Man vs. Durian

by Jackie Lau

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m not hungry.” Not even for laksa, though I usually love the spicy noodle soup.

  Sarah raises her eyebrows. “You okay?”

  “My mother didn’t get home until after three because she was playing mahjong, and then, in a fit of inspiration or stupidity, I made up a boyfriend. So, you know, everything’s peachy.” I bet this is evident from my monotone.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Chloe asks.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Someone needs to stay. I’ll do it.”

  My friends head out the door and I stare blankly at the rainbow painted on the wall. I’m not in the mood for laksa, but maybe I’ll treat myself to durian ice cream when I take a break later this afternoon. I try to limit myself to eating ice cream once a week, and I haven’t had any since last Wednesday. After the crappy night I had, I figure I’m due.

  Durian ice cream won’t make all my problems go away, but at least it’s something.

  Chapter 2

  Peter

  “What’s that smell?” Carson asks after he steps out of the truck.

  Carson and I work for a small landscaping company whose main clients are rich people with mansions in midtown Toronto. We’re currently at a house on the Bridle Path. It’s owned by Brian Poon, who comes from some super-wealthy Hong Kong family.

  Although it’s the middle of September, it feels like a hot day in July. I’ll be sweating buckets once we get to work on the hedges, but I don’t mind. I like working outside.

  I climb out of the truck and grimace. “Damn, that’s pretty bad.”

  “It smells like a gas leak,” Carson says. “What do you think?”

  I hurry down the long flagstone path, past the fountain—rich people and their fountains—and knock on the door. Brian Poon’s home is truly something to behold, and rumor has it that he hosts orgies on a regular basis, but I’ve never been able to confirm those rumors.

  There’s no answer, and oh dear God, the smell is getting worse. It smells like gas, as well as garbage, rotten onions, vomit, and...

  Oh. I know exactly what it is.

  “It’s not a gas leak,” I say to Carson as I head back to the truck. “Pretty sure it’s durian.”

  “What the fuck is durian?” asks my white colleague.

  “It’s a fruit.”

  “No fucking way is that a fruit.”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s durian.”

  “You’re shitting me. I know what gas smells like. That’s gas.”

  “I’ll call the client and see,” I tell him. “Probably a good idea to check.”

  Five minutes later, I have confirmed that the smell is, indeed, durian. Apparently, Brian Poon had a party last weekend and there was durian involved. He didn’t say anything about it being a durian and sex party, but that’s what I’m picturing. I recently heard that durian is an aphrodisiac, which made me laugh my ass off. It sure didn’t work that way for me back in university.

  “If they ate all this fruit a few days ago,” Carson says, “how come it still smells?”

  “Behold, the magic of durian.” I pull off my shirt and wrap it over my mouth and nose.

  “You really plan to work in these conditions?”

  “We have a job to do, and I expect it’ll still smell tomorrow. Might as well get it over with.”

  I plan to work as fast as possible, then get out of here. Later this afternoon, I’ll have a nice cold IPA and maybe some ice cream. There’s a Thai rolled ice cream place that I like, not far from my apartment, as well as an Asian ice cream place in Baldwin Village that I’ve been meaning to try.

  Yes, I love my ice cream, and after working in a durian-infested yard, I’ll have earned it. The good thing about this job is that although I work hard during the day, the work never comes home with me, and I can enjoy my life. I have time to hang out with friends and go out with a girlfriend. When I have one, that is. I’m not seeing anyone right now, but I like being in a relationship.

  I’m about to get the hedge trimmer out of the truck when my phone buzzes.

  It’s my father.

  Okay, I can take this, but I’ll make it quick.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” I ask.

  “I have a question for you,” he says. “You ever been to that beach on the Toronto Islands? Hanlan’s Point, I think it’s called.”

  I scrub my hand over my face. “No. Why?”

  “Your mother and I are thinking of going tomorrow. It’s supposed to be hot again.”

  God, I really don’t want to have this conversation, but it needs to be said.

  “Dad, Hanlan’s Point is a clothing-optional beach. You realize that, right?”

  “Yes, I know. That’s the point.”

  I was afraid of that.

  Most of my Asian friends have trouble believing me when I tell stories about my parents. “Are you sure you’re Asian?” they’ll ask. “Because no Asian parent would not care about your grades and support you majoring in English. Or keep condoms in the bathroom from the time you were fourteen. Or offer to smoke pot with you. Or have no problem with your job in landscaping.”

  I guess it’s because I’m third generation. Both of my parents grew up in Canada, and they both wanted to be “cool” parents. My mother’s parents were quite strict, and she was determined to be the opposite.

  “Why are you asking me about a clothing-optional beach?” I say.

  “Just thought it was the sort of thing you might have done and was curious to hear—”

  “Even if I’d been, why would I want to talk about the experience with my father?”

  My dad laughs.

  “Dammit, you asked that question just to piss me off!” Usually, I wouldn’t be so irritated, but due to the durian picnic business, I’m not in the greatest mood.

  “But we really are thinking of going to Hanlan’s Point,” Dad says.

  “Yeah, yeah, do whatever you want. Just don’t tell me about it.”

  I end the call.

  Yep, I definitely deserve some ice cream today.

  * * *

  I live in a one-bedroom apartment in a condominium building in downtown Toronto. My parents bought it as an investment before real estate prices skyrocketed, and I pay them rent.

  When I get home, I take off my dirty clothes and jump in the shower. Then I head to Ginger Scoops, the ice cream place in Baldwin Village. Time to try something new.

  However, I’ve just stepped onto the patio of the ice cream shop when my phone buzzes. I stop walking and I pull it out of my pocket. There’s a message from my father.

  Just wanted to inform you that Hanlan’s Point has a “normal” beach in addition to the clothing-optional section.

  Well, I’m thrilled to be enlightened. I—

  I’m nearly knocked off my feet when a woman barrels into me.

  We reach out to steady each other. She’s holding an ice cream cone, though most of the pink and yellow ice cream is now on my shirt.

  “Shit. Fuck. Goddammit.”

  I can’t lie: I’m charmed by how vehemently she swears. She has long, shiny black hair, and her face is scrunched up. Still, I can tell it’s a beautiful face.

  “Dammit. I’m so sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “I’m sorry. I was looking at my phone and...”

  My voice trails off as I register a familiar smell. Natural gas and garbage and vomit and rotten onions. Like every terrible smell in the world has been combined into one, in the form of a menacing spiky fruit.

  The durian.

  “Is that durian ice cream?”

  “Yes,” she says, “and the pink one is red bean mooncake.”

  I whip off my shirt.

  The instant I hear that I have durian on my clothes, it’s my instinct to take off the piece of clothing. Not that this has ever happened before, but God, I want it as far away from me as possible.

  If only it had been orange juice, like in Notting Hill, or
bubble tea, or literally anything but durian.

  My God, I feel like I’m cursed today. Cursed by durian.

  Except this woman is really pretty, and she’s staring at my naked torso with a strange expression on her face. I think it’s an expression of appreciation, but it’s mixed with something I can’t quite identify.

  I give her a sexy grin. “How about I buy you another ice cream?”

  “No need. I work here. I can have it for free, and I’ll get one for you, too. Come in and you can get cleaned up.” She starts walking to the door, gesturing for me to follow.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Valerie.”

  “I’m Peter.”

  She stops and turns around. “Your name is Peter?”

  Chapter 3

  Valerie

  “Yes,” he says, looking amused. “My name is Peter.”

  I know it’s weird to be suspicious he doesn’t know his own name. It’s just...what are the odds? At three thirty in the morning, I made up a Chinese boyfriend named Peter, and a mere fourteen hours later, I spilled my durian ice cream on an East Asian man named Peter.

  Not only that, but he’s reasonably attractive and about my age.

  He doesn’t look like a pediatrician, that’s for sure. If he were doing his residency, he wouldn’t have enough time to work out on a regular basis, would he? This guy definitely looks like he goes to the gym, or maybe he has a job that helps him build those muscles...

  Stop it, Valerie!

  I open the door to Ginger Scoops, and he follows me inside.

  God, what a rotten day. I’d been looking forward to my ice cream all afternoon. A group of university students arrived soon after Chloe left to get laksa, and they kept changing their minds about what they wanted, then sat in the corner and had a loud, annoying conversation. After that, a creepy old guy came in...

  Anyway, it hasn’t been a good day, especially since I didn’t get enough sleep last night. That’s probably why I wasn’t looking where I was going and crashed into him.

  How stupid of me.

  I motion him toward a table near the counter. “Chloe, get him whatever he wants, on the house. I just spilled my ice cream on him.” I turn back to Peter. “How about you give me your shirt and I’ll rinse out the stain for you?”

  He hands over his T-shirt and I head to the washroom. I’m able to get most of the stain out, and when I return, Chloe gestures me to the back room.

  “He’s handsome!” she whispers.

  “You already have a boyfriend,” I point out.

  “Not for me. For you.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know I’m not interested in anyone.”

  “But you met in the cutest way. Just sit with him and see where this goes.”

  My God, Chloe has become an insufferable romantic.

  “His name’s Peter,” I mutter.

  “Ooh, like your fake boyfriend! It was meant to be.”

  “Please stop taking whatever happy pills you’re on.”

  “Come on!”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll sit with him. But nothing’s going to happen.”

  We head back into the shop. Chloe scoops out another durian and mooncake ice cream cone for me, and I walk over to Peter’s table.

  “Here’s your shirt,” I say.

  He smiles at me, then licks his ice cream cone. He’s got matcha cheesecake and ginger ice cream, and his tongue...

  No, I am not going to think about what his tongue could do for me, or how I could use my own tongue on him. I have zero interest in men and dating right now. Men might have their uses, but they’re bound to fuck you over eventually.

  I learned that the hard way.

  Peter still hasn’t put on his shirt. I force my gaze up to his face.

  “How’s the ice cream?” I ask.

  “It’s really good, although I can’t imagine the durian is tasty.” He makes a face as he gestures at my cone.

  “You don’t like durian?”

  “What’s there to like? It smells awful.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those people.”

  “I’m hardly alone,” he says. “I suspect most people don’t like durian. I mean, the smell is like a cross between a gas plant and a sewage plant, with some eau de vomit thrown in for good measure.”

  I chuckle. “I admit it’s pungent, but—”

  “Pungent? Is that a synonym for sewage treatment plant?”

  “I don’t mind the smell. In fact, it makes me smile because I know I’m about to eat something wonderful. Have you ever actually eaten it?”

  “I have. I’m not a picky eater, but durian defeated me.”

  “It’s so creamy. Like delicious fruit custard.” I lick my ice cream and sigh in bliss.

  He looks at me with a peculiar expression, then shakes his head. “Believe it or not, this was my second encounter with durian today. The man whose house I was working at this afternoon...he recently had a party, and there was durian.”

  “Sounds like a good party.”

  Peter glares at me, but it’s a fond sort of glare, which is...odd. “Why would anyone want to be at a party where they served food that smelled like natural gas and hockey equipment? God, no.”

  “Just a few minutes ago, you described it as a cross between a gas plant and a sewage plant. Make up your goddamn mind.”

  “I like when you swear.”

  “Why the hell is that? Do you find it fucking adorable?”

  He shrugs and has another lick of ice cream. “You do it with such passion.”

  “The first three words I said to you were ‘shit, fuck, goddammit.’”

  “Don’t worry, I remember.”

  “Wait, are you flirting with me?”

  He leans back in his chair, a smirk on his face. “Would you like it if I were?”

  I don’t answer. To my embarrassment, I don’t actually mind.

  “I ran into you while carrying a durian ice cream cone,” I say, “and you hate durian.”

  “I know.” He shrugs again.

  I expect him to trot out a terrible line. Something like, I got to meet you, so it’s all good.

  But he doesn’t. He just sits here in Ginger Scoops, casually licking his ice cream cone, and he’s still shirtless, for God’s sake. How did I get into this weird version of reality?

  Oh, and his name is Peter. Like my fake boyfriend.

  Except I imagined my fake boyfriend to be an intense workaholic, and the man who’s sitting before me doesn’t strike me as a workaholic at all. Instead, he has a chill, easy confidence. Not an overly-inflated ego, just a nice level of confidence, which allows him to sit shirtless—

  “Aren’t you going to put on your shirt?” I say.

  “Not sure I can do that. Kind of hard to get dressed while eating an ice cream cone.”

  “I’ll hold your ice cream.” I stick out my hand, and he passes it over.

  “Just don’t infect it with your durian ice cream,” he says, pulling the shirt over his head.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to waste any durian on you.”

  He laughs as I hand back his ice cream.

  Alright, much better. He’s fully dressed now.

  Except there’s a wet spot where I washed ice cream out of his shirt. A rather large spot, about the size of my phone, over his nipple.

  He just smiles at me. That bastard.

  “You said you were working at someone’s house,” I say. “What do you do?”

  “Landscaping.”

  I picture him working shirtless, dirt on his hands...

  Nope. Don’t go there.

  This man is making me flustered, and I’m not used to this. I’ve been so in control of everything lately, making sure nobody screws me over again.

  “Go out with me?” He just tosses it out there casually.

  “No.”

  “Alright.”

  He doesn’t push, and I appreciate that. Some men are really bad at taking no for an answer, but he�
��s taking it all in stride, rather than redoubling his efforts because he sees me as a challenge.

  Just then, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from my mother.

  Please invite Peter over for dinner this week. I know he’s busy, but I hope he can spare one night to meet your family.

  I look up at the Peter sitting across from me, and an awful idea forms in my brain.

  “How would you like to be my fake boyfriend?”

  Chapter 4

  Peter

  A fake boyfriend. Now that’s a new one.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Last night I told my mom that I have a boyfriend named Peter,” Valerie says.

  “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  “Correct.”

  “So why did you tell her that?”

  “Because she was going on about how I wasn’t good enough for her friend’s nephew, and she hates that I work in an ice cream shop. I was tired of her seeing me as pathetic and bugging me about my love life. It just popped out.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t judge me!”

  “I’m not judging you.” I eat the last of my ice cream cone.

  “And now, here you are. Peter. What’s your last name?”

  “So.”

  “We won’t even have to lie about how we met, since I said we met at Ginger Scoops. Just your profession.”

  “What does your fake boyfriend do?”

  “He’s a pediatric resident.”

  I chuckle. “Of course he is.”

  “It doesn’t make a difference to me, but it had to be something that would impress my mother. So, pediatric resident it was.”

  “What would being your fake boyfriend involve?”

  “First, we’d have to take a”—she cringes—“selfie together so I can show my mother.”

  The way Valerie cringes is kind of adorable. She’s cute in a prickly way, and I like talking to her.

  So I asked her out and she shot me down.

  It happens. I was disappointed, sure, but she’s just a woman I met fifteen minutes ago at an ice cream shop. In a very memorable way, true, and it’s been many months since I’ve had the urge to ask a woman out, but we hardly know each other. I’d move on just fine.