Changes by Charles Colyott Page A

never met.
    I knew I could just pick up the phone and call Tracy, and I knew that I probably would, but it would only make things infinitely worse because it just drove the point home that I was here and she was there.  I couldn’t smell her hair or kiss her neck.  I could hear her laugh, but I wouldn’t see the way her eyes gleamed. 
    In short, my sappy ass had it bad.
    I pulled the phone book out of the drawer and looked up a few numbers.  I wanted to call to check on a few flimsy leads but my heart just wasn’t in it.  I set the phone back in its cradle and had another sixteen dollar beer.
    When I picked up the phone again, it was to arrange for my flight home. 
    I would be back in St. Louis at 8:35 p.m. that night.  Unable to resist the opportunity for masochism, I immediately called and got Tracy’s machine.  I left her the time when I’d be in, and said that I’d try back later.
    After showering and packing, I went down to the lobby and checked out.  I had the bellboy hold onto my luggage in the check room, though.  I figured I could screw around sightseeing for a bit until I had to get to the airport. 
    I spent a good part of the day just wandering around, lost.  I went to Chinatown and glared at each person as if I knew exactly what they were hiding; sadly no one threw themselves at my feet to confess.
    Some of the sights and sounds and smells reminded me of the festivals when I was growing up.  It would be easy to pretend that I was back in Hong Kong.  Everything stood out more, seemed more real than real.  I wanted to go around touching everything. I didn’t, though.  That would’ve been weird and creepy.
    It’s a strange sensation, to be homesick for two places at once. 
    I learned one valuable lesson, though.  One of the best ways to cure any feelings of depression or inadequacy is to somehow trigger the survival response:  Adrenaline- nature’s first anti-mope drug.
    In my case, the ‘trigger’ was a group of well-dressed thug types I caught following me through Portsmouth Square.  Considering my mental state, they might’ve been tracking me for awhile.  Of course, there was always the possibility that I was being paranoid…
    So I strolled along, looking at shops, and turned down the first alleyway I saw.  They followed.  Five guys: three Chinese and two American, wearing Armani suits.  The alley was a dead end, thanks to a parked produce truck at the other end.  Chickens in crates squawked at us and each other.  I turned from the chickens and met my shadows.
    "Eight Tigers, I presume?" I said.
    A few of the guys exchanged surprised looks.  A big American kid stepped forward; his nose was crooked from numerous unset breaks.  He stabbed his index finger at my sternum and said, "You been pokin’ your nose where it don’t belong, man."
    I laughed and said, "Oh, come on.  That’s a bad guy 101 line… surely you can do better than that?"
    He ground his jaws together and stabbed harder with his finger.  "Fuck you!"
    More originality.
    I took the offending finger and bent it backward with a crunch until it touched his wrist.  He screamed.
    One of the Chinese guys started reaching in his jacket.  I kept hold of the American’s broken finger and rammed him in the chest with my shoulder.  It accomplished two things: for one, it deflated his lungs and shut him up.  It also sent him flying into the Chinese guy, knocking him on his ass.
    A kid to my left lunged in with a knife.  I yanked the American back by his now very broken finger and threw him into the two other guys.  My own little Three Stooges routine.
    I leaned back in time to avoid the incoming knife and slapped the kid’s elbow with my left hand, and his forearm with my right.  It felt effortless, but with my full weight behind the strikes, his arm bones shattered like carnival glass.
    The big American was up on his feet again, hugging his broken finger close to his chest.  He came in with a wild, looping