Maybe I’ll never know how I got into that situation. All I knew was that I was running through the streets of Dongguan in my underwear, a cell phone in one hand and a can of beer in the other. I was ninety percent sure that the police were after me, but I couldn’t be positive. It’s hard to know exactly what to think when coming to after a whiskey blackout.

The pure momentum of fear propelled me. It was already dark, and that helped me a little. The sight of a foreigner in Dongguan is bound to turn some heads in the first place and a near-naked one doubly so, but at least I could avoid streetlights to cut down on the attention. That and back alleys. Dongguan has a lot of seedy alleys, especially in my neighborhood.

I could tell I was still in my neighborhood for two reasons. First was the smell, piss mixing with stinky tofu above a base of bus exhaust. Also, every neon sign in my neighborhood was orange and yellow. I could see and smell these things, so I knew where I was. My belly flapped up and down on my underwear waistband. I could feel the piss stains near the opening.

I figured I could keep this up for a few blocks. I took another swig of beer and threw the can down. I took a look at my cell. It was 9:18. That was when I decided to call my drug-dealer, Pete. Not that I needed drugs at that point, but I was thinking Pete might have some answers instead. Had I called him earlier in the evening?

I’d met Pete about a year before. I had just gotten off the bus next to an expat bar. Some big, black guy was openly yelling, in English, “Who wants to buy some weed? Who wants to buy some weed?” I couldn’t believe my ears, but I knew that I was just the man Pete was looking for. Huge crowds of Chinese people were passing by Pete, apparently without any idea what he was saying. But I knew, and I did. I had been without weed for six months at that point. “I’m your man,” I thought.

Pete was in my contacts, about halfway down. It was difficult to scroll through because my head was bouncing up and down from running. But once I adjusted I was able to place the call. Pete answered on the second ring, in his crazy accent. He’s from Cameroon. He speaks English, French and a little Chinese. He has a Chinese girlfriend.

“Yes, man. You called me earlier. You sounded trashed and I couldn’t understand you.”

“Did I say anything about the police?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just check back in half an hour, and if I don’t answer, come and look for me. It probably means I’m in jail,” I said.

After hanging up, I realized I was on too public a street. It was a big four lane and traffic was flowing steady. I took the next right I could, down an alley.

There was a middle-aged guy in a wife beater. He had stepped out of a restaurant for a quick smoke, when he looked up and saw me coming. This man was quick, I’ll give him that. Didn’t try to stop me but he yelled for the cops.

I took a left out of the alley and ran right smack into an old woman carrying some groceries. The bag bit the dust. Three bottles tumbled out and two of them shattered. For a second we were dancing, trying to get around each other. She was terrified. I found an opening to her left and took off again.

All of this wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t yelled and a cop hadn’t seen me. Cops in China come on different levels. This one wasn’t high up the food chain. I could tell because he wore cheap shoes and loose, white socks. You could always make out the pay grade by the socks and shoes.

But cheap shoes didn’t mean he couldn’t run. He was after me something quick. I’m like Babe Ruth – I run pretty good for a fat guy. My pursuer pursued but he could gain none. A block more and I found another alley, this time to my left.

If you’re ever being chased, and I have been chased many times, here’s a tip: do the unexpected. Speed, or a lack thereof, is always expected. But no sane person chasing another, in the heat of a chase, ever expects their prey to suddenly turn around and reverse course. It is simply out of the narrative, so to speak. And that’s why you should always try it.

I did and it worked

The look on his face was a painting of many Os. One for the mouth and two for the eyes. Oblong Os, capital Os, with exclamation marks. He had to stop momentum and turn around, and that gave me the distance I needed.

I was glad I chanced it too, because that’s when I saw my kindergarten. For reasons I’ll never understand, they had a neon sign like the rest of the neighborhood, and kept it on at night, long after everyone had gone back to their quiet lives. As I ran past, I looked up to Ms. Wu’s office, just to see if the light was on. It wasn’t.

Ms. Wu was one of a kind. I’ve taught in many schools in China, and she was as good as it got. We had a non-verbal understanding that I could drink throughout the day, as long as I was sober and clean-breathed when the parents showed up. I kept a cooler out back, next to some potted plants. The cooler was stocked with at least five bottles of Qingdao beer, the big ones, and I could make a trip out there whenever I needed to. I made sure I had gum in my bag at all times.

I also had to give good demo classes twice a year. Those classes made me drip with nervous sweat, and it was when I needed a drink most, but I couldn’t drink on those days. We were partners in the façade, Ms. Wu and I. My white face brought in the bucks. And so long as I treated the kids well enough and didn’t screw up in a major way, we could go on like that forever.

I now knew that I was a mere four blocks from home. Two straight and two to the right. I didn’t have a key, of course, but that wasn’t a problem. The lock in my house is one of courtesy. A good push and it gives in like a loose woman.

By the time I saw the entrance to my building, no one was after me. Either the cop had lost me or given up. Probably he had given up. I’m a big guy and there is little he could have done with me even if he had caught up with me.

The door gave in easily and I slammed home the deadbolt after entering. I laid my cell on the coffee table and just as I did, it rang. It was Pete again. I picked it back up.

“You okay, man?”

“Yes, I just made it in the door. No one is after me. That whiskey really got on top of me.”

“You’re bloody right it did.” Pete’s English is strange. He switches between American and British slang, and sometimes you can catch him switching accents. I think it’s because he watches a lot of movies. That’s what Pete usually talks about, movies. He buys pirated DVDs from street vendors by the dozen, so he has a lot to say. “You going to be needing anything soon?”

“Weed and smack if you’ve got it.” I don’t know why I continued to call it weed. It wasn’t really weed that he sold me. It was hash, and it was powerful stuff, but very expensive. His smack was good, too.

“Sure. I can do that. When should I come by?”

“Give me an hour. I’ve got to take a shower and put on some clothes. Bring some beer when you come. I’ll pay you for it when you get here.”