Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

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    A pile of trash lay on the floor in front of him; the woman dumped the contents of her dustpan on the pile, then turned and walked off. The mass of flies resting on the garbage she had disturbed buzzed in the air for a moment before settling back down. Jintong looked up and spotted a line of gates along the wall where the buses were parked, each topped by a sign with a route number and destination. People were lined up behind some of the metal railings waiting to have their tickets punched. By the time he located the gate for bus number 831, with a destination of Dalan and the Flood Dragon River Farm, a dozen or more people were already in line. Some were smoking, others were chatting, and still others were just sitting blankly on their luggage. Studying his ticket, he noted that the boarding time was 7:30, but the clock on the wall showed it was already 8:10. A touch of panic set in as he wondered if his bus had already left the station. Tattered traveling bag in hand, he quickly joined the line behind a stone-faced man carrying a black leather bag and took a furtive look at the people in line ahead of him. For some reason, they all looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to any of them. They seemed to be observing him at the same time, their looks running from surprise to simple curiosity. Now he didn’t know what to do. He longed to see a friendly face from home, but was afraid of being recognized, and he felt his palms grow sticky
    “Comrade,” he stammered to the man in front of him, “is this the bus to Dalan?” The man eyed him up and down in the manner of the officials at the camp, which made him as anxious as an ant on a hot skillet. Even to himself, let alone others, Jintong saw himself as a camel amid a herd of sheep, a freak. The night before, when he’d seen himself in the blurry mirror on the wall of a filthy public toilet, what had looked back at him was an oversized head covered with thinning hair that was neither red nor yellow. The face was as mottled as the skin of a toad, deeply wrinkled. His nose was bright red, as if someone had pinched it, and brown stubble circled his puffy lips. Feeling the man’s eyes scrutinizing him, he felt debased and dirty; the sweat on his palms was now dampening his fingers. The man’s response to his question was limited to pointing with his mouth to the red lettering on the sign above the gate.
    A four-wheeled cart pushed by a fat woman in a white uniform walked up. “Stuffed buns,” she announced in a childishly high-pitched voice. “Hot pork and scallion buns, right out of the oven!” Her greasy red face had a healthy glow, and her hair was done up in a tight perm, with countless little curls like the backs of the woolly little Australian sheep he’d tended. Her hands looked like rolls straight from the oven, the pudgy fingers like sausages. “How much a pound?” a fellow in a zip-up shirt asked her. “I don’t sell them by the pound,” she said. “Okay, how much apiece?” “Twenty-five fen.” “Give me ten.” She removed the cloth covering — once white, but now almost completely black — tore off a piece of newspaper hanging on the side of the cart, and picked out ten buns with a pair of tongs. Her customer flipped through a wad of bills to find something small enough to give her, and every eye in the crowd was glued to his hands.
    “The peasants of Northeast Gaomi have done well for themselves the past couple of years!” a man with a leather briefcase said enviously. Zip-up Shirt stopped wolfing down a bun long enough to say, “Is that a greedy look I see, old Huang? If it is, go home and smash that iron rice bowl of yours and come with me to sell fish.” “What’s so great about money?” Briefcase Man said. “To me, it’s like a tiger coming down from the mountain, and I don’t feel like getting bitten.” “Why worry about stuff like that?” Zip-up Shirt said. “Dogs bite people, so do cats, even rabbits when they’re scared. But I never heard of money biting anyone.” “You’re too young to understand,” Briefcase Man said. “Don’t try that wise old uncle routine on me, old Huang, and you can stop slapping your face to puff up your cheeks. It was your township head who proclaimed that peasants were free to engage in business and get as rich as they can.” “Don’t get carried away, young man,” Briefcase Man said. “The Communist Party won’t forget its own history, so I advise you to be