one night in Beijing (a short fiction)
Rinse and repeat. Until the next weekend.
A night in Beijing has a kind of charm that’s so much greater than a pretentious grudge party in Brooklyn. It’s raw—smelling of piss, beer, and cigarette butts, only the authentic kinds offers—loud music, complaining neighbors, and drunken locals cheering with foreigners. Occasionally, police lurk in the dark corners, observing and noticing, ready to step in at any time. Towards the end, like a release after a dramatic climax, it calms down to a certain gentleness, riding on the crest of the moon and hutong bricks. At this hour, it’d be lucky to arrive home in a Didi and pass out. Rinse and repeat. Until the next weekend.
That was how Joe lived most of his life when he was in Beijing—teaching on weekdays and playing in multiple bands on weekends. Joe could tolerate his job most of the time before, but after nearly seven years, he was on the verge of quitting. He had to brainwash himself to get up in the morning on weekdays because he had chosen it.
Leah had quit her full-time job at the beginning of the year and was living off her savings in her parents’ apartment. Freelancer — that’s how Leah introduced herself to people. A lifestyle with no morning alarms, only chased by deadlines.
Joe had never said the lifestyle she chose wasn’t legit, but he’d hinted that Leah hadn’t entered real life. The subtle tone always annoyed her. They were on the verge of breaking up, mostly because Leah wanted more security and Joe wanted more freedom. “I am raped every day by society already,” he said one morning after sex, referring to him still having to go to work every day.
That night was his big night—Joe’s band was performing on the big stage. Leah brought her wingwoman along to see him play.
Jumping and shooting videos in the front row, still playing the role of a diligent girlfriend, it was the first time she had seen him perform.
Joe had told Leah he didn’t like to open his eyes on stage while performing; she knew he was an introvert through and through. So there he was, rolling sound from the deep end of his throat, in his skinny jeans, eyes wide shut. His in-ear monitor dangled loose, dancing in the air.
Leah had always known that was his dream—to perform on stage and do it over and over again. Amidst the music, she drifted and started to understand the appeal of all this to him. The usual him, suppressing so much emotions and energies, finally had a place to let it out and be recognized creatively as an artist. That’s what Joe wanted all along. He radiated like a dreamer, singing his heart out in front of the mic, pouring pure energy like a kid honoring his creations. His shadow casted large by the sway of the light.
It was 10 PM—still early by Beijing night standards. The crowd’s dinner was still settling in their stomachs, their ears suddenly was exposed to the fast beat, making their hearts pump. They waved their arms in the air hesitantly, unsure about how to react to the full-blown, charged emotions. It had been all Joe wanted to do—days and nights, eyes closed or open.
***
Earlier that night, Leah had knelt for nearly an hour chanting Buddhist mantras. It was Saga Dawa in the Tibetan Buddhist calendar—a month devoted to rebirth and reincarnation. Her Buddhist friend had told her she was lucky to start learning at this time, a period to rid oneself of sins from past and present lives.
*Ong ban zha’er sa duo hong.* The one-line chant—Leah didn’t know what the Tibetan meant, but she felt the sensation it created in her body. A brewing heat rose from her palms and feet. In the small apartment room, she was surrounded by six other people, humming together, the air vibrating around them. In front of the Buddha, they were all sinners. They prayed for themselves to no longer be entangled in sin and for all sinners to break free of suffering.
***
“No matter where you come from, what languages you speak or how old are you, there is no separation — we are all in this together, tonight!”
The lead singer of the second band declared this on stage. She was small, with two long ponytails hanging toward her chest, wearing a black one-piece covered in skulls connected by metal strings. Chains—many of them—hung from her neck, wrists, waist, and shoes. She danced to break free from them, moving with such gusto, every motion carrying such determination, no second thoughts. Her intention was as clear as an arrow, shooting directly straight into you. She threw the glowing stick right back at the audiences, provoking them — provoking all the rule-makers, the cowards, the passive followers.
Thousands of lights beamed in front of their eyes. The notes carried them atop a rollercoaster, and just when they thought they couldn’t take it, it dove deep into bliss before dropping them back to reality.
**The lyrics:**
*If one day, you are taken away by rock and roll,*
*Your consciousness taken away,*
*Is it only from being taken away?*
*Would you still find peace of mind? Would you go walk the dog?*
Music washed over Leah like a powerful stream, head to toe. A rush of adrenaline came in. It made her a braver version of herself. Alcohol injected into her veins had radiated through her. She spoke without consequence, joking and offensive. She embraced the freedom head-on.
***
“I’m gonna spend the night with him,” Leah yelled to her girlfriend as she helped her into a taxi. The streetlights turned everything gold. Inside the venue, she spun once, drunk on adrenaline, and leapt onto Joe’s back. He caught her easily.
The band was packing up. She joined the crew hauling amps and tangled cords into the back of a Huolala van. The night air had turned damp. Someone passed her a half-warm beer. She sipped. It tasted like dust and metal.
Their practice room—The Dungeon—was tucked at the end of a back alley, two floors underground. The hallway stank faintly of mold. Leah let her fingers brush the walls as they walked, damp and flaking. Inside, carpet scraps clung to the floor like patches, amps leaned against cracked plaster, and the fan was still broken. Leah stood for a second and imagined this was a church. They worshipped noise here.
The bathroom door jammed. Leah held it closed with one hand while squatting. Joe looked radiant on stage. Here, under flickering fluorescent light, with black gunk on the walls and broken bathroom locks, he just looked… tired. She couldn’t tell which version was more real.
***
Six a.m. Beijing slept in.
Joe’s best friend woke to cat piss in his potted plant. The lead singer stirred in her ex’s bed, uploaded reels, checked Alipay, and wondered when would she make enough merch sales to pay half of her rent.
Leah was wide awake. The alcohol had peeled her open.
She didn’t want to wake him, so she queued up a Buddhist chant on Wang Yiyun, curled up on the couch, and closed her eyes.
When she woke again, sunlight barely touched the floor. Joe snored softly, the blanket half-kicked off. He looked peaceful—less like a rebel, more like a boy. Maybe he was still dreaming.
Leah pulled the blanket over his shoulder, gentle. She wasn’t sure if it was affection or an apology. Then she sat back down and let him rest.