Alone in the Crowd
A lonely city-dweller plays an unusual game (Excerpt from Prologue & Chapter 1)
Whenever I’m bored on the weekends, I like to play a game. I leave my apartment early and head east toward the Bund, a sort of preliminary constitutional before the real walk begins. I caffeinate. I hydrate. I go on a few test runs before making my choice. In the years that I’ve been doing this, I’ve never been caught, and I attribute my success to what, from a young age, has been described by those around me as a natural circumspection, a tendency to set myself apart. That’s not wrong, I suppose (at least, not in any ostensible sense), but it makes me sound like a misanthrope, which I’m not. I swear. I’m just good at being alone.
Which must explain, at least partially, how I came to Shanghai. I worked for four years at a multinational conglomerate in New York City after college—a humdrum, entry-level position I didn’t love but didn’t hate—and when the opportunity arose to transfer overseas (to Hong Kong, then Shanghai), I didn’t think twice. For a while, I had been looking for a way out: of the rat race, of a social circle turned stagnant, of America, of myself. Here, I have a clean slate. I am anonymous. And that’s precisely what the game is about. But at the same time, it demands resourcefulness, spontaneity, a sense of adventure, and stamina (both mental and physical). Most importantly, however, it’s a distraction. And a welcome one at that.
There’s only one rule to the game: no women or children. This is a parameter I set for myself on one of my first times out, a measure intended to keep me from looking (and feeling) like a creep. I don’t have much interest in my subjects themselves, anyway—they’re merely conduits for exploration. The term “guides” is perhaps more apt. I keep a record in my journal of all the sessions I’ve been on, and for each entry, the only reference to the person I choose to follow is a brief description of their clothes and features at the start. It’s entirely innocent, nothing more than a bit of harmlessly eccentric fun. It’s opened my eyes to lesser-known neighborhoods in the city and, in a few cases, even resulted in new friends.
So, here's what I do: I purchase a large quadruple latte at ARABICA (the capitalization is theirs, not mine) on Yuanmingyuan Lu, a cobblestone promenade about a stone’s throw from the Bund, then wander around Huangpu till what, on a weekday, would be rush hour, coffee in hand. I sip slowly, savoring the routine, mentally preparing for the day. By then, the street sweepers are finishing up and the photographers have emerged, posing newlyweds, models, and the occasional celebrity or two in the early morning light against the Beaux-Arts facades. Stopping traffic, quite literally, in the middle of the road. I saw Hugh Jackman once. For the first ten minutes or so, I try to focus on my senses, gradually waking up, documenting five things I can see (the sea anemone-like movement of a group of pensioners practicing tai chi; a giant blue container ship dominating the Pudong skyline; an otherwise glamorous model crushing the heels of her sneakers, smoking a cigarette, between takes; the national flags atop the buildings, still vigilant against foreign claims; security cameras everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE), four I can hear (a passerby speaking French; a public security announcement on East Nanjing Road; construction in the distance; even, at one point, birds in the trees), three I can touch (the interior lining of my coat; the railing on the Bund; the flimsy sleeve around my cup), two I can smell (perspiration; pollution), and lastly, one I can taste (invariably coffee, so sometimes I’ll opt for something more nuanced and flavorful—a pour-over, say—instead). I’ve never been a morning person, despite always feeling more grateful and productive whenever it is I’m able to get up early, and that’s yet another benefit of the game: it keeps me from sleeping in. Sobriety has certainly helped.
Once I’ve made it to the Bund, I walk down to Shiliupu, a tourist marina exactly one mile south of the Peace Hotel, which I remember from my first week in town, when I was better about working out. At this hour, it’s always type-A young professionals, clad in thigh-high neon shorts, listening to music and daubing at sweat as they jog inexorably past. By now, I’ve come to realize, not sadly, that I’ll never be a runner—at least, not like that—but I still try my best to stay healthy, and this is the third and final component of what the game is all about. Usually, around this time, I tend to start looking—not necessarily for the person I’ll end up following, but rather for some slow-moving, half-conscious pedestrian—to sharpen my focus and practice a bit. Another group of old men across from the Waldorf, this time flying kites. A tousled chengguan assuming his post. The pleasure barges at dock. At the intersection of Zhongshan and Dongmen Lu, I turn around, unless someone has caught my attention, and head back the way I’ve come. Descending to street level, I dispose of my cup, then unlock my phone and reset my pedometer and set up a new voice memo, titled according to the date. At Fuzhou Lu (or thereabouts), I turn in. The streets are much busier, the sidewalks more crowded, the faces all rushing past, and I begin my search for the first person to stand out to me, for whatever reason—just so long as he’s male, as previously mentioned. I try not to overthink it. Once I have found him, I record a few notes regarding his appearance and the cross streets, then drop back and collect myself and attempt to concentrate as hard as I can on the present. Breathing in deep. Putting one foot in front of the other, I commit myself to his guidance and lose myself in Shanghai. Game on.
I have been tailing the man in the Balenciaga sweatshirt all morning, ever since seeing him come out through the revolving doors of the China Construction Bank building on Jiujiang Lu, keeping a close, yet comfortable, distance between us as he leads me across the city, preoccupied with his phone, navigating the crowds with an uncanny show of awareness that, if not practiced, has to be instinctual: a magic, almost magnetic repulsion of others—an effortless cruising on his part. He’s young, maybe mid to late twenties, and decidedly handsome by all accounts, eyes half-concealed beneath the cuff of a tight-fitting brimless cap: a bright, gaudy orange, the color of extroverts and construction zones, precisely what drew me to him initially, the reason for my choice.
We are on Line 10 now, heading north toward Jiangwan Stadium. He’s sitting at the other end of the car, deep in conversation, the housings of his earbuds jutting out from under his cap so that it looks like he’s talking to no one—or rather, talking to himself. I can’t quite hear what he’s saying. He’s animated, though, gesturing with his hands in a way that seems more European than Asian, shaking his head vigorously, slouched in his seat, erupting into laughter at points. None of the other riders look up. I consider myself in the glass, and what I find there is a pale reflection—indeterminate, blank—a faceless stranger among strangers; another straphanger, just like the rest. He rises, preparing to disembark, and I track him in my peripheral vision, which isn’t hard, given the color of his cap, all the while feigning attention at the monitor beside the door: a cartoon PSA. Yield to the elderly. Stand on the right. Courtesy is a virtue. Don’t spit. The train decelerates into the station, barely swaying as it does, and a message plays overhead: Wujiaochang. Doors on the left. An onrush of people. It’s utter chaos for a moment, every rider for themself, and somewhere in the crowd, a child calls out. Balenciaga gets held up briefly, but then he’s through, pushing his way upstream, an alarm now blaring over the system as the doors begin to close, stark in contrast to the tone of the previous announcement. I'm the last person off.
I’ve never been to this part of the city, so I do some research while we’re making our way aboveground: Wujiaochang, or Five-Cornered Plaza, owing to the confluence of Handan, Siping, Huangxing, Xiangyin, and Songhu Lu. Etymologically reminiscent of the scene in Gangs of New York when Bill the Butcher says to Boss Tweed: Each of the Five Points is a finger. When I close my hand, it becomes a fist. As I continue to read the Wikipedia entry, I discover that this isn’t the only connection the area has to Hollywood: in 2012, parts of the Spike Jonze movie Her, starring Joaquin Phoenix and Scarlett Johansson, were filmed here, and as I’m emerging from the station, it all comes flooding back to me: the enormous saucer-like enclosure over the Middle Ring Road, the elevated walkways, the futuristic feel of the buildings. Balenciaga seats himself on a bench at one end of the inground plaza, ending his call by the looks of it, and hunches over, scrolling idly. At last, I think, sighing. A break. All this walking’s got me hungry. I post up at the first food stall I find, feeling about as lonesome as Theodore Twombly, and buy a salted chicken cutlet in a wax paper sleeve, writing down everything I’ve learned between bites. The note at the top of the page reads Balenciaga: luxury fashion house founded in 1919 by couturier (a designer who makes and sells clothes tailored to a client’s specific requirements and measurements) Cristóbal Balenciaga in San Sebastian, Spain, since initially, given the colors and the name, I’d thought it was the logo for some Latin American politician. Bolsonaro, maybe? The More You Know.
It's overcast today, which makes imagining myself in the film hard, but I’m still in awe of the location as I sit there eating, watching a few clips on my phone: Theodore at home, playing the ukulele; lying on the beach, listening to music; at a restaurant, signing divorce papers; in the subway, breaking up, breaking down. If you’ve yet to guess, I’m a huge movie nerd, going all the way back to middle school, when I’d spend almost every weekend on the couch, watching the original Star Wars trilogy over and over on VHS. I can still recite Greedo’s entire monologue to Han in Rodian (which isn’t something I’m proud of, by the way), and remembering that now, I can't help but wonder if it explains at least part of my attraction to living abroad. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Wiping my fingers, I throw out the napkin and check in on Balenciaga, who still hasn’t moved. He’s staring up at the sky, lost in thought, arms pretzeled at his chest.
The plaza crisscrossed by shoppers. Grassy islands here and there. A boy dragged past by his mother, repeatedly dabbing into the crook of his arm. Bù kěyǐ! he shouts, in a spastic, slightly accented tone. Bù kǒyǐ! more like. I smile to myself. Kids. The roofs of buses visible over the rim of the square. Two leggy girls in cutoffs, masked and carrying bags. I put on my headphones and look to see if there's a new episode of my favorite podcast up, but no, there’s not, so I go through their backlist, hoping to find one on Her. Strike two. Settle for the soundtrack instead. Just at that moment, I spot movement in the corner of my eye, and see it’s Balenciaga, walking again, headed toward the northeast exit of the square. Oonta goota, Solo? I return my notebook to my backpack, then fall in behind him, checking the time on my phone: 14:22.
The music—if you can call it that—is atmospheric, more like ambient noise. In the time it takes me to get back into trailing distance, I experience a rush of excitement, a sudden frisson at being alive. We cross the street underground and pass through a curtain of plastic flaps, and the first thing to hit is the air-conditioning. The basement of a mall. More specifically, a food court: ice cream and sushi, a restaurant called Le Le Cha. Everything is spotless, almost sterile—you could eat off the floor—and the reflections from the lights are so blinding that I have to visor my eyes momentarily; it takes them a second to adjust.
I ease my headphones forward to hear the soundscape as well so that they're held in place by the tension but now seated a bit rakishly atop my head. Or so I like to think. Over the murmur of the crowd, the constant cry of huānyíng guānglín: Welcome! We’re honored you’re here. Two young men arguing. A speaker hawking wares. Somewhere across the floor, what sounds like the whir and beep and chime of a slot machine. I note these details and more on my phone and return to the music, then board an escalator. Balenciaga is already at the top.
I used to feel nervous whenever I'd follow people, thinking they'd pick up on me for sure, but if this game has taught me anything, it's that no one really cares. Your average stranger is too self-absorbed, each in his own little world, and Balenciaga is no exception. It's quite humbling in that way. Almost reassuring. Getting off the escalator, I panic briefly, since he's nowhere in sight, but then there it is again, floating above a set of shelves in one of the first stores after the landing, that neon orange cap. MUJI. I enter and browse for a bit on my own: brandless, minimalist home goods. An island of stationery and other office supplies up by the register, free to test out. I buy a couple of pens, then do a lap to ensure that there are no other exits and take a seat outside in front of the door on a planter-cum-bench. Coincidentally, the song that's playing ends almost right as I sit down, and the track from the beach comes on next, mellow and drowsy and light.
OK, Arcade Fire. I've never been a fan of theirs despite Spotify's regular recommendation under More of What You Like and the fact that I once learned a song of theirs in college while in a band with my friends. "The Suburbs." Remembering this makes me feel old. I learn more about the score on Wikipedia, a collaboration with Michael James Owen Pallett, a Canadian composer, violinist, keyboardist, and vocalist who received an Honours Bachelor of Music for Composition from the University of Toronto and identifies as gender-queer. Their favorite album? Xiu Xiu's A Promise, which I queue up next. I sit there and wait for a long time, listening and observing, until eventually, finally, mercifully, Balenciaga comes out.
He is carrying his purchase, or purchases, in a beige cotton tote with the name of the store stenciled in both Chinese and English on the front. He saunters with a limp, which I have noticed before, but it seems more pronounced now, for whatever reason. Maybe the trendier environment, or the people walking past: an old couple in matching argyle sweaters, clasping hands like young lovers; a man in pince-nez glasses; a pair of sullen, ash-faced goths. Each with their own identity, carefully crafted, painstakingly maintained. Personally, I have no style to speak of. I prefer plain, almost dowdy, clothing, though perhaps that's it, right there. The soundtrack fades out, and I play Xiu Xiu's A Promise, which shocks me with its cover art, a photo of a man kneeling with his dick out on a bed, holding a doll upside-down. Sex worker vibes, clearly intended to provoke. It's all a bit too raw and experimental and uncensored for my taste, so I swipe down and pause and switch back over to piano, this time the nocturnes of Fauré. No. 1 is in E-flat minor, and it refocuses me, pushing everything else out, haunting and pensive and full of undulating rhythms and syncopated accompaniment and layered textures, the best of his work. We pass window displays of toys, skin care products, jewelry, and books, as well as a bewildering store called DOPAMINE LAB (again, the capitalization theirs, not mine) sporting a brightly-lit sign of concentric neon hearts.
And here, it gets interesting. He's taking the elevator. I stand back and watch as he gets in, cramming toward the rear of the car. There's probably still room for me, but it would be stupid to get that close. Nothing more than pushing my luck. The doors close, and the floor indicator starts to rise, stopping at every level before eventually pausing on 5. Of course. Whatever, I think. It's a challenge. Isn't this why I play? I wait for the car to return, then ride it back up to the top. Floor 5 is all sit-down restaurants: teppanyaki, shabu-shabu, Korean barbeque, French, beef noodle soup. I circle the central chasm, peering into each one, then walk down a long hall directly opposite the escalator and check the bathroom, but he's not there either. Down to Floor 4. I'm starting to feel a bit worried by now, so I slide off my headphones and rest them around my neck, no longer erring on the side of caution but rather the side of I don't give a fuck. Frantically searching. I'm about to give up and call it for the day when I see him on the escalator, descending to Floor 3. I'm at a full sprint by the time he gets off, people staring at me as I fly past, but I don't care: all that matters is that I stay on him and record what I learn until it's dark.
That's another rule: quitting time is at night. The reasons for this are many—it's important to set boundaries, for example, and it's harder to track after dusk—but the main one is to keep me out of trouble, away from the bars and clubs, as I'm now three years sober and, historically, that's where most of my subjects end up. Sunset tonight is at 18:44, according to Google, so I have a bit under four hours left. Gut check time. Home stretch. Balenciaga is about fifteen or twenty meters ahead of me now, a crew of three middle-aged women between us. I return to detailing the sights via voice memo on my phone, along with one particularly salient phrase recited by the women in unison—xiǎo xiān ròu—before erupting (once more, in unison) into laughs. A common saying or an inside joke? Maybe both. I'll have to look it up.
Boba. That was where he went. As he exits the mall, he sips from the drink infrequently, a purple concoction with black pearls at the bottom and a milk-white slurry on top. Taro, probably. Despite refraining from alcohol and thereby having my range of potential beverages reduced, I've never been a fan—even when you request less sugar, it's always too sweet. Just as well to stick to water or coffee instead. Or better yet, regular tea. I have a Nalgene I carry with me on excursions throughout the city, and this reminds me to stay hydrated, something I've struggled with for most of my adult life. I unscrew the cap and pull deeply, carefully, as I walk. The vessel is half empty; another five hundred milliliters and I'll have reached my daily goal.
There's someone waiting for Balenciaga as he emerges from the mall, another guy around the same age as he is, wearing a navy puffer jacket, holding a phone up to his ear. He hangs up at once upon making eye contact, leading me to assume that he was only calling to confirm location, and as they stand there, dapping each other up, it suddenly dawns on me, for the first time all day, that Balenciaga isn't Chinese—at least, not in terms of nationality. He's speaking English. ABC. I had him pegged for a fù’èrdài (child of the nouveau riche), when he's in fact a huáyì (foreigner of Chinese origin), just like me. Well, half like me, I guess. Technically. The accent is unmistakable, as are the N-bombs he's beginning to drop, which are unfortunate, not only due to the ugly nature of the word itself but also the fact that he's shown himself to be so predictable. A fake tough guy. A wannabe gangster. It's all so fucking trite.
Pardon my French. The two are on the move again, heading south down Huangxing Lu, a name that's grown familiar to me by now, ubiquitous as it is: parks, apartment complexes, statues, stadiums, schools. In addition to the streets and roads. There's not much to note on this particular stretch of sidewalk, so I reopen Wikipedia and am confronted by the naked photo from Xiu Xiu's A Promise again. I type in the name, and there he is: brawny, mustachioed, tanned—more or less what you'd expect the first commander-in-chief of modern China to look like. Buried atop Mount Yuelu in Hunan; also known as the "Eight-Fingered General," owing to wounds sustained in war. Something about fingers today...
Balenciaga and his friend are still walking up ahead. The game can be tedious sometimes, like right now, but there's no way around it. Better than sitting around, bored, at home. I learn the meaning of the phrase I overheard earlier, xiǎoxiānròu, as well as why it's referred to as dapping: "little fresh meat" (or "hot young guy" in English) and a possible backronym of dignity and pride, respectively. Probably apocryphal, in the latter case. They turn onto East Guoshun Road and pass a dilapidated live house, desperate in the light of day, and continue on for another ten minutes till arriving at—you guessed it—Huangxing Park. They enter through the west gate and move onto a strip of synthetic rubber track that follows the pavement to either side and is only wide enough to accommodate three or four people and puts a literal spring in your step. To one side, bigger stone paths branch off among the trees toward an enormous central lake, around which a steady stream of pedestrians can be seen, all circling in the same direction, as though performing some ritual of Islamic pilgrimage, some duty commanded by God. But then I laugh when I consider where I am: China, the ungodliest of lands, which has to rank right up there with the reasons I love it as much as I do. Don't get me wrong—I'm spiritual, just not religious. A bad Christian, certainly. A lapsed Presbyterian. Or was it Episcopalian? You'd have to ask my dad.
Farther down the road, my guides turn in at a sign that says in flowing, stylized characters: 仲益全民体育公园, or Zhongyi People's Sports Park. The silhouettes of various athletes posed behind it, depicted on steles: basketball, baseball, tennis, soccer, badminton, golf. I'm expecting a game of pickup or H-O-R-S-E, but I couldn't be more wrong—their destination is a driving range, a low arciform building with a sail-like structure out front. Yet again, the game has come through: I've never golfed in China. To be honest, it's been years. I allow the two of them a few minutes to go in and get settled, then enter as well, scanning the bays. They are already hacking away at one end of the range with their backs toward me, so I find a place to stand, surveying the lawn—balls strewn everywhere like shells—and tune into the sounds around me: the plush thwacking of irons, the tinging of drivers; a loud thud, followed by cursing. I opt for a medium basket of balls to start and rent a set of lefty clubs, then move over to a mat and remove one of the higher lofted wedges and stand there stretching: dislocating my shoulders, windmilling my arms. It's a Saturday, so the place is pretty crowded, which relaxes me—no need to worry about blending in—but it's difficult to stay focused and get into rhythm. I'm constantly checking to see if they've left.
They aren't bad, but they aren't good, but then again, I shouldn't talk. The last time I had a club in my hands must have been senior year of college, when I could play a full round for thirty-six dollars just by subscribing to a panlist. (My CV, which I haven't had to update in forever, still lists intramural golf team under Hobbies & Activities. Emphasis on intramural.) There's a wicker bistro set behind me, presumably for resting or observing or, in the case of my neighbors, ripping cigarettes between shots, but I lift up the table and carry it over to where I can see it and prop my iPhone on top. Launch YouTube, find a chipping tutorial. I start with relatively small swings, my hips finishing toward my target, my wrists locked, the blade striking the ball at precisely the right angle so the club does all the work. This isn't that hard, I think. I've always been a visual learner. If only I'd had YouTube in high school. Imagine how skilled I'd be. Golf, guitar, cooking—the list goes on. But then I take a slightly larger swing and slice the ball badly, sending it into the divider, causing my neighbor to back off and scowl. Duìbùqǐ, I mumble.
Once I've gone through my balls, I purchase another basket. This time a large. Balenciaga and his friend are showing no signs of slowing down, and I'm actually starting to consider cutting them loose if they depart—I'm having that much fun. Bad shots and all. But then on my walk back to the mat, I become aware of a commotion toward the middle of the range: a crowd has gathered behind one of the bays, watching two men engaged in contest. One is Chinese (or Asian, at least), the other white. They are absolutely demolishing their balls, sending each one into the net, which must be said is only a hundred and fifty meters out, but still, the consistency is impressive. I look on for a moment, hoping to take away an observation that might help, but they both make it seem so easy, so effortless. It's frustrating as hell.
Back at my tee, I pull driver too, but it's a crappy domestic model with no flex in the shaft. I roll up to the net every time, if I make it there at all. I never claimed to be good. Balenciaga and Navy Puffer have been joined by a few friends—two men and a woman—commandeering a third chair from one of the bays next to them. Balenciaga standing. Navy Puffer up. Smiling, laughing, joking, applauding the occasional shot. It's nice to see, but that's what life in your twenties is like. I watch them between swings, torn between a kind of jealousy and contempt, trying to tell myself that they're just young and dumb and inexperienced, but maybe that's too harsh.
Another cheer goes up from the long drive contest, and the participants step back, smiling. Shaking amicably. Amid murmurs, the spectators disperse, a few bills exchanging hands. It's still unclear who, if anyone, has emerged victorious, and as I'm trying to figure this out, the white guy turns around, his face now discernible through the parting of the crowd: Alex Bleday. I know this man, and I know him well. No. Knew. A kind of de facto cousin throughout childhood, unrelated by blood; reunited in college after his transfer junior year; fraternity brothers; housemates; at one point, a close—if not my best—friend. I had no idea he was in China, though, let alone Shanghai. The last time we spoke to each other must have been twelve years ago in New York; even before I'd left the city, we'd fallen out of touch. It had happened very suddenly. He'd stopped replying to my texts, no longer reaching out, which I guess, in hindsight, wasn't surprising: it was clear that a distance had developed between us in the years since college, and what's more, he'd always had a sardonic edge to him (in almost everything he said) so that it was difficult to know if he was ever being earnest. If he liked you or not. A form of gaslighting, for sure. Till then, I'd always thought myself immune. Part of the inner circle. Like I said, a close—if not his best—friend. How wrong that had been. The real world had laid it all bare, exposing our relationship for what it really was: nothing more than a product of proximity and convenience, bound by foolhardiness, alcohol, and a smattering of mutual friends. Add on the fact that Bleday had to be one of the most charismatic, intelligent people I knew—almost impenetrably, intimidatingly so—and it all made perfect sense. He'd outgrown me, plain and simple. It wasn't personal, I knew.
Still, you expect more from people. I sheathe the driver, then sit down in one of the chairs and do what I do best: watch. He doesn't seem to have noticed me, and it helps that I'm concealed by one of the columns supporting the roof. I can't believe it. Bleday. Here. I sit in stunned silence, studying him as he continues to hit, noting how he's changed since the last time I saw him: leaner, bespectacled, no longer rocking a beard, all of which suggests a more mature, less rough-around-the-edges persona than what I'm used to. Dignifiably subdued. I'm trying to decide on a course of action, but I find myself incapacitated, frozen, not knowing what to do—a feeling that is familiar but I now realize has been in a kind of stasis since "those bright college years." Ignore him or say hello? I have no idea how I'd be received. It's been so long.
By now, Balenciaga and his friends have all left, but I don't care. Bleday hits his final ball and begins to pack up, returning his clubs at the window. I leave my own where they are, deposit notwithstanding, and follow him out the front. A taxi is idling down by the curb, hailed either via Didi or terrible luck, and before I know it, he's off. I search to see if I can flag down a follow, but there are no other cabs in sight, and I'm left standing on the doorsteps, wondering if all that really happened, if I've lost him for good. I linger there for a minute before turning to head back in, and that's when I notice the surveillance camera, mounted beneath the portico, angled perfectly down at the street. Like HAL 9000 or The Eye of Sauron. I haven't lost him yet.
Quincy Carroll is the author of two novels, Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside and Unwelcome. He is a graduate of Yale University and a former Artist in Residence at the Swatch Art Peace Hotel in Shanghai. He previously studied in the Writing, Literature & Publishing M.F.A. program at Emerson College and currently lives in Oakland, CA, where he is working on a new book. He is originally from Natick, Massachusetts.
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