by Shilo Jones
“Yeah.”
“And he shits himself!”
Realize I’m chewing my cuticle bloody, stuff my hands in my hoodie, feel the bottle of knock-off Oxys I scored on my way to the Cash Corner. “Yeah. That guy shitting himself was all-time funny. And remember the baby dying?”
Ryan glances over his shoulder. “That wasn’t funny though.”
“Nope?”
“Okay. Hey? You can call me Twll. If you want? You’re Clint’s brother, right? He told me about you a bit. You got a nickname? Clint says it’s cool when everyone on a crew has nicknames, says we gotta stick together in this business, you know—”
The ugly big-headed kid leans on the hood, says, “Like ragheads do with trucking?” then gives Ryan a shitty sneer, like, hey, see the brown on your nose?
I’m guessing they’re only a few years apart in age. Ryan sees the sneery look too, puffs up his chest, proud to know the boss personally, and now the two teenagers are gonna be locked in bullshit competition for the rest of the day, trying to see who can one-up the other and impress the boss, and I guess that’s something I could use to my or Clint’s advantage, business-wise, but like Clint says I’m lousy at business, and instead the earlier feeling of sadness when I heard Ryan laugh bleeds into nausea and I’m real close to tearing off, hitting the Oxys and the Sea-to-Sky, driving North until the tank’s empty, fleeing into the woods and not coming back.
What I do instead is light a smoke, ask the ugly kid his name. He says Tony, sullen, like he’s doing me a favour by telling me, shuffles closer. Ryan gives him space, adjusts his ball cap to better shield his face from the rain.
I ash my smoke at Tony. He notices, pretends not to. “Ragheads, eh Tony? What about Jews?”
Tony scowls. “Fuckin’ Jews too, yeah.”
“Hey Tony? What’s a Jew?”
Tony squints up at me. “It’s like…uh?”
“Tony? Go away. Before I change my mind about you working.”
Ryan hides a snicker behind his hand.
Tony calls me something I don’t hear, shoves Ryan in a pretend-accident way, stalks behind the truck.
Flick my butt out the window, watch it sputter. “Breaker Boy.”
Ryan brightens. “Breaker Boy? Rad. Your nickname? Sounds badass. What’s it mean?”
“I’m shitting you. Forget it. Twll? Get that dickbag Tony and get in.”
Big smile at me using his nickname, but saying it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. Clint was always quick to believe the old man’s claim we got some Welsh in us, but truth is we’re from nowhere.
“So where’s Clint?” Ryan asks.
“Fuck business of yours? You know I just told you to do something?”
“Clint promised to top up my phone.”
“My brother says lotsa shit. How long you worked for him?”
“Four months.”
“Then you should know that.”
I do up the window, surprised to see Ryan’s wearing a quality pair of steel-toes. The rest of the guys on the corner scowl and swear and wander off.
My crew for the day crams inside the Ford, bringing smells of stale sweat, dope and cigarette smoke, cheap booze, the stink of soaked work clothes left in backpacks overnight, and the four of us stuffed in the truck, pressed together, touching, it strikes me as wacked out, intimate, like we’re in this together even though of course we’re not, sooner run each other over than help each other out, and there’s this undercurrent, too, of being sardined in the LAV, warrior brotherhood, all that rah-rah military solidarity or business teamwork bullshit. But the thing is Ryan ends up squished beside me, riding bitch, and I smell him, you know, his like unique fucking boyish scent, and I get this mentally-not-cool feeling like where me and Ryan are touching shoulders there’s a warmth, something being I dunno transmitted, closeness, and for a few seconds I feel this warmth and closeness and it’s something I want to keep feeling, something to cherish and protect. Which is a shitbag big-hero fantasy trip because all I am is nothing or worse, garbage, pollution, disease, death. And in the silence as I’m sitting with my shoulder pressed to the smiley-faced kid named Ryan feeling for sure he’s really truly alive I start to worry maybe these strangers in the truck know I’m feeling this and they’re secretly thinking what a loser, what a pathetic wacked-out weakling.
So to shake all this not-okay nonsense I elbow Ryan in the ribs, tell him to scoot the hell over. Punch the gas, roar from the curb, come close to clipping a junkie, drive a few blocks in moody silence, not bothering with more introductions, trying to get the baby-shampoo scent of my daughter out of my nose. We pass a hipster coffee shop done in reclaimed wood and an art gallery beneath a shiny new condominium not a block away from the Cash Corner, five hundred square feet for a half-million, neighbourhood’s changed, Olympics and so on, gentrifying like all East Van, which let’s cut the shit should now be called Kits East.
Ryan puts his hands in front of the heat vents to warm up. He’s got the smallest hands I’ve ever seen, chubby fingers, but his nails are caked in dirt and I’m betting the kid knows how to work. “Cold morning,” I say. “Damp.”
“Oh man that’s not cold I know cold dude this is B.C. it never gets cold here, not like where I’m from,” Ryan answers, one stream of chirpy-chipper sound, making me hope I don’t regret letting him in the truck. The Latino guy stares out the window, doesn’t say a word, so he’s up one in my books.
“Okay, it’s six thirty in the morning,” I say, “and usually I’m not super chatty this early, yeah? But where you from?”
Ryan rubs his hands together, eager, flashes me a grin, and I gotta say, it’s the realest thing I’ve seen since I said goodbye to my family in Bangkok. And why the big smile? Because the kid’s happy someone asked about him, that’s why. Ryan says he’s from Northern Ontario, strikes me as a bit evasive, and I sing a few lines from the Neil Young song, decide not to ask anything more.
Ryan laughs when I’m done singing, says he’s heard that song sung better. He’s bouncing in his seat but trying not to, trying to play it cool, not be too excited or needy, and of course that makes it worse. Real happy to be in a warm truck, driving to a job, to work and get paid, and I try and think back to when that was all I needed, a day filled up with that straightforward satisfaction. How old was I? Seventeen. Just out of high school. Working a few years for my brother before I went to UBC.
I ask the Latino guy his name and he looks at me and nods. Okay. Put a shovel in his hand and he’ll understand real quick.
Ryan watches me light a smoke and of course he wants one but he has the pride and self-restraint not to bum this soon after meeting the boss, so for that I give him one. Tony sees us smoking and asks for one and I say no, because I can, and Ryan gives Tony a drag of his when he thinks I’m not looking.
We hit Oak Street and drive south to 12th, then west down 12th, beneath hundred-year-old oak trees still winter-bare, and pretty mauve and mustard-yellow character homes. Seems every third house is being gutted or torn down. Not much traffic. We’re about to hit Alma when the car in front of us, a polished Mercedes, slams its brakes for no reason, forcing me to do the same. The Ford screeches to a stop. Tools in the truck box slam and smash. I wince, thinking about the fifteen-hundred-dollar concrete saw. The Mercedes rolls forward a few feet and turns left with no signal.
“Bet that’s a chink,” Tony says.
“What, man?” Ryan says, still friendly.
“I said. Bet that’s a fucking chink.”
We get a glimpse of the driver as the Mercedes turns and Tony pumps his fist, which is when I pull the Ford to the curb and tell the nasty fuckhead to get out.
“What?” Tony squeals, acting over-the-top victimized. Seems getting fired ten minutes into a job wasn’t included on Tony’s list of potential outcomes for the morning.
I don’t look at him.
Maybe Tony takes me ignoring him as a sign of weakness or maybe he’s as dumb as he looks because he starts arguing,
saying, “Fuck no, I’m not getting out. What, and walk? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Rules, man. You at least have to give me bus fare—”
“Hey, dude,” Ryan says, “maybe you should…”
Tony clues in to something very important. Senses it. The old Latino, no fool, is already out of the truck, waiting for Tony to get lost. Tony scowls, makes a sneering sound, maybe the one thing he’s good at, snatches his backpack, flips me off as he walks by, his stride all fakey swinging-crotch macho. Ryan shuffles over so he’s more in the middle of the bench seat, ashes his smoke, pretends not to watch me. The Latino dude crawls in and I see his back’s real stiff, hurting him bad. I give Tony a celebratory honk as we leave him behind. No one says a word until Ryan pipes up, says, “I hate that shit too, man.”
Jasminder Bansal
Marigold Group’s newest full-time sales associate presiding over her first open house, start to finish, all me. High-spirited and hopeful even though I’m inhabiting my real estate sales persona and not the authentic me…but the truth is I’ve already mentally spent the commission from selling this unit ten times over, in increasingly wasteful and decadent ways, “treating myself,” as my sister likes to say before purchasing something lavish and ridiculous.
It’s almost noon. I’ve been in the unit for four hours; have shown it to over a dozen potential buyers without generating much interest. But I think I’m doing okay.
The current clients—the Chens, a lovely young couple in their late twenties, and their pinched, Prada-wearing agent, Ms. Lee—have a certain idea of how a condominium viewing should progress. My goals are more divergent: I need to sell this thing, but I’d also like to get an idea of what it’s like for international buyers in Vancouver. I gesture toward a stainless-steel sink, try and remember the name of the manufacturer while Ms. Lee flashes a not-kind smirk.
“Mr. Chen? Hi. Isn’t this a lovely unit? How are you feeling about your real estate experience in Vancouver?”
Mr. Chen, no surprise, doesn’t answer. Pretends not to hear. The question was too direct. Mr. Chen removes his glasses, crushes his index finger and thumb into his eyes hard enough to force a nasally sigh. I feel for Mr. Chen. He’s likely had a long flight, if not more than one, after an even longer workweek. Maybe Mr. Chen is wondering: What the fuck is going on? Who is this sloppy-looking head case of no easily discernible heritage? Is this how they do real estate in this backwater? How many more shitboxes do I have to see today? Then the flight home tomorrow. Not worth the hassle, but man this place sure feels like a palace—
Mr. Chen could be thinking those things.
Now he steadies himself against the kitchen counter, taps a cigarette half out of the pack, taps it back in, and for some reason the gesture makes me think the man is a gambler, reminds me of the roulette table. Ms. Chen makes her way through the kitchen, anxiously opening and closing cupboards like she’s searching for a half-empty cylinder of ketchup Pringles.
“I think they’re all empty, Ms. Chen. It’s a new condo.” Realize I’m fidgeting with my hands like Eric said and, even worse, that I’m having trouble connecting. I blurt: “This is an incredible unit. Wouldn’t you agree?”
An awkward silence. I decide to give the Chens some space, grab my phone, watch an eleven-second video of a man walking down the street get smoked by a runaway bratwurst cart. I think he lived.
Well-mannered Mr. Chen excuses himself, steps onto the balcony, lights his cigarette, leaves me and Ms. Chen squaring off around the sink while the realtor checks her phone. Ms. Chen looks like a nereid that hasn’t quite broken the surface, but I get the feeling she’s a talker, bottled up, could be an opportunity for me, a new angle, the international real estate investor’s wife comes clean about loopholes and double-dealing. “Are you enjoying Vancouver?”
“She enjoys it very much,” the agent answers without looking up.
“Thanks. Ms. Chen? Are you excited about mov—”
“I am very sure she is.”
“Ms. Chen? Vancouver?”
Ms. Chen shakes her head, could be a no or a yes or a third option, less binary.
“I’m new at this job. Can I get that out in the open? Is there anything you’d like to know?”
Ms. Lee pockets the phone, asks if the dishwasher is a Miele.
“A melee? Hit points?”
“No. Miele? European?”
“Oh, European? No.”
“Not European?”
“Not a Miele. Pretty sure.”
Now all three of us, the domestic womanly sisterhood, crowd around the sink while Mr. Chen the inveterate backroom gambler smokes cigarettes on the balcony and wonders if he’s up high enough to guarantee a quick death and what kind of cruel widow-crushing taxes and tariffs and fees would kick in if he died in a foreign land and fuck it with his luck he’d probably make the leap and get stuck in those clouds, more solid than Xi Jinping—
This must be the right moment? To play my hand?
Last gasp, open my file folder to a note that reads:
Seller will take 680k not joking that’s 60k less than asking time-sensitive offer hurry!
What I find amazing is how two outwardly rational people will react in completely different ways to the same piece of information. Ms. Chen reads the note, wraps her dove-like hands around her midsection, glides into the middle of the kitchen, whirls a three-sixty, bolts for the bathroom. I have no idea why she did that.
Ms. Lee, on the other hand, laughs like a stone-cold crook.
I crumple the note. “Did you see her run out of here, Ms. Lee? That was so not the reaction I intended. Is something the matter?”
Ms. Lee snuffle-laughs, dabs her eyes, points at me.
“Me? What about me? Is what just happened against the rules? The note appeared for three seconds. I didn’t even write it. I found it in the cupboard under the sink.”
The passion I have for my work enables me to create value.
Ms. Lee hurries to the washroom, taps on the door, says something soft and soothing to Ms. Chen. I shuffle onto the balcony, bummed, failing, wondering how to link Bo Xi to Vincent Peele and Vincent Peele to Clint Ward, expose the truth, be granted recognition for my talent. Apparently I had unrealistic hopes that the note would get these folks a condo and me a commission. Mr. Chen interrupts his staring-into-the-clouds to give me an absolutely neutral shrug-smile combo.
I’m in the advantageous position of blocking the sliding glass door. Mr. Chen could brush me out of the way if he wanted to, but I must outweigh him by forty pounds. The situation could devolve into some kind of slapstick physical struggle. One that I would likely win. That’s the look I hope I’m giving him. It says: You are trapped. It says: I am in charge now, so please answer my questions. For Mr. Chen the easiest course of action is no action at all. Like a criminal or canine, he just needs to stay down.
“Hi there, Mr. Chen? Hi. Vancouver? Welcome!” The sliding glass door thunks closed behind me. We’re alone. Mr. Chen seems uncomfortable. Car horns blare below, seagulls screech and circle above. “Ahhh…love that Canadian fresh air! Great…location. Amenity room.”
Mr. Chen has really got the whole soaking-wet-leaning-against-the-balcony-railing-smoking-cancer-sticks thing down. His slacks are bunched around a thin leather belt; his white dress shirt carries weeks of layered wrinkles; his cuffs are unbuttoned and rolled above his elbows. Mr. Chen looks like a man who is not yet old but has already worked very hard for a very long time and is now wondering: Why?
Mr. Chen’s honesty of presence is quite sexually compelling. I’m drawn to his elbows, their saggy-tired skin like turkey wattle. His smoke-yellow fingers. His jaw, still tidy, the last feature to fade. I appreciate his obvious and unaffected weariness, his refusal to pretend otherwise. My current persona might have a secret smoking habit, might like to smoke a cigarette with this Mr. Chen.
So I ask him for one.
Mr. Chen hands me a cigarette, tentative at first, then decisive, like a child stuffing
french fries into a hyena cage. The filter is dry and papery between my lips. I like looking beyond the smoking cigarette ember and seeing Mr. Chen leaning against the railing, his face lifted in profile. What kind of man lifts his face to the rain while smoking on a balcony in a foreign country? The rain turns his cheap dress shirt translucent, exposing his shoulders and ribs, the bones of him, his structure like the cages of construction cranes rising behind. His hair is matted around his eyes in a way that reminds me of an unwell child, a boy languishing on a hospital bed. The rain helps me see Mr. Chen, or the small part of him I’m permitted to see.
“So. China. What city?” It’d be nice to smoke in silence. Watch clouds flirt with condos. I’m certain Mr. Chen would prefer silence. But there’s a reason I’m on the balcony.
He exhales. In no hurry. “Wuxi. You know?”
—aaand he couldn’t be bothered to do me any favours, say the biggest city closest to his so I can pretend to know where he’s talking about and not come off like a provincial dolt.
“Wuxi? Never heard of it. Sorry. I haven’t travelled much. Actually, never. Is it a big city?”
Mr. Chen says okay size, asks where I live.
“Mostly at my mom’s. Sometimes sister’s. Until I can get my own—”
“But from—”
“Oh, here. Canada. It’s actually not that uncommon for people my age to live at home? Especially in Vancouver. I’m trying to save to move out—”
“Really?”
“I guess living with my mother could be permanent if I continue to suck at saving, but hopefully—”
“I mean Canada. Really?”
In what sense of really? “My mother was born in Patiala, Punjab. Know it?”
“India…yes.” He seems displeased. “But your mother only?”
Change of subject. “Are you a gambler?”
“Sorry?”
“Do you gamble? Roulette? Poker? My brother tried to teach me. I never got into it, couldn’t take it seriously.”