andrew seid

on a barnacle encrusted boulder at the water’s edge. a hong kong river opens out to sea. it is 630pm, the day becomes dusk; water nags and folds on all the boulders. closer to the edge, a rounded fish pecks at barnacular protrusions; juvenile puffer. a pair of slender translucent fish seem to wait, each with a tiny white brain set behind its eyes. hundreds of half-inch guppies hover synchronized, bodies like tiny squirts of motor oil.

a hunting crab’s ocular stalks spot movement. or perhaps he felt the sound of foot on rock. scatters down and away.

it is getting darker. rhythmic lapping interrupted by an occasional larger fish breaking tension and thrusting body into the air. soon the attacks come frequently. from that spot radiate a thousand more jumps. smaller fish reacting to the gaping maw which startled them. the jumps beget more of the same, and a circle spreads out in all directions. two seconds after the fleshy white doom has submerged, the tiny fish are still jumping. following, reacting, running from a threat which no longer exists.

vast spans the gap. we stood in the gravel yard between the horse shelter and the pig sty; me and a couple classmates. a frigid energy pulsed in the atmosphere; the clouds were indecisive. the bus driver enlightened us regarding his financial affairs.

DRIVER. “daughter went abroad to study, makes this amount of money over seas.”

AMERICAN. “does she plan to return to china?”

DRIVER. “china has some problems. look around, this poor countryside, unacceptable. she couldn’t make the same money over here.”

AMERICAN. “but this countryside is so beautiful. it’s really nice.”

DRIVER. ” (hesitates) … i only make this amount of money every year.”

having climbed to the top of the mountain, we continue to scan for what we thought would be here. don’t worry china, you’ll make it up too. but find you won’t what you seek.

i swam laps at the harbin flying fish pool. washed, got dressed and stepped into the cold city air, rain spitting down all around. it’s ok to leave your plastic water bottles on the street; there are people who come and pick them up. through the nighttime darkness and across the pock-marked asphalt, rain and mud and oil fill up the pits and make them puddles. plod around them, save your shoes. a different shortcut now, this time the first alleyway, cutting through the tall dilapidated apartments. a more treacherous path, a taxi pushes its way through; its lights fade and my eyes adjust again. on the other end, city lights break through, and all the plastic bags have been blown against the wall to the right (nobody collects the bags). bus 109, bus 108 rocket by. waiting for 107; i’m hungry, catch it later.

enter the 4 table establishment and sit down, tomatoes and eggs over rice. In come 3 chaps, saw them at the pool too. an unusually handsome bunch, i think to myself. not students, they say they are models. 24 yrs, 23 yrs, and 20 yrs of age. benefits: lots of pretty girls. salary: so-so. requirements: exercise and don’t get fat. negative: once you get old, you can’t do it anymore. the talkative one bought me a bottle of pepsi (glass, but don’t take it away, the restaurant gets to recycle). they are taking the train to beijing this weekend, soft sleeper, company pays— some show to get to.

Q. how did you all decide to become models?

A. we didn’t study well.