by Doretta Lau
I entered my apartment to find that my roommate, Sarah, was asleep. I tried to step softly past her room, but alcohol lent my gait an uncharacteristic heaviness. It didn’t help that I was wearing heels and walking across a hardwood floor. Although I had been raised not to wear shoes indoors, I followed the customs of Sarah and my previous two roommates and kept my shoes in my bedroom. Rather than bathing at night, I bathed in the morning. I had made small changes to my personal habits so as not to irk my roommates even though New York was only a chapter in my personal narrative. I knew that one day, when I was no longer paying tuition, the United States would not want me within its borders and I would have to move on.
Ever since my grandmother died, I had been avoiding Sarah. She had what passed for happiness, and I did not want to impose on her because she was in the last stages of her dissertation. I was hardly ever home, and when I was it was usually past midnight. Sarah was a morning person. Our schedules did not mesh.
During the day I worked on my screenplay in the library. When I say work, I mean to say I watched films in the Butler Library Media Center and took copious notes. I was in possession of eleven medium-size black notebooks filled with pedestrian thoughts on hundreds of films. There was a notebook devoted to zombie movies, and another one on vampire flicks. I devoted two entire volumes on heists, trying to figure out just what made Le Cercle Rouge and The Taking of Pelham 123 so appealing to me. No genre was beneath my notice. Although I didn’t believe that it was possible for me to fall in love, I watched romantic comedies. I knew that I would have a better chance of selling a love story than an action film because I was a woman. That was supposed to be my territory: shopping and grooming and courtship and marriage.
I was so lost during this time that I thought that seeking order and predictability would free me in some way. Therefore, the teen comedy My Boyfriend’s Back merited the same careful attention as Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. I read movie reviews online and academic essays in obscure journals, believing I would find the formula for success. My compulsive research did not gain me exit from the hell that was writer’s block. I began to hate opening Final Draft on my computer. The cursor on the blank screen seemed to mock me with its steady blink.
Aside from grief, during this period my other constant preoccupation was money. I had mounting student loans; my inability to finish writing the screenplay prevented my graduating in a timely manner. I wanted very much to finish. I devoted hours to sitting in quiet places, writing outlines for the second and third acts of my film. But as I sat in front of my computer, I felt like I was a failure. I would never be able to write anything worth watching. No one would ever want to buy my screenplay and turn it into a movie. This paralysis seemed too much to overcome.
When I was tired of working on my screenplay, I turned to odd jobs. This was against the terms of my student visa, but somehow it made me feel better. Each morning, I scanned job postings and emails in search of a few dollars. Although my great-grandfather had been a scholar, his fortune had been lost even before the Communist era and all the older men in my family were labourers. Writing did not seem a particularly honest way of earning a living. When I reported what I was doing to my parents, it sounded lazy. Who of their generation could believe that watching a film constituted real research? There were times when I thought I should have attended law school instead; I was an excellent reader and researcher, and I was relentless at completing tasks when I felt there was little at stake. Most nights I could not sleep thinking that my father could have retired early had I not decided to pursue my film school insanity. This only compounded my fears of failing to complete my screenplay.
Kenichi called me, begging me to accompany him to a party a student from his cohort was hosting. “I don’t want to go—but you know how it is,” he said. “I have to make an appearance.”
“Can’t you go alone?” I could think of many things I’d rather do with my evening than attend a party thrown by one of Kenichi’s acquaintances, such as defrost my refrigerator or alphabetize my dvd collection.
“I’ll get you drunk before we go.”
“Do you really want to have a drunk guest at a school function?”
“It’s not really a school function. And since when have you been that kind of drunk girl? Besides, I’ll behave better if you’re there. Even when you’re intoxicated, you’re sensible.”
“Come over with a bottle of Maker’s Mark.” I disliked many of Kenichi’s cohort, but some of them amused me, like specimens in a freak show.
After four bourbons, we arrived at the party at 11:30. I was verging on belligerence. When I drank, I said cruel things about strangers and acquaintances, cutting remarks I would not utter while sober. Whether alcohol was a truth serum or demonic possession, I wasn’t quite sure.
As we stepped into the living room, Jenna Kim—a girlfriend of an American named Chad or Chuck or Chandler who specialized in Joseon dynasty history and who directed all his conversation at my breasts whenever I had the bad luck of speaking with him—was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist, and she wasn’t wearing panties. She had a cigarette in one hand, and was blowing smoke out of her vagina. Jenna was famous for this at parties. She called it her “Singapore hooker trick.”
“Oh, fuck, not again,” I said loudly. “I need another drink.” I went into the kitchen. Kenichi followed.
“Is this type of behaviour common at parties in North America?” he asked, amused.
“She’s such a fucking moron,” I said. “Singapore is the least likely Asian setting for this kind of desperate sex work. I mean, if she had said Thai hooker trick, I’d still be annoyed with her, but at least she wouldn’t come across as so utterly stupid. She has no sense of political and socio-economic realities in different Asian countries. You’d think all of Asia was poor and backwards from her estimation of Singapore.”
Kenichi laughed. “She’s got a cigarette in her pussy and you’re thinking about socio-economic factors and its influence on prostitution?”
“Whatever. I was saying that she’s a stupid, self-hating, attention-seeking bitch. I bet she thinks she’s a feminist. She probably writes poetry using feet binding as a metaphor for her dislike of her father, even though her family is Korean.”
“Let’s punish her by finishing off her soju.” Kenichi held up a couple of green bottles.
“I bet Chad or Chuck or Chandler brought those,” I said, reaching for one. “Cheers.”
And so we drank away another night.
One day, just as a chill had set in, I found a job posting asking for a Chinese speaker. Although it didn’t specify a dialect, I knew they were seeking someone fluent in Mandarin. My abilities in standard Chinese were rather limited; I spoke Cantonese with my family. Since becoming depressed and broke, however, nothing shamed me and I no longer had qualms about telling untruths. I sent an email stating that I spoke Chinese. I received a phone message in Mandarin from someone named Kay asking me to meet at Dodge Hall that afternoon.
I walked across campus, passing Low Library. When it was warm out, the stairs leading up to the entrance was filled with people. But because it was cold, there were only a handful of students sitting down.
At Dodge Hall, there was only one Asian woman standing on the steps. I assumed this was Kay. “Hello,” I said in Mandarin. “I’m Sophie. Are you Kay?”
“You’re a Cantonese speaker,” Kay said when she heard my accent.
“Yes,” I said, switching back to English, not wanting to embarrass myself any further.
“You’re in the film program,” she said.
“How did you know that?”
“You’re friends with Sam. You’re in his films. I’ve seen all of them. Sam and I used to work together in Singapore.”
“You’re in the visual arts program.”
Kay lit a cigarette. “And how did you know
that?” She exhaled.
“I think it’s your glasses,” I said. “Actually, you were in my international student group for orientation last year. I was the peer mentor.” Kay was one of the people I often saw in Dodge Hall whom I wanted to befriend, but had never figured out a graceful way to do so.
“I can’t see without them.”
“A blind artist,” I joked.
“Colour and motion are okay. I don’t photograph, and I don’t do fine drawings or detailed paintings.”
“Sculpture?”
“Installation, mostly. Some video.” She peered at me closely. “How tall are you?”
“Five two.”
“Hmm.” She continued to stare at me.
“I think we’re the same height,” I said.
“Come by my studio.” She handed me a card with her name and a telephone number embossed on it. “You know where the studios are, yes?”
“Prentis.”
“Right.” She put out her cigarette and left me standing on the stairs.
A few days later, on my way back from grocery shopping at Fairway, I decided to stop by Kay’s studio. I called her.
“Yes?” she said.
“It’s Sophie. From the interview.”
“I was wondering when you would call.”
“I’m at Prentis, but I don’t have swipe access to the building. Long story, but I keep losing my id card. The guard is away.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Kay opened the door for me. She was wearing what appeared to be layers of burlap.
“Isn’t that itchy?” I asked.
“I’m wearing it over clothes,” she said. “The burlap isn’t touching my skin. It’s a bit cold in my studio, and this was lying around.”
As we walked up the stairs, I began to feel apprehensive. I had not yet seen her work, and I was worried I might not like it. Although it was irrational, if I didn’t like someone’s artistic output, I found it difficult to be civil. I was lucky to have friends that could abide my pretensions and neuroses.
When we entered her studio, I felt relieved. There was no evidence of mediocre work, only projects in progress that held promise.
“Would you like a drink?” Kay asked. “I have tea, coffee and scotch.”
“I’ll have a scotch,” I said.
She handed me a generous glass of the liquor.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Vancouver,” I said.
“I hear it’s beautiful.”
“In parts,” I said. “I guess when I think about it, I focus on the areas that are picturesque, like the water and the mountains and the forests. But the city has an ugly side to it as well, like all other places in the world.”
I walked over to a wall covered in photographs. “I thought you didn’t take photographs.”
“That’s documentation of a performance I did last year. I don’t photograph with the intention to show.”
“They’re good,” I said.
“I didn’t take them,” Kay said, laughing. “I paid someone to document the piece for me.”
I nodded to show that I understood, and took a sip of my drink.
“So, I guess you know that I don’t speak Mandarin very well,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “There’s no job. I wanted to see who would answer the ad. It’s part of a project I’m working on.”
I felt relieved that I wasn’t going to be called on to be an interpreter.
“Your friend, Kenichi,” Kay began.
“Oh, you know Kenichi?” I asked.
“We all know about Kenichi—all the women in my program, and some of the men, have tried to talk to him at some point,” she said. “But no one knows him. Except for you.”
“He’s my neighbour,” I said.
“He’s not your boyfriend?”
“We’re just friends.”
“How can you be just friends with him?” she asked. “Are you blind? I think you need to get your eyes checked. I’m not the only one with poor vision.” She smiled.
“Are you interested in him?” I asked.
“No, he’s not my type,” she said. “But he seems to be yours.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
The next week, Kenichi’s therapist upped the dosage on his medication. He called to cancel Thursday night drinks because he had slept through class and didn’t intend on leaving his apartment.
“Why don’t we go have dinner instead?” I said, concerned that he was slipping into a deeper depression. “If you haven’t been outside all day, it might be good to get some air. Have you eaten?”
“I’m too tired,” he said. Then he hung up.
I watched two movies and took notes. By midnight I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I called Kay. I had discovered that I could always count on her to be awake at odd hours. Her studio didn’t have windows, and she often lost track of time. As well, her schedule remained fixed to Singapore time despite the fact that she had lived in New York for over a year. I had never thought to question why she had not acclimated to Eastern Standard Time.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“Come over,” she said.
I was also privy to the knowledge that Kay was grieving, but she had never told me for whom. I was too polite to ask, and she was too private to talk about what was bothering her. Sometimes we sat in her studio drinking tea in silence. It was enough to know that someone else was going through the same thing.
“I’m worried about Kenichi,” I said when I reached her studio.
“Why?”
I told her about his missing class, and cancelling our standing appointment. But then I began to talk about my inability to work, because that was also worrying me. I began to speak as if I were delivering a monologue.
“Perhaps I’m defeating myself,” I said. “What is grief? It’s just a transitory thing. I wish I could think myself out of all this and just write. It feels as if I’m using it as an excuse not to work.”
I was determined to start afresh. I scrapped the screenplay I had been working on and started on a new one, a romantic comedy. But every line I wrote seemed false. My protagonist was too much like me, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to love.
Kenichi called. “Why are you like this?” he slurred.
“Like what?” I asked, curious.
“Nevermind,” he said. “I need to go back to sleep.”
“Good night,” I said. When I hung up, I wrote our conversation into my screenplay.
Thanksgiving came and went. One morning I woke up at 8 a.m. and felt buoyant. I don’t know what had changed, but something was different even though nothing had happened to warrant a change, except perhaps the passing of time. Maybe the day was particularly bright, or I was clear-headed for the first time in a long while, but there was a sense that I had attained a freedom of some sort.
Rather than plan my day around drinking, I made myself breakfast and sat down and wrote twenty pages. Later, I threw out those pages. There was nothing worth reading, but it was enough. I called Kenichi. I called Kay. I bought groceries and called Sarah to tell her that I was going to cook dinner, and that she should join me.
That night, the four of us ate together, telling funny stories about our childhoods and drinking two bottles of wine. Sarah went to bed early, and Kay had to return home to make a phone call to Singapore. Kenichi and I began walking to the bar we always went to on Thursday nights.
“Did you get a haircut?” Kenichi asked me as we walked down the stairs.
“No,” I said.
“You look different,” he said. “Better.”
Out on Seminary Row, I had an overwhelming urge to hug Kenichi. I put my arms around him, and buried my face into his coat. He smelled so deliciously clean. He put h
is hands at the small of my back, and it felt as if he was holding me up, preventing me from sinking into the ground. Snow was falling, and gathering on our clothes. The tears I had been holding back for months came up like a tsunami, unstoppable. My grandmother was dead. But I was alive. I would live.
“I think this is what it’s like to feel happy,” I said.
Rerun
Today’s my big day. I’m getting married. I should be happy, but there’s this weird numb feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with the silicone bags shoved under my skin. The thing is, the groom is seventy. I’m twenty-four. The marriage was my mother’s idea. She’s planned my entire life from the moment of my adoption. She chose me from a Korean orphanage. This wedding is part of my comeback after a long stretch in rehab. I have a drinking problem. I destroyed my acting career because I liked drinking better than working. But I’m here now and I don’t regret the past.
“Who says there are no second acts in American life?” Mom says. She’s stabbing bobby pins in my hair. Drawing blood.
The man’s children are all older than me. None of them are coming to the wedding. There’s no pre-nup and they don’t trust my intentions. They’re right—what started all this was a problem with taxes. I hadn’t been paying my fair share. Then the authorities caught on, so Mom devised a plan for me to catch a rich gentleman and get him to settle my debts for me.
The zipper on my dress is stuck.
“You’ve gotten fat. I told you not to eat the pasta last night.”
We’re at an impasse. I start thinking that maybe this is a sign I shouldn’t get married. But this doesn’t stop Mom. Nothing stops her. She tugs. The zipper gives way.
As I walk down the aisle, I marvel at the obscene floral arrangements. The bridesmaids all look like sausages encased in giant frills. I chose their dresses. I must be a misogynist.
The old man is standing there, waiting. He’s a bit hunched over, and his skin is so saggy that he looks like he’s a different species of animal. Sometimes he takes his teeth out before he kisses me. We haven’t had sex. He thinks I’m a virgin, saving myself for marriage.