost lost in the depths of the smoky stall. He didn't get up. He knew I was merely looking, as I always did.

I whispered to the bird, speaking of beauty and perfection. The bird cooed and preened. This creature had been a friend since my first day in country. I reached out a hand to caress its silky down, but caught myself.

My first trip away from my wife, I had bought the exact same type of bird. It was my first unplanned gift of love. I remember when she came home and how it flew off my finger and landed expertly on her shoulder as if we had rehearsed. Initially, her green eyes had widened in astonishment, then like melting emeralds, they'd clouded and ran. The look she had given me had kept me warm for my entire trip. When I returned, our reunion was electric.

The bird was dead now. A heart attack I was told. Since then, my returns were never as enthusiastic.

I quickly peered into the rest of the cages, eager to see their many occupants. To fix them in my mind. At the end of the day, these could possible be the only birds left alive in this great city.

Peter's place was alive with noise. The windows vibrated with the warm cool sounds of Motown. I opened the door and felt the Temptations wash through me.

"Jimmy, my boy," said Peter in his crazed combination of British and Californian English. "About time. I see you brought your protection," he said indicating my umbrella.

"Of course," I said, gratefully accepting the beer he slid towards me. "Seen Karl?"

"He's on the roof. Grab a pitcher, I'm going there myself."

He pushed a plastic pitcher towards me. "By the way, Monica is up there."

Unlike Monica, Peter knew my marital status. The conspiratorial wink hit me like a dart.

I filled the pitcher expertly then followed in his wake. Like me, Peter stood out in a crowd. Black men were as rare as blondes in China and made for easy popularity. Several people on the ground floor nodded my way. I smiled at a wonderful man I had met at the Zimbabwe Embassy. The dancing and acceptance they had so easily offered me to this day is one of my most fondest memories.

Sirens began sounding all over the city as I crested the stairs. Divisions of Chinese were preparing for combat. They were evenly matched, yet hoped for a victory. I picked up my pace. We had fifteen minutes until the show began.

The crowd on the roof was dangerous. It looked as if several could fly away. Then I realized it was Karl and his friends dressed in bird costumes, replete with feathers, wings and orange plastic beaks resting atop their sweaty red foreheads.

Monica was leaning against the chipped railing that kept drunks from careening off the roof. Her pale yellow dress fell off her hips like a waterfall. Her hair, a scant shade darker, swayed loosely in the wind. I sat the pitcher down and slid next to her.

"How's the British Empire doing this morning?"

"Everything's peaceful, the Queen is healthy and the people are fed," she whispered back. Her wide brown eyes barely held her silent laughter at our private joke.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek, inhaling the scent of her make-up.

"Got your umbrella?" I asked.

"I thought we could share," she said.

I turned my gaze to the street and smiled contentedly. Chinese of all shapes, sizes and incomes were pouring out of buildings and cars that had halted in the middle of the street. Each person carried a pan and a wooden spoon. They were lined two and three deep on the sidewalk, chatting animatedly with each other. Pigeons were the only things still moving, their curiosity momentarily checked as they noticed the entirety of Shanghai eyeing them eagerly.

One great blat of the city's siren and ten million Chinese descended on their unsuspecting prey. A great scream erupted followed by the insane beating of the ten million wooden spoons against the iron of ten million frying pans. Simultaneously, every pigeon in the city took to the air. The maniacal symphony echoed through the streets dislodging even the most stubborn squab into a pell-mell flight for freedom.

The cheer that rose from the bar was immediately engulfed by the city's new sounds. I tipped my beer back and finished it in one swallow. I looked around for the pitcher, but was startled by the vision of Karl cavorting around the roof while Peter chased him with a banging wooden spoon.

I tried to imagine New York coordinating such an effort and failed. Surely the pigeon problem was just as bad. Attitude, I concluded. Americans were used to winning and surviving almost impossible odds. American's were individuals. The Chinese had been subjugated by one form of government or another for over a millennia. They were accustomed to being ordered around. They were accustomed to obeying. And for all that, Chinese were happier with their place in life than Americans.

It took two hours before word came that the first one had fallen.

"It's umbrella time," yelled Peter, stylishly extending his umbrella over his head.

We all reached, slightly drunkenly, for our protection. Within seconds, Peter's rooftop bar looked like a prehistoric mushroom garden as multi-colored umbrellas sprung up. Monica's arm hung easily around my waist. We took turns sipping from the large mug of draft in my left hand. I felt something heavy hit the large black surface of my umbrella and slide down to our left.

It was a large gray-white pigeon. Blood ran from the side of its mouth, its chest heaved with exhaustion. The impacts increased rapidly after that as more and more squabs fell to their deaths. As the feathery bodies piled up around my ankles, I felt my smile falter. I looked over at Karl, who was dancing in a small circle, holding a dead bird like Hamlet with an old skull. He was begging it to stir and rise up for revenge.

Monica was doggedly watching the street below the bar. A razor thin smile bisected her face as she stared unblinking at the quickly accumulating mounds of the dead. Chinese, impossible vibrant after hours of pounding, cheered as each pigeon fell to the earth. Monica's predatory smile began to bother me.

I saw several people, eyes squeezed shut and hands over their ears. I was thankful I wasn't alone. This was becoming less fun. I sat the mug down slowly and shoved my hand deep into my pocket. My chin hit my chest. I closed my eyes tightly and wished myself away.

Monica held my hand as we navigated the mounds of the dead. I could tell she couldn't understand my sadness, but she pretended very well. I wondered if it was because of some mysterious woman's intuition or because of her almost hyperactive desire to sit astride me.

We passed an old woman, stuffing carcasses into a large bag. I recognized her. She ran a small restaurant near the hotel. I made a mental not to eat-in for awhile.

The alley was deserted. Almost all the racks and booths were closed. Ahead, I saw the bird cages hanging solemnly. Until now, I hadn't realized how badly I needed to see a living bird. The strange aching in the pit of my stomach increased tenfold.

I hadn't believed the Chinese could pull it off. It was a grand scheme they'd constructed. To terrify the birds into flight and keep them aloft until they fell from exhaustion was almost too simple. I remember how I'd laughed. I remember the jokes we'd made. Now, what I needed most was a living bird. I missed their freedom. I missed their curiosity. I missed their beauty.

I approached the cage happy and anxious to see 'my' bird. It lay in the bottom of the cage. A pair of cool blue pools stared back at Monica and I, so impossibly large I tightened my legs, afraid to lean forward and fall in. The red tuft was splayed wetly against the cage floor. The brilliant white feathers had lost their sheen, like a light bulb that had blown. With every breath, I knew it was my fault. It was too much.

I bade a confused Monica good-by and slunk back up to my room where my eyes stared back at me over the green hotel phone. This time I didn't ignore them. I stared into my cool blue pools and wondered about their coolness.

The End

Bio

Weston Ochse was born in 1965 in the great emptiness some call Wyoming. He has authored over 70 short stories which have found homes in anthologies such Children of Cthulhu, The Dead Inn and Tourniquet Heart, magazines, and the critically acclaimed collection co-authored with David Whitman, Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors. A sequel collection titled Appalachian Galapagos: A Scary Rednecks Collection is due out in hardback in January of 2003 by Medium Rare Books. The very popular original Scary Rednecks will be reprinted in hardback in May 2003 by Medium Rare Books, as well. Weston lives in La La Land where he has finished work on his novel, Scarecrow Gods. Try him online at www.westonochse.com.