Drive-by Saviours (28 page)

“Bumi, what was the evidence against you?” the Doctor asked.

“There was none,” Bumi said. He still stared at the floor. “But no evidence in favour neither.”

“Have you had any concerns about harming others since you arrived in Canada? Or about being blamed for things that go wrong here?”

Bumi suffered thoughts of vengeance on Robadise for sending him here, even though it probably saved his life. For these he repented by saying Robadise's name thirty-three times, a tortuous process that often self-replicated. The name singed his heart and he vowed vengeance again, repented again and so on.

His greatest fears were for his family back home. He hadn't heard from them at all. He was afraid he'd be caught and deported before he repaid his debt—only three years to go—and lastly that he would not be allowed to escape the grasp of the Chang brothers even if he did repay his debt.

“Thank you, Bumi,” Dr. Biachari said, still stroking the goatee. “I know this was hard for you. Do you have any questions for me?”

Bumi shook his downcast head.

Dr. Biachari wrote a prescription and handed it to me. “It seems likely that he suffers from clinical obsessive-compulsive behaviours with fears of harming others,” he said, “fears of being held responsible for something going wrong, concerns with dirt and germs, possible excessive concerns about chemical or environmental contamination, excessive concerns with numbers and patterns and compulsions to wash, check and count. Since Bumi forgot his identification papers, I have written the prescription in your name.”

I took the paper with a trembling hand. “That's it?” I asked.

“Under the circumstances, yes,” Biachari said. “Unfortunately, Bumi can't access the true experts without a health card. So, it's a bit of trial and error, isn't it?”

I glanced at Bumi and saw him staring back at me. “Is that safe?” I asked with my eyes on Bumi.

“This is for an anti-depressant with a high success rate for
OCD
patients. One pill a day. Causes drowsiness so it is best taken in the night, just before bedtime. Other side effects can include dry mouth, fatigue, constipation, tremors, loss of sexual appetite, impotence and excessive sweating. To be perfectly frank, Sir, although I am not an expert in this particular disease, I am familiar with it. I have seen it many times, and there is always an element of trial and error in its treatment. In one way Bumi is very lucky. If you or I had this disease we would likely start with our family doctors, who would be perplexed, send us to another doctor, who would send us to another and it could take twenty years until we saw the right specialist and got the right diagnosis.

“This is the right diagnosis, let me assure you. I've been at this a long while. The only question is whether this is the right drug for Bumi, and only time will tell us that.”

Bumi looked up from the floor and cocked his eyebrow at the doctor and me.

Dr. Biachari turned his attention back to Bumi. “It is a commonly used drug,” he said. “If it works for you, you will find that your thoughts and habits will slowly lose their intensity, and you will have a more normal life, Bumi. If you find the side effects too strong, you can come back and see me again. The prescription is for ten weeks. Come see me after you have taken the last pill and tell me if the drug has worked for you or not. Take them every night until they are gone, even if they are not effective. Only stop if the side effects are too strong. If you find these pills ineffective, we will try something else.

“The one unfortunate matter is that all the effective anti-
OCD
drugs are very expensive: six to seven dollars per day. With no health card or coverage, you have to find a way to pay for the medication.

“Also, you will need a behavioural therapist. That will also cost you.” Dr. Biachari explained that even if Bumi had legal status he wouldn't be covered for therapy. He told us that behavioural therapists can charge high hourly rates and that behavioural therapy for
OCD
can be lengthy and tedious, involving hours with a patient counting how often and exactly when, where and how each ritual occurs. He wrote a name and number on a blank recipe card, just like Sherry had, and I wondered if the use of recipe cards was a technique secretly taught among the anti-amalgamation warriors.

“Give my best to Sherry, a remarkable woman,” Dr. Biachari added with the smile of an accomplished expert of the human mind.

WE BOTH HAD OUR DOUBTS ABOUT THROWING PILLS AT THE
problem. Bumi worried excessively about everything he ingested orally or otherwise. But when he expressed his doubts I persuaded him to take the pills. Despite my own dubious perceptions of the medical establishment and pharmaceuticals it wasn't like anyone had made up Bumi's symptoms for him. There was a striking consistency to his behaviour and that of millions of other people, none of whom had ever heard of
OCD
before seeing a psychiatric doctor or a therapist. And if there was one thing that could assuage Bumi's fear, it was a consistent pattern. Despite our concerns, medicine seemed Bumi's best hope for peace in a very long time.

But Bumi lived in an almost cashless world. The bulk of his wages took the form of a slowly shrinking debt that was financial and temporal. Even if the drug failed I could at least prevent the deceleration of that all-important shrinkage. Without hesitation or consultation with Sarah, I coughed up the $
420
for the trial run drugs, with help from a plastic loan shark.

Intellectually, Bumi was an independent sceptic in search of hope in a world that had been unkind to him. Practically, he never shied away from the help of someone he trusted, who had something to offer. I took his acceptance of my gift as a hard-earned sign of trust. I had something to offer. For a mere $
420
I could make a tangible improvement in someone's life. If the drugs worked I would have no need to make abstract connections between grant applications, revenues for the health centre, and outcomes in people's lives just to prove my existence mattered.

Finding affordable behavioural therapy was more challenging. The man Dr. Biachari recommended was not generous with his time. I went from A to G through the yellow pages' list of therapists before I gave up on altruistic health professionals. Sherry, on the other hand, continued to be an oil well of psychological health information. She handed me a recipe card for a Dr. Sangeeta Cherian. Cherian was an uptown, five-hundred-dollar-an-hour therapist whom Sherry had convinced to take part on a no-questions-asked, pro bono basis. I almost cried when the thin cardboard touched my hand. “I don't know how to thank you, Sherry,” I told my boss, who had never seemed concerned with the world beyond East York, but apparently would do anything for the people who wandered with proper accompaniment into her catchment area.

“Just don't miss any more deadlines,” she said. She smiled and winked with her usual pep. I couldn't tell if it was a joke or a legitimate threat. “Dr. Cherian owes me for all the letters of recommendation I wrote for her when she was applying for grad school,” she added. She had really opened up. “She's young, but very, very bright. And she has experience with
OCD
patients. It's amazing how many rich people have
OCD
, actually.”

No one I knew, but if their experiences trickled down to help Bumi then he would finally have something to thank them for.

WHILE BUMI WAS AT HIS FIRST SESSION WITH DR. CHERIAN I
reached my sister, after two weeks of busy signals and empty rings reaching not even an answering machine. Her ‘hello' sounded like it was extracted from her larynx with hot tongs but even after five years it was unmistakably Michelle. Adolescence had murdered early morning Christmas excitement and all the prophets' miracles would never revive it. She was a woman of the night when I had last seen her and change was not something she enjoyed.

I held my silence long enough to elicit a second gravelly hello, and a little longer as I toyed with the idea of vengeance: a silent little mind game for all those she played on me.

“Hi Michelle, it's Mark,” I said.

“Mark who?” she asked, which hurt, widened the gulf. She always won the mind games without really trying. I waited to see if she would show any signs of recognition. If she did recognize her little brother, she made no mention of it.

“I just called to see how you are,” I said. If I ploughed forward she would figure it out.

“I'm fine,” Michelle said. She took a deep nasal breath. “Tired. What time is it there?” She had granted me the small victory of recognition.

That first conversation in five years was miraculous and short. Fifteen hundred days of bitter cancerous rage had marched over one territory of my brain after another and obscured the good things about Michelle: her wit, her sprawling laugh, her ideas and excitement. It was like old times, the rare good ones when we made fun of our parents and conservative politicians, especially the local anti-intellectual nuts who made the news for shooting at teenagers on their property and other absurd antics. We reminisced more than we updated. We agreed that Mother and our stepfather hadn't changed since our respective departures.

I had to cut the dream sequence short because I was calling long distance from work.

“Will you catch shit for this call?” Michelle asked.

“I usually give shit for this sort of thing,” I said, proud of my practically managerial status.

“You must get that from Mother,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I really should go.”

“Okay,” she said. “It was nice talking to you.”

I agreed and we said goodbye. She didn't ask for my number. She didn't say to call again. I didn't even mention the word ‘obsession.'

FORTY HOURS IN FOUR DAYS AT THE FORTY-NINTH IN CHAPTER 20

U
nder a bridge in uptown Toronto, Bumi woke Lady
Juanita with a broad-faced grin. “Hello, Miss,” he said. “Can I shake your hand?”

From the warmth of her sleeping bag Lady Juanita returned Bumi's intent gaze. “How do you know I have hands?” she asked.

Bumi explained that he had in fact seen Lady Juanita's hands many times. They moved over chessboards in the park in a flurry of simultaneous victories over regulars and passers-by.

Lady Juanita flashed a patchwork toothy grin, flecked with silver and decay. “Oh, you've seen me play. Well, okay. Do you play?”

Bumi shook his head.

“Do you want to learn?”

Bumi explained that he won the annual chess tournament six years running in school.

“So, you do play?”

Bumi shook his head again. “Not anymore.”

Lady Juanita tilted her head and pulled her magical hands from her sleeping bag. “You want to shake my hand?” she asked. She held her hands in front of Bumi's face.

He nodded.

“If you can beat me,” she said, “you can shake them both.”

Bumi shook his head once more. “I don't think I can beat you,” he said. “I have saw you play. No one can beat you.”

Lady Juanita, oblivious to Bumi's sincere compliment, reached into the worn backpack next to her sleeping bag, pulled out a beautiful hand-carved chess set and began arranging the brown and white pieces. “What colour do you want, Sir?” she asked.

“Brown,” Bumi said.

Lady Juanita advanced her queen's pawn. Bumi took a seat on the cold grass on his side of the board. A thin layer of fresh snow covered the earth except under the bridge. While Bumi considered his opening move, Lady Juanita asked him about his origins.

“Indonesia,” Bumi answered. He stared at the board. “Rilaka. Small island near big one.”

“Ahh,” Lady Juanita said. “Megawati's child.”

Bumi knew from his co-workers that the daughter of Indonesia's first president had replaced Abdurrahman Wahid, who had replaced Habibie who had replaced Bumi's former dictator after the
1998
reformasi
. His housemate co-workers kept him well apprised of the situation and they, the waitresses and the chefs, occasionally talked politics while they worked, as long as no Chang was around. The restaurant was a hotbed of political animals in exile. Among them Bumi felt tame. He'd never been an activist and he'd always been careful to hide his views. Most of his fellow dishwashers had committed some kind of crime of expression or physical protest before escaping arrest or death. Bumi was a special case.

After the revolutionary riots that ousted the dictator, the Changs wondered if their source of Indonesian labour had supplied its last bodies. Freedom and democracy were theoretically bad for the human smuggling business. Fortunately for the Changs, thirty-two years of corruption, poverty, nepotism and repression don't fade with even two hundred million marked Xs in ballot boxes across the islands.

“Actually, Suharto's child,” Bumi said. He still stared at the chessboard. “I left in
1996
.”

For twenty-three minutes Lady Juanita lectured Bumi about the ill-fated Dutch East Indies. She began by discussing
CIA
influence over Sukarno, the first president, and his sympathy for the Soviets. From there she diverted to Lenin's reluctant legalization of divorce and abortion, and Stalin's later reversal of this policy. Back to Indonesia, Lady Juanita provided a brief comparative history of how women fared under Javanese hierarchy, followed by Islamic law, Dutch colonialism to the beginning of the women's movement and their role in combat and developing an Indonesian press.

Bumi moved his right-side rook's pawn and Lady Juanita countered with a bishop's pawn. Bumi stared at the board. Lady Juanita returned to her lecture.

She credited a combination of historical factors for the rise of a woman to the role of president: the prehistorically strong role of women, Indo-Islam's strong protection of and call for respect for women, a strong European-influenced women's movement, a proportional representation voting system and the fact that she was Sukarno's daughter.

Which brought Lady Juanita back to how the elected officials of the United States of America betrayed Sukarno when they became afraid of his socialist sympathies, and had a million of his alleged comrades murdered. It fascinated Bumi to hear this alternate version of his nation's history.

“Where are you from?” Bumi asked, eyes firm on the board.

Lady Juanita told him about her brief memories of El Salvador, mangoes, passion fruit, chess and forced oral sex on an American missionary. “Never trust any man who claims he speaks for God,” she warned Bumi, who moved another pawn.

Lady Juanita brought out another knight. Bumi stared at the board.

The game started at
7
:
30 AM
and was still incomplete at
2
:
30 PM
when Bumi had to go to work. “Can we finish tomorrow?” Bumi asked.

Lady Juanita took a last look at the board and scooped it into her knapsack along with the remaining pieces. She had the advantage, but it was slight.

“I guess we will start a new game,” Bumi said.

“Sure,” Lady Juanita said. “But first we must finish this one.”

“But the pieces are not in order now,” Bumi said.

Lady Juanita pointed at her temple. “The order is up in here,” she said, smiling her holy smile. “See you tomorrow. If I'm not here I'll be at the park.” She stuffed her sleeping bag into her knapsack and strutted toward the nearby park.

The next morning Bumi woke Lady Juanita at seven-thirty and they played until the game ended just before noon. Lady Juanita won. She never broke stride in her words or paused to think about a move. “Congratulations!” she said, extending her hand. “That was the longest game I have ever won.”

Bumi squeezed Lady Juanita's hand in his own raw, bare hand, and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “You are the best player.”

BUMI'S INTERNAL CIRCUITRY WENT INTO OVERDRIVE AFTER HE
left Lady Juanita. He cast his memory back to Pram and Arum in the Makassar market and marvelled again at the immense humanity of society's castaways. Pram and Arum were as human as any teacher, engineer or social scientist Bumi could imagine—maybe more so. But Lady Juanita was different from them despite her similar lifestyle. She had the same megalomaniacal arrogance of the most successful business tycoon or slickest administrator. Yet she emitted a nauseating odour and spewed the most ill-contrived and hateful conspiracy theories Bumi had ever heard.

Or maybe it was Bumi who was different from his boyhood self, the one who had befriended the ex-mother and ex-soldier so long ago. Maybe they stank of the same arrogance and
BO
and he had never noticed or cared. The whole time Bumi played chess he fought the smell, which he knew rode a wave of bacteria into his body.

Lady Juanita's congratulatory grip was strong. It crushed the accumulated dirt of ten thousand road miles into the raw cracked skin of Bumi's hands. The dirt carried who knows what parasites from far south and far north.

He tried to remember what Dr. Cherian told him, that his reason failed him even though it knew the irrationality of his fears and doubts. “Not knowing,” she had said, “is your real problem, and you can never know. You can never know for sure that you are safe from bacteria, that you will make it to work on time, and that is what your mind is unable to accept. That is what we must teach your mind to accept.” She did not say anything about accepting that he may never be reunited with his family.

Bumi tried to channel his bacterial anxieties toward better understanding Lady Juanita as a human being, but all he could see was an angel fallen from the highest of heights into the dirtiest of depths and dementia. Whatever Lady Juanita had, Bumi was sure to catch it. After the first hand-shake Bumi broke down and washed his hands as best he could in the short twenty minutes before his shift, thus failing Dr. Cherian's challenge. He made a mockery of her
exposure with response prevention
technique.

Dr. Cherian had told Bumi, in her aristocratic British accent with just a hint remaining of her Indian heritage, that they would attack the symptom first and the root second because there was not and never would be enough proof for him that he was safe from infection. “It is impossible to know anything for certain in this world,” she told Bumi. “What we need to address is your desire to wash, to count and to check.”

The process began with a cooperative effort between Bumi and Dr. Cherian to perform a complete diagnostic on his rituals. This investigation was in itself borderline obsessive, but she explained that it was necessary to figure out his triggers and find new means for dealing with them. They started with childhood, and Bumi once again found himself in the role of storyteller, sparing few details.

In most cases he had trouble explaining the origin of his rituals. He knew they were necessary but he didn't always know why. Explaining the significance of three was easy, thirty-three made slightly less sense when he tried to express it aloud, and not stepping on bad spots and other peculiar body movements seemed absurd on close examination.

Once he had verbally explored some of his rituals, the next step was mapping them out on paper, which involved completing a series of self-monitoring forms on which Bumi had his friends transcribe his observations of his own behaviour. He focused on three behaviours: washing, checking and counting. Bumi tracked the times he performed his rituals, how long they took and the thoughts that provoked them, and he scored the level of stress he felt at the time.

Bumi called me at all hours of the night with his observations, asking me to write them down. After a week or two I asked Dr. Cherian if there was a better way. It was then she forced him to write. “In whatever language you want,” she said.

Bumi forced himself to write with every iota of his will. He covered both sides of his forms with notes, explanations, corrections and footnotes. He recorded his activities minute by minute. He noted most of these mentally at work and wrote out his every activity deep into the night. The results were illegible to most, but enlightening for Bumi because from them a few precious patterns emerged. He could see clearly how stressful encounters, particularly with the Changs and with pollution, increased the frequency of his compulsions.

The next step was forced exposure. Bumi had to break all his lifelong self-imposed taboos. For Bumi, breaking a taboo meant that the world could crash down, and if life seemed hard before it was nothing to what the universe and gods would do to punish him for messing with the agreed-upon rituals. Dr. Cherian claimed to understand this, to know how hard it was, to have seen it done before, and she urged Bumi to let her escort him around the city to meet not one but as many homeless people as possible to shake their hands.

Sarah was appalled when she learned the manifestation of this therapeutic approach. Bumi was to expose himself by way of a handshake to the greatest source of infection and filth the world has ever known: human beings. Not just any human beings, but the ones most likely to carry diseases, germs, viruses, unhealthy bacteria and dirt. “But they are still people,” Sarah said. “You can't just use them as therapy tools.”

Bumi remained enthusiastic, optimistic and unburdened by Sarah's ethical constraints. In his mind, this experiment was an opportunity to reconnect with his childhood history. He had passed the Toronto homeless countless times by bicycle and on foot and never once offered them a coin, a nod or eye contact, let alone the chance to sell a story for a good price.

Bumi's therapy was not only an opportunity for him to take control of his life for the first time, it also afforded Lady Juanita the chance to set her own price for a hand-shake. She was gracious and lowered the price when Bumi couldn't beat her at chess.

Bumi had, in his usual fashion, forged a path around the typical. Ignoring a well-trodden route fraught with ethical compromise, he refused Dr. Cherian's accompaniment and made a new friend, who happened to revolt him on a physical level.

Undeterred, Bumi challenged Lady Juanita to a rematch. Once again he struggled to keep his mind in three places at once: on the game (always planning thirteen moves in advance), on Lady Juanita's rambling narratives through giant leaps of logic in an infinite landscape of knowledge, and on a bombardment of filth at a psychic level. After five hours the rematch was placed on hold while Bumi went to work. He scored a minor victory: with unprecedented self-discipline he resisted the urge to wash before his shift. He slipped his hands into his gloves and did not wash again until he got home from work. His mind screamed horrible fears all the way through.

An even greater victory came when Lady Juanita finally toppled his king the following day and shook Bumi's hand in rigorous congratulations. “That was even longer than the first time!” she said. Again Bumi followed Dr. Cherian's rules and denied himself fulfillment of his desperate desire to wash until shift's end.