by Derek Hayes
Adam is there. His knee is propping Samuel’s door open.
“Why are you yelling?” I ask.
“His board isn’t ready. Plus, he’s insisting on groups of six. This is fucking unacceptable. Pairs or groups of three. He’s got to comply or this is going to be a serious fucking issue.” Adam looks warily in my direction. “Oi. There’s ash from incense all over the Union Jack. Did you know about this?”
“No.”
Adam has turned toward Samuel, who is out of my line of sight. I can feel his large presence on the other side of the door.
“I’d like to see you after class,” he says. Less loudly now.
I return to my room. Mr. Hou is by the potted fern in the corner, looking through the green leaves, which is creepy. He’s silently judging what has just transpired.
“Have you ever taught kindergarten?” He says this to me conspiratorially.
Adam and I are on our balcony. He’s Hawkeye Pierce to my Honeycutt. Our gaudy Hawaiian shirts are a testament to this. His idea, not mine. “What do you think of America?” Adam says.
“He’s a nice guy.”
“I think he’s a fucking tosser.”
“Oh God,” I say. “Could you give him a chance?”
“Are you siding with your fellow American?”
“I don’t care about any of that, Adam. I think he’s a nice guy. Give him a chance. He’s a little different. There’s no crime in that.”
Samuel’s in front of a vegetable market on the ground floor of our building. Adam and I are looking down at him from our second floor balcony. Adam says that he could easily spit on the broccoli — the shop owner would think it was drizzle from the three-day shower that just ended. The owner is hosing down the area in front of his shop. A stream of slop, the colour of miso soup, is flowing under the rickety chair that Samuel’s sitting on, sloshing against the sides of his Converse shoes. He gets up because a stocky man in a soiled white T-shirt is carrying a crate full of pears under the awning. The corner of the crate nicks Samuel’s large head. He rubs his scalp and checks to see if there’s blood on his hand.
“America is mixing with the Taiwanese,” Adam says. “Just listen.”
Samuel is slumping in his seat, loosely holding a Mah Jong set at his side. “Wo ke yi gen ni men lian xi?” Each syllable leaks out of his mouth. His eyes are pleading.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re saying. Do you know how to play?” says an old man, a fisherman’s cap screwed tightly to his head.
“Wo yao gen ni men lian xi wo de Zhong wen,” Samuel says, speaking in a deliberate manner — trying to nail each of the four tones, and when he can’t, he starts the sentence all over again, which makes Adam snicker.
“It’s okay. I speak perfect English,” says the old man.
Samuel grabs a leg of the man’s chair and spins it so they’re facing each other. He’s that oversized kid in school who doesn’t realize how strong he is. “Wo yao lian xi wo de Zhong wen.”
“That big fuckwit doesn’t know the first thing about Mandarin,” says Adam, whose own Chinese, he always boasts, was learned the proper way — by shagging as many Taiwanese women as possible.
The elderly Chinese man is saying something to his friends. Samuel adjusts his voice a few decibels louder and repeats himself. They are speaking at the same time, Samuel’s face reddening to a shade of mango. He inches his chair closer and moves his arms in supplication. The elderly man is bobbing up and down, as if he’s barking orders.
“Let it go,” calls Adam. He’s on his tiptoes and all of his weight is leaning against the flimsy rail. If I stand next to him we’ll surely plummet onto the mah-jong board.
“Let the man save face, America,” he says.
Samuel glances up. But Adam isn’t at the forefront of his consciousness. He’s waving his arms at the elderly man, who by now has completely shut down. He’s crossed his arms and is repeating, “I can’t understand you.”
“Drop it, America,” Adam calls. “Let the man be.”
Samuel looks up at us again.
“Maybe you should just let him sort this out,” I say. I pull Adam away from the rail.
“What the fuck? Why? He’s tormenting the old guy.” He looks at me strangely.
The phone is mercifully ringing.
“Go get the fucking phone, John,” he says.
I let go of Adam’s arm. “Just leave him alone,” I say rather pathetically. I get up from the rusty beach chair and get the phone.
“Can I speak to Samuel?”
“Actually, he’s not here. He’ll be in soon. Can I take a message?”
“It’s Samuel’s father. Can you write this down? He’ll understand. Tell him we’re going to stick it to them on Sunday.
Nobody can stop our blitz. Our boy’s going to pick apart their defense.”
I write this down on a piece of paper. Adam’s looking over my shoulder. “What’s that about?”
“I have no idea. Samuel’s father wants Samuel to call him before some game on Sunday.”
Samuel’s in the apartment now, sweating profusely. He takes off his shoes and from two yards away I can smell his socks.
“Your father gave John a bizarre message,” Adam says.
I give it to Samuel. “Your dad laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, though I don’t see what’s so funny. Did I mess up the message?”
“No, you did just fine,” Samuel says.
Adam has been asking me for a long time to play indoor soccer with him. I always tell him that I’m not fond of the game. Truth is, there’s a glint in Adam’s eye, full of malice, which has made me reluctant.
After receiving the cryptic message from his father, Samuel can’t concentrate on writing characters, so they arrange the sofa in a way that it serves as a goal and Adam kicks balls at him. Although Adam is tiny, he strikes the ball hard. Some of the shots bounce off Samuel’s shoulder and stomach. The large man adroitly punches some of the shots back to Adam.
“You want to see what England is all about? We’re about football. Not the American kind though.”
Adam drills a shot at his head. Samuel catches it and stands there, placid, refusing to return the ball. At any moment Adam’s likely to end the standoff. To hammer the ball from Samuel’s clutch with his fist — perhaps a brief struggle, blood gushing from Samuel’s nose, me mopping it up, stroking his head, telling him that this is just Adam’s way.
I act quickly — put on my scooter helmet, and am in front of Samuel, asking him to relinquish the ball so that I can relieve him in net. Thank the Lord Buddha he hands it over. I’ll explain to my students that the bruises on my forearms are from a spill on my scooter.
Samuel comes home the next morning after class with a forlorn look and a bag full of blue cans of Taiwan beer. “Guess where I was last night?”
His routine is to pull out his calligraphy set and study quietly in the corner of the room, his heavy breathing alone to remind us of his presence. Today, though, he slumps on the sofa. He’s waiting for one of us to say something.
“I’ve no idea,” I say.
“Not a clue, America,” says Adam.
“I had a really bad night. I thought Fei and I were going to a karaoke.”
“Where did you go?” says Adam.
“There were all these women. But there weren’t any screens for the words, so I don’t know. They didn’t touch me or anything but they didn’t look right. They had on lots of perfume. I was choking. I know it wasn’t karaoke because there was dirt everywhere. Most KTVs are clean, right?”
“I’ve been in some dodgy KTVs,” says Adam.
“Fei was chewing betel nut. He straddled this one girl and they didn’t ask me at first for money for the beer I drank, which made me wonder. I gave them some money, and this one girl told me it wasn’t enough so I gave her some more and then I gave this other girl a lot of money and then I got out of there.”
“I’m surprised, America,” Adam sa
ys. “I thought you’d want to experience everything Chinese.”
Samuel sighs. “This would never happen in Colorado.”
He comes out of his room later. He’s stuffed his shirt with small pillows around the shoulders, the one on his right side larger and lumpier than the other. He walks around the rest of the day that way.
“What’s with the pillows, buddy?” I say.
“I’m getting ready for tonight. What are you doing around two o’clock tonight?”
“Sleeping. What’s tonight?”
“Nothing.” He shuffles to his room.
“Hey Samuel. Can I talk with you for a second?”
He looks at me with his big, sleepy eyes. “What’s up, John?”
“It’s just,” I say, “that this can be such a nice place if there’s some equilibrium. Do you know what I mean? Maybe if you just tried to piss him off less, we could make this work. The apartment. The school. Do you agree?”
“Let me think about it,” Samuel says. He walks into his room. The walls are so thin that I can hear the thud of his body landing on his mattress.
It’s three o’clock. I’m awake because Samuel is talking loudly in the living room. I come out in my underwear. He’s sitting on the sofa watching television. Blue Taiwan beer cans surround his chair.
“Why are you so agitated?”
“Tonight I celebrate. This is the most important day of the year. There’s John Elway.” He points to the television, then leans over and throws up on the floor. “I’m gonna clean that up later.” He burps. “I’m from Colorado. We’ve got some of the best linebackers in the country. That’s why I never made first team.”
“Look, maybe you should keep it down. You don’t want to wake up Adam.”
Samuel stands, swaying, and slaps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. Why do you worry so much about him? Try to tackle me.” In a stupor, he bumps into me and falls on a lamp.
Adam’s in the room now. He looks jarringly harmless in his skin-tight T-shirt and briefs. “What the fuck?” he says.
“It’s nothing, Adam. I’ll take care of it. You go back to sleep.” I’m pushing him toward his room.
He watches the TV for a few seconds and says, “Those blokes wear tight pants.”
Adam and I are unsure what to do. Neither of us is drunk. We each have an early morning business class, but that isn’t for a few hours. We take a beer from the plastic bag at Samuel’s feet. “Now this is interesting,” Adam says. “Looks like we got Celine Dion and Mick Jagger doing a duet together. I had no idea this was part of the show.”
At 4 o’clock am Samuel babbles, “Did you see that catch? That catch was amazing. I want to do it.”
He picks up the soccer ball, pitches it to me and says, “Throw the ball to me. Throw it to me right here.” His hands are in front of his chest, in catching position.
I throw it to him.
“See, this is how you catch a ball. With your fingers!” He wipes yellow vomit from his shirt. “Let’s do the entire thing after huddle.”
He turns around, bends at his waist and places the ball on the floor between his tree-trunk-sized legs. “Put your hands under my ass, Adam.”
“Now hold on a second,” Adam says.
Samuel holds the ball, which still rests on the floor, with two hands. His face pokes at us between his knees. With his face upside down, the muscles in his face droop. He affects a ninny British accent. “Come on, Adam. I’m going to go long. You want to see America. You want to get a feel for America. Now put your hands under my ass.”
“I think I’ve seen enough.” Adam gets up and walks past us. Samuel stands up and grabs Adam’s wrist. He tugs lightly and Adam loses his balance, almost falling. “We’re good, right, Adam?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He’s still holding on to Adam’s wrist. “We’re good . . . I hope. No more of this, right?”
Adam doesn’t say anything. He retreats to his room and shuts the door.
Samuel takes down a pair of Adam’s mildewy sweat pants from the curtain rod. He gets down on his knees and mops up the stringy vomit on the floor. I grab a Fred Perry shirt and help him wipe it up.
“These are fried noodles, right?”
“That’s right.”
I laugh and Samuel laughs, his large shoulders gently shaking. I get Adam’s Union Jack, tear it from the wall — its fabric lighter than I’d imagined — and crouch down to put it on the quickly drying puddle of vomit. Samuel grabs my wrist. He has a powerful grip. “Why are you doing that? You’re just going to make him angry,” which is a valid point. He picks me up by the shoulders, “We’ve got a good thing here. You don’t want to mess it up, do you? Put this in the washing machine.” He points to Adam’s vomit-soaked, moldy clothes. He resumes watching the game.
Lying in my bed, my mind is serene. I can’t sleep though. Samuel’s yelling obscenities. I guess the Broncos are losing.
THE MALADJUSTED
I CLIMB OUT OF MY FOURTH FLOOR window and onto the fire escape landing, where I look down the alley for Ming. Spring has come and it’s starting to warm up a little. I’m wearing a white robe and flip-flops, and carrying a basket that is attached to a long rope. Inside the basket is the exact amount of money for a medium vegetarian pizza, a bottle of Pepsi and a side order of garlic bread. This is the special from Tony’s. Like an old house-ridden Middle Eastern woman, I lower down the basket of money to Ming, who is standing below the fire escape. Ming is non-judgmental, waiting patiently on the ground, as if all his customers order in this way. He takes the money and places the food into the basket. I carefully pull my dinner towards the fourth floor, stopping just before it reaches the metal landing. I remove the box of pizza and bottle of Pepsi and the garlic bread and yank the basket over the rail. I lie down on the cool surface of the fire escape landing and rest my arm on the warm pizza box.
For the first fifteen days of each month I order a pizza from Tony’s. Then I run out of money. Until the end of the month I live on crackers, canned tuna and tomatoes, which I buy in bulk. My belly fluctuates in size according to the time of month, just as a python’s shape changes depending on what it has eaten.
I’ve got to find somewhere else to buy my groceries. Three weeks ago, as I was leaving Value Mart, I said goodbye to two men, probably fathers, who were waiting for a taxi. They gave me a look, from which I inferred that they thought this was strange. So I told them that I have a mental illness. They said that they were sorry. I refuse to go back there.
I don’t watch TV. I have nothing in common with Chandler, Joey or Ross. My alley’s good for entertainment. My fire escape is on the fourth floor and, because of some creepers — really weeds that I’ve tended that have climbed up from some dirt in three mouldy flowerpots — I am afforded some camouflage, allowing me to watch while being unobserved. The alley teems with life, with meth-heads providing the main drama. Look at them now. The one with the stringy blonde hair, all ninety pounds of him, has picked up a dead mouse and is holding it by its tail. The other has a garbage can lid, thrust out as a shield. He’s trying to knock the rodent from the other kid’s hand, his head craned back in revulsion.
Our building is like a horseshoe enclosing a patch of grass. My neighbours opposite, a man, a woman and their son, Joseph, are from the Philippines. Their apartment is immaculate, at least from what I can see. The mother doesn’t go out much because, I think, she’s afraid of the addicts. Then there’s Ben, who lives kitty corner. He sleeps on a sofa in the superintendent’s apartment. I’m trying to figure out whether or not he’s aware of me. Sometimes he unnervingly stares in my direction (when I’m on the fire-escape) and it’s a test of wills, more specifically a test as to whether I will stir, giving him proof of my existence. I always win. He eventually goes back inside. I don’t like him very much. I guess if I were to think about it, and I have, it’s that I don’t think he’d like me. He ignores the family from the Philippines. He looks like the intolerant ty
pe, with his shaved head and long side burns, and tattoos on his neck.
How can I be sure he can’t see me? One hot summer night last August, at three in the morning — I’m an insomniac by the way — I got up on the flat roof and crawled over to his corner of the alley. I looked across to my fire escape landing. I’d put my orange jacket, and jeans, both stuffed with pillows, in my camouflaged hideout. I was about two metres higher than his vantage point, but was confident that the line of vision was on par with that from his balcony. From there I couldn’t make out any part of the orange jacket. It was night, I know, but he usually comes out at dusk. The moon was out, almost replicating the amount of light at seven o’clock PM
I despise Ben because he never says hi to Miriam or Joseph, the Filipino woman and her son, who live next to him. Granted, she never says anything to him, but it’s his responsibility to be friendly, not hers. She doesn’t speak English, but she seems nice enough. I’ve said hello to her twice, even making eye contact. Last March, when I said hello she didn’t hear me. I tried again in May. She heard, or at least I think she did. She turned towards me and smiled, and then said something in her language. Tagalog?
Kim, my diligent, kind-hearted social worker, has been trying to get me to leave my apartment and engage with other people in this fine city. I’ve thwarted her by turning my apartment into a kind of carnival in an attempt to diminish any imperative on her part to get me to leave. Three and a half months ago I suspended toilet paper artfully from my ceiling to celebrate Christmas. I used six rolls. The strands of paper ran uniformly from the ceiling to an inch above the floor. I coloured the odd strand. She couldn’t see the far end of the room where I was sitting, so she had to push through it to find me.
In late winter I chipped a hole in my living room wall and sat in my bedroom on the other side, hoping to surprise her when she arrived. In fact, I spent a whole hour feeling drained of energy and almost sedated. When she eventually let herself in (she has a key), I poked my shoulders through the brittle hole and wriggled out to the other side, dropping to her feet. “Ta da,” I said, but she wasn’t amused. I never got around to boarding up the wall, so it still has a hole.
