How to Pick Up a Maid in Statue Square

by Rea Tarvydas

  “And?”

  “This is not a love song, Worley Man,” says Jerry.

  Mr. Worley frowns for a split second and says, “You’re the Golden Boy, aren’t you, Jerry?”

  “You want me to pick up a second account.”

  “Who said anything about a second account?”

  “Three accounts can’t hurt.” Jerry grits his teeth.

  “Three accounts would be good,” says Mr. Worley and snaps his shirt cuffs down. Then he sails into the crowd, the flaps of his business suit flaring out in a grey wake.

  “Three accounts. Jesus. He has no fucking idea. A year sucking up,” says Jerry.

  “Building relationships.” I taste my mojito. Green waves. Sweetness emerges as the dominant flavor. Different with each mouthful.

  “Get with the program. You’re the next Golden Boy. Listen and learn. A whole year sucking up. To discover they’ve signed a fucking feng shui with the competitors. A deal no different than yours.” Crushing his empty beer can, Jerry chucks it across the water at Lehman’s party junk. It bounces off the wooden hull and drops into choppy water.

  “Hey. Don’t litter,” says a young woman from across the narrow margin. She wears a skimpy bikini top and bright-blue board shorts that sit well below her studded umbilicus.

  “Barack attacks,” says Jerry and points at a campaign button pinned to the brim of her baseball cap.

  “You voting for change?” she asks.

  “Don’t vote,” says Jerry. “It’s against my principles, politically speaking.”

  “Apathetic.”

  “Anarchistic, actually,” says Jerry. “Interested?”

  She glares at him for a moment and turns away into a cluster of brightly clad party girls. A house beat gathers speed in the background. Gyrating against one another, the girls’ arms collectively rise up in a party hallelujah.

  “She’s feisty, all right. Think I’m in love,” says Jerry. He makes a lovestruck face, palm to heart. “Those rat bastards are scratching records and they’ve got feisty chicks over there. How come our party girls are so boring?”

  “They’re from credit services.”

  “True.”

  “You shouldn’t litter.”

  “It’s not like the water’s clean, Blank.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh, look at you. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-nine.” The same age as Jerry was when he made Senior VP. I wonder how a punk like Jerry has managed his career at the bank, with his long hair, loud music, and abrasiveness.

  “Twenty-nine. Jesus. I’m too old for this shit,” says Jerry and surveys the boat racecourse. “Semi-finals finished?”

  I shake my aching head. The wiring’s gone to hell.

  A squall blows up. Small fishing boats crash across the white-capped bay. Dragon boats leap between buoys and the shouts of the boatmen bounce across the rough, steely water. The beating of the drums intensifies as the dragon boats converge and accelerate toward the finish line.

  Mr. and Mrs. Worley come by a little later. Mrs. Worley’s hair is newly cut, short, close to her scalp; the skin on her neck is even paler than her bared shoulders. As she talks, she absentmindedly runs a hand over the fine hairs on her nape.

  “How are you?” I ask Mrs. Worley.

  “I’m dizzy, Mike,” she says and laughs. Then she shows me an intravenous port taped to the back of her trembling hand.

  “Canossa Hospital,” explains Mr. Worley. His voice is clipped, short as his hair. “She’s out on leave for good behaviour.”

  “I’m trying,” she says and stares into the distance. Her hazel eyes are more brown than green and they don’t look like they see what she’s looking at, but she keeps on looking.

  “Trying,” says Mr. Worley and anchors his glasses atop the bridge of his nose.

  “Don’t you want to?” she asks Mr. Worley.

  “Who said anything about trying?” says Mr. Worley.

  A moment of silence.

  “Where’s the bar?” asks Mr. Worley.

  “I’m not supposed to drink,” Mrs. Worley says.

  “Who said anything about a drink?” says Mr. Worley, his voice too loud.

  He turns to me and asks, “Where’s Jerry?”

  I point at the forward deck where Jerry dances the limbo in some kind of drinking game, shoulders shimmying. The junk rocks in the wake of passing boats and Jerry collapses in a heap under the horizontal bar, surrounded by a bunch of giggling party girls.

  Mrs. Worley laughs. Her chest flushes a pale pink.

  “Drinks would definitely be good,” says Mr. Worley and disappears in the direction of the bar.

  After a moment I ask, “What are you in hospital for?”

  “A lobotomy if I’m lucky,” she says. “I’ve been dizzy for the past six months, on and off, and the doc suggested I stay in the hospital. So they could run some tests.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “Half a brain,” says Mrs. Worley and laughs at herself. “It’s driving me nuts. The hospital, I mean. Except for the drugs. Legal drugs are better than illegal ones. I see lights where I shouldn’t.”

  “Lucky you.”

  After a moment she says, “There’s this apparatus thingy on the ceiling of my room. I can’t figure out what it’s for.”

  “Hanging up medical equipment,” I say and tell her about the time I broke my leg. A dirt bike accident resulting in a complicated tibiofibular fracture. Six weeks suspended in traction. I show her my scars.

  Mrs. Worley pins me with a stare and says, “You know what it’s like. Being confined to hospital.”

  “I do.”

  “Come visit me.”

  I can’t think of anything to say.

  “C’mon, Mike. We’ll make a list. ‘Top 10 Reasons We Love Hong Kong’. Doctor’s orders,” she says. Her pupils are enlarged, ragged, and I wonder exactly what drugs she’s on. Avoiding an answer, I flag down a passing waiter, grab a couple mojitos, and down one as quick as I can. Definitely more syrupy than sweet.

  Jerry hops down from the forward deck and joins us.

  “Like my new hairdo, Jerry?” asks Mrs. Worley and fingers her serrated hair.

  “Fucking gorgeous.”

  “Had to cut it off. The ends broke. Guess I bleached it too many times.”

  Jerry grins. The sudden warmth in his fractured face soothes my aching head.

  “Come and visit me again,” she says. “Please?”

  Jerry shakes his head.

  “You know you want to,” she says. She rests her hands, delicate as scallop shells, on Jerry’s deeply tanned forearm and leans in. A thin red smear of fresh blood appears under the clear adhesive bandage stabilizing her intravenous port.

  “Careful, Mrs. Worley,” says Jerry. His face shifts into a shape and doesn’t, at the same time. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Just one. In the car on the way over,” says Mrs. Worley. “You know how parties make me nervous — ”

  “You promised,” Jerry interrupts.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Worley smoothes down her dress with both hands, as if she’s ironing it against her hips.

  Jerry is silent.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Being the second Mrs. Worley.”

  Jerry leans toward me and says, “I ever tell you the story of how I found my house?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Had it under surveillance for months from my sailboat. I was living onboard at the time — it’s a long story.”

  “Big Wave Bay is out of this world,” says Mrs. Worley. Her voice is overly bright.

  “Blazing with lights all night long, every night, a fucking beacon. Nobody coming or going. I couldn’t figure it out. Thought I’d try the door and, believe it or not, it was unlocked,” says Jerry and lifts his shoulders into a shrug.

  “The house was deserted?” asks Mrs. Worley.

  Jerry nods.

  “Yo
u invaded,” I say.

  “It’s appropriation without permission, all right?” says Jerry. “I provide a certain balance, anarchistically speaking.”

  “You’re a bankarchist,” I say and realize my head is swimming with minted, syrupy booze. Sore, still.

  “Bankarchist! You’re all right, Blank. You’ll do just fine.” Jerry grins so wide his large nose skews to the left, pushing his disjointed features even farther apart. Broken crockery.

  “Can you squat in Hong Kong?” asks Mrs. Worley.

  “Yeah, me and hundreds of thousands of illegal aliens waiting on the edge of our fucking seats for an eviction notice,” says Jerry.

  “To reject, anarchistically speaking,” I say.

  “You got it.”

  “How long have you lived out there?”

  “Three years.”

  “Any problems?” asks Mrs. Worley.

  “A local guy comes around every once in a while asking questions. I tell him I’m subletting.”

  “He believes you?” I ask.

  “I’m a white man living on the post-colonial edge.”

  “Three years is a long time.”

  “Tick-tock bangs the clock,” says Jerry and pauses for a moment, his electric blue eyes trailing over my face. “When it’s all over, you can have it, Blank.”

  “You’re leaving,” says Mrs. Worley. She stands still, eyes open wide, staring straight in front of her, moving not a muscle.

  At that moment Mr. Worley pushes through the crowd and hands Mrs. Worley a large glass of white wine. His grey suit flaps open exposing snakes-and-ladders stitched suspenders.

  “I’ll take that, Worley Man,” says Jerry and intercepts the wineglass.

  Wordlessly Mr. Worley pulls Mrs. Worley away with him.

  “You don’t get along with Mr. Worley, do you?”

  “Who said anything about getting along?” says Jerry.

  My laugh sounds muffled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did you ever end up at Morgan Stanley?”

  “Didn’t pick the job. The job picked me.”

  “You like it?”

  “I’m a punk, Blank. I took the job as a joke. But I’m good at mergers and acquisitions. It’s a fucking curse.” Jerry scrubs a hand over his sweating face.

  “What’s the story with Mrs. Worley, anyway?”

  “Cocaine, more cocaine, wine, more wine, even more cocaine, acting out, lotsa cocaine, full blown psychosis. You didn’t hear it from me.” Jerry pours the contents of Mrs. Worley’s glass of wine down his throat and grimaces.

  “You were there.”

  “Yeah, the Golden Boy is always available,” says Jerry.

  “Hypothetically speaking.” I take another sip of my mojito. Now my drink is both cloyingly sweet and overly tangy. Acidic green waves. I fling the plastic drink cup overboard.

  “You shouldn’t litter,” says Jerry quietly.

  “Like you said, it’s not like the water’s clean.”

  The party junks suddenly crash against one another. I grab the wooden hand railing. Underneath the barrier, my fingers dig into a disintegrating section of the railing; the wood is barely held together with tacky layers of yellow varnish. I brush splinters away.

  As we wait for the final race, the sky darkens and fuses with the sea at the horizon. Rain spits. The junior bankers stationed on the forward deck rush for cover. Someone turns on the fluorescent strip lighting, eradicating the warm glow of fake lanterns. The covered decks of the Morgan Stanley are crowded, humid, and sticky with an afternoon’s worth of spilled drinks.

  Through the crowd I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Worley. She slumps against a decorated column in the centre of the party junk, Mr. Worley beside her. A strap of her wrinkled cream-coloured dress slides off her pale shoulder.

  Mr. Worley hands her a full glass of white wine and Mrs. Worley sips then cradles her wineglass in her hands. A purple bruise is forming around her blood-smeared bandage, a corner of the adhesive lifts and her intravenous port droops.

  Jerry looks like he wants to say something and changes his mind. Something surfaces in the lines and fractures of his face, fierce, lonely, and regretful. I picture Jerry alone in his beautiful house overlooking the rough surf of Big Wave Bay. An earthy humidity sticks in my throat.

  “I’m crossing over,” says Jerry and takes a flying leap across the watery divide, landing squarely on the Lehman party junk. After he’s gained his footing, he turns back and throws his house keys at me, and shouts good luck. When he gives a half-assed salute, I shake my fist in his direction.

  LEON

  AN IMMENSE BLACK-AND-WHITE billboard of a near-naked man hovers in the polluted haze. Over twenty stories high, the gigantic man leans, his head tilted back, against the soon-to-be-demolished Ritz-Carleton Hotel. His eyes are almost entirely closed. Tight white underpants contrast glistening black skin.

  Leon finds he cannot sleep. Not that The Giant is staring, exactly; his eyes are barely discernible. Still, a vague feeling that The Giant is watching lingers in Leon’s consciousness, a feeling that, somehow, images are radiating onto The Giant’s retinas. Not that Leon has enough time to sleep these days; he’s spending most of his time at work implementing the latest risk management system, a relatively simple install that isn’t anywhere near finished.

  It’s probably just as well that the project isn’t complete because then Leon would have to explain how it works and he doesn’t fully understand hedging risk with derivatives. Leon regularly pulls out the complex and tangential flowchart he created, graphics included, and tracks his demise from the bank; he estimates he’s somewhere near the halfway point. At this rate, it will take a miracle to implement the system and, when Leon announces the inevitable delay, he’ll be placed on probation. What’s more, when he admits his inability to comprehend risk management, it’ll be gore on granite: his chopped head rolling down the marble hallways of the bank.

  His cellphone rings.

  “It’s Thursday,” says Load Toad, an Englishman Leon met in a bar not long after he landed. A thirsty Englishman with extensive experience, business and otherwise, both in Hong Kong and Mainland China.

  “My project,” says Leon.

  “Your bloody project,” says Load Toad. “See you at the pub. Decker’s waiting.”

  Leon clicks off his computer and mentally shifts himself over to the “Thursday Night” feedback loop on his flowchart. At the pub, Leon pushes his way through the crowd to the usual spot, already littered with Load Toad’s orderly line of pint glasses, an overflowing ashtray, and Decker’s many cellphones. Idiosyncrasies, thinks Leon then remembers his flowchart. Empties, electronics, and the Thursday Night feedback loop: the three dimensions of his social life in Hong Kong.

  “Iced cold lager?” asks Load Toad.

  “Or three,” says Leon.

  “Sorted.” Load Toad waves down the bartender.

  “Fucking iPod died,” says Decker and slides the cobalt blue unit into his shirt pocket.

  “What are you listening to?”

  “Some new Manchester band Load Toad told me about,” says Decker.

  “Any good?”

  “Dunno yet.”

  “Manc music,” says Load Toad and tidies his pint glasses into a new improved line. “I ever tell you about the time I saw Joy Division at the Factory Club?” He launches into his Manc-Music-is-Fucking-Brilliant speech; Leon estimates it should run seventeen minutes, give or take, and presses the stopwatch function on his new dive wristwatch.

  “The Giant is getting on my nerves,” he interrupts at the fourteen-minute mark. Another round slides across the bar.

  “The Rude Giant on the Ritz-Carlton?” asks Load Toad, mid-sentence.

  Leon nods.

  “Helluva package The Giant’s carrying,” says Decker. “Semi-erect, his cock must be two stories high. He’s giving me a complex, if you know what I mean. Loady, what’s Viagra like?”

  “Bastard. The Giant’s a young’un and shouldn’t need
supplements,” says Load Toad, pudgy fingers tugging on his shaggy sideburns.

  “The Giant’s seriously ripped,” says Leon. “Must work out.”

  “You gym rats. Always sizing each other up. You light in the loafers, Leon?” asks Load Toad. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “I go to the gym on a regular basis; doesn’t make me a gym rat or a homosexual,” says Leon and realizes he’s missed his daily workout twice this week. Too tired.

  “Yeah, Leon’s a metro sexual,” says Decker and deftly rolls his sleeves above his elbows. A red-and-blue fishtail flickers out beneath his cuff. “Like my new shirt, Leon? I think I’m gonna score.”

  “It’s striped,” says Leon. All of Decker’s shirts are striped. Not that it matters. Decker attracts women without trying.

  “Why mess with a sure thing?” asks Decker, tapping a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Veni, vidi, vici. Almost perfect for Decker, thinks Leon. Should be I came, I saw, I came.

  “How’d they get the billboard up on the building, anyhow?” asks Leon. The bartender hops up onto the counter behind the bar and pulls down bottles the colour of a tropical sky.

  “Dunno. Dropped it down the side? Looks like canvas. It ripples when the wind comes up,” says Decker and strikes a stylized Zippo lighter; extraterrestrial eyes bugging out of stainless steel.

  “The exotic eastern wind. That explains The Giant’s erection,” says Load Toad, grinning.

  “There’ve been civic complaints,” says Leon and checks his messages. Nothing urgent, just a couple of inane questions from his team, who are all still at work.

  “Fuck indecency,” says Decker, exhaling roughly. His face is veiled with cigarette smoke. “They’re just pissed The Giant’s black. Hong Kongers don’t embrace darker skinned races, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, Decker,” says Leon. He’s second generation Canadian, a mix of Caucasian and East Indian. Twelve months in Hong Kong have taught him that being studiously ignored at the lunch counter is nothing.

  “Don’t embrace Caucasians, either. The Eurasian side of the family aren’t invited to Sunday dim sum,” says Load Toad.

  “Could be worse. My ex-wife was accused of prostitution almost every time she came through airport immigration,” says Decker.