THERE ARE LIMITATIONS

The pilgrim, who is an aging Taiwanese gentleman fallen on hard times, largely because he's an inveterate drunk and fupuck, needed wu kuai (五塊). So I gave it to him. He's harmless, and one of us. Everyone in Chinatown is, more or less, in a circle of of outsiders of differing definition and particularity, and the pilgrim is a gentleman I've know for roughly a decade or more. He's considerably saner and more human than some of the other marginals, just incorrigible. His Mandarin is excellent. Fluent in Fujianese, able in Cantonese.
Possibly semi-intelligible in English. If and maybe.
But I've never tested him.

He's taken in recent years to hiding out in full view on Waverly Place, near businesses run by Toishanese speakers, who may not be the most hospitable towards his lifestyle, but who would never-the-less consider him an acceptable part of the landscape, I think.

There are about half a dozen men who are as unsuccessful.
The move to the United States didn't work for them.
Only two of them are Taiwanese.

Back when the Taiwanese woman was still running a particular dive where a friend and myself might end up late at night, he'd bum a cigarillo and head outside for a smoke. I no longer have those cigarillos, and possibly he no longer smokes. I avoid alcohol for medication related reasons, he abstains due to financial constraints.



For many people Chinatown is a safe space, a sanctuary, even a half-way house on the path to a more successful American life. Essential goods and services there, and an environment that provides necessary familiarity and insulation.

For some folks it's the end of the line.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================