Within hours of landing at Kai Tak and not crashing into the Fragrant Harbour as my white knuckles had feared, I had sufficiently pissed off my instructor to earn my first bitter taste of his cane. My friends and family said my talent for getting into trouble was a combination of being deceptively submissive while being quietly subversive. To me, that always sounded like something they read in a fortune cookie. Time would tell.
When I got there, I was exhausted after three airports and nearly 24 hours of travel. I knew I wasn't going to have much free time in the days to come. The three weeks I was going to be in what was to be the Special Administrative Region, would be spent working 14 hour days, not sightseeing like the others gathering to witness the rocks' return to the motherland.
I didn't have any religious experience being in Hong Kong. Although it was beautiful in a spectacularly gaudy way, it was still an ant hill. Way too much noise. I'd forgotten how Cantonese was always shouted, never spoken. And rude! New Yorkers were erudite princes of etiquette compared to the H. K. population I was exposed to. Chinese never went anywhere, and I do mean anywhere, alone. They traveled in packs. Everyone spat constantly. I understood why, but that didn't make dodging evil-looking iridescent gobs any more pleasant and many people in designer clothes had a nasty habit of blowing their noses on the sidewalks with a one finger hankie. It was impossible to go anywhere without being jostled, if not outright groped. I was in culture shock Hell. No, I wasn't Asian. I was definitely a very pale American-born gweilo.
When I first arrived it was around the dinner hour and Chef Li was supervising preparation of a large banquet. One of his assistants showed me to a standard double room and informed me that I would meet him at his convenience. So I had a quick shower and wandered off to find a bar for a drink before I hit the sheets. I was sipping a second dirty martini when a smartly dressed older man appeared at my side and told me that I belonged in bed. (You can see this coming, I couldn't) I found it so comical, same lines, different continents. Ever the wise ass, I flippantly, although politely, asked how much he was offering.
Why do I always miss the obvious? Right, he was the Executive assistant, Chef Li. My instructor for the next eight weeks. Was I going to be able to extract my foot from my mouth? He was ethnic Chinese, twenty to thirty years older than me, taller and heavier. The only information I had about him was that he had worked with my boss previously in Europe and that they were friends who stayed in touch. The guy was so different from my boss, who was a gregarious grizzly bear of a man. Chef Li was reptilian, menacing, almost sinister and he threw me off balance.
My Mom and Grandma had warned me to show reverence and obeisance during the first meeting with my teacher. Then I was supposed to present him with the traditional expensive gifts I had brought to indicate my respect for him and his position. After the inauspicious encounter, I would be lucky if I wasn't on the next flight to America in disgrace.
Back at my room, which I learned that he and I would be sharing, I got my first two whistling stunners from his cane across my Calvins. No big deal. It certainly didn't live up to the horror stories my natural father had told me about going through the British educational system. What the hell was all the fuss about, I wondered. I'd felt more pain stubbing my toe. The Asian humidity-induced brain rot had already set in.
The old boy was really old school, totally into rituals, history, heritage: you name the cause....he had it in his bonnet. That first night he laid it out. I was to be punished with his cane. I was to be wearing briefs, nothing _s_e_x_ual, just punishment. No crying, no pleading. He was very specific on form, too. The 'kow tow' position. Kneeling, forehead to floor, hands flat on the floor beside my head, knees slightly askew, ass in the air. Very subservient, humiliating and emasculating. _s_h_i_t_, it was just a job, right. Lots of people had to go through worse to hang on to a job. I knew guys who were regularly patted down and just had to take it.
Then there was the way he wished to be addressed. _d_a_m_n_, he was angry enough that I wasn't familiar with the proper position, he was incensed that I had trouble pronouncing 'Master' with the laconic South Georgia drawl that I had picked up from my Dad. If I didn't say it right, it spelled disaster. Chef was spitting mad and I knew I had better practice or there're be hell to pay.
It only took a few days for me to feel stir crazy and I went for a mini-run in the park across the street. In Hong Kong, it was impossible to really run because the roads were clogged with traffic and the streets were overburdened with partying hoards. Chef Li cornered me early the next morning in the kitchen. He forced me against a wall and whispered, " No running at night. Security will let me know if you disobey me. Use your time off to study or sleep." That clipped British accent of his was starting to annoy me. Since when had I become a prisoner, I wanted to know. Why couldn't I go out? He slapped me so quickly I almost didn't realize I'd been hit until my head started to throb.
"I'm responsible for your safety. You will do as I say. You will not leave the grounds alone." He scowled at me to re-enforce his directive. I had never been smacked across the face like that by a chef before. It seemed more intrusive than a beating. Well, he was in charge of my future. Whatever rolled his beads.
He harassed me constantly after that, all the while exhorting me to work faster, speak faster and move faster. I was always accused of being manic, how much more nervous energy did he want? Just how did he expect me to work on my technique with knives, cleavers and super hot woks when he was practically breaking my _d_a_m_n_ piano-trained fingers with cooking chopsticks and jarring swats on my butt. My time in Hong Kong had turned into a nightmare that I couldn't even escape in fitful sleep.
So, a few nights later, I slipped past security again just to run some of my anger and frustration off. I didn't get caught, even with the beer that I had purchased at the 7-11 and tucked in the far reaches of my closet. I felt a secretive sense of control which I guess, showed. Chef started keeping a very close watch on me. By the seventh afternoon, his patience with me was over, erupting into a very dark mood. He started in on my knuckles with those dreaded chopsticks. I snapped, just lost it.
I tore them out of his hand and made a threatening move towards him. Our eyes locked and I suddenly froze, aware, by the silence in the kitchen, of just what I had done. The other chefs who had good-naturedly cringed or snickered at my bizarre accent, all looked down in embarrassment. They knew what Chef had to do.
He slapped me so hard, I lost my balance. Humiliating, but I'd get over it. It should have been worse, I could just feel his anger swirling through the air like some thick, ominous cloud, justifingly choking the life out of me. Although it was obvious that he wanted me to stay down until he left the kitchen, I got up and went back to work as if nothing of any consequence had happened. If we were going to butt heads, I wanted to be as far up his nose as I could be.
Within the hour, Chef came up to the wok next to me and prepared a whole butterflied silver carp. After dusting it with cornstarch, he slipped it gently into boiling oil and left his ladle there. When the fish was perfectly translucent, he plated it then put his scalding hot ladle against the seat of my thin pants. Yeowww! It felt like a _d_a_m_n_ four alarm fire! I knew I was burned but I didn't move and that really made him mad. It was a power struggle getting out of hand. I was a danger to his authority and I understood how important chain of command was, but I just couldn't stomach his brutal behavior.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he did it again and still I didn't react. I was chewing the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. My considerable contrary streak shot into overdrive and I was busily rationalizing: you work in a kitchen long enough, cuts, steam or oil burns, just part of the job.
At the end of the shift, when I started for our room, Chef stopped me in the hallway and held me by the back of my collar like some errant cat.
"You were out running again. I told you Security would let me know!" he spat in rapid Cantonese. "Queers have to be cautious in Hong Kong and Chef Sander is holding me personally responsible for your safety while you are in my custody. Go to the room and wait for me!" His hand flew out and sharply struck my cheek again. I deliberately blinked at his bluntness about my _s_e_x_uality, but other than that, I didn't acknowledge him. He hit me again, so I briefly dropped my eyes to get rid of him. I was too tired and sore for a dumb pissing contest. Chef strode off down the corridor towards the kitchen, turned around and ordered, "You will not glare at my back!" _s_h_i_t_, whatever. I made my way to the room, dreading what was sure to come.
No way could I lay down, I'd fall asleep and then I'd really be dead. He was out for blood, I could smell it. The time ticked on and I knew he was playing a waiting game to wear me down. After six 14 hour days, it was an easy win. Finally, he came in carrying a thin file folder and locked the door.
"Drop your trousers." He barked, again in Cantonese. After that crack about being gay, I wasn't about to do that asshole any favors to get him off my back, so to speak. Chef slowly advanced on me, his eyes narrowing to dark glowing slits. I stood my ground and stared right back at him. Like a dummy, I was thinking that he wasn't going to force me without a fight. Or maybe not. I had lived with that guy for a week and I could see the shape he was in. His hand easily closed around my throat and he went for the pressure points. The floor and my knees made contact. The idiot started thinking, instead of just pumping testosterone, 'The hell with pride'. OK, it seemed smart to just crumple before I got too badly messed up.
When my eyes could focus again, I could see him sitting in the chair reading the file. My head was swimming and I was afraid that if I got to my feet, I'd fall over. My behavior was already uncool enough, I didn't want to faint in front of him. _d_a_m_n_. Chef told me to come and stand by him. I did it but stayed a few feet away. His hand sneaked out and captured my eggs. Owww! They tried to climb back into my body!
"Take off your clothes." Things were going from bad to worse.
Defeated, I took off everything but my briefs. He turned me away from him and down went my cover. I realized that he was looking at the burns he had put on my butt. Earlier, in the john, I couldn't resist checking out the sight myself. Two perfect suns, just touching. Oh well, I had been thinking of getting a tattoo, just not a _d_a_m_n_ stuttering Nipponese flag! When he let go, I adjusted my underwear, then reluctantly turned to face him.
"This is the recommendation sent to us by Chef Sander." He spoke quietly in that distinctive British accented English. I knew that he was making sure that I didn't miss a word or mistake a meaning. "He really pushed for you to have this experience on your resume. However, I think that he's written us about some mythic creature." He sarcastically read from the printout in his hand. "This young man takes direction well. He's co-operative, friendly, resilient, tenacious, obedient although mercurial and always willing to go the extra mile. He's our bright spot in an often tense environment."
He gave me a withering look. "Now, let's look at what I have noted so far." I could feel my unfortunate tendency to blush betraying me. "The boy, that I have instructed is: defiant, willful, stubborn, temperamental, petulant, moody, arrogant, completely lacking ambition and unmaterialistic, which makes me doubt his Chinese heritage. He's also disrespectful and insolent with superiors." My stomach was creeping into my throat. "He's told me that you play around to keep the other chefs loose. I have never even seen you smile. Would you like to smile for me now?", he inquired mildly. Hell, if he was going to fire me after that abysmal report, he could stick several of his fingers between his own smiling cheeks.
I shouldn't have said that out loud.
He smiled broadly, "You think this is about firing you? You are amusing! I see, then you could go home and everyone would think that I caused your failure because you came here with such promise." He stopped smiling abruptly, leapt to his feet and delivered a tooth rattling slap to each cheek. It took every ounce of my strength to stay on my feet. Then he leaned so close to me that his breath was moving my hair. Chef knew that I was very uncomfortable with the Chinese habit of ignoring personal space.
He spoke emotionally then, "You will never achieve excellence if you don't learn to embrace your other self, ghost boy. ASIA IS FOOD!! I know you don't like it here, you don't like me and you don't like being Chinese. There is so much you need to learn! I thought it was a waste of time to bring you here, but now I see that you have much to gain and you will learn to appreciate your ancestry!" _s_h_i_t_, well, at least I wasn't fired, but I knew it was going to get gruesome since his zeal had arrived at a rolling boil. Had I stepped into a _d_a_m_n_ kung-fu flick or something more rank?
"You will have a performance review every day from now on and every day I will punish you if you don't please me personally and progress professionally. It will be very beneficial to you." He smiled benignly, nodded and snarled, "You SHOULD fear me now! You must learn graciousness and maturity. So, you are angry and upset, ghost boy? Good."
I just wanted to go home. Any self-confidence I came with was gone. There were little rivers of sweat running into my curlies and down between my butt cheeks. I could feel a beating coming from the forbidding grin twisting his thin lips. "Gus is not going to be happy that I had to mark you." His eyes lit up. "You have a very expressive face, not inscrutable at all. I like that.", he chortled. He was going into the john for that _d_a_m_n_ cane again and I was already clawing at the locked door when he caught me with the first of several lightening licks. "Get down on your knees, NOW! You KNOW what to expect! Don't make this any harder on yourself or you'll be VERY SORRY!!" Wasn't that what my boss had told me?!
That time he did not take it easy on me and I had a difficult time keeping count in Cantonese the way he wanted. After ten, then twenty, I started getting confused and kept screwing up. The pain was so intense, I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about the mess I was going to be when my boyfriend saw me. Would he still want me? What about my mother? She handled basic physicals for me. What the hell would she think? I tried mightily not to cry or beg him to stop. That would only make him more angry and he was already concentrating most of the strokes on the spot where I wore his brand.
Why didn't he just pour boiling oil on me? I had never felt anything like the sensory overload that whooshing cane caused. Just the sound, flicking, snapping, screaming through the air was terrifying. My knees trembled right along with my lips and hands as I struggled to stay in position. I was covered in sweat and goosebumps, just praying that it soon would be over. Trying to crawl out of his reach only got me more swats and I wasn't quite stupid enough to try to cover my bottom with my hands. They were my livelihood and I didn't want to wind up maimed. "Stay in position and keep your hands on the floor! Don't you know the meaning of DISCIPLINE??", he'd roar.
The times he did stop for a few moments, I heard the soft whirring clicks of his camera. Hell, I didn't care what he wanted, I would have done most anything to get him to stop beating my flaming butt. Definitely, after the twenty-something accurately placed hit, I could hear soft whimpering that reached a crescendo in an outright wail.
"DADDY, HELP ME, PLEassSSE! MAKE IT STOP, PLEASE DADDY, MAKE HIM STOP!! Pleeease Daddy, pleeease!" Oh hell, it was me.
When I had the sense to say I was sorry, he pulled my tattered briefs off and pushed me into a warm shower. Pink water appeared against the white porcelain of the tub. It swirled around my toes and disappeared down the drain as if dismissing its reason for being. I could hear Chef's voice behind me. "Don't make me do that again, boy." The tone of his voice betrayed his words and I could hear that whirring click of his camera busily recording my misery.
I knew _d_a_m_n_ well that he was counting on it happening again and I _d_a_m_n_ well didn't know how to stop a repeat performance. Who could be good all the time?