Read Online Catfish and Mandala by Andrew X. Pham - Free Book Online

baseball cap, I do everything by feel, instincts gained from months of touring. I can’t get out of the tent. Without my weight, it would turn into a kite in this wind. I figure out a way to collapse the tent from inside. The surf rolls in fast. I’m racing the ocean. Frantically, I bundle my gear and drag it up a ten-yard concrete embankment, running, slipping, scrambling back and forth in horizontal rain. It’s pitch-dark in the storm and my rain-splattered glasses aren’t helping. As I push the bike up to safety, the ocean mats my campsite.
    I huddle with my pile of gear on the walkway above the embankment. Trees bow and bushes quiver like slaves before an angry master. The heavens crack, thundering. Lightning scrawls across swollen clouds, tearing up the night and putting the fear of God into me. I mutter thanks to Him, Buddha, and my dead sister Chi. Another minute and things might have turned out very badly. I don’t want to think about it. I strap the panniers onto the racks and push the bike to the road. Rain stings my face. I’m drenched, my teeth chattering. A steaming bowl of instant noodles and hot coffee would be really good. I need shelter quickly, but my funds aren’t sufficient for a hotel room even if I trip over one. The wind is too strong for riding, so I slog two miles back up the road to a 7-Eleven.
    I step inside the heated store. My glasses fog up. I’m smiling gleefully like a maniac. I made it. I beat the storm! I whoop and rip off my helmet, dripping a puddle just inside the door. There’s no one besides the clerk, a chubby Japanese guy in his early twenties. He is reading manga, a Japanese X-rated comic the size of San Francisco’s Yellow Pages.
    I’m so happy I want to let him know what a fine place his store is. I pull out my Japanese phrase book and try to strike up a conversation. “Bad storm, no? Camp on beach. Me. Bad storm! Heh-heh-heh . Hahahahahahaha! ”
    He gives me a pained smile and says something I can’t understand.
    â€œMe, American. From America.”
    He lifts a dubious eyebrow.

    â€œSan Francisco,” I say, and because I am in the mood I start to sing: “I left my heart in San Francisco. High on a hill …”
    The more I sing and babble the more he looks at me like a bad dream. He flips his manga, making a show of reading. I attempt a few more phrases and give up on Manga-man.
    Well, bugger him. I settle cross-legged on the floor next to the news rack and slurp my bowl of instant noodles. Heck, I could sit here all night and look at magazine pictures. Who needs to talk anyway? I work my way through two bowls of noodles, two cans of foul Japanese coffee, a carton of custard, and a chocolate bar. The whole time Manga-man doesn’t budge from his counter fortress, the phone, and, no doubt, the police—panic button never out of his reach. He doesn’t even pick up his comic again. He wipes down the counter a dozen times, waiting for me to do something crazy. After an hour, I feel a twinge of guilt for torturing the poor guy. It’s not his fault the storm is bad and my Japanese is worse.
    I don my wet gear and go out to face the storm. Manga-man is visibly relieved. I wander in the dark, come upon an all-night gas station, and stand under its awning. The old station attendant looks me up and down from inside his booth. When it is clear I am not a customer, he slides open the window, says something, his words drowned out by the whipping rain. He flicks the back of his hand at me, shooing. I go. All the houses and shops are shut against the storm, making the world look dead. Not a soul stirs. Heavy rain hoods even the streetlamps. Shivers set into me again.
    I find it here in Japan where I least expect it: the black-hollow desperation of a runaway.
    I luck onto a stone wall, five feet high, enclosing an empty lot. The gate is padlocked. I hoist my gear and bike over the gate. I pitch the tent behind