The Maladjusted

by Derek Hayes

  When Huong addressed the Aussies, she smiled with an intensity of warmth and good humour that — even though he understood otherwise — he’d hoped she’d reserved only for him. A little depressed, he returned to his room, and for the first time in three days his containment needled him, and the musty smell, mixed with his own odour, repulsed him.

  The next morning, he lay in bed until ten o’clock, when hunger pangs got him up. The hotel’s nice breakfast, coffee with bread and jam, was not enough. He’d emptied the bar fridge of its chocolate bars and assorted nuts on each of the three days he’d spent in the room. He felt the sort of wooziness one feels after forgoing nourishing food for an extended period of time. And so, like a bed-ridden invalid recovering from an illness and venturing outside for the first time, Russell, with passport firmly strapped to the inside of his leg and his money belt secure, waved goodbye to Huong and took his first weary steps into the polluted streets of Saigon. His first impression was that he could smell the heat in the air — a fruity smell, mixed with garbage.

  The food merchants, located on every corner, were all similar — women cleaning pots and pans over sewers. The smell of fish sauce everywhere. Large vats of bubbling broth were exposed to the dirty air and buzzing flies. The patios, some full of foreigners, extended out to the street and were equipped with clean tablecloths and plastic chairs. Russell looked till he found a merchant of about his age.

  She had delicate features, a thin nose and perfectly symmetrical eyes, with teeth that were less than white. He stared at her while she chopped some Serrano peppers. Her skin was like tofu. A limp noodle hung precipitously on her white shirt between her petite breasts. He fought off the urge to tap it into the wok that she wiggled with her narrow hips. Did she watch TV at night? Did she think he was handsome? Did she even have these types of feelings? The Vietnamese people seemed like automatons, like the tiny, inanimate figures in Age of Empires.

  She asked him something in Vietnamese.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You speak English?”

  “Yes, heh-heh. Only English. Sorry.” He hunched his shoulders and held up his hands, palms open to the sky, to show he was inadequate at her language, though he was sure that some atavistic mechanism in his brain was kicking in, which would enable him to understand some Vietnamese by the end of his trip.

  He pointed to the rice noodles and asked for chicken. He held out a row of five one-dollar bills. The woman pouted churlishly, took one of the bills and said, “Sit there please.” He obeyed. He stared at a small television that was positioned on a crate on the other side of the steel kitchen. Detective Sipowitz was banging a guy’s head into a subway door. Russell couldn’t hear anything because the set was muted.

  “You get NYPD Blue on television,” he said, pointing at the set.

  “Eat your noodles,” she said.

  Russell studied her over the next two days — the arguments that she had with her husband, the routine of her duties and the efficient way she moved in a contained area. When he’d first met her, he’d doubted her sentience. Her beauty had been abstract. He felt as if he were fawning over a porcelain doll. The more he talked with her the more he saw that she, too, liked to chitchat and laugh with friends, and that she, too, got tired and grumpy in the heat. The fact that she had a cell phone was hilarious. He also felt an ugly jealousy toward her husband, especially when he found out that they had two small babies, who were being looked after by an elderly grandparent.

  On the sixth day, Russell learned her name — Thanh Ha. He was chewing on squid, something he’d never tried before. He removed a grey, half-eaten chunk from his mouth, wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “Give it to me,” she said. He took the squid-stuffed handkerchief and handed it to her. She put this in the pocket of her apron. A sign of familiarity? I obviously don’t repulse her. With her this close Russell tried to smell her, but, with the chili sauce from his fried squid still in the air and the sudsy stream of dishwashing water running under his stool, he couldn’t detect her scent. Her calves poked from a slit in her tunic. Thicker than he’d supposed for such a delicate woman. He stood up and stretched lazily. “Hey, Thanh Ha. I have to get going.” He displayed the American one-dollar bills — was it presumptuous of him to assume that all meals cost a dollar? He smiled, and indicated with a finger the similarities that existed between him and Thanh Ha: the black hair, the dirty T-shirt and the same approximate height. He said, “The same. The same. All the same.”

  Thanh Ha frowned and shook her head. She pointed to the row of bills in Russell’s hand. “Not the same. You eat here. You sleep at the Norfolk Hotel. I today live on four dollars. Tomorrow four dollars. Tomorrow, tomorrow four dollars.” She added, “You can go. We want get ready for dinner.”

  On the day before he left, Russell put on a T-shirt that advertised WJOC Rock, a pair of slacks, and sandals. After taking out four dollars, he placed the wallet inside his suitcase. He went downstairs at seven o’clock, just before Huong was finishing the night shift. He told her that he wouldn’t be coming back to the hotel until nine o’clock that evening. He asked her to take his passport and key — not to lock them up on the other side of the counter but to carry them with her to her home. “I’m gonna be in the city for the whole day,” he said. “That’s why I want you to have this stuff — my key especially. You can’t let me come back early.”

  She laughed. “You are asking me to come to your room later?” She winked at the other concierge.

  “Today, I’m going to get by on four dollars!” He took out the bills and waved them in her face.

  “Okay, Okay. Good luck to you,” Huong said, gently gesturing him away from her.

  He thrust the money in her face again. “Just the four dollars, Huong. I can do this.” He took a step back, suddenly conscious of his obnoxiousness, but not really caring much either. “Do you think you could write the hotel address on my arm? I’m a little worried about getting lost.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.” With other tourists filing past, Huong bent over and wrote on him. “Don’t sweat too much, sweetie. This may come off in the sun.”

  “I’m not coming back until tonight,” he said.

  “Yeah, good luck,” Huong said, but not very convincingly.

  He set off on his one-day excursion through the streets of Saigon. He walked past the motorized rickshaw drivers, who paid little attention to him. He walked past the motorcycle shops, past the vendors that sold lychees, and stopped in the market place for breakfast. With a budget for the day in mind, he asked Thanh Ha for some fruit. She gave him an apple and a mango. In the same way as he might hold a poker hand, he thrust the four bills in front of her. She took three of his dollars and he walked away.

  He did not acknowledge his rage until he’d walked a full block south through the market. Thanh Ha, the tempestuous lady who had served him his meals over much of the week, and whom he’d fantasized about every night, had chosen this, his second last day in town, to rip him off. She’d stripped him of three of his bills, three-quarters of his self-prescribed quota for the day. How dare she take advantage of me like that!

  His walk through the streets that morning was tarnished for two reasons: he was hungry — the fruit hadn’t dissipated his hunger — and he was obsessed with the outrageousness of the incident, which by then had transformed into an intolerable deceit. He walked along a wide boulevard with his head down. He forced himself to look up when he passed the Giac Lam Pagoda with its carved jackwood statues. The Vietnamese are supposed to be honest, he thought. He stood for an hour watching water puppetry on a man-made pond. He stared at a man gutting tiny fish flapping on a wagon. He wanted to visit the Phu Tho Natural Institute of Technology, but he had no idea if he was in the right district and he didn’t feel like asking, nor did he feel like getting into a cab. I know she’s poor, but I worked hard myself to come here. It’s not my fault a planned economy messed up the Vietnamese for over th
irty years. It’s not my fault the French colonized the area. It’s not my fault I’m rich and she’s poor. He reached into his pocket from time to time to ensure that the one remaining bill was still there. The money was moist from his perspiration.

  At five o’clock, he took another stab at buying food. He was hungry, yet determined not to make the same mistake twice. He pointed to the noodle soup and said, “Half a dollar.”

  The old lady countered in halting English that the price of a bowl of soup was one dollar. Unwilling to concede defeat, he haggled and then stomped off, only to return a few minutes later.

  “One dollar,” she said. “One dollar.”

  “No, I’m not paying that much. For a dollar you can give me some of those spring rolls.”

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I can’t give you any food.”

  “You’ve been a great help,” he said. He moved on to another merchant, who was unwilling to even talk to him.

  He walked to another market a few streets away, where he finally found someone who’d accept his price. He was worried that the merchants from the previous market would follow him in an attempt to dissuade this man from co-operating. The man served his soup and, in a grand act of conciliation, handed him two thousand dong (which Russell would later learn was worth about fifteen cents).

  Tired from the exertion of his adventure, Russell made it back to the hotel just as Huong was starting her evening shift. He was carrying two bags of McDonald’s, a two-litre bottle of Pepsi and a pineapple.

  “Where did you get the money to buy that?” she said.

  “I succumbed to hunger, I guess. I had some extra money stashed in my sock.”

  He stood at his window and looked down at the neighbourhood. By two o’clock in the morning all activity in the neighbourhood had ceased. What a wonderful holiday, thought Russell. Nobody, not Mom or Dad, not Ray — he’d try to explain — but nobody would fully understand his experiences. The funny cab ride. The guy could have robbed him. Huong. Thanh Ha and her family. The beautiful Pagoda he visited. The district was hilarious. Or was that the right word? Nobody else had access to these impressions. And that was because they were his. He’d have to thank his mother. She’d been right all along. This had been a fantastic idea. He also wanted to thank Huong for her kindness. Maybe right now. But no, she’d think it strange at three in the morning.

  He woke up after only a few hours of sleep and packed his suitcase for the flight. He separated the little Canadian pins into two separate stacks and gave one pile to Huong, who said, “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” When he was at the elevator, she added, “Come back next year.” He didn’t turn around. He knew that she’d meant this. That she probably didn’t say this to every customer.

  He headed to the market and left the second pile on Thanh Ha’s steel kitchen. Nobody was awake, so he was able to sneak back to the hotel without being seen.

  He was anxious when passing through immigration at the airport — two tough-looking Vietnamese were carrying rifles at the checkout area — but was surprised when he opened his passport. A yellow post-it note was stuck to his photo. I guessed when I first met you that you were probably born here. This is a beautiful place, no? I hope you learned about your ancestry. Come back some time for another visit. I’ll find you a nice Vietnamese wife. — Huong

  TOM AND WILKIE

  WILKIE SEES AN ELDERLY MAN BESIDE A run-down barbecue shack, next to the town’s community centre, looking out at the graveyard, his withering grey hair messed by the wind. He is seven years younger than Wilkie, but at seventy, old in comparison to most everyone else. His name is Tom. He’s still handsome, his jaw and shoulders manly and sturdy, whereas Wilkie lost his looks in his early thirties, if he ever had any. The muscles around Tom’s mouth are twitching. His wife’s funeral was earlier today so he’s grieving. He’d be surprised to learn that Wilkie is watching him, as he would also be shocked that Wilkie has observed him for the past fifty-five or so years. Tom underestimated Wilkie early on, dismissed him as someone of no consequence. Wilkie is Robert Wilkinson, owner of O’Brien’s Restaurant and president of the Harriers, a men’s group dedicated to the survival of the town. His ancestors, Scottish and English, have been involved in the Harriers for generations.

  When he was a teenager Wilkie was an assistant coach of the local hockey team because his father was head coach and because he loved being around hockey players, even if they were young. And Tom was simply the best bantam hockey player to play the game. Wilkie’s dad had him pegged as someone who might make it as a hockey player and then return to become a community leader and contribute to the economic wellbeing of their bucolic, non-descript tobacco town, population 1800, two hours south of Toronto.

  A doughnut shop, a water tower, a gas station, a diner and a grocery store surrounded three industrial buildings of terracotta brick. There was a suburb to the north of Main Street and one to the south, both filled with bungalows and two-story residences. There was a nine-hole golf course. After that, tobacco farms extended for miles.

  Tom was only in grade three when Wilkie’s father and other business people in the area financed a brick community centre on the periphery of town, just south of the graveyard, but as soon as it was built he was easily gliding around the slower skating Denton Bears and potting goal after goal. The Bears’ coach, a purple-faced man with slits for eyes, said, “You take it easy on us today, Tommy.” The boy, barely smiling, said, “You better put eight players on the ice then,” and winked at his right-winger, Sammy Belinski. He was cocky for someone his age, but boy could he play! The referee, a retired police officer from the Davisville and Highway 54 intersection, acknowledged his greatness by grabbing his chinstrap and giving it a tug. Mothers from Denton smiled at Tom as he lumbered gracefully to the dressing room after the game.

  Tom combed his black hair to the left. His eyes were the same colour as wood stain. He’d sneak into the arena Saturday nights and stand in the middle of the rink looking in awe at the colossal space, weighing his feelings of importance against his insignificance in the huge rink. At these moments, he believed that the community centre with the new red brick, clean boards and modern canteen, epitomized the greatness of the town.

  One day, on the road to an afternoon game against Sutton, Tom was studying the map in his father’s car, the roads leading in and out of town. He asked his father geographical and historical questions then became quiet as the flat countryside changed to rolling hills, from tobacco to soybeans. He was disparaging of Sutton’s arena, a sign that he was due for a productive afternoon. His confidence depended on the size of an opposing team’s arena. When he played in an arena that was bigger, his confidence would suffer. Before this game, Tom watched the Yellow Jackets get out of their parents’ cars, and mingle in the canteen. Listening to the farm boys chatter, he was surprised and baffled that they talked about the Leafs — other kids in other towns loved all the same things he did!

  After the game Wilkie sharpened skates and put the goalie equipment away, and then his dad dropped him off at O’Brien’s — his busboy shift was to start soon. Tom’s family came in two hours later for dinner, during which Tom’s father described each of Tom’s goals as the boy struggled to fit his mouth over his cheeseburger. Wilkie served Tom a piece of chocolate cake. Tom would surely appreciate his generosity of spirit. “He’s good, Jim, your boy,” he said to Tom’s father.

  One summer the town hosted a Saturday evening dance. Young Tom and Sammy Belinski ran onto the concrete floor and slid under tables. Adults sat on lawn chairs and fanned themselves in the heat. Teenagers drank beer out of Styrofoam cups at the back of the arena. Tom and Sammy Belinski and Tom’s younger sister lowered themselves under the concrete stands. Surrounded by cobwebs and dirt, they scavenged for bottles and loose change dropped from the stands. Afterward, Tom walked home with his family. “Mr. James showed up in his tractor,” he said, “and parked it right in there with the cars.” His father said, “Old Wilson sure can eat
hot-dogs. Did you see how many hot-dogs he ate?” His mother said, “Karen was in a good mood tonight. She’s got absolute control over her kids. There’s no doubt about that.”

  Eight years later, Tom had black fuzz on his lip and no longer dominated games. Bigger kids from farm areas grabbed and held him, hindering him from sliding in on opposing goalies. Finesse players from London used their sticks to strip him of the puck and chop at his ankles. Wilkie’s dad was dismayed that Tom did not retaliate. It was during this season, in the canteen after a game against Bowan, that Wilkie overheard his father tell Mr. Belinski, his latest assistant, that Tom would never play Junior A hockey, nor Junior B for that matter.

  Tom’s enthusiasm for the game did wane. The stench of equipment and the drama in the stands dulled him. The arena was as uninspiring and unimaginative as the endless fields of tobacco. He went through the motions on the ice, making no extra effort. Only sheer talent allowed him to score an occasional goal.

  On a desolate Friday afternoon in the middle of the winter, Tom was sitting with his friends in O’Brien’s. He flicked a penny at Wilkie’s back as Wilkie made his way to another table. Pennies clanked off tables and left dents in pictures. They’d polished off two mickeys of vodka at Faldo’s, the nine-hole golf course, and they waited for Wilkie to turn the corner to serve non-smoking customers, and then looted the potato chip display. Under the table Tom distributed three of the bags. The sight of Wilkie, a twenty-four year old man, yelling at him and out of control (the flicked pennies must have stung), left him feeling smug and superior.

  That summer, with his hair long in the back, and still without acne, Tom sauntered into the arena with a pretty girl. A little boy’s head emerged from under a table. He palmed the kid’s head and stuffed it back, moved around the table, end to end, blocking the kid’s exit, until the boy was stifling sobs. Tom smirked. “You a little girl?” He joined his girlfriend and others at the back of the arena. “Mr. James is a strange bugger,” he said. “He drives his tractor into town even though he has a car.” Sammy Belinski said, “That old man Mr. Wilson sure can eat hot-dogs. He’s putting them back faster than a pig would eat.” Tom’s girlfriend said, “Mrs. Porter is a rag with her kids.”