Get Up Eight

I’m nearing the end of sharing yesterday’s slice with the kids. I’ve been trying on some new moves and curious to see how they land in a room full of 9-year olds.

Savvy literary aficionados or not, they still listen.

And this, after years in this profession, still amazes me. Kids love a great story.

Or even a so-so one.

I come to the end of the post, and they pause.

They’re so quiet

Did they like it?

Moving on, as 4th graders do, one of them offers

You should write about us!

A chorus of voices responds

Yeah!

I’m in.

That sounds amazing! But, what should I write about?

Like, did anything happen getting to art and back?

What happened on the playground today!

They say, assuming I know.

Yeah, like when Ms. C asked should we wear hoods or hats? And what’s the difference?

Suddenly they’re fired up.

You could also share our song!

Now, this is interesting.

What song?

We’re writing a song!

---

*Some-body once told me the world was macaroni so i took a bite out of a tree

it tasted like a pony and I thought that was funny so I bit a mon-keeeey

the monkey was sad and felt like I was bad and pushed me out of the tree

a hundred years later he turned into Darth Vader and sliced me into three*

---

Hat tip to 4C for the inspiration.

Not sure where they’ll go with the song. but for the time being, I’m pretty impressed.

So I’m running with it.

---

---

* Not my verses, this is solely the work of T&N, 4th grade wandering minstrels

Elephant and I, just chillin’

Leaning on the rail, watching the endless traffic pass.

Au Co is six lanes, a masterpiece of steady pace and vigor. Mostly motorbikes, with the odd truck or taxi interspersed.

We watch from above the street, silent, together. Whale watching.

Every intersection is all chaos, the notion of ‘lanes’ quaint. A left turn invites new and different ways to approach, every time.

But it manages to work, somehow.

There’s a sense of ‘go ahead’ here, as in

go ahead, I can wait my turn.

People generally don’t drive very quickly, which allows a pause, to make way.

A collective sense of

We’ll get there,

and if we work together we’ll get there, faster.

As whales do, moving in pods. Acquiescing.

I contrast this collective ethos with driving back home, where a sense of entitlement, of offense, of rage, is duly imprinted

It’s the car ads

But I digress

Papa, we should count.

Elephant has ideas for a game.

We have to give it some sort of proportion. So I offer

How about points for how many people are on the bike

One point for one person, two points for two, five points for three, 10 points for four

Maybe

He pauses for a minute to think through the logic.

The bikes continue, unabated

Let’s do it as squares

Squares?

Yeah. One for one, four points for two, nine points for three, and 12 points for four. He hesitates. No, wait! 16 points for four. And so on.

I like his scoring system. He claims one day to have seen a motorbike with seven people on it.

To me, this is the mythical white whale. A 49er. But he insists.

I’m hesitant to believe, a cynic, even.

But then I gaze down at him, all bright eyes and wonder, sparkling with a renewed sense of purpose

And recall what it was like to see the world, this incredible world, with fresh eyes

I’m hopeful that I, too, can see the world like that again.

He settles in closer, taking my hand, all tenderness, and goodness, and air. We return to our silent watch, parameters firmly set

And search, together

for our white whale

Come on, we need a fifth!

Yeah, why not?

I finish lacing my football boots when my colleague demands I join the frisbee fun.

I’m not here for the friz, I’m pretty mediocre. But it’s always a good workout and our football hasn’t started yet, so I jump in.

What could go wrong?

There’s a thing about me. I like to join in. To be part of the action. I’m in!

Regardless of consequence.

There’s another thing about me. I’m not getting younger.

These two things are slightly at odds.

But I power through, and am glad for both. High fives and good games all around, I don’t embarrass myself too much. I’m tired after a couple hours, but it’s a happy tired.

Someone once told me that electrolytes are important

Rehydrate!

and I’m pretty sure I scoffed

Heh

---

I’m dozing

Wrapped in a dream, pre-alarm, everything right in the world

But my dozy bliss is short-lived

My electros are lyte

I turn on my side and gently extend my fetal position. shifting my leg forward, ever so slightly

When my calf decides it’s time to wake up

A barking general, rallying the troops. And he’s a total jerk.

The pain is intense

I contort my upper body, doing my best to stifle a yelp as J is soundly asleep next to me

I am a sudden contortionist, somehow bending my body to wrap around the pain

Which doesn’t help, even a bit.

If you’ve ever cramped up, you probably know there’s no way out but through

I am taken down

I try to breathe through, and am eventually, mercifully, relieved.

J rolls over, stirring slightly

Mm…you ok?

Yeah, all good, doing great, nothing to see here!

She rolls back over

Just as the alarm goes off to start our day.

I like a moody start to my workday, dark, a bit gloomy. And today I’ve met my mark.

Lights out, air off, nobody around. Colleagues have, at different times, wondered if I was once a vampire, and nickname me The Lone Wolf. I prefer to think of it as a return to the womb, where we all once did our best thinking.

Alas,

today this wolf has company.

Where do they all come from? And why are they here?

Mosquitoes, I get. They breed so quickly and in the interests of survival have to dig into skin. Just in it to win it, unapologetic. They’re here to make a quick buck and move on.

But the buzzards aren’t mosquitoes, this time.

The flies that have joined me, I don’t really understand. Life cycle, purpose, role in our world.

But for some reason, here in Moldy March, they are everywhere. Colleagues share that they remain for a couple weeks and then retreat with the heat.

Buzzing the tower, landing on food, on clothing, on arms, on the back of the neck (that’s the worst one). Gone before I can make contact, looping around and readying for another pass.

And this is the time flies

Time flies

This is the time flies flourish.

Everywhere, just to bother me and mess with my planning.

Shortly after the flies have reached peak, the kids arrive with an agenda for their insect friends.

Get them!

They bounce around the room, happily attempting to swat the incoming raiders. As more kids enter to start their schoolday, the room is abuzz, child and fly alike.

They turn on the lights to better see their foes, cycling in and out the door in an attempt to cleanse.

And my morning return to the womb is put on hold.

Everyday is filled with spectacular moments. Seek them! – Laila Gifty Akita

---

Everyday magic.

The gift of inertia that rescues a speeding but stalled motorbike and eases it to the curb.

A hand-drawn marauder’s map, guiding a wayward soul to buried treasure.

A tow-truck push from a kind stranger, rescuing the one who doesn’t know his way.

An unheralded, astonishing lane, hidden in plain sight, drenched in wonder.

Am I really here

---

What’s wrong with your bike?

I’m shaken from my daydream, lost, as the mechanic twists wires and rebuilds connections, by nearly flawless English.

What happened to your bike?

I look down at the face of a girl, no more than 8, peering up at me, to the bike, then back at me.

Oh, sorry! I don’t know, but it’s not running any more.

Do you know what happened?

Well, I got into an accident the other day with my son, and then today it stopped working.

Are you okay?

Yep, I’m fine.

That’s good.

She notices my badge and her eyes light up.

You work at the school! I have a friend there! I have a friend there!

She dances, just a bit.

We banter back and forth, she’s filled with questions. I share a bit about what grade I teach, and she asks after my son.

He’s okay. I was the only one who got hurt, a bit.

I show her my road rash, she grimaces.

I’m okay though.

Her mom returns, a bag of fresh greens in hand. She explains in rapid Vietnamese what I assume is my life story. Her mom smiles and nods at me. And as they prepare to leave she adds

My name is Xiang

Nice to meet you, Xiang

Nice to meet you too. I’m glad you’re okay.

And, like that, she’s gone, pixie dust trailing her wake.

---

I’m struck, just a little, by magic that has happened, on Ngo 38, here, today.

By kindnesses shown to a random stranger, help found, when needed, from others. By what is now, clearly, a pattern of goodness

of care.

I don’t think this is unusual for Vietnamese. And the more I travel, I find that this is not unusual for humans. A sense of sharing, of kindness, a willingness

to say

I see you

and

are you okay

and

how can I help

And how sometimes, small humiliation compels us to better reach, and then share, our humanity.

To remind ourselves, that when we step back off the curb, take in what is before our eyes, and extend our hand

---

we make magic

Our narrow tributary floods into a river of traffic, 6 lanes wide, and it’s time for the truck to end its tow. My good samaritan gives me a final push and yells above the fray of the street

My shop is here!

She points around the corner as I slow to a halt and hop off the bike. I walk it to the front of the shop and stand awkwardly, not sure what to do with myself.

The gentleman who must be the head mechanic pauses his wrestling match with a disassembled Honda to size me up, greasy rag in hand and a wrench that seems two sizes too small. He eyes our bike, as she arrives to rescue me, translating what she knows on my behalf.

He nods, cursory. Barks a couple orders to his assistant. Goes back to work on his project. The younger mechanic grins and approaches me, bright red plastic stool, square, in hand.

Sit!

No, cam on! I’m ok!

I wave him off with a smile.

Given where I’ve just been, I need to stand and catch my breath.

I step back,

just off the curb,

out of the way.

I just need to watch, for now.

This day, without a doubt, has been about magic.

Not the stuff of a fairy tale, or the stage.

This is everyday magic.

The kind that we can only see when we step back,

just off the curb

out of the way.

He wheels my bike onto the curb in front of the shop, all arrayed with motorbike parts, various assembled and disassembled scooters, and three mechs, hard at work. I’m not sure exactly what comes next, but I keep my mouth shut and observe.

He hovers our ride on kickstand, rear wheel suspended. He attempts to make the back wheel move and finds nothing yet again. Utters a few words to the boss and gets to work.

Working magic.

And in this moment, at a garage, I think back.

---

Jon was our go-to mechanic. Great guy, knew his stuff. But invariably, when the car was in the shop, the same response

Yeah, it’s a <insert random mechanical issue here>. That’s gonna be uh…$800

and the next time

Well, there’s an issue with your <insert random mechanical issue here>. That’s gonna be uh…$800

and so it went.

Regardless of malady, we always seemed to end up charging the visa close to a grand.

Cars are expensive

---

And, so.

As I watch the capable hands of this skilled apprentice pull apart the front panel to expose a series of wires, I’m quietly sure

This magic show ain’t gonna cost $800.

I trail my patronus cart for half a block before the next intersection and peer up at the signpost.

Ngo 38

I double check the map, confused, and peer down the lane. There’s not much to it.

looks like an alley

this can’t be it

a road to nowhere

But this adventure has been a series of leaps, and purpose calls. I take a breath, ease the stalled bike down the gentle grade into the darkened lane, and make my way toward a slight bend.

What meets me around the corner is, like all things this day, unexpected.

The road widens only slightly, into a completely new street, a whole new world

I look behind me and blink

Where am I

Shoehorned between a series of corrugated stalls, adorned with fresh vegetables every shade of green, hardware, even a few toilets. Merchants buzzing, squatting between plastic rounded baskets, tending wares, all barter and banter. A cacophony of buying and selling, light, and life.

The local butcher, carcasses neatly arrayed and ready

CHOP

His blade is busy as I pass, and there is joy in his work

He shoots me a sly grin as I slide by, agape

Everything is happening

School kids saunter by in uniform, delivery drivers in flight, grandmothers and children hand in hand. And, always and forever, beeps.

As I wander, an oasis of green – a gated temple, adorned with stone walls, sanctuary amidst chaos. It invites rest.

Nope, not tonight

I am swept up in this reverie, life’s movie passing me by

When I am suddenly interrupted

What’s wrong with your bike

The woman astride her own motorbike pulls alongside, points, and asks

I don’t know

I have a shop, it’s there!

She points

Come

She motions for me to hop back on my bike, so I do.

And I am confused.

No go

I point to the engine and shrug

Ok! Let’s go!

She eases her bike closer, overlapping by a couple feet, and puts one foot on my rear fender

Like this!

Gives her bike gas and I finally clue in

I ease my hand off my brake, lift my feet off the ground, feel the gentle swell of the breeze

And, suddenly, against all odds

We are in motion, in flow, in flight

This is the local version of a tow truck

And I am, yet again

amazed

I am a salmon

Making my way upstream, doing my best to avoid random grizzlies

With one key difference.

A salmon heading to spawn is all purpose and faith. These resolute fish are steadfast, spurred on by instinct, assured by ancestral wiring that they will reach their goal.

Procreation is a powerful motivator.

As for me, I’m a minnow. I have purpose – get the bike running – but lack confidence on my way up the river.

can I really trust this map

I have no idea where I’m going

I’ve left the friendly cartographers, their hand-scrawled map in hand, and have made the questionable decision to push and walk alongside the bike against the flow of traffic.

If I’m turning left up ahead this is definitely the right decision

right?

The swarming, endless headlights continue their assault, nearly blinding me as I stride awkwardly beside the bike, trying to avoid collision. I trust in the map, channel my inner sockeye, and continue onward.

That’s when, from nowhere, the small yet sturdy woman emerges. Grey coveralls and soft-brimmed hat, bandana trailing out her back pocket. Urging her double-wide garbage cart along the same side of the street as me. She is unbowed, indifferent even, to the oncoming flow. She powers forth, her sense of purpose leading her on.

She has work to do. And she is confident.

I keep pace, grateful for her shield, comforted in the notion that this tiny robust woman knows the way.

I pick up my pace to match hers. Our steady shared rhythm bolsters my mood.

Now I have someone to swim with.

From the first spin

The drive engine on our e-bike has done a share of cutting in and out.

Usually after a little bit of whacking or tapping (I’m the Fonz) the drive kicks back into gear. But since the lay-down, it’s gotten worse.

This is called foreshadowing.

---

A couple of days have passed since we had our near collision. I wrap up the school day and try to decide on the best route home. I round the corner from the school gate and make my usual decision. Two roads diverge.

Is it the road less traveled?

My choice today is exactly that, and that, of course, makes all the difference.

Straight out the gate towards the four-lane causeway, saving the side road for another day. Off to S&A’s place, we’re on for dinner. Taxis, trucks, and endless motorbikes fly by, all horns and clutter. I make my way into the mix, ease the throttle forward, and get up to speed.

And then the engine dies.

Nothing.

I hastily peek right, throw on my signal (thankfully functional), grateful for my momentum but inexorably coasting to a stop. Luckily, I’d stayed close to the curb and hadn’t yet made the dash across 4 lanes for a left turn.

I pause, take a breath, and try to coax life. All my usual dance moves, but they disappoint.

Stone dead.

I punch out a text

Bike’s dead, gonna try to check with a shop over here

Lacking alternatives, I get off the bike and start to push. Past the four gentlemen, hunched over their soup. They eye me briefly, quizzically. And then return to dinner, I’m no longer their concern.

I make my way to the major intersection dotted with shops – I know that there’s a small garage there. I settle up and point to the bike.

No go

With a shrug of my shoulders

can you fix?

The man and woman squatting on their plastic stools tell me, not in so many words but with their actions, that they cannot fix an e-bike here. They glance and motion inside, as if to make their case. I see the array of gas cans, cylinders, and greasy tools.

I believe them.

Is there another shop?

They point down the street and then tell me. I don’t recall seeing a shop on this street, so I wonder how far. Quickly translating, I do my best to ask.

Is it far?

They look at each other and instead of answering me, grab a piece of scrap paper and scribble out a map detailing the route.

A left turn, then another left turn. At the bottom, scrawled hastily to label,

Ngo 38

I thank them and make my way down the road

Searching for lane 38

I have thoughts

in a state of preponderance

Just moments out of a self-care special, a massage, tea, and a sit.

I’m calm on the out, but my in is busy

Considering future, ruminating on past.

Contemplating.

I wander up the concrete ramp, eager to hop on our bike and meet the family at the ramen shop, a recommendation from a friend

It’s been a while

I crest the top, recalling last time, when for some unforeseen reason I forgot to put on my helmet and rode for twenty minutes, rag top down so my hair could blow.

Today, the helmet cozies my noggin, lending comfort to the whirls and swirls within. I slide the latch one extra notch, secure it to my head with a satisfying click.

That’s better

I peer to my left, eager to hop on our bike and sample the noodles.

I really hope it’s decent ramen

But the bike is gone

I pause, shook from my reverie. I think my brain is playing tricks on me yet again, the massage has shaken my noodles loose

Alas, no.

I stare at the blank slate, the negative space created by a bike that is no more. And find myself left alone

To contemplate