Money Boy (4 page)

The women give me a passing glance and stay away.

Last year, You-peng told me in an excited email that Beijing police arrested my former classmate Fan Min at a massage parlor. No wonder she could afford the high-end messaging service!

“She's a public bus,” You-peng wrote. “Everyone gets on.” He said the boys at school started to follow her around. She laughed and told them, “Come back when you can pay my prices.”

I walk away. Maybe I should go to Church Street to watch young men do the same business. In China, boys who sell sex to men are called money boys, while those who offer services to women are called ducks.

I saw one such woman interviewed on China's national news. Her face was hidden. Sex with her husband was boring, she chirped, so she invited ducks to her home when her husband was at work. She declared that she wasn't cheating on him.

“Sex and love are separate things,” she said. “I bring home ducks. We go to bed. No emotions are involved. But with my husband, there are feelings. I love him and he loves me. We have known each other all our lives!”

I shudder. If I don't go home, then money boy work may be
my
future.

——

In the alley behind the coffee bar, high lamps spread a spooky orange glow over the smells of restaurant garbage. Traffic sounds creep between the buildings. One loading bay has a deep platform with protective shadows.

I climb up and drop my backpack. Sitting down, I picture myself at the Milky Way Café with Kai and Wei, Mila and Jenny, sipping ice coffees. Mine is black, no cream and no sugar. A tough guy's drink.

“Ba tells me to get out, so I curse him and leave,” I will say. “I go downtown, hang around and then bed down behind the coffee shop. No trouble at all, as long as you don't mind peeing outside.”

“Why didn't you call us?” they'll ask.

“I ran out of the house so fast I didn't grab my cell.”

I take my cell and stare at it. Kai will let me stay at his place if I ask. His father is working in China now, and his mother enjoys having another male around the house. But she's a nervous busybody. She'll want to talk to Ba or Stepmother to make sure they know where I am.

If Ba doesn't know where I am, he'll worry about me. And then he'll be sorry for what he did.

The cold floor sucks away my body heat. Can I sneak into the garage at home and sleep there? I know the code. For sure it's warmer than this place. But if Ba finds me there, he'll have won. No way will that happen.

A strong light pokes into my eyes. I block it out with my hands. Cops?

“Sir, are you okay?” someone shouts.

Am I being arrested? I turn my head away. Will I end up in jail?

“I'm not a cop,” a man calls out, coming closer. “I'm with Street Outreach.”

I smell coffee.

“Sir, you want something hot to drink?” he asks.

I pull my baseball cap down over my face. The man mustn't see that I'm a kid. I push back my shoulders to look bigger.

“Sir, this isn't a safe place.”

I can take care of myself!

Finally he says, “Okay, I'm going. Here's my card, all right? If you change your mind and need a place to stay, come look us up. We're not far away. Have a good night, eh?”

I can't go with him. Immigrants take care of themselves. If we come and use the welfare system, then other Chinese will have a harder time getting into Canada. That's what Niang says.

You can't get angry at Canadians for being helpful. They truly care about the old and the weak, the homeless, the refugees. They help all needy people. High-paid lawyers speak out for them! I'll gladly pay taxes, if Stepmother would only pay me regular wages. I hate asking Ba for money, but I do.

I'll be Steel and make my way through these downtown canyons the same way he slides along steep cliffs using only ropes and muscle.

When teachers get frustrated, they shake their heads and say, “You young people, take a walk in the real world. See how tough life really is!”

Now I am.

——

I awake to pitch black. Pain jabs me, but where, exactly? My head? My knee?

My senses spring alert. I hear heavy breathing. The back of my neck chafes at cold concrete.

Ow! My head bangs the wall. My arms are paralyzed. What happened to them? My lips move but no sound comes out.

A sharp tip pricks my throat. Something smooth and cold slides across my chin. I flinch.

“Money!” hisses a voice. “Where's your money?”

I shake my head and try to shout, “No money,” but someone with a monstrous hand grips my head like a bowling ball. Then he grabs my throat. I inhale cigarettes and liquor and shit. I thrash about, but my attacker is big and solid as a bear.

“Money!” hisses the voice.

I tear madly at my clothes. My wallet is next to my skin, at my belt. I fumble it like a hot potato. A second later, the attacker and my wallet are gone.

My entire body is shaking. I can't stop it. I rub my hands together. Finally I force myself to get up and walk back and forth.

Stop shaking, I shout at myself. Some warrior.

All the self-defense that Ba taught me long ago comes flooding into my head. I should have twisted and rolled. I should have kicked out.

Ba should have drilled me harder.

The shrill wail of sirens rises in the distance.

Fire engine? Ambulance?

I hope they're coming for me.

I don't want to be out here anymore.

I stay awake all night. I need to be ready to fight off a second attacker. In truth, the moment I let my eyelids drop, I feel a cold blade at my neck and my eyes fly open.

I jump up and think to go find a safer, brighter place. How about that 24-hour coffee shop?

Why bother?

The danger is gone. Why defend a fortress after the enemy has driven your soldiers into the forest?

I grope around for my cell. I can't find it.

Was I stupid or what? Sleeping outside. I want to punch and kick myself. But my body already aches all over.

A year ago I was at the cash register when someone came into the restaurant. His brown leather jacket was low-grade material, stiff and cracking. The red baseball cap had seen too much sun. He didn't belong in our neighborhood. He had that nervous smile of westerners who don't know if we Chinese speak any English.

Instead he propped one elbow on the counter to cradle a gleaming gun and pointed it straight at me. He slid a paper bag over the glass.

“Give . . . me . . . the . . . money.” His words rolled out slowly.

I was so surprised to have understood him that I froze. But he didn't praise my English skills. He leaned forward, shoved the gun into my gut and muttered, “Money! Now!”

He smelled of cheap hair gel. I yanked out bills and filled his bag. He started to back away, still pointing his gun at me. I put my hands up even though he hadn't said to do that.

Ba silently slid in behind him. He was barefoot. In one move he seized the robber's wrist, twisted and yanked it high behind him. The gun clattered to the floor. Ba kicked it away and grabbed the paper bag. The robber broke away and sprinted out the door. Ba dashed after him but limped back a second later. Niang came running with his shoes and socks.

“Someone was waiting in a car,” he reported. “Rotting hooligans!”

The police warned Ba never to do this again. Stopping an armed robbery and chasing the robbers was far too dangerous.

“What if he had opened fire?” they said over and over. “The boy might have gotten shot. Or your customers.”

Ba explained that he was an army man and a former police officer who knew exactly what he was doing. The cops didn't try to understand Ba's English. They didn't respect China's army or police. Ba cursed them as they left, calling them sissies.

I remember thinking that being shot and killed would be the perfect escape for me. I hated living here. People would think of me forever as an innocent young man, cut down at the prime of life. All that fine education wasted. All those advantages lost. Ba would regret forcing me to move to Canada. He'd admit he was wrong to bully me about studying. He'd wish he hadn't put such strict rules on my life, and finally confess, “My son and I, we both could have been happier, had I only been a better father.”

Then he would break down sobbing.

Ma would travel from China for my funeral. She would shriek with grief, throw herself onto my coffin and refuse to let go. Grandfather would wail about the family line coming to an end.

One by one my friends would drop long-stemmed roses into my grave while my hard-hearted teachers hid their tears at failing to understand me. Maybe some westerner kids would show up. My school would honor me with a minute of silence.

In reality, I sat on the toilet in the restaurant men's room, arms wrapped tight around my sides. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't let anyone see. I couldn't blow my nose in case someone heard me.

Why was I blubbering like a baby? No one blamed me. The police said I had done the right thing. No one was hurt. Our money was safe. Ba's quick thinking had saved us all.

Wasn't that how the universe was supposed to unfold?

——

I don't move until the rectangle of sky over the alley brightens from black to gray and then to white. A delivery van roars by, skids and sprays gravel against my wall. Crazy driver. My stomach is knotted and my back aches.

A flash of red catches my eye. My backpack sits in an oily, greenish puddle. My clothes are scattered across the alley.

First they were strewn across our lawn, and now this. Heaven intended them to get lots of fresh air.

I run and gather my wet, gritty clothes. My watch isn't on my wrist. I check the loading bay. Nothing.

My cellphone is gone, too.

How will my family track me down if I don't have a cell? How will Ba beg me to come home?

For half a second I smile grimly. What if Ba phones me and winds up talking to the mugger? They can't understand each other. They scream back and forth, swearing in two languages.

They deserve each other. They can drive each other crazy.

I dust off my jacket, but last night's scuffle sanded down the sheen of the nylon. Now I look grubby.

Around the corner, a rush of warm traffic air hits my face. The coffee bar is open. Pot-lamps brighten the window despite plenty of natural light. Office workers block the counter. I hold the door open for a woman wearing a pencil-thin suit and fruity perfume. She doesn't bother to thank me.

The space between my table and the big fat easy chair is empty. The magazine stand is gone! I spin around. My backpack crashes into people. They frown and fall back as if I'm diseased.

The stand is in the corner, by the other window. I rush across the room. More newspapers have been stuffed in. They stick out in a lopsided fan.

I dig in. I pull out my laptop and clutch it to my chest. The saxophone music from yesterday suddenly comes on.

Maybe heaven is watching out for me after all, like that three-eyed god at the temple we invaded in
Rebel State
.

In the washroom, I thrust my hands under the hot water and swallow several mouthfuls, hoping the warmth will soothe my stomach. In the mirror, my face is pale and dirty. No new pimples, lucky me. My short hair sticks up like a brush while dark rings hang beneath my eyes. My lips need cream.

In my pocket, I find 63 cents and three student bus tickets.

There's just enough money for one phone call.

——

First I visit my bank in the little plaza across from the one holding our restaurant. I rarely come to the branch, even though its workers are all Chinese. I prefer bank machines. I hate line-ups. Many customers are seniors with hearing and loneliness problems, and they need hours of hand-holding from the tellers.

“You look like a goddess.” I speak Chinese to a teller with long straight hair. “I hope you can save my life.”

“Of course I'll help you,” she giggles. She's very young, and flat as an airplane runway.

I explain my situation and try to catch her eye, to see if she will flirt. It's easy to play the game with girls from China. The rules are simple. Guys talk tough and girls act tiny.

She hurries away on loud heels, and then an older woman, a four-eyed frog, is demanding my ID.

“I told her I lost my wallet,” I say. “How can I give you any ID?”

She taps quickly on the computer.

“Who is Chen Hai-hua?” she asks.

“My mother. My stepmother.”

“Why didn't you bring her along?” She wears a jade pendant far too green to be real.

“Why? This is my account.”

“She must sign an authorization. Or I cannot help you.”

“Let me tell you my code number,” I offer.

“You must show me the card.”

“Don't other people lose wallets? What do you do then?”

“Check their signature.”

Oh. I never signed anything here. Stepmother opened the account for me. I refused to come here with her. That was when we first arrived four years ago and I wanted to go back to China.

“It's not so difficult, is it?” The woman smiles at me. “Your mother doesn't work far away. Just bring her over.”

I curse her noble ancestors to the eighth generation. Under my breath, of course.

——

The food court at North Star Mall is crowded with after-school kids. I don't want to be here. It's too close to school. The last thing I want is to bump into someone I know. But Jian insisted on meeting here.

Luckily the food court is strictly western food, so chances are small that my friends might show. Just to be safe, I stand behind a pillar.

The mall's fountain shoots out jets of colored water timed to military music. Mothers tell their toddlers to watch the dancing foam.

The smell of fresh baking and hot tomato sauce makes my mouth water. I've loved pizza all my life, even in China.

I spot a Chinese grandfather and grandson at a nearby table. The boy looks nine or ten. The old man raises a slice of pizza to the boy's mouth. The boy clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head. The grandfather sighs. With a plastic fork, he spears two French fries, coats them with ketchup and holds them to the boy's mouth. Again he refuses the food.

The old man angrily pitches away the fork. He offers the boy a drink from the straw. No again. Then he zips the boy into a puffy bomber jacket. He stands up and drags the boy away. They leave behind plenty of food.

My feet start walking with a mind of their own. They'll take me to that table. I'll sit and pretend to be saving the table for friends. I'll wave to them as they wait at a counter for food. Then, absently, I'll pick at the food and slip pieces into my mouth.

There's sharp applause behind me as the water show ends. I hurry back to the pillar.

I can't be seen eating other people's slop. I can't give westerners another reason to laugh at Chinese people.

That grandfather and grandson remind me of millions of parents in China trying to buy their children's obedience with western food. Ma did the same, but she loved that food, too.

Grandfather never used food or money to bribe me. When I was about eight or nine, I told him that all my friends had grandparents who bought them western fast food as treats. He said, “I'm your grandfather, not your friends' grandfather.”

And he told Ba to follow his example, not Ma's.

Growing up, I heard Ma tell her fast-food story so often that it's now carved into my brain. Her sixteenth birthday landed on the same day that KFC opened its first outlet in China. She insisted that friends take her to Qianmen Street. She had to see the biggest KFC restaurant in the world. The line-up stretched to Tiananmen Square. Their bill came to 192 yuan.

Her face lit up when she recalled all this. That was the best day of her life.

My hands are sticky with sweat. A part of me worries that Jian may not come. We aren't close like the good-hearted brothers we see on western TV. We don't do homework together even though that would save time for both of us. Jian thinks only losers get hooked on on-line role-play games. Ba always crows about how perfect Jian is.

“If you spoke English half as well as him,” Ba says to me, “then you would have no problems.”

“Look at Jian's report card! He will get many scholarships for college.”

“How many sports trophies did Jian win? Look at you, you're useless!”

Is it my fault that our school has no gymnastics team?

Too bad Ba doesn't know that Jian hates him as much as I do. Ba the army man orders everyone around. “No discipline, no civilization” is one of his stupid mottos.

Jian wants to sleep in and to stay out late, too. He has a girlfriend, Carla, which is the big secret we keep from our parents. Ba and Niang insist that girls and sex come later, after college, when they cannot distract you from winning a big-money future.

I see Jian coming from afar. He is tall enough for the school basketball team, and his spiky hair makes him taller. He has a boxy, rugged face and looks like an actor. Girls chased him even in China.

Things are so easy for him. Niang adores him and talks to him like an adult, a friend. He can stumble through life with a blindfold and still reach the top of the heap. He is everything I want to be. Handsome. Straight. Ex-virgin.

I wave at Jian. Then I see Carla beside him.

Rot! How are we going to have a private chat?

Carla dashes up and gives me a hug. It warms me right down to my toes. Now I'm glad she came. I stand still. She smells delicious. There's lemon and spices in her shampoo.

Before Jian can speak, I drag him to the nearest food counter.

“You brought money?” I ask.

He nods as I complain about yesterday's sandwich. We both hate western-style bread. That's all we have in common.

“You look awful,” he says, frowning. “Didn't you sleep?”

We take away two trays heaped with fried chicken, fries and salad. I tear into the food like an animal.

“Your father said you were cocky.” Jian speaks as soon as we sit. “He said he told you to quit your computer game but you wouldn't, so he kicked you out. Is that what happened?”

I nod. The last thing I want is for the gang to know about me.

One day Tyson and his friends walked by us in the hallway. Mila raised two fingers to the back of her head and pointed them up. Then she wiggled her nose and made a joke about spitting on rabbits. Everyone laughed, even me. In China, gay men are called rabbits. People there don't want homosexuals in their families.

“Your ba didn't work last night. Old Lin filled in. Ma called me today and said he stayed in bed all morning. Old Lin will cover for him again. Ma's not happy at all.”

“Lazy turtle egg,” I mutter. We speak quietly, as teens do when using Chinese in public. Our adults are the ones who speak far too loud.

“Where were you last night?” Jian asks.

I shake my head. My mouth is full.

“Can't you apologize to your ba?” Jian asks. “Every time he gets in a bad mood, my ma gets stressed out. I don't care that she snaps at me, but it's hard on the workers at the restaurant, too.”

Not my problem. Niang worries too much about everything. I'm sure Ba told her about me. But I'm his son, not hers, so he'll have to deal with me.

I keep eating. Finally I say, “Can you lend me some money?”