The Misfit Pioneers

Ming hauled the door open, her lips pressed together against the chill. Rubbing her hands, she dusted the white flakes off her coat and hurried inside.

She rarely came to this side of campus. Though it was a small university, the engineering students kept to their quarters and the art students to theirs. A quiet thrill shot through her at this minor act of defiance.

The art studio exhibited a curious architecture. Filmy drapes hung on black bars, almost like shower curtains. Bulging pipes peered from the ceiling. A string of lights crisscrossed overhead with no real symmetry. Concrete walls splattered with ash and paint. At least the low-rise tables and chairs appeared orderly and clean, gathered in blocks across the tiled, gray hardwood.

It was a very American studio, at least in Ming’s mind. Back home they would not tolerate such a design, even for a creative workshop. Ventilation pipes belonged behind walls and makeshift lights would be tossed in favor of unobtrusive ceiling fixtures.

Naked. That is how she would describe the room.

“Escaping the cold?”

She jumped at the voice. Turning, she found a lanky, raven-haired boy watching her with an amused expression. His hands were dark with charcoal dust.

“I wanted to wait for the snow to stop. I parked in the main lot.”

“You’ll be waiting awhile, then.”

Ming shrugged. She did not want to dwell on what prevented her from going home earlier, much less explain it to a stranger.

“Are you a student?” she asked instead.

He nodded. “Just transferred from art history to art. Drop a word from my major’s name and gain another year’s worth of work.” He grinned. “I’m Jonah.”

“I’m Ming, electrical engineering,” she said, knowing that was sufficient explanation for why they were not acquainted.

“Ming,” he repeated. “Cool name.” Jonah glanced at the dirty window, the edges frosted over with snow and ice. “It doesn’t look like the storm is letting up. I make a mean hot chocolate, if you want me to fix some up.”

She hesitated for a moment but agreed. The roads were dangerous, and the hot and humid weather of her hometown had not prepared her for the bitter winters here. Besides, Jesse would not call anymore and Ming did not want to be home alone with her thoughts.

Jonah had an easy, unaffected manner. He filled the silence with small talk about his life as he bustled around the kitchen area. Ming sat at a table nearby and listened. She learned that he switched majors late, so he spent frequent nights in the studio playing catch-up. Unlike most college students, he disliked coffee, but had an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe. No sugar,” he boasted, as he set two steaming mugs before her.

The warm, rich scent filled her nostrils. “Thank you,” she said.

He pulled out the chair opposite to her. “So, Ming. Does your name mean anything?”

“It’s the same word for ‘bright’ in Chinese. It’s quite common.” She paused. “What about Jonah?”

“The prophet, in the Bible.” He grinned at Ming’s blank look. “God sent him to preach to a wicked city, he disobeyed, and was swallowed by a fish for three days.”

She considered it for a moment. “It seems like bad luck,” she said finally.

Jonah laughed. “He made it out alive. It’s a great story, actually.”

Ming flushed and fell silent. Her family burned incense, prayed for health and prosperity, and tried to live good lives for karma’s sake. In her last two years in America, her circle of engineering friends rarely discussed religion, philosophy or literature. If Jesse worshiped anything, it was Bruce Willis movies, which he insisted were a sufficient lens into western culture and ideals.

“Do you plan to go back to China after school?”

“I wasn’t, but—” Ming stopped abruptly, a painful twinge in her chest. She met Jonah’s eyes, steady and kind. “My boyfriend is from here. He broke up with me today.” The words fell out in a rush.

Jonah’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry.” Then he added, “He’s a jerk.”

Surprised, Ming glanced at him. “You don’t know him.”

“Of course not. But he probably is.” He held up a hand to stop her interruption. “Here’s a rule for breakups. Get rid of that urge to defend him.” A crooked smile slid up his face. “I don’t know him. I know you. I’m on your side, alright?”

Ming suppressed the urge to tell him that his logic was convoluted and nonsensical. She had to admit it felt good to have someone on her side.

She and Jesse shared the same circle of friends. Or, more accurately, Jesse formed their circle of friends and drew her in when they began dating. Ming knew this was nonsensical too, that the loss of one relationship could make her feel so unanchored and lonely on a campus teeming with students.

“Thanks,” she said. “My friends were all Jesse’s friends, so…” she trailed off.

Jonah nodded in understanding. “Jesse is from the Bible too. Father of a king,” he murmured. “I’m guessing your ex isn’t that great.”

Ming couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think so. And how are you living up to your name?”

“I’m all for seeing the inside of a fish.” Jonah grinned. “I like a good adventure. I’m forming a campus club for explorers, actually. The Misfit Pioneers. Have you heard the rumors about this place?”

She had. The administration tried to check wild gossip, but students still whispered about secret passageways and treasure troves buried beneath the grounds. Ming could never decide if it was the typical American obsession with conspiracy, or if there was some truth wrapped in the stories.

Jonah was on the ground, wrestling with something in the tiles. “This is what happens when you spend too much time here,” he called up to her. She heard a crack and an entire tile came loose. A plume of dust rose as he heaved it aside.

Ming yelped and joined him, peering into the darkness.

“What’s—in there?” she asked.

“Not sure. I was going to check it out sometime, hopefully with a buddy.” He met her gaze. “So, interested in joining my club?”

“How many people are in it?” she asked, still distracted by the gaping hole in the floor.

“Well, now there are two of us.”

Written by: Dana Li
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

The Yellow Bicycle

“I always want to remember from where I came,” Mr. Luo said, unzipping his dirty work coveralls. He looked like a new man, with a dark blue suit, white shirt, and yellow tie underneath.

With the wave of a hand and a few words in Chinese, he directed a subordinate of the little bicycle repair shop to bring forth his new acquisition; an aging English Midland bicycle.

I gaped in awe. The only time I had ever seen such a novelty was over forty years ago in the movie “Goodbye, Mr. Chips.” Bright yellow in color, it was in fabulous condition. I dared not touch it.

Now a billionaire, Mr. Luo ran an empire of fertilizer that stretched to all corners of the earth. At all hours of the day, conveyor belts heaved up thousands of tons of festering porridge from the bowels of large cargo vessels, spewing the dark mix upon huge mounds. His company processed, fortified, and packaged this muck for resale abroad. There was nowhere on the planet where his fertilizer was not used. The air that we breathe daily in this city along the coast, and its ghastly aromatic tint, was a never-ending witness to his success.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Take it.”

I put my hands on the bars. Emboldened, I rang the bell. Studying the bicycle so as not to look him in the eye, “I asked, “Why did you name your company Sha Gua? Doesn’t that mean idiot?”

With a blank face, seemingly unable to place himself back in time from where the name originated, he answered without emotion.

“The name of my company? Again, I do not ever want to forget from where I came, nor do I want others to forget.”

I was puzzled, and it was evident to him.

“Many years ago, before the new development, times were hard in China. Perhaps you know of this time?” His face was still without emotion as he asked the question.

“The Cultural Revolution? Though American, Mr. Luo, I’m a professor at your university. Of course I know it.”

“This was my first shop, my first vocation, my happiness. Occasionally, I even traded in pig droppings so that they could fertilize their small fields.”

I mounted the yellow bicycle to gather a feel of the seat. “And Sha Gua, the idiot?”

“You are impatient, aren’t you?”

“No, I just woke up with Pink Eye this morning. I best be getting to the clinic before work.” I checked my watch for the time.

For the first time, he smiled. “Of course. It will be faster if you ride the bicycle.”

I turned my head once again to meet his eyes.

Expressionless, he continued, “Sha Gua, the name of my company, comes from the words on the high pointed hat that I was once made to wear as I was bound and dragged through the streets by the Red Guards. I was called a speculator, the most heinous of accusations, for selling dung. I was the idiot, and all were to know this.”

Now, it was my face that matched his blank maw.

“But, times have changed,” he added.

“Yes. I suppose they have,” I replied.

“Leave the bicycle with the doctor there. He will be only too glad to ride it back.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You know the abominable Doctor Feng?”

“Abominable?”

“A jest. When I walked by yesterday he had a cigarette dangling from his lip. His lab coat was filthy as usual, and he was cleaning a used syringe with a handkerchief. Some old guy was sitting listless next to him. Not sure if he made it. Abominable seems fitting.”

“Ride the bicycle to him.”

I nodded. I pushed the yellow bicycle through the garage door of the shop and quickly made my way down the street to the clinic.

Once there, a small crowd of onlookers gathered. I thought they were curious as to the nature of the resident foreigner’s visit to the clinic. This was not so. They instead circled about the yellow bicycle, as if beholding a holy relic. I noticed Dr. Feng was there at the door of his clinic, looking at me as well. An intense individual, perhaps now in his late fifties, Dr. Feng was tall and strikingly handsome, despite his disheveled appearance. He immediately discerned the reason for my visit, looking at my red and swollen eye.

Fumbling through a cabinet, he produced a vial. He placed some drops in my eyes, letting me know with a few words and sign language to do the same every four hours. Then, he gathered a patch to place over my eye. Despite my hesitancy, I allowed him to put it on.

Adjusting my sight, I peered across the room. Standing, I lifted up the patch upon seeing my reflection in one particular picture. The image was of a long time ago. It was Chairman Mao Tse Tung smiling, seated upon a yellow English Midland.

A large, red Cadillac STS pulled up at the curb beyond the throng. The driver exited, opening the rear passenger door. It was Mr. Luo, the king of crap. I paid Dr. Feng, and then met the aging gentleman outside.

I uttered, “Dr. Feng was your tormenter, wasn’t he? He was the young man who dragged you through the streets with the dunce cap on your head.”

Mr. Luo feigned a smile. Then, he pointed at me and observed, “You look like a pirate. Perhaps now you have a Chinese name. We shall call you Jiang Hai Dao – The River Pirate.”

“Arrrgh!” I grumbled. Giving a two finger salute, I bid him a good day, and headed down the street into the city. At the corner, I stopped, something urging me to look back. As I did so, I saw Mr. Luo and Dr. Feng locked in embrace. My chest heaved, water from a river of emotion beyond sight filling my eyes.

Indeed, for everything there is a season.


Written by: Say Simba
Photograph by: Daniel Vidal