The July swelter didn’t stop the Taipei youth from coming out in droves, seeking some sort of entertainment and escape on a Friday night. Pedestrians jostled against me, many sipping teas and juices kept at an icy temperature in slender takeaway bottles. The thick, stagnant air reeked of perfume, cigarettes, and exhaust. Everyone was barefaced, wanting to flaunt their features instead of hiding beneath blank masks. To be able to flirt with their lips, to be able to kiss. But I wasn’t fooled by the dark—the air was still poisonous. Even if we couldn’t see the brown haze, it smothered our city lit in neon.
I passed a corner 7-Eleven, its glass doors opening for a group of teens who could only afford to “party” in the convenience store. A column of cold air blasted toward me before the doors slid shut. The group—three girls and two boys, their hair dyed in bright fuchsias and purples, joined friends who were already inside, sipping on cheap beers and smoking even cheaper cigarettes beneath a large vent, which sucked the crap right back out into the night sky.
The truly poor huddled along the sidewalks, propped themselves against buildings, or lay like sick dogs. They murmured in hoarse tones, begging for food, coin, water, drugs, clothes—anything. They’d lick the grease off of your Snappy Chicken wrappers if you tossed them over.
A woman with matted hair and hollow eyes didn’t have the energy to extend a hand, much less raise her arm; her open palms sunk like dead weights in her dirty dress. I’d been that hungry before, at my lowest. It’s a gnawing emptiness that stays with you. But she was wasting away from more than hunger. I reached into my wallet, something I hadn’t carried for years, not until after we all got a cut from the kidnapping, and dropped a wad of large bills into the sick woman’s lap. She didn’t notice, but a thin man beside her did, and he stared at me, his eyes too large in his gaunt face. I reached in again and thrust the rest of my bills at him. He took the cash, bowing his head over and over.
I was rich now, not rich enough to buy myself an twenty million you suit, but richer than I had ever imagined possible. Yet giving everything I might have to the sick meis did nothing to lift my mood. Because I knew that it changed nothing. Simply throwing money at them was not enough. Their existence wasn’t the heart of the sickness in Taiwan—it was a merely a symptom.
The smell of steamed buns and fried sausages from the food carts mingled with that of urine and vomit as I walked past dark, narrow side streets filled with more sick meis. I didn’t need to see them to know they were there. My stomach turned from the clash of odors. My throat felt dry, scratchy, and I wished I had an ice-cold beer to drink myself. To try and shake the futility of it all, the desperation.
Soon.
I was meeting Victor to discuss our group’s plans—and everything we needed to do before he took on his rich-you-boy identity.
I quickened my pace, broke through the covered walkways, and crossed the crowded intersection with other pedestrians, swarming like cicadas, toward my destination. The cool neon blue of the Rockaroke Building did nothing to dissipate the oppressive heat of the summer evening. Known to provide the best simulated entertainment in all of Taipei, with opulent suites to cater to your every whim and pleasure, Rockaroke was a major you destination every evening. And if your vices ran deep and you really needed to check out, the suites were available for long-term rental, starting at $250K a week. Blue and red laser lights darted and crackled over the windows of the tall glass-and-steel building, and a rooftop projector swept a neon green R and K across Taipei’s hazy skyline.
Victor had checked in to oversee a big transaction with a rich client, anonymous but present for those who worked for him, in case anything went wrong. He never dealt drugs, but could get you just about anything else. Lingyi had told me Vic once got hold of a dozen sought-after purses before they were even set out for display in the Paris flagship’s storefront, causing an actual riot among the you girls and their moms.
Aircars and -peds glided overhead, disappearing into Rockaroke’s private garage for yous twenty floors above us. They never needed to set foot on a filthy sidewalk if they didn’t want to, could avoid the sickness and poverty that we meis lived with every day. I entered from the ground floor, adjusting my face mask and pulling my cap lower. I had already memorized the entire lobby from scoping the place virtually on the undernet.
The opaque glass doors closed behind me, and it was like stepping into another world. The air cooled, and the loud noise and honking from the city streets were replaced with the soft notes of Mozart being played on a grand piano in the middle of the foyer. I breathed the clean, regulated air and walked across the plush carpet toward the elevators. Gigantic chandeliers hung from the magnificent arched ceiling, casting a soft, muted glow on everything below. There were more solicitous attendants—young women and men dressed in brocade jackets—than there were clients.
Rockaroke prided itself on its impeccable service. The establishment reeked of money and class. A pretty veneer for all the depraved indulgences that took place in the private suites above.
Even as I quickened my step, a young woman approached me, trailed by a silver barbot floating behind her shoulder. Her pale pink lips pulled back to reveal perfectly white teeth. None of the attendants were you, but Rockaroke hired only the most attractive meis—attendants who were willing to use their pay to make themselves even more beautiful. Saving up for an ass injection here, pec implants there. Lingyi told us how she had met one beautiful woman who worked as a Rockaroke attendant, and said she was altering her face, one feature at a time, to look more like Mingmei, the hottest singer in Taiwan. It guaranteed higher tips, she had divulged to Lingyi with a bright smile.
“Can I help you, sir?” The attendant inclined her head.
“I’m meeting someone,” I said in a brusque tone. “I’ve got the access codes.”
“Can I offer you a complimentary beverage, sir?”
The barbot whirred behind her, its blue buttons flashing as if eager to serve.
“I’d kill for a cold beer,” I said.
Her lips pursed for a moment. “I apologize, sir. My barbot only provides wines. But I could call my colleague over—”
“Never mind.” The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in the foyer. Even with my face covered, I didn’t want to be seen. “I’ll grab one in the suite.”
The attendant lowered her head graciously. “Enjoy your stay,” she said in a melodious voice. “Rockaroke has everything you want and anything you need.” She flashed another flawless smile at me before gliding away.
I made it to the golden elevators without further interruption and punched in from memory the access code Victor had messaged me earlier. The mirrored interior was as opulent as the rest of the building, its ceiling gilded with the Chinese symbol for prosperity. The bell gave a pleasant ding after a fast trip up to the twenty-third floor. I searched the numbers on the red doors, passing a drunk teen you boy with indigo hair tottering down the wide hallway. He waved enthusiastically at me and shouted, “Hey, party!”
I didn’t bother to reply, but he didn’t take the hint.