Pineapple Story // Sheung-King

Canned pineapples are, like memories, frozen in time. Maybe, “Pineapple Story,” instead of deciphering whether nostalgia should be accepted or rejected, is floating in the space between reality and imagination, suggesting that nostalgia lies between conscious reality and our fantasies of the past (or, in some cases, maybe even the future). 

“Swordfish expires. Meat sauce expires. Even cling-film expires. Is there anything in the world that doesn’t?” It is May 31. We are watching Cop 223 in the film Chungking Express. “May and I split up on April Fool’s Day,” he explains, “I decided to buy a can of pineapple with a sell-by date of May 1. May loves pineapple, and May 1 is my birthday. If May doesn’t return by the time I’ve bought thirty cans, then our love will expire.”May doesn’t return. On May 1, Cop 223 eats all thirty cans of pineapple and gets a stomach ache.

*

The ancient Chinese scholar, Guo Po writes: “At the age of fifty, a fox can transform into a woman. At the age of a hundred, it has the choice to either metamorphose into a wizard or become a seducer; it can know of happenings a thousand li away; it can bewitch people, leading them astray and causing them to lose their wits. At the age of a thousand, it can communicate with the heavens and become a celestial fox.” On our first date, you suggest that we go to a zoo. The foxes in the zoo have yet to turn fifty. They walk on four legs and lie on the ground and smell like skunks. You smell nice and have an elegant walk.“ I just went on a date,” I tell a friend. “We saw these foxes—”“I don’t want to hear about foxes,” he interjects, “Tell me about the girl!” You prefer wrapping your arms around mine to holding hands, which makes me feel like I too have an elegant walk.

*

“Do you know about the Panjiayuan Antique Market in Beijing?” you ask. “It’s the largest antique market in the city and people from all around the world visit there. Because the market is so big, the managers had a hard time letting people know that it was time for the market to close. They thought it’d be impolite to put on announcements telling people to leave, so, instead, they play a Kenny G song— “Going Home,” to inform shoppers that the craftsmen and sculptors who work in the market need to return home to their families. They’ve been doing that for years now. If you ask children who live in that neighborhood what they think about when they hear that song, they’ll say that when the song plays, father will come home to have dinner with them.”

*

Sometimes, when I look intently, I can see the celestial fox in you. A celestial fox with an elegant walk.

*

On the screen, Cop 223 is drinking alone in a bar. After listening to a song on the jukebox, he decides that he is going to fall in love with the next person who walks in. A woman with a blonde wig, trench coat, and sunglasses enters. The woman reminds him of a fox. Cop 223 has a feeling that she will be fond of him, but to be safe, he must ask her a very important question:“小姐, 你鐘唔鐘以食菠蘿?” he asks in Cantonese. She doesn’t respond. “お嬢さん、パイナップルは好きですか?” he asks again, in Japanese. Still, she does not respond. “Miss, I’m just wondering if you like pineapples?” he tries in English. The woman sips her whiskey and ignores him. Finally, Cop 223 asks in Mandarin, “你喜欢凤梨吗?”“Your Mandarin is pretty good,” she says, finally. “I’m from Taiwan! What about you?” “I’m not in the mood to talk.” Cop 223 goes on to tell the woman that he had been seeing a girl for five years, and that one day, she just left. “In hindsight, I feel as if I knows nothing about her.” The mysterious woman, of course, does not respond. As the camera pans to the reflection of the two sitting in the bar. “A person may like pineapples today and something else tomorrow,” the woman says in a voiceover. “Shoulder massage, please!” you say. The film is over, and we are lying in bed. I carefully pull down your silk bathrobe. “Ah ... you have such nice fingers,” you say. “They’re long and slim, but they’re strong.” I am too embarrassed to respond. Being complimented by a celestial fox doesn’t happen that often. “Can you kiss my back a little?” you ask. I start kissing the back of your neck. Your skin is soft. “Let’s listen to 'Going Home’,” you suggest. As the song plays, I imagine myself a craftsman in Beijing, walking home to Kenny G after a day’s work. I open the door to my house and my children greet me. Kenny G is still playing from far away. I notice a little mole on your lower back, to the right of your spine. For some reason, at this moment, I feel like I know you. I put down my craftsman’s tools and walk to the dining room. On the dinner table sits some hot rice and vegetables. I kiss your little mole. You let out a soft moan. Kenny G gives me a wink and you wrap my arms around you. I see the celestial fox again, walking elegantly on the clouds. It is almost midnight on the last day of May. All of a sudden, I have the feeling that you might disappear once May is over, that you will return to the heavens, to walk on the clouds, leaving me behind. I feel a chill and all the blood in my body turns cold. I clench my fist.

12:00

You are still in my arms; but to be safe, I must ask you an important question: “Do you like pineapples?” I whisper. You are asleep, but I am less than a thousand li away—you should be able to hear me.

Sheung-King (Aaron Tang) is a writer and educator. He holds an MFA from the University of Guelph and is a recipient of the university’s Board of Graduate Studies Research Scholarships and the Constance Rooke Scholarship. His essays and short stories are published in Ricepaper Literary Magazine, PRISM International, Humber Literary Review, Exile Quarterly, and the Shanghai Literary Review. His play, Baguette, is a finalist at 2017 New Market National Play Festival. Sheung-King was born in Vancouver, raised in Hong Kong, and lives in Toronto. He teaches creative writing at Sheridan College. To learn more, visit: www.sheung-king.com