Red Pill, Blue Pill

(Or, (Likely) Adventures in Shanghai Dealing)

Usually when I see a black guy in China, I get a little excited. Perhaps it's for nostalgia's sake, reminiscing of my homeland and the daily interaction with various, chocolate-hued folk. It could also be a subconscious longing for my little brothers, as if by exchanging a glance or a kind word to these fellow foreigners-in-China, I am also sending a small bit of love back home. Therefore, it was strangely soothing -- after a long day of work and long night of moonlighting -- to see a black dude standing beside me, waiting for the subway to pull in. When the train arrived, we stepped on together.

Without an empty seat to rest my weary ass, I leaned against the doors and turned my iPod up to drown out the noise. Twelve stops to go before I reached home.

Eyes shut, about to doze off, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. My friend from the platform was standing next to me, already clear past the comfortable border of my bubble space. I could smell that familiar nicotine and cocoa butter scent that I knew so well from days gone by. He gently pulled the earbud out of my head and smiled.

"Do you speak English?" he asked in a thick African accent.

Still bewildered -- I usually expect this type of upfront behavior from locals looking to make fast English language-exchange friends, not black guys in flat-rimmed baseball caps -- I nodded and smiled. He passed over a red Nokia mobile phone, clearly the cheapest of the cheap, probably about 200 RMB at Carrefour and cheaper if it was second-hand (trust me, I know: I own a cheapo shit brick myself). If The Wire has taught me anything, it was that this phone was very, very disposable, if you know what I mean.

"Can you tell me what does this mean?"

The message read: "Don't use the word love so much. You don't use the word love with a complete stranger! Don't ever call me again!"

Awkward.

I instinctively puckered my lips and cocked an eyebrow, mulling over my options. This was going to require a lot of tact.

"Umm, this girl, she, uh... she doesn't want you to call her. You know? No calling. She said do not use the word love. You just met her, eh? Well if you like her, you will still call whatever she says. But she said do not call her."

He looked confused. "Do not call her?"

"Yes. She said do not call her. But you gonna anyway, eh?"

I was just trying to mask my anxiety with a little humor defense mechanism, nervously laughing to an invisible crowd. Bitches, they straight crazy! He just smiled and nodded. Persistent. If that girl was any bit smart, she'd change her number.

At this point, he was almost leaning against me. The swaying of the train didn't do much to help. A few younger local folks were staring at us, likely transfixed by the ebony and ivory exchange that they'd only seen in Hollywood buddy cop movies. My friend hadn't said a word in a few seconds, so I hoped he was finished with the uncomfortable exchange. Then he reached into the pocket of his loose denim and pulled out another beat-up Nokia, an identical model to the first, except this one was blue.

"Read this one."

I took a deep breath. Should I be charging him for my services? Not only do I get annoyed by being bothered by complete strangers, I also don't like when my precious "me" time is ruined unexpectedly. But I didn't want to be rude. Or murdered. The fact that his eyes were literally bugging and he looked a little cracked out didn't do much to ease my nerves. The dry, ashy skin around his chapped lips, yellowed fingernails, and milky white eyeballs were familiar. I'd seen faces like this many, many times before, so I thought it best to just be a polite little boy and help the nice man.

This message read: "I got the good stuff. Don't reply with messages." It was signed "Your good friend."

I was pretty sure what the "good stuff" referred to, so I tried my best to play it cool.

"Hmm... This says that 'he' has some good stuff" -- at which point I gave him the wink-wink-I-can-be-trusted-don't-kill-me face -- "and you should call. Do not send message. Call."

I wagged my fist near my head, extending my pinky and thumb toward my mouth and ear, respectively, in the universal 'phone' motion. Just in case my English wasn't clear enough.

He looked puzzled, like a puppy. "So I should call? No message?"

"Yes, call."

Pushing the red Nokia into my hand, he politely asked, "You type message for me. 'I have the good stuff. Don't message. Your good friend.' You type." Apparently my hand signal wasn't clear enough.

I looked around, half expecting a narc team to swing through the windows and arrest me for being an accomplice to a potential drug deal, until I realized that we were barreling through the Shanghai underground at top speed. Glancing around, I decided that the ladies in sheer-panty-ankle-socks and guys flicking the airline business cards posed no viable threat to my life outside of Chinese prison. I quickly entered the message and passed the phone back to him. A guy sitting on the seat across from me had been staring at us the entire time. I gave him a weak smile and raised my eyebrows. What else was I supposed to do? I had always heard that the Nigerians were the big suppliers in China -- one was supposedly even murdered recently outside a bar by the local cops in a drug bust gone awry -- but I didn't realize it wasn't just an assumed stereotype. This was just ridiculous.

At the next station, my friend looked at me and said "My stop." I breathed a sigh of relief as he alighted the train. Best of luck to that girl he's after and whoever was on the receiving end of the "good stuff." Now I know what expats in Shanghai refer to when they say they are in the import/export business.