Turtles Walking Backwards

Ocean $hit
By Sheung King, Aaron Tang

Ocean $hit is an excerpt from Sheung-King, Aaron Tang's next book, Batshit Seven (working title). The novel, set in contemporary Hong Kong, examines the datafication of human behaviour, Western imperialism, and hypercapitalism. The story follows Glue, an international student who had studied in Canada and returned to Hong Kong with a drama degree. Glue is, needless to say, without a stable job. Another excerpt from Batshit Seven, July has Nothing to do with Gods, can be found on Fatal Flaw, Vol.3: (Un)Confined. 


Glue imagines a sea of turtles, walking backwards back into the ocean, but his dick remains hard. In an American sitcom he once saw (was it How I Met Your Mother?)—a middle-aged white guy—to last longer—would think about turtles when he was about to cum. Turtles calmed his dick down; Glue's is still stiff. How did it get so hard? He took a piss. He couldn't find a hand towel anywhere in this tiny washroom but noticed a shiny silver hand dryer near the door. It was a Dyson Airblade AB14. Glue had seen this hand dryer at airports, office buildings, and train stations but never in a person's apartment. According to Google, this cost around $7000 HKD. Glue put his hands inside the AB14. As the warm air ran through his fingers, his dick started stiffening, and when his hands were finally dry, Glue has become fully erect.

Glue's dick feels even harder than usual because he's high. Do hand dryers do it for Glue? To combat this seemingly unprovoked arousal, Glue thinks about corn. He read, recently, a story by a Korean writer from a book suggested to him by Amazon's algorithm. The story opens with a vignette about a man who thinks he's a cob of corn. The man's doctor manages to convince him that he is a human being, not corn. The man is dispatched from the facility. But not long after, he returns.

"Help! The chickens are after me!" the man says. 

"You're not a cob of corn anymore, remember?" the doctor replies. 

"I know that, but the chickens don't."

The rest of the story is about a writer and has nothing to do with corn. But this corn man, not anything else, is all Glue can think about right now. 

Glue's dick is still hard, and between his legs, a small tent is forming, raising the length of his black Nike gym shorts a few more centimeters above his knees. Glue sits on the toilet. I'm a cob of corn. He actually mouths the words, not just think them. I am a cob of corn. I am a cob of corn. 

"Yo. You ok?" Po-Wing knocks on the door. 

*

Po-Wing Wang has a chin-up bar attached to his bedroom door. He's doing reps. The bedroom door is left open. His king-size bed is unmade; socks, underwear, and designer shopping bags lie all over the floor. He pulls himself up and down as in front of him, an episode of SpongeBob Square Pants plays on his Samsung 65" 4K UHD HDR Curved LED Tizen Smart TV. The Beolab 18 home theatre set by Bang & Olufsen—which looks incredibly stylish but entirely out of place in this four-hundred square feet government-subsidized apartment—is turned off. 

"There's a hand dryer in your washroom," Glue says to Po-Wing.

"You like it?" Po-Wing says, pulling himself up. "It was a gift. Pretty nice, yeah?" 

Do people give hand dryers as gifts? 

Panting, Po-Wing sits down on the couch, next to Glue and chucks the entire bottle of Évian before rolling a joint. Sweat slides down the side of his face as he licks the rolling paper with the tip of his tongue and gently folds it together with the tip of his fingers. He lights the thick joint between his lips, and slowly, he exhales. 

"SpongeBob is one of America's finest exports," Po-Wing says and passes Glue the joint.

Glue nods. Not knowing what to say to that, Glue takes a drag and gives SpongeBob a dirty look. One of America's greatest exports, huh? Perhaps there's some truth to that. Here they are, two Chinese dudes, getting high in a government-subsidized apartment in Tung Chung, watching this show about a yellow sponge who lives in a pineapple under the sea on a 65" Samsung TV with the B&O speakers turned off. 

"Look at those chinks," Spongebob tells Patrick. 

"How was dinner with your parents?" Po-Wing asks.

"Can I have some water?" Glue asks instead. 

Po-Wing tosses him a bottle of Évian.  

"It was fine," Glue says, taking another hit.

"Your sister—what's up with her? She moved out from yours already?"

"Yeah, last month," Glue says, still staring at Spongebob. 

Po-Wing's eyes are now fixed on the commercials: Starbucks free-trade philanthropy, freedom-droning, and white-Hollywood Jazz (a commercial for "LaLa Land"—now available in Blue-Ray).

"You've seen LaLa Land?" Po-Wing asks Glue.

"Yeah, saw it last year, when I was still in Toronto.”

"You shouldn't have come back, Glue. That was a bad choice. It's never a good idea to start something new in a place from your past."

Glue was part of the drama department, and opportunities pertaining to things such as Starbucks fair-trade philanthropy has little to do with him. 

"Yo Glue. Fast food restaurants are cheap. You know why?" Po-Wing asks, staring at the McDonald's commercial on his curved TV. Without waiting for Glue's response, Po-Wing tells Glue that "they sell us cheap shit to keep us full and so unhealthy so that we won't start a class war." Po-Wing laughs. 

Glue doesn't say anything. He just continues to smoke his joint.

"During recessions, people eat more cheap shit. Fast food businesses benefit. On top of that, McDonald's is actually a real estate company. It buys property at prime locations and franchises it out to pay for it. Bet your drama degree didn't teach you that."

This irritates Glue a little. But what Po-Wing is saying is nonetheless true. Though Glue has knowledge of the rise of queer theatre in North America in the sixties, he knows very little about free-market economics and McDonald's business model. 

"SpongeBob is created by a marine scientist, you know?" Po-Wing says this matter-of-factly. 

Glue nods. This weed tastes like ass (in a bad way). Glue knows that smoking this will probably give him a heavy hangover. But he takes another drag. It's hard to get good weed in Hong Kong, and all he wants, before spending Thanksgiving dinner at his parent's place in Macau, is to get high.

Glue's head feels numb, and his eyes are reddening. 

"Here." Po-Wing tosses Glue a small bottle of ROHTO No. 8 Lychee Blanc Heart-Shaped Eye Drops from his pocket. "The Japanese make the best eye drops," Po-Wing says, opening his eyes wide and gives Glue a huge smile, showing his perfect teeth. What's with that grin? 

Despite being lean, Glue looks like he has a double chin at times. This is because Glue's chin is a little too close to his neck. His dentist suggested getting braces when he was a teenager, which would have elongated his chin a little, giving him a more pronounced jawline, but Glue never got the braces. Glue's mother thought the braces were too expensive. "It's not like you're going to be a celebrity, Glen Wu. Let's save the money." Glue also does this weird thing with his mouth whenever he applies eye drop: he tilts his head up, open his eyes as wide as possible and, as the droplet falls, his jaw twists away from the rest of his face; this, combined with the close proximity between his chin and neck, makes him look doubly odd from Po-Wing's point of view, who is sitting on the couch, looking up at Glue.

"You look dumb," Po-Wing says, his tone flat. "Come on. We're going for a drive."

Po-Wing takes off his black Comme des Garçons Play t-shirt, smells it, tosses it on the couch on top of a pile of other shirts—all designer labels—all imports: Sacai, Balenciaga, Givenchy, Valentino, Moschino, the list goes on. Po-Wing pulls one out from the pile, a green piqué polo shirt, and puts it on over his Off White™ X Nike shorts. 

The air, so humid that you can gargle it in your mouth, smothers Glue's skin the moment he leaves Po-Wing's air-conditioned apartment. The hallways of this apartment building are hideous. All the windows are barred, and the tiles on the floor crisscross in shades of light green and white. When in the history of Hong Kong, did we think that this was a good look? 

"These buildings are durable though, look the same now compared to 20 years ago," Po-Wing says, without looking at Glue.

Each apartment has two doors, the wooden one that comes with the flat and a barred iron gate installed in front. Some of the wooden doors are left open. Glue hears noises from televisions. Next to some of the doors are red boards, around two feet high, with the words "地主" (Earth God), written in glittery gold. Red electric candles, in the shape of flames, illuminate each of the 地主. Glue smells incense burning.

Though the parking lot smells musty and the ground is unpaved with puddles everywhere, all the cars are spotless. Is that a Maserati?

"She rarely drives that one," Po-Wing tells Glue. "It's my neighbour's. She likes that one more." He points at a black 2020 Lexus Hybrid SUV. "I bet there are more sports cars here than in the parking lot in that middle-class private housing complex of yours. Living in public housing saves you tons."

Po-Wing's Tesla Model 3 is red. He turns on his autopilot, lowers the windows and lights a cigarette. It is 2 a.m. The two of them are the only ones leaving Lantau Island. Glue reaches his hand out the window to feel the breeze. As the hot current runs through Glue's fingers, just like the Dyson Airblade did, his dick starts getting hard again. I am a cob of corn.

"What'd you say?" 

"What?"

"You said something."

"You...um...mind if we play some music?" Glue asks though he doesn't really want to listen to music.

"No. I don't have a fucking phone anymore, Glue. Go ahead and connect yours to the Bluetooth if you want," Po-Wing says. 

Why doesn't he have a phone?

"I do have a phone. Duh. I just don't have a smartphone anymore, Glue. Glue, I have a flip phone now. It's a Nokia Go Flip 3." Po-Wing takes it out from his pocket and flips it open.            

"What kind of phone do you have, Glue?”

"iPhone."

"Typical. I like myself when I'm driving this car," Po-Wing continues, "but, one night, on a drive, I realized that I wasn't feeling myself when I had a smartphone."

They get off the highway and enter the Cheung Ching Tunnel before getting on the Tsing Sha Highway. 

"We're going to Container Terminal 8 West," Po-Wing answers before Glue even asks.

"You should leave your phone in the car when we get there."

"Do I have to?"

"Glue." For dramatic effect, Po-Wing closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair before asking, "Do you pay to go to work?"

"Like for transportation? Not really. I've just been freelancing from home since I moved back." 

"That's not what I'm asking, Glue. Do you pay your employer when you're working?"

Glue shakes his head. 

"Exactly. When you're not paying, it means you're getting paid, Glue. The opposite is also true. If you're not getting paid, that means you're paying. That's the golden rule. This bridge we're on—we had to pay to get on. This highway too. Hong Kong doesn't have a high income tax, sure, but we pay the price by living in tiny ass shithole apartments away from the city center. That is how the world works. The same goes for phones and apps and everything else. Phone plans are cheap here, Glue. I'm sure you noticed. But that's because you're paying with something else, your data and shit. Every moment you have your phone, you're paying. What the fuck did you learn in theatre school?"

Commercial goods from abroad enter through this terminal. Thousands of cargos, in red, blue, and green, stack on top of each other. Glue feels small. 

Po-Wing hands Glue a flashlight from his frunk. The cargo terminal is between the Rambler Channel, which connects to the South China Sea, and Stonecutter's Island. They walk away from the sea, towards the hills. It is perfectly dark and quiet. Glue hears birds chirping as he walks closer to the hills. 

"Here we are," Po-Wing says, after twenty minutes or so. Standing in front of them is a white Guanyin statue, around 25 feet tall. What is this doing here? She looks down at them with her gentle face. Her eyes are closed, and in her right hand, she holds a perfectly round sphere, and in her left, she holds a thin bottle. The tip of the bottle is pointing down at Glue and Po-Wing. Glue's penis, fully erect at this point, is pointing right back at the Guanyin. This must be incredibly disrespectful, but is it really Glue's fault? Guanyin would understand. Besides, who is Glue to combat this natural phenomenon? 

"I come here sometimes," Po-Wing says. He lights another joint from his pocket, his third of the night. They smoke again. They exhale at the Guanyin's face. Weed might be illegal in Hong Kong, but the Guanyin doesn't care. "I come here. I smoke, and then I head the other way, towards the Rambler Channel. It's good, it helps me clear my mind. I do this once every two months or so. This is the first time I bought someone with me, Glue."

Glue wants to ask Po-Wing why he took him here but starts feeling his tongue turning numb.

"It's kind of like a ritual for me," Po-Wing says, "coming here to smoke with her."

Finishing the joint, Po-Wing starts walking in the other direction, towards the ocean.  

Glue, so high he can barely continue walking forward at this point, lets his dick remain erect.

Glue finds himself standing at the edge of the pier. Po-Wing is nowhere to be seen. They finish smoking under the Guanyin and start walking in this direction, through the cargos. And? What happened after? Glue cannot recall. His pockets are empty. His phone and his keys are in Po-Wing's car. All that is left with Glue is a cheap white linen T-shirt from Zara he has on, black Nike gym shorts, and a hard-on.

What should Glue do? Glue thinks for a moment. There's no one around. So, he reaches inside his shorts and cups his balls with his palm. It feels warm. He does this for some time, caressing his testicles. Po-Wing is nowhere in sight. Surely, Po-Wing will not leave Glue stranded in this cargo terminal. What would Po-Wing gain from doing such a thing? So, all Glue needs to do is to stay here until Po-Wing finds him. After reassuring himself, he whips his cock out. Facing the ocean, he starts stroking his dick, each stroke a little faster than the last. He keeps his eyes open, as wide as possible, gazing at the darkness of the ocean. He starts smiling, showing all of his teeth and staring at the black sea and thinking about nothing in particular, Glue ejaculates. 

Lights are flickering behind him, the Tesla's headlights, probably. Po-Wing gives Glue a soft honk, but Glue doesn't turn around. He needs a moment. Po-Wing turns the radio on. Glue continues stroking his rock-hard cock. Glue hears, from the radio, a woman's voice, an advertisement for the new Samsung Galaxy S. The commercial is in Mandarin. Glue continues stroking his cock. The commercial ends. Po-Wing switches the channel. A familiar rhythm starts playing—a national anthem? At least it sounds like one. But which country's national anthem this is, Glue cannot tell, nor can he tell what language this anthem is in. Po-Wing honks. All Glue knows is that what he is hearing is a national anthem and that this music is, for some reason, making his prick even harder. Because it feels so good, Glue starts laughing a little as he continues to stroke his dick to this music. I am a cob of corn—he mumbles, trying to make this moment last a bit longer.

Glue does this as discreetly as possible, hoping Po-Wing won't notice. Listening to the national anthem, he ejaculates, triumphantly, shamelessly, into the darkness of the sea. 

*

Po-Wing hands Glue a bottle of Évian. "You hungry?"

Glue nods and closes his eyes. He starts feeling a noiseless vibration of glass in his head, and when the car comes to a stop, Glue opens his eyes. 

"Yo. Get up, Glue. Let's eat."

Glue gets out of the Tesla and finds himself at the parking lot of the Hong Kong International Airport.

"Come on," says Po-Wing and starts walking towards Terminal One. It is almost four in the morning, and Glue wonders how Po-Wing, having smoked so many joints, was able to drive here.  

"This McDonald's opens twenty-four hours. Good thing we live near the airport, right."

McDonald's in Hong Kong is probably the best in the world. Glue orders GCB®: Tender boneless chicken thigh seasoned with black pepper and grilled to perfection, served with fresh, crunchy lettuce and tasty chargrill sauce in a fluffy bun. Glue orders two GCB®s and a coke. 

They walk past tourists, white backpackers with scruffy beards and greasy hair, charging their laptops, sleeping on the floor. Glue wonders, for a moment, why Westerners in Hong Kong prefer to sit on the floor to chairs. They sit on the floors on the subway, on platforms, on the ferries too. 

Back in the parking lot, Po-Wing and Glue sit on the Tesla's hood and eat their sandwiches. Glue's back is sweaty. The sky is dark. They can hear, somewhere far away, a double-decker breaks to a stop. Double-deckers stink of gasoline; they flatulate when they break. Just hearing the breaking noise makes Glue think of the smell of gasoline reeking out from the bottom of the bus—a scent so strong that it lingers on the top of his head and stays in his mind, leaving with him a memory. 

Glue takes another bite of his sandwich. Nothing reminds him of scentless Canada. 

*

It's as if broken glass is inside Glue's head. Glue is so hungover. BB cream is smeared over his white pillowcase. It is four in the afternoon, and Glue reeks of weed. The cool air in his air-conditioned room dried all his sweat from last night, leaving a layer of sandy grease atop his skin. Glue can feel the stickiness of his eyelids when he blinks. He also fell asleep with his contact lenses. The 1-Day Acuvue Moist crumbles in his fingertips when he takes them out. Reddened from the dampness, Glue's eyes can't bear the cool air in his air-conditioned room. Yet, when he shuts his eyes, the broken glass inside of his head reverberates. The noise-less shaking of glass, an emblem of entropy, taking away Glue's capacity to reason, forms in Glue's mind, a dark sea consisting of a thousand waves and no earth.


Sheung-King, Aaron Tang’s debut novel, You are Eating an Orange. You are Naked, is longlisted for Canada Reads 2021 and named one of the best book debuts by the Globe and Mail. Sheung-King is currently an artist in residence at the ADA-DADA Residency. He teaches creative writing at the University of Guelph.