Sergei the Submarine Man

KIROV, Russia — Sergei is the quiet one.

He is pale-skinned and without hair, wears a leather jacket and a pair of brown pants. He is short, just a couple inches over five feet, but well-built, clearly in shape. This sounds menacing, but I've yet to see Sergei get angry or even mildly annoyed. More than anyone else on the train, Sergei has been able to create a Zen-like front on this long journey.

He spends his time doing crossword puzzles and studying the train timetable. He never rushes, never fills in words and changes them. He eats the least and chews the most. The observer of Sergei sees a methodical man, someone who does things only after they have been considered for quite some time.

As befits such a quiet man, I know little about Sergei. He is 26 and single, not in a serious relationship or engaged. He was in Moscow for work, and wouldn't say much more about his trip. His final destination is a military base in Vladivostok, the home of the Russian Pacific Fleet. Sergei works on a submarine.

If you've ever given the Russian Pacific Fleet any thought - and there's not much reason for the average Westerner to waste energy pondering the subject - it's probably been over the division's poor combat record. The Russians were trounced by the Japanese in 1904 (after losing, the Russian Baltic Fleet was dispatched to the Pacific. The Japanese decimated them shortly after arriving in Asia). The unit's poor performance started a series of events that led to the overthrow of the Czar, the rise of the Soviet Union, militarism and expansionism in Japan, and both front of World War II. That's a pretty a heavy weight hanging around the neck of a young naval cadet, but Sergei seems proud of his assignment.

I wish our language skills permitted a more in-depth discussion on the subject. Unfortunately, the Lonely Planet Russian Phrasebook contains none of the vocabulary that would be necessary to talk about life aboard a submerged metal ship. I have to trust Sergei that when he says that he likes being aboard the submarine.

Even if we could chat in the same language, I doubt Sergei would give up anything interesting on the subject. He appears to be a very disciplined man in the very secretive Russian military. I'm sure he wouldn't give up the farm to an inquisitive American reporter.

So on Sergei, the passenger with the most interesting profession and probably the most compelling life story, I have the least the say. If keeping secrets is part of his job, he must be very, very good at it.

A Nice, Fatty Slab of Man Meat

BEIJING – Here in China, I get what I want.

When I shout "fuyuan," the waitress comes running across the restaurant to see if I need more dumplings. Outside of Beijing's trendiest club districts, the owner of a bar will not only admit me at any time, but frequently take me to the Very Important Person room, complete with free drinks. People line up just to converse with me on the subway, train or even while eating a bowl cold noodles.

There's nothing special about me, I'm just a foreigner in China. People here treat me with a degree of deference that would be unheard of in America. It's outrageous, really, and I found how demeaning it can be to serve rather than be served; I became a prostitute.

Zack arranged the position. My travel mate through South Asia, not four days out of the hospital (and as it would turn out, only a day away from another visit) sat in the middle of Beijing Language and Culture University Bla Bla bar's courtyard, intoxicated. At his table sat Evan, our American friend, and two Asians. I sipped my first beer as our new friends explained why we needed to leave soon.

"Do you want to drink beer, sing song, meet beautiful women and make money?" the skinner one asked me. He claimed to be Kazakh-Chinese, or perhaps Chinese-Kazakh, and went to People's University here in Beijing.

Zack didn't believe him, but he couldn't say "what's the catch?" in Chinese: The four had been talking past each other for some time before I arrived. The Kazakh wanted us to go to a club in the Xizhimen district, about three miles away. We would earn money because few foreigners go this club, and they want us to talk to the women.

I agreed with Zack, it sounded too good to be true. I wanted to sip beer with my friends, share stories recent vacations, of Laotian drug dealers and Indian computer nerds, not blast off to some crazy club. But the more we sat there, and the more the two pleaded, the more Zack want to go. I said no to Zach and explained to the Kazakh
I just couldn’t take him up on his business opportunity tonight.

Thirty minutes later we arrived at the club. It was a massive structure, attached to the Tianfan Hotel off the Third Ring Road. The club – actually a karaoke bar – rose four feet and was covered with neon strips on three sides. There was a massive enclosed valet area, and our taxi was opened by a man dressed in a pressed, starched shirt.

The Kazakh convinced me to come, as he thought I had the best Chinese in the group, and would be needed to translate. Zack really, really, really wanted to go, and Evan seemed up for it, so reluctantly I agreed to go and look around.

"If things look bad," I warned the Kazakh. "We're leaving."

The first room resembled a hotel lobby, with a large arrangement of fake flowers and twisted branches, and a spiral staircase leading up to the second level. We went upstairs and were led into a room overlooking a dance floor. Standing in the room were several dozen Chinese, all male and young.

"These are all nanji," the Kazakh whispered in my ear. The word means roosters, but it’s also slang for male prostitutes. What? If everyone in the room is a prostitute, who were we?

One of the young men came up to Evan and me, wanting a picture. I obliged, sitting on a red couch with the young professional between us. After he finished another came over with his camera phone, and another. Some spoke to us while getting their snap. Where were we from? How did we get to China? Where did we learn Chinese? The usual spiel, but here I found myself talking about my sister in the strangest of circumstances. One broad-shouldered man, much larger than the others, asked if we'd been to Henan Province and said he had studied at the Shaolin Temple.

At 1:30 on the dot, all the men moved across the hall into a small room, some kind of staff lounge for the club. We couldn't get inside, but after a couple minutes the Kazakh tried to led us along with several of the young men into a nearby room. It was a karaoke booth, a small room with a long couch around one wall, an entertainment system opposite and a glass table in the middle. Gaudy brown and white wallpaper peeled on the high corners of the walls and dusty fake flower arrangements were placed at random locations in the room.

Inside I could see three women, all dressed in skimpy dressed and loads of makeup. Their permed haircuts reached the middle of their backs. They looked young and empowered, the men who stood in front of them just young.

The Kazakh explained more as I looked on from outside the door. The men are paraded in, six or eight at a time. The women ask questions, and then choose their entertainer. Soon the former Shaolin monk sat next to a customer with a black patent leather purse.

Our funhouse tour continued. Now we were led into an empty karaoke room. On the couch sat a man around 40, with a squared-off haircut and a black suit. This was the boss, and he began our meeting with a cigarette. "What exactly did these two tell you about this place?" he said, gesturing toward the Kazakh and his silent assistant.

I told him our story so far, how we'd been plucked from the foreign student university's bar and dragged out here just to take a look. The boss seemed pleased.

"You get here at 11," he said. "You can leave at 4, but if you still have a costumer if you have to stay until they leave. Each night you will make at least 500 RMB. You can start tomorrow, but wear nice pants and real shoes."

I looked down at my flip-flips and hairy feet covered in dried, crusty sweat and felt embarrassed. I promised to look better the next time we returned, and thanked the man for his time.

We left the room, and I told our hosts that it was time to go. But instead of taking us toward the exit, they led us into one final room. Now we were the ones on
display, put in front of three hungry women. They wanted man-meat.

"Where are you from?" One asked me. "How old are you?" said another.

"Can you dance?" asked the third.

I felt mortified. To these people I was an exotic monkey with a miniature symbol, a cute toy that would liven up a night on the town. These costumers probably spent years making a fortune in real estate or manufactured, now they wanted to be fawned over. Staring at these ravenous people, I knew that I couldn't never work here at the karaoke club, even if I never established whether or not I would be expected to "entertain" these people back at their hotel suites.

Prostitution is dehumanizing. Being any kind of servant, required to dance when someone says ‘dance’ and bark out an awful version of Aerosmith's "I Don't to Miss a Thing" on cue is terrible too. Even services that I take for granted are vaguely unsettling. Why should a woman run across the room just because I need a package of salt? Maybe I don't always need to get what I want.

The Poetry of Work

TROY, N.Y. - We've been scoring too hard. Our supervisor at the testing site told us today we're working too fast, and we might have to leave our jobs early. At my scoring table we decided to address the problem by stopping work and writing poems. Here's three:

Poem A

Last week we had stars,
shining in the sky,

Then we smelled rain,
Amanda said good-bye.

Wednesday was Earth,
saved by little kids,

And now...
we're reading poems
and I've hit the skids.

Poem B

The kid to my right is a new generation
He serves his answers with intense concentration

"A 4," he says - "No," I say, "3"
The shocked look on his face says he doesn't agree

The numbers are high
As a result, we'll lose work
My team says "Slow down!"
But it's hard for to shirk

At 20 you have all that time ahead
At 60, you're fighting a hospital bed

For you have to be fast and you have to be quick
To outrun the clock and its accelerating tick

But for my around I will slow down
So on Wednesday we'll get to come round

Another 2 - then a zero - a 4
Then drag your feet - don't do anymore.

Poem C

We're grading a question 'bout music
that's more than a little confusic...
Should the kid play the sax?
Or turn amp to the max?
Or just go and find him a floosie?

The Phone Call I Had To Make

WICHITA, Kan. – Being a journalist means doing uncomfortable things.

We have to stand around as a criminal comes out of a courtroom, badgering him with questions when all he or she wants to do is see their family. We have to rush to the scene of a crime, hoping to see someone arrested. We also will stand outside an event, seeing if anything goes wrong.

Our obligation to cover the news means that we have to do these things, but as a journalist, I can tell you that there are plenty of other things that I'd rather be doing. Like drinking a beer.

Today I had to do something very unpleasant. I was covering a big story. A man murdered his girlfriend and a friend before shooting himself while the police looked on. It was incredibly graphic. I'm glad I didn't see any of the pictures the police took on the scene. It was definitely the most graphic crime that's happened here for months.

I spent the first few hours gathering information from the police. Then I turned to the extensive criminal history of the now deceased criminal. It was very large, including 46 violations inside jail. The next thing to do was talk to the other people involved. While a colleague when to the scene of the crime, I got out the phone book. I wanted to speak to the victim's families, to see if they knew anything.

This is an incredibly painful time for the families. They just found out their young children were unexpectedly murdered. I really, really, really didn't want to bother them, but I would be derelict in my duties if I did not. I picked up the phone and dialed. On the third ring, a woman answered. She wouldn't give her name, only idenifying herself as a family member. I'm pretty sure it was the young woman's mother.

"I think the media knows more about it than we do at this point."

A pause.

"We saw her... off-and-on."

Another pause.

"Her family loved her very much. And I think that's about the extent of our comment."

And then she hung up.
I thanked her and said I was sorry for her loss. I really was.