Money Boy (5 page)

“You should go home! Your father loves you!” Carla's Mandarin is clumsy. Her parents are from Hong Kong, so she speaks Cantonese and English. Her Mandarin came from watching Chinese movies and TV series. She and Jian are in an after-school program, studying how to write exams to get into U.S. colleges. Ba brags about this to his friends.

When I ignore her, Jian says, “What about school? You can't skip more classes. Your ba will chop off your head.”

“Just lend me some money.” I'm begging, but now I have an excuse to quit school. I have to start working in order to provide for myself.

He digs out some ten- and twenty-dollar bills.

“I'll pay you back,” I say. “I promise.”

“Go say sorry to your father,” Jian says. “You can't last long away from home.”

Carla hands me two twenty-dollar bills. I'm surprised.

“I'll pray for you,” she says. “Don't worry. Our Heavenly Father will look after you.”

She lowers her head to pray, right there.

If I had a girlfriend, she should be exactly like Carla. Her long black hair shines as if her head contains batteries to power the glow. She speaks perfect English to her westerner friends, and jokes with the westerner teachers. Kids like her usually don't care if you are gay or straight or have a green polka-dot face.

But Carla and her family are serious church-goers. At a school rally held to support Tyson after he got out of hospital, Carla and her friends held up signs that quoted the Bible. They called gay people sinners. Some students booed them. But Mila and the gang kept quiet.

I don't want to cause trouble between Jian and Carla. She's on the honor roll and helps him study and climb up the education mountain. No way can I tell them about me.

“What next?” Jian sounds impatient. His gaze wanders around the food court. “You can't stay on your own forever.”

“I'll go back to China,” I declare.

“No, you won't! What about airfare?”

“My ma will pay.”

Jian frowns and gets up to stretch. The plastic chairs are hard.

“You're a stubborn donkey,” he says. “Just come home.”

“No.”

“You're stupid if you go back to China. You have a better future here.”

“You sound like Ba.”

After they leave, I pour every last crumb of chicken into my mouth. I empty all the packets of ketchup and soak my fries in them. I even scrape clean the salad containers.

I half thought Ba would send a message with Jian, saying sorry and telling me to come home. But he's hiding in bed and making people worry about him. As if he's the victim!

I'm going home to China. I'll move in with Ma for a while and meet up with my old friends. I'll get a job and start saving up for my own place. Everyone says China's economy is booming.

I use Jian's money to buy a telephone card. At a public telephone, I press Ma's number. The ringing goes on and on. There's no answer at her end, not even an answering machine.

Truth is, Ma may not be able to help.

In between her department store jobs, Ma learned to play on-line poker from her friends. She loved it. Ba lived at the army base and traveled for work, so she gambled all day and all night. One time she played for such high stakes that she forgot to pick me up from school. The teacher left me standing outside the building and told the doorman to keep an eye on me.

One day Grandfather took me to Second Aunt's place, Ba's sister. She had a bigger apartment, fancy furniture and a better TV than us. I fell asleep there. Then I overheard Second Aunt tell someone on the telephone that Ma owed money from gambling and was selling tofu to pay it off. When I asked Ma, she laughed and said I had misheard. Soon she quit playing poker.

When I was eleven, in middle school, Ba and Ma divorced. If Ma had been a better wife, then Ba would never have gotten interested in Niang. Ma hated waking up early and got fired from her department store jobs. She wanted to stay home and watch TV. When Ba came home from his tours of duty, he would mop the floors and wash the windows. He said he liked how everything in the army was neat and tidy.

Ma knew I wanted to live with her yet she didn't fight to keep me. Instead she handed me to Ba like a store clerk passing out leaflets on the street. It took Grandfather twice as long to ride the buses to Niang's home to visit me, so he didn't see me as much as before.

“Sons always follow fathers,” Ma insisted. “You carry his surname.”

“What about Jian?” I retorted. “He follows his mother.”

“Oh, his father has children with several women. He cares nothing about Jian. But don't ever say that to him.”

At school, I heard that selling tofu referred to women who sold their bodies for sex. But I didn't want to think that Ma had done it. I wanted to go live with her, especially after Ba and Niang announced plans to go to Canada.

I didn't see Ma again until the airport. She hugged me and soaked her handkerchief with tears. I thought, if she's so sad to see me go, then she should let me stay!

“I want to stay with you,” I declared.

“Your father can give you a good life in Canada,” she replied. “It is the best country in the world. Many people in China are emigrating.”

“Ma, I don't want to go.”

She shook her head and said, “Don't be silly. This is a wonderful opportunity.”

When our flight was called, I held onto my plastic chair, which was bolted to the floor. Ma and her mother Popo begged me to let go. When Ba slapped my head, I yelped like a wounded animal. Travelers and children younger than me turned at the sudden sound. A little girl dropped her soft drink and began to wail.

“You shame our family,” Ba hissed.

He fetched a security guard armed with a gleaming automatic rifle, a pistol in a holster, headset, microphone and face shield. The soldier knelt and said if I did not go with Ba, I would be sent to a reform school for young criminals.

That's how my journey to Canada started.

The afternoon is late when I reach the homeless shelter. I found it on the net. One blog said this is the biggest and the best, even though it is run by a church.

At first I'm excited at finding the place. Now I want to vanish. I don't enjoy walking into serious places by myself. This is a first for me. Immigrants are toddlers who get led everywhere by the hand. An immigrant consultant helped Jian and me register for school. Our neighbor Mrs. Lo showed us the library and community center.

It's just a building, I tell myself. There are Canadians and social workers inside, not Chinese door guards or police officers. Immigrants can't be cowards, isn't that so? And I'm not sleeping outside again!

Last night I was too proud for charity. Not anymore. The building has three stories that stretch down the block and around the corner. So many people have gone in that I don't think I'll be noticed.

Inside, strong lamps light up the hallway. It glows with warmth. The waxed floor is shiny and the big doormat looks new. A wide hallway lets people move in and out quickly. Someone bumps into me. I step aside.

On the walls are big posters promoting the four food groups, safe sex, multiculturalism, and the need to quit smoking. A bulletin board is crowded with messages asking for help.

Have you seen this man? He's missing.

My baby will be born soon. I need a bigger apartment.

I'm looking for office work that doesn't involve computers.

I peer into a sweet-smelling dining room. People are lining up for food. The sign says if you want to stay overnight, then you must register. That involves a line-up, too.

The place reminds me of my community center up north, where we sometimes play basketball during free gym times. It's always noisy there, with kids chasing and screaming. Ba would enjoy this place and its peace and order.

Where do I hide my laptop? We're in a shabby district away from the downtown businesses. The stores and restaurants look low-class and dingy, so of course criminals and thieves are around.

The office door opens and someone leaves. A moment later, a voice calls for the next person in line.

Inside, I see a woman's arched back in a long dress. She is bent over, peering into a filing cabinet.

“Have a seat.” Her voice is rich, strong and accented.

She turns around. She is the most beautiful African woman I have ever seen. Her eyes are enormous and her cheekbones are high. Her hair is tightly braided in tiny coils over her head, and her face is heart-shaped.

How is it that such a woman works here? She should be in the movies!

She frowns at my staring and pushes plastic sheet protectors toward me.

“Are you hungry?” She speaks slowly, holding up a picture of a busy cafeteria.

“No need for this.” I wave away the photo. “I know English.”

“We serve hot meals, for free,” she says. “Anyone, doesn't matter who you are, can come in and eat.”

Her sentences are slow so I understand every word.

“You need clothes?”

“You need a doctor?”

“Are you on drugs?”

“Have you stayed at a shelter before?”

“Need to wash your clothes? We have washers and dryers you can use, for free.”

Finally I say yes. She smiles happily.

She asks me for ID.

Uh-oh.

“I lost them.” I expect to be marched to the exit.

She shrugs. “We'll help you get some tomorrow.”

After filling in a one-page form, I'm taken upstairs. The clerk hands me a towel, shaving gear and locker key. My room holds eight sets of bunkbeds. Two men are present.

One man is bent over, clipping his toenails. At every loud click, sharp blackened pieces shoot across the room. The man's foot is pink and yellowish, and also dark and bruised in spots. I glance away and look for a faraway bed.

The other man looks as if he just survived a storm in a forest. His rain parka, jeans and boots are streaked with mud and other stains. Under his hood, a grubby red toque is pulled down to the neck. His arms are wrapped around his body, as if he's cold. He's bent over, too, facing the floor with closed eyes. I walk around him.

“Don't worry,” the clerk tells me with a wave of his hand. “This one is praying, and the other man is harmless. They've both stayed here before.”

I jump to a top bunk. It'll be harder for thieves to get up here. There are no ladders. The mattress feels good, more hard than soft. On the walls, people used pens and markers to write their names and dates of stay here. I don't see any Chinese names.

I'm a homeless person now. In China, city folk complain about homeless people and tell them to go back to their villages. There are too many of them clogging the train and bus stations and sleeping under freeway overpasses and in McDonald's restaurants. They're accused of stealing and robbing, of taking advantage of city people.

I don't know what to expect at this shelter. So far, so good.

After a quick shower, I put on my cleanest clothes and hurry to the dining room. Teenagers stand behind the stainless-steel counter, their long hair crammed under net hats, to help dish out the food. They must be earning community service credits. There's soup, brown bread, beef stew, carrots, beans and a fruit salad.

I stare down at my tray of food. Truth is, I don't want those teenagers to see me. What will they think?

There are no empty tables, so I drop into the nearest seat. I shove food into my mouth and keep my head down. A priest and nun stroll through and chat with diners.

A man at the far table catches my eye. It's his white shirt, business tie and dark jacket that I notice. He has wide shoulders and black-framed eyeglasses. He dabs his mouth with a napkin each time he stops eating.

What is this well-groomed man doing here? He should be presenting the news on TV.

When I go for seconds, I walk toward him. Then I see that the collar of his white shirt is frayed and yellowing. His tie is crumpled. His jacket doesn't match the pants. One hand trembles as he raises his cup. The drink almost spills. The nearby men talk to one another but not him.

The men at my table have decided to dislike me. They pretend to talk to each other but they speak so loudly that it's clear they want me to hear them. They blame the government, young people and the economy for all their problems. One man hurt his back while working, but no lawyer will help him sue his boss. A second man has looked for a job for over two years. The third man wishes he was young again.

Then I hear the words “damn immigrants.”

The first English word I learned in Canada was immigrant. It warned me that people nearby were talking about me. Soon I learned more words that signaled danger: newcomer, foreigner, alien, refugee. It was a long list, as if Canadians had many complaints about us.

But we create jobs. If not, Canada wouldn't take immigrants. Niang has eleven employees. They all pay taxes.

These men should shut up. But can I say anything?

Abruptly they stop talking. The priest tells us that the drop-in center is showing a movie tonight. He says welcome to me and asks how I'm doing.

Westerners, especially ones who push me to talk, make me nervous. I keep my mouth shut.

I take my clothes downstairs and head toward the sharp smell of bleach. Between the washers and dryers are two worn sofas filled with older men. They nod at me. Two of them play a card game, shouting with glee each time they smack down a card. The others flip through tattered magazines. The smell of cigarettes is strong, even though a No Smoking sign hangs over them.

A man waves at me. “Hey, kid, want to sit down?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don't be shy. Take a load off your feet.”

No.

“Come say hello to your cousin here,” he says.

They all laugh.

The First Nations person next to Joker punches him.

“Shut up,” he growls. “That kid, he's not my cousin. He's your uncle!”

Joker lurches from the room.

I take a deep breath. Was that a joke or insult?

If I get angry, then I'm young and lack self-control. I need to be an adult and show no weakness. At school, silence is seen as stupidity, because silence means you can't speak English properly. But here, silence is power. It means you don't care what other people are thinking or saying.

My clothes swim round and round in the machine. If only life was this simple. Throw in dirty clothes, pour in detergent and push a button. The water fills up, hot as you want. Set the dial at Heavy Duty to scrub out bad stains. Half an hour later, all is clean and fresh. You're a new person.

One man is folding clothes from the dryer. The loose tanktop he wears makes him look scrawny, but big bones stick out from his shoulders. His skin hangs loose but it must have held plenty of weight and muscle in the past. He looks up.

“Don't worry, son.” His voice booms out. His words are slurred and slow. “Things will work out.”

I glance around. Who's he talking to? I'm not his son!

“Life stinks now,” he continues. “But stand back for a moment. Then take the high road. Don't do anything you might regret.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. What's a loser like him telling me what to do?

On the main floor, men are gathered around a TV for the movie. It's something I saw years ago dubbed into Chinese. Julia Roberts' gay friend goes with her to a wedding.

The movie has reached the restaurant scene. The gay friend starts singing. There's no music. Family members join in, as do waiters and diners at other tables. My friends and I, we laughed and cheered, too, as if we understood the plot, even when Julia Roberts didn't win back the man she loved. Everything from Hollywood made sense, right?

“This frigging movie is for girls!” a man cries out. “Get something for men!”

“This is the best picture I ever saw,” someone shouts.

“Shut up, faggot.”

“Suck my dick!”

“Shut up, both of you!” A third voice rings out.

There's a loud clatter of metal chairs hitting the floor as men leap to their feet. A shelter worker comes running.

Crazy! The men get free food and beds here but all they do is make trouble!

I hurry upstairs and get into bed. I keep my pants on, just in case there's a need to run.

I'm dead tired but sleep won't come. One man snores loudly. His bunkmate coughs until he sits up and clears his throat into a towel. Another man argues loudly with himself, swearing at people's names. Every hour, the man in the bunk below me shuffles to the bathroom. He reeks of alcohol, even though no liquor is allowed. Down the hall, a door creaks every time it opens.

Even with a pillow over my head, I'm wide awake. The sounds of men muttering and farting grow louder. My feet stay cold even inside my socks. I hear the streetcar rolling over steel rails outside.

There's no way I'll stay another night. Here, I'm small and cornered. In
Rebel State
, I can fight my way through danger and hardship to win Honor. But in real life, I reached Canada too late. I'll never win anything here.

I need to get out. Where do I go? I only have about a hundred dollars. It won't last long.

——

Next morning, the cafeteria serves oatmeal and toast, hard-boiled eggs and peanut butter, tea and coffee. I'm not hungry but I force myself to eat.

At the pay phone, I punch in the numbers for China again. I glance at the clock. In Beijing, it's dinner time. This time Ma answers.

When I hear her voice, my body stiffens. There's no telling what mood she's in. When I was small, nothing scared me more than her sudden flashes of anger. One minute she would be normal and quiet. The next minute she would be cursing and stomping around the room.

I swallow hard and grip the telephone tightly. The last time we talked was on my birthday earlier this year. Then it was my turn to phone back, but I got busy and kept forgetting.

There's background noise at her end, so I have to shout my name.

“Ma, how are you?”

“Same. How are you doing at school?”

“Same.” She doesn't sound happy to hear from me.

“You need to study harder. You'll feel better when you get good marks, isn't that so? Do you miss me?”

“Yes.” I know that's the right thing to say.

“Will you come home for New Year?”

“That would be great! Of course I'll come.” Relief and joy fill me. It's just a few months away.

“No,” Ma says abruptly. “Not a good time. I promised Popo I would go home for New Year. I didn't see my mother at all this year.”

“I can go with you,” I insist. But it's a lost battle. Ma's invitation was never sincere.

“You hate the village.”

“I want to see Popo,” I wail like a five-year-old.

“When you finish the term, come for summer holidays. How many years of school do you have left?”

“Two,” I say, deflated.

“How's your father?”

“He's fine. He's busy. Ma, I need money. I have extra expenses, at school.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I'll send money,” she says. “But I must go now. I'm busy at work.”

Work? What kind of work? I want to ask but she's gone.

I lean my back to the wall and bang my fist into it. Why doesn't my own mother know what grade I'm in?

She's my mother. She brought me into this world. I didn't ask to be born. She has to help me out. That's her job. She lives halfway around the world but that doesn't cancel her responsibilities. She owes me big.

I sit by the office and wait for it to open so that someone can get me some ID. My laptop delivers messages from all my friends. Wei and Jenny want to know where I am and why I'm not answering their texts. They wonder what big secret Jian, Carla and I are hiding from them. They ask if my parents know that I'm skipping school. Joey Xie is organizing a surprise party for his girlfriend's birthday. Don't I think that Julie's haircut is hideous? And where do we want to meet for lunch today?