888 love and the divine.., p.1
888 Love and the Divine Burden of Numbers, page 1
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
Thank you for buying this
Flatiron Books ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
To all the girls I’ve loved before—and for all the women who have loved me.
And to the two who count the most—whom I count on the most: Erica and Ma.
Prologue
FEBRUARY 24, 1994
Soundtrack highlights:
“New York Minute”—Don Henley
“The Last Worthless Evening”—Don Henley
“Desperado”—Eagles (w/ vox by Don Henley / karaoke cover version vox by Su Su)
Young was startled awake by the screeching squawk of the back-door gate opening—that distinct, familiar sound it made when Su Su was sneaking out of the house for his latest funtime foray into the wilds of female friendship. If he heard more of a rickety creak, the gate was being closed, meaning Su Su was stumbling back home, stale Marlboro and Tsingtao stink clinging to him like his latest pink-lipped lah mei.
It was mostly the day (Thursday) and time (4:47 a.m.) that Young was struggling with. He had fallen asleep studying AP History at the dinner table. Drooled on his binder, his neck hurt. He thought: Why is Su Su up so early? It’s his day off.
“You taking the Harley into the garage now? You finally got her to start?” Young, now out the back door, whispershouting at his uncle so as not to wake his parents, his kid sister.
“Holy shit! Xia shi wo le! What the hell are you doing up already? I thought I was being super quiet. It’s freezing out!” Su Su pulling Young farther away from the house, toward the back of the yard.
The squeak and squelch of worn leather—the jingle-jangle of buckles, clasps, metal studs—it was coming from Su Su and his outfit. He looked ready to ride, and not just to Uncle Tang’s garage.
“Su Su, what’s going on? Where are you going?”
Young’s uncle took his face in his hands, kissed him hard on the forehead and cheeks, hugged him tight. It made Young feel like he was a boy again. He loved this.
“Oh, Young Gun! My tian cai! My little genius! I’ll never make fun of you again! You were right all along! Ever since you were a sweet baby—lining up and counting your Hot Wheels over and over again. Lucky boy! Our brilliant shuai guh! Growing up so smart and handsome!”
Young smiled broadly. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw this joy (manic as it was) spread across his uncle’s (sober) face. He couldn’t remember when he’d embraced him so hard (while sober) and Su Su wasn’t draped over his shoulders for support.
“What do you mean, Su Su? Where are you headed? And why so early, and—”
“My Young-and-the-Breastless, my Cream-of-Some-Young-Guy, I’ve got all the time in the world—and yet I don’t have the time to explain! If I hit the road soon, I can make it out to see Alexis. Remember I told you about her—the one with the Van Halen tattoos and the big nay-nays?”
“Wait—isn’t she down in Georgia? But don’t you have to help Ma set up for the charity banquet this weekend?“
“That’s all taken care of. Nothing extra cash can’t solve. Remember—you can always earn more money, but not more time. Of course, you know! You know all about time—and numbers.”
“You’re just leaving? Now? Where? When are you coming back?”
“Dong, nan, xi, bei—anywhere! Whichever direction my compass points me to that looks good! But west first! Cowboys, cactus, dusty happy trails, girls in short shorts! DEFINITELY WEST!”
“Ma, Bah know about this? And what about Mei? Are you in trouble? Is something wrong? This is crazy!”
“Nothing’s wrong! It’s all going right for once! And I need some crazy, guai. I need it. It’s about damn time.” Young hears the words catch in his uncle’s throat.
Su Su turns away, walks over to the fence separating the Wang household from the neighbors who they rarely see—the ones they’ve only met twice, in all these years. He looks over at the buzzing streetlamp at the corner—half-broken, but sturdy and constant, it’s still humming the theme song of Flushing, Queens. Su Su lights a cigarette.
“Here, here—lai bah. Come on. I know you’ve been sneaking smokes after school. You can split one with your uncle. I won’t tell your ma, but I’m sure she knows.”
Young takes a deep drag and coughs. His uncle slaps him on the back.
“Aiya. Bad habit. Maybe don’t pick it up. Another thing you don’t want to learn from your wang ba dan of an uncle, right?” Su Su takes a last sharp inhale, mashes the rest deep in the dirt, buries the butt with the toe of his black boot. “What time is it, Young?”
“It’s 5:12.”
“Is that a good time? I’m still not entirely sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know? Your numbers—your system? Is it auspicious? Lucky? Safe? Blessed? Good numbers?”
“5:12 is 5 plus 1 plus 2—it adds up to 8—the best. But it’s 5:13 now, and 13 is bad luck. Even if all the digits add up to 9, which is another good one. The 13, though—I hate it.”
“OK, OK. Help me get her through the driveway and down the block first. And we’ll aim to be on the road at exactly 5:30. Adds up to 8. That’s lucky, right?”
“Yeah—yeah. That’s a great time. But you still haven’t explained anything.”
“Ah—so much talking, Young! Chit, chat, chit, chat—all those movies you like! I like the boomboompewpew Star Wars ones we used to watch together. Not the black-and-white blahblahblah ones you rent now. Young-Not-Old, sometimes you don’t need all these words—just the feeling, the doing, the motion, the action. Listen to your Su Su: you need to get the balance right. Yin/yang. Stereotypically Asian—but true, too! There’s a time and place for all of it. But I know how you are, and I love you and indulge you. You’ll get your words and explanation soon.
“Ah, more of my hu shuo ba dao, right? I contradict myself all the time! Who loves to talk more than me? I just usually need a few beers first! But there’s something I left for you in the basement. And it’s not more action figures from Taiwan. OK, come on—it’s almost time.”
Young helped his uncle roll his motorcycle to the end of the block. It was heavy, but it looked good, renewed. Su Su must have been working on it for a while. Lost in his world of school and friends, Young hadn’t realized that his uncle had polished the chrome, oiled the parts, had it ready to blaze again.
Once they had the Harley parked by the beat-up stop sign, Su Su straddled it, kicked, revved, and pulled Young close. He brushed the hair from his nephew’s eyes, held his cheek in his rough hand, and patted him hard on the chest.
“Protect this. Your heart, your heart. You’ve got time for the other important bits—your brain and balls are still growing. I know you’ll get strong. But this—this—is still far too tender.” Su Su, tapping Young’s chest with the back of his fist.
Young could feel his breathing quicken. He wanted to clutch his uncle’s hand and take it off the handlebar, demand more reason and rationale. But Su Su had donned his helmet, flicked down the visor, his eyes obscured by the curvature of the lens. Young could see his own distraught reflection there, but his uncle looked like a badass hero (or villain), and he was leaving.
“I love you, guai. I promise I’ll write! I’ll tell you about my adventures! You’ll be proud of your Su Su—or at least be really fucking jealous!” Su Su, sounding muffled and distant, but still right here.
“I—I don’t know what to say.” Young, struggling to find the words.
“How about ‘Jiayou, Su Su’? Some encouragement before I put the pedal to the metal?”
“Jiayou, Su Su.”
“Damn straight, guai.”
The engine roared, and the bike was in motion around the corner—slow at first but picking up speed. Young was rooted to his spot, leaning against the familiar rusted post of the sign.
Su Su lifted his right hand: the index finger, the pointer finger, the thumb raised. That imaginary gun that used to shoot at aliens, the weapon of choice for the bandit who told him to “stick ’em up”—the robber to his cop.
This was the number 8, when you count on one hand, “the Chinese way.” (Su Su had taught him: Like this for 6—and this for 7. But 8 is the best one—it’s like THIS.) The number 8 was the most supernatural, lucky, fortuitous number—with the perfect expression, in the most powerful way. Young’s magical motion: casting spells of protection, defending against the invisible waves of evil and misfortune that threatened to crash down upon him and those he loved. The silent sidearm that eased his fears, shooting through all the dark and doubt.
888, bangbangbang, 888
Young said a prayer for his Su Su, raised his hand in the air, pulled the trigger. Action, reaction. He could only hope that God, the universe, heard the silent mystical sound, exploding louder than that hot motor growling in the growing distance.
Onward to the unknown—for infinity or just a little while? Young felt like this was the end of something, the beginning of something else. It could exist as both, for now. Was it going to be good? Blessed? Best to be sure from the start—
bangbangbang.
Good and Bad Numbers
(UPDATED VERSION: MAY 1997)
1: The first, the best. GOOD.
2: Pairs. GOOD.
3: The Trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. SO GOOD!
4: Si. Death. BAD. AVOID.
5: High five. GOOD!
6: The beginning of the worst. BAD. AVOID.
7: LUCKY. SO GOOD!
8: In Chinese, ba sounds like fa. Get rich! Good fortune! SO GOOD!
9: One of my favorites. Ephesians 2:8–9. SO GOOD!
10: A nice, even number of completion. But shi sounds like si. UNDECIDED.
11: Two #1s. Make a wish. GOOD.
12: Dozen. GOOD.
13: Unlucky. BAD. AVOID. (But, 1 Corinthians 13:4–8. Always GOOD.)
14: Double 7s but also shi-si—UNDECIDED.
15: Triple 5s. GOOD. (Number 5 is alive!)
16: Sweet Sixteen. GOOD. (As in, John Hughes good.)
17: #1 with a lucky 7. GOOD? (Also that Winger song?)
18: Adulthood. Chai = Life. GOOD.
19: Stephen King’s number. GOOD. Thankee-sai!
20: Number of completion (same for most multiples of 10, except the ones with 4s). GOOD.
21: Drinking age. Blackjack. Triple 7. Birthday. GOOD!
22: Double deuces. GOOD. (And Catch-22.)
23: Historical TV specials say this is worse than 13! SO BAD. AVOID.
24: Triple 8s, but also has a 4 and adds up to 6. UNDECIDED. GOOD?
25: 5 times 5 and adds up to 7. GOOD.
26: Adds up to 8? UNDECIDED.
27: Triple 9s. The inverse of triple 6? Lots of famous people died at this age. Has a 7. UNDECIDED.
28: Has an 8. Adds up to a number of completion. GOOD.
29: Has a 9. Adds up to 11. But looks weird? UNDECIDED.
30–32: MOSTLY UNDECIDED.
33: Age when Jesus died. Double 3 = Double Trinity. UNDECIDED. GOOD?
34–41: MOSTLY UNDECIDED.
42: The answer to the universe! GOOD. (Don’t forget your towel!)
43: Sum of 7, but don’t like the look of it. UNDECIDED.
44: SO BAD. ALWAYS AVOID.
45–50: MOSTLY UNDECIDED.
69: FUNNY. GOOD.
77: YES. GOOD!
88: SO, SO GOOD!
101: The basics. GOOD. (And Depeche Mode.)
121: Elementary school. GOOD.
143: Erena, Erena, Erena. SO GOOD.
215: Junior high school. GOOD.
217 / 237: Never stay in a hotel room with either of these. (Stephen King, again. And Stanley Kubrick.)
311: In the grand scheme of things, ultimately GOOD—for her. (Though it’s down, down.)
333: Trinity × 3? UNDECIDED. GOOD?
4_4: SO BAD. ALWAYS AVOID.
451: Fahrenheit. GOOD.
555: YES. GOOD.
6_6: THE WORST! SO BAD. AVOID.
777: SO, SO GOOD!
888: THE BEST. BANGBANGBANG.
∞: (Basically an 8 in recline.)
CHAPTER ONE
“Pleased to Meet Me”
NOVEMBER 1995
Soundtrack highlights:
“Cherub Rock”—The Smashing Pumpkins
“World in My Eyes”—Depeche Mode
“High and Dry”—Radiohead
Young worked at Jim’s Undertow twice a week. He would have picked up another two shifts if he wasn’t spending most of his time in Bobst Library reading up on cytochrome c and balancing valence equations. Jim barely paid minimum wage, but he was fun to be around. He had great back-in-the-day stories of the East Village (friends with Joey and Marky) and would treat Young to some Gray’s Papaya hot dogs (with sauced onions) every now and then.
Working at Jim’s was more than a means for pocket cash—it was what Young looked forward to every week. It was access to all the movies and music Young could consume. The Undertow (Get Caught in the Undertow!) was primarily a secondhand media store with a small video rental section upstairs. Much of the unending stockpile of DVD screeners and CD samplers that came across the “pre-enjoyed inventory acquisitions desk” originated from a bevy of interns (those lucky enough to score entry-level marketing jobs at BMG or Warner in Midtown). A third of the merchandise was stickered with “Property of Universal Music Group. For review purposes only.” The merch had razor slashes across its bar codes, holes punched in Hootie’s face or through Alanis’s hair, Sharpie-coded lot numbers on disc rims that someone, somewhere, thought would deter grubby hands from liberating the goods from the latest press-mailing pile.
The dust in the back room was unbearable at times, and the variety of unidentified, questionable substances splattered across the stock (cocaine residue? Apple cider vinegar? Lighter fluid?) made gloves and Lysol required precautions. But the endless rows, stacks, shelves, spinners, and crates filled with DVDs, CDs, videotapes, fanzines, and ratty old concert T-shirts made Young salivate.
Young was responsible for coordinating, cleaning, collating, clearing, and coding: sorting by genre, by artist, by director, by format. All this wonderful disorganized organization calmed the chattering clack that tumbled through Young’s head, the unscratchable itch that came from behind his left ear, pulsed out of his eyelids, then settled in at the base of his skull.
The hardest decision Young had to make that day was if Yaz (aka Yazoo) should be filed under Synthpop, Dance Divas, or simply under Y. (Then again, maybe he could create a special promo sign—“New Wave for Neophytes” or “Vince Clarke Keyboard Collabs”—and feature it alongside Depeche Mode, Erasure, and Alison Moyet’s solo work.)
Every smooth plastic slipcase sliding into its tight shelf slot was therapeutic. Every hard square locked into a plastic guardrail was a serotonin trigger. Everything in its place—and its place was never static. Change, nonpermanence, always moving and shifting, deviant disorder replaced by soothing symmetry. Patterns that he could latch on to for a while, then pivot, replace, reset, and repeat. Young loved this.
NYU was expensive, but grants and financial aid had taken care of most of the bursar’s bill. However, waking up and pulling back curtains to see the rising arch in Washington Square remained a dream. The practical fact: Queens was a forty-five-minute subway ride plus a fifteen-minute bus ride away. He was relegated to the life of a commuter. Not quite a derided “townie,” but the closest you could get as a middle-class resident of the outer boroughs.
With his ACT (32) and SAT (1420) scores, Young had secured a spot at UC Berkeley, but the earthy-crunchy lifestyle would never work for him. He wore black. He listened to Nine Inch Nails, the Sisters of Mercy, and Iron Maiden. He read The Sandman, Watchmen, The Invisibles. And Vonnegut. And Simić. He snuck menthol cigarettes. He liked walking in the rain. He was a moody black-is-the-color-of-everything New Yorker. He didn’t mind perpetuating the cliché. No one would ever describe him as “cheery.”
CalArts, USC—that sunny vision of the unattainable Hollywood elite. NYU Tisch was right here and more realistic, street-level genuine. Scorsese over Spielberg any day (though he still loved E.T. and Indiana Jones).
Young figured he could at least audit some film classes, maybe sit in on lectures. He could find a group like Coppola, Lucas, Milius, and Schrader did back in the ’70s. Didn’t need to be “official.” He could learn through osmosis—make friends, absorb by living on the edges. Guilt by association. He could just—sneak in and observe. He had an NYU ID. He’d find a way to be among the future directors and screenwriters who would be showing at Cannes in ten years’ time.
Or: he could focus on humanities, maybe even apply for grad school—film school! Do it for real, out in the open. He’d make a lousy doctor, research assistant, pharmacist. Pre-med courses were just so that Ma wouldn’t blink when she cut a tuition check, asked to see his grades—her doctor in training (psychiatrist, biochem expert, MD somethingsomething). He would find honorable, respectable, gainful employment after graduation. There was time, and he’d work hard.
