Money Boy

by Paul Yee

  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 th
at 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?”

  “You should go home! Your father loves you!” Carla’s Mandarin is clumsy. Her parents are from Hong Kong, so she speaks Cantonese and English. Her Mandarin came from watching Chinese movies and TV series. She and Jian are in an after-school program, studying how to write exams to get into U.S. colleges. Ba brags about this to his friends.

  When I ignore her, Jian says, “What about school? You can’t skip more classes. Your ba will chop off your head.”

  “Just lend me some money.” I’m begging, but now I have an excuse to quit school. I have to start working in order to provide for myself.

  He digs out some ten- and twenty-dollar bills.

  “I’ll pay you back,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Go say sorry to your father,” Jian says. “You can’t last long away from home.”

  Carla hands me two twenty-dollar bills. I’m surprised.

  “I’ll pray for you,” she says. “Don’t worry. Our Heavenly Father will look after you.”

  She lowers her head to pray, right there.

  If I had a girlfriend, she should be exactly like Carla. Her long black hair shines as if her head contains batteries to power the glow. She speaks perfect English to her westerner friends, and jokes with the westerner teachers. Kids like her usually don’t care if you are gay or straight or have a green polka-dot face.

  But Carla and her family are serious church-goers. At a school rally held to support Tyson after he got out of hospital, Carla and her friends held up signs that quoted the Bible. They called gay people sinners. Some students booed them. But Mila and the gang kept quiet.

  I don’t want to cause trouble between Jian and Carla. She’s on the honor roll and helps him study and climb up the education mountain. No way can I tell them about me.

  “What next?” Jian sounds impatient. His gaze wanders around the food court. “You can’t stay on your own forever.”

  “I’ll go back to China,” I declare.

  “No, you won’t! What about airfare?”


  “My ma will pay.”

  Jian frowns and gets up to stretch. The plastic chairs are hard.

  “You’re a stubborn donkey,” he says. “Just come home.”

  “No.”

  “You’re stupid if you go back to China. You have a better future here.”

  “You sound like Ba.”

  After they leave, I pour every last crumb of chicken into my mouth. I empty all the packets of ketchup and soak my fries in them. I even scrape clean the salad containers.

  I half thought Ba would send a message with Jian, saying sorry and telling me to come home. But he’s hiding in bed and making people worry about him. As if he’s the victim!

  I’m going home to China. I’ll move in with Ma for a while and meet up with my old friends. I’ll get a job and start saving up for my own place. Everyone says China’s economy is booming.

  I use Jian’s money to buy a telephone card. At a public telephone, I press Ma’s number. The ringing goes on and on. There’s no answer at her end, not even an answering machine.

  Truth is, Ma may not be able to help.

  In between her department store jobs, Ma learned to play on-line poker from her friends. She loved it. Ba lived at the army base and traveled for work, so she gambled all day and all night. One time she played for such high stakes that she forgot to pick me up from school. The teacher left me standing outside the building and told the doorman to keep an eye on me.

  One day Grandfather took me to Second Aunt’s place, Ba’s sister. She had a bigger apartment, fancy furniture and a better TV than us. I fell asleep there. Then I overheard Second Aunt tell someone on the telephone that Ma owed money from gambling and was selling tofu to pay it off. When I asked Ma, she laughed and said I had misheard. Soon she quit playing poker.

  When I was eleven, in middle school, Ba and Ma divorced. If Ma had been a better wife, then Ba would never have gotten interested in Niang. Ma hated waking up early and got fired from her department store jobs. She wanted to stay home and watch TV. When Ba came home from his tours of duty, he would mop the floors and wash the windows. He said he liked how everything in the army was neat and tidy.

  Ma knew I wanted to live with her yet she didn’t fight to keep me. Instead she handed me to Ba like a store clerk passing out leaflets on the street. It took Grandfather twice as long to ride the buses to Niang’s home to visit me, so he didn’t see me as much as before.