Green Cocaine - a short fiction writing by Su

I still remember that the bike was one “Martin 107”, metallic green and about 3 feet tall, it was my 9^th birthday present. As soon as I left my air-conditioned house, I immediately regret it. Saigon is a beautiful city, but in summer the heat comes. It seems to melt all the nice things down, leaving behind trash and dust.

I tried to cycle as fast as I can on the road, hoping that the wind could somehow ease the heat from the 95 degrees sun deep frying my brain. There was this video game that I have always wanted and that day was the day when I decided to spend my 2 month worth of saving money buying the game. 

When I was 10 minutes away from the store, I started to slow down to catch my breath while enjoying the scenery. Many people have started to fortify in their house, drinking iced beer and lemonade in cups reused from last night’s dinner. The ones that don’t have beers chew ice cubes instead. Hadn’t it been for the bulges of electrical wire – some of which are broken in half – dangling in the middle of the road, I could have ride my bike with my eyes closed. Oh, and there were also cracks on the road filled with dust made by the trucks from the night before. They hurt my butt every ten seconds or so.

A chattering pierced the heat waves. The honking from lines of motorbikes, the sound of people yelling and noise of dogs barking… all are jumbled together. Even now I wondered how I notice that distant chattering and I turned my head around. Just some noisy older kids riding on two bicycles. “Those poor ones, ignored by their parents, always fail school, make stupid jokes and laugh about stupid stuff” I thought and continued going. Only one more left turn and …“Hey, brat, what school do you go to?” A smoky, low voice sounded to my left.

Not again! Somehow the teenage group caught up with me. I didn’t look at them, I hate to see twig-like arms and legs; they are creepy. From the corner of my eyes, I saw four guys on two brown, rusty bicycles, so rusty that they creak every time they peddle. By the creaking sound, I realized that they are still parallel with me and figured that they are persistent with this stupid joke.

“High school for the Talented!” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. My dad told me that the more you converse with them, the more you go down to their level.

“Ha! Knew it! My younger brother said he was beaten by a guy from that school, now he’s lying immobile at home with a swollen face and purple eye. We have to check. If you are that guy, we are going to change your face so much that your mom’s not gonna recognize you.” It’s that same voice again but with much more anger, then 3 other voices agreeing with the first and swearing at me.

A moment of confusion. I could feel my brain sizzling. Then I tried to peddle as fast as I could. My shaky legs missed the pedal once, twice, and that was more than they needed. One of the two bicycles went ahead of me and blocked my way, the other gets closer to me but still parallel, forcing me to choose between falling or going into a small alley.

Next things I know I was crying. Tears blurred my vision. My eyes feel so hot that I thought they burned. I didn’t how they looked like, except that they were much taller than me, and that their clothes have holes on it and smell of rotten banana.  I continued to hear words yelling at me, words that will break down the soft-hearted and outrage the aggressive. I was one of those soft-hearted ones, but I kept clinching on my bike. They wanted me to go with them to their house and identify myself with their “brother.” I refused. I knew better.

Even now I can still recall and avoid that place, what I call “The alley of no hope.” You might think that alleys are scary only at night. If so, then imagine yourself standing in one in midday. You can see perfectly everyone on the road, but they were all minding their business and the last thing they want is trouble with some street teens. You can run or yell for help, but good luck finding anyone. These guys wouldn’t let go of the prey so easily, not when they are this close to the prize. They are the type that would strangle you if you call for help, and stab you in the back if you run.

At that moment, I was recalling having read articles about similar cases like this. I was feeling regret for having thought that the victims are not smart enough to escape. The thought of becoming one of them had never occurred in my mind.

“You want to mug me of my bike, don’t you?” I said while still crying. It took me a while to complete the sentence since I was hiccupping, filling my lungs choking humid air with every gasps.  My body drenched in sweat and my T-shirt full of snot. The effect was clear. I saw the slight mix of surprise and fear on their face.

They expected me to believe in that story of the immobile brother. “This is great,” I thought, “maybe there is a way out of this without losing my bike after all.” Their change in expression was enough to give me hope.

Then the oldest of them pulled out a knife from his leather bag. It was over. They left, with my bike and hysterical laughter, and I wished a car would run over them all.

I did not go out of my house for a week. I got nightmares several days after the incident and claustrophobia for a while. The alley, the rotten smell, the ignorant look of people passed by haunted me. My parents smiled to me and hugged me tight when I came back home that day. Although I kept explaining to them that I was not hurt, sorrow was apparent on their face as they shed tears. I was confused and thought that they were just too scared of losing their only son. They said that they didn’t care about the bike and I believed them.

They said it only cost a fifth of their salary.

But that was before I experienced how it feels to lose a fifth of my salary.