Wednesday.05.12.04
cold cool frenzy [ ] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 3:24am
i stick the flimsy key into the motorbike ignition and press the ‘Start’ button. the green Neutral light dims out and i pull out the starter, the metal rod with the plastic coated tip. a few hard pushes and it comes to life. hipster climbs on and i twist the handlebar, the revving engine causing the small vehicle to shake. snap, one gear, boom and we’re into the street. hipster shouts and laughs at the same time, grabbing at my sides.
“damn man, you start like crazy!”
i look back and grin, then crank the handlebar even farther back, peeling down the street. we pass short-stout and old-awkward on the other motorbike. hipster shouts. eventually i slow down to let the others catch up and we cruise along the empty streets, pale yellow streetlights simmering here and there. no one in the streets, metal grating covering all the square houses. the motorbike doesn’t follow any lines. it just drifts from one side to the next, at one point ahead of the other, at others behind. there are no lines to hold us down, no straight lines to tell us we’re just another step in a long string of instructions. we pass next to short-stout’s motorbike and i shout out, “where are you going?” he smiles and laughs. we shout back and forth, then talk in normal tones. i sing, hipster sings, the words pulled back by the cool night wind somewhere behind us, where our vision has no authority. the mirrors on a motorbike here are just for show. when you turn you turn on the signal or put your hand out. you turn looking ahead and flying into traffic, sometimes honking loudly so people can swerve around you or just plain slow down. always looking ahead, that’s how it has to be.
we sit at a low plastic table and no is awake except for the women cooking the Hu Tieu, a salty noodle soup with chunks of meat floating in the brothy stew.
through the meal i hear the wails of a man singing and a light strum of an acoustical guitar. on the other side sit another handful of late-night eaters. the two beggar men finish their set and slowly make their way back to their motorbike parked on our side of the street, a rusted three-wheeler that looks like it should be scrapped for salvageable metal, not ridden on a street.
“so poor here…” i murmur. short-stout catches the comment and returns,
“Doi sinh vien co cai dang guitar…” something along the lines of the life of a student having one guitar. one of the men is on crutches, explaining why the motorbike has three wheels. he must be the singer. the other old man holds a worn out guitar and climbs on the back. he must be the guitarist. they drive off slowly, talking about something.. their day perhaps, their music, or maybe how the night air was particularly cold tonight.
the boiled meat is brittle and peels off the bones, reminding me of canned beef stew back in the States. the night air cool, the night crawlers flutter about and i am alive for yet another day.