January 2017

Ming Lim tried not to glare at the TSA agent examining his travel documents. "How am I supposed to read this?" the agent muttered looking at their national IDs full of Chinese characters and then hurriedly flipping open their passports, sighing in relief at seeing English letters there.

Ming Lim just smiled faintly. Learn to read a civilized language, then. But out loud, he said, "Is there a problem, Officer?" Next to him, his guardian signed This is taking too long. We should still have enough time for the flight, though.

The agent puffed up in arrogance and anger. "What's he saying?"

Ming Lim bowed slightly. "Uncle Song does not speak. He was asking me if there was a problem with our documents," he lied.

"Whaddya mean he doesn't speak? Is he stupid?"

"No sir. Uncle Song can read, write, and understand many languages, including English. He just is unable to speak."

The agent humphed in superiority. "So he's a dumb mute."

Ming Lim tried to translate 'dumb mute' in his head. 'Mute' was not coming to him. 'Dumb' he understood; usually it was an insult. He struggled to remain calm; getting angry over the insult would not accomplish anything. "May we go through, Officer? Uncle Song is worried about missing our flight."

"Whyareya going to Boston?"

Even after half a year in the United States, Ming Lim had difficulty understanding when the natives slurred their words together. New Yorkers, even when they weren't slurring words, were nearly impossible to understand. "I will be studying at a college there." He had spent the fall semester in New York City studying at Julliard. But for some unknown reason, last week his father had unenrolled him from Julliard and enrolled him in Boston Conservatory. And on top of that, his father's personal bodyguard, Chen Song, was sent over from Beijing to pretend to be his guardian in Boston.

Ming Lim was of the firm opinion that just turned eighteen year old boys, especially Chinese nationals studying music in the United States, did not need guardians or bodyguards. His father, however, was the Chairman of an electronics conglomerate, and he had already been the victim of several kidnapping attempts when he was younger. So instead of saying he had a bodyguard or guardian, he claimed he was traveling with his Uncle.

Uncle Song was the kind of man who had looked like he was in his mid-twenties when he was a teenager and would continue to look like he was only perhaps thirty when he was well into his sixties. Ming Lim had no idea how old the man actually was; he had learned sign language from the man starting around age five, after the first kidnapping attempt, and he looked exactly the same now as he did then. He wore his hair long, almost to his waist without a single strand of white in it. When openly working as a bodyguard, he would arrange his hair up in a traditional warrior's top knot. But when he was trying to be more casual, like today, he tied it back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

The TSA agent had finally let them pass, and now they stood in line to pass through the security check. Uncle Song grabbed one of the gray bins and folded his wool coat in it. In the next bin he placed his shoes, belt, wallet, cell phone, and for some reason a tassel with a silver ball on it and some sort of carved jade token. Uncle Song, what are those? Ming Lim signed.

Nothing. Song signed back. Good luck pieces.

Ming Lim settled into his first class seat, and thought about that jade piece. It was unlike any lucky totem he had ever seen before…. There was what looked to be some curvy lines inscribed on it. And there was definitely something written on it…. But the bin was inserted into the x-ray machine before he had a chance to read it…. And Uncle Song placed the token and the tassel into his pockets first, even before his wallet and cell phone.

Come to think of it… Ming Lim had seen the tassel with the silver ball before… or one just like it. Uncle Song occasionally attended certain ceremonies wearing those criss-crossed robes that one would see on Wuxia TV shows and half of his hair twisted up into some old fashioned silver hair piece…. The tassel had hung off his sash. Deciding it wasn't important, the young man stuck his ear buds in and started the music app on his phone. John Williams' Memoirs of a Geisha flowed into his brain; his left hand unconsciously moved to his breast bone, his fingers 'playing' his chest to Yo-Yo Ma's cello. He wasn't a huge cello fan (he could, of course, play the instrument reasonably well), but this music was incredibly moving.

Ming Lim placed his backpack and suitcase next to his bed, still flabbergasted at the idea of having a roommate. He had never shared a room before in his life. Even his dorm at Julliard was a single! This boy… what kind of freak was he? Blue hair, dangly black crystal earring, barefoot, ripped jeans and a faded concert t-shirt. The other earring was tangled in his sheets. He was sitting cross-legged on his unmade bed playing, was that an electric violin? Ming Lim could hear the rasping of the bow against the strings, but no music…. He was wearing earbuds ah… the earbuds are connected to the violin, some sort of gelled eye mask, and a clothespin on his nose. Why was he wearing a clothespin? The room was a mess! Books everywhere, notebooks everywhere, three laptops. What college kid needs three laptops?

"Don't touch my shit. I'll clean it up later."

"Pardon me?"

"Did I stutter, or…. Nǐ bù shuō yīngyǔ ma?" Don't you speak English?

"I'm fluent in four languages," Ming Lim boasted. Plus Uncle Song's version of sign language.

Michael laughed. "Fine. Tell me which ones you speak, and I'll tell you the same thing in any of them: don't touch my shit; I'll clean it up later."

Ming Lim glared at his roommate and went off to find Uncle Song. The older man had an apartment over the, what did they call it again? Not a garage… A car house? No… Something like that, though. The room Uncle had was much larger than the bedroom he was to share with the slob. "Uncle Song…. Please let me rent an apartment. He's a… I can't live with him."

You've been here five minutes. Find a way. Your father wants you to live here.

Ming Lim ground his teeth in frustration. Can I stay here with you, then?

Chen Song paused from unpacking. Text five friends. Complain about your roommate to them. If at least three respond within twelve hours, you can move in here.

Ming Lim stared at his guardian. Text five friends? He didn't have friends. He had acquaintances in China; the boys wanted to get close to his father, the girls wanted to get close to his money. He didn't miss any of them and none of them had contacted him after he left for New York. He had sort of made a friend, singular, back in New York, but that kid rarely took his phone with him and when he did, it was usually out of battery. They had bonded over their love of music, but had no other topics to converse on. He'd lost his only other friend at seven: the second kidnapping attempt had been orchestrated by that boy's grandfather. That's impossible, he finally admitted.

Chen Song looked like he wanted to grin in satisfaction. Ask him to show you a good restaurant for dinner. Or ask him to show you the city. Sheng Lin told me there is a square around her with nice restaurants and outdoor entertainment when the weather is nice.

"Why should I ask him to take me?" Ming Lim groused.

Because for some reason, the Chairman wants you to be friendly with that boy.

"What?" Ming Lim screeched. But Chen Song had returned to his unpacking. And Ming Lim knew, from years of experience, that once the man had decided he was done talking, there was nothing that would change his mind. Dejected, he returned to his room and the boy who was at least no longer wearing a clothespin on his nose.

Half the room was clear. It was literally as if his roommate had mentally drawn a line dividing the room in half and shoved everything on Ming Lim's side across it. The boy was sitting on top of his desk, back pressed against the window, notebook balanced on his thighs. The notebook covered the boy's face from the eyebrows down, so Ming Lim still had no idea what his roommate looked like. And he was scribbling furiously using a mechanical pencil. Every few words, he pressed too hard and the pencil broke. The sounds were curiously rhythmic… swish, swish, swish, snap, click, click, click. Ming Lim sat down on his bed and thought of what instruments he would use to wrap around his roommates percussion…. Something with strings…. A guitar maybe… an acoustic…. Oh, and the percussion could be castanets! A vaguely Spanish melody wove its way around his brain; his fingers itched to write it down. Of course, his sheet music was all packed away in that, what did they call it? Sun room? Odd name for a room that was quite shady…. He grabbed his laptop from his backpack; he could write music on it almost as easily as he could write it by hand. The good thing about using a laptop was he could use a synthesizer app to play his music back, make sure it sounded in real life the way it sounded in his head.

His laptop pinged, notifying him of an incoming email. He clicked on the app, and read with growing horror what his father's secretary wrote. He hadn't been sent to Boston to study at the Conservatory at all! He was enrolled at Harvard's Business school, and he was permitted to take two classes per semester at the Conservatory, starting over the summer, if he maintained a 4.0 GPA. If he was able to earn his Bachelor's and an MBA with a 4.0 within five years, he would be permitted to return to Juilliard and finish a degree there. Both came with the expectation that upon completion, he would return to China and work for his father. Any dreams he had of joining a symphony, especially those of becoming a concertmaster, would never come true.

In the meantime, the secretary added, he was to become good friends with two people in the house: Sheng Lin and Michael Wu. Sheng Lin worked directly under Secretary Lan at the QishanWen Medical Group; one of their divisions was developing a new medical imaging device, and Chairman Ming wanted the rights to build it. And Michael Wu was a promising engineer; the Chairman had already read some of the young man's work and wanted to bring him over once he had his PhD.

Ming Lim looked up and glared at his roommate still sitting on his desk. Who sits on a desk to study? How am I supposed to become friends with this freak?

February 2017

It was surprisingly easy to become friendly with Sheng Lin; the man was almost uncomfortably eager to be of assistance. Whether it was cooking dinner or showing him around Cambridge and Boston, or even just getting his clothing to and from the dry cleaners, the other man always was ready to help. But when it came time to reciprocate…. Sheng Lin needed and wanted nothing. If Ming Lim brought home takeout for the house, Lin would sit at the table with them, but would not eat. He claimed he had a delicate stomach, so he only ate food he prepared. He did his own laundry and refused to allow anyone to help clean the kitchen after he cooked. So friendly… but not friends. Not as Ming Lim would define the word at least.

As for Michael…. They had been roommates for a month, and he still had no idea what the other boy looked like. Ming Lim got up for the day at 5:30, did some calisthenics to keep his body toned, showered, ate breakfast and headed off to his 8 o'clock class. Michael slept the entire time; the only body parts visible were his feet. Everything else, even his hair, was covered by the blankets! In the evening, it was a rare night that Michael returned to the room before him, and on those nights, the other boy was either on his bed playing his violin or his keyboard (earbuds, mask and clothespin in place), or sitting on his desk hiding behind his knees and notebook. They never talked after the 'leave my shit alone' conversation. If one could even call that a conversation.

So it was more than slightly startling when he arrived home this Friday afternoon and heard a voice coming from his room. "No, Eleanor, he isn't changing his mind…. No…. Look, Travis told me no, not interested. And I quote, "unless you're inviting me" end quote. In this case the 'you're' he was referring to was me…. Yeah, I think he's gay…. No, Eleanor, I'm not going to date the guy just so you can have some eye candy at the game tonight…. Why? Because he isn't my type!... No, sis…. Yeah, the height and the hair are yummy. And the muscles are to die for…. Yes, that's sarcasm…. I'm not dating a guy who can bench press me with one hand just because you think he's scrumptious…. No! There's no way in Hell I'm going with just you and Becky!... Because she isn't my type either…. Beauty isn't everything; I require multiple brain cells knocking around in their skulls…. I'll make a deal with you: if she can go a full five minutes without saying the word 'like', I'll go to the game tonight with just the two of you…. Ha ha ha. Very funny. One would think Jiejie would want to prevent her roommate from taking Erdi's virginity…." Blushing, Ming Lim tapped gently on the door. "Hey, hold on Sis, someone's here." Michael opened the door to see his roommate standing there. "Jiejie, I have an idea. Call you in a few."

Ming Lim could feel his blush extending all the way from his head to his feet: Michael was standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts, toweling his hair dry. Ming Lim struggled to keep his gaze on Michael's face, but his vision kept expanding to the defined pecs and 4-pack abs, all the way down to the tight thighs. Michael rolled his eyes, and turned to pull on his jeans. Ming Lim stared at the perfect buttocks displayed by the boxers until they disappeared into the faded pants. "When you're done eye-fucking me, let me know, kay?"

Ming Lim slammed his eyes shut and stumbled to sit on his bed. This is my roommate? This is what has been hiding behind that eye mask and clothespin? That face… those cheekbones… those eyes…. Is he wearing mascara or are his eyelashes naturally that full? Those lips…. Chinese modeling agencies would kill to get him in front of a camera. "I wasn't… I… I didn't... what you said."

"Lemme guess… you're not gay, right?" Ming Lim opened his eyes in time to see a faded t-shirt slipping down over those almost perfect abs. He nodded no, frantically, but in the deep, dark, recesses of his mind, he could hear it screaming yes, for you, yes. "S'cool, Whatever. Hey… so my sister has four tickets to see a hockey game tonight. But the guy she's drooling over appears to have the hots for me, so…."

"So?" Ming Lim managed to not drool at the sight of his roommate slipping on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and running gel through his hair.

"So you wanna go with? Jiejie's cool. Her roommate's a ditz, but she's pretty. Do you like redheads? She might go for you…. You're prettier than I am…."

"You think I'm pretty?" slipped out of Ming Lim's mouth. "No. No. I'm not gay…."

"Calm your hemorrhoids. I get it: you're not gay. And I'm not into rape."

"Are you gay? What's hemmer… hermeds…."

Michael shrugged and gave one last look at his reflection in the mirror. "Maybe? Mostly I think about dating women…. But there have been a few guys that I wondered about. Hemorrhoids are things you get on your butt. Very painful. It's just a saying. Like… calm your horses. Or don't get your panties in a bunch."

"Ahhh." He'd heard those sayings before.

"So?" Ming Lim snapped to attention having no idea what his roommate was referring to. "Hockey game? Yes or no?"

"Yes." He'd never been to a hockey game, but apparently it was an important sport at Harvard. Several of his classmates were on the team. Most of his classmates went to the home games.

It was fun. Kind of like basketball but it was a lot harder to see the puck than it was to see the ball. And afterward, Eleanor and Becky took them to some party in their dorm. Everyone was drinking, even though the vast majority of them were well below the legal drinking age. He had a few sips of beer, not really enjoying the taste, but he did enjoy the way it made his stomach feel warm…. Becky dragged him to some hat game they were playing. Everyone's name went into one hat and then they wrote silly dares on a piece of paper which went into a different hat. The only rule given was 'no removing clothing'. But apparently everything else was allowed: the first two names drawn, two girls, pulled out a dare to feel each other's breasts! So Ming Lim was more than slightly afraid when he heard his name called…. Luckily, it was only 'walk and quack like a duck'.

He was sipping his second beer, and feeling the effects, when his name was called again with the instruction to french kiss. "Huh? What is french kissing?" Kissing is not a topic covered in English class!