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The Opium Den...

The long rows of shops in Chinatown stop at the end of this block. Passing the many Chinese restaurants and tourist traps that specialize in Asian knick-knacks, you step to the small door next to The Hong Kong Noodle Factory. The weather worn door is wooden and unpretentious. There is no writing, no street number, no identification of any type on it. You knock once, wait a moment, then knock again… the code you know by heart now. The door opens slowly until you’re recognized, then its opened wider. Lau Yi Sung, proprietor of the establishment, greets you with his ever-present smile, followed by the traditional Asian bow of respect. “Ahh, how nice to see you again”, Lau states as he ushers you inside. The landing is narrow, so Lau follows behind you as you walk down the wooden steps… the 12 steps, to be exact… you’ve counted them so many times in the past that you even known the familiar creak that you’ll hear upon putting your weight on the 9^th step.

The basement room is small and unadorned except for the paint-peeling dragon that a long ago artist created on a side wall of the room. It makes no difference… you are home. The room is filled with a dozen cots. The sheets are cleaned daily, hand washed by Mrs. Sung, who is brewing a fresh pot of tea on a small hot-plate in the rear corner. Perhaps half the cots are currently occupied by individual men and women of all ages. Lau leads you to a cot in a particularly dark area of the room. As is customary, you take off your shoes and rest them on the small straw floor matt. As you lay down, Lau snaps his fingers, twice, to his son, Wong Kim Sung, who looks over from the client he is currently attending to, and nods his head.

Within moments, Wong Kim kneels at the side of your cot. He holds for you a small cup of Mrs. Sung’s tea that you sip from. Wong Kim then lays the cup down and raises the pipe. The long stemmed, ornately carved pipe always fills you with awe. Obviously old, and obviously created by a master craftsman, you wonder how long it has so dutifully served its purpose, and how many others have partaken enjoyment from it. Wong Kim then takes a silk pouch from his vest pocket. Reaching into it, he pulls out a small piece of paradise that he expertly forms and rolls before placing it into the pipe. He raises the stem to your waiting lips, then strikes a long wooden match, the tip exploding in brilliant orange flame. Wong Kim waves the match over the bowl as you suck deeply on the stem. The first and second draws on the pipe seem to do nothing except to add more of the pleasant aroma to the already lingering smell in the room, but then on the third draw you feel your lungs filling with that delicious, smoky nectar. You hold it in for as long as you can. Wong Kim pulls the pipe back, because, as is the process, you inevitably start to cough. A moment later, you gently motion to Wong Kim with your finger. He raises the pipe and the process is repeated on a smaller scale this time, because you’re already feeling that “warm blanket” as you like to call it, starting to cover you. The effect of this last draw is simply the “gravy” that feels like it is being poured over your body, like the warm mound of mashed potatoes you currently feel like. Wong Kim adjusts the small pillow under your head, then nods as he rises to his feet to attend to his next client. Your eyes are already closing, yet you can still feel the smile on your face. Your mind starts to drift on the soft, opium induced cloud, and you lazily begin to think of things like these…

Enter The Opium Den..