An Ordinary Life

Artist: Harlow Covington, Esq.

Percival Rodriguez was an ordinary man with an ordinary routine. If not what you would call normal, then bland—as boring as vanilla ice cream.

Every morning was the same. Wake up, shit, boil some water. Eight ounces; no more, no less. Then a teaspoon of oolong. Four to five minutes of standing by the window waiting for the tea to steep, the leaves to unfurl. Four to five minutes of listening to rain hit the gutter or watching clouds cross the sky or the sun breaking through, shining, resplendent.

When the time had passed, he would take a seat at his kitchen table. The small one his grandma bought him. With the wood stained almost black. He’d remove the leaves, studying their newly expanded forms. Like seaweed, wakame, or whatever it is you find in miso soup. Amazing how much a little water can do—spinach to Popeye, really. Far from the tiny pellets so akin in appearance to cloves. All saturated now, inflated. So dark, almost mossy, jade.

With his head full this way with thoughts, he’d smile and take that first sip. Always perfectly timed, never scalding, never tepid. But just right. Drinkable—not easily chugged or gulped, but definitely sippable. As tea was meant to be drank. With care, precision. Leisurely. Not like Americans did their coffee. Diluted with cream and sugar to cool and sweeten. Chug it down just to hope caffeine will cover your lack of sleep. No enjoyment, just habit, addiction.

Percival Rodriguez shook his head. Sipped. Some people just didn’t understand.

When he finished his tea, he’d move on. Strip naked, study himself in the mirror. Question what went wrong and how. Scrutinize his length, wonder if it was big enough, if his parents should’ve left the sweater on. Then the urge to urinate ending the appraisal, the rumination—returning him to reality, to why he was here. Remembering—exiting that unreality of the mind, whether fantasy or nightmare, and reentering his body—he’d start the shower. The head angled precisely, the water volcanic. Soaping every inch: behind the ears, under the scrotum, in between the cheeks. Until he was scrubbed raw, red from the heat—then he’d turn the nozzle to cold. Like a bucket of ice, and him dancing all about.

But it got the blood flowing.

After toweling himself off, he’d get dressed. Always the same outfit: suit and tie with a bowler hat to cover the bald spot. Only the colors changed. Monday was cream-and-gold. Tuesday periwinkle, Wednesday black, Thursday carmine; and so on through the week. A quick lint-roller, a few adjustments, and he was set.

Never breakfast. Not before noon, at least. No reason to. Hadn’t done anything physical. Still burning calories from yesterday’s dinner.

So, tea drank, shower taken, suit on, Percival Rodriguez would enter his living room, ready to work remotely.

This was his routine, his ordinary life. His new normal. Just swap the office for the desk at home. Sales business is still sales business. And he never really noticed the pandemic. Not if he stayed inside, that is. Out there was a ghost town, the serpent’s molted remains, the hermit crab’s discarded shell. Businesses were closed, traffic nonexistent. Everything gray. Yes, out there he felt it. But inside, comforted by his habits, his ordinary life, nothing seemed abnormal. All was as it was. As it was supposed to be, as it should be.

Until it wasn’t. Until the notification, the email.

The teahouse was out of oolong, and pu’er. The genmai, the black teas, even their most basic greens. Something about shipping problems, the pandemic. Unable to source the supplies. Contaminated corporations risk contaminated constituents. Something sing-song like that.

Spin it however you will, the truth was the truth: The teahouse was out of oolong.

*

Percival Rodriguez didn’t panic. Not the first morning, at least. Or the second. He had enough to get him through the week. By then, they should’ve figured something out.

But come Friday, he still hadn’t heard back. He would be out by Monday. And he couldn’t go to the store. He couldn’t suffer the bagged shit, the loose leaves stuffed inside a chlorinated sack. The chemicals aside, there was no unfurling. Nothing to watch, no magic. He couldn’t go back to that.

He wouldn’t.

Yet something had to be done. If not oolong, he needed something to be steeped, to fill with water and expand. Without it, his routine would crumble. His ordinary life would vanish. Things would complicate, and he didn’t like complicated.

So on Sunday, facing a sort of extinction, he called the teahouse. Sitting at his table, studying the last of the unfurled leaves, he listened to elevator music: some pop hit stripped of lyrics and set to classical instruments. They were all different sizes, the leaves. Some wide and flat, others small and bunched. Huge ones and wrinkled ones, ripped ones and wavy ones. Mesmerized, lost, Percival understood the oracle’s obsession: The fortune-teller trying to divine the future in the tea leaves. He could almost see it himself. If you looked a certain way. The head tilted just so. If you really squinted, you could see everything. The whole of the world, its history, its present and all that still to come. It was all there, Percival decided. Written in the tea leaves. In the oolong.

“Thank you for calling Apothecary Teas,” a voice interrupted. “How may I help you?”

Shaking himself aware, Percival answered, “Yes, hi there. I—I’m a regular customer. Very regular. And, well, my order hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Can I have your name, sir?”

“Percival Rodriguez,” he replied, spelling both birth and surname.

He waited, listening to the woman’s typing. Her fingers tap-tapping away at the keyboard.

“Okay, Mr. Rodriguez, it looks here like you should’ve gotten an email...”

“Yes, I received it. But don’t you think the issue would’ve been reconciled by now?”

“Mr. Rodriguez, we’re doing the best we can. But it’s a global pandemic. Our supplier in China is dealing with their own ordeal. We here with ours. It could be some time still before the shipment is available. Please understand, we have our customers’ best interests at heart.”

“So there’s no chance I’ll be able to get my batch of oolong by tomorrow morning?”

“I’m sorry, sir. It doesn’t appear that way.”

Dejected, Percival thanked her and hung up the phone.

Something had to happen. He needed to do something. And quick. Only twenty hours remained. Twenty hours until his world collapsed. Until everything fell out of balance.

His heart was starting to race. Beating rapidly, his anxiety rising. He should be sipping the last of his tea, tranquil. About ready to disrobe, to shower. But he couldn’t concentrate. Everything around him was warm. He felt flushed. He tried to breathe. His hand reached for his cock and started yanking. But he stopped himself: masturbation was temporary relief; it wouldn’t help in the long run. He needed to do something.

Something.

He wanted to scream, to rake his eyes out, to pull out the rest of his hair. It was happening. He was too late. His world was falling out of balance. His ordinary life was vanishing.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Breathing in and out through his nose, belly protruding, filling—expanding like a teaspoon of oolong unfurling in eight ounces of boiled water. His hands reached for his teacup. The one his grandpa gave him. The crystal one with the intricate carvings. He let his exhales lengthen, he breathed deeper. 10, he counted, 9, 8. The world was re-materializing. 7, 6, 5. Calm was returning, some semblance of patience. 4, 3, 2. He could open his eyes, sip his tea. 1.

He opened his eyes, and there in his tea was written a message.

Find the dragon, it said.

Percival Rodriguez blinked a thousand times. He stood up, walked a hundred steps, returned. He switched sides. Turned the teacup around it, shook it. But the message stayed: Find the dragon.

He closed his eyes again. This was madness, absurdity. He must be going crazy.

“I promise you you’re not,” someone or something announced. Their tone was floral, almost fruity. Kind of sweet. Their voice light and refreshing. Not so heavy or robust as some. Quite approachable, in fact.

His eyes opened slowly, cautiously. Nothing in that voice suggested scariness, but Percival didn’t like surprises. He enjoyed routine, comfort—his ordinary existence. Not mornings without tea or those with strange, unfamiliar voices. He assessed the room, examining what he could. But he was alone. Utterly by himself.

“I am going crazy,” he repeated aloud.

“I’ve told you already, you’re not.”

Percival Rodriguez nearly jumped. His eyes scanned everything, darting this way and that. Manically, crazed, desperate.

“Who said that?” he yelled.

“I did, and I’m just down here. There’s really no need to shout.”

He followed the voice below. But there was nothing but his teacup. He shook his head, disbelieving. Grabbing the crystal vessel, he lifted it. The message was gone. All that remained was liquid—the honey-colored goodness that was his morning oolong.

“You?” he questioned.

“Yes,” the tea told him. “Me.”

“So you’re.... That means I’m...”

“No,” the teacup replied, “you’re not crazy. But you are out of tea. Oolong, pu’er, even Earl Grey. There’s nothing left.”

“I know,” Percival Rodriguez readily assented. “What am I going to do? If I don’t find more by tomorrow, everything will be ruined. My life...”

“Breathe, and panic no more. Forego worry, forget dread. These will not help you where you’re going. They will only hinder you. Fear will freeze you, panic will drive you insane. Dread will distract you, worry mislead you. You must be strong, Percival Rodriguez. You must be confident. Otherwise, you will never succeed where you’re going.”

“And where am I going?” he asked timidly, although he was sure he knew already.

“To find the dragon,” the teacup answered.

*

Snow was falling outside. The sky was overcast, the streets lined with gray sleet. No one was outside, and only a few shops were open. The wind cut to the bone, the cold choked. Slush filled his boots.

Percival Rodriguez shivered. His hands were raw, cracked and peeling. They’d be bloody soon. His toes felt like pins and needles, as if he’d just left an appointment with an amateur acupuncturist. His cotton coat wasn’t enough. The stubble on his cheeks froze.

But he smiled nonetheless.

It was the first time in three months he’d left home. The air made him feel alive; the cold, the wind, the pain—it marked him as human. It felt good to feel. And his morning tea was right: It was better not to fear, to worry. It was better to let go. Even if pithy clichés were easier said than done, he knew.

He’d never find the dragon otherwise.

The oolong told him to find the Old Chinese Man, the one with the pushcart who peddled all sorts of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. The scrawny one with skin like leather, teeth slightly rotten. The one everybody knew. Find him, the oolong said. Only he can help you find the dragon.

But where would he be, the Old Chinese Man and his pushcart? It was the middle of winter. It was dreary, bleak. Cold—so cold, and the poor elder with nothing to keep him warm. He could be anywhere. At a shelter, abroad, below the bridge.

Percival decided to check the park first. He found nothing, and none of the other frozen vagabonds proved helpful. So he doubled back and went to the shelter. The Old Chinese Man wasn’t there either. Next he made inquiries at the mental hospital, but they couldn’t release such information. He wasn’t under the bridge. Or at the bus station or the abandoned bakery or the boarded-up house downtown. He wasn’t at the motel or the cafes or the art center. None of his usual hangouts. He was nowhere.

The only person who could help Percival Rodriguez find the dragon, and they were nowhere.

Percival was about to give up, to accept his losses and prepare for life anew, another new normal, when the Old Chinese Man found him.

He was up in a tree, blankets wrapped tightly about his aging body. “The dragon awaits you,” he yelled down from his arboreal abode.

Surprised in spite of all that had happened, Percival jumped back. Sliding, he almost slipped on some ice behind him. Regaining his composure, steadying his breath, he said to the Old Chinese Man,

“Yes, but how do I find it?”

“The dragon is around you already. Everywhere, all the time. You only need open your eyes.”

Just then, Percival’s eyes opened. Not his lids, which were already un-shut, but his actual eyeballs. They split, right there, like some circular container. What emerged was another set of eyes, pupils as black as before, iris the same shade of brown. It felt strange, as if someone was blowing in his ear. But it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. Just strange, like the first time he experimented anally, a finger in his butt. In the end, he almost enjoyed it.

The world around him vanished. The Old Chinese Man, the tree, downtown. The entire city was gone. Percival was in some shop, people and things were all around him. None of them wore masks.

“Excuse me,” he said to someone of short stature. “What is this place?”

Turning around to answer was not a human but a lizard. Scaly, striped, tongue forked. Percival stepped back.

“Don’t worry, we’re not those lizard people. This is the Dragon’s Lair, the finest teashop in the universe.”

Percival sighed. He was here. He made it. He found the dragon and its lair. Soon, he would have his oolong. He could watch it unfurl come morning. His routine would survive. His ordinary life would stay ordinary. Back to suits and bowler hats and sales business.

He explored the market, stopping every so often to sample a new scent. The fragrance was overwhelming. Notes floral and fruity; pungent smells almost fungal. Odors like the woods, yet like the ocean: leafy and natural and inexhaustible. Rows upon rows of tea. Everywhere, every kind. Up and up and up until the ceiling.

There were vendors and shoppers all around. Some human like himself, others lizard-like. A few toads here and there, a pelican even. In the very center reposed the dragon. Its scales black and scarlet, horns of gold. Its wings were as wide as a sedan, its head hulking and huge. A fire burned circularly around it.

Carefully yet excitedly, Percival Rodriguez approached.

He bowed low before the dragon, hands fashioned into prayer.

“Great Master,” he spoke. “May I please purchase the finest oolong tea you have? Four ounces, please.”

The dragon snarled, roared. Fire and steam escaped its nostrils.

“If it is oolong you wish to have, then tell me the price you’d pay.”

Percival paused, thinking, calculating.

“Well, I typically pay about $10 for two ounces. But given the magic of this all and the favor you’re doing me, and considering the whole finest in the universe thing, I’d offer $45.”

The dragon snorted and fire shot out in bouts of laughter. A few other patrons deigned to join. Percival didn’t understand the joke, what he had done wrong. $45 was more than reasonable for four ounces of tea. Generous, even.

“Currency, dollars, are a thing of your world—of the temporal, the carnal. We do not accept that here. It has no place, no value. If you come seeking hidden treasures, you must offer something in kind. So tell me what you possess that is worth my trading?”

Perplexed, Percival mulled over his conundrum. He only had so much with him. But he needed that tea, the oolong. His mornings, his life depended on it. It was the whole reason he came. He couldn’t leave now. Not empty-handed. But what treasure did he have? What of value did he possess?

Then it struck him.

“I could give you my eyes. I have two pairs.”

The dragon considered him. “Hmm, my oolong for your eyes? Yes, that seems fair.”

And with that the dragon called over an assistant to bag the tea and finish the transaction.

*

Percival Rodriguez woke from a dreamless sleep. It was morning. The sun was shining, poking through the clouds. He could feel it. He could imagine it.

But he couldn’t see it.

Percival blinked open his eyes but there was nothing. Only a fuzzy blackness, an empty void. His heart was racing, anxiety rising. He couldn’t see. He was blind.

“You gave him the wrong eyes,” something said. “You gave him your eyes.”

Percival felt around his bed for the bag of oolong. It was still there. Whispering gratitudes, he replied,

“Was that you?”

“Don’t see who else it’d be,” the tea leaves answered him.

Percival sighed heavily.

“Thank goodness. At least you’re still here. As long as I have you it was worth every sacrifice. Blind or not. If I have you, I have my morning. If I have my morning, I have my routine. My ordinary life. I’ll have my ordinary life. The rest will settle itself.”

He got out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Muscle memory guided him to the boiler, the faucet.

He turned the handle but nothing happened. He turned the other, but still no water came. Not even a trickle. He tried the bathroom sink, the shower. Nothing, nowhere.

He searched for his phone. He needed to call the city, someone. An alert told him he had a voicemail. He pressed one, dialed.

“Dear tenant of Property Sixty-Seven, this is Representative Fuz-ang Long calling on behalf of the Municipal Water Board. It seems the pipes in your apartment stopped passing water. Everything filled and expanded until they burst. We’ve shut off your water in the meantime, and I assure you, the city is working on it as best they can. Thank you for understanding.”

The phone slipped from his grasp, hit the floor.

There was no water. Which meant there could be no tea. No oolong.