Long Term Plans

Backed into a corner by two strange men, I have learned two things. One: I definitely do not know who Alex Timpingagen or whoever these guys keep telling me I must know is. Two: blue polo shirts make me afraid. The stem of the wine glass in my hand grows clammy, matching the rest of my body nicely.

Skating to the party was not a good idea. “It’s not far,” Cecily had said, lying through her teeth. I made her pull me on her bike part of the way, but still showed up with my white tee-shirt drenched in sweat, my face shiny and my hair wet. Immediately inside the door is a table covered in brie and French wine in front of a huge window offering a dazzling view of the Beijing skyline.

Leaning my skateboard against the wall, I kick off my sneakers into a cluster of fancy dress shoes and realize I forgot my velvet evening bag.

I summon decorum as I attempt to navigate my way into this increasingly familiar terrain of Stanford graduates and assorted other high achievers. I don’t really know why, but Stanford graduates totally dig Beijing.

Eyeing the cheese and crackers, I realize not having eaten dinner was a terrible oversight. On my way over to the food, I am intercepted by my first blue polo shirt of the evening. Damn.

We talked for as long as it took for the cracker pile to diminish to four before I politely excused myself. Or maybe just walked away muttering “crackers…” I’m not entirely sure.

I pour a glass of Merlot into a white wine glass and wander around, feeling lost. Many members of this party have opening embraced the introduction template, and categorized it numerically. “Question number one: what’s your name?” Is followed immediately by, “Question number two: how long have you been in Beijing?” After, “Question number five: what is your long term plan?” Conversation either shifts or terminates.

I think I like these people but I’m not sure. Is it possible to like someone you are afraid of?

On the balcony a blonde boy in a white polo shirt is talking to me. I am staring at the roof next to us and wishing I was Spiderman, wanting very badly to jump. My landing would be silent, knees bouncing slightly, one hand lightly pressed against the ground only by the fingertips, the other arm stretched behind me for balance and dramatic flair. I look up slowly, intuitively in the right direction, just in time to see a shadowy character who is cackling maniacally run into the stairwell, clutching an ancient artifact of incalculable worth. “Go ahead. Run. You will not escape.”

“What was that?” Asks the blonde boy.

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Sorry, I thought you said something.” The boy pauses and takes a sip out of his glass. “So, question number five. What’s your long term plan?”