by Derek Hayes
Two nights ago, Carol came home late from work. I was lying on the black leather sofa watching my third consecutive episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. I’d called in sick because, when I woke up at 7:00, I felt a tickle at the back of my throat.
“You could have cleaned up around here,” she said.
Play Station discs were on the carpet. Apple peels and spilt berries from the smoothie I’d made were still on the kitchen counter. IAMS cat food was all over the floor because I’d accidentally tripped and knocked the bowl with my foot. “I’ll get to it in a second,” I said.
“What are we going to have for dinner?” she said.
I looked at her. She was wearing a black business suit and her hair was tied in a bun. Her nylons had a run and her makeup was partly smudged. “We can order in,” I said. “I’m still not feeling too shit hot.”
She went to the bedroom and shut the door. I felt guilty, but only for a while. I didn’t want to stare at it anymore, the moustache, that is, and with her in the bedroom I could do some more thinking about my options.
When I get back to my spot beside Carol in front of Silver City and Chapters, she nudges me. “Here they are,” she says.
Jeremy, Ross, and Wendy are running so slowly that they could be walking. Wendy, in particular, looks out of place. Normally she’s in a business suit. Today, she’s wearing blue shorts and a T-shirt. Her face is red. Given the chilly weather she’s not really appropriately dressed. When she sees us she smiles sheepishly, as if she’s embarrassed. She looks silly, but she’s bravely willing herself forward. Jeremy and Ross are flanking her, like they do at work.
Carol yells, “You look great! Keep it up.”
Wendy, Ross, and Jeremy have passed us before I yell, “Great job, guys!” I hope they heard me.
Carol and I walk back to the subway station. We’re taking it to Davisville, so as to be in position to cheer for them at the end of their race. I look at Yonge Street one more time. Randy is running down this section again, although this time with an ungainly limp.
“Here he comes,” I say. “Look, Randy’s coming this way again.”
He picks up speed as he passes Mad Dog and Billie for the second time. Mad Dog says, “This guy is really trucking!” Randy hears this and does a jig, clicks his heels together in the air. He almost falls. He passes other runners and, like when he ran down this part of the street earlier, he’s looking furiously at the crowd. A group of young ladies cheer for him. He slows down and comes to a full halt in order to talk with them. The three girls look squeamish. After an uncomfortable-looking exchange of greetings, Randy has a difficult time starting again. He doesn’t go far. I’m not astonished to see that once again he takes a right turn off the course and onto Berwick Avenue.
Again I follow him. He lowers himself to the grass beside the Hansa Language School parking lot, where he takes off his shoes and socks. Big blisters are swelling on his feet. “Next year you’ll finish the thing, Randy!” I say.
“Hey, Alan. I thought I saw you,” he says. He gets up and hobbles barefoot over to the side of the curb and looks at the runners passing by. I think he’s pondering the possibility that he might have been able to finish. I want to tell him that it’s not the attention from the crowd that’s rewarding but the training, the striving, the self-improvement and the actual running itself. If he were to genuinely try, his enthusiasm would make him attractive to others, which would take care of his primary needs, friendship and love, but a fleeting thought fills me with despair, the thought that I am he, that he is I.
Yesterday evening my thoughts started to be more obsessive — I wanted to broach the subject, but didn’t because I’d hurt Carol’s feelings. I went back and forth in my head, rehearsing the conversation. She had no idea what was going on, but she could sense my anxiety. I grabbed her and kissed her on the lips to prove to myself that it was no big deal. I’d shaved assiduously that evening so as not to confuse my bristles with hers. I held her face, venturing my upper lip on hers, at first certain that I indeed did detect the wispy hairs, but when I pulled away I was less sure and wanted to kiss her again, but she pulled back. I wondered if she were tiring of me, but just for a second, because her moustache once again infiltrated my thoughts.
The afternoon has been building up to this moment. Randy’s sitting on the grass, putting on clean socks. We’re alone. I want to seize the moment and I don’t care how I sound. “Hey Randy, how would you feel if your girlfriend — well, let’s suppose you had a girlfriend — if she had facial hair? How would you feel about that?” When Randy doesn’t immediately say anything, I say, “Hair, right here,” I point to my own upper lip.
“Bit of a moustache,” he says. He laughs. I also laugh. I’m relieved because he understands, but, just as I’m feeling better, he says, “That sort of thing doesn’t bug me.” And he tells me about his plans to go to the Dominican Republic in January. I’m nodding, giving him feedback to show I’m listening. I’m pretty sure he’s a decent guy. If he knew how much I’ve been suffering, he’d probably want to help me.
I need to think about something else. I haven’t been sleeping much. I’ve been obsessively ruminating about Carol’s moustache for six days straight. This can’t be good. I try to think about something else — the Maple Leafs, the three goslings in the stream near our apartment, my lovely arthritis-plagued mother, Carol’s gorgeous legs. I try to replace the image of her moustache with the image of her pretty legs, but this is a mistake because I end up with a hybrid image, which sullies the legs. I think about how she’s always straightening my glasses. This is tender. I try to muster the warm feeling that came over me when she last straightened them, maybe some tears, but I get nothing. None of these other thoughts are compelling.
There must be something that I haven’t figured out yet. I review the facts: One, I’m not vain. Two, I want to marry her, although I do acknowledge that this is just to prove that I’m not vain. Three, Randy isn’t bothered by facial hair on a girl. Four, when I kissed her I was unsure whether I felt anything or not. Five, she has great legs. Six, she could always get electrolysis, and in my closet under some sheets is a pamphlet from Dr. Granger’s institute, with phone numbers and a website. All of these thoughts take one minute thirty-four seconds.
I turn away so that Randy can’t see that I’m an agitated mess. I want to get away from here. Carol must be waiting. Randy is smiling, and this makes me feel even worse — that it is Randy who has normal feelings, and who can see what truly matters, while I’m the one with the unhealthy fixation.
A WONDERFUL HOLIDAY
RUSSELL LAY IN BED, STILL WEARING HIS light-blue pyjamas. He was watching Magnum P.I. T.C.’s helicopter had a bullet hole and Magnum was explaining to T.C. that he’d compensate him for the damage.
A solitary model airplane, a Sopwith Camel, hung from the ceiling of his room. This was a vestige of his childhood. He had cleared out all the other silly remnants two years before. The Sopwith Camel had been in such pristine condition that he couldn’t take it down. Were he to get a girlfriend — this winter, he hoped — he’d be sure to trash it. With his computer and printer, television and stereo system set up along the north wall, and with a proper queen-sized bed, and with beige paint covering the old wallpaper (which had been spotted with lizards), his life now was almost complete. He just had to find a girl. He would move all of his belongings into a two-bedroom condominium when they got married. He’d be nicer to Mom then. He’d even do the dishes here more often if he weren’t living at home, though on second thought, he’d probably have enough chores of his own to do. The trip he felt obliged to go on was getting in the way of all of his plans. He’d thought of nothing else for a while now.
His mother appeared in the doorway. Her skin was turning a dull grey and her blonde hair was thinning. “I made a nice lunch for you, Russ. Some leftover stew from last night and a piece of the peach cake. You can eat while you wait for your plane.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
> “Have you packed yet?”
He stared at the television, at Magnum, who was yelling at Higgins. It was Sunday. Ray was probably snug in bed, watching the same episode. Just four months ago, Ray and he had graduated from U of T — engineering. They both had entry-level surveyor jobs at different firms. Ray’s parents had given him a used Honda Accord as a graduation gift. Russell’s mother had made him ask for a week off in the autumn as a condition of his acceptance of this job.
“Russell, have you packed?”
“I’m getting there, ma,” he said quietly. He felt like he was ten years old — like his mother was prodding him to get ready for a bantam league baseball practice. He flipped his covers off, climbed out of bed, and put his black suitcase onto the leather sofa-chair.
“I called your boss today, Russell. I reminded him that you won’t be back from Vietnam until Tuesday the 27th and not on the Monday like you’d told him. There’s no reason you couldn’t have told him this yourself yesterday. You’re not giving him the best impression, Russ.”
“I know, Ma. I know.” The only good thing about this trip was that he wouldn’t have to work. Only four months into his job and he was already uninspired. Work till seven. His mother’s crap cooking at seven-thirty, and at eight, his one pleasure in life — battling it out with Ray as to who could build the greatest empire. Was there Internet access in Saigon? He took off his pyjamas and stood in his boxer shorts scrounging around for a pair of jeans that were hidden under a pile of magazines and laundry. He dug up the jeans, wriggled them on and said, “I’m not a kid, ma.”
“You don’t look as if you’ve packed enough clothes. Did you pack a raincoat? It’s supposed to rain a lot.”
“No. Do you have one that I can borrow?”
She left the room and returned with a raincoat. She opened his suitcase, rearranged some of its contents, placed the folded coat on top and then zipped it up. She handed him a Ziploc bag full of tiny Canadian pins. “I got these at the tourist shop at Harbourfront yesterday. Maybe you can give these to all the nice people that you’re going to meet.” She was smiling in a way that irritated him.
“Sounds like the taxi is here, Ma.”
She was now holding back tears, her eyes and mouth quivering, which had the odd effect of making her look furious. Even though he looked different from his parents, he knew they loved him as much as they loved his older sister. He was suddenly feeling intense sadness, like he might cry as well. They walked down the hallway together. He dragged the suitcase along the hardwood floor. She gave him a beseeching stare. “Pick it up. You’re going to leave a scratch. And I don’t want to scold you just before you leave.” She pecked him on the cheek and quickly shooed him into the taxicab.
Russell didn’t dare look at his mother as the cab pulled away. On the plane he forced himself to disregard the source of his queasiness — the fact that he hadn’t called his boss to remind him about the change in his travel plans. He also brooded about how he was going to pass an entire week in Vietnam.
After getting off the plane he was preoccupied with two tasks. The first he accomplished in the washroom of the Tan Son Nhat International Airport. He stood in a stall with pants down and both feet on either side of a hole. Worried that someone might interrupt him, he locked the door and jutted his backside against it. He looked down the vast hole and winced. He couldn’t see anything but dark. He folded the cuffs of his pants so that they didn’t make contact with the slimy tile surface. Why is this place so gross? he thought. He listened to men shuffling to urinals, clearing throats and washing their hands, as he crouched down, pinned his belt with his elbow, and strapped his passport to his left leg with duct tape. He used enough tape to entirely hide the document.
The second task required a taxi.
“You are here for women?” the cab driver said. He had the thickest neck Russell had ever seen. “You know, sexy-sexy.”
“How much is this ride going to cost?” Russell said.
“Seven dollar,” the cabbie said, holding up seven fingers, the car veering slightly into the right lane. “I have three girlfriends. You know, fuck-fuck. Do you have girlfriend?” He laughed and a thin line of red betel nut juice dribbled down his chin.
“No, I don’t. Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I have to do something important right now.”
“No problem,” the cab driver said, tapping his steering wheel.
Russell took out his stash of U.S. one-dollar bills. He set aside seven for the driver, then created two piles. The big pile he placed into his wallet. He then bent down and stuffed twenty bills into his sock. If something were to happen in the city — a knife in his ribs, a starving flock of hungry peasants — he was prepared to relinquish his wallet. He’d give it up to the first person who demanded him to do so. He knew he could recover the hidden money from his sock, which he could use for cab fare to the airport. He was confident that, if necessary, he could live off the remaining thirteen dollars, eating noodles and drinking restroom water for a few days while hanging out at the airport and waiting for his plane to take off.
The clerk at the Norfolk Hotel was a middle-aged woman. “Toi co the giup gi duoc anh,” she said. Russell told her that he didn’t understand, and laughed in embarrassment.
“My name is Huong.” She stuck out her tiny hand.
“Hi, I’m Russell.”
“You are handsome boy.”
He blushed.
“Let me get your key, sweetie.” He’d thought that only North Americans could affect this type of familiarity with strangers. The disinfected ambience of the Norfolk lobby felt comfortable. He wished that he could drop his luggage on the linoleum floor, pull up his jeans, saunter over to the leather sofa, and spend time with Huong. She was smiling warmly from the other side of the marble registry desk, holding out his key.
“Do you think I can use your computer to email my parents?” he asked.
“Sure, but it’ll cost you five thousand American dollars.”
Flustered, he tried to think of something, of some way to correct her, but then she exposed two rows of teeth, like Chiclets. Her tiny hand on his soothed him. “Just joking, sweetie. Of course you can.”
The window of his dingy room offered a sweeping view. In front of the open kitchens men sat on stools, almost squatting. They smoked and played dominoes in groups. Russell watched the hustle of the city. A bare-chested man pulled up in a small van, got out and delivered a dozen jugs of water to the hotel. Women carried bags of carrots and cabbage from the market. Children played soccer in an alley. Bicycles and cars bucked frenetically against the grain. Traffic flowed centrifugally around the roundabout in four directions. Motorized rickshaw drivers rode up and down the strip, looking for tourists.
Seeing four soldiers in their dull green fatigues drinking tea at an outdoor cafe reassured him that he was correct in playing it safe. Staying inside his hotel room, he felt protected from mayhem and also from the threat of service. He’d read in his Lonely Planet that all young males were required to serve two years in the Vietnam People’s army. He imagined that, upon leaving his hotel, he’d be surrounded by soldiers, questioned as to how he’d evaded service and then escorted to a base, where he’d be forced to do calisthenics.
Russell got down on the floor, covered his legs with the stale blanket and thumbed the remote control. After five hours of this — the blanket wrapped around both legs — his left hamstring cramped. He rolled over. His cheek rested on the thin, soiled carpet. Dust particles made him sneeze. He wiped the mucus on his hand into the carpet. As he pulled himself to his knees by grabbing the leg of the bed, he glimpsed a dust-coated magazine nestled under the box spring. He crawled on his knees to the bar fridge, which glistened white against the dull, greyish colours of the carpets, wallpaper and the bedspread, and took out the last of the Kit Kats. He licked the chocolate off the wafer centre and stared at Sean Thompson, the CNN analyst quoting prices on the Hong Kong stock exchange. How had the television screen rema
ined dry and dust-free in this humidity? It dripped from the walls, from the bathroom mirror and from the ceiling. He unstuck himself from the blanket, stood up and explored each cavity of the room, the empty drawers beside the bed, the closet (stocked with towels) and all bathroom receptacles (empty, aside from a toothpaste-coated comb stuck to the back of a middle drawer). He wondered what Ray was doing right now. It’d be what? Ten AM in Toronto?
He decided to go downstairs.
Huong was speaking on the phone, her back slightly turned. The language was alien to him. He found Vietnamese neither pleasing nor displeasing to the ear. Her voice droned on while he curled on the sofa, observing businessmen of various nationalities walk from the elevator to the lobby exit.
Waves of humid air reached him from outside. It soaked into the lobby and then receded quickly, the air-conditioned cool reclaiming lost territory.
“Where are you from, sweetie?” Huong was smiling at him. She was wearing an ao dai, a long tunic with loose fitting pants.
“Canada — Toronto to be exact.” He said this self-consciously, not entirely trusting his voice. His vocal cords had been inactive for three days and so they needed to warm up before he could talk.
“Were you born there?”
He was used to people asking him this. He usually answered in rote manner, but with Huong he found himself searching for an interesting way to tell her at least part of his life story.
Five Australian tourists came into the lobby. Their chubbiness and ruddy faces jarred him into realizing just how extraordinarily skinny the Vietnamese were. He was undersized himself, but aside from the cab driver on the ride in, a freakish anomaly, Russell was about twenty pounds heavier than the Vietnamese men.