The late afternoon sun beams through the massive glass walls, revealing the floating dust. Rows of white lights hang on the high ceilings as if the day wasn’t bright enough. I blink my eyes several times to clear my vision and look around.
Huge interior, domed like a spacecraft, crowds of people dragging luggage of all sizes.
A sign that read Gates 1-10.
A bright billboard that screams, ‘Lose twenty pounds in two weeks’, on it portrays a very happy-looking woman with a pencil-thin waist.
Green-lighted signs above the doors read, ‘Emergency Staircase’.
These are the familiar landmarks based on the pictures of the JFK airport Samuel shows me.
Babe.
I can hear my heart thumping. The air conduits above make a low roaring sound as the luggage cart next to me squeaks across the polished floor. Then more footsteps approach. Herds of people, many of them around our age, emerge from our gate, chattering, smiling, laughing, and buzzing away like a swarm of bees.
We’re going to be late for the next flight.
Can’t wait to party!
Babe, wait.
I’ll get some from the Duty Free shop.
I walk past a small cafe, captivated by the rich aroma of coffee and chocolate. A standing blackboard with cursive pink and white chalk-written words: Special: Honey Latte $4.95. I inhale deeply and smile at the familiar scent of coffee. At least it is quieter here.
Suddenly, the public announcement wails loudly above for attention, adding to the commotion made by the approaching crowd.
Ladies and gentlemen, will the passengers from Flight S-
“Excuse me.” A man in a blue, pinstripe suit brushes past me dragging a red suitcase with a broken wheel.
Please note that the connecting flight have been del-
A shoulder knocks into me. I clutch the straps of the backpack on my shoulders, trying to look for the red tartan shirt among the sea of faceless strangers. Too many faces, too many lights, too many colors and sounds; my head feels like it’s been whirled round and round like a Dervish dancer.
I’m sorry
Come back here, Ethan!
Don’t run.
“BABE!” I feel his hand over my wrist, “Gosh, I need to get you one of those baby leashes.” He bends over to catch his breath.
“Where were you?”
“I’m about to ask you that. Stay close to me, ok?”
# # # # #
New York is a dazzling place from what I can see from inside the taxi. Both of my hands are on the car window; I’m smiling, my mouth agape in awe of the city horizon lined with tall buildings of all shapes and heights. We are heading towards Times Square in Manhattan, one of the most vibrant places in New York; that is where Beth is going to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. I feel Samuel’s stubbly chin resting on my shoulders; we are cheek to cheek as we admire the bustling city vista from the back of the passenger seats.
Mom got Dad to book us a stylish, serviced apartment on West 44th Street. Although it lies in the heart of the theatre district surrounded by the vibrancy of Times Square, the building itself is actually situated on a quiet stretch of street. It is a nice sanctuary for when everything gets too much for me.
From the outside, it looks like a refurbished old hotel, but the apartment is stylish and spacious. The white walls, the white sheets and the varnished wooden floors remind me of home. Even the metallic kitchen cabinets, fridge and appliances are like home; I can almost picture Mom standing by the stove cooking. The familiarity puts me at ease almost immediately. Mom must have chosen this place because she knows I would be homesick by now.
Wind runs through our hair as we stand shoulder to shoulder, leaning out the window to look down at New York, taking in the entire bustling vista from the height of our bliss. The glistening windows of countless skyscrapers reflect the late-afternoon sun in the vast, panoramic cityscape. With dusk approaching, buildings a few streets across from us are beginning to glow, doused with neon lights and LCD screens as large as the buildings themselves. The streets teem with hurrying crowds and unmoving cars. Manhattan on a Friday evening is like one big psychedelic dream, a kaleidoscopic dance of lights and colors.
It is breathtaking – from this safe distance.
Samuel looks at me and smiles. “Pissed your pants yet?”
I dare myself to imagine being in the middle of that bustle, circled by the entrancing display of dancing lights. Times Square reminds me of Dad’s glasses, which bursts into colors when light shines through them. Samuel is captivated as well, because I catch him by surprise when I tiptoe to kiss his cheeks.
He smiles, because he knows why I kissed him. Thank you for showing me the world again.
This is his final promise before our clandestine love story concludes. The kiss was meant to say thank you as much as farewell. There are only three more days left to hold and kiss him like this.
Mom calls us soon after we arrive at the apartment; she’s already missing us after a few days since leaving home.
How is the chemo going?
Losing hair and losing sleep, but other than that I’m fine. Do we miss her?
Of course we do. How’s Dad?
Fine, same old. How’s New York?
Fantastic.
How’s the mission? Did you boys have fun so far?
As we guessed, it was Mom who gave us the mission. Who else could it be if it isn’t Dad? Samuel does the talking, because I can’t choke out the words. It is lame; what’s a mission if we don’t know what we’re in it for? She laughs and coughs over the speaker. A mystery gift isn’t a mystery if she tells us, right?
After some verbal jousting, Mom can’t resist the temptation to reveal a nugget. Let’s just say it’s something intangible to bring back the spirit of adventure.
Nothing unexpected. I can only blame myself for not listening to Samuel’s warning about having false hopes. All through my flight to New York, I rehearsed losing him countless times, trying to take the pain in small doses beforehand. Part of me actually believes that my willingness to accept the worst might soften the blow eventually. Learn to see in the dark before darkness descends. Vaccinate pain with pain. I am quite numbed by now.
Mom means well, Samuel tells me after he puts down the phone. Of course, I wouldn’t hold it against her; she knows nothing about us. At least the past few days have given me something to pin my hopes on. I left home believing I had a safety net. Just like skydiving, throwing yourself out in the air at ten-thousand feet while smiling broadly and taking selfies. It is thrilling until you realize there is no parachute to open. Three more days to enjoy my freefall before the impact hits me.
But I feel relieved in a way.
Disappointment comes with hope. At least there will be no more disappointments from now on. There is nothing left to lose except for the bliss that can be gleaned from the remaining minutes with him.
He asks if I’m okay. I tell him we should do something exciting in New York to commemorate this moment. Let’s not waste our time moaning and groaning here. The party is at ten; we have some time to visit Times Square. He pulls out a beer and lights up his cigarette. Leaning out the window, looking down at the glistening lights, he points to the various parts of the town where we can visit. I listen and nod, not giving any opinions to the suggestions he makes.
Then silence hangs heavily in the air.
Do I even still want to go to the party? He suddenly asks me as my eyes still search the cityscape before us.
Why not?
You don’t look you’re in the mood.
Mood has got nothing to do with birthdays. Will she like me? He asks why I care about what she thinks of me.
Isn’t it obvious?
No, tell me.
Then I turn towards him and say, “So she won’t mind sharing you with me.”
He stares at me for a moment.
Silence.
“Babe.”
That voice, those eyes and that gentle exhale, sounding almost like soft sigh.
Will I be okay inside a disco club? I tell him I could wear sunglasses and headphones.
“You don’t have to put yourself through this,” he takes a drag from the cigarette.
“It’s important to me, because she’s important to you.”
He stares again.
I remember Mom saying that even if the past is tainted by regrets and the future holds fear, there is always solace in the present. She used to tell us a story at my bedtime about a desperate man who made a mistake of provoking a tiger. He found himself hanging on a rope down into a ravine, the tiger growling at him from above and the rope breaking under his weight. When he saw cherries dropped off the side of the cliff, he let go of his regrets and fears to catch them, spending his final moments savoring their sweetness instead.
All time is borrowed, anyway. In the tapestry of life, the individual threads may be frayed and fall short. But when I step back, I am reminded of the rare gift my brother has given me this summer.
Don’t lose sight of the blessings.
I keep telling myself that as we run a hot bath in the tub. He smiles as I unbutton his shirt and hold the soft cotton to my nose. We can give the red tartan shirt a break, because girls are very particular about boy’s hygiene and grooming. He should wear something fresh for the party. Can I shave him since I never got a chance to shave myself? Just try not to give him any permanent scars, he says.
“Get back in once you’ve hung it up,” he shouts as I leave the bathroom to hang up his musky shirt. I suddenly think about cherries, and I remember seeing them in the fridge. When I return, I find him stark naked in a steamy bathroom, wearing only a smile on his face.
“Look what I found?”
He holds up a bottle of bath gel and points behind to the bubbling foam rising from the bathtub like a cake in the oven. Cherry flavored bubble bath; just my favorite.
I hold up the bowl of fresh cherries and a card that says, With Compliments of Grande Royale.
I found something, too.
His rambunctious grins never fail to lift my mood. They always bode of mischief and adventure. Let’s play a game, he says. We’ll feed each other cherries with our kisses, holding them with our lips, moving them with our tongues, each of us biting off our side of the juicy flesh. Whoever drops the seed gets a smack. And that brings a smile to my face.
Echoes of our chuckles and smacking cheeks resound in the white misty bathroom for some time. I’ll remember this moment forever. And with the last cherry seed dropped, there is nothing left for our lips to hold except for the soft unspoken words hanging at the tips of our tongues. Don’t utter those cutting words like, I will miss you. Let the tongues speak for themselves with their sweet, moist caresses instead.
He leans back against the wet, white walls, skin reddened by steam and hot water, one leg over the edge of the porcelain tub, toes touching the marbled floor, his red throbbing cock sticking out from the water like a lighthouse, glazed by cherry and pre-cum. His hand rests over the back of my head, bobbing up and down to savor him, to taste this moment fully. I swallow him the same way as I inhale, taking it in fully until every inch of my lungs and my guts are filled with his essence.
With every squirt and pump, I can feel his cells continue to live inside of me.
My body is his body, he says. The same blood and semen flows in our flesh. He sees himself better when he looks at me instead of a mirror, because I reflect his heart and his soul as well. He tells me that I am a part of him as much as he is a part of me. We are Siamese twins, only that we’re conjoined by our spirit and not by our bodies.
In that case, can’t both of us marry Beth at the same time?
He chuckles and shakes his head. And I ask him why not. Some cultures do that, and we can stay together that way.
“Where did that idea come from?”
Don’t girls like love triangles? Isn’t that the reason why Twilight is so popular? For a long time in my school, I heard nothing but rants about Edward and Jacob, girls pining for the next instalment just to see which boy got to be chosen. Why couldn’t it be both of them? It solves the problem instantly instead of causing whining about it over four sequels. Then I end my explanation by saying that if Beth likes me, too, she can marry us both at the same time.
He bursts out laughing and says, “Then you better start working on your charms.”
The water spills over the tub as he gets up to grab a towel.
“Let’s go. You don’t want to be late if you’re planning to steal my girlfriend tonight.”
Both of us head out to get birthday presents for Beth; that’s the best way to make a good first impression. Along the stretch near our hotel, we pass a quaint boutique called Otaku. Samuel loves the apparel – not for himself but for me.
“Aren’t these kids’ clothes?” I ask.
“You’ll look cute in them.” He picks out some tee shirts and sunglasses for me to try.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I hold up the pink-rimmed, heart shaped sunglasses that he chooses for me. He covers his mouth and nods his head.
“Try it on with the tee shirt.” He grins.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask as he nudges me into the changing room.
“Kawaii ne!” The salesgirl giggles as I pull the curtain, dressed in my new outfit. She says I look cute in the ninja-pig tee shirt.
“Doesn’t Ton Ton mean pork in Japanese?” I ask her.
“Well, Mom did name you after a piglet.” Samuel chuckles, taking out his credit card to pay before I can further question his judgment.
Aren’t these for kids?
Nonsense, you look adorable.
You sure?
Absolutely.
Then why are you sniggering?
No, it’s a happy smile.
I take out my phone to check what his happy smile looks like. But before I can even unlock it, he drags me out of the store. Time to get Beth’s presents.
The supermarket around the corner of the street has everything I want. The best way to win a person over is through their stomachs. Sugar produces endorphins which put people in a better mood. So I plan to bake a chocolate-marshmallow cake and make a card for her myself.
“You can do your dance thing for her, too. It’s a dance club after all,” he smiles and suggests.
My brother wants to get her a present from the jewelry shop further down Times Square. Girls in big cities like shiny stuff, things that make them look pretty, he says. But since I’ll be using Dad’s money to pay, baking a cake would be more sincere. The shop he has in mind is too close for us to take a cab. Besides, the subway will be faster because of the peak-hour traffic; everyone is driving home or heading out on a Friday evening.
The street corner reeks of car exhaust; sirens wail and impatient drivers honk away every few seconds. The subway itself is a menacing construct. Graffiti and cracked walls fill the underground opening, like the entrance to a catacomb. Throngs of people descend into the narrow passageway. I stand close to him as we walk down the stairs, people brushing, shoving, slipping in and out, up and down, over my left and my right, chattering and small talk everywhere. I almost fall as I skip a step.
Babe.
The roaring train rumbles below.
I’m going to be late; I’ll meet you in another twenty.
Muted blasts of hip-hop music from the stereo on the man’s shoulders.
Hi, yeah, I’m calling to make a reservation-
Wait here for me. I’ll go get us tickets.
This is a service update-
The underground swirls as people walk in and out from all directions. I close my eyes for a moment to orient myself.
Excuse me, please.
Stand right here, don’t move.
I feel his hand leave me and panic for a moment until I spot him in the crowd. It isn’t easy for me when it is crowded. Imagine a hundred channels showing at the same time, and you have to scan through each one to determine which program is the one you are looking for.
I heave a huge sigh of relief as he’s only a few yards away in the line for tickets. My eyes refuse to move away from him in case I might lose sight of where he is again.
Hey, look at that.
Okay, we’re done. Let’s go.
Mom, what’s that boy doing there?
The train to-
Let’s go.
Going through the New York Metro turnstile is like dodging a death trap. Samuel slides the card for me, and I have to move through quickly as soon as he nudges my back. The escalator leads us deeper into the underground to a narrow tunnel. After a few forks and turns, the tunnel ends at an open, narrow platform not more than three yards wide. The small space is packed full of people. I tighten my hand on Samuel’s arm as we squeeze through the crowd.
Suddenly light flashes from the tunnel, wind sweeps my face, and the hydraulic roar of the subway train gets louder. The rumble echoes in the small enclosed tunnel, drumming my head persistently like a snapping jaw. I feel trapped. Arms and bodies push against me from all directions. I try to balance myself by standing with my feet wider apart. Focusing on the squared patterns over Samuel’s blue lumberjack shirt keeps me calm until the train slows down and halts.
I am horrified.
The car is packed with people like a can of sardines. No personal space whatsoever. Bodies press against bodies; it is even worse than being on the platform. As soon as the door opens, I get shoved left and right as everyone tries to squeeze in.
Move aside.
I can’t feel his hands anymore. I’m still trying to keep my balance.
What are you doing?
I grab on to the wrong person.
Hands off!
Look for blue lumberjack shirt.
Eleven males wearing blue, five wearing square patterns...
Are you getting in or not?
Look for a tall man with short blond hair, instead.
Babe, come in!
The door is closing…
Loud beeps.
Excuse me, let me out.
By the time I see his face, he is already in the train with the door closed and ready to move. He mouths something through the glass door but I cannot understand anything.
And the train slides away.
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT…
I am alone on the subway platform. Many strangers around me didn’t manage to board the train in time as well.
Look at the signs.
Are you okay, kid?
The next train will arrive in a minute.
I slap my hands over my ears to block out the chattering crowd.
Do you need help?
I feel my phone beep.
Fuck off!
I bump against a black tee shirt and stumble back to the wall. Someone spits on me. Many people walk past up and down. Should I board the next train or wait for him there? I need to get out of here.
Is this the right way out?
Are you all right, boy?
Follow the arrows.
Do you need help?
I recognize that post.
Hey, you can’t jump over the turnstile like that!
I find myself back to the familiar corner where I squat. An older man with a grey, knitted scarf follows me. His shadow casts down as I slump against the wall. I push him away.
Something is wrong with him.
Where is your ticket?
I yelp when he tries to touch me.
What’s wrong?
I don’t know; he doesn’t talk.
Then a few more hands touch me again. I want to go back home to Wyoming now.
Please move aside.
Sorry, he’s my brother.
Babe.
Babe.
“Babe. Let’s go back.”
# # # # #
Back at the apartment, he finds me in the kitchen mixing the chocolate into the flour, packets of marshmallows unopened at the side. He leans on the counter and asks me how I’m feeling.
I’m fine.
Then he says I should stay in the apartment; he can always arrange for Beth to meet me at a quiet restaurant tomorrow.
I say, ok.
But at least take my cake to her. She should have a present from me for her birthday.
He says, ok.
Then silence.
“I’m getting back together with Beth,” he says.
Ok, again.
“You understand what that means. Right, Babe?”
Actually I don’t. But I don’t think I want to ask.
He leans out the windowsill to smoke while I sit at the counter stool and watch the cake rise.
We don’t talk much after that.
I feel his arms on my shoulders rubbing gently, a soft pat, and then I hear the clicking sound of a closing door.
He leaves to get her present alone.
The street lights cut into the darkness, casting long shadows into the room, dust adrift in the air. I sit down on the floor in a corner and hug my knees. The marbled ashtray is full of cigarette butts, smoke still tracing out of some of them, and I watch it vanish into nowhere.
The room is quiet except for the oven and the clock ticking; the muted sound of the traffic below can be heard through the closed windows. I turn to look at the city outside. At night, Manhattan looks like a forest of decorated Christmas trees. I picture him somewhere far away among the glittering lights and the mass of bodies lost in the streets. And then I touch the glass pane gently with my fingers.
The timer on the oven rings.
A lone spotlight shines down in the kitchen after I flick the switch. Taking out the small cake from the oven, I let it cool until I can carefully inscribe my birthday wishes with the white cream.
I sit down in the dark, using only the street lights to write the birthday card, shading it with different colors on the fancy paper.
Dear Beth,
You are going to be my sister soon, and I am sorry I can’t come for your birthday. Hope you will make my brother happy, because I love him very much.
If you like my chocolate cake, I can bake more for you in the future. I can cook, clean the house and wash laundry; plus, I am very quiet. Hope you will like having me around.
K.
P.S. I can also do your math and physics homework.
I check the clock.
He said he will take the cake to her. But he’s been away for more than two hours.
I lie on the bed and wait for him to return, hugging a pillow over my chest, staring at the three tiny cracks and two water stains on the white ceiling. The soft pillow presses down my chest with the weight of my hands, rising up and down with my breathing.
The clock ticks.
Air whirs softly above in the tiny air duct.
Water drips in the bathroom.
My chest aches every time I inhale.
Is this a taste of the life that is to come? Is it another rehearsal for a life without him?
And then the phone beeps. I scramble to the side of bed and grab it.
Babe, I’m at Beth’s party. Lucky u’re not here, dis place is tearing up my ears. Dun wait up, batt’s almost flat. Ttyl
What about the cake? I text.
No reply from him.
I wait for another ten minutes before I send another message, but still no reply.
The cake is still on the table. I take a deep breath as I look out at the swarms of people and cars below.
I didn’t go to her 21st birthday party. Not even a present from me.
What if she thinks I hate her?
In my head, I see an image of her closing the door in my face, with my brother in the background, and his face disappears inch by inch as it shuts.
# # # # #
Earplugs, headset, sunglasses. Check.
Backpack, cake box, pocket knife, street finder app. Check. Check. Check.
Three hundred yards in two blocks and around the corner to hit the subway. I mentally visualize the route we took earlier towards the subway before I take a deep breath and step out of the apartment building.
Rows of cars jam the streets, drivers slamming down on their horns. The pavement is teeming with people; some are dressed in fancy clothes, many are still in their shirts, ties and pants or office attire. Everyone is rushing to somewhere.
Ahead of me, cars and people swarm the roads and pavement like termites over rotten wood. Everything is moving in all directions, coming from all directions; I am paralyzed at the street corner as I squat down on the curb with my eyes shut tight.
One step at a time, straight ahead.
The cacophony of horns blasts into my ears as I push forward.
Excuse me.
Spare change, please.
Get out of the way.
Do you think the place checks ID?
Baby steps.
Do you know where 24th Avenue is?
More cars honking.
The apartment block is still within sight if I turn around. It’s not too late to head back.
No.
The honking gets louder.
Hey kid, want to buy some E?
Two hundred yards to your left.
I plug in the headset to my phone and play some music to block out all sounds.
Much better.
Dad says I’m not supposed to carry anything sharp anymore. But this is New York, where people get mugged in the subways and quiet corners. I feel the knife in my pocket as I walk down the crowded streets.
Focus.
Pink dreadlocks appear to my left. Her dark face turns towards me as she bounces past.
Homeless people lying down on cardboards with a dog in the darker corners. I remember seeing them earlier on the way to the station.
I’m on the right track.
I turn my attention to the phone again, checking the proximity of the subway, looking at the two blinking dots inching closer.
A shoulder bumps against me. I try to balance the cake box.
And I finally see the subway station.
To get to Beth’s party, I need to travel two stations away, and for that I need a Metro card. The problem is that I don’t have any money, only a credit card in my wallet. The last time I tried to pay the bus fare with a credit card, I almost got thrown off. I recall Samuel lining up in front of the machine to get the tickets. The website said the machines accept cards. So I join the line.
When it’s finally my turn, I stare at the instructions on the bright screen.
Pay per ride? Single Trip? Top up card?
I press single trip.
PLEASE PAY $2.50.
My hands fumble as I frantically try to figure out where the slot is for the card. The people behind in the line grow impatient as I feel a hand tapping on my shoulder. I don’t dare to turn around until it taps for the third time. The moment I take off the headset, a loud voice booms into my face.
Hey! This machine doesn’t accept credit-card payment. You got to use the big one over there.
Getting the Metro card only solves the first problem. I am supposed to swipe the card, wait for the green light to flash before the gate opens and lets me through. But without Samuel around to guide me and with my attention split with holding the cake box, by the time I notice the green ‘GO’ sign light up, it is too late, the light goes off and the angry line behinds gets longer.
After a few tangles and frustrated tries, someone finally calls the station assistant to open a special gate to let me through.
Almost there.
Before the rumbling train arrives in the narrow tunnel, I put on the ear plugs and cover my ears with the headset again. There’s no way the cake will survive all that squeezing in the crowded train. So I take out the small foldable umbrella and open it up, holding it like a shield to protect the cake. I try to ignore the stares and the fingers pointing in my direction. It’s a good thing I can’t hear a thing they say or know what their faces are showing.
This will be over soon. Just focus.
To my delight, the train car is nowhere as crowded as earlier in the evening. I don’t need the umbrella after all. I fumble with it, but the train door threatens to close with its warning beep, so I leave it open and hop through.
Once I get inside I see my own reflection when the door closes. I look strange wearing a tiny tee shirt, printed cartoons, a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, headsets over my ears, one hand holding a box and the other holding an open umbrella. I am surprised that no one on the train even casts me a second glance. Maybe I look normal next to the stubbly tall man in high heels and a green wig. Or maybe that’s how they dress in the big cities. He points a finger at the box and mouths something to me. I can’t hear a thing, so I just smile back at him politely, trying not to stare at his stubble at the same time.
Two stops.
Three dozing men, and two of them are probably drunk.
Four women on the seats, one is either pregnant or fat. I can’t tell.
The man-woman gets off at the next stop. The next stop will be mine. This isn’t as bad as I thought.
Just need to focus.
The train is relatively clean and sparse, except for the few advertisement boards around.
Invest in your future. Invest in us.
To donate, call 1800SAVEGAIA.
PEOPLE ARE OUR MOST VALUED ASSE S
Someone inked off the T.
# # # # #
Nothing could have prepared me for Times Square. Not the videos or the pictures. As I emerge from the subway stairs, I stand stunned for a minute by the dancing lights and the pulsing images. People and cars aside, giant screens wall the streets ahead of me, flashing colors of their own invention, hundreds of giant screens playing at the same time. People crowd the pavement, wearing colors as bright as the dense neon halos above. Cars flash their headlights as they zoom past, faceless strangers everywhere I turn.
I can’t believe I actually made it here to the middle of Times Square. All by myself.
It’s only a short walk round the corner, but I have to stop and breathe every few steps.
I get bumped. The umbrella drops somewhere. I almost hit a lamppost again. Another headlight blinds me for a moment.
Where am I now?
I lean against the wall to catch my breath.
Two hundred and fifty seven yards more to go. Why am I further away now? A wrong turn or the GPS is messed up?
My heart beats louder than the pounding footsteps on the pavement. Lights everywhere, shoulders bumping into shoulders. And soon, water starts to dart onto my face. It begins to rain.
I try to focus on the concrete pavement, looking up occasionally to get my bearings. Even the sunglasses don’t help much with the dizziness of so many things going on that I need to track. The rain, the people, the lights, finding directions, but the most important priority is to keep the cake box safe from the splattering rain.
When I see a quiet alley to the side, I turn in immediately to find shelter under a ledge. My eyes are tired and my head dizzy. At this rate, I will take hours just to walk a few hundred yards.
I shiver.
Farther down towards the end of the sheltering ledge, I see a man pinning a black woman to the wall. They don’t seem to notice me.
Are they making out?
The woman’s face doesn’t look happy at all.
The hooded man points a sharp shiny object at her.
She is being mugged.
Should I run to get help? But everyone has cleared the streets to find shelter.
He holds up the knife to her neck.
My heart stops.
I put down the cake box and reach for my knife, creeping in the shadows until I’m close enough.
Wait.
Wait for him to lower that knife. Then I will charge at him. I’ve seen how my brother tackles people on the football field many times.
My heart pounds, the muscles in my legs tense like a coiled spring.
Now!
He notices me and swings the knife in an arc. The blade gleams, inches away from my face.
I dodge and kick his knife away, flashing my own knife as a warning. The hooded man stumbles and loses his balance. He scrambles to get up and disappears into the rain.
I bend over to catch my breath. Then I turn back to pick up the cake box.
But I am careless.
A hand slaps on my shoulders as I jump.
“Whoa! Hold it ninja boy! It’s me.”
The plump black woman raises her hands like she’s surrendering. But I am not attacking her, so I ignore her and look for my headset instead. I lost it somewhere during the tussle.
“You dropped this,” she holds up my headset, looking at my tee shirt with a brow raised, “Ton Ton.”
“My name is not Ton Ton, and I’m not a ninja.”
The black, rotund woman doesn’t appear very smart. Everyone knows only football players wear jerseys with their names printed on them. My tee shirt is obviously not one. But she could have mistaken my Parkour moves for martial arts, even though you have to go to Japan to learn Ninjutsu.
Then she starts asking me more funny questions.
“You’re not? Then why are you carrying a butter knife around?”
“Dad says I can’t carry sharp objects. So I found a blunt one.”
Her eyes widen, and her is mouth agape as she stares at me. Does she have problem reading faces, too? Her face is in a grimace as she makes a shrieking sound, then I realize she is laughing.
“So you’re not a ninja, huh? What do they call you, then?”
“Babe.”
And she laughs even louder. What a strange woman.
She holds out her hand like the Victorian ladies who expected it to be kissed, and smiles, “In that case, I’m Beyoncé.”
I tense up. She sounds a bit crazy.
“You don’t look like her,” I mutter.
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, “I don’t? Must be the Photoshop, then.”
“Don’t look so scared.” She puts a hand on my back and says, “Come let momma buy you a hot drink. Your teeth are chattering.”
Inside a small café, I warm my hands over a cup of hot chocolate. She thanks me for saving her. Then she says I don’t look like I should be out here alone, unsupervised. Where are my parents? Wyoming. Where do I live? Wyoming, too, but soon it will be Boston. What am I doing in this dark alley? I need to find my brother, but I think I’m lost because the GPS says I’m getting further away.
She smiles at me and puts a hand on my shoulders, “Tell you what, Babe, I’ll take you there. It’s the least I can do.”
She holds my hand and carries the cake box for me under her rain coat. Sunglasses, ear plugs, headset, eyes on the ground, the long pavement with the splattering rain seems to go on forever. My hand clutches her arm until she finally stops.
“Velvet Green. Here you are, Babe,” she takes off the headset and says. The pounding music can be heard and felt even from outside. Two tall, burly, dark-skinned men guard the entrance. He stops me when I try to enter, “ID, please.”
“I don’t have one with me.”
“Driver’s license?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You can’t go in.”
I tell him it’s my sister’s birthday party.
What’s my name?
Keith Meier.
Not on the guest list, sorry.
I tried to call Samuel but the phone can’t get through.
“Don’t worry kid, let momma handle this.”
I watch her stab her fingers in the burly men’s faces, rattling away expletives that I’ve never heard. One of them raises his hands, shakes his head and then looks downcast as she mouths her words angrily. Both men cower under her raised fists.
In the end, she beams a smile at me when they lift the red cordon for me to enter. I ask if I can hug her before she leaves. Not only does she hug me, she smacks a big kiss on my forehead as well.
Take care, Babe. She waves as she disappears down the street.
Smoke fills the damp, cold air within. Dark, narrow walls open up to a large dance floor packed full of people. Beams of strobe lights cast onto hundreds of faces, bobbing heads, shaking to the beat. It is almost impossible for me to recognize anyone like this. I try to look out for his blue lumberjack shirt, but everything looks red under the lights.
The music pounds in my ears even with the plugs and headset; my body can feel the vibrations. It’s hard to move through the gyrating bodies while holding up the cake box. I wonder if I can ask them to turn on the lights for a minute so that I can find Samuel in here.
I tap on a dancing guy.
It’s not Samuel. I want to ask him how to turn on the lights, but I don’t think he can hear me. I can’t even hear myself.
Then I tap on the guy making out at the corner with a busty girl.
He looks at me with drunken eyes. Not Samuel, either.
How do I find him? No one stays still enough for me to get a good look at their faces.
I need to think.
I squint and scan again, trying to match every head with his blond, tousled hair. Once the strobe light turns white again, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him.
What should I do?
There is no way I can find him inside here. I survey the dance floor and have an idea. Maybe I can make him find me instead.
Holding the box high up over my head, I wiggle through writhing bodies to reach the raised podium in the middle, where two dancing girls hold on to the pole like firemen.
He will see me if I get up there.
Heads turn towards me as I climb up the pole like it’s a tree. The two girls stop dancing and stare at me. I clutch the pole like a monkey, waiting for him to come get me.
I wait patiently.
My hands grow tired holding the cake and clutching the pole. Faces stare and laugh at me in the dark; some people even start to point at me. I try to ignore the fingers, but the way they look at me makes me feel really small. Everyone is dressed so beautifully, looks so beautiful, their bodies meshed together, connected by the ecstatic vibes that I am unable to share. My heart aches as much as my hands, longing to be one of them, pretending to understand what they are so joyful about, because this exuberance belongs to the world of my brother.
Just when I think the whole room has noticed me except for him, I feel a tap on my legs and find him waving to get my attention from below. He finally came for me. Even the darkness and strobe lights can’t mask the shock on his face. I break into a smile and slide down the pole.
He leads me into a quiet corridor leading up the stairs and behind a heavy black curtain. The sign above says, VIP lounge area.
“What are you doing here?” With both arms holding my shoulders, he surveys my drenched body.
“You didn’t take the cake,” I say.
He runs his hand over my wet hair and face, and says softly, “I’m so sorry, Babe.”
When a man in black suit and walkie-talkie passes by, Samuel asks him if he can spare a tee shirt, like the ones that the bartenders wear. When the man returns, Samuel dries my face and my hair, and asks me to change out of my wet clothes.
“How did you get here?” he asks as he dries my shoulders.
“I took the subway.”
“By yourself?” he stops and asks.
“By myself.”
His forehead creases and brow knots up, eyes staring straight at me. I ask him if he’s mad, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Why do you do this?” He finally speaks, a shimmer glazed over his eyes.
“I need to give her my present.”
Otherwise, she won’t like me. And if she doesn’t like me, she won’t let me hang around him anymore.
Samuel’s face looks torn as he stares at me, as if my presence has brought a long procrastinated dilemma to the surface. Before I can ask him anything, he grabs my face and kisses my forehead, as if he had lost and found me in the concrete jungle of Manhattan.
“You silly boy...”
My brother pulls me in for a long, tight hug, mumbling words that I can’t really hear with all the noise going.
“You must be Keith.”
The blond-haired girl looks like she’s popped out from some fashion magazine. Boys and girls in the glassed-in VIP room hover around her like bees to a flower. She wears a black, slinky dress that is subtly revealing; it hugs her body like second skin.
She is breathtakingly beautiful.
How can I ever compare myself to someone like her? Immediately, I devolve into a five-year old, hiding behind my brother.
“Say hello, Babe. Don’t be rude.” Samuel tugs me out gently.
“H-hello.”
When she hugs and plants a big wet kiss on my face, I can’t help but melt under her embrace. Her body is soft and fragrant like a bouquet of flowers. My heart races as she takes my hand and thanks me for the cake. No one takes my hand like that except for my brother.
She already feels like a big sister to me.
Like Samuel, she commands a presence. Her confident air, her graceful smiles, the unabashed way she looks at you – they make you feel like she likes you very much. I sit down next to her as she pours me a drink, asking me lots of questions, hand always holding onto mine.
I ask her if she wants to cut the cake; I’ve brought candles as well. She says later. Tell me all about yourself, she says. Then I recite my weight, height, age, date of birth, interests, strengths and weaknesses in one breath. She smiles at me all the while. Do I like to dance? I love to dance. Then I offer to show her, and everyone in the room laughs. Everyone seems so friendly, everyone hugs and laughs. Samuel is right. She is indeed a very loving girl.
Beth asks me if I know any party tricks. I remember Peter saying that back flips are good party tricks, so I do one to show her. Everyone claps and laughs.
“Babe, don’t do that here,” Samuel says.
“What’s wrong with you? We’re just having fun.” Beth rubs his arms.
“There are glasses everywhere in this room. He might break one and cut himself.”
“You,” she pops a white pill into her mouth and says, “seriously need to relax.”
Then she pulls him in for a kiss, tongue teasing out from her lips. Her legs wrap between his thighs as her hands slip under his shirt. My brother visibly melts into her.
I swallow and stare.
He pulls away from her gently, and smiles. Then, suddenly realizing I’m there, he casts a concerned look at me.
“Not in front of my brother, Beth.”
It’s okay. I tell him I don’t mind. But he isn’t referring to the kiss. Is she feeling ill? Why is she taking a pill? Samuel doesn’t answer my question.
“It’s my party. I do whatever I want,” she says.
One of the boys offers me a pill as Samuel talks to Beth. If she isn’t sick, then they must be birth-control pills; girls in my school take those. I tell him I don’t need it since I can’t get pregnant. The boys look at each other and laugh.
“It’s vitamin E, dude,” the boy says.
“Oh, but I’m not deficient.”
Then they laugh again.
“Whatever he’s taking, I want to have them, too,” one of the girls squeals.
Beth titters and wags her finger. “He’s not high, Gwen, just Down’s Syndrome.”
“I said autism,” Samuel hisses.
She holds up her hand like she’s apologizing or gesturing. Whatever, I can’t really tell. Everyone in New York behaves so strangely.
“Relax, tiger. Since he’s here, let him have some fun.”
“He can’t take that shit; it’ll fry his brains,” Samuel says.
“Fine.” She snaps and gulps down the rest of the blue cocktail drink. “Have fun babysitting, then.”
Both of them continue to talk loudly while her friends bombard me with strange questions. After a while, he slumps to the couch and guzzles a pint of beer down his throat. They don’t talk much to each other after that.
She leaves the glass VIP room with her posse of friends without a second glance at us. I want to ask her if she’s coming back to eat the cake, but when I open up the box, it is crumpled, and I see it all wet and soggy inside. The cake is ruined.
“Is that why she won’t eat it?” I look down and ask him softly.
“I’m sorry, Babe.”
Why sorry? It’s not his fault.
“But I’m sure she’ll eat it later.”
He cuts himself a slice and licks the chocolate off his fingers, making loud smacking sounds, “Hmm… it tastes better soggy. The last one you made was too dry.”
“Really?”
He holds my head in and rests his forehead on mine. “Since when do I ever lie to you?”
When I start sneezing, he said he’ll take me back to the apartment. Should we at least let Beth knows first? Samuel says not to worry because he’ll just message her.
But it’s rude not to say goodbye personally. It makes a bad first impression.
“All right, Babe, if you insist.”
“Can I eat some of the cake first? I am hungry.”
“You haven’t had your dinner yet?”
I shake my head.
# # # # #
He leads me by the hand through the dance floor as we search corner to corner but can’t find her anywhere. One of her friends says she might be in the ladies room. Not there, either. Maybe she’s in the VIP washroom behind the heavy black curtains instead.
We squeeze past the crowd to the other side of the club. He leads me down a dark corridor and turns left. Lifting the black curtain, we see her making out with another boy at the other end of it.
Samuel stands there watching the entire time. His face is impassive. Shouldn’t we give them privacy? I ask my brother.
Beth looks up with cloudy eyes that soon widen when she sees us. Haven’t we left already? I tell her I want to say goodbye in person. I ask if she can give me a goodbye hug. But she doesn’t respond.
Silence cuts across the two ends of the corridor; four eyes lock on each other.
Then my brother suddenly speaks softly, “Hi, Tristan.”
Another silence.
“I better get going,” the boy straightens up and says to her.
Their exchange is confusing. Samuel greets Tristan. Tristan bids farewell to Beth, and Beth tells Samuel she’s too high and drunk. No one seems to be responding to what the other is saying. Is that how people converse in New York?
Then the boy leaves the long corridor, leaving the three of us behind. Beth asks if Samuel will take her home. He says no. Why not?
Because he is taking me home, instead.
# # # # #
We sit on a railing along a quiet street. He watches me wolf down a Subway sandwich with a gentle smile and gentle eyes. He pats my back and hands me a bottle of water when I choke.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask him. His face looks pensive and impenetrable. Not a word from him, just the gentle smile and downcast eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask and take another bite.
“I’ve decided to break up with her.”
“What… Why? Didn’t you like her?” I stop to look at him.
“I like her very much, but I don’t like myself when I’m with her. Being with you reminds me of the person I used to be. The person I’ve wanted to be.”
I don’t understand what he means. But I offer him a hug anyway, which he takes gladly and deeply.
Faces buried in necks, arms around each other. Somehow I know he’s smiling even though I can’t see his face right now, because among the sea of faceless strangers, everyone walking past has lifted the corner of their lips a little higher.
“Thank, Babe.” I feel his face rub against my neck. We fall in love with the ones we think we deserve. And my brother says he finally feels that he deserves me.
We cut short our stay in New York and leave for Boston on the first train the next day. Samuel breaks up with Beth over the phone. He says he isn’t angry about last night. Then why did he want to break up? He tells her he finally grew up and figured out the important things in life.
Our heads rest on each other’s in full view of other passengers in the moldy-smelling train car, fingers entwined. He doesn’t want to talk about Beth, but I guess it must have cut him really deep. If it hurts so much just after being together for a few weeks, I can’t imagine breaking a bond that was built over two years.
He seems surprised that I said a few weeks. To him, we have been together since we were born.
Love is love is love.
The body only expresses what’s inside, so you can’t only count the times when we start expressing ourselves aloud. That’s what makes us so precious, he says. Because there is one thing which we’re not destined to lose regardless of our circumstances, and that is our affinity. Distance, time, relationships, marriage – nothing can take that away unless we choose to close our door, the secret passageway that we have left open to sneak into each other’s hearts.
Just like how he would sneak into my heart, leading me quietly into the train restroom together as if it’s our wedding night. Right there and then, with hundreds of people behind those thin plastic walls, he slams me against the wall, pulling down my pants and makes love to me, thrusting faster and faster as if to race against the galloping train before it reaches the final stop of our intimate odyssey. One final gust of raw intimacy before the journey concludes.
What if someone knocks on the door? I protest softly among his assault of kisses. Biting my earlobe, he gasps, let them come in, for they won’t find anything but two halves of a person joining into one.
# # # # #
The train stops for a few seconds; only the two of us get off in this quiet side of Boston. There is the usual rumble, followed by the loud hydraulic rattle of the engine. Then, as easily as it stopped, the train squeaks out of the station, sliding away into total silence. I stand for a moment on the dry wooden platform. The whole place, including the boarded station building, exudes a strong odor of diesel, tar, chipped paint, and piss.
It is the end of our journey.
The last vestige of summer seems to have ended by the time we reach here. Trees everywhere are turning yellow, shedding dried, dead leaves everywhere on the ground. The breeze brings a chill that cuts straight into our hearts; only the warmth in our hands can keep us from trembling. Our summer clothes makes us ill-prepared for this cold, but we refuse to put on a jacket so that we can find every excuse to huddle for intimacy.
We find ourselves standing before the institute. This will be my home for the coming year, in this quiet suburb, this quaint corner inhabited by artists and musicians, surrounded by quiet parks and trees. This spot is where I will wait for him day in and day out until he comes back to take me away. We step into the compound with our hands holding each other’s. No one spares us a second look.
Professor Hoffman welcomes us with open arms. Then he makes lots of introductions after that: my caretaker, a portly lady with a buttoned-up blouse named Katherine; numerous boys and girls like me, each imprisoned in their own world and in their own way; some of the program tutors. Then he shows us the classroom and facilities, none of which I’m keen to know. At least not right now.
I hardly pay attention to what he says on the tour of the facilities, eager to get the orientation over and done with so that my brother and I can spend our last day together quietly. When the tour comes almost to an end and he asks if I have any questions, it is Samuel who speaks. He asks about the basic things like reading cues, socializing, grasping societal norms, buying things, taking the trains. The program only seems to develop only my strengths: math and physics.
And Professor Hoffman replies to him, “Samuel, people fail because they invest so much energy trying to compensate for their flaws. Doing that only crushes self-esteem every time they fall short and struggle.”
Then he introduces us to Ian, a boy my age going off to MIT to study artificial intelligence, the passion of his life. Like me, his senses don’t integrate well, and he couldn’t even step out of the institute when he first came. Today, Ian stands before me on a skateboard, giving me a hug and a handshake before heading out to meet his friends in town.
“Your passion is the seed that breaks through the earth that buries you.” Professor Hoffman said. “Not with shovels and spades.”
“Where do we find it?” I ask.
“It is right there,” he points to my chest, “in your heart of hearts.”
I look at Samuel.
# # # # #
I came this far today because of my brother. All these years, I struggled to understand faces because I want to understand his world. I got into math and physics because he needed help with his homework. Cooking, washing, taking the bus, taking the train, buying groceries, learning to kiss – all boil down to one passion: that is to be with him.
He spends the last night with me in my new abode. I lie belly-down on the bed while he lies beside me naked. I want to write something in my journal to commemorate this moment. Tomorrow evening, he will be leaving for California and on with his life.
Not a word. Not a single feeling, only a muted ache beneath numbness. I don’t fool myself thinking that the worst is over. I only fear that the pain will creep in on the sly in the middle of the night when my whole body aches for him, reaching out only to find him lying in another bed thousands of miles away. That’s why I want the impact to hit me fully in the face right now. Cry it out, yell and shout, turn into a human tornado; at least he would still be around for me to hold. Let it all drain out so that by the time he’s gone tomorrow, there are no more tears to shed and no more pain to feel.
But in the end, I only type in two words into my journal entry.
Thank you.
Two unassuming words of gratitude are all it takes to pull the plug from my heart. Tears and aches pour out of my chest like a broken dam. He holds me for a long time, and when I look up, he kisses me deeply.
“Take a look.”
My brother hands me his iPad to show me Mom’s mission page on the screen. There are two fields under the question Mom poses to us – What is your heart of hearts? – each field indicating our names next to it. Beside his name, he has keyed in a single word.
Babe.
That was what he wants to show me.
“When we were kids, I had to toughen up to keep those bullies off you, and you worshipped me like a hero. You made me like myself,” he says.
Then he opens the photo album which he made for my birthday. Flipping through all the snapshots we took together and the portraits of me in various moods – tantrums, laughter, tears – he says, “Then, I learned to like photography, because it captures all the sides of you that the world can’t see. You were the first who saw me for who I am.”
We exchange a smile and a kiss.
He shows me the photo where Dad gave us a special mission in Sweden while we visited Grandma. We laugh about how badly we screwed up the mission because we wanted to ski so badly. And he says, “I wanted to roam the world because it reminded me of the adventures we had together. But somehow I lost sight of that. It wasn’t the thrill and danger that made them memorable; it was the laughter we shared from the close brushes with danger.”
Holding my face, he gazes into my eyes and says, “You are my heart of hearts.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and take the iPad from him. Next to my name, I keyed in a single word in the field.
Samuel.
Then we smile at each other and hit enter. This is the best mission and the longest one we ever took together, because there are no greater rewards than discovering our own truths.
A new page loads and a PDF document appears, providing a long list of college scholarships.
“Really? Mom wants you to think about college now?” he sighs.
“I’m not going anywhere but USC to join you.” I assure him.
Then suddenly we realized Mom might read our responses and figure out what’s going on between us. We had promised Dad that we wouldn’t let her know, no matter what.
Samuel calls Mom so he can explain our entries away as a mistake. But it appears our fears are unfounded.
She can’t question what we wrote inside the field because there are no wrong answers. Her voice is hoarse and raspy through the speaker phone.
Oh, don’t worry, sweetie, you will win no matter how you answer it. They are your truths after all.
“Then what’s with the scholarships, Mom? Isn’t it a bit too early for Babe to start thinking?”
It’s actually meant for you.
“For me?” Samuel says.
I know you wanted badly to be a photographer, and I know we shouldn’t have influenced your choice differently. I just want you to pursue something you really want, something that will make you happy.
“Mom…”
We can’t afford another college loan for you. But there are some good scholarships out there for photography, especially in Boston-
She pauses, interrupted by a bad cough.
“Are you all right?” Samuel says.
She clears her throat while Dad asks her to drink some water before she continues.
Yeah. I was saying - With the remaining college funds left for you, plus the scholarship, and if you tighten the belt and share living expenses with your brother, things might just work out.
Samuel’s spine straightens up, his eyes gleaming in revelation as if what he heard should have been so painfully obvious.
We can hear Dad’s voice in the background,
Annie, are you sure about this? Samuel’s already completed his second year at USC; it will be a waste-
Oh, Jack, God damn it, I’m sure. The last thing I want is my child cursing me in my grave when he’s stuck in a boring office cubicle.
She laughs, but Samuel’s eyes are sad.
Besides, I just can’t sleep at night thinking that Babe’s all alone in Boston. He never even had a sleep-over in his life.
Dad says I have a caretaker in Boston. But Mom says you can’t pay someone to care. It is different. Then she continues to speak to Samuel,
Sweetheart, if being a photographer is really what you want, then go for it. Don’t choose fear or regrets; choose love instead.
Samuel’s voice cracks, tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s the first time he’s ever cried openly in front of anyone.
He thanks Mom. The only thing that held him back from living his dream is the fear that he would disappoint her. Her blessings have changed everything in an instant. Samuel takes a deep breath and exhales what seems to be the weight of his entire life; a smile blooms on his face like the cloud break of morning sun. He almost chokes on his tears as he utters in that soft tender voice, “I take back what I’ve said, Mom. This is the best reward ever.”
A long silence falls in the room as the heavy air seems to dissipate with the sudden gust of elation.
“Take care of your brother, Samuel.”
Those were Mom’s parting words. The same words she said every time when we left the house for a mission.
After he puts down the phone, my brother hugs me tightly. He kisses my cheeks repeatedly and says into my ears,
“We’re going to live together, Babe.”
It takes me a while to register what Samuel has said. By that time, I am already lifted off the ground and being whirled around in my brother’s tight embrace.