THE ARTIST AND THE BOSS

By Ryan Tompkins

THE ARTIST

He rises with the sun every morning, the stiffness of sleep in his muscles gradually ebbing and washing away with the warmth of the rays. Stretching and flexing, he feels the dull ache that pervades the structure of his body, an ache left over from last night's work. But he begins his workout anyway, methodically ignoring the nagging pains, as he has done for so many years.

He works his arms, his legs, his chest. He does stretching and bending exercises, pushing himself further, demanding more of his body. He continues until he feels the warm glow of his own physical exertion. Then and only then does he begin to practice his sets and forms. Arms moving in fluid motion, legs set in traditional stances, he practices the ancient art handed down through his people over the ages. His movements fall in footsteps made thousands of years before him, and he realizes this with a sense of pride and reverence. He acts as a painter, his legs and arms the brushes, his movements the paint, the air around him the canvas. Like so many before him, he practices the martial arts.

As he finishes his last set, he glances at the clock on the wall of his tiny, humble apartment. With a sigh of resignation, he accepts the fact that it is time to go to work.

As he runs the water for this bath, he turns and looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. Regarding his reflection with a calculating eye, he comes upon the knowledge that the man he sees in the mirror is nothing at all like the man people see in public or at his job. To many, he is merely a dish boy, employed at the Hunan Restaurant in the very upper-class (and very white) part of Seattle. He is obviously small, Chinese, and without any talent or value. If someone were to look at his hand, he or she would only see a tool good for washing dishes or scrubbing pans. But when he looks at his hand, he sees a paintbrush, a brush with which he can tell the story of a thousand struggles, the story of his people. And he realizes, with dismay, that it is a story that none but his own people may understand, for it is written in a foreign language, the language of the martial arts.

THE BOSS

At the same moment, across town, another man is just now awakening to a blaring alarm clock. He sits up in his bed, angrily sweeping the clock off the nightstand and onto the floor. As the clock hits the ground, he stares with bloodshot eyes at the small shaft of sunlight that has stolen through the heavy drapes of his window and is invading his face. With much effort, he laboriously heaves himself from the bed, his weak and lax muscles straining against the weight of his body. The bed groans, as if with relief, when the man rises. He lumbers over to the window and jerks the drape back in place, extinguishing the fugitive sunlight.

He stretches, his muscles sore from the effort of just getting out of bed. Shooting a glance at the clock, he realizes that he is going to be late for work again. But then again, he does not care. He is the Boss, and the Boss can be late if he so chooses.

As he shuffles into his large and elegant bathroom, he glances in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, he believes that he sees the young man he used to be. The young man who single-handedly started the Hunan Restaurant in Seattle. The young man who went to the trouble of hiring poor, Chinese immigrants so as to present a Chinese atmosphere in the restaurant and to exploit them as his employees.

But the image quickly fades, replaced with his true reflection. He is fat, overweight by at least fifty pounds. He is balding, wrinkling, of poor health. His bloodshot eyes are a testament to his drinking, and the pain in his chest an ode to cigarettes. He realizes that he is ugly, in a very singular and common way. He is not special or unique, neither talented nor gifted.

He is somewhat sobered by this reflection. But, as he smiles a wry smile, he thinks to himself, "At least I'm not Chinese."