Author Topic: my week with mie lie  (Read 1093 times)

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©brad

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my week with mie lie
« on: October 26, 2004, 10:13:38 PM »
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Monday
I met a girl today. Went to the beach near Port Vell, stoned out of my mind off some hash I bought from an eleven-year old near the Parc de la Ciutadella. Sat on the beach for a while, smoked many cigarettes, took note of the sand and how it was noticeably thicker here than back home. Fell asleep for a while. Woke up and was relieved that no one had jacked my wallet or beer. I lit a post-nap cigarette. She came out of nowhere and plopped right down on the sand next to me. I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back. She was a cute, tiny Chinese girl, with jet black hair that reached down to what was a very nice ass. She wore a long, hippie-flower skirt and a yellow Lacoste shirt. We sat on the beach in silence for a good hour, watching annoying American tourists take pictures of the water and beach. I offered her some of my beer and it was the cutest thing, watching her try to chug it, spilling a little on her chin. I lit another cigarette and without even asking she snatched it out of my hand and took a puff, only to immediately burst into a coughing fit as the smoke filled her lungs. We sat there for a while longer, watching people walk by, smoked a few more cigarettes (at least I did). We took a walk together down La Rambla towards La Placa de Catayuna. I asked her if she wanted to get something to eat and she said “grooooovy.” I took her to a tapas bar called La Baltamaria and we ate spawns and had lobster paella and drank a nice bottle of rioja and for dessert some fried ice cream with fruity sangria. At dinner I talked and she listened. I told her about my mom and that story, about my old girlfriend Kaitlyn and how she was in rehab due to an extremely serious Xanax addiction. I told her about my dog Chili and how she was the most spoiled living dog in the world (she demands ice cubes in her water bowl and she sleeps in queen sized beds). I told her that my favorite movie was Annie Hall and that I could never have any serious relationship with a girl who wasn’t an avid Simpsons watcher. I told her about my ever-lasting love for Mexican food, Miles Davis, and pick-up trucks. I told her about a lot. She was a good listener. I knew she couldn’t understand a single word I was saying but she looked really interested, never showing any signs of boredom or confusion. I know she understood something from it all. She smiled, she laughed. She reacted to me. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of getting her in bed. It was something else. Her smile; getting her to smile became a mission. She had that great smile that could add years to a life. After dinner we leisurely walked back to my hostel. I showed her some of my drawings. She pointed to the ones she really liked. We sat on the small terrace overlooking the Gothic Quarter and shared a glass of white wine I found in the fridge. After that, she went into the bathroom for a very, very long time. I logged onto the internet to see how much money I didn’t have in my checking account. When she came back into my room I was reading some sleazy, Spanish gossip magazine. She smiled and jumped into my bed. We didn’t hook up. She put her head on my chest and fell asleep.  I didn’t know her name.



Tuesday
   Woke up early today. She was just getting out of the shower. I smiled as she jumped back into my bed. The towel wrapped around her chest was damp and her hair had that post-shower smell. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and jumped off the bed, digging through a crumbled-up paper bag she had been carrying all day yesterday. She pulled out a small book and held it up to my face; “Sightseeing in Barcelona” was the title. I brushed my teeth and threw a hat on and we were off. We shared a tangerine for breakfast on the subway. She kept trying to tickle me and I tried my hardest to restrain her, for one of my many pet peeves is public displays of affection and the cutesy-cuddly bullshit you see couples do in plain view of total strangers. I couldn’t help but laugh when she stuck her hand up my shirt and tickled my armpits, though. We waited in line for an hour to climb La Sagrada Familia, holding hands. At the top we got a German couple to take our picture and we made scared-shitless faces, pretending like we were about to fall off. The Germans thought it was pretty funny and decided to take our picture with their camera as well.  Afterwards, we walked down La Via Laietana and stopped at a coffee shop and had some cappuccino (the coffee shop was gorgeous and empty, a nearby Starbucks on the other hand was balls-to-the-walls-packed with an elderly Canadian tourist group). I taught her how to exhale smoke out of her nostrils and mouth at the same time. We walked back down La Rambla and I bought her a flower and a Spanish porno magazine from one of many vendors set up on the busy street. She put the flower in her hair and began to flip through the magazine, giggling. Later on, we went to the Picasso Museum and to a Dali exhibit (we both preferred the latter’s work) and for dinner we bought some salami and crackers and a bottle of sangria and ate on the beach. We then went to a club called Espacia and drank vodka and lemonades and every twenty minutes we chugged a pint of beer as we danced to hardcore techno for what seemed like hours. I took some crystal meth some Spanish dude gave me in the bathroom (I can only assume it was meth. The dude didn’t speak a lick of English and he gave me the stuff and said “cristales, muy bueno.” I assumed “cristales” meant crystal and it sure looked like meth so I took it. I guess it didn’t matter because I got off and it was good stuff). Got back to the hostel around 6 in the morning. I gave her a piggy-back ride up the stairs to our room. We got in bed. No sex. Still don’t know her name.  



   Wednesday
   Woke up today hungover as hell, with a bad case of morning wood. She was kissing my neck and her hand was moving fast down my stomach. Before I could stop her she was jacking me off and when I looked up, I noticed the other couple occupying this room was in bed wide awake, trying to make sense of a subway map. I pulled her head up and pointed towards them. She quickly got underneath the covers, obviously embarrassed. I got underneath with her and kissed her on top of her head, whispering “it’s okay” (sometimes I think she understands me and sometimes I don’t. Up to now the only English word I’ve ever heard her use was “groovy”). We got dressed and went downstairs for a bagel and some much needed vitamin C at some tourist trap pastry shop (only thing I could find that was open). I finished my bagel fast, lighting a cigarette as she picked at some smoked salmon. Afterwards I asked her if she wanted to come to London with me. “London?” I asked. “Do you want to go?” “Groooooovy,” she said, smiling. “Patrick. My name is Patrick,” I told her. “Patwick?” she said, giggling. She ran her fingers through my thick head of blonde hair (she was really obsessed with my hair. We’d be in line for some museum or waiting for a table in a restaurant and she would constantly be stroking it). I told her I would book us two tickets on an Easy Jet and we could leave that night. She said “groooovy” and after breakfast we checked out of the hostel and rented two motor scooters and drove them down Avenue Diagnol (surprisingly, she was a very good scooter driver) towards the airport.



Thursday
   Flight got delayed because some American tourist had a seizure before takeoff and we had to wait until the Spanish paramedics could hoist his rather bulbous ass out of the seat and off the plane without causing brain or nerve damage or something, I don’t know. Some Belgium doctor sitting in our row was trying to explain it to us but I wasn’t really interested enough to pay attention to the stuttering, old man. Interesting fact of the day; I found out what her name was (I needed it to make the plane reservation obviously). Lie Mie. Lie Mie was her name, and when I called her by it for the first time she put her finger on my lips and went “ssshhhhh.” I haven’t referred to her by her name since, but still, at least I know it. So anyway, our first stop in London was at a pub in SoHo called Bull ‘N Fitch and once we were there we drink pints of Kronenberg and ate a sausage burger (gross). Crazy-busy day after that; we waited in long lines at the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, The Eye, the House of Parliament, St. Paul’s Cathedral (my favorite, Lie Mie liked the Eye). In between these stops we always found a pub and had pints of bitter ales and good, thick lagers. Lie Mie had a surprisingly heavy alcohol tolerance despite her dwarf-like stature and her inability to take a sip of beer without spilling some down her chin. We ate dinner around 5:30, for unlike the Spanish, the English do everything early. I got us a room at the Dorchester (four hundred pounds on Dad’s American Express). We checked in around 7pm after a nice Italian dinner near Westminster Abbey. Hit another pub around 9 near the hotel and met some Brazilian guys who had some pot laced with heroin and after we smoked they brought us to 100 Club near Oxford Circus to see the White Stripes perform. The club was amazing, from what I can remember. Lots of neon lights, carpeting, private VIP rooms, bar after bar after bar. Most of our time was spent in the bathroom and on the dance floor. Lie Mie loved the music. We both took rolls and drank expensive champagne. The rolls kicked in and we were both all over each other. A simple backrub or kiss on the cheek was orgasmic, pure bliss. The music, the feeling of cold beer in my mouth, of inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke (God, we smoked so much). It was a euphoric experience, and I knew Lie Mie felt the same. I could see it in her eyes. The way she would wrap her arms around me, the way she would dance with me, the way she would constantly hold my hand and jump on my back, giving me a head butt every now and then (one of her favorite things to do). I knew she loved me, even then. We took another roll around 2am and then headed to Bar Rumba. It was S&M night so we didn’t stay long. We met back up with the Brazilian guys and took them back to our hotel room. They had some very decent cocaine so we were up well beyond sunrise. At one point back at the hotel I told Lie Mie that I was so glad I met her and she smiled and said “groovy.”



Friday
   Woke up with what was surely one of the worst hangovers I have yet to experience (I am convinced that cocaine and red wine hangovers are the worst). Lie Mie took a long pee around three in the afternoon and then got back into bed. I gave her a kiss somewhere on her face (my eyes were closed) and she kissed me back, her tongue massaging my teeth. Before I knew it she was riding me like no other girl has. The sex was wild, reminiscent of some of the dirtiest pornos I ever watched during my early adolescent days of heavy masturbating and internet porn surfing. She was surprisingly vocal, communicating with me using the universal language of moans and “ooooh’s” and “aaaah’s” (contrary to popular belief, Asian chicks do not have sideways vaginas). I came three times. Someone at the front desk called our room. I guess our neighbors complained about the noise. We took a warm bath together, shared a bottle of Heineken I found in the mini-fridge. “I don’t want this to end,” I kept telling her. Her response was always the same; a light kiss on my cheek. We fell asleep holding each other and I had a dream about my mother having an affair with Patrick Swazye and my Dad was calling me from his office, telling me about the things he was going to do to Patrick Swazye’s head with a sledge hammer.



   

Saturday
Without a doubt a fucked up day. Began innocently enough, with Lie Mie and I having good sex in the shower (I washed her hair as I hit her from behind). We took a train to Brighton, saw the overrated White Cliffs of Dover and then hoped on a ferry for Paris. I played her a Rolling Stones CD on my disc-man (Jumpin’ Jack Flash was her favorite). On the ferry I got really drunk off pints of Carling and threw up twice (I really think it was a sea-sickness thing, not the beer). On the ferry I called my Dad. I pretended the connection was bad and told him I didn’t have time to talk but desperately needed money and that I was on my way to Munich to do research for my Fascist Modern German Lesbian Feminist Poetry and Rhetoric course. Got into Paris and, as cliché as it sounds, was really blown away by the city. So symmetrical, so precise, so… beautiful, for lack of a better word. No wonder Hitler didn’t want to blow it up. We bought some sugary crepes and got a raspberry milkshake and then we climbed the Arc de Triomphe and smoked a bowl, taking turns trying to make the other person laugh. We walked down the Avenue de Champs-Elysses. I bought her a red velvet hat with a big yellow sunflower on it from a boutique in Montamarte. We took the tube to the Eifle Tower but the line was way to long so we hoped in a taxi (it was a Mercedes!) and headed to the Louvre. Lie Mie really dug the impressionist paintings. There was a huge mob waiting to see the Mona Lisa. At that point we opted to leave and headed to a posh French restaurant and had a bottle of Bordeaux and a bowl of crab bisque that cost 19 Euros. After we left the restaurant, I suggested that we should rent some bikes and look for some weed. However, Lie Mie didn’t want to do this. Something happened. Lie Mie suddenly got very quiet (not that she spoke (in English anyway) much before, but usually she was always laughing or giggling or making some sort of vocal gesture). She looked worried, nervous. She pulled my hand and we walked fast down the Boulevard de Saint Germain, making a quick right on St. Michel Blvd. Soon we were running. I turned around but didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious or life-threatening. Some sort of bizarre circus parade was taking place on the Quai de la Megisserie so Lie Mie quickly pulled me down Rue d’Arcole inside the Notre Dame Cathedral. We cut through the enormous line. I paid quickly and soon we were inside. She pulled me into a dark corner next to a water fountain, slowly peaking out a nearby window. I turned my head to look out the window myself but she quickly grabbed the side of my face and turned it towards her. She put her finger on my lips and went “ssssshhhh.” A minute or so passed. She kept looking outside the window and then towards the front of the church. I managed to peek outside when she wasn’t looking and saw three men in black suits looking very secret service men-esque. They were all wearing sunglasses and on walkie-talkies and they looked upset for some reason. Another minute, then she grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the front of the church, down a series of dark hallways (had she been here before?). She eventually led me out a back door outside the cathedral. She hailed for a taxi and we headed to our hotel. That night we ordered room service, for she showed no signs of wanting to go out. I ordered the filet au poivre with grilled asparagus and a bottle of Bordeaux. Lie Mie didn’t eat or drink anything. She kept pacing by the window, looking outside (we were pretty high up, on the 14th floor). I took the last Valium I had saved from back home and we watched a French soap opera in bed. After some lousy, uninspired sex, I fell asleep. I’m not sure what Lie Mie did, but I vaguely remember her going to the bathroom when I got underneath the covers.

Sunday
I knew it, even before I opened my eyes. I knew she wouldn’t be there. I called the front desk but the French woman’s English was incomprehensible and so I called the concierge desk and the man who answered had just started his shift and had not seen any tiny Chinese girls leave the hotel. I thought about going to look for her but I knew it was too late. She was gone.


Next Wednesday
      Writing now, on plane back home. Mixed feelings. The sound of Southern accents from the obnoxiously energetic flight attendants is somewhat comforting. I miss my car, American football, Seinfeld reruns, some of my friends, and my dog. I don’t know what to feel about mom but I hope she’s okay. I’m trying to reminisce about my trip, but in all reality, I can’t get my mind of this note I found yesterday;



对不起。我必须离去。你跟我一起再不是可靠的。我爱你如此多和我想谢谢一切。我很快将找到你。别担心。一切将要是好的。
                   
                    Lie Mie



   It was tucked in the small pouch of my North Face bag with a picture of her giving me a kiss on the side of my nose in front of a flamenco club in Barcelona. I think when I get home I’ll order some take-out Chinese and see if anyone in the restaurant can translate it for me. I really hope that silly, little Chinese girl is okay. I miss her.

matt35mm

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my week with mie lie
« Reply #1 on: October 26, 2004, 11:02:33 PM »
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I wish I could still read Chinese.  I think I can make out a little of it... "Sorry... something something.  I love you... something something.  Don't cry.... something something."

I didn't read the story, I was just trying to see if I got the Chinese right.

Ghostboy

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my week with mie lie
« Reply #2 on: October 27, 2004, 12:52:39 AM »
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I liked this story; it maintains the raucuous content of your past few stories but substitutes a brigher outlook for the nihilism that usually marks your work. But I'd lose the last two sentences - they're too sentimental and, since the tone of the entire piece suggests what these two sentences say outright, unnecessary. In fact, if you really wanted to be audacious, you could lose that whole last paragraph.

Just out of curiousity, how do you write these short stories? -- is it a sort of stream of concsious/pounding the keyboard sort of thing, or do you  work on it sentence by sentence, getting it just the way you want it?

©brad

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my week with mie lie
« Reply #3 on: October 27, 2004, 11:21:12 AM »
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my professor just read this out loud in class yesterday. i'd say about 3/4ths of the class agreed with you about that last paragraph. two girls liked it. i'm not so sure. i definitely see your point. i think the reason i had it in there was b/c i've been getting a lot of shit lately from my teacher/classmates/friends that these stories have been ultra-depressing, especially with all the same nihilistic, drug-addicted, sexually frustrated, alcoholic, bratty characters I write with. i don't necessarily mean to write that way. it just comes natural.  so yeah, it was a way to brighten up the picture i thought. **

as to your question gb, it's kinda a combination of the two. i usually start out with a simple idea- nothing grandiose like "okay this is going to be about a kid who finds himself and realizes that he is not going to follow in the footsteps of his cigarette peddling, whiskey-drinking, pedophile grandfather and instead is going to lead the uprising against the Volksgemeinschaft in the ghetto of blah blah blah ..." with this story i started out with a kid who meets a girl on the beach. i also knew i wanted it to take place in a week and each chapter would be a knew day.

so yeah, i kinda just take a big shit on paper (stream of conscious/pounding on the keyboard thing as you describe), then i put it away for a couple of days (an important step). then i take a look at it, laugh at some of the parts, cry over the majority, and i rewrite. the sentence by sentence thing is really the final step.

** in writing this story i set out to write something happy and funny- no trite teen "why doesn't he like me" suicide shit, no repressed drunks who spend the day on xanax and nicotine wondering why their lives suck—rather, simply, a happy, funny story.

soo, i got the idea of writing about a squirrel family who lived in a nice tree in a well-developed neighborhood (well-developed meaning lots of other trees with other squirrel families). evil human beings were planning to build a Kroger in said development and in the process tear down what had been homes to these particular squirrel families for the better part of the year. so they were all worried about what they were going to do and whatnot.

well, i started to write this thing, and before i knew it, the mom squirrel was cheating on daddy squirrel and the son squirrel was addicted to psychedelic acorns and the girl squirrel was getting fucked up the ass by these evil police squirrels and it was at this point when i decided it was a lost cause.

Chest Rockwell

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my week with mie lie
« Reply #4 on: October 27, 2004, 09:13:41 PM »
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That was a great story. I agree with Ghostboy and your class about those last two sentences. But seriously, for the longest time I thought this was a true story, which is a good thing I guess.

 

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