Miss Rocket Bear

Falling in love with a serious diversion. "It was that game, at the Toyota Center." Miss Rocket Bear hollered with excitement. "Where there's a road, there's a Toyota," I said absently, rather pleased with my well-timed nonsense, while sneaking a glance at the enormous breasts resting on the table next door—so large they had to be propped on the surface. The girl looked back at me, puzzled. "What are you even talking about!" Miss Rocket Bear was not happy. "It was that game where James Hard got his beard burned off." Miss Rocket Bear insisted on calling the Rockets' bearded star "Hard" (a transliteration of Harden), and firmly believed that in one game his beard—the vast majority of it—had been burned off. "So where did his current beard come from? He still had it this morning going to Portland." "It grew back, obviously~" "Makes sense." It really did make sense. I had met this Miss Rocket Bear only half an hour earlier, when I pressed the shutter at a red light at Sanyuan West Bridge and she inexplicably walked into my photo. The live photo taken by the iPhone, manufactured by Apple Computer Company of the State of California, USA—I watched a woman walk into my frame and stand at the intersection of the horizontal and vertical golden ratio lines. Because of the smog, her figure was powerfully foregrounded. It was a photo rich with theme, though what theme it was rich with I had no idea. I pressed the photo and she began to move, wearing a soft leather trench coat (no demand, no killing), impossibly long boots, walking with the gait of a career woman, each step slamming her weight through her soles into the ground with confidence. "What are you shooting?!" Miss Bear glared at me. "Huh?" "You're taking creep shots of me!" "Oh, uh, I was photographing the bridge—you just happened to walk into the frame." "You can see the bridge in this?!" I wanted to say I was specifically photographing the bridge you couldn't see through the smog, but would you believe me... Miss Bear snatched the phone from my hand—though at that point, I didn't yet know she was Miss Bear. Her gaze cut into me, and then she swiped through my photos, inspecting them. "Doesn't look like a serial creep." "Never was one." "Oh, so you're a Rockets fan!" She stomped her foot, looking quite delighted. "Flood waters crashing into the Dragon King's temple." "I'll tentatively believe you were photographing the bridge." She handed the phone back. "Where did you get that T-Mac moment photo? Not bad." "Mmm, that's a photo T-Mac posted on Instagram." I sensed an opportunity to meet a woman. "Want me to send it to you?" "Hmph, you just want to add me on WeChat." I thought, this woman is interesting, not bad-looking either—I just couldn't tell how the curves under the coat measured up, whether they'd be as snug and lovely as the warmth suggested by that stomp of her foot. "Ha ha." I felt as happy as laughter itself. "No fight, no friendship—I'm a Rockets fan too. Would I have the honor of making your acquaintance?" I was lying—I'm actually a Cavaliers fan. "Deal!" Miss Bear threw her head back and slapped my shoulder. "You have that honor!" "How about a drink then?" Miss Rocket Bear agreed without hesitation, though once we arrived at the bar she hesitated a moment before ordering a juice. I ordered a Cuba Libre, and the cola made me need to pee constantly. "What should I call you? You can call me Naozhong." "Hey, don't you know this is a novel? And you're being serious about it." Miss Bear glanced at her phone. "We're both Rockets fans—just call me Rocket Bear." Very well, Miss Rocket Bear. The fire started at the Toyota Center logo—don't you remember? Miss Bear said to me earnestly, leaving me no choice but to believe her. A spark that, fanned by the Warriors' fast break, became a prairie fire, igniting James Hard's great beard. Three Rockets players scrambled over to put it out, creating a huge commotion. Who was there again? "Ariza, for sure." I said with great confidence, sneaking another glance at the breasts next door—truly enormous beyond measure. "Obviously!" Miss Bear looked disdainful. "Give me some of your drink." I went and ordered her a martini. Asked the front desk to change the music to "The Girl from Ipanema." "Please continue, Miss Bear." Miss Rocket Bear gave a faint smile. "It's Miss Rocket Bear, thank you." "Don't you remember?" Miss Rocket Bear continued with supreme confidence. "The Golden State Warriors seized the moment and hit a three-pointer." "Shameless!" Miss Rocket Bear drummed on the table—thump, thump, thump—and the waiter, baffled, set the martini in front of her. "Thank you." "At that point, I was blow-drying my hair, with a bright green Philips hairdryer." I imagined the Warriors' fast break drowning in the mighty green spring breeze. "What are you think~ing~about?" Miss Rocket Bear said with infinite tenderness. "You made all this up—already forgot?" "Mm, Harden was standing at the free-throw line and calmly sank a free throw." "Of course—he's the One-Point King, that's not just an empty title." "And the beard grew right back. As if it had never been burned." Miss Rocket Bear nodded. "That's about how it went." I imagined Miss Rocket Bear finishing blow-drying her hair, poking her head out to ask me, sprawled across the sofa, "Who? Which one?"—right as Houston Rockets star James Harden stood grandly at the free-throw line. "James Harden, the MLS One-Point King, our Rockets' franchise player." That's about what I said at the time. Miss Rocket Bear took a big sip of martini. "That's right, that's exactly what you said." The wind died down. Livingston passed the ball to Iguodala lurking in the corner, who, mouth agape in his signature grin, calmly hit a three. "So you see," Miss Rocket Bear nodded seriously, "James Hard's beard really was burned." "But it grew back at the free-throw line! And what's the 'so you see' about—it's completely unrelated!" "I don't care." That's how it was, anyway. "The beard was definitely burned." Miss Rocket Bear finally took off her coat. Inside, a high-necked sweater swelled with breasts neither too large nor too small. A little more off, a little more, and she would shine bright as the sun. It was a day in late spring 2016. The Rockets hosted the Golden State Warriors at home. Miss Bear, bare as the day she was born, crawled into my arms and tilted her neck up to ask me how it was. "Harden drives to the basket—and-one!" "That's right—my 'Hard' is no joke." Miss Rocket Bear took another sip of martini. "But that's not what I was asking about, you know." "Thinking back to those days really does make one wistful." Miss Rocket Bear said with melancholy. "Spring. The wind blowing so hard your ribs ached." I recalled the mighty spring winds—Warriors players dashing toward the frontcourt like rabbits, Curry sitting on the bench in a suit, Varejão enthusiastically waving a white towel as though surrendering could not come soon enough. Despite Harden's stellar performance (though honestly I can't even remember if he played well), despite even sacrificing his beard—the Houston Rockets still lost the game, swept 0–4 in a humiliating elimination. "Actually, Curry just got lucky with a few threes—nothing impressive at all." Miss Rocket Bear said. "The Rockets are the best team, I'm telling you." "That's not the point!" Rocket Bear stomped hard, her boots making sharp clacking sounds. "What's the point of this story you're making up?" "That day, someone walked into my lonely life." I said. "An imaginary person walking into my life." "Tell me." Miss Rocket Bear toyed with her glass. "Was it like what I described?" "More or less." "Harden's beard got burned?" "That's right." "I just appeared out of nowhere and then slept with you?" "That's not the point." I thought about it and reconsidered: "The point isn't entirely about sleeping together." "Then the point is Harden's beard?" I recalled the scene that day: I was sprawled on the sofa (I'm always sprawled on anything that can be sat on), night spreading from the horizon into the apartment. A candle in a glass storm lantern licked out a flame as heartbreaking as the home of one's childhood evenings. On the TV screen, the Golden State Warriors in white jerseys and the Houston Rockets in red jerseys dashed about, trying to stuff a ball into two hoops. The candle flame leaped and danced before my eyes. A spark ignited from the Toyota Center court logo, setting James Harden's beard ablaze. Ariza, Beverley, and the other players scrambled over like panicked rabbits to extinguish it, the scene utterly absurd. I sat on the sofa and laughed a silent, enormous laugh. Through the blaze, the world swayed gently, dreamlike. First I heard the bright green spring wind—that was my Philips hairdryer—and Miss Rocket Bear walked out of the bathroom, head tilted, blow-drying her long hair. This fictional person was not part of my life, and yet I simply knew it was her. She was, on the whole, dripping wet—which one could imagine. She tilted her head, listening to my laughter, watching the flickering firelight in the living room. She asked me: "Who? Which one?" "James Harden." I remember answering. Is that how it was? Miss Rocket Bear? Miss Rocket Bear sipped her martini in silence. I had another drink. The Cuba Libre made one feel impossibly free. "My unremarkable world—other people can't survive in it. Some came, looked around, felt disappointed, and left. I often wonder: is there anything in this world that is me? Anything I could become? It seems there's nothing. I have nothing. I am a zero." "Gilbert Arenas." I couldn't help but smile bitterly—a true fan. "I told her about 'the One-Point King,' 'the Big Beard,' the guy with the big mouth who was always grinning, and the one on the bench wearing a suit—that was Curry." "Now I know all of them." Miss Rocket Bear asked me for a menthol cigarette. Miss Rocket Bear and I sat across from each other, blowing smoke rings in silence, just like on the day the Warriors eliminated the Rockets—Miss Bear sitting naked on my lap, us making love in wordless quiet, Miss Bear bending forward, arching herself into a reverse bow to watch the TV on the opposite wall (while smoking), her flexibility deserving a round of applause (though one of my hands was occupied holding her waist, making clapping impossible). The cat came running over, trying to wind her hair into a ball of yarn. "Ah ah ah, the One-Point King, he's at it again…" James Harden completed another and-one—that was the last memory of that day, and everything after dissolved into an all-consuming darkness. "As a fictional character, after all…" Miss Rocket Bear spun the glass in her hands, her face washed in cold silver moonlight. "I'm about to disappear, aren't I? Disappear once again." I didn't know what to say. "Things that vanish don't vanish for nothing." Miss Rocket Bear looked me straight in the eye. "Even fictional things—or things that aren't fiction but become fiction because of their unreality—those things that for one reason or another can never be pursued—none of them vanish for nothing." Miss Rocket Bear ended everything by quoting Murakami, but before she did, she leaned close and whispered: "The Rockets are definitely winning the championship this season—remember to place your bet." The Murakami quote went like this: At that time, we firmly believed in something, and possessed a self capable of firmly believing in something. Such belief would never meaninglessly go up in smoke.