by Paul Yee
If Ma does this, then so can I.
I take off my jacket and throw it into the bushes. I lean against a power pole. I’m wearing my new Patterson jeans, freshly washed at the shelter. They were far from cheap and fit well. My sweater hangs loosely from my chest, which I puff out as much as possible. The V-neck shows my white T-shirt, so I should look clean and respectable.
My hands shake from the cold. I shove them into my pockets. If I had known I would be coming here tonight, I would have dropped to the floor and done a hundred push-ups. Was it only two days ago that I used the muscle machine at home?
The money boys have noticed me. I am the only Asian here. They are snickering, waiting to see if I will fall flat on my face. No doubt they know all the ins and outs of this business. Maybe customers who come to Boy Street don’t want Chinese. Maybe there is another street for Chinese money boys.
In the Central army, my first sergeant barked out, “Nothing Ever Easy!” while we were training, a motto that we soldiers shouted as we charged into battle.
I’m not bad looking. Nice girls have flirted with me.
In my head, I practice lines of English. I try to hear them in my mind, as they should sound when they leave my mouth.
A car stops. A man calls through the open window, “How ya doin’?”
I freeze. This is far too soon. The money boys are looking at me. I force myself to go closer. I crouch at the door. In the cool night air, the heat of the car jumps at me along with the plush fragrance of the inside. It’s too dark to see the driver’s face.
The man lets out an impatient breath. “Well?”
I open my mouth, but what falls out is the first line of English I learned: “Good morning, how are you?”
The car jerks away. It stops ahead. A door flies open and one of the money boys jumps in.
I want to leap through the sky to another planet, but I force myself to stand still under the streetlamp. I take a deep breath. My body is shaking. There’s no moon, no stars above. Good thing the rain stopped. I hear the faraway swoosh of a jet.
I imagine that in Beijing, people look up and see the same dark canvas. I would give anything to be back at Wangfujing Snack Street, sniffing at the grilled lamb kebabs or crunching through peanuts and greens in a bao zi. My buddies and me, laughing and eating under bright lights at night. That would be paradise.
When I land back on the street, another car has stopped up ahead. A young man bends to the window, chats with the driver and then gets in.
A second later the door flies open, and both driver and young man tumble out. They grapple with one another on the sidewalk.
A fight! People are running at me and past me.
“Cops!”
I glance back. One man is putting shiny handcuffs on the other.
Then I’m running, too.
SEVEN
I stop in front of Rainbow Sushi on Church Street. I want to go in but I don’t. I need a safe place but nowhere in the downtown feels right. This afternoon’s coffee shop was good but right now it’s full of people, packed to the door.
If I walk into this restaurant, the people inside will know that I’m gay. At night diners choose carefully. It’s not like stopping somewhere to grab a coffee or to kill time on your laptop. Still, I could pass as a homesick tourist or a relative of the cook — anyone but a kid secretly scouting out the gay world.
The place has the usual decorations: rice-paper screens, mini-curtains and jar-shaped lanterns. It looks more casual than formal. Most of the tables have customers. The mix of people is white, black and brown. No East Asians. That means the food won’t be the very best.
“Irashaimase!” The host rushes up and bows. He’s middle-aged, a bit younger than Ba. A short apron is tied around the hapi jacket that holds in his little paunch. He smiles but looks me up and down as if I am a mirror. His hair is shaved close to the skull, like a monk’s.
I nod. I understand the welcome. My friends and I have eaten lots of sushi.
He grunts at me in broken English, “You are Chinese?”
This is another Chinese-run sushi place. I nod. His eyelashes are big and curved, enlarged by mascara.
I want to avoid Chinese people, especially sissy ones like this man, so I turn to go.
“From where?” He speaks Mandarin and grabs my arm.
“Beijing.” I shake him off, but then a phrase of music grabs me. It is Sodagreen, the best band in the world! My favorite song, “Little Universe,” flashes from the TV screen mounted high in one corner.
Now I have to stay. Qing-feng flies through the air in slow motion. The drums slap me awake, and I want to ride on words that surge with anger and feeling. When the bass player skips rope on stage, I want to jump, too.
Hey, who chooses the music here? The customers don’t seem to care that there’s Chinese rock music in a Japanese restaurant. The host is too old for Sodagreen.
I look around for the waiters just as one walks up. One hand grips a water glass and Japanese cup while the other carries a sturdy teapot.
“Komban-wa,” he says, pouring tea.
“Did you choose the music?” I blurt in Chinese. I’m talking to a waiter. That’s something new for me, but this guy is as handsome as Daniel Wu, the Hong Kong movie star.
“You like Sodagreen, too?” He speaks Chinese and his smile widens. “I started following them when they won the Golden Melody Cup.”
That means he’s a little bit older than me. Good.
“I heard them later,” I say, hoping to keep him there. “I didn’t follow them until ‘Little Universe’ came out.”
“That was the best year for music!”
A tinny bell rings from the kitchen.
“Konnichiwa,” he calls out. He gives me a slight bow and smiles an apology before leaving.
I wrap my hands around the hot tea. At first I wanted to eat something light and cheap but now I change my mind. I want to surprise the waiter and catch his attention. I want him to wonder who I am and where I come from. On the menu, the most expensive item is chirashi with tuna, yellow tail and salmon. I reach into my pocket and see that I have enough to pay my bill and leave a big tip.
At the next table, the young westerners wear jean jackets and layers of shirts hanging loose like blankets. Two of them lean back and shove their legs out like brooms. The other two play a game, lining up bottles with different amounts of beer inside and blowing into them to make them a musical instrument.
There are also men with gray hair and no hair, businessmen wearing ties and shiny shoes, jocks in tracksuits, a couple in look-alike sweaters, and a man alone, reading a newspaper.
“Ready to order?”
Rot. It’s the host, not the cute waiter. He swings out one hip like an impatient woman.
During the TV coverage of Gay Pride, I walked away when the cameras showed men dressed as women with wigs and makeup. I thought they looked like freaks, as if gay men were really women who were born by mistake into men’s bodies. Me, I prefer to look at men’s bodies. I’ve never wanted to wear high heels and lipstick.
I give him my order. He raises an eyebrow, as if wanting to see my money first. Then he grunts, “Good choice. The tuna is very high grade today.”
I’m neatly dressed, better than the westerner kids, so he should treat me with respect.
Diners at one table stretch over to the men at the next one. They were strangers a second ago, two separate tables of men each minding their own business.
Suddenly they roar with laughter, the kind of unstoppable laugh that bends you over to your knees. It makes a solo person feel very lonely and start to worry that nearby people are poking fun at him.
My friends and I make the same racket at lunch. One of us cuts into someone’s fashion mistake, or aims a new insult at some innocent fool, and we’ll laugh and shove each other around. Oth
er kids walk by and glare at us but we know they’re jealous. There’s an unwritten law that we’ll be noisier and laugh longer if someone we don’t like is passing by.
The water glass has a sleek, curvy shape and is lightweight, not plain and heavy like those at our restaurant. Someone around here has better taste than Niang.
A plate of green edamame beans lands on my table.
“On the house,” says the cute waiter, grinning.
He’s gone before I can say thanks. I grab a bean and suck on the salt.
A window counter connects the dining room to the kitchen. Through the opening I see the host working intently. His eyes are focused on his hands. He wears a pointy paper cap, which makes him look really stupid. He glances up suddenly and sees me. I look away but not before he waves. I don’t want him smiling at me.
Where’s the cute waiter? Please don’t let his shift end. I’ll have spent my precious dollars for nothing!
The next Sodagreen song is another favorite: “Oh oh oh oh.” It starts with a catchy Spanish splash, and the graphics are funky surreal art. You’re still in this world, but not entirely. The swing in the melody helps me forget this awful day. I want to jump up and dance. There are pumping drums and mashed-up English lyrics. I love the new English word they created: no-kay. It means not okay.
The crash of glass on the floor causes a deathly silence. One of the young westerners caught his foot in a chair while getting up, and he stumbled against the table.
The host-cook rushes from the kitchen wielding a shiny cleaver.
“Uh-oh, uh-oh!” he shouts in English. It sounds worse when he’s loud. “You break my glass, you got to pay.”
The young man looks at his friends. They shrug at him. He pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“No problem.”
“Not enough!” The host-cook waves his knife. “Pay up! Pay!”
People stop eating. They frown. I want to slide down and hide under the table. That man is an oaf.
“No way!” sputters the customer. “Ten bucks for a glass! It’s not enough?”
“No! You got to pay. You got to sing!”
The host-cook pulls a remote from his apron and points it at the TV. On flashes the karaoke menu.
“Pick a song and sing!” he shouts, batting his eyelashes at the diner. “Sing with all your heart! Or I lock the door and you will wash dishes all night!”
He must be the owner.
He shoves out a wireless mike. The young man’s friends are grinning. The older men, who must be regulars, start clapping their hands in unison.
The ten-dollar man shakes his head but grins at his friends. He studies the K-menu and clicks the remote. He picks the song from the movie Ghost.
Wow! The singer has a deep voice and can actually carry a tune. I can’t remember the title, but U2’s version is the best.
My cute waiter comes out to watch. I see that other customers glance at him, too. He’s a pretty face that brings in customers.
When the singer ends on the long note, the diners applaud. The owner shouts, “No, no, no! Second verse! Second verse!”
What is this, High School Musical?
He raises his cleaver again. Now the ten-dollar guy plays along. At the refrain, the owner thrusts an arm around his shoulder and joins in. His tenor voice blends easily with the young man’s. I am impressed.
At the end, we give them both a standing ovation. The singers shake hands and the owner hands back the ten dollars. Diners on their way out clap him on his back and promise to come back soon.
This owner knows how to keep customers. Niang could learn a few things from him.
I gulp my water. An empty glass should call the waiter back to my table.
He brings everything all at once: miso soup, sunomono salad and main dish. I was hoping he’d make several trips. I ask for more water and tea. I want to reach out to his forearm and touch the small tattoo shaped like a star. Some of the teams in Rebel State wear tattoos, too.
The owner drops into the seat across from me. I frown and wonder how to say “Get lost” politely.
He waves at the TV.
“Do you want to sing?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I am surnamed Chen.” He thrusts one hand over the food.
We shake hands but I keep my name to myself. I keep staring at his eyes, so carefully made up.
“Eat, eat,” he cries. “You look hungry! How do you like the rice?”
“It has a nice shine.”
“Finally! A customer who appreciates fine cooking. Most westerners eat without looking at the food!”
I drink my soup, tilting the tofu bits into my mouth.
“My wife always said the rice was the most important part of the meal,” Chen adds. “I thought it was the meat!”
She must be the one who does his eyes. His fingers are too thick and stubby for such precise work. The wedding band on his finger is sleek and modern. I wonder how he can be gay and dress so sissy and live with a woman. She must be very open-minded.
“Which neighborhood did you live in?” he asks.
“Chao-yang.”
“My family lives in Feng-tai.”
When I stay quiet, he gets the hint and goes away to clear the tables. Finally I can relax. I look around for the waiter, but don’t see him. The restaurant is almost empty now. No more customers came in after me.
The TV monitor shows another Sodagreen MV. I hope that means my waiter is still around.
Chen comes and sits again.
“What a day!” he moans. “Not enough workers. This is no way to run a business.”
“Don’t Chinese people come here? All my friends eat sushi.” It’s rude to ask why he can’t attract those obvious customers, but it’s my way of trying to get rid of him.
“Tonight, they all went to some meeting.”
That potluck!
“Were you looking for someone?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you looking for new friends?”
None of his business.
“Your food is not bad,” I say.
“No need to be polite,” he replies bluntly. “Your face is new. I haven’t seen you around before.”
He is far too personal.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Act like a woman.” I’m being rude again, hoping to get rid of him.
“Because I sing like a woman!” He puts one hand to his collar and clears his throat. The voice that rings out is the high falsetto of a Chinese opera diva. Easily, he sustains a high note. Then he points to the bar across the street.
“I’m a regular on the stage there, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.”
The restaurant is empty now. I’m full but pick at the food, hoping to catch another glance of my waiter.
“My mother sings Beijing opera.” I mean Niang but it’s simpler just to say mother. “Every other week, she invites her friends to practice at our home. I run as far as I can.”
“What does your father do?”
“Our family owns a restaurant. We all work there. We serve Chinese food.”
“So why are you eating here?”
“Change of scenery.”
“I have a son who is your age.”
“Is that him working — ?”
“Oh, no! My son is in China. With his mother.”
I sip my tea. His wife may not be so open-minded after all.
“Is he doing well?” I ask politely.
“He’s smart, so he’s not doing badly!” he exclaims. “But China is a mess. Factories are closing. The trains are filled with workers returning to the countryside. There may be mass unrest. The government must change its policies.”
“It must be better here for
you,” I say. “For gay people.”
“I do not fear China’s police! All you do is pay them off.”
“Your life is safer here.”
“But my family is in China.”
“So why do you stay?”
“People ask my wife and son why our family is not all living together, under one roof. My wife tells people that I went to Canada. Everyone understands that. Everyone thinks I’m a hard worker, a caring provider. If I’m here in Canada, then my wife and son get no further questions. Otherwise, people start to gossip behind their backs.”
I put money on the table. When I look up, the waiter is by me, holding the teapot.
“More tea?”
I nod eagerly.
“This is Fung Li-jian.” Chen gestures to the waiter. “His English name is Lawrence.” He points to me. “I don’t know this young man’s name.”
“My surname is Liu. My English name is Ray.” I leap up to shake the waiter’s hand.
“This is my Canadian wife,” Chen says. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
Canadian wife?
“He’s a shit disturber.” Lawrence grins and rubs his hand on Chen’s head. “He thinks he can shock strangers by talking like that. But this is such old news now.”
“Then how do you want me to introduce you?” Chen speaks in a lovesick way, like a rich old man talking to his sweet young honey pot.
I drop to my chair with a thud.
I forgot about same-sex marriages. I’ve wasted my money. The cute guy already has a lover.
EIGHT
I’m angry and sick to be back at the hostel where I was robbed. But I enjoy my dreams that night. I’m in China, a child, swinging through the air from gymnastic rings. In the big hollow of the hall, I hear coaches shouting and blowing their whistles. I hear the thump of bodies on equipment and mats. The floor rushes at me as I try to move from a back uprise into a handstand.
I hear a shrill whistle blast close by, directed at me. My coach hurries up, shaking his head. Like me, he wears a sleeveless gym shirt and shorts.
“Liu Rui-yong, when you swing, push your heels harder, get them behind you!” he shouts. “Have you not been listening? Watch me!”
