Some afternoon when I was mowing the field, he quietly came for a visit, watching from a short distance. My eyes, which had been following the left-right movements of the lawn mower, caught a glimpse of him. But I purposefully didn’t acknowledge his presence, certain he was here to correct my beginner’s understanding of farming. “Apyang, you can’t do it like this. No one cuts grass like that. Just give it to me. It’s like you’re dancing . . .” His tone was part contempt, part jest.
Ever since he graduated elementary school, Number 1 has been in and out of farms and factories big and small. Any time he saw this dummy working in the fields, he couldn’t help but give me a few pointers.
“Then teach me!” I faked a smile, setting the heavy equipment on the ground.
“Let me, let me, you go to the side and watch.” He took the lawn mower.
Tama’s old lawn mower, let’s just call it Little Red—I mean, it used to be a fiery red, but after three years of use, it was now covered in dust, an old and beat up Little Red.
It wasn’t until I learned how to change the blade, understand the ratio of oil and gas, switch out the spark plug and clean the filter that I understood, when machines stop working, eighty percent of the time it has to do with the person handling the machine. My Tama just can’t get the proper 25:1 unleaded gas to two-stroke oil ratio. He always forgets that when he’s finished, he should turn off the oil button until the leftover oil has been exhausted, so that the oil deposits on the bottom don’t spoil.
I say all this now, only to retroactively explain all the things I did wrong when I first started farming. Back then, I was so green, I mowed the grass terribly, didn’t use Little Red properly. I didn’t even know the concept of using the sickle at an angle. Number 1 can do it. Number 1 knows. His muscular body and physical experience are undeniable evidence.
On this little plot of land is quinoa that I’ve transplanted from my partner’s house. This red quinoa is really special, not sure where it’s from or what varietal it is, but it shoots up as soon as it starts growing, over four meters tall. The tree stem turns into a demon, the surface is covered in a thick layer of pliable red, the inner layer is as hard as myrtle. I used a string trimmer to whack at it, drawing what looked like a shallow cut made with a knife, but the blood was shy to come out. I pushed harder. The red quinoa was like tai chi, meeting tough with soft, pushing the machine back, causing my steps to stumble backward. It was embarrassing.
It’s exactly this kind of humiliating scene, which Number 1 saw, that made him take the mower from me with confidence, the handles like an extension of his arms. He easily whacked away all the black-jack surrounding the red quinoa. The radius he drew was bigger than mine. The blades spun quickly, counter-clockwise, his hands exerted power from right to left and absorbed power from left to right, the airflow now controlled and regular, forming into an elegant round blade, the plants falling to the ground one after another. He really is a man who understands how to use a lawn mower—a real man, that Number 1.
Next, the red quinoa—he used the antenna of the string trimmer to touch it, “Whoa, this is so tough.” His voice was eat-a-bunch-of-raw-chicken-livers strong, even Little Red couldn’t muffle it. Number 1 changed direction, moved his hand from top to bottom, first cutting off the soft bits of the stem, then the bottom stem. He pushed once and got bounced back, fuck, he yelled, coaxing out more strength, but his entire body was bounced back onto the ground. His position was really strange. I almost burst out laughing.
Little Red quit again, quietly lying off to the side, next to Number 1, splayed out like the character 大. His eyes stared straight up into the sky, the sun was shining, as usual, like he was looking at something. I leaned over, and the thick stench of alcohol created a wall—breath could blow in but couldn’t flow out. Time stood still for a while, I just watched to make sure Number 1’s chest was still rising and falling. I didn’t do anything.
Fuck on repeat, he got up to restart Little Red, to no avail, took out the spark plug, used a screwdriver to scrape off the rusted carbon, tried to restart it again, still didn’t work. “Fuck, you don’t take care of it. I take care of all my machinery.” Number 1 went on to list all the ways I could take care of Little Red, by the time he was finished, it started to drizzle. “Apyang, go get me a bottle of millet wine . . .”
He’s Number 1, I’m Number 4—on the first day of elementary school when we were seven, the teacher told all the boys to stand in single file in the hallway, in order of height. Number 1 was the shortest, I was the fourth shortest, our height determined the number we would be known as for six years.
Number 1 was often absent from school during the busy farm season, harvesting ginger and corn; when it was time to pay for school lunches, he wouldn’t show up at school. When he finally did come, he was always dirty, his nose was forever snotty. Our teacher asked, “Does anyone know why Number 1 isn’t here? Number 4, doesn’t Number 1 live near you? Do you know where he went?”
“I don’t know, he barely plays marbles or roasts sweet potatoes with us, he really is in the fields, he really is working.”
One day, Number 17 reported to the teacher in class: Number 1 was lying by the road, I called out to him, why are you sleeping on the road? What’s it to you—I’m looking at the stars! Number 17 pulled him up, come on, go home already, what do you mean you’re looking at the stars? Cars will run over you. Number 1 sprang up, swung a fist, said, fuck off. Number 17 was the tallest boy in our class, he started school late, plus he went through puberty early, in the bathroom holding our little wieners to pee, I envied his big mushroom, at that time I was still a tadpole.
In my mind, Number 17 was a real man and there was no way he couldn’t beat up little Number 1. Number 17 said, he was drunk, drunk people are very strong, so I ran, and there, Number 17 concluded his speech. No matter how big and strong a person is, they could never stand up to the superpower strength bestowed upon someone after drinking. I was still into HeySong sarsaparilla, while Number 1 had already learned how to drink Whisbih and millet wine . . .
After I fed the chickens, I saw Number 1 wave at me by the roadside on my way home. Apyang, take me to the store. Before I could even respond he was already on the back of my bike. The weight of the bike wasn’t balanced, I didn’t want to go too fast. Number 1 sat with his body at a tilt, his right buttock was heavier than his left, an aftereffect of a factory accident years ago when heavy machinery crushed his pelvis, he could no longer stand up straight, he walked like he’d had a stroke.
When he came out of the store with his cigarettes and booze, I told him there was a plot of land across the river. “I was just about to head over to clear the weeds and plant some bananas. Can you come help me weed?”
“Where? Take me.” He got back on my moped, we wobbled over. Along the way, his alcoholic breath wafted from behind, the source of his spirit, the painkiller for his pelvic accident, the upper that makes him work extra hard.
Suddenly, he asked, “Apyang, you graduated from college, right?”
“Not just, I have my master’s.” What does education have to do with weeding?
“You know that actually, I’m really smart, it’s just that families are different, families are different . . . ” He looked up at the sky and sighed.
“Mm.” I didn’t know what to say.
All kinds of weeds and grass were growing on two plots of land, at the foot of the mountain, a busy rain forest. Leucea, Spanish needles, kudzu, bitter vine, black nightshade, silvergrass . . . He took a sweeping look and calculated, I’ll just charge you 1000NT, when I weed for other people I charge 2000NT, I’m pro at this, since we were once classmates, I’ll give you a deal. Without a second thought, I took the money from my pocket. Number 1 said, “Get me another bottle of rice wine.” I said okay.
The once-dense forest was coaxed into a flat and softened land. I planted banana seedlings every five steps and in three, four months, they grew up to my knees, blades of young green leaves arched down, and weeds started to grow in the spaces between each plant. By that time, I didn’t need Number 1’s help, I learned how to communicate with Little Red, allowing it to become an extension of my body.
When Number 1 was discovered it was close to ten o’clock at night, the person who discovered him patted him gently on the shoulder, calling his name. We were all used to it, assuming Number 1 was enjoying the pleasures that alcohol brought forth, enjoying the freedom of lying by the roadside, looking up at the stars. But Number 1 will never wake up again. When I turn soil or pull weeds in the field, there will no longer be someone riding by on his scooter yelling, “Apyang, are you looking for field mice? Apyang, you’re so hardworking. Apyang, get us a bottle of rice wine and let’s drink it together . . . ”
