Secret Life of Otis Wong

My name is a contradiction. That is the first thing you should know about me. I read about things I’ve done in the newspapers. Some of it is accurate, but other accounts are not. I am not here to tell which stories are true and which stories are false.All I can tell you is, I am not who you think I am, but I think that is a good place to start.

I was born Bo Wong, in the city of Canton on March 4, 1962, in the Year of the Tiger. Growing up in our small apartment, I quickly learned the value of love and kindness from my mother Ai. My mother Ai owned a traditional homeopathic apothecary. She knew what was needed for whatever malady the patient was suffering from. When I was old enough to walk, I would help in her shop.

She told me that my father, An, died of heart failure a month before I was born. She told me that theirs was an arranged marriage as he was many years older than she was. My mother’s grief turned to elation when I was born, but she was left with a dual spirit torn between joy and sorrow. Often she would linger between the two not knowing which spirit was visiting. She also told me he was a good man like her father.

I was only seven when the bad times came. The Red Guard, Mao Tse Tung’s loyalists came marching through Canton. Three of them wearing headbands and carrying rifles entered the shop.

“Can I help you?” Ai asked them, but one of them hit her with his rifle butt. She fell to the floor like a sack of milled flour. I ran to his mother’s side as she lay on the floor. The college student who struck her just sneered as he left with his comrades.

Ai’s older sister, Fang Wa decided we should flee China and sail to America where we had family living in Chinatown in San Francisco. Suffering from brain damage from the blow of the rifle, Ai began having grand mal seizures. During these seizures, Ai would beg for her dead husband to come take her with him to live with the spirits of their ancestors.

“Mrs. Wong, I will order some medications for you.” Dr. Walston packed his medical bag and handed Fang a medication script. He turned to her, “You can get it at the pharmacy down at the end of the block.”

“Who will stay with my sister?” Fang asked.

“Does it really matter at this point?” He looked at his watch, “Now, I have to be my next appointment in ten minutes. Have a good day.”

“You too, doctor.” Fang held the script to her face as she watched her sister writhe on the bed. She looed down at me, “You stay with her, yes?”

“Yes Auntie Fang.” I answered dutifully.

“I will be back as soon as I can.” She ran her hand through my hair as she walked out of the door of our apartment.

“Bo. Bo come here I need you.” I heard mama call to me.

“Yes, mama.” I entered the room. It was scary watching her as the seizure took control of her body.

“Hold my hand.” She held out her skeletal hand toward me. I took hold.

“I feel so much better.” She gritted her teeth. I could feel the muscles in her body ease and her breathing became shallow until she quit breathing entirely.

“Mama?” I tugged on her hand, but she lay there unresponsive with her eyes still open, “Mama?”

No answer.

Aunt Fang walked in a few minutes later.

“Ai?” She walked into the room where my mother lay, “Ai!”

Aunt Fang came rushing out of the room, her face frozen in horror.Her eyes fell on me, “Tell me Bo, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” Tears filled my eyes, “She asked me to hold her hand.”

She squatted down to look me in the eye, “What happened?”

“She stopped breathing.” I answered as tears streamed down my face.

“You…you have the power.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. What power? What power was she talking about. I was perplexed, but there were a lot of things in the grown-up world that was a mystery to me at the time. She told me I had the power, but she didn’t say what power it was that I had. I would find out later what that power was.

I went to a Catholic school in the neighborhood that I could walk to by myself. The nuns told me that Jesus was my savior and there was no such thing as Budha. Mama had taken me to a temple in Canon a couple of times, but she never explained why or who Buddha was. So, when the sisters were telling me that Jesus was my savior, I believe them since I had no other recourse.

One day my class was on the playground when this second-grade girl went to an injured robin. It had fallen from the nest. I walked over to her.

“Hi, my name is Veronica, and I found this poor bird lying here.” She pointed to the hatchling who was struggling to get himself upright. I squatted down to help, but when I put my hands on the bird, he stopped moving.

“You killed it.” Veronica’s eyes were wide and glossed over with tears.

“I didn’t mean to.” I stood up shaking my head.

“What is going on?” Sister Abby came over to check out what we were doing.

“He killed the bird.” Veronica pointed an accusatory finger at me.

“I did not.” I shook my head.

“Young man, you are coming with me to the office.” She seized my hand and walked me to the office where Father Crenoski sat at his desk.

“Sister, what can I help you with?” He stood up when we entered.

“This young man is causing mischief on the playground.” She shoved me forward toward the priest.

“Is this true, Bo?” He had me sit in a chair near his desk.

“No father. It’s not true.” I shook my head.

“Don’t lie, young man.” Sister Abby scolded.

“Leave him with me, sister. We will straighten this matter out.” Father Crenoski assured her.

“Very well, father.” She smiled and left his office.

It was then I began to realize what power Aunt Fang was talking about.

There were dark corners of Chinatown where ancient sages who did not believe that Jesus was their savior. Old men who dealt with ancient curses and superstitions that were encrypted in dusty old Chinese manuscripts.

“Young man, come with me.” A beggar in a dark alley beckoned me. His eyes were hypnotic, and I could not resist his power.

His clothes were torn and dirty as one might expect a beggar’s attire to be. Wearing a gourd around his shoulder, his movements were slow and deliberate At first I judged him to be depreciate and lurid as most of the lost souls living in the alleyways were, but his manner was gentle and calm.

“What is your name?” His eyes once again fixed on me, and his fingers were intertwined beneath his pointed white beard..

“Bo Wong.” I answered immediately as if I was in a trance.

“I am Li Tiegual. I am one of the eight immortals who belongs to the legion of death.” He nodded.

“Are you here to take me?” I began to back away.

“No.” He shook his head smiling, “I am here to tell you that a mortal member of our legion.”

I was frozen in terror. My muscles had suddenly turned to stone. I could not run away from him even if I wanted to and I definitely wanted to.

“You have been gifted with the power to end suffering.” He tilted his head, “You will help harvest the souls who are suffering.”

“I don’t understand.” I managed to choke out of my throat.

“You will seek out those who need your help.” He explained, “People who are wanting to end their existence so they may move on.”

“You wish for me to kill them?” I swallowed hard.

“No, your power will be gentle and a relief when you lay your hand on them. Come follow me.” He put his hood over his head, and we passed through a vortex. It’s the only way I can explain it.

“Where are we?” I asked as we walked the halls of some sort of medical facility.

“We are in St. Jerome’s Hospice.” He said in a whisper, “There are patients here who have come to the final chapter of their lives.”

I looked around. Soft music was playing in the intercom overhead. Men and women wearing scrubs were fluttering in the hallways like angels. I heard groaning coming from the rooms with open doors.

“Mrs. Johnson, I am here with your medications.” One of the scrub wearing women stood over an elderly woman lying in a hospital bed.

“What good will it do? I will never be free from the pain.” Her voice was labored and uneven.

“I know, but this will make you feel better.” She held out her hand with the pills in her open palm.

“I’ve have cancer. I can feel it eating my insides away and it is more painful that I pray you’ll ever know.” She gurgled her last few words.

“I will leave them here with a glass of water. You may take them when you are ready.” The scrub wearing woman smiled and walked out of the room.

“Now it’s your turn.” Li told me with a gentle nudge.

I glanced back at him, but he was smiling at me. Taking a deep breath, I entered Mrs. Johnson’s room.

“Who are you?” She sneered.

“I am here to help you.” I nodded.

“Well, I got news for you. You’re too damn late.” She let her head sink into her pillow.

“Put your hand on her.” Li urged me. I put my hand on her frail arm. There was a bright light as I watched her soul leave her body.

“Thank you.” Her soul whispered in the rush of air escaping from her lifeless body.

“Tell her ‘you’re welcome.’” He whispered to me.

“You’re welcome.” The bright light faded, and we were alone in the room.

“We’d better go.” He pulled on my arm.

I followed him out of Mrs. Johnson’s room.

“Code Red in Room 116.” I heard the intercom as a group of scrub wearing people rushed into Mrs. Johnson’s room.

“With kindness. Death is frightening and you must be gentle and kind when you dispatch someone from this life.” He led me through another vortex.

“Where are we now?” I asked.

“The emergency room at the Chinese Hospital.” He replied.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“You will see.” He pointed to a young man on a gurney who was bleeding.

“Oh God, I’m bleeding. Help me.” The man pleaded, but the staff was rushing to unable to assist him.

“He was shot during a robbery at his father’s liquor store. He will not survive his wound.” Li explained as he shook his head. “You must hold his hand.”

“Hold his hand?” I saw the blood. There was a lot of it.

“Yes, you must.” Li urged me once again.

“Hold my hand.” I held my hand out to him.

“Who the hell are you?” A man dressed in scrubs asked.

“It will be alright.” I told the bleeding man.

“Am I going to die?” His breathing was shallow.

“You need to get away.” The man insisted pointing to an empty chair.

“He is my brother.” I told him. Our fingers touched and once again there was a bright light.

“Please let my father know.” I heard his voice ask as his soul left his body..

“I will.” I felt the man pull me away from the gurney where the deceased man now lay.

“Get our of here before I notify the police.” He growled.

“We’d better go.” Li tugged on my sleeve.

“Police.” The man ran to where two officers were standing talking to a doctor.

I saw the police he had summoned rush toward us, but once again we had passed through some kind of vortex like a couple of ghosts.

“We are now on the Embarcadero.” He sat on a bench. I sat next to him.

“I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get, Bo Wong?” He glanced over at me.

“Why didn’t those people see you? They saw me.”

“Oh, I am just a ghost. People in this world will never be able to see a spirit.” He laughed.

“Why can I see you?” I asked holding my hand between my knees.

“You have the gift.” He patted me on the back.

“This does not seem like a gift to me.” I shook my head.

“In time you will.” He assured me.

“Are we done?” I asked noticing the sun struggling to rise above the horizon.

“When I leave you, you must carry on. You will see people who need to make the journey across to the other side.” He bowed his head, “Once they have joined us-”

“Who’s us?”

“The other seven. We are a team since death is such a complicated process at times.” As the sun cracked above the horizon, his eyes caught the subtle light of the new day. When I turned, he was gone. There was no one sitting next to me.

I would be busy my first day without Li. I visited over two dozen people in pain who were thankful I was there to end their suffering. I would also find my way to the San Francisco Chronicle as Otis Wong the Angel of Death. There were opinions about what a horrible specter I was with my long black robe and cape. One of the cartoonist drew me as the classical image of the Grim Reaper riding a white horse with a scythe in my skeletal hand. I laughed at this because he was not Chinese like me. I let the Chronicle change my name from Bo to Otis, because it made it easier using an alias.

When I walk into a room and tell them I am Otis Wong, they have no misunderstanding of why I am there. They even welcome me with open arms. When I am with my friends, I am Bo Wong. I am not the Angel of Death when I’m with them. My secret life is safe once again. None of them know my secret identity and that’s how I want to keep it.

Li Tiegual was right about using gentleness and kindness as I held the hands of the people I visited. Death has been something people have come to fear, but it really is just part of the cycle we all go through.