Read Online Ghost Month by Ed Lin - Free Book Online Page A

things.
    In reality,
jiaotous
are older than the actors in the movie, and they look like a regular bunch of guys. They don’t run around shirtless, and you don’t want to see them that way. The film got one thing right, though. They were mainly dangerous to one another rather than to the general public.
    The only time a tourist would encounter a
jiaotou
is probably at one of the smaller temples. You might notice that the guys sweeping the floor and cleaning the joss-stick urns have scary tattoos on their necks and arms. They’ll show you where the gods are, how to worship them and where to leave your donation. You don’t have to worry about your safety. As long as you’re respectful,
jiaotous
will always be polite.
    For example, look at the
jiaotous
waving to me as I walk by. Why, they look downright friendly. I waved back but maintained my stride and kept the moped between us.
    One guy called out, breaking away from the car. He pushed up his sunglasses and pointed his Longlife cigarette at my throat as he approached.
    “Hey, you! You’re Ming-teng’s kid, right?”
    “That’s right,” I said, finally stopping. This is how every conversation with the
jiaotous
started.
    “How come you’re still riding this crappy old moped? How about we get you a new one? Maybe even a motorcycle?”
    “That’s okay. I still like this one.”
    “I gotta tell you, chicks like men on motorcycles.”
    “I can’t afford one right now.”
    He shook his head and smiled, showing teeth stained red from chewing betel nut. “Ming-teng was a good man. A great man. We all miss him a lot. We’re glad you’re keeping his business going.”
    “I don’t know if my father was a great man,” I said. “He was too busy to even be a dad, really.”
    “Hey, at least your father stuck around.” His smile faded a little.
    “Do you want money?” I asked, my hand going to my pocket. My father always told me to pay them whatever they asked, because they prevented other people from coming into the neighborhood and asking for even more.
    “Christ, no! Put that shit away! I was just thinking that maybe you and some of your friends who have food stalls might want to come sing karaoke at the Best Western KTV. We just opened. The mics are shaped like guns, and the girls dress up like Indian princesses. You should come. We’ll treat you right.”
    “You know I work at night.”
    “Take a night off. Relax already. First round is on the house. Okay?”
    “Okay. Thank you,
ojisan
.” I’d always heard my dad use the Japanese term for “uncle” when talking with German’s father.
    He laughed. “Don’t call me uncle! I’m your older brother! You’re my
ah di
!”
    “Some other time. It’s been a long night.”
    I kept going. This was how the scam worked. There wasn’t money handed over in the street. I had to blow a wad of cash at the KTV, making a legitimate transaction at a legitimate business.
    German and his boys weren’t merely leeches on the community. The guy really did take an interest in how people were doing. He wouldn’t take money from businesses that were struggling. Also, I deeply appreciated that he brought huge banners and flower arrangements to my parents’ funeral, along with more than a hundred people and a troupe of professional mourners who had wailed for hours with abandon.
    I walked along a stone-and-concrete wall almost as tall as I was. It was topped with shards of broken glass that stuck up like small stegosaurus plates. Older property walls from Taiwan’s martial-law era were all topped with glass or metal spikes. People must have been so paranoid back then.
    When I reached an off-center iron gate, I swung it open and pushed my moped through before me. I made my way down ashort concrete walk to the house. The hinges were tilted for the gate to shut by itself, which it did with a click.
    I refused to look back. When I was a kid, I used to imagine there was a monster standing there, holding the gate open. Its