Mad Dogs and Drivers

My noodles slipping through my shaking chopsticks, I realized I could not go back as I had come. Undoubtedly it would still be there, baring its teeth and biding its time. Though I had not seen the thing clearly in the darkness, in the light of the night café I could imagine it perfectly--with dark, protuberant eyes and yellowing teeth.

Of course I had not actually seen these things, because one could not see anything on the long, uneven street that connected the high school with Dayao proper. There were no streetlights and no cars. Careful attention to the road's many bumps by day was the only way to avoid them by night. But that night I had seen something, or the shape of something, as it moved across the road with an unmistakably canine gait and angry growl.

Though a lifelong dog lover, the stray dogs of Dayao had done little to reciprocate the affection. Having grown accustomed to the strange animosity these dogs bore me, I found little joy in meeting a large and angry one on a dark, deserted street.

As the dog came steadily nearer, I smelt its rank breath and heard again a low growl. Only its silhouette was visible, slowly circling me. Though my impulse was to run, experience with stray dogs told me to remain still. Eventually, it had to go away. Staring ahead, I saw the light of the night café in the distance. I could no longer see the dog, and assumed it must be behind me.

A motor taxi approached. Its light was dim--almost burned out--but it must have been strong enough to see the dog and I, for it rumbled to halt in front of me.

"That dog's mad," the driver said. It was not the voice of encouragement or assistance. His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he had just noted the night was dark.

"Can you help me?" I asked, my voice tremulous. "Can you scare the dog away with the light?"

"The dog's gone," the man noted. "It just ran away. Get going."

I didn't need telling twice. I walked as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself, and collapsed in the night cafe. A frequent customer, the vendor brought me a bowl of noodles and asked no questions. I ate slowly, reflecting, wondering if the dog was mad or I was mad for walking down a dark road. Then I recalled that dogs are usually hunted at night anyway. He had probably been as terrified as I was.

I finished my noodles and left a wrinkled five yuan bill on the table. It was late--very late by Dayao standards--and there were no motor taxis. I would have to walk.

I crossed the street and peered down the long road. The light of the high school was barely visible in the distance. I wondered if the dog was still prowling somewhere in the darkness.

A red car rolled slowly down the main road, stopping at the intersection with the dark street. I thought--briefly--that I might be blocking the car, but realized I was not on the road and had never known a car to stop for pedestrians anyway. The car then inched forward, and I saw a head emerge from the driver's seat, staring at me as the car moved onto the curb.

I was used to staring in Dayao, but this was absurd. The driver seemed to forget that he was driving at all, and I half expected the car to collide with a building before he audibly pulled the emergency brake. A man in the passenger's seat lean over the driver and ask excitedly, "Where are you from?"

Before I answered--before I endured the gasps and the awkward questions--I knew I'd found a way to get by that dog. The car backed out of the curb, and promptly stalled in the middle of the intersection. The few cars remaining at that hour were honking impatiently, yet neither of the men seemed to hear. "We'll give you a ride!" yelled the passenger as the car nearly side-swiped the night cafe.

Just your luck, I thought to myself, as I stared into the lair of the mad dog, and again at the two men who seemed unable to handle a gearshift. "Hurry up!" smiled the driver. I sighed; there was no other way.

The car moved no more quickly down the long dark road than it had on the main road, as neither man was anxious to let me go. It seemed they hadn't had this much fun in years; while the passenger descanted on the weather, the driver spoke at length about the pitiful roads in Dayao, and that I shouldn't judge a place by its infrustructure, but rather by its people. As if to demonstrate, the driver took a bottle of baijiu from his bag and shoved it into my hand. "Drink!" he chortled. "Yes, drink!" repeated his friend. I doubted I had ever seen anyone so happy.

I politely took a sip of the baijiu, and tried to turn my grimace into a smile. It tasted like lighter fluid.

"Good, no?" said the passenger smiling. "It's not that Jiangxi stuff, no! This is authentic Hunanese baijiu!"

Still trying not to gag, I mumbled something polite about the flavor and returned the bottle. The passenger then took a drink as well, and smiling broadly, he told me they had been saving the bottle for a special occasion like this. I pretended not to notice that the bottle top had already been broken.

We were now parked in front of the school gate, and every time I moved toward the door, one of the men would hold my arm and pull me back into the seat. "Do all Americans have noses like yours?" asked the passenger in a genuine tone of curiosity. "Is it true that Americans don't drink baijiu?" the driver asked, "or is that just a terrible rumor?"

It seemed I would never leave.

Then slowly the gate opened, and the night guard stepped out into the pavement. "Hurry up and get inside," he said impatiently. "That damn dog is about again." He looked frightened at the mere thought.

I thanked the two men again, politely refused another round of baijiu, and scanning my surroundings for the mad dog, passed through the school gate.