Money Boy (9 page)

I race around to the entrance and dash to the service counter.

“Can visitors use the computers here?” I ask. “I'm from out of town.”

The clerk nods and looks for a password for me. Right at that moment, the female clerk returns.

“All finished?” She smiles at me.

“He wants visitor time,” says the male clerk, puzzled. The two workers exchange a glance.

“I told you the rules.” The female clerk shakes her head. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I didn't check my email,” I say. “Can't I have a few more minutes? Not all the computers are being used.”

“Sorry, rules are rules.”

A young Asian woman standing next to me gives me a sideways look and moves away to make it clear that she's not with me. I curse her silently. I don't want to be connected to her, either. That jacket of hers is the ugliest shade of orange ever invented.

On the lower level of the library, I scan the Beijing newspapers. Not only are they several days late, but the large sheets are hard to turn.

More bad news. Residents fail to stop another
hutong
from being bulldozed for skyscrapers. Two tax collectors are sent to prison for ten years. The police carry out an undercover raid at the train station and fine 120 unlicensed taxi drivers.

China is a tough place. Young people spend their first eighteen years doing nothing but studying for college entrance exams. The pressure is so great that some failed students kill themselves each year. Worse, it's not enough to work hard and get good marks. You need connections to get ahead, to get your foot in the door of the right place.

We all know below-average students will get into good schools with family help. That's why Niang wanted to immigrate. She wanted to give Jian and me a better chance at success. But it's not easy to walk away from the world that you've known all your life and forget all your friends.

While leaving the library, I pass a fire alarm. Nobody is nearby so I give it a quick yank. Bells start pounding right away, and a big voice tells everyone to take the stairs and go outside.

I laugh to myself. I feel like I did a back flip from the rings and landed perfectly with both feet together!

Late in the afternoon, I stand in a bus shelter and watch a crowd of people across the street. They're waiting for the doors to open at the church shelter where I stayed two nights ago.

I don't want anyone to see me. I don't want anyone to think that Chinese immigrants are failures. But if I stand out here too long, the kitchen might run out of food.

When the line shuffles forward, I run over. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and turn away from the road. Believe it or not, by the door stands a grizzled old man rattling a few coins in a tin can and asking for spare change. To my surprise, people dig into their pockets and give him money!

Inside, the kitchen is serving pizza, which makes the hall smell like our school cafeteria. The cooks are bustling around, dressed in white like real chefs. Maybe they are real chefs. Maybe someone is shooting a reality TV show here. High-school kids are back again, aprons over their jeans and T-shirts. They're beaming and smiling, glad to be helpful, glad to be on the other side of the counter.

My mouth is watering. Just as I get close to the food, I see familiar faces.

Jian and Carla. I turn and rush out.

Then I stop. Maybe this is a chance for me to go home. I'll let Jian drag me back and shout, “Look who I found on the street, begging for food!”

I'm broke. I'm hungry. Without that social insurance card I can't get a job. I need my cell and laptop.

I stare back at the door. But I don't move. If I go home now, Ba will have won.

Later that night, I find myself back on Boy Street. I hope the rain has stopped for good. Even at our restaurant, wet days drag down the business.

The money boys are ready to go. Mr. All Muscles never stands still. His legs bounce up and down as if he's running on the spot. His cycling pants and bike jersey stretch around every curve in his body. Baby-face wears a number 28 hockey jersey and sits atop a newspaper box, tapping at the metal edge between his legs like it's a drum. His head jerks back and forth even though he's not wearing earphones. Maybe he is. The tall skinny fellow with a buzz cut and a blue-jean shirt stretches out and does yoga poses when there are no cars on the road.

I stand by myself. It's cool and I could use my jacket, but money boys don't cover up. They — we — need to show as much body as possible. I pray the cops don't show up.

I feel as though I am in a jerky fast-forward video. Monday I get kicked out of the house. Blippety-blip. Tuesday I am homeless at a shelter. Blippety-blip. Wednesday I dine with a drag queen. Thursday I sell my body. Blippety-blip.

Now that's what I call a good education. I should earn credits for living on the street.

In a movie from China, a gay man from the countryside arrives in the big city. He's cheerful and tells everyone everything about himself, as if rural folk are all innocent and trusting. He meets the editor of a gay magazine. They start living together. Days later, they have sex. Even I know that's fantasy. But I can't help but dream that my first guy will be a nice fellow, gentle and sensitive, and maybe even good-looking.

What a way to lose my virgin status. Go hunt for a stranger on a dark street. Forget dating, forget romance, forget someone cute.

The cars coast by slowly, as if on parade at an auto show. That is strange, because the money boys are the ones on sale. A Mercedes goes by. It is so clean and shiny that it looks new. The boys gaze after it hungrily.

They play with their cellphones, too, which makes my fingers itch. I long for my cell, my iPod, my laptop, my music. The stupidest thoughts cross my mind. If Ba were to drive by and stop, I would jump into his car right away. I should have gone home with Jian.

After a while, I recognize the cars that keep circling. There is a boxy European sedan, a Japanese SUV and a low-hung American sportscar. It's too dark to make out exact models or custom colors. A BMW returns at ten-minute intervals, as if wanting to see all the night's faces before making a final choice.

Then a Lexus stops, and the window slides down.

“Want a ride?”

The man calls out in Chinese. A fellow countryman. Speaking Chinese will speed up things.

I pull the door open and hop in. The man has a tired, middle-aged face. His glasses are sleek black rectangles that have arms etched with thin gray lines. In the dark, I can only see an outline of his hair, but it seems thick, pulled up in short little spikes.

This man is trying hard to look younger. His car reeks of cigarettes.

“What's your name?”

“Ray.”

“Real name?”

“Yes.” Rot. Forgot to lie. Ah, not to worry. English names don't matter.

“I am surnamed Han.”

He reaches over and we shake hands. His palm is warm. Mine is icy cold.

The money boys are looking at us. They must be annoyed that a Lexus man picked me. I want to sail by them.

“Are we going?” I demand.

“Of course. Of course.”

But the car doesn't move. The man frowns at me, as if trying to recall my face from somewhere. Is he a cop? Maybe I should run. Then the money boys on the sidewalk would stamp their feet and hoot with laughter, watching me tumble out of the car so quickly.

Loser!

“What's the matter?” I demand.

“This . . . this isn't your first time, is it?” he asks.

“Of course not.” I act insulted and grab the door handle. “Shall I leave?”

He shifts gears, the car lurches, and we swerve into traffic on the main road. Bars of golden streetlamp light pass over his face. He's better than average looking, almost handsome with a lean nose and thick eyebrows. Too bad he's so old.

He runs through a red light and rumbles over streetcar tracks. At a bank, a sign blinks out the time and temperature and stock market prices. It's almost nine p.m.

How long will this take? How much can I earn in an hour?

“Where to?” I try to sound bored.

He exclaims, “Hey, you know what?” as if a wonderful idea just popped into his head. “I need to eat something first. Do you mind? Join me?”

“I ate.” I lie because I want to get this over quickly. But I'm hungry, too.

“My treat.”

“Can't we keep this simple?” I don't want him in control of everything.

“Ah, young people today are always in such a hurry.”

He thinks he's funny!

“Time is money,” I declare. That line would make Ba proud.

“Yes, yes.” He nods agreeably. “So, tell me. How many clients will you get tonight?”

“How would I know? I'm not a fortune-teller.” I talk as if I'm with Ba, so every word is surly and rude.

“It's Thursday. The middle of the week can be slow. Not many cars were going through your street.”

He sounds like an old hand. I want to know about the pay. How many nights of rent can I make from one job?

“Decided yet?” he asks. “Eat or not?”

“Do as you want.” I stare glumly out my window.

He pulls a sharp turn. We head west. I look for landmarks that might guide me back to the downtown. These streets, I haven't seen them before. It's an old part of Toronto, with bumpy streetcar tracks underfoot and darkened shops behind heavy metal grates. They stand between lonely cafés lit by beer-logo neon and milk stores under big flat signs. People walk quickly, heads down, as if afraid to see too much.

Where are we going? Niagara Falls? Buffalo? How will I get home? Maybe now's the time to jump out.

Then, something deep inside me gives way. The balloons of my lungs lose their air and collapse. My chest shudders.

I'm too tired to care anymore. I've been alert every single minute of the day: watching and waiting, hoping and pushing, trying this and trying that. Nothing has worked out and yet my entire life seems to lead up to this moment.

I want gay sex.

It will prove things.

It'll be the one reward for this week of dog farts. I just hope this guy Han can be trusted.

At a Vietnamese restaurant, strings of Christmas lights frame the front window. Overhead, a neon sign glows green, red and yellow, all the good-luck colors. Han digs into his pants for coins to plug into the parking machine. His designer jeans fit him tightly.

I shiver on the cold street and glance from side to side, looking for a street name. Nothing.

Relax, I tell myself. If this guy is a madman, he wouldn't be paying the meter, right?

Eager waiters wearing green vests greet him by name and address him in Cantonese. I don't understand and I don't care. His surname really is Han, unless he uses many names.

Business isn't bad for so late at night. The place has two young-looking couples. A table of seven or eight older men is noisy. They wear boiler suits and dirty T-shirts. They probably just got off work from a garage or factory. Beer bottles crowd the tablecloth. One of their buddies shouts as he rejoins them. He was puffing on a cigarette as fast as he could outside the front door.

Han orders without the menu and calls for a Japanese beer. I'm thirsty, too, but don't want to make trouble. I'm eighteen but still too young to drink here. Coke for me.

Han raises his bottle and we toast each other, aluminum can slapping glass bottle. My eyes avoid his. This feels like a cheap movie about hookers. My minor role is stuck with tired lines recycled from old scripts.

“Been doing this for long?” He smiles. His teeth seem strong and healthy.

“A while.”

“I haven't seen you before.”

“I haven't seen
you
before.”

His head dips slightly. “That's our misfortune, then,” he says. “You're handsome. You take good care of your body. That's smart of you.”

Smooth as a salesman selling lightbulbs to blind people, isn't he? The mirrored bar at the back is stacked high with liquor bottles and statues of Chinese gods. More colored lights dangle over them. Niang would redecorate this place in a flash.

Will we do the deed in the washroom? Is that why we came here, to where people know him, to where people will look the other way and not disturb us?

“Looks like you watch over your body, too.” Then I add, “My father is overweight, like a government official.”

He frowns. His face darkens. I knew that mentioning my father would do that.

“Your father,” he says after a long chug of beer, “does he live here or in China?”

The food arrives all at the same time amidst a clatter of large platters. I start slowly, picking at the food, watching him and chewing carefully. The food is piping hot and tasty. He ordered seafood soup, curried chicken, grilled beef in rice paper, and crispy shrimp with black pepper vegetables. There are several sauces for dipping.

When I finally put down my chopsticks, I burp loudly from eating too fast. Not a scrap of food is left. I told myself to go slowly, but my stomach took charge.

In
Rebel State
, some commanders send hungry soldiers into battle, thinking they will fight harder in order to quickly get to food. Other commanders feed their soldiers first, worried that hungry soldiers are weaker and will be defeated quickly. Me, I eat every chance I get.

Of course Han saw how quickly I ate. Now he knows I'm hungry. That gives him power over me. Not good.

“The usual rate?” I ask, trying to sound cool. “For tonight.”

“Of course.”

If only I knew how much that was.

He's decent and generous to feed me. He seems quiet and thoughtful. He doesn't talk my ear off. His hands are big and strong. He dresses young.

A flicker of eagerness glows in my gut. I'm warmed up for the big scene in a steamy movie. I want him. I pray for this evening to succeed. He's paying money, and every customer should be satisfied.

He calls for the bill politely. At our restaurant, some diners raise their hands and snap their fingers.

He twiddles a toothpick between his teeth, just like Ba.

My heart is pounding loudly.

“You know,” he says, “you might be able to do me a big favor.”

“What?” My voice squeaks. I sit on my hands. Good thing he can't see such a childish move.

“No.” He shakes his head at himself. “Too embarrassing.”

It sounds so stupid that I snort, “Is it really that bad?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

He looks away and mumbles like a child. “I want to go bowling.”

I burst out laughing. I can't help myself. It's been a long time since I had a good laugh.

“I have no friends who bowl,” he says. “Before, I played all the time. I miss it.”

“How do you know I do bowling?”

“All young people bowl.”

“Will you pay more?”

“If you win, then I'll pay an extra forty dollars.”

“And if you win?”

“Then we're even.”

“You're generous.”

“More people ought to be generous,” he declares. “It's good for the soul.”

The bowling alley is somewhere midtown, reached through long roads lined with low-rise apartment blocks. It's dark and quiet, but a solitary man is out walking a little dog. Its tiny legs are a blur, darting ahead of the leash.

First a free meal and now bowling. The movie that I'm in is turning into an art film that doesn't make sense. But on a full stomach, I'm lazy. If Han keeps paying my way, he can do whatever he wants.

After we arrive, I see trouble. Han likes to win. Not only was he carrying his own shoes and ball in the trunk of his car, but he also flips a coin to start. He wins the toss and gets a strike on his first throw. He grins and punches the air like a star athlete.

What a dog-fart show-off.

I manage some spares. Forty dollars is a lot of money. I need to hook the ball, but I can't remember how to do it. I'm too nervous.

Every throw Han makes is smooth and certain. Nothing goes down the gutter.

Han yanks off his pullover. A tight black T-shirt outlines his meaty chest and arms. It's clear this man works out. When he runs to the line and stretches to make his throw, the fabric across his haunch tightens.

In the second game, I get better. But it's no fun playing catch-up to someone who likes winning more than having fun. He doesn't buy pop or chips. He doesn't laugh or horse around. He doesn't try to cheat on the score pad like my friends do. He's so boring!

Then I remember to aim for the arrows.

A strike!

Han notices. He claps lazily. From then on we're better matched. I win two games out of five, and our scores are close.

He grabs his bag.

“How about two more games?” I say. “I can beat you.”

He shakes his head.

“Afraid to lose?” I ask.

“Exactly,” he says. “This way I keep my money. Let's go.”

“Where?”

“My place.”

We take the freeway south, toward the downtown. Far in the distance are the lights of the CN Tower, glowing like some alien spaceship. I'm ready to blast off on a big trip. I let my body fill the smooth curve of the deluxe leather seat. I squint at the silvery rainbow of CDs above the windshield. Probably classical music.

“Working on the street,” he says, “doesn't it scare you?”

“All cities are dangerous.”

“Hooligans go to Boy Street, surround a money boy and beat him until he vomits blood.”

“Are you worried about me?” I ask.

“Of course I am.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I can take care of you, too.”

Is he flirting with me? I keep my mouth shut.

After a while he asks about my hobbies, my free time.

“Have you heard of
Rebel State
?” I ask. “It's an on-line role-play game.”

He shakes his head.

“Did you ever play computer games?” I ask. Han talks like an educated man. He must know computers.

“
Great Wall Northern Defense
.”

“That was a long time ago!”

“I hear the technology is much advanced now.”

I fold my arms over my chest and stare at the road.

Why bother to update this old fart? I don't care to make small talk. He's too old for games, anyway.

We drive into a brightly lit underground parking lot and then ride a quiet elevator that climbs forever. The numbers above the door blink their way up to 30. Han whistles a Cantopop melody. I hate Cantopop.

When the door opens, I stumble over a soft carpet. Han disables the burglar alarm and says, “There's not much space here.”

Liar. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along an entire wall. We're floating above the city. Around me, rows and rows of windows, lit and unlit, form arcs of oblong eyes, all staring at me. Business logos blink atop the towers. Rain taps gently on the window.

Gallery lamps here and there — on the walls and in the cabinets — perch over paintings and statues to light them properly. Gleaming hardwood floors are covered with silk carpets. The deep red walls match his cushions and lampshades.

This is not a typical immigrant home, which has no furniture except for a mah-jongg table and a wide-screen TV.

How long has he lived in Canada? And how does he earn his money?

I excuse myself. The bathroom is a temple for worshipping a framed poster of a naked man. His perfect westerner's body is big and beefy. He stands among cowboy props and shadows that hide his private parts. The bathroom's wall-to-wall mirrors let me see myself, too.

I don't look half bad, even next to the poster fellow. I have muscles in the right places, my face has even features, and my skin is smooth with good health.

Han is in the little kitchen, at a hot-water dispenser. The sound of water spurting out takes me far away for a second. Popo always had the latest model and rushed to serve hot drinks to visitors to show it off.

He hands me a mug of hot water.

“Can we start?” I say. “I need to get back to work.”

“It's raining.” He sips his water slowly. “You should take a night off.”