All That's Left

by Ward Anderson

  Because she didn’t really like anyone else, Robin was always happiest when it was just the two of them at home. Steven had only had his condo in the Minto Midtown high rise for about six months before she moved in, and one of the first things she did was change everything. Just as he changed her taste for wine, she changed his appreciation for decorating. Gone were the classic leather sofas that reminded him of his dad’s office. Gone were the framed prints he’d found in art stores. Some guys would have been annoyed at everything Robin did to change the condo, but Steven was happy for it. She really was talented and turned it into the type of home you see in city magazines. People thought Robin’s and his place looked like it belonged in the pages of Toronto Life.

  Steven wondered how many weekends were spent, especially around that first Christmas together, with the two of them never leaving the apartment. They walked naked around the place, making love on every single piece of furniture.

  “We have to christen this ottoman!” Robin would cheer as she bounced up and down, her slender body absolutely stunning and surrounded by her handiwork. “Then we break in the bed again!”

  They’d order in Chinese food and lie on the floor on the artsy-looking rug she’d found. Wearing nothing but a Snuggie he’d bought for her at Zellers for fifteen dollars, she’d sing along to the Christmas songs he insisted on playing around the house. That first Christmas, she loved those songs. Even the one by The Chipmunks. He’d watch her and get aroused just looking at her sprawled out on the retro recliner she had picked out. He loved her taste. He adored her body and her red hair and her sexy smile. She made him feel less Frasier Crane and more Hugh Jackman.

  “You’re a classy guy,” she’d said at the time. “You deserve to live in a classy pad.”

  Classy it stayed, but happy it did not. When Robin began doing design full-time, she took any frustrations with that job out on the one Steven did. It didn’t matter that he was perfectly happy doing his job, she found ways of hating it.

  “Surely you don’t have to spend all your time at that place,” she’d say at least once a month. “Don’t they have some waiters or bartenders that can do most of that?”

  They probably did, but Steven loved doing it. So much so that he didn’t realize how much time he was spending there and how little he was spending in their classy pad. By the time he caught on to how lonely she was getting, Robin had already moved on to complaining about his neatness. Or his stuffiness. Or his misophonia. She didn’t dance naked for him anymore. She just rolled her eyes. A lot.

  Steven didn’t want to admit to himself that he had probably lost her months ago. It just took his being out of the country for her to finally push away for good.

  Checking his e-mail in-box one more time—probably the fifth time in the past half-hour—he finally closes his netbook and leans back in the desk chair. Over his left shoulder, he looks outside and sees that the brutal sun is still very high in the sky, beating down on what is an enormous and busy city. He didn’t pack any shorts. Not even a short-sleeved shirt.

  Over his right shoulder, he looks at the flat-screen TV and the British newscaster yammering away on the international CNN feed. Next to that flat-screen TV is a small, flat, rectangular cardboard box. It is very simple, very plain-looking, and weighs about five pounds. Inside that box is Scotty.

  Steven still feels a bit nauseous and a little embarrassed that he almost threw up right there when they gave him the box. It just seemed so creepy to be carrying his brother’s remains in what might as well be something one would pick up at the post office. It’s both funny and depressing when he thinks about how he could wrap the box in duct tape and, for very little money, mail his dead brother back home to Toronto. He knows from reading articles on the Internet that it’s not all ashes in that box; it’s not uncommon for bits of bone and wood to be in there. The thought of this makes him want to vomit, so he never opened the box and has no intention of ever doing so. He’ll spread the ashes with his eyes glued shut if he has to.

  “Guess it’s time to take you home, big brother,” he says to the box. The irony was never lost on either of them that, despite being the first born, Scotty usually had to rely on Steven to figure everything out. Scott might not have copied Steven’s appearance, but he had always copied Steven’s homework.

  This thought makes Steven laugh for a second and—without hesitation—that leads into his crying for at least two minutes. It’s been like this off and on for the past twenty hours or so, ever since he got back from the morgue. He remembers something about Scotty that makes him smile which then leads instantly to his realizing he’ll never smile with his brother again. The waterworks come quickly and then dry up as fast as they came. Sometimes he refuses to believe that Scotty is even gone. The only proof is across the room and looks nothing like him.

  Steven gets up from the desk and walks over and touches the cardboard box. He swears it feels warm and hopes he’s imagining it. He wonders if human remains can spontaneously combust after they’ve already been cremated. Then he wonders if he’s better off just dumping Scotty’s ashes right here in Singapore City. It’s the last place he lived, and for over two years. He was even ready to drop fifteen thousand dollars right here. Why shouldn’t this godforsaken oven keep him?

  Dwash, Steven thinks.

  He walks back over to the desk and pushes everything aside, looking for the slip of paper with that guy’s number on it. Apparently this Dwash guy thinks he already has Scott. Whatever he’s talking about might give Steven some clue as to why Scotty was looking for cash in the first place and what the hell he’d gotten himself into. For all Steven knows, Dwash is some kind of loan shark or mob boss. Does Singapore even have a mafia or loan sharks?

  Steven finds the paper and unfolds it. He still has no clue what it means:

  I have your brother. OK. 1200 Singapore and I will give them to you.

  Call me. 65 6738 1334—Dwash.

  Steven walks over to the bed and sits down, picking up the phone on the nightstand at the same time.

  “Yes, Mr. Kelly.” The owner of the voice on the other end is obviously smiling. “How can I be of service?”

  “I need to dial a local number.”

  “Of course. My pleasure to connect you.”

  After a couple of short clicks, there is the sound of ringing. After three rings, a man’s voice answers.

  “Yo,” the deep voice says. Steven wonders if this is a common Singaporean greeting.

  “Is this Dwash?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “Dwash? I’m looking for Dwash.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I got a message in my hotel to call Dwash. Is he there?”

  “Aw, hell.” The voice chuckles on the other end. “Is this Scott’s brother?”

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Steven says. “And how do you know Scott?”

  “It’s all good, man. I was a friend of Scott’s. Are you in the city? At the hotel?”

  “How did you know where I was staying?”

  “It took some effort, believe me,” the voice says. “But I figured you weren’t staying in any fleabag motel.”

  “You left me a note that you have my brother,” Steven says. “What did you mean? Is this Dwash?”

  “Is this who?”

  “Dwash. The message at the hotel said to call ‘Dwash.’ ”

  “Aw, shit, man,” the guy says, and laughs. “It’s not Dwash. It’s D.Wash. Dee. Wash. Like Donald Washington.”

  Steven shakes his head and thinks about slapping his forehead. “I see,” he says. “Well, what did you mean that you have my brother?”

  “Have your brother? Where?”

  “Christ, man, I don’t know. I got a message here that says you have my brother and that I have to pay you twelve hundred in order to get him back. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I assure you that you’re not going to get anything out of me. I don’t care what Scott owed you.”

 
D.Wash makes noises on the other end of the phone that seem to indicate that he is confused and not really sure what to say next. “What? Scott didn’t owe me anything.”

  “Then why the twelve hundred Singaporean dollars to come and get him?”

  D.Wash lets out a very long, loud breath. “Keys,” he says. “I have Scott’s keys.”

  “His keys?”

  “To his apartment. I have his keys, and I want to give them to you.”

  “Oh. Well, what’s with the twelve hundred bucks?”

  “Stupid hotel,” D.Wash says. He lets out a long sigh and sounds as if he is switching the phone from one ear to the other. His already deep voice seems to get deeper. “They took the message down wrong. Twelve hundred Singapore isn’t money. It’s a bar. Twelve hundred Singapore Avenue. It’s where my bar is. I have the keys to your brother’s apartment. Not your brother, and no money. Just his keys. At twelve hundred Singapore Avenue. The Blue Bayou.”

  Steven looks at the note again:

  I have your brother. OK. 1200 Singapore and I will give them to you.

  He wants to slap someone. All this time he thought he was being strong-armed for money when it was just a friend of Scotty’s trying to give him a hand.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  “Yeah,” D.Wash says. “What’d you think? I was trying to shake you down?”

  “Thought about it, yeah.”

  D.Wash laughs. “Nah, man. I wouldn’t do that to Scott’s brother.”

  “I did kind of think it made you the worst extortionist in history.”

  “For real. Listen, you wanna come get these keys? I figured you might wanna get his things out of his place and all.”

  “I guess so. Did you know my brother pretty well?”

  “Well enough to have his keys, right?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I figure you’ve got questions, too.”

  “A few, yeah.”

  “Well, come on by. I’ll tell you what I can. I’ll be here all night. It’s not too far or anything. Ten minutes in a cab.”

  “Sure. Gimme a bit, okay?”

  “You got it,” D.Wash says. “Tell the hotel staff to kiss my ass on your way out.”

  There is a click on the line, and D.Wash is gone. Steven thinks of taking him up on his advice and starts to dial zero. Instead, he just hangs up the phone and looks around the room once more. The cardboard box sitting next to the TV seems to be laughing at him.

  “Screw you,” Steven says to it. “And your keys.”

  5

  Walking down to the lobby, Steven feels the heat coming in from the automatic doors that lead outside. Standing in his usual position, still dressed as Kris Kringle, Lee is greeting people as they come and go. He turns around and sees Steven and smiles hugely through his sweaty, fake beard. Like a good doorman, he opens the door by making the exaggerated effort of waving his hand in front of the automatic sensor. As the doors slide open, he practically bounces over to Steven.

  “Mister Stevens.” He beams. “How are you, sir?”

  “Great, Lee,” Steven says. “Can I get a taxi, please?”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Stevens. Right away.” Lee fetches a whistle he has buried in the pocket of his Santa suit and blows into it. From around the corner, a Ford sedan comes slowly creeping over. It looks exactly like a taxi cab from anywhere else in the world. Steven doesn’t know why, but he keeps thinking he’ll see one that is unique to the area. He doesn’t even know if Singapore has its own line of cars.

  “There you are, Mister Stevens,” Lee says, and opens the door to the backseat. Steven climbs in and, at the same time, slips a couple of bucks to Lee. He imagines that Lee will be disappointed with the amount this time around, but the first tip should still keep Steven off the naughty list for at least the rest of his stay.

  “Twelve hundred Singapore Avenue, please,” Steven says to the driver while simultaneously nodding and waving to Lee as he shuts the door. “Winter Wonderland” is playing on the radio, and the air-conditioning is already on full blast. Steven sits back and lets his shirt stick to his back as he gazes out the window.

  The city has not slowed down once since he landed. Even now, as the evening is on its way, cars are everywhere and people are all over the sidewalks. Steven has never seen so many motor scooters and Vespas as he does right now. Every other vehicle has only two wheels. The occasional motorcycle goes by, and he spots a couple of crotch rockets. Mostly, however, he notices little mopeds and tiny electric bikes. Occasionally, he spots a random car that he’s never heard of before, even though it may be made by Honda or Toyota. He wonders why these cars aren’t available in Canada or the US, and then realizes almost no one would buy them. Some of them are barely bigger than the scooters they share the road with.

  Steven notices that almost everything is Western. There are signs advertising The Gap and Banana Republic. There are billboards convincing people to buy an iPad. The cab comes to a stop at a red light on a street corner in front of a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Steven wonders for a minute if the people here really love the Western culture or if they simply have no choice. Were they invaded by cheap food and simply chose to accept it? Or do they really love McNuggets? He wonders if there’s a Walmart in Singapore and, if there is, did the people here protest it like the people in parts of Canada did when the stores opened there? He sees ads for cellular phone companies and wonders if that’s the one thing from here that found its way west. Everything in regard to technology in Singapore City seems years ahead of Canada. But all of the food and the clothes are straight out of Hollywood.

  The tall skyscrapers get smaller, and the cab comes to an area where the streets become narrow and a little more crowded. There are fewer office buildings and banks and suddenly more bars and cafés. The restaurants go from being McDonald’s and Burger Kings to little independent places with names like The Flying Pizza and Great Greek and Noodle Hut. It reminds Steven of hanging out in Chinatown or The Annex in Toronto. He wonders if this is where students or artists hang out.

  D.Wash is right and, after less than fifteen minutes, the taxi comes to a stop in front of a row of bars at the end of one of the small streets. Steven looks out the window as he is paying the driver and notices a sandwich board with the words BLUE BAYOU written on it. The words COMEDY 2NITE are written in pink chalk, and ONLY $10 underneath that is written in blue. At the top of the sign, a bluebird with cartoon eyes has been half-assed drawn, looking excited about the ten dollars.

  Steven looks at the bar, which is narrow but appears to go up three levels. The front patio is open, and people are sitting outside, drinking beers. The dark gray building has bright blue shutters and that same cartoon bird painted right above the front door. It’s a very cute, very tacky pub . . . and it looks very out of place in this city. The two Chinese restaurants on either side only make it stand out even more.

  Walking through the front door, Steven looks around at the very simple décor and immediately feels like he’s at some run-down pub back home. It almost looks like a place one would find on the beach somewhere in Florida, with old people and surfers walking in to have some fried shrimp and a beer. The tables are all wood, and the seats are mostly wooden barstools. Random framed photos of bluebirds adorn the walls, which makes Steven wonder why the place has the name it does. He wonders if there’s a Bluebird Bar somewhere in town decorated with photos of a bayou.

  “What’s happening?!” A very large, bald black man with rimless eyeglasses waves to him from behind the bar. When he does, random people of random ethnicities at the bar turn around and wave, too. There are several Asian people, a couple of white guys, and a black woman. They each smile and yell “what’s happening” exactly the same way as the bartender. Steven stops in his tracks and looks awkwardly over his shoulder at the doorway behind him.

  “Yeah, you!” the bartender says. Everyone at the bar laughs and turns back to his or her drink and food. The bartender laughs and waves Steven over. �
�C’mon in!”

  Steven walks slowly up to the bar with the confidence of a bad liar at a poker tournament. He pulls out one of the wooden barstools, but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he leans on the bar and makes eye contact with the bartender.

  “You’re Stevie, right?” the bartender says, and extends a very large hand. Steven takes it and notices that two of his hands could fit inside its enormous grip. He’s surprised when it turns out the handshake is actually quite soft coming from such a big guy.

  “Steven,” he says. “You must be D.Wash.”

  “That I am, my man.” D.Wash smiles, and his mouth is somehow bigger than his enormous hands. “That I am. Welcome. Man, you really do look like him.”

  “I get that a lot,” Steven says. He always wonders why people are surprised to find out that identical twins are nearly identical. It’s right there in the description. Yet every time someone would meet the other brother, there was always talk of “my, how alike you look.” Four years apart and it would be a surprise. Four minutes seems kind of obvious.

  “I think you might be a little better looking than your bro,” D.Wash says. “All that hair and the ink didn’t suit him, if you ask me.”

  “Thanks,” Steven says. “Nice place.”

  “Hey, thanks, man.” D.Wash touches his index finger to his chest, right where his heart would be. “Respect. You want a Tiger?”

  “A what?”

  “Tiger. It’s a beer. You want?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You find the place okay?”

  Steven holds out his hands to his sides as if to say, “Here I am.” D.Wash smiles and steps over to the cash register. He pushes a few buttons, and the drawer opens. Then he reaches in and pulls out a set of keys. He walks back over to where Steven is; the smile on his face fades, and he hands the keys across the bar as if he were giving up the lease to his bar. The switch from happy to sad is quick, and it makes Steven a bit uncomfortable.