BRAUTIGAN AND THE PLASTIC BUDDHA
scot young
We stumbled around the corner and found ourselves in Chinatown. This stretch of street was experimental poetry with Peking duck hanging in the window. The rain had stopped and the naïve world was washed clean by green tea and paper dragons.
We were on a mission for dim sum. We wandered down an alley with the sweet fragrance of opium hanging in the air. We settled in at Hang Ah, one of the oldest dim sum restaurants in the city. I pointed at the noodle rolls, tarts, and dumplings as the carts rolled by.
"Smell that coming in?" I asked.
"Opium. The Chinese smoke opium in their bathrooms," Brautigan said.
"Put that on a postcard and send it home," I said. "Hey, try this noodle roll."
"The old people sit in the tub," he said taking the last swallow of his beer.
"That's just bizarre, man—the bathtub?"
When we got up to pay the ticket, Richard said something to the busboy in Chinese and we were nodded and motioned to the kitchen area. In a darkened storage room off the kitchen a clay pipe was passed around. It was a dream scene set in a Chinatown fog. Old Chinese were sitting in the tub and young children gathered around on the floor. Paper lanterns were stretched across the ceiling on fishing line and bobbed to the sound of an Erhu breeze coming from the alley. A plastic Buddha sat winking on the window sill. I listened to the ping, ting, sing, for minutes, hours or days. Time did not move when the Erhu played.
Finally, inching our way out of the alley, we saw a Chinese princesses riding a lotus flower to the sun weaving down Grant Street in a slow motion display of waving silk. This image stopped us along with a head of cabbage being yo-yo'd down on a string from a balcony above. Smiling elders grinned and waved at us on from above. It splattered at our feet and plastered bits of damp cabbage on our jeans. The old Chinese celebrated from their loft—smiling, nodding, and clapping.
"Ah, man--look at my jeans" I said. "Now what?"
"I need to find a paper, he said."
Brautigan put the coin in my hand and disappeared behind the paper dragons.
Scot Young
http://midwestpoet.wordpress.com/
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