Last Thursday, our tutor read a story called “The Best Accountant” to our Discussion Group, and it  stimulated discussion about the abilities of people doing that kind of work.  I told a story about a clerk who had difficult determining a discount, but I didn’t mention that I also had a similar problem.

            During the Cultural Revolution, there were no classes in schools; however, the teachers had to be there anyway.  Some of them played Chinese chess, and others wandered like vagrants, yet the school’s accountant was always busy.  It seemed unfair, and I don’t remember who suggested it, but it was suddenly decided that one teacher would help him every day before leaving the school.  The teachers did that happily, and it provided the accountant with more free time.

            I had no calculator then, but was adept at using an abacus, as I had learned it when I was young.  Even though I had never kept accounts, mathematic had been easy for me from primary school through the university, so making the calculations we had to do should have been easy, but I found they weren’t.  In fact, they were so difficult for me that you may think that I’m distorting what really happened, but it’s the truth.

            The day my turn came, all the teachers had left the school, and only the accountant and I were still there.  I make the calculations many times and couldn’t get them to balance.  I checked again and again, and didn’t find an error.  The accountant kept looking impatiently at his watch as things seemed to be going from bad to worse.  The minutes ticked away, and when he finally helped me to check all the bills, he found the mistake right away; I had used 15.30 where I should have used 1.53.  I had put the decimal in the wrong place, and that caused a big problem.  I was grateful to him for his help but didn’t look forward to helping him again.  He laughed as he said good-bye, but I was ashamed for having done such bad job.

            What did I conclude from all this?  Was it poor math or mere carelessness?  It appeared to be carelessness, but it really reflected my feelings about math.  I hate adding a long list of  numbers and always accept my first total as being more or less correct.  That kind of work always upsets me.

            On the other hand, I used to like working with my grandchildren to help them learn the four basic fundamentals of arithmetic.  When they were little, we played a game called “24”; in which four number have to be used to reach 24 using ＋, －, ×, and ÷.  I was never unhappy when they frequently did it more quickly than I.  That game helped them in improving math, and increasing their interest in it. Some of them are now in middle school and high school, and they get high scores in math.  One of them even participated in the Olympic Math Competition. 

            Unlike me, they are all very good at arithmetic – even when they do it in their heads, so I’m convinced that heredity has little to do with the process..    

          To begin at the beginning, it was a moonless spring night, bible black. The mother of the household was upstairs reading a story to her daughter to put her to sleep.  Flashes of sadness occurred in the mother’s eyes. Downstairs an aged lady was weeping.  She was heartbroken.

          Before that beginning, however, it was winter, a bright night, and a family of five was eating dinner. Joy and laughter filled every corner of the house. They were all happy for the man of the house as he was going to a coastal town as part of his job. He was a news reporter. The part of the story they didn’t know was that there would be no glory in  it.  It would be risk taking…

            His boss had promised to pay him extra if he took the job, and he needed the money as his mother was very sick.  A daughter had also just been born.  But it would be dangerous.  No one had ever returned from such a trip – ever.  The destination for the journey would be a place that had come to be known as a “ghost house”.

            The drive down was bizarre; he saw nothing for he had concentrated on the long, winding road.  As he got out of the car, a gentle breeze blew through his hair. The golden sun was setting. He was amazed by its color; deep red in the middle, softly fading into yellow. He could not hear anything except the sound of waves and the sea gulls flying above him. 

            He had arrived at a lovely beach hotel – quiet and peaceful.  Those two words kept echoing through his mind.  He had a beautiful view of the sun and the sea, and just outside of the hotel was a gorgeous fountain with 1910 inscribed on it.

            Carrying his suitcase, the father entered the hotel, and everything seemed to be simple and tidy, but the lobby had a very strange odor.  He couldn’t describe exactly what it was, but it wasn’t something he was used to.

            No one was there to greet him, and in looking around, he noted that along the wall there were hangers, but there were no coats on them.  No suitcases were there.  The place was unusually quiet and he figured that the management must like earthenware pots for he saw them along all four walls.

            Deep in thought, he picked up the sign-in register.  It was very strange to see that at least twenty people had signed in yesterday, but there was no evidence that they were still there nor had any of them checked out.  That was surprising as the hotel was in the middle of nowhere and there weren’t any other hotels available.   He couldn’t account for the fact that he seemed to be the only guest.   

            While trying to figure things out, a pleasant young man of about 25 years of age suddenly appeared and greeted him with, “Hi, my name is Bob; it is nice to meet you.” He had a pleasant smile with decent teeth, light blue eyes and a short hair cut. He smelled of a mixture of kitchen odors and heavy perfume. It was a weird odor.

            “Um… Hi, my name is Mr. Jordan, Bill Jordan.”

            A smile came across Bob’s face, as he simply said, “I know.”

            Mr. Jordan tried to smile in return, but it turned into a weird one, as he tried to cover up an anxiety which was starting to grow, deep inside his heart, as to how Bob would have known that he was coming. 

            Bob ignored the smile and said, “Come with me.” Jordan followed after him as they went upstairs to a very small, dark room.  There were two windows, but they were closed, and when he glanced through one of them, he saw that it was locked from the outside. The room was painted in a color between orange and red – sort of strange for a hotel, and the room had the same unpleasant smell as the lobby.

            His good first impression of the hotel had faded away and was replaced by dismay at what he’d gotten himself involved in.

            It didn’t help when he heard Bob say, “It can get quite boring around here these days.  No one comes here anymore. Well, no one really came here anyway”

            Jordan listened, but he felt there was something not rquite ight with what he had just heard.  He chose to ignore it, however.  Perhaps he was thinking just a bit too much. 

            “How old is the hotel then?” Jordan asked in a polite manner.

            “Not too old; about three years old, I think.  It’s a shame it is shutting down already”, he replied with strong emotion but there were something disturbing about his facial expression.  Part of his face looked sad but his eyes…his eyes look more joyful than any other eyes Mr. Jordan had ever seen.

            “So do you own the place or do you work for other people?”  Mr. Jordan asked out of interest, as the answer would give information he could report back to his boss.

            “No, I work for myself. I own the hotel; it was only built about three years ago.” Their eyes met and Bob smiled again.  There was something about that smile that made Mr. Jordan shiver, so he looked away to the window.

            “So, everything in this hotel is new?”

            “Absolutely everything”, Bob said as he reached for the door.  “I have to go now to get you your tea.”

            Jordan let him go - not because he wanted the tea, but something about their conversation made him felt really uncomfortable. It was really weird to feel that way, as it had been just a casual conversation, but he suspected that some of the things Bob had said were not true and he’d need time to sort things out. 

            Bob came back in with the tea, but this time he didn’t smile.  He entered, put down the tea, and walked out. It was as if he had mood swings - major swings in what he was feeling.  .

            While in bed later, Jordan thought over the conversations he’d had with Bob.  He was trying to work out the various mysteries ihe'd encountered.  There had been several weird things. First, the pots; they all seemed to be really precious and there were so many of them.  If Bob was a pot collector, that could be the explanation for there being so many of them, but he’d said that he’d had no guests so how could he possibly have afforded all those wonderful and expensive pots?

            Secondly, the smell that was so weird – sort of like vomit and really disgusting.  The conversations had also been weird, and he had a strong feeling that Bob was trying to cover up something.

            Suddenly a thought came to mind; it was about the fountain from 1910 - that was almost few decades ago, but Bob had said all the furniture came with the hotel. How could that possibly be if the hotel was only found three years ago?

            Another thing that bothered him was that when he had told Bob his name, Bob had replied that he already knew that.  That was strange!  How could he have known? 

            The orange-colored room was also unexpected.  It was so ugly and wasn’t at all what one expected in a hotel. 

            The sign-in register in the lobby provided more information to think about.  Why was it that there were twenty people signed in yesterday, but none of them were here today.  Why was he the only guest?   

            In turning all these thoughts over in his mind, he felt himself being overcome by the power of fear.  It felt as if his whole back was glued to the bed.  As hard as he tried, he found that he couldn’t move even though he heard slow, heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

            As the sound grew nearer, he imagined that the person must be tall and muscular – just like Bob – and he tried to call out, but his voice wouldn’t work; the words seemed to stick in his throat – were unable to come out. 

            There he was; helpless, paralyzed, silenced by fear, and quite unable to protect himself. The window was locked from the outside.  He was trapped in a body that wouldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, and yet he could hear things - like Bob coming up stairs, and slowly the doorknob moved. 

            Jordan shut his eyes and prayed.  He prayed that he would see his family again…

            His eyes were still closed when the door was suddenly BANGED wide open with a crash that echoed in his ears, brain and heart.  

            Bob entered the room saying, “Hi, my friend.  It’s nice to see you again.  How was your sleep thus far?”

            Fear gripped Jordan so tightly that he was shaking and unable to open his eyes.  Every blood tissue and cell in his body seemed paralyzed until he suddenly felt a great pain in his stomach, and his hand was able to move toward it.

            He felt some kind of liquid, and just before he lost consciousness for the last time, he realized that it was blood, and it was his.

            No further details will be given of what happened that night except to inform the reader that Jordan had been right about the mood swings.  Ever since Bob’s mother had died his moods had changed frequently without warning his short term memory no longer functioned.  The following day, he would have no memory of what had happened and Mr. Jordan would never speak again. 

            No one knows how many times such an act had been performed before but  it came to light during the investigation that one part of each body had been kept in one of the pots.

            The end of this account is like the beginning:  It was a moonless spring night, bible black.  The mother of the household was upstairs reading a story to her daughter to put her to sleep.  Flashes of sadness occurred in the mother’s eyes. Downstairs an aged lady was weeping.  She was heartbroken.

          I had dreamed of having a copier for a long time and was very happy when my children sent me an All-In-One Printer in 2005.  It was able to print, copy, and scan.

          When I was working as a teacher in Shanghai, there were manual duplicators at my school.  The work was arduous and slow, for a steel pen had to be used to write on wax paper that was then put in the duplicator.  There was only one person who was permitted to use the pen for all the teachers, so we had to give him test papers we’d designed at least two weeks before  mid-term or final exams.  It was very inconvenient.

          I liked giving quizzes to my students but wasn’t permitted to use the duplicator even though I could write on wax paper.  I didn’t like waiting for him to make the copies, so I’d put the wax paper above a blank paper and brush it with ink to get a copy.  Although it was hard work, it was quicker to do it that way.

           In 1991, I visited a high school in Aloha, and was excited to see a copy machine in their library.  I was also attracted by the many kinds of printing equipment they had.  They could copy and bind the sheets for a book and could print 50 pieces of paper in a few minutes.  How I wished that my school had similar equipment.

          The extension of technology into China came very fast, and soon there were copy machines in every school.  I was glad when the days were gone in which we had to write on wax paper.

          My All-In-One Printer had problems within three years, and I couldn’t find anyone to  solve them, so I had to buy a new one.  When I went to the store, I got confused about what to buy as there were so many kinds - inkjet, laser, three-in-one, four-in-one, and wireless.    

          Several days later, however, I made a choice and took it home, but had to return it three times, as no one could figure out how the USB plug could be connected to the computer.  The problem seemed to be with my computer, and a friend who worked on it was unable to fix it.  He suggested that I buy a new computer or make one for myself. 

          I decided that I’d make one, as I’d done that before, and my friend helped by buying all the needed parts.  A week later – before I’d started work on it - he told me he had already put the computer together so once again I had a new computer and a new printer/scanner/copier.

          All of my problems were solved, and I was very grateful for the help that I had received.  The young female clerk where I’d bought the All-in-One Printer, had apologized each time I’d returned it, as she felt she’d not been able to satisfy me, and my friend didn’t wait for me to have time to assemble the computer; he’d done it himself. 

          When I have trouble, people always help me.  I great appreciated it as I like living in a world filled with love.