Money Boy

by Paul Yee

  “Sons always follow fathers,” Ma insisted. “You carry his surname.”

  “What about Jian?” I retorted. “He follows his mother.”

  “Oh, his father has children with several women. He cares nothing about Jian. But don’t ever say that to him.”

  At school, I heard that selling tofu referred to women who sold their bodies for sex. But I didn’t want to think that Ma had done it. I wanted to go live with her, especially after Ba and Niang announced plans to go to Canada.

  I didn’t see Ma again until the airport. She hugged me and soaked her handkerchief with tears. I thought, if she’s so sad to see me go, then she should let me stay!

  “I want to stay with you,” I declared.

  “Your father can give you a good life in Canada,” she replied. “It is the best country in the world. Many people in China are emigrating.”

  “Ma, I don’t want to go.”

  She shook her head and said, “Don’t be silly. This is a wonderful opportunity.”

  When our flight was called, I held onto my plastic chair, which was bolted to the floor. Ma and her mother Popo begged me to let go. When Ba slapped my head, I yelped like a wounded animal. Travelers and children younger than me turned at the sudden sound. A little girl dropped her soft drink and began to wail.

  “You shame our family,” Ba hissed.

  He fetched a security guard armed with a gleaming automatic rifle, a pistol in a holster, headset, microphone and face shield. The soldier knelt and said if I did not go with Ba, I would be sent to a reform school for young criminals.

  That’s how my journey to Canada started.

  FIVE

  The afternoon is late when I reach the homeless shelter. I found it on the net. One blog said this is the biggest and the best, even though it is run by a church.

  At first I’m excited at finding the place. Now I want to vanish. I don’t enjoy walking into serious places by myself. This is a first for me. Immigrants are toddlers who get led everywhere by the hand. An immigrant consultant helped Jian and me register for school. Our neighbor Mrs. Lo showed us the library and community center.

  It’s just a building, I tell myself. There are Canadians and social workers inside, not Chinese door guards or police officers. Immigrants can’t be cowards, isn’t that so? And I’m not sleeping outside again!

  Last night I was too proud for charity. Not anymore. The building has three stories that stretch down the block and around the corner. So many people have gone in that I don’t think I’ll be noticed.

  Inside, strong lamps light up the hallway. It glows with warmth. The waxed floor is shiny and the big doormat looks new. A wide hallway lets people move in and out quickly. Someone bumps into me. I step aside.

  On the walls are big posters promoting the four food groups, safe sex, multiculturalism, and the need to quit smoking. A bulletin board is crowded with messages asking for help.

  Have you seen this man? He’s missing.

  My baby will be born soon. I need a bigger apartment.

  I’m looking for office work that doesn’t involve computers.

  I peer into a sweet-smelling dining room. People are lining up for food. The sign says if you want to stay overnight, then you must register. That involves a line-up, too.

  The place reminds me of my community center up north, where we sometimes play basketball during free gym times. It’s always noisy there, with kids chasing and screaming. Ba would enjoy this place and its peace and order.

  Where do I hide my laptop? We’re in a shabby district away from the downtown businesses. The stores and restaurants look low-class and dingy, so of course criminals and thieves are around.

  The office door opens and someone leaves. A moment later, a voice calls for the next person in line.

  Inside, I see a woman’s arched back in a long dress. She is bent over, peering into a filing cabinet.

  “Have a seat.” Her voice is rich, strong and accented.

  She turns around. She is the most beautiful African woman I have ever seen. Her eyes are enormous and her cheekbones are high. Her hair is tightly braided in tiny coils over her head, and her face is heart-shaped.

  How is it that such a woman works here? She should be in the movies!

  She frowns at my staring and pushes plastic sheet protectors toward me.

  “Are you hungry?” She speaks slowly, holding up a picture of a busy cafeteria.

  “No need for this.” I wave away the photo. “I know English.”

  “We serve hot meals, for free,” she says. “Anyone, doesn’t matter who you are, can come in and eat.”

  Her sentences are slow so I understand every word.

  “You need clothes?”

  “You need a doctor?”

  “Are you on drugs?”

  “Have you stayed at a shelter before?”

  “Need to wash your clothes? We have washers and dryers you can use, for free.”

  Finally I say yes. She smiles happily.

  She asks me for ID.

  Uh-oh.

  “I lost them.” I expect to be marched to the exit.

  She shrugs. “We’ll help you get some tomorrow.”

  After filling in a one-page form, I’m taken upstairs. The clerk hands me a towel, shaving gear and locker key. My room holds eight sets of bunkbeds. Two men are present.

  One man is bent over, clipping his toenails. At every loud click, sharp blackened pieces shoot across the room. The man’s foot is pink and yellowish, and also dark and bruised in spots. I glance away and look for a faraway bed.

  The other man looks as if he just survived a storm in a forest. His rain parka, jeans and boots are streaked with mud and other stains. Under his hood, a grubby red toque is pulled down to the neck. His arms are wrapped around his body, as if he’s cold. He’s bent over, too, facing the floor with closed eyes. I walk around him.

  “Don’t worry,” the clerk tells me with a wave of his hand. “This one is praying, and the other man is harmless. They’ve both stayed here before.”

  I jump to a top bunk. It’ll be harder for thieves to get up here. There are no ladders. The mattress feels good, more hard than soft. On the walls, people used pens and markers to write their names and dates of stay here. I don’t see any Chinese names.

  I’m a homeless person now. In China, city folk complain about homeless people and tell them to go back to their villages. There are too many of them clogging the train and bus stations and sleeping under freeway overpasses and in McDonald’s restaurants. They’re accused of stealing and robbing, of taking advantage of city people.

  I don’t know what to expect at this shelter. So far, so good.

  After a quick shower, I put on my cleanest clothes and hurry to the dining room. Teenagers stand behind the stainless-steel counter, their long hair crammed under net hats, to help dish out the food. They must be earning community service credits. There’s soup, brown bread, beef stew, carrots, beans and a fruit salad.

  I stare down at my tray of food. Truth is, I don’t want those teenagers to see me. What will they think?

  There are no empty tables, so I drop into the nearest seat. I shove food into my mouth and keep my head down. A priest and nun stroll through and chat with diners.

  A man at the far table catches my eye. It’s his white shirt, business tie and dark jacket that I notice. He has wide shoulders and black-framed eyeglasses. He dabs his mouth with a napkin each time he stops eating.

  What is this well-groomed man doing here? He should be presenting the news on TV.

  When I go for seconds, I walk toward him. Then I see that the collar of his white shirt is frayed and yellowing. His tie is crumpled. His jacket doesn’t match the pants. One hand trembles as he raises his cup. The drink almost spills. The nearby men talk to one another but not him.

 
The men at my table have decided to dislike me. They pretend to talk to each other but they speak so loudly that it’s clear they want me to hear them. They blame the government, young people and the economy for all their problems. One man hurt his back while working, but no lawyer will help him sue his boss. A second man has looked for a job for over two years. The third man wishes he was young again.

  Then I hear the words “damn immigrants.”

  The first English word I learned in Canada was immigrant. It warned me that people nearby were talking about me. Soon I learned more words that signaled danger: newcomer, foreigner, alien, refugee. It was a long list, as if Canadians had many complaints about us.

  But we create jobs. If not, Canada wouldn’t take immigrants. Niang has eleven employees. They all pay taxes.

  These men should shut up. But can I say anything?

  Abruptly they stop talking. The priest tells us that the drop-in center is showing a movie tonight. He says welcome to me and asks how I’m doing.

  Westerners, especially ones who push me to talk, make me nervous. I keep my mouth shut.

  I take my clothes downstairs and head toward the sharp smell of bleach. Between the washers and dryers are two worn sofas filled with older men. They nod at me. Two of them play a card game, shouting with glee each time they smack down a card. The others flip through tattered magazines. The smell of cigarettes is strong, even though a No Smoking sign hangs over them.

  A man waves at me. “Hey, kid, want to sit down?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Don’t be shy. Take a load off your feet.”

  No.

  “Come say hello to your cousin here,” he says.

  They all laugh.

  The First Nations person next to Joker punches him.

  “Shut up,” he growls. “That kid, he’s not my cousin. He’s your uncle!”

  Joker lurches from the room.

  I take a deep breath. Was that a joke or insult?

  If I get angry, then I’m young and lack self-control. I need to be an adult and show no weakness. At school, silence is seen as stupidity, because silence means you can’t speak English properly. But here, silence is power. It means you don’t care what other people are thinking or saying.

  My clothes swim round and round in the machine. If only life was this simple. Throw in dirty clothes, pour in detergent and push a button. The water fills up, hot as you want. Set the dial at Heavy Duty to scrub out bad stains. Half an hour later, all is clean and fresh. You’re a new person.

  One man is folding clothes from the dryer. The loose tanktop he wears makes him look scrawny, but big bones stick out from his shoulders. His skin hangs loose but it must have held plenty of weight and muscle in the past. He looks up.

  “Don’t worry, son.” His voice booms out. His words are slurred and slow. “Things will work out.”

  I glance around. Who’s he talking to? I’m not his son!

  “Life stinks now,” he continues. “But stand back for a moment. Then take the high road. Don’t do anything you might regret.”

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. What’s a loser like him telling me what to do?

  On the main floor, men are gathered around a TV for the movie. It’s something I saw years ago dubbed into Chinese. Julia Roberts’ gay friend goes with her to a wedding.

  The movie has reached the restaurant scene. The gay friend starts singing. There’s no music. Family members join in, as do waiters and diners at other tables. My friends and I, we laughed and cheered, too, as if we understood the plot, even when Julia Roberts didn’t win back the man she loved. Everything from Hollywood made sense, right?

  “This frigging movie is for girls!” a man cries out. “Get something for men!”

  “This is the best picture I ever saw,” someone shouts.

  “Shut up, faggot.”

  “Suck my dick!”

  “Shut up, both of you!” A third voice rings out.

  There’s a loud clatter of metal chairs hitting the floor as men leap to their feet. A shelter worker comes running.

  Crazy! The men get free food and beds here but all they do is make trouble!

  I hurry upstairs and get into bed. I keep my pants on, just in case there’s a need to run.

  I’m dead tired but sleep won’t come. One man snores loudly. His bunkmate coughs until he sits up and clears his throat into a towel. Another man argues loudly with himself, swearing at people’s names. Every hour, the man in the bunk below me shuffles to the bathroom. He reeks of alcohol, even though no liquor is allowed. Down the hall, a door creaks every time it opens.

  Even with a pillow over my head, I’m wide awake. The sounds of men muttering and farting grow louder. My feet stay cold even inside my socks. I hear the streetcar rolling over steel rails outside.

  There’s no way I’ll stay another night. Here, I’m small and cornered. In Rebel State, I can fight my way through danger and hardship to win Honor. But in real life, I reached Canada too late. I’ll never win anything here.

  I need to get out. Where do I go? I only have about a hundred dollars. It won’t last long.

  ——

  Next morning, the cafeteria serves oatmeal and toast, hard-boiled eggs and peanut butter, tea and coffee. I’m not hungry but I force myself to eat.

  At the pay phone, I punch in the numbers for China again. I glance at the clock. In Beijing, it’s dinner time. This time Ma answers.

  When I hear her voice, my body stiffens. There’s no telling what mood she’s in. When I was small, nothing scared me more than her sudden flashes of anger. One minute she would be normal and quiet. The next minute she would be cursing and stomping around the room.

  I swallow hard and grip the telephone tightly. The last time we talked was on my birthday earlier this year. Then it was my turn to phone back, but I got busy and kept forgetting.

  There’s background noise at her end, so I have to shout my name.

  “Ma, how are you?”

  “Same. How are you doing at school?”

  “Same.” She doesn’t sound happy to hear from me.

  “You need to study harder. You’ll feel better when you get good marks, isn’t that so? Do you miss me?”

  “Yes.” I know that’s the right thing to say.

  “Will you come home for New Year?”

  “That would be great! Of course I’ll come.” Relief and joy fill me. It’s just a few months away.

  “No,” Ma says abruptly. “Not a good time. I promised Popo I would go home for New Year. I didn’t see my mother at all this year.”

  “I can go with you,” I insist. But it’s a lost battle. Ma’s invitation was never sincere.

  “You hate the village.”

  “I want to see Popo,” I wail like a five-year-old.

  “When you finish the term, come for summer holidays. How many years of school do you have left?”

  “Two,” I say, deflated.

  “How’s your father?”

  “He’s fine. He’s busy. Ma, I need money. I have extra expenses, at school.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I’ll send money,” she says. “But I must go now. I’m busy at work.”

  Work? What kind of work? I want to ask but she’s gone.

  I lean my back to the wall and bang my fist into it. Why doesn’t my own mother know what grade I’m in?

  She’s my mother. She brought me into this world. I didn’t ask to be born. She has to help me out. That’s her job. She lives halfway around the world but that doesn’t cancel her responsibilities. She owes me big.

  I sit by the office and wait for it to open so that someone can get me some ID. My laptop delivers messages from all my friends. Wei and Jenny want to know where I am and why I’m not answering their texts. They wonder what big secret Jian, Carla and I are hiding from th
em. They ask if my parents know that I’m skipping school. Joey Xie is organizing a surprise party for his girlfriend’s birthday. Don’t I think that Julie’s haircut is hideous? And where do we want to meet for lunch today?

  My fingers itch for my cell, to tap out messages, to catch up with pals.

  Could you live if you were chopped off at the wrist? No, you bleed to death.

  I log onto the game and get directed to the forum. Rebel Command is giving up the fortress. It plans to launch a guerrilla war to attack weaker parts of the enemy, sabotage its supply lines and break its morale.

  That kind of a war is bad for the local people, I tap in confidently. The enemy punishes them after our attacks, enslaves them. The people can’t protect themselves. They want a final battle that leads to peace. They don’t want war to go on forever.

  I will lead an army, I declare. Warriors who want a battle, follow me!

  Someone challenges me. Rebel Command is right, he posts. This way, more of our teams and soldiers will survive.

  Coward, I retort. You’re afraid to fight and die.

  No, Steel, you’re the coward. You fear failure. You would rather die quickly than work slowly to reduce the enemy’s power. Besides, what do you know about ordinary people? You were born into wealth.

  My face reddens and my heart starts pounding loudly, even though this chat takes place through cyberspace with total strangers.

  People are siding with Rebel Command. I don’t see any of my team members jumping in to support me. The generals will discharge me for challenging their orders.

  Fart, I’m going to lose a big chunk of my Honor. Why am I being called a coward? I spoke out for the ordinary people! I should have won Honor instead!

  “Good morning!” calls out the social worker as she arrives. A line-up of people has formed behind me. I log off, drag my backpack into the office and remind her of my problem.

  “Do you have any ID?” she asks. “Driver’s license, passport, Permanent Resident Card, social insurance number, bus pass?”