The old man has been a fixture of the
apartment building. When I moved into the apartment 4-plus years ago,
he had lived next door for who knows how many years. I lived alone
some months of the year; he lived alone twelve months of the year. In
my early days in Hong Kong, when I still found the freedom from
shackles of parents refreshingly thrilling, I often stayed up all
night watching TV and didn't go to bed until sunrise. Sometimes he
would knock on my door griping about the volume. And I would
apologize and turn it down. At 4:30 a.m., when I was still wide
awake, he would clank open and charge out of the door, off for a day
of who knows what he did for a living. He would be back around 5 p.m.
with a bagful of takeaway. And the door clanked again. That pattern
repeated itself every day but vanished two months ago. And we
speculated that he just went back for the lunar holiday.
My neighborhood fills with two species
of old people. First there are the good kind. The men play Chinese
chess in the park while their wives dance together in the badminton
playground. They sip Yuan Yang at local Cha Chaan Teng
(Cantonese restaurant) while perusing the Oriental Daily News,
and greet each other with the latest lottery tips. Their healthy,
active lifestyle contributes to their peace of mind that only comes
with old age.
Then there are the sad kind. Some sat
on the benches in the street, their eyes empty and unintelligent.
They are not even talking. They just sat there, waiting for Him. Some
desiccated, nonchalant men and women tethered to wheelchairs for life
are moved about by Filipino maids that seemed always on the phone.
Some reel about with the aid of rusty four-legged canes or
two-wheeled walkers, possibly still recovering from a stroke. Some
walk with their backs so hunched that they are literally facing the
ground when moving forward. Some walk fine, but with brownish lubes
into their nostrils, or in worse cases, into holes in their necks,
which remind me of those scenes from House, MD where a doctor has to make a hole in a patient's neck so the patient won't suffocate.
And lastly some loony ones would lurk around public toilets, and
stand right next to you when you're urinating.
What makes it so unfair is that the old man next door was better
than the two kinds. He was old too but hustled like a young
man. He worked hard for a living instead of taking government money and
waiting for death. But he died. The paralyzed, the lunatic, the
demented and the perverted are still breathing.
“Almost dying changes nothing; dying
changes everything.” came Dr. Gregory House's epiphany after a patient's death.
It also takes a neighbor's death for me to appreciate life more. To me,
and most other people, nothing is worse than death. That's why killing is the worst thing one can do to another human being. That's why the
death penalty is the harshest form of punishment. That's why
genocides are the most despicable crime in human history.
That's also why Mr Chow from The Hangover II said, “Oh you having a bad day? Did you die?!” which is not merely a funny punchline, but an awesome outlook on life:
That's also why Mr Chow from The Hangover II said, “Oh you having a bad day? Did you die?!” which is not merely a funny punchline, but an awesome outlook on life:
“Oh you failed your exams? Did you
die?!”
“Oh your crush wouldn't love you back?
Did you die?!”
“Oh everybody treated you like crap?
Did you die?!”
“Oh your writing sucked and it's not
getting you anywhere? Did you die?!”
"Oh you fucked up your career? Did you fucking die?!"
......
No, Sir, no.
And whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger.
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