All of the comedians were hiding in the darkness near the back nervously pacing, arms crossed, and waiting. Jami was on stage reading off the sponsors, thanking the judges, and then taking time to thank the comedians again.

We, the comedians, shifted uncomfortably and then Jami paused a long time and thanked the sponsors again – we let out a collected groan.

Finally he unfolded a sheet of paper and read over it – selfishly eying the results before us – to taunt the audience and the comedians that he already knew who was going to win.

Then he looked around and began, “So the third place winner tonight for the Hong Kong International Comedy Festival is…”

And the air in the room seemed to disappear.

“Ashley Strand!” And the room exploded in applause. And we saw Ashley who was fighting jet lag – race up to the stage with a big grin. Jami gave him a fist bump. And when the noise died down, Jami went back to the list and looked over the rim of his glasses. “And the second place winner tonight for the Hong Kong International Comedy Festival Preliminary Round One is…”

There was silence.

“Mahesh!”

And the room went crazy. Everyone applauded and cheered. Mahesh hurried to the stage to do his fist bump.

Ashley and Mahesh gave each other a hard pat on the back. And then the crowd stopped waiting for the climax. Jami looked around at everyone and even gave a look to the back of the comedy club. “And the first round winner of the Hong Kong International Comedy festival and who will be opening for Kerri Louise next week is…”

I folded my own arms but knew the name before he said it.

“Stuart Schofield!”

And standing near the stairs, I saw Stuart run up the aisle but then suddenly stop next to his wife who held a bright smile. He said something to her in her ear and she put her fingers on his face then pulled him down and they kissed deeply. Then he continued to the stage.

Jami gave him a fist bump. Stuart, Ashley, and Mahesh put their arms around each other’s backs and went still for a second as Kenneth, the photographer, took the shot.

Then Jami thanked everyone for coming out and invited everyone to join us for drinks at Bhatti Bar. That’s when we pushed through the crowd – to find all the other comedians to tell them they did good, find friends that came to support us, and basically to come down hard – emotionally – from the thought of losing the first round.

The people hurrying to the bathroom before leaving and those pushing up the stairs to get out – threw Stuart against me as he was looking for his wife.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Man, fantastic set tonight. You really killed.”

He smiled. “Thanks man. I really appreciate that.”

“You know I learned a couple of things from you tonight.”

He laughed unbelievingly. “From me? God knows what you learned from me.”

“I learned that the secret weapon to comedy is being married.”

He grinned. “No, marriage makes for the best material until it causes your divorce. And then you have to re-write your material.”

I smiled. “But seriously, it was very inspiring to see you and your wife tonight.”

“Yeah,” he said nodding to himself. “She is my biggest supporter. Not sure if I could do it without her. She rubs me the right way.”

“Well next year that’s my plan of attack.”

“To hook up with my wife?”

We both chuckled.

He then added, “Or to find a girl to rub you? I don’t think you have to wait a year.”

“Yeah, Hong Kong is full of lonely hearts.” I said.

“Hell, forget lonely hearts. Just genuinely horny girls who are good at giving a good rub.” And he sighed. “Ah, being the single guy again…” And he laughed. “I am just kidding.” He slapped me on the back.

Just then someone came up and interrupted us and I congratulated him quickly one last time and moved out of the way.

I walked out of the Urban Chic Hotel onto Long Street and nearly got knocked down by the wind boomeranging off of Table Mountain and gusting into the City Bowl District. I had nowhere to go but I know I needed to be somewhere. And I thought walking down Long Street that something would present itself.

And as I was walking looking in the windows of the bars and lounges – my Blackberry vibrated and it was Tracy. “Where are you? Let’s have a drink. Meet you at Long Street Café in 30 minutes.”

I replied back “OK.”

My Blackberry vibrated again, “But I cannot stay long. Just one drink.”

“Practice self-control then.” I typed back and made my way to Long Street Café.

I found a bar stool unoccupied looking on the street and when the waitress came up smiling and flirting – I ordered a mojito.

Minutes later while I was picking mint leaves out of my teeth, Tracy appeared beside me with her big toothy grin. “Whatup brother!” And I nearly fell off my stool trying to lean out and hug her.

“Whatup!” I said loudly.

The waitress showed up to stand behind her.

“You want to order something?” I asked.

“I want to smoke first. Let’s go to the smoking area and I can order.” Tracy turned to the waitress, “Is that okay if we go to the smoking section?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

And we made a move and found leather chairs in front of the big windows on the smoking side. She looked at my drink. “What did you order?”

“Mojito.” I said.

She looked up at the waitress. “Me too please.”

Then when the waitress disappeared and both of us were comfortable in our chairs she leaned over and squeezed my kneecap. “So how are you doing dude?”

“I am good. I needed this trip.”

“How have your comedy shows been?” she asked.

“Fantastic. Great audiences. Good reaction. It’s been a blast.” And she smiled with me and she was excited because I was excited. “How about you? You dating anyone?” I said point blank.

She shook her head. “No. And I prefer that. I am liking being single. I am focusing on me.”

“God, you sound healthy.”

“I am. Well, I think I am.” And she winked.

“What does that mean?”

“Well being single is good,” she paused and then added slowly, “Every day except Sunday nights. That’s when you want to snuggle, watch movies, have sex, and fall asleep in someone’s arms.”

I laughed not in spite but I understood what she meant. I agreed Sunday nights are the loneliest night for single people. “That’s universal. Everyone in the world feels the same way. Its like you are almost tempted to go through all your ex’s and call them – just to see if you can get someone, anyone to come over so you are not alone on Sunday night.”

“I had a buddy I could call there for awhile. Something just casual. But he wanted something more. So I had to kick him to the curb.”

The waitress returned to us and brought her cocktail. Tracy didn’t let it land on the table – she grabbed the glass while it was in the waitress’s hand. The waitress asked if we wanted anything else. We both said no.

“Let’s toast,” I said.

“Yes, to the international fear of Sunday nights!” And we toasted in the red, orange light of a South African sunset.

I looked in the mirror to see how the Mrs. Jones t-shirt fit and it seemed everything was coming together – and I visualized myself on stage during the International Hong Kong Comedy Festival. I had the microphone panning the audience with my sideways grin and I would say, “But I did go out on a blind date just before getting here. Her name was Mrs. Jones. She is a little older. And she is a professor at Hong Kong University – teaching mathematics – but she used to teach United States geography with a focus on Montana….” Pause for the audience to laugh.

Then I looked on my Mac and saw the time and noticed the sky outside was already dark. So I stripped and jumped in the shower.

Nearly thirty minutes later, as I was walking to Bhatti Bar for the Pre-Festival Party, I noticed I had no money. So I followed Hollywood Road down to HSBC. I waited in que.

My mind wandered to a school girl I had seen earlier today on the MTR. She was in school uniform and the material was straining around her big, body shape. And she stood in the corner of the train where the train sections connected – crying. I heard her sniveling quietly. And around her stood other students talking like nothing was wrong – they were ignoring her. Some of the boys were playing PSP and Nintendo DS. The other school girls were giggling and whispering in each other’s ears.

But this obese Hong Kong girl in light blue uniform stood in the corner – her buddy shuddering from sobs.

I thought over and over what to do. I wanted to go up to her – but I didn’t want to draw attention and embarrass her more. Then I thought about going over and kissing her on the forehead – but then thought – that would make me look like a pervert.

And suddenly, the train stopped, and the overweight school girl pulled her face out of the elbow of the connecting train sections and smoothed down her uniform and stepped off the train.

I thought about pursuing to say something – but suddenly – she was lost in the crowd at Kwun Tong.

“Sir, its available,” a voice said behind me. And suddenly I found myself standing in front of the HSBC ATM that was empty.

“Thanks,” I said and shoved my card into the slot and started making selections.

I pulled away from the ATM to the corner of the room and shoved my Hong Kong dollars in my wallet. Then I moved toward the glass doors and pushed out.

And that’s when I saw her. She saw me too and instantly she averted her eyes. She had her hand over her mouth talking into the phone. And it seemed suddenly that her phone conversation became high priority – or the most important thing going on in her life.

I tried to also pretend that I hadn’t seen her, but my emotions gave way and on reflex, I lifted my fingers and hand to wave. She ignored it like I was no one.

Just as quickly as the direction she was going towards me – she did a complete one eighty degrees and went the opposite way. And she moved fast.

So I turned up Hollywood and moved up SoHo. My heart was beating fast and I started nervously sweating.

And I had imagined this moment for three years – what was going to happen if I saw her in public – would I be able to pretend we didn’t know each other? Would she be able to pretend she didn’t see me? But if she was alone – would we secretly acknowledge one another by a sly smile or a gentle wave?

I guess the answer to everything was no.

I walked faster to Bhatti Bar. Without thinking I stepped in front of an oncoming taxi, and it squeaked its breaks and hooted.

I felt stupid. From the tee shirt to the rebooting of my comedy material to send special, encoded messages to a woman – who I thought was trapped in a relationship she couldn’t get out of – just to let her know that I was still in love with her.

And anonymously on a busy street, surrounded by strangers, she couldn’t even acknowledge my existence. I felt like I was a mistake.

And instantly the image that flashed into my head was her on top of me making love – and she suddenly stopped – cupped her hand against my cheek – and she leaned down and kissed me. Then she whispered, “You are so beautiful. So unique.”

And I, at that moment, felt I was conceived, created, born just for those words.

Now, I felt like I should have never been born.

I went up to the barmaid and asked her about the stand up comedy. She asked me to repeat myself not understanding my accent. Her accent seemed Ukrainian / Russian. She stared at me for a moment and then her eyes got wide and she pointed up to the narrow stairs.

“Do you want to drink something?” she asked. I looked behind her at the coolers looking for my customary two Corona’s but all they had were Windhoek’s and Windhoek Lights.

My mind panicked. I always worry superstitiously if I cannot find my Coronas if I am going to bomb. I think of the Coronas as my liquid courage. And not just one, mind you, but it has to be two. So I asked just in case, “I guess you do not have any Coronas?”

The barmaid looked at me for a long while – I guess trying to translate what I said. And then she shook her head. “No.”

“Okay I will take a Windhoek Light,” and thinking in the back of my mind it would taste like a San Miguel Light but it didn’t. “Do you want me to start a tab?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No need. You one of the comedians, right?”

I nodded.

“It’s okay. I know where you will be.”

I smiled and then mounted the stairs. At the top, going past the bathrooms with graffiti drawings of women and men in cartoonish / outlandish poses and shapes, I saw Rustum August. I recognized him merely from his picture posted on Facebook.

He saw me and smiled a slow smile. He was talking to the other comedians. But then when I stood in front of him, he broke away and said, “You must be Jackson.”

“Yeah man!” and I shook out my hand for him to shake. He shook it in a customary South African way – regular hand shake, thumb press, and a switch up and then the snap off. It had been a while since I had done the South African handshake so I was a bit off.

Then Rustum then introduced me to the other comedians who were sitting at a table. “Jackson, this is Hot Chocolate.”

I reached my hand across and did the South African hand shake with a rather large black guy with a short and a huge smile.

“This is Gino.” Rustum pointed out. “This is Jackson from Hong Kong.”

I shook with a skinny guy who seemed a bit shy but gave back a strong hand shake. “Hong Kong? How are you here?’

“I used to live in Cape Town, and was looking for an excuse to come back.” I said ending it with a laugh.

“This is Werner. Our token Afrikaner,” Rustum said and gave a slow laugh.

“Stop talking – kak,” Werner responded back and shook my hand hard.

And at the end of the table was an Indian looking guy with long, hair in dreads tied back. He gave a sleepy smile. His hand shake was soft.

“This is Umar,” Rustum explained.

“Your name is Jackson?” he asked as we pulled our hands away.

“Yes, like the memorial except I am not dead.”

He laughed and repeated my sentence, “Like the memorial but not dead.”

I went towards the back of the table and found an empty space.

Just then the waitress showed up with my beer. “Thanks,” I said and winked.

I looked around the upstairs room and it had been transformed. There was a stage with speakers stacked on top of each other and a microphone placed loosely on top of one of them and the cord snaking out from the small elevated stage to the floor.

Then around the stage were wooden chairs of all sorts and types surrounding in a half semi-circle pattern from the front all the way to the back. And then against the wall were tables already packed with people – drinking and eating.

“How many people do you get at these things?” I asked the table but not at anyone particular but I caught Hot Chocolate’s eyes in the end.

Rustum was standing near the table answered. “Sometimes big crowds, sometimes small crowds. We don’t really fucking care as long as people show.” And he stood straight and pressed his hands down his jacket.

Just then a guy with short front hair but spiky back hair bounded to the table. “Hey guys, sorry I am late,” he said.

Rustum looked at him, “This is Jackson.” And he pointed to me. “Jackson, this is Dylan Skews.”

We reached across the table and shook hands. “Good to meet you my bru.” He answered.

We sat at the table watching people filing into the room and taking their seats. The comedians were talking about what they knew about Hong Kong and Asia. Umar told the story about a bouncer at Cubana in Greenpoint who was a huge black guy from Nigeria and was told to keep the Chinese out of the club but allow the Koreans in.

The Nigerian couldn’t tell the difference and no Asians were allowed the whole night.

The table laughed.

“Do you do your comedy in English in Hong Kong?” Umar asked.

“Yes. Of course. I can’t speak Chinese. Thank god for colonization!”

Werner had taken Chinese before and started saying something roughly in Chinese – pretending to be a Chinese stand up comedian.

I asked were there more Asians in South Africa now.

“With the World Cup coming next year – China’s influence is huge now. There are so many Chinese, Koreans, Japanese – everywhere.” Werner answered.

Hot Chocolate asked if the comedy scene in Hong Kong was pretty happening.

“Yes, we got a 24/7 comedy club.” I said.

The table roared. “24/7? You mean comedy around the clock?” Umar asked.

I laughed at my comment. “No I meant to say it’s the first full time comedy club in Hong Kong. I mean there is no other purpose but comedy.” The table settled down. “But yes, we got a comedy festival next week.”

Dylan asked, “How many comedians performing?”

“Thirty.”

“Fuck.”

More people showed up and the room was filling up.
Rustum spoke up, “I guess we need to get this thing started. Somebody want to be the host tonight?”

The table went quiet. Gino spoke up, “I thought you were going to be the host?”

Rustum shook his head and his long bangs shook. He had to use his fingers to pull his strands of hair of the corners of his mouth. “I don’t feel like doing it anymore.”

“I will do it then,” Gino answered.

“Someone needs to tell them we are ten minutes to start time,” Rustum put out there.

Hot Chocolate stood up and went to the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Howizit? How are you tonight?”

The crowd came back in bursts saying, “Good.”

“We will be getting the show underway in ten minutes. So make your last dash to get alcohol or go to the bathroom. You don’t want to miss anything,” he said. And then he dropped the microphone back on the speaker and returned to our table.

Umar turned to me, “You know have the right idea. Drinking beer. Tonight I am trying to do it without alcohol.” And he nodded in the direction of his Coca-cola.

“That’s actually good. I heard that if you do a show always with alcohol or if you are high – it becomes a habit. And you don’t feel that you are funny without some stimulant.”

“No, I am high already. I am just not adding to it alcohol.” Umar gave a sleepy smile. “But I will probably fucking regret that.”

And then he pulled out a notepad with drawings all over it. “These are my bits.” And he put his finger down at certain images. “I am using visual cues. This one,” and he points to a picture of a cut off penis, “is my bit about pulling my penis out of my pants.” And then he points to another picture, “This is my porcupine bit.” And then his finger came down again on a clock face, “This is my time bit.”

I laughed while taking a big sip of my Windhoek Light beer. “Ingenious. Very cool. I just write my bits down in words and bullets.”

Umar looked at me and waited a second before responding. “Yeah, that probably works too.”

When I was eleven, in the hot Alabama summers, I would wake up before dawn – around 5 or 6 am – and take my telescope to the driveway. I was always driven by the latest article in my child astronomy magazine, Odyssey, to point to a certain section of the sky

I was searching for Mars.

I would stare at the Viking I and Viking II photographs in my World Book Encyclopedia magazine for hours. I would re-draw them in my sketch pad. I redrew them so much my Crayola Crayon Box would run out of blue and orange crayons before all the others – because I was always coloring the blue sky of the Martian atmosphere and the desolation of the Martian surface.

I read books about Mars and had the Tallapoosa county book mobile stop by my house every week to bring me the latest Mars or space exploration book.

From the nearby Pick-A-Flick, I rented OJ Simpson in the movie “Capricorn One” at least a dozen times about a faked landing on Mars. One time I watched it so much – that my VCR ate the tape.

I just knew that it would be me. I knew I would be the first person from Earth to land on Mars.

I practiced Mars landings outside in my yard – climbing down from my spacecraft (a big oak tree) just beside Sunny Level Cut-Off Road in Alexander City, Alabama. Sometimes cars passing would honk their horn at me to encourage me.

I constantly worked on the words I would say to be televised to the world as Neil Armstrong did when he made his infamous speech upon touching the surface of the moon, “This is one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

I remember one of my iterations: “Men dreamed of flying, they did. Men dreamed of space, they explored. Men dreamed of touching the surface of another home, and today this man has.”

The planet regardless of the magnification I placed into the socket of my telescope – it constantly looked like a red dot. Sometimes, depending on how hot and humid those mornings were, it was blurrier. Sometimes it appeared more focused. But regardless it always seemed so far away, but I wanted to be there. That red dot I stared at endlessly represented my future.

I knew it would take nearly two years with a conventional rocket to get me there and three to six months on its surface – and then nearly two years to get back. But it was a journey I was willing to make a sacrifice for.

Then in January 1986, the space shuttle Challenger blew up while going to “throttle up” during lift off. And my hope of seeing Martian soil seemed to vanish.

Then life moved on.

Sometimes, during my travels around the world, I smell those mornings – I am not sure what it is I smell – something that reminds me of being up before dawn staring into my telescope. But my brain does and it triggers the memory. I smelled it once when I was in Chengdu, China. I smelled it once when I was walking home from an all night party in Bologna, Italy. And when I was walking to catch the train from Trondheim, Norway back to Oslo, Norway – I smelled it.

And always when I get off the plane in Johannesburg, South Africa and arrive at O.R. Tambo International Airport, I smell it.

Maybe it isn’t a smell, it is a realization, a sense of exploration, of finding a place and experiencing something I had never experienced before. And just as quickly as I smell it, the smell and sensation disappears.

So subconsciously, I find myself pushing myself through life searching for that smell or more subliminally searching for the Mars Effect.

Eddie and I were waiting for our order to come at Ruby Tuesday’s and making small talk I asked him if he had a domestic.

He laughed and said, “Yes. My wife couldn’t handle both our boys alone.”

“So how do you choose your domestic worker?”

“Through an agency.” And he took a sip of his Coca-Cola. “How about you? Do you have a domestic?”

I laughed. “No. I do everything myself. I wash my clothes. I was my dishes. I vacuum and dust. Clean my bathroom. I am my own domestic.” And we both smiled. “But if I did get a domestic, I would choose an incredibly hot one. I would love to come home to have someone there – you know? Someone to talk to.”

Eddie laughed. ‘You mean somebody to come home to fuck.” And he giggled.

I was quiet for a minute and thought about it. “Actually no. I can have sex with anyone. Really. Man, I am craving a real conversation. A deep connection.”

“Then you want a wife.”

I thought about that too. “No. Actually, I was already married. That didn’t fill that deep need of connection.”

“So no sex. No wife. What do you want?”

“Someone to talk to and who gets me.”

“But what if they are not good at sex?”

“A good conversation is sex. You know one of those conversations where you start like a joust – and you end laughing, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. I mean a deep laugh. And when you kiss cheeks or hug to leave – you are counting the days and minutes until you can start the conversation again.”

Eddie who was local Hong Kong was marveling at me for a second. “You foreigners think totally different.” And he laughed.

“What do you mean? I don’t think I am different. Don’t you want someone who gets you?”

“Yes. But a woman and man are different.”

“Yes, women are better and smarter. We just have convinced them that they are not – and that’s why we run things. But that’s changing.”

He laughed again. “Like I said you foreigners think totally different.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I think a woman deep down wants to be a wife and a mother. And if she doesn’t – she has lost what it means to be a woman.”

“Or she has become the woman she was meant to be. A woman has ambition. A woman has dreams. She has hopes.” I said.

Eddie began to say something but just then the waitress showed up and brought our food. He got the teriyaki chicken and I got the chicken wrap and avocado.

We were starving so we didn’t wait – we started eating immediately. But I started the previous conversation again. “So you never answered – how did you choose your domestic worker?”

He chewed the food in his mouth first. “Well, we have a Filipina.”

“Why not a mainland Chinese?”

He looked puzzled for a second. “They don’t have those.”

“They don’t? I would think Mainland Chinese would be the best domestics. And if I were you – I would get a hot Mainland Chinese woman to be your domestic.”

He put his fork into his chicken. “My wife wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Oh right.”

“No, the agency doesn’t offer Mainland Chinese. The agency usually offers Filipina and or Indonesian only.”

“So does your Filipina teach your boys English?”

He took a bit and shook his head. “No. I don’t want them to have a Filipino accent. That would be embarrassing. But Australian, British, or English would be okay but not Filipino.”

I was quiet as I chewed a mouthful. I didn’t like what I had ordered. It was tasteless. “So how did you choose your Filipina?”

“Well, I made sure she was new. She didn’t speak too much English. And she has no friends here already in Hong Kong.”

“You isolated her?”

“Yes. Because if you get a domestic that has been working for several families in Hong Kong – that’s a bad sign. Or if she has been here for too long – she has too many friends. And if she speaks English – she can get herself hired somewhere else.”

Suddenly, I felt saddened for Eddie’s domestic. Most of the domestics that came to Hong Kong had families of their own – but they sacrificed their children to raise another families’ children. And here I was hearing more – that they were deliberately isolated from friends and family to work harder. I was hearing now how a person was being turned into an object – something that could be bargained for – manipulated into optimization.

But Eddie kept eating his food and looking around the restaurant. I couldn’t get mad at him. It’s what he taught. And on paper, he was right. He was getting the most for his money.

I could imagine his domestic in her small room at night – alone – isolated – imagining her family back in their province in the Philippines. And her need was simple – she was dying for the same thing I was craving for – someone to talk to.

And it’s funny how life gets turned upside down and topsy-turvy when one tries to create some kind of normal. A new normal. Where your family is taken care of, you are loved and happy, and there is someone each day you cannot wait to tell about your day to.

My colleague introduced me to the lady who was wearing a black business suit. “I would like to introduce you to Fatima.” I smiled and held out my hand to shake.

She smiled back and she took it. And we shook hands like men. “I am Fatima Freire.”

My colleague explained further, “She is our contact in Macau. Her company has direct contacts with all the Casinos in Macau. She and her team are the ones to know when it comes to the Gaming industry.”

I reached into my suit pocket, pulled out my business card hold and extracted one. I held it out for her to take in a traditional Chinese pattern – holding it out for her to take – holding the edges.

She took it in the traditional Chinese way and studied it for a second or two although she didn’t look traditional Chinese. She looked more European. “You have a Chinese name?” And she laughed.

“Yeah, I got the name in Taipei while working at a customer site.”

She laughed out loud again. “Dragon? Really? Your last name is Dragon?”

“Yeah,” I beamed back at her. “It was a joke. They named me after Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan.”

We stared at each other for a second two – and the boardroom went silent watching us. Finally she broke the silence. “Should we get started?”

I nodded. “Yeah, let’s.”

And my company representatives did the usual and sat in the chairs across from Fatima’s colleagues in a very confrontational manner. I rebelled and took a seat beside Fatima. One of her Chinese colleagues was a little confused when I did this. He moved over and took the seat beside me.

The meeting began dryly. Our company started with Powerpoints about what our company did and basics about its background. Suddenly, Fatima interrupted. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? We don’t have a lot of time. What do you want us to do?”

My local Hong Kong team was taken back. They had never met a woman so forward. They started staring each other. She then began to talk in Cantonese and said the same thing. The local Hong Kong team laughed when they knew she spoke Cantonese. One of her teammates said something in Mandarin and she went serious and responded back in Mandarin.

“I am impressed,” I said without thinking.

“Americans are easily impressed. They can only speak one language.”

The room went quiet afraid there was an upcoming confrontation. She stared at me with a blank look. I looked back at her – but I could read it – and at the same time we both laughed loudly.

The tension in the room relaxed. I spoke out of turn, “We do predict fraud before it happens, we break up fraud rings, and we can also help you doing analytics on your customer loyalty program – especially for your high rollers.”

“But they deal with cash and they usually disappear back into Mainland.”

“But they have loyalty cards.”

She responded back, “But sometimes its fake names or false information they use to register for the loyal cards.”

One of my colleagues started to respond about how our analytical solutions work. He started talking technical. I saw Fatima’s eyes glaze. She was quick to respond, “Talk money not technology. I am here for business and I don’t care about the details.” The room went quiet. “And you still didn’t respond to my question. How do you trace or give benefits to high rollers who want to remain anonymous even with loyalty cards?”

“RFID.” I blurted out.

Everyone turned to me.

Fatima asked first, “What?”

“Your loyalty cards should have RFIDs embedded so you can trace your customer’s movements and see how they interact with the machines on the floor throughout the casino. We can use this RFID and their loyalty number to make them unique. And while they are on the premises, we can predict their needs, give them perks, make predictions about how money they will win, and how much money they will lose.”

“So you provide the RFIDs?” she asked.

I could tell my team was getting nervous.

“No. You have to do that. But once you do it – we can warehouse it and score it – do analytics on it close to real time. Imagine walking to the concierge and the concierge anticipating what you are going to ask before you ask it.”

“You can do that?” she asked.

“We do that in Vegas.”

Fatima looked at me a long time as the conversation broke into Cantonese. I caught her eyes but then looked away.

After an hour, Fatima suggested we wrap up. “And I suggest you all to come to Macau tonight. I want to take you around – give you a taste of our connections – and maybe enjoy the nightlife.”

My team looked at me instantly. “Gary will love that. He lives in Lan Kwai Fong.” One of my team members said trying to make a joke. The only people that laughed was my local team members. But then he followed up with, “Okay. That would be great.”

“Excellent,” Fatima stood up. “I will arrange dinner and then we will go out on the town.”

Her team stood up around her.

Because I was sitting beside her and in her heels she was already taller than me – now standing over me – I felt compelled to stand too.

“I will email the details – please distribute to anyone you see fit.”

We all nodded. She turned to me and held out her hand for me to shake first. “You like to party?”

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes you.”

“Sometimes.”

“Well let’s see if you can keep up with me.” And she let go of my hand and she went around the room shaking everyone else’s hand.

I laughed and even though she was saying goodbye to others I said outloud, “Okay, bring it. It’s on.”

She smiled and as she walked out of the room, she came near to me and said in a half whisper and half voice, “It’s on.”

---

I got an SMS while sleeping late at the Renaissance Hotel, “Do you want to meet for lunch? My customer appointment cancelled.”

I punched back, “Sure. What time?”

“An early lunch. 11:30.”

I looked at the hotel clock it was already 11. “Sure.” And I jumped up and hurried to the shower.

Going as fast I could, I still arrived at Greenbelt 3 late. She was waiting in front of Nuvo. She looked a little impatient. “Why are you late? What were you doing?”

I smiled, “I was sleeping in late. It is your birthday but I am the one on holiday.”

Just then her phone rang. “Yes?” Pause. And then she looked at me and motioned with her eyes that we should start walking to find a restaurant. Because it was Friday lunch time – the restaurants were starting to fill up quickly. “No.” She answered back as we started moving forward in unison. “I am with another customer right now, I can’t.” And she winked at me. “Tourism Board.” She answered and then she started speaking in Tagalog.

Suddenly, she just hung up her mobile and she was quiet as if she was mad.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got a technical consultant who is lazy. I have asked him to do a proof of concept for me – and he is refusing. But he is the one who can do it. He says he won’t do it if I am not there.”

“You should be flattered.”

She stopped and looked me in the face. “I don’t date Filipino.”

“I am not saying date him – just consider it a compliment.”

She blew out a breath. Then she just stopped. “Where do you want to eat?”

“How about the Italian restaurant?”

She didn’t say no or yes – she just started walking again. I followed quickly. And as we approached outside – one of the tables was being vacated – Sophia just sat down at it as the bus boy ran forward and started cleaning it off. Sophia then stuck her hand up to flag down a waitress. When one got eye contact, she mouthed, “Menu please?”

And then she went back to looking at her mobile phone. Without looking up she added, “I got two sales this week. One of them is not even mine, but my co-worker but the customer’s CFO won’t sign it unless it’s under my name. So my co-worker made a deal – I will put it under my name if he will give me small percentage of the sale.”

She then looked up and saw the passion of her job in her eyes. I smiled and laughed.

Sophia – the old Sophia – returned. “What?” And she smiled too. “What are you laughing about?”

“You.” And just then the waitress showed up and apologized. She then gave us the menus – giving me my menu first. She then told me about the specials – never looking at Sophia. Sophia didn’t look at the waitress either.

When the waitress went quiet, Sophia gave her selection in a monotone voice. “Spaghetti bolognaise and ice tea.” The waitress wrote it down quickly.

The waitress then looked up and smiled sweetly at me. “I will take the Ravioli.” I said.

“Very good, sir.” And she wrote it down.

“And also an ice tea.”

Then Sophia spoke up, “And can you give us our orders quickly – I have another appointment in forty-five minutes.”

The waitress answered, “Yes, ma’m.” And hurried off.

Then Sophia and I sat there staring at each other. “So? Why were you laughing at me?”

“You are a woman me.”

“Huh?”

“Usually I am the one on the mobile phone. I am the one on the phone – complaining about my job. We have switched roles. You are a woman version of me.”

“No, that’s not true. You just never paid any attention or gave me credit for my job. You were too wrapped up in your own world.”

I digested what she said as they brought bread to the table for us to snack on.

She watched my eyes. “Are you going to write this on soulparking?”

“Maybe.” I smiled.

“Well if you do – can you stop writing about me as if I was a bitch. You compliment everyone else when you write about them – except me.”

I was shocked. “What are you talking about? Some of the most beautiful stuff I have written has been about you.”

“Well, recently though, you have been writing about me in a negative way. I don’t want people to think there is something wrong with us.”

I was quiet. “Look, I promise I am not doing that intentionally. Or maybe you are wrongly reading into what I am writing.”

“I read it. I know what you are saying. I am just asking you to write something nice about me.”

Just then the sun peeked through and highlighted her – as if she suddenly became a beautiful angel. But just as quickly, a cloud passed and the sun was gone – and she returned to just being a woman who was menstruating.

I laughed at myself and my thoughts. “Okay, fair enough. But remember – when we started dating – I told you that I would write about you.”

“But you don’t even use my real name.”

“I am trying to protect your identity.”

“You sure you not ashamed of me?”

I blew out a breath. “Of course not.” And then the ice teas arrived and she and we took a long sip through our straws.

We stared each other down. “You never told me what the Hindu priest said about your destiny and our future.”

I went back to my straw and pulled more tea through it. “Well, he said it was my destiny. My future to decide.”

“So what he told you was that bad?”

I shook my head. “No of course not.”

Her phone chirped as if an SMS arrived. But she didn’t look down. “So tell me. What did he say?”

“Look I didn’t have to tell you that I met with him.”

“But you did – so you opened that door yourself. And I want to know what he said.”

Just then her phone rang – and she kept watching me – ignoring it ringing. Then she looked down and saw who it was and answered. “I told you I am at another customer site – I can’t come back to the office right now!” Sophia said impatiently. She then started listening and rolling her eyes.

I let out a relieved breath. The door to that conversation had closed at the right time.

But then suddenly, the sun was back behind where she was sitting and the way it projected against her - she now looked like an angel – in business woman’s clothes.

The three hour drive from Mumbai to Pune during the monsoon had proved to be anti-climatic. The weather was overcast but there were very drops of rain and definitely not any mud slides.

Also once moving out of the suburbs of Bombay, the landscape was incredible. There were plush green hills, mountains, countryside, and miles and miles of open space. Occasionally there was a person that was walking alongside the road – but mostly it was over the road trucks transporting goods, infrastructure pieces – cement, pipes, and girders – that overtook the company car that drove me at breakneck speed.

An hour into the drive, I asked the driver to stop at a rest stop so I could pee.

We turned off the highway to a half paved and half dirt road where there was a gasoline station and next to a hill and next to it was a hastily constructed building with wooden stairs and ramps – one leading to the woman’s bathroom and another leading to the man’s bathroom.

Funny, when my bladder realized I was about to release it – it almost couldn’t hold. I hurried inside and it was packed. It was a strange sight being the only foreigner in the room. So everybody looked me up and down. I waited for a couple of minutes and suddenly one of the urinals came available. I stepped up quickly, unbuttoned my fly, and aimed.

It was halfway through I noticed that the pee that was already in there was not going anywhere – and I saw the pee level rising against the rim of the urinal. It was rising, rising, and rising. And my pee kept coming and coming.

That’s when I wished I could be a girl, have the superpower to stop peeing in mid-stream – pull my pants up – walk somewhere else or go somewhere else – and pee again.

Finally – I saw the pee start to overtake the rim and in deep yellow engulf the white porcelain. It flowed over neatly and smoothly like overfilling a milk glass. I stopped my stream and stepped back to avoid the splatter.

That’s when I just buttoned up again. And I turned around. Quickly, there was another man who took my spot who obviously didn’t let it bother him about the overfill.

I waited outside the toilets for another couple of minutes doing a battle with my bladder.

Finally someone walked out and I hurried inside.

Upon fastening the door, the smell hit me. But it was too late. My bladder had made friends with the toilet and I found myself extracting and continuing where I had left off just minutes ago.

Upon leaving, I tried to wash my hands but it was a moot point so I just walked outside. I took the steps and ramp down. And that’s when I noticed all the men leaning forwards on the railing extracting themselves and just aiming at the ground below.

“Why did I go inside to the bathroom?” I asked myself outloud.

One of the Indian guys standing nearby and who was peeing overhead me and turned and looked me over curiously.

I got to the company car and the driver was waiting by the door. He was all smiles.

“Thanks so much,” I said.

“Yessir.” And with that he opened the door to the backseat passenger seat in the car, I climbed inside and we were off again.

---

KUALA LUMPUR

At Zeta Bar, in the Hilton in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Troy and LJ decided after dinner to keep the drinks coming and talk about life and work and the balance between. We ordered three Tiger beers and stood at a table as the live band, Shades, started taking the stage.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Troy told me.

“What do you mean?”

“You are always on the go. You are never home.” And we did cheers with our Tiger beers and we all took a drink. Then Troy laughed. “Where is your home really?”

“Hey, you know my philosophy on that: home is a person and not a place. I am trying to find my person.”

“Is it Sophia?” Troy asked point blank.

“Sophia has put up with me a lot for one year and she hangs on. Our anniversary of meeting is on Filipino-American Friendship Day.”

“Fourth of July?”

“Yeah, that’s our independence day in the States.”

“How did you meet her?” LJ asked.

“It was a week or so before she was about to move to South Africa. I was dating two women at the time. And she saw me with them and was disgusted. And one of her friends introduced us. And I thought she was a bitch.”

We all took a swig of our beers. LJ spoke up first, “So you hated each other when you met?”

“Hate is a strong word. But she definitely was a challenge. But what got me was she was going to the most beautiful place on the planet – and it’s a place that is part of my heart – South Africa. And you know I just said home is not a place. Let me phrase it like this – if it was a place – it would be South Africa. More specifically, it would be Cape Town. And she was going there.”

“Okay, and then what happened?”

“She came to Hong Kong. And a spark developed. And then she was gone.”

“To South Africa?” LJ asked.

“Yeah. She was gone too soon. So I followed her to South Africa.”