He reached for the tape player on his hip and flipped the cassette over. While resolving to buy new technology, he started side two of today’s psychology lecture. Hope this gets my mind off what happened to the guy in the Toyota, he thought. Jay said out loud, “Why do I always have to run away?”
Dr. Peters’ voice was a familiar blend of gravel and a long-time acquaintance with single-malt scotch. “According to the dictionary, a sociopath exhibits a lack of social or moral responsibility while a psychopath is characterized as amoral and/or antisocial. The reality, as is often the case, is quite different from the dictionary definition.” Jay wrung the water out of the mop. He began a long series of wet lazy figure-eights braided into a shiny, liquid coating over the linoleum. Dr. Peters said, “Individuals with the aforementioned pathologies often appear to be well-adjusted, even successful.”
A tricycle swept past on Jay’s left. Startled, he slipped. His legs and arms windmilled to keep him from falling.
The tricycle spun on the wet floor. Tony hunched over the handlebars with knees and elbows bent at odd angles. His black hair spun out with the centrifugal force. The trike stopped. Tony’s hair fell around his eyes. He eased off the child’s toy till he stood about one-hundred-and-eighty centimetres. “Hey Jay.”
“The key to identifying the psychopath-” Dr. Peters was interrupted when Jay shut the tape off.
“Listening to music?” Tony asked.
Jay hooked the headphones around his neck.
“I got finished early and decided to take a spin.
Sorry about the floor.” He picked up the trike by one handlebar and tiptoed off the wet to stand beside Jay.
“Hey!” Walter said with his best-boss voice. “You FOB prick! What are you doin’ down here? You’re supposed to be upstairs!”
Jay and Tony turned to face Walter. His hair was blond and combed over to hide an ever-expanding bald spot. “I could fire you right now.”
Jay leaned out. He swept the mop over the marred surface till it shone once again. “For what?”
“For being down here when he’s supposed to be working upstairs.” Walter jammed his fists onto his hips.
“You should be rewarding him for finishing ahead of time. Besides, what exactly does FOB stand for? You wouldn’t be saying fresh off the boat, because you wouldn’t make a racist remark like that! I mean, our employer must have some policy against discrimination in the workplace,” Jay said.
Walter’s eyes narrowed. He pointed a finger first at Tony, then at Jay. “I’m gonna keep a close eye on you two.” He turned, unhitched the keys attached to his belt and walked away.
“Sorry man. Didn’t know he was hangin’ around,” Tony said.
“It’s okay.” Jay dipped the mop in the bucket.
“What kind of music you listenin’ to?”
“It’s a lecture on psychopathy.” He tapped the tape player.
“Is there a case study about Walter?” Tony asked.
“Haven’t got into obsessive-compulsive disorders yet.”
Tony picked up the trike. “Thanks for sticking up for me. You’ve been doing that since we were in high school.”
“What are friends for?”
Tony sat in the passenger seat. “You’ve gotta meet my Uncle Tran.”
They drove north on Macleod Trail. “Why the big rush?” Jay was a bit taken aback by Tony’s insistence. And afraid. Afraid of what Tony might discover.
“I phoned him. Told him how you stuck up for me and stood up to Walter. Uncle Tran said, ‘It’s time to bring that Jay to see me’. You don’t understand what a big deal this is.”
Jay looked right at St. Mary’s Cemetery then to the Chinese Cemetery on the left. He thought about where he was going to sleep tonight. He almost turned the radio on to find out if the Toyota driver had been hurt and if the police were looking for him. No, leave the damn thing off, Jay thought.
“It’s real close to where you drop me off in Chinatown. The food’s free. So is the parking,” Tony said.
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later, they stood outside The Lucky Elephant Restaurant. The neon sign was off and a closed sign was in the window. The lights were still on inside. Tony tapped on the door. A man stood. Jay almost missed him at first. He was in the corner, in shadow. His hair was white. He stood within a couple of centimetres of five feet. He wore a blue shirt, a pair of black Levi’s, and white running shoes. The man smiled widely and opened the door. He said, “Please, come in.” He had a gentle, singsong accent that Tony sometimes imitated.
“My name is Lam Tran. Uncle Tran.” He gently shook Jay’s hand and indicated they should sit at the back of the restaurant. Tony and Jay sat on either side of Uncle Tran.
The face of the cook appeared in the window of the kitchen’s swinging door.
Jay noticed Tony’s unnatural reticence.
“You like satay soup?” Uncle Tran made conversation sound like music. “It’s the best in the city.”
Jay hesitated, going over the words in his mind, making sure he understood the accented English. “Sure.”
Tran lifted three fingers. The cook nodded and disappeared. “Tea?” Uncle Tran asked. His black eyes never left Jay.
“Please.” Jay glanced at Tony who looked elsewhere as if to indicate that Jay was on his own. Tran poured tea into three small cups. He met Jay’s eyes with steady appraisal. On Tran’s cheek, a finger-wide scar ran along the bone beneath his right eye. Jay asked, “What happened?” “You have to remember, Uncle,” Tony said, “Jay has ADD. It’s called attention deficit disorder. He means no disrespect. He just blurts out whatever is on his mind.”
Tran set the teapot down and ran his index finger along the scar. “My village was caught in the middle of a battle between the Viet Cong and the Americans. I was a very lucky child. It was an American bullet.”
“How do you know it was an American?” Jay regretted his words as they left his mouth.
“The soldier was very close. I looked into his eyes when he fired his M-16.”
Jay sipped his tea to stop himself from asking more questions. The herbal scent was pleasantly unfamiliar. He felt irretrievably out-of-place.
Tran said, “My nephew says you have been very helpful. A true friend. You have known each other since high school. He speaks often of you and your good character. There have been many times he has been grateful for your support. Tony has been telling me about you for two years.”
Jay shrugged. He was embarrassed and curious. The kitchen door swung open. The cook backed out with a tray holding three steaming bowls of soup and a plate piled high with bean shoots and quartered limes. Beginning at Uncle Tran, he slid the bowls onto the table. The cook left the tray on the table, nodded at Tran, and went out the front door, carefully locking it behind him.
Uncle Tran used chopsticks to grip a slice of tomato. Delicately, he lifted the red circle to his lips and nibbled.
Tony used a spoon to slurp the broth.
Halfway through the meal, the spicy heat of the satay soup radiated to Jay’s extremities.
Uncle Tran used a napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “You’ve chosen your friend wisely, nephew.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Tony said.
Jay felt warmth and dread bubbling up from the risks of acceptance. After all, he thought, I don’t come from a healthy gene pool. He looked for an exit.
Tony laughed. “You should have seen Walter’s face when Jay asked what FOB meant. Uncle, it was a priceless moment.”
Jay laughed and listened as one story lead to another. One, in particular, stuck with him.
Tony badgered his uncle to explain how he’d come to Canada.
Tran surrendered gracefully. “I was in Saigon. The Americans were leaving. Some of us had visas for Canada, but we could not get official permission to leave Vietnam. The embassies were closed. It was chaos.” Tran hesitated.