Flower Lounge (17) -- God and Triads

It’s almost six, in a typical Hong Kong office. 

According to their employment contracts, the work day had ended nearly an hour ago. It is also duly stipulated therein that overtime work is voluntary. No compensation whatsoever. They are volunteers. The lawyer who drafted the contract was paid by the Employer to make it ‘water tight’ for Party A only. So they dawdle voluntarily, bound to their chairs by latent pressure, shifting, breathing resignedly, eyes flicking across spreadsheets, scanning for the erroneous input which is responsible for the imbalance.

There has to be a non-mathematical reason why things don’t add up.

The manager checks one piece of paper against another. A few strands of hair pasted heavily to his forehead. It’s always too late to wash hair by the time he gets home. Sleeping with wet hair gives him a headache, and blowdrying threatens the viability of the hundred or so surviving strands. Every strand counts. Maybe this Sunday.

The new guy sighs audibly — a social statement made of carbon dioxide. He turns his machine off with the abrupt determination of a Kamikaze pilot before ejecting himself from his seat. The dusty monitor goes dark. Relieved. Worried.

‘See you morrow,’ he mumbles to no one in particular, avoiding the manager’s direction. 

Nobody responds. 

Good for you kiddo. Don’t have a mortgage, do you? 

The manager looks up briefly as the new guy disappears through the door, then returns to his papers impassively, making rustling noises. He doesn’t seem to mind. But is he making mental notes in red? Time slips by silently, then sneaks back to where it started, winding itself tighter and tighter around the office, squeezing for productivity…

There wasn’t any such suspenseful moment in Workshop Five. When a day is done, a day is done.

At the end of work hours, somewhat arbitrarily marked by an officer hollering hand in your tools, we screeched to a halt, dropping everything on hand as if it had caught fire. A half-cut thread would be left dangling on fifty percent of its cross-section until tomorrow, unless tomorrow was Sunday or a statutory holiday. Mug and bag in hand, we filed through the exit to get searched. Nothing from the workshop was allowed to get out. We then trudged phlegmatically towards the playground as a matter of style, not exhaustion from a hard day’s work.

The field was surrounded by trees, hillsides, distant beaches, and fences. A few lumps of cloud drifted into perfect positions as if assigned by a photographer. Beautiful Tong Fuk! would have been a fitting bumper sticker for the department’s prison vans.

To the left of the entrance was a covered area. Two television sets hung from a corrugated steel roof. Straight ahead, beyond the TV shed, was a small concrete football pitch. To its far left was a raised platform with two pingpong tables, a snooker-like old game Hong Lok Chess, and an entropic heap of flimsy canvas shoes — never washed or cleaned or aired out for fungus treatment — for the use of footballers and joggers. Between the platform and the TV shed was a stretch of nearly vertical rocky slope lined with barbed wire coils at the bottom twenty metres or so. To the right and far end of the football pitch were multiple layers of tall chicken wire fences. Beyond the far end lied the Tong Fuk Beach, mostly just sand and salty water, always silent from this distance.

In the midst of this bucolic setting were a few inmates who opted to continue sitting on hard benches to watch flickering TV images charging and yelling at maximum volume. During weekdays, Japanese robots with blond hair and green eyes would combat Japanese robots with green hair and blond eyes. On weekends, some other children's shows would be on. Children's programmes seemed to have been dumbed down even further since my childhood. Either I had grown smarter, or evolution had moved in reverse.

Youngsters kicked football or smashed pingpong balls, laughing and swearing. Older inmates strolled or jogged around the perimeter. Occasionally, I would stroll along the edge of the football pitch with a fellow inmate, listening to his story as I watched the game. The young thugs were actually quite good; not many amateurs got to practise daily like they did.

Most of the time, I did Zharm Zhong — a form of static martial arts, or stand-up meditation, depending on the practitioner’s intention, state of mind, or age — or a few yoga asanas near the entrance, out of everyone’s way, adjacent televised monsters. Dozens of footballs were trapped between fences, many had deflated and turned greenish. Since prisoners were not allowed to climb fences, and retrieving footballs was not in the jail guards’ job descriptions, these out-of-bound balls, though only metres away, were lost forever. When doing Zharm Zhong, I would pick one for visual focus, pretending I was Tom Hanks in Castaway, and it was Wilson. Oftentimes, my mind would stray to the meaning of life, fate, justice, freedom — deep stuff like that. When imprisoned, philosophical reveries are obligatory.

I will never understand why the guards seemed to prefer the smokey and noisy Common Room to the scenic open field. Whenever there was a slight hint of imperfect weather, they would cancel playground, something which was within their power, and kept everyone indoors to watch TV or re-read the Apple Daily. Gollum would search for redemptive verses in the Bible.

Though Gollum was the only one who scrutinised the Bible everyday, religious studies was popular. Besides offering a spiritual sedative for heathen souls in a vulnerable moment, Bible studies also coincided with work hours. To my criminal mind, the arrangement smells of bribery, as Bible thumping is less labour intensive than sewing. 

In addition, religious studies offered another form of tacit advantage. 

A few experienced and kindhearted See Hings had told me that Bible hours were conducive to parole approval. It was not an official criterion, but old cons knew how things worked. ‘Not that fucking bad man if you ever apply for Scheme A (a parole programme). No work once a week, and they dole out candies.’ Candies? Now, that’s bribery beyond doubt. 

Though a convicted briber, I refused to be bribed. Plus I worried that my heretic tongue would lose control in a Bible discussion class. Attacking pious volunteers with offensive sarcasm risked jeopardising my pristine prison records and my chance for parole in the remote future. I preferred the sewing machine.

I did request to join the Triads, however, but was rejected on grounds of age and education by God-uncle Tseng.

Uncle Tseng, in his early sixties, was probably the most senior in Workshop Five in terms of age and gangstership. He had a huge potbelly, and the air of seniority around his person. For some reason — probably age — he liked me. He invited me for a stroll every now and then, telling me bits and pieces about his world in heavy Chiu Chow accent. ‘If any of them kids bullies you, let me know,’ he told me when we first talked, after he offered me a piece of chocolate.

‘No no no. They’re all quite nice.’ I assured him emphatically, truly grateful for the offer and the chocolate. In Tong Fuk, a piece of chocolate was a big deal.

He was functionally illiterate, the only adult I’d ever met who didn’t know the English alphabet. When he was transferred from Dorm L2 to E1, he told me that his new dorm started with the English letter which looked like a shelf, and drew it out on my palm.

His prisoner number (which stayed with the individual for life) was five-digit long. Mine had six, an order of magnitude behind. Based on that, I estimated his first incarceration to be in the early 1980s, perhaps even the late 70s. Most of the inmates and many of the guards were not even born when Uncle Tseng first went to jail. It wasn’t something that he bragged about — he was mostly jolly, never boastful — but an impressive record such as that commanded more respect than fifteen PhD degrees in Tong Fuk. This time, he was in for drug related charges after having delegated imprisonment to younger colleagues for a long time. According to him, his ‘stupid chick’ kept too much ice at home and got busted. To save her ass, he took the blame. The kind of things old men did for young women is mind boggling. I had a few questions about that anecdote, but asked none.

I did ask him jokingly what bad things he did decades ago to end up in jail though. He replied with a childlike giggle that it was a ‘misunderstanding.’ Well, that much was obvious. Misunderstanding of one form or another was the overwhelming reason why people ended up behind the fences surrounding us.

Time wore on erratically with undefinable Tong Fuk characteristics. Many days had felt like years, dragging me along in suspended animation. But in retrospect, they were a mere blink of the eye. 

More than a month had vanished without a trace. Easter had arrived. I was starting to get used to being a con, feeling comfortable in slippers all day. To commemorate Jesus’ death, we had the day off. If I were God’s son, I would be puzzled, perhaps offended. Look, Easter was one of the worst bloody days in my life. I had been betrayed by my own people, then tortured inside out by psychopathic soldier boys since breakfast, and ended up on the cross by sunset, big long rusty nails through wrists and feet. It’s a day I would rather forget. Yet, you people who claim to love me are celebrating it with a long holiday! Restaurants offer set menus with glossy skin roasted turkeys, and lots of wine. Kids run around hunting eggs, screaming and laughing. And is it that difficult to imagine that the crucifixes dangling from your necks give me the creeps and make the Devil chuckle? Seriously, though I’m genetically all-knowing, I have a hard time understanding your intentions.

Anyway, I was a prisoner, not the son of God. We had the day off to celebrate. I had only just started my Zharm Zhong in the playground when the guards ordered assembly. What? There should be a full hour left, and the weather is cloudlessly perfect! Temperature was felicitously within the two-degree range Hong Kong folks found liveable. Japanese robots had only just started a new round of roaring combat. Their audience will never find out who won if we depart at this juncture! 

Oh well, orders were orders.

We marched to the landing area at the bottom of the access stairways, and settled on the semicircular amphitheatre like children, scratching, chatting, wondering, picking nose. Wouldn’t it be great if they staged a public replay of the fat rat in a plastic bag surrounded by cats to simulate Jesus’ suffering? Plenty of cats milled about. After a few minutes of aimless anticipation, three jovial characters bounced onto the middle, guitars slung over shoulders. 

Abruptly, without any introduction, they burst into a chorus of hallelujah.

After the opening jingle, the leader introduced themselves as Christians. Oh, what a surprise. Him and his brothers and sisters were happy to share this special day with us, he declared. Preferring my playground meditation over a concert by atrocious singers, I honestly could not reciprocate the feeling. He then continued with a story: He once watched a very touching American movie. A professor collaborated with a suicidal girl to make her death appear to be a murder committed by him. He then got hanged. End of story. What? Wait, be patient, there’s a moral to the story, our preacher said with a grin. The professor had done that on purpose to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that capital punishment could be mistaken. Hmm…something to muse over in the next three years, I supposed. 

Our peculiar raconteur allowed an awkwardly long moment of befuddlement before revealing a far deeper message. ‘But, dear imprisoned friends —’ his endearing address for us god-forsaken cons ‘— the professor’s sacrifice was nothing, nothing at all! compared to the sacrifice Jesus made on our behalf.’ He beamed and ran his fingers through his hair as if to check whether a warm halo had appeared. He then bowed and exited without further ado.

Nobody applauded. I was slightly embarrassed by our blunt honesty. At the same time, I quickly ran through his mind-boggling story, trying to remember his every word for my notebook later. Would anyone not present at this gathering believe what he had just said?

Unbelievably…

Another gentleman hopped onto the performance area. This lot seemed bouncier than Easter bunnies. He had a testimony to share: Not too long ago, he confessed, he was a bad guy. Very bad, he emphasised darkly. He was slightly better than the first guy in building up his story. ‘You guys are nowhere near as bad as I was!’ Really? A little presumptuous and insensitive perhaps? ‘How bad?’ he continued rhetorically. ‘I wanted to burn down a church. Just burn it down! For absolutely no reason! Imagine!’ He opened his arms and spread his fingers to invite imagination. That sounded like straight forward insanity, a case study for psychiatry rather than comparative immorality, I thought.

‘Then!’ he startled me out of my musing. ‘I heard Jesus. I heard him, and that changed my mind. I became a changed person — a good guy — ever since. I no longer want to burn any church.’

I prayed silently: Dear God, I need a urine test right now for hallucinogens, together with this gentleman. I wondered what Jesus said to him. Did He speak Aramaic, or Cantonese? I would never have the chance to ask such a pertinent question. I let my curiosity pass.

After relaying his mystical experience, he broke into a song about how Jesus saves potential sinners from committing dumb crimes such as impromptu arson.

Though entertaining, playground hours felt longer than usual, with no end in sight. I needed a moment of silence to admit this hopping and singing into my reality.

Abruptly, he was done singing. Yet another very happy person hopped up and took over. He began with a question: ‘Now, dear imprisoned friends —’ Their nows and condescending dear imprisoned friends were starting to irritate me greatly. ‘— today’s Easter, right?’

Another befuddled murmur from the audience. Though non-responsive, I was surprised to note how diplomatic the boys were. Someone muttered what the fuck under his breath, but that was it.

‘Now —’ stop your fucking now now, for Chrissakes! ‘— Easter is a festival related to Jesus, right?’ He raised his pitch to highlight his excitement.

Another murmuring from the audience. Someone mumbled ‘Just give us the fucking candies’ this time. 

‘Now, do you know which other annual festival is about Jesus Christ?’

No response. Just a few yawns.

‘Now…’ he repeated the question.

‘Ghost Festival!’ someone yelled. 

Ha ha! That’s funny. 

Oh no! Oh my God! It was me! The facetious words was still reverberating on my lips. 

No, it wasn’t me, honest to God. I was evidently possessed. Not my fault. Do you do exorcism by the way, Sir?

A guard gave me a you-naughty-old-man look. I smiled apologetically, about to sweat. Is he going to send me to the Water Rice Cell for solidarity detox?

My reckless reply triggered an uproar and a plethora of answers.

‘Mid-Autumn Festival!’

‘Dragon Boat Festival!’

‘Film Festival!’

Way to go, boys! I like thugs. They got my joke and shared my appreciation of the absurd. If that had just happened in a corporate conference, my pointlessly educated colleagues would have been dead silent, wondering if I was stupid or something, until some up-and-coming smart arse volunteered a correction: ‘James, it’s Christmas!’

Uncle Tseng was laughing his head off right behind me. I turned to ask him: ‘Uncle Tseng. Don’t think I’m fit for the church. Can I join your gang instead? Will you take me?’

‘Are you fucking kidding? You’re too fucking old and have studied too fucking much. No!’

My membership application was instantly, categorically, rejected by the jolly Godfather.

‘Hey, be quiet!’ shouted Ah Sir, giving me another dirty glance. I lowered my head and pretended to pray.

The preacher wasn’t offended though. He seemed to have missed the prank altogether, shaking his head wisely, feeling sorry for us ignorant jail birds. He patiently explained in a feminine voice — some peculiar men liked to raise the pitch of their voice to convey love, kindness, and condescendence, especially to kids — that the other festival was Christmas. 

Voila! A few thugs slapped their foreheads audibly in revelation. 

Music resumed. I glanced at the guard. He seemed to have forgotten me. Our visitors made us listen to a few more songs before handing us each a form to fill. ‘Just tick, and you can have your candies, ha ha.’ He was very pleased with his distasteful temptation — you’re now within reach of your candies, ha ha. Oh Lord, lead us not into temptation, especially not from such a jerk. Perhaps my thuggish jailmates would be offended and beat the bejesus out of him? Unfortunately, they didn’t normally mind bad manners. Oh well, when in prison, do what prisoners do. Though I didn’t like candies, I was determined to behave, in repentance of my earlier disrespect.

First things first, we had to tick some boxes. The choices were trickily identical, mere subtle shifts in diction without changing the meaning. They probably presumed that lowly educated cons wouldn’t notice:

(1) I’ve decided to repent and start believing in Jesus. 

(2) I renew my determination to believe in Jesus.

(3) I’m willing to participate in Religious Classes or be visited.

Etc.

Whichever we chose, we would be snared for redemption. 

I slipped mine into my pocket, saving it for the notebook and future evidence. One day, if I write about this, I thought with great foresight, I’ll need something to assure myself that this Easter event, surreal as it will appear in future recollection, actually happened.

I didn’t have many religious acquaintances. The few I knew were quite normal but for their simpleminded answers to everyday mysteries such as why we exist. In fact, nobody I knew, pious or not, educated or not, was remotely this queer. I wondered why. Perhaps normal preachers who hollered hallelujah strategically with purpose and demands were too cynical to play this game with infinitely more cynical convicts? Seriously, these ones right there should see a doctor. Perhaps they had, and been prescribed prisoners to help them discover self-esteem? The slammer was a good inconsequential place for the thickest crackpot believers to play soul-savers, to feel holy and ecstatic. 

Meanwhile, the repented arsonist was holding a guitar, looking up, smiling at the awning above us.

After a few more rounds of teasing, we were doled out Coca Cola candies. I didn’t know they existed. As soon as we returned to the dining hall, inmates were trading them for cigarettes and other usual goodies. Conversion rates for the god-sent tidbits were instantly established by market force. I tried a cola candy out of curiosity, shivered, then gave the rest away, hoping generosity would get me some redemption credits in return.

When I worked on today’s diary later on, I was bothered by a faint tinge of guilt. Those guys seem intellectually challenged well beyond normally accepted deviation. But they meant good. Plus it’s mean to make fun of handicapped people, and they were definitely handicapped. So I was being mean.

But something wasn’t quite right with the well-intentioned arrangement. Most inmates did need spiritual support, guidance, and enrichment. In their eyes, fate had been selectively unkind. Sure, they were far from perfect, but so was everyone else. Why them? Why always them? Unfortunately, instead of showing a way out of dead-end bitterness, the bouncing storytellers might have deepened their cynicism. 

Christian volunteers dominated prison visits mainly because of a tradition inherited from the past. The apparent popularity of official Bible studies behind bars was largely due to an established perception among prisoners that the system favoured those who pretended to enjoy thumping through God’s words when it came to parole assessment. Knowing the See Hings a little now, I believe Buddhism and Daoism could play a more meaningful role in the prison environment. Most local convicts would find it easier to absorb and digest. I once overheard a few young inmates sharing their meditation experience in the playground. They were learning it together from a library book. Their totally unexpected efforts piqued my interest. Soon after Tong Fuk, I started to meditate out of curiosity, and have kept up the daily practice until now. It’s been more than ten years.

Useful for picking teeth. The box can be used to keep ointment etc.

* * *

Next Episode Flower Lounge Book Club

A few books I discovered in the prison library literally changed my life