by Paul Yee
We exchange positions and he leaps to the rings. From the floor, I stare at his arm and leg muscles, clenching and rippling. His body is wet from teaching at all the stations. The sharp smell of his sweat thrills me. I want to reach out and touch him. He lands and then boosts me to reach the rings.
I feel warm inside. I see Lawrence’s face, not my coach’s.
When I get out of bed, I stuff my clothes into my backpack. Without twenty-five dollars for another night here, I’ll have to go back to that shelter.
Downstairs, a different clerk is on duty at the counter. It’s a woman who smiles at me. I take a deep breath and apologize for making such a mess here last night. Her expression doesn’t change. Then I ask her if by some miracle my laptop was found.
Of course it wasn’t.
I ask if the hostel will cover my loss.
The clerk shows me the form that I signed during check-in. I already released them from any blame.
Yes, but if a laptop got stolen from a man in a business suit, I bet the manager would be all sorry and helpful, lending him an extra machine and calling the cops to hunt down the thieves.
That laptop held my entire life. All my memory. All my RAM. All my ROM. My entire universe.
I stomp to the door. It’s raining. I curse and dig through my backpack to yank out my rain poncho. My clothes are everywhere. Now the clerk joins me on the floor and introduces herself as the manager. She offers me one night’s free stay to address my loss. It’s hardly enough, but I can’t argue, can I?
I take my stuff up and come down again. This time she calls out that I get free pancakes for breakfast. I shake my head.
Why do Canadians stuff their mouths with those soggy lumps of dough? Because of maple syrup. One club at school raised eight hundred dollars selling pancakes in the gym. The immigrant kids stayed away. We’d rather pay to not eat them.
I run through cold rain to the business district, to a coffee bar full of sleek suits and expensive shoes. I shiver while people sip their drinks and study their laptops. It’s my turn to pay for a coffee. I reach for my money.
I don’t have enough.
I dig through all my pockets, fishing out every piece of loose change. My fingers are stiff but they manage to count the coins. Behind me, office workers clear their throats and rustle their newspapers. At the last moment, I find just enough money.
My last coins go into the cup for tips. Thirty-three cents won’t even buy me a phone call.
I sit and look outside. It’s raining harder now and a stiff wind drives the drops forward in a slant. They spatter against the glass, sliding like tears on a child’s smooth face. The thunder is an angry drum, echoing high above. People hurry by with newspapers or umbrellas over their heads.
I kill time. The window is cold where I leave my fingerprints. I keep my cup close by to signal that I’m a paying customer with every right to sit and stay. Nobody can kick me out!
The newspapers remind me that I need a laptop so I can read the news in Chinese. The English headlines say a toy factory in China fired seven thousand people. America spent $700 billion on bad banks. World leaders are counting on China to pull Europe out of a global recession.
The planet is in trouble, and so am I. There’s a room for me at the hostel tonight but not tomorrow. Jian will probably say no to another loan.
I saw Help Wanted signs in many downtown windows. They were all fast-food places. That’s bad. The pay is lousy and I’d have to wear an ugly uniform. Worst of all, customers will look at me and write me off as a loser. But maybe I can eat the food there.
At the first place showing a Help Wanted sign, I ask for a job form. I tell a little lie and claim four years of restaurant experience. I try to print neatly but water drips off my jacket onto the paper and turns the black ink into a smear. When I grab napkins to blot it dry, a woman at the counter watches me with tiny eyes.
I am told to wait.
It’s Thursday, so yesterday would have been my night at the restaurant. I wonder who Niang found to fill in for me. Not Jian. His college preparation class is Wednesday nights. That means she had to pay someone.
I need my cell. I’m sure that Niang and Ba have tried to call me. They can’t abandon me in the streets like a crippled dog, can they? I want to phone, but I won’t beg.
The woman hurries up and introduces herself as the manager.
“So sorry,” she says with a fake smile, “but your social insurance number isn’t valid. Did you write it down properly?”
“Let me check,” I say. Her English has a foreign accent. Will she phone the restaurant for a reference? What if Ba answers? He’d have a good laugh over this. I walk the form toward a table, pretending to reach for my wallet. Then I swerve and scoot out the front door.
Sorry? That woman isn’t sorry! She wanted to trap me. Make me look like an illegal immigrant who has no right to be here.
Of course that was a made-up number. What a pain that card was. Niang and I battled over it for weeks. During the time that we lived together in China, she stayed out of my life. I think she was hoping that Jian and I would become friends. She left Ba to fend off my teachers’ complaints and to buy clothes for me. Then, after we arrived in Canada, she took charge because she had handled all the immigration details. She nagged me to fill out the forms for a social insurance number.
“You need it to get a job,” she reminded me.
“I’m not working,” I retorted. “I’m fifteen. I’m a student.”
“You need it to open a bank account.”
“I don’t have Canadian money or savings.”
“Bank statements will help prove your residency.”
“I’m not staying here.”
Annoyed, she told Ba to talk to me. Waste of time. I was even less likely to listen to him.
Months passed. One day she handed me a plastic card. My name was pressed into it in English letters.
“Sign it,” she said. “And keep it safe.”
She had filled out the application form, signed my name and sent it to the government. Then she went to her bank and opened an account for me, putting in a hundred dollars.
I head to Chinatown, where refugee Chinese and illegal immigrants who can’t speak English find dead-end jobs. Their low wages are the reason why food prices in Chinatown are the lowest in all Toronto.
One supermarket has spread its boxes and trays of fruit and vegetables onto the sidewalk. Even as it rains, people are shopping.
I spot a hand-scrawled sign in Chinese. Help Wanted. I ask for the boss. He’s a dark wiry man with a garlic bulb nose and hair tinted a reddish golden brown. He looks hideous. He offers me a cigarette instead of his blackened hand. His Chinese is loud. I stand back from him before I get cancer.
“Got work card?” he demands.
“I do, but didn’t bring it. Lost it.”
“Fah.” He blows a lungful of tobacco smoke into my face. “You are a northerner?”
“Beijing.”
“Ah, rich people.”
“No, not at all.”
“You speak Fujian language?”
“No.” As if he didn’t already know.
“Everyone here speaks Fujian language. They speak Mandarin, too, but mostly Fujian language. If you don’t mind, you can work here. It’s part-time. Evenings only.”
I back off. I need full-time work.
“Let me think about it,” I say. I hope the cheap chemicals make his hair fall out in big clumps.
An old man is watching from the bus stop, and I almost run over and hug him. He looks exactly like Grandfather.
Ma used to say that Ba’s father had a monkey face: his ears stuck out and his too-large eyeglasses made his bright eyes look bigger. He was a small man with thin, stooped shoulders. This stranger also wears Grandfather’s old-fashioned Mao jacket, with tw
o chest pockets and two side pockets, as well as the soft army cap with a big brim and puffy top. Everyone in the family gave Grandfather stylish jackets in wool and nylon, but he only wore his gray Mao jacket and hat.
“All your friends wear new designs,” Ma told him once. “Don’t you want to fit in with them?”
“What’s wrong with being different?” he snapped back.
Above the busy stores that line the street, a big sign in Chinese and English offers immigrant aid, free services in many Chinese dialects, as well as English classes. It’s the place that the social worker at the church shelter wanted me to visit. The sign shows the Canadian government’s logo, so it must be an honest operation. I go up and tell the receptionist I was sent here from the shelter, but all she does is point at a number dispenser. When I sit, the lady next to me stinks of mothballs.
The waiting room has rows of bright orange plastic seats. The walls are bare, except for ragged red sheets of New Year good wishes that should have been removed months ago. The greasy smells of fresh-cooked food float up from the ground-floor restaurant. Little children cling to harried parents. None of the ancient magazines have covers.
These Chinese wear Chinese brands or fitted jackets tailored from sturdy cloth but in ancient styles. Their feet show the ugly fawn-colored socks that are on sale everywhere in Chinatown. They speak quietly, unlike rich people who want to be heard and noticed by everyone. Their patience with waiting is very dignified.
When my turn comes, I tell the clerk about my wallet and how the homeless shelter sent me here. She gives me a form to fill out. I borrow a pen — the Chinese brand, Hero, which I haven’t seen since coming to Canada. By the time I finish my form, a different woman is at the desk so I have to repeat my problem. She says I need to meet with a senior official here, someone who can notarize documents.
“When can I do that?” I ask.
She studies a chart. “Tuesday.”
“Next week? I need the documents right away! I’m looking for work.”
“Right away?” She gestures behind me. “Each one of those persons wants something right away.”
I run down the stairs, making as much noise as I can.
My family never thought much of Chinatown. The first time we came here, I was surprised at how big this district was, full of Chinese restaurants, Chinese stores and Chinese people. I thought, if people want to do Chinese business and buy Chinese groceries, then they should stay in China!
I walk back to Church Street, to Rainbow Sushi. The empty pop can that I kick along the wet sidewalk makes a hollow clatter. I wonder if Chen needs any workers. I’ll do any dog-fart job he throws at me: wash dishes, clean the washrooms, wipe down the walk-in cooler. And I hope he doesn’t care about a SIN card.
Too bad the handwritten sign on the door says the place is closed every Thursday. Why did Chen choose Thursday? Most restaurants close on Mondays or Tuesdays, the slowest days of the week.
At the main library, I see that some of the public computers aren’t being used. No line-ups! Great! Going on line will stop me thinking about my stomach.
The clerk asks for a library card.
“I lost my wallet.” That makes me sound stupid, so I add, “It was stolen.”
“You want a replacement card?”
“Can I get it right away?”
“Do you have ID?”
“I lost my wallet!” Do adults do this to everyone, or just to immigrant kids like me?
“Well, then sign in as a visitor,” she says. “You get half an hour on the machine. There are no extensions. There are no exceptions. If you need more time, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Yes, sir!
My machine is cold, and I have to try several times before it connects to the server. I can’t wait to get onto Rebel State. If I won the debate over the war strategy, I could be leading an army!
First I Google Lawrence’s name. His face and his little star tattoo are stuck on my mind. But he’s not on Facebook. Other people have the same name and a Toronto location on LinkedIn. I guess it’s true that Toronto has more Chinese than any other Canadian city. But why is Lawrence hooked up with someone like Chen? I Google Rainbow Sushi in English and in Chinese. No photos of Lawrence. The restaurant doesn’t have a website.
On Rebel State, my team gives me the latest news. Rebel Command wants us to destroy a fortified signal tower. It receives messages from the ships at sea and sends them inland. This must mean that the guerrilla strategy won. When I check Tally, my Honor is at the same level as before. Rebel Command hasn’t deducted anything. Maybe Rebel Command knows that I was right to stand up for the local people. Maybe Rebel Command has been too busy to punish me.
We head up the hill with grappling hooks and ropes. The enemy has laid land traps that we step around or disable. It feels good to be back in action, to have a mission.
Monkey, Long Range and Scholar start climbing. They are halfway up the walls when the tower doors fly open. Attack Wolves charge out. They have always had night sight.
The three of us on the ground fall back. Our friends on the walls are helpless as enemy archers take aim. We shouldn’t have sent Long Range up the wall. Now we don’t have a sharp shooter on our side.
The screen goes black. My half hour is over.
I slam my fingers against the keyboard. No! The team will accuse me of abandoning them.
I glance at the service counter. My clerk has been replaced by a fellow with long frizzy hair. Maybe the first clerk’s shift ended. If I move quickly, maybe I can log back onto the game.
I race around to the entrance and dash to the service counter.
“Can visitors use the computers here?” I ask. “I’m from out of town.”
The clerk nods and looks for a password for me. Right at that moment, the female clerk returns.
“All finished?” She smiles at me.
“He wants visitor time,” says the male clerk, puzzled. The two workers exchange a glance.
“I told you the rules.” The female clerk shakes her head. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I didn’t check my email,” I say. “Can’t I have a few more minutes? Not all the computers are being used.”
“Sorry, rules are rules.”
A young Asian woman standing next to me gives me a sideways look and moves away to make it clear that she’s not with me. I curse her silently. I don’t want to be connected to her, either. That jacket of hers is the ugliest shade of orange ever invented.
On the lower level of the library, I scan the Beijing newspapers. Not only are they several days late, but the large sheets are hard to turn.
More bad news. Residents fail to stop another hutong from being bulldozed for skyscrapers. Two tax collectors are sent to prison for ten years. The police carry out an undercover raid at the train station and fine 120 unlicensed taxi drivers.
China is a tough place. Young people spend their first eighteen years doing nothing but studying for college entrance exams. The pressure is so great that some failed students kill themselves each year. Worse, it’s not enough to work hard and get good marks. You need connections to get ahead, to get your foot in the door of the right place.
We all know below-average students will get into good schools with family help. That’s why Niang wanted to immigrate. She wanted to give Jian and me a better chance at success. But it’s not easy to walk away from the world that you’ve known all your life and forget all your friends.
While leaving the library, I pass a fire alarm. Nobody is nearby so I give it a quick yank. Bells start pounding right away, and a big voice tells everyone to take the stairs and go outside.
I laugh to myself. I feel like I did a back flip from the rings and landed perfectly with both feet together!
Late in the afternoon, I stand in a bus shelter and watch a crowd of people across the street. Th
ey’re waiting for the doors to open at the church shelter where I stayed two nights ago.
I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want anyone to think that Chinese immigrants are failures. But if I stand out here too long, the kitchen might run out of food.
When the line shuffles forward, I run over. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and turn away from the road. Believe it or not, by the door stands a grizzled old man rattling a few coins in a tin can and asking for spare change. To my surprise, people dig into their pockets and give him money!
Inside, the kitchen is serving pizza, which makes the hall smell like our school cafeteria. The cooks are bustling around, dressed in white like real chefs. Maybe they are real chefs. Maybe someone is shooting a reality TV show here. High-school kids are back again, aprons over their jeans and T-shirts. They’re beaming and smiling, glad to be helpful, glad to be on the other side of the counter.
My mouth is watering. Just as I get close to the food, I see familiar faces.
Jian and Carla. I turn and rush out.
Then I stop. Maybe this is a chance for me to go home. I’ll let Jian drag me back and shout, “Look who I found on the street, begging for food!”
I’m broke. I’m hungry. Without that social insurance card I can’t get a job. I need my cell and laptop.
I stare back at the door. But I don’t move. If I go home now, Ba will have won.
Later that night, I find myself back on Boy Street. I hope the rain has stopped for good. Even at our restaurant, wet days drag down the business.
The money boys are ready to go. Mr. All Muscles never stands still. His legs bounce up and down as if he’s running on the spot. His cycling pants and bike jersey stretch around every curve in his body. Baby-face wears a number 28 hockey jersey and sits atop a newspaper box, tapping at the metal edge between his legs like it’s a drum. His head jerks back and forth even though he’s not wearing earphones. Maybe he is. The tall skinny fellow with a buzz cut and a blue-jean shirt stretches out and does yoga poses when there are no cars on the road.
I stand by myself. It’s cool and I could use my jacket, but money boys don’t cover up. They — we — need to show as much body as possible. I pray the cops don’t show up.
