The Dead Can't Make a Living: A Taipei Night Market Novel, Book 5

"Thank you, sir," I told the tourist. "Please come back soon!" The first skewer was already in his mouth. The taste wiped his memory of any embarrassment, and he pleasantly waved bye.

Nancy was already on the next customer as I made my way into the dining area of Unknown Pleasures. We have one of the bigger booths at the night market, so we have space for a few tables, and even a bathroom so we can spare our guests the indignity of using the communal restrooms at the far end of the night market.

We were jam-packed. Ordinarily we can seat four per table, but our guests were doubled up, taking selfies, and having a good time. They were Filipinos in their late 20s, and were speaking English, Tagalog, and at least one other language.

"Hi guys, how are you doing?" I asked in English.

"We're fine, thank you," said a tall woman in a yellow blouse who was directing people with her words and hands. In other parts of the night market, it might have been said she was wearing too much makeup, but she was an Unknown Pleasures customer, so she looked perfect. "Have we stayed here too long?" she asked in Mandarin.

I looked over the many skewers and bags of finger food the group was in the process of eating. I instantly added up what their bill would have been.

"Stay as long as you like," I said. "We're so happy to have generous customers like you. Thank you all so much."

I meant it sincerely. These weren't tourists from the Philippines. They were migrant workers, and some had been taking the government Mandarin classes. Maybe they were from the nearby food-processing plant.

About two decades ago, developers of an amusement park ran out of money before they even installed the Ferris wheel. A consortium of Taiwanese companies and Taiwanese-American venture capitalists came in and developed a food factory and dorms. The idea was a bit radical, because factories in Taiwan were usually built in out-of-the-way places, with worker dorms a bus ride away in another remote area. This one was right in bustling Taipei, within walking distance of the same metro stop that serviced Shilin Night Market.

ZHD Foods had a bold plan. The initialism stood for Zui Hao De—"The Best" in Mandarin—but the company wasn't even second best in terms of customer satisfaction, and worse than that, judging by its safety record.

Only a few months ago, a fire tore through the plant, killing three workers. There hadn't been a national uproar because none of the dead workers were Taiwanese. Nearly all who worked on the floor of the plant and everyone who lived in the dorms were migrant workers from the Philippines.

The investigation of the fire resulted in shorter shifts, because worker and equipment exhaustion were cited as areas of concern. The workers were also allotted more free time off the grounds of ZHD's factory and dorms. The result was that they streamed into the night market, which offered a lot of food and entertainment for relatively cheap.

I put my hands together and bowed my head slightly to my customers, a universal sign of humility and appreciation of their business.

Then I walked behind the counter and said in Taiwanese, "Nancy, how are you? I'm sorry about that guy."

"Don't worry, Jing-nan. I'm all right. I don't dwell on the creeps because I'm busy."

"Creeps? As in plural?"

She glanced at me. "How was the first day of class?" Her insistent tone indicated that we had moved on to a new topic.

"It was good," I said. "Not exactly what I had expected, but it wasn't boring, I'll tell you that." I couldn't help but add, "Sorry I missed out on most of the pig parade, but I got here as fast as I could."

Nancy crossed her arms. "You didn't have to push that guy along."

"Mr. Ogler? Well, he was lucky I didn't give him a free vision test and have him count my knuckles."

She shook her head and smiled slightly.

There was no physical contact between Nancy and me, and we didn't even stand particularly close to each other. In general, Taiwanese people don't do public displays of affection. If you're in a relationship, you don't have to prove anything, certainly not to the general public. I know people in Melbourne and Los Angeles hug and kiss almost instinctively, but Australians and Americans don't slobber on each other in public. That's what kissing out in the open feels like to us. Don't do it in Taipei. It makes us all uncomfortable. Use your mouths to eat, drink, laugh, or sing instead. And give me money.

Just then I felt a strong pair of arms grab my waist from behind.

"Stay as long as you like," a rough voice mocked my earlier words. "We're happy to have you."