How to Pick Up a Maid in Statue Square Read online

  How to

  Pick Up

  a Maid

  IN STATUE SQUARE

  How to

  Pick Up

  a Maid

  IN STATUE SQUARE

  REA TARVYDAS

  ©Rea Tarvydas, 2016

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  410 2nd Avenue North

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7K 2C3

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Tarvydas, Rea, author

  How to pick up a maid in Statue Square / Rea Tarvydas.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77187-117-4 (paperback). –ISBN 978-1-77187-118-1 (html). – ISBN 978-1-77187-119-8 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8639.A773H69 2016 C813'.6 C2016-905256-7

  C2016-905257-5

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada for its publishing program.

  How to

  Pick Up

  a Maid

  IN STATUE SQUARE

  For Robert

  CONTENTS

  How to Pick Up a Maid in Statue Square

  Fast Eddy

  Blank

  Leon

  Merrilou

  Mark

  The Suitable Dress

  Richard

  Rephrasing Kate

  21:23

  The Dirty Duck

  Drinks List

  Playlist

  HOW TO PICK UP A MAID IN STATUE SQUARE

  STAY IN SATURDAY night and atone for Friday’s excesses: assorted amphetamines and extracurricular activities on The Filthy Acre. Calm yourself. You’re coming down, simultaneously jittery and depressed. Swear off amphetamines. Think about calling home. You should stay in touch. Don’t call your wife. Ex-wife.

  Get up at a reasonable hour on Sunday morning; 11:00 AM is fine. Tidy the flat, empty except for the baby grand your ex-wife1 left behind, a bed and a couple modern black leather chairs. Hide necessary electronics behind cabinets. It’s more orderly that way. Remind yourself to buy a couple of abstract paintings.

  Work out at the gym downstairs; you’ve gained weight. Shower, dress casually, and grab your messenger bag, cellphone, and a fully charged and loaded iPod. The playlist for the day includes at least one Hunters and Collectors tune and an assortment of Manchester’s finest bands, past or present. Your choice. Grab a light lunch on the way down to Central.

  Filipina maids take communion on their rest day. Each Sunday at noon Central District transforms into a refugee camp. The sidewalks and pedestrian overpasses line with thousands and thousands of women. They gather in any available shade, singing, reading the Bible, gossiping and eating, fixing each other’s hair, and applying makeup brought back from home. This is a sacred place.

  The hollow tangle of Tagalog lures you into Statue Square, the centre of this estrogen universe. Sir Thomas Jackson, a British banker responsible for building colonial Hong Kong, presides. His eyes are empty holes. Standing, one hand grasping his black waistcoat, the other at the ready. You swear Sir Jackson’s about to remove his coat, launch himself into the crowd, and body surf.

  Wander through the congested square until a maid makes eye contact. Stop and chat. Flirt politely. Wonder what she’ll do when she’s in bed, you never know. Remember the one with the tattoo writhing above her luscious ass. Remind yourself that you’re seeking redemption today and wait until the aforementioned maid touches your arm. Girl, you say and she smiles. You symbolize a way out. Besides you’re wearing your lucky shoes2.

  Take her back to your flat. Afterward she’ll ask to have a shower and take a long time in the bathroom. Let her linger. She doesn’t have a lot of personal space wherever she’s living. She’s lucky if she has a room of her own. Listen to her complaints about her employer. Let her miss her life in the Philippines. She’s supporting a family of ten, minimum, back home. That’s a lot of responsibility, even for a good girl.

  Feed her something, she’ll appreciate it, no one cooks for her. Two eggs, over easy, white toast. The secret is a combination of precise heat and patience. Sit at the kitchen table and watch her eat. You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she eats. Does she cut and scoop? Dip the yoke dry? Squash the eggs between the toasts and eat it like a sandwich?

  If she talks about God, don’t grimace; it’s Sunday. Be polite, make small talk. Nod when she says she’s never done this before. Neither have you.

  When it’s time to go, walk her downstairs to the lobby. Give her money for a taxi knowing that she won’t take one, choosing instead to walk downhill to Statue Square and meet up with her friends again. Whatever you do, don’t give out your cellphone number. Remember what happened last time.

  Go back upstairs to your flat. Shower again. Change the sheets.

  Watch Blade Runner on DVD. Watch up to the scene where Sean Young arrives in a fur coat, mascara pooling beneath those grieving eyes. Harrison Ford shoves her against the venetian blinds, her eyes widen and she flinches. Watch the scene repeatedly. You already know how the story ends: high above a futuristic city, Rutger Hauer, wearing blue underpants, morphs into a gargoyle.

  Turn off the lights.

  Step onto your balcony and smoke a joint. Remind yourself to go to bed by two o’clock, you have a busy week ahead. The Big Boss is flying in from New York. Scan the glowing windows of the city. It’s lights-out most everywhere except for the girl in the tower overlooking the Botanical Gardens. She exercises in skimpy clothing late Sunday evenings, talks to herself, works something out elliptically.

  Your telescope locks easily into place.

  You can’t stop yourself.

  1 You ran into her last summer when you were back home on business. She was out shopping with a man and you stared at her so you could ignore him. She looked at you as if she expected you to say something important. Instead, you imagined her lying naked across a rumpled bed and then you wondered if she liked it more with him than with you.

  2 Ferragamo loafers. Once, in a bar in Lan Kwai Fong, an older woman clutching a large gin and tonic asked you if she could touch them. That’s another story.

  FAST EDDY

  I STEP OUT INTO the rain-damp street for some air. At the end of Old Peak Road, off-duty taxi drivers congregate in the cul-de-sac. Drivers sprawl across car hoods while others polish fenders with rags. Still others squat together, smoking and talking.

  Across the street from my building, I see the flicking headlights of the last cab in the stand at Hillsborough Court. I can’t make out the driver’s face, just the pale glow of his shirt and his beckoning hand. Just a couple drinks. Nothing more.

  “Foreign Correspondents’ Club,” I say. He nods as if it’s the only logical destination for a Caucasian man standing out on a Hong Kong street at midnight. I gaze over grimy rooftops stabilized by immense neon signs. The taxi descends and the signs rush up to meet me. Near the halfway point, they glare at me for one jarringly beautiful moment. There’s a humming in my chest
then the taxi hurtles around the next corner and the sensation is lost. I try to ignore the dangerous thrill as I drop through the neon snarl of the bar district. It has been a while and I miss the rush. Reminds me of amphetamines.

  By the time I reach the bottom of the street the neon signs flash high above and, even though I tilt my head, they blur into an incomprehensible series of dots and dashes. Morse code isn’t supposed to exist in the modern world, an outdated method made as obsolete as colonialism.

  I fight the urge to rub my eyes and try, instead, to focus on the familiar pink martini glass that tips itself over next to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. The FCC. Booze is cheap and you don’t have to be a journalist to join, as long as you’re offered membership.

  The taxi swerves to an abrupt halt in the middle of Lower Albert Street and delivers me face first into the vinyl headrest in front. I dab for blood on my forehead. Nothing. The driver grins in the plastic-slotted shadows of the front seat. “Okay, mister?” He points at the meter with his trigger finger then flips out his hand like a cellphone.

  I come up with a couple good insults but figure it isn’t worth my while. I’d just confuse him. That would be unsatisfying on this particular night, this anniversary of sorts. Instead, I hand over a large bill and, once he has provided change, pocket his tip. For a split second his smile freezes and then he inclines his head toward the tipping martini. Full. Empty.

  “I wait?”

  I ignore him and slam the door.

  As I pick my way through oily puddles, I avoid a freewheeling bunch of drunken rugby fans celebrating a win at the Sevens’ Tournament. Stepping into deep water, I douse my lucky shoes. I sense the dye weeping almost immediately, marking my sockless feet.

  The bar is lined with a few familiar faces, most of which appear surprised to see me. I nod at a couple of Brits from Reuters and they scrape over my appearance, straight down to my dripping loafers, then ignore me. Some things never change. Harsh clove cigarette smoke gathers in the wood-hatched ceiling.

  “Hey, Fast Eddy.”

  Joe, dependable Joe. He shoves at the worn rattan chair opposite his own, nods expectantly, and signals the waitress for a round. Fast Eddy, my Wan Chai name. I sit down. Remember the two-drink rule.

  “Long time, no see. How’s the banking business?” asks Joe automatically. He grins, his teeth painted with ancient coffee stains. Another rundown expatriate going local. Why doesn’t he just make an appointment with a fucking dentist when he’s on home leave like everybody else?

  I shrug.

  Joe laughs as if he doesn’t really care, not true because he’s an American and competitive by nature, then he launches into a story about a Cathay pilot who lives across the hall. I nod and smile every now and again, even laugh at the high point.

  “Three bar girls. Don’t that beat all.” Joe slaps at his rumpled knee. His Adam’s apple jerks up and down the tanned column of his neck as he downs a glass of San Miguel in one slow gulp. Empty. Full. I don’t stop my hand from signalling for another round and scan the exits. All clear.

  Smoke twists and rolls within the wooden boxes on the ceiling, searching for an escape route. One frail arm of smoke reaches across a beam and joins hands with its neighbour before it disappears into the next crowded box, going nowhere together.

  It’s funny how I search the crowded streets for familiar faces, how I never see anyone I know. Sure, I spot a few Caucasians but no one familiar. The only places I’m certain to know someone are here or down on The Filthy Acre. The Acre is definitely off limits. The abrupt clink of bottles and glasses on a tray pulls me back to the table. So much for the two-drink rule.

  “Okay, okay?” asks the waitress. The name on her badge reads “Merry!” God rest ye merry gentlemen. Most of the windows are open. A large scrum of rugby freaks staggers past, arms around one another. The street definitely sounds busier.

  The door crashes open. Willis wanders in and leans against the bar right next to the front door. Great. One night out in ten months and my fucking dealer shows up. I wonder who sponsored his membership and at what cost.

  Willis’ glittering eyes track the crowd and he nods here and there without risking direct eye contact. High. Probably ecstasy. He unclenches his jaw and raises a vodka martini to his lips. Before long his gaze slides over, pauses, rewinds, and repeats the action. That’s the only way I know he really notices me. The double slide. I also know what he’s thinking: meet me in the bathroom. Score.

  Ignore him.

  I drag my attention back to the table and focus on Joe’s mouth, count the words dropping off his chapped lips. Joe worries about the latest article he’s shopping around, complains that no one appreciates his individual take on politics in China. This deteriorates into a lengthy contrast of the Chinese versus American political systems and no surprise, the Americans win.

  Joe is an earnest American. I kind of like that about him, not that I’d admit it. Sure, he’s loud and drones on and on about The States. At least he believes in something and can say so in less than 1300 words when he’s typing. That’s what makes him one of the best, his old-school journalistic skills.

  “Listen. A few of the boys are heading down to that girlie bar in Wan Chai, the one with the karaoke upstairs? What’s the name? You know it. Why don’t you — ”

  “No,” I say. Difficult to do given the girlie bar in question, one of my favourites. It took me two months to get over rehab and another six/eight to fully wean myself off bar girls, using a combination of nightly workouts and extensive DVD viewing. “No” is one word I’ve repeated to myself so many times lately that I can’t keep count anymore.

  “C’mon, Fast Eddy, it’ll do you good. It’s been a tough year. I mean. Losing your job — ”

  “You heard what I said.”

  Joe levels his flat brown eyes on me. Wrinkles fan out from their margins before abruptly turning the corners of his long face. The whites of his eyes are faintly yellow, the sign of a steady drinker. Joe looks surprisingly good for a daily habit of ten beer and assorted gin tonics. He leans as far back in the chair as he can, clasps his hands together like some kind of preacher.

  We consider one another.

  “You want to talk about it?” He leans into the table. His hands spring apart and flex. I wonder if he might actually touch me or hit me. I don’t know which is worse.

  I shake my head. The wicker chair prickles my lower back, cane needles scratching my skin through my linen shirt. Little triggers. I crave a high, any high. When will it end? Willis twitches out of his shiny suit jacket and settles into his barstool. A beer sign flickers and Willis’ face in the mirror alternates between yellow and reptilian green.

  “I’d talk to you about it, buddy,” says Joe with the same certainty he brings to both politics and the newspaper business. This certainty reminds me of my sponsor. I consider my options. Stay and talk to Joe. Leave. There’s no way I can leave with that jitney, Willis, barring the front door. I’ll never make it past without his fare. As it stands I’ve barely made it through the longest twelve months of my life without him, a year even worse than that of my divorce.

  I stare down into my sweating glass and think again about my sponsor. I think about the program. Pause on Step Five: admit to another being the exact nature of your wrongs. My wrongs. I’ve never told anyone. It figures. I’m working the program in a fucking bar.

  The beat throbbed hot-pink airplane-strip lighting across the crowded dance floor. A heady combination of sex, sweat, and expectations. Fast Eddy was barely concentrating. Hard bodies everywhere. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  These Filipinas are too lovely. Long hair, short hair, tight jeans, but look at them sideways and they’re pregnant. He groped his back pocket for condoms. Check.

  Shit, stuck with The Old Fat Businessman. The OFB. At least the OFB scored the best seat in the house, beside the front window and next to the entrance. First to scope out the action both on the street and on the dance floor.

  �
�Heineken?” Big cheese in town, Eddy. Show him a good time, Eddy. The pitch had gone unbelievably well, considering the shitty book the junior associates threw together, last minute. After dinner, the OFB wanted to check out local hospitality and Fast Eddy’s name came up. Guess money can buy anything. Even me.

  “No, thanks,” the OFB answered. “Jet lag.”

  An awkward silence. Fast Eddy carefully pulled the foil label from the bottle neck. Drinking beer? He doesn’t even like it, slows him down too much. Red Bull’s more his style when he’s rolling through The Filthy Acre, his final destination following this feeble attempt at entertaining a fat fuck.

  “Maybe I’ll have something to eat,” said the OFB. “Any suggestions?”

  Is this guy for real? Fucking hard bodies crawling all over the place and he wants a crappy burger? Just then a sweet-smelling, long-legged beauty wafted in the door, her red-silk cheongsam so short he spied the lacy white cheeks of her ass. I’d eat that. Maybe later. After he tucked the OFB into bed.

  “Gosh.” The OFB’s eyes opened wide. In the stabbing flash of the strobe lights, his ears glowed red, redder, red, redder. Fast Eddy watched the tip of the OFB’s tongue lick at pink prawn lips.

  “You like?” Fast Eddy nodded in the red-silk hard body’s direction.

  “Oh. No. I’m a married man. A happily married man. My wife — ”

  “Isn’t here.”

  As the OFB rattled off his itinerary, his eyes never left the red-silk hard body. He counted off the attractions he must visit while in Hong Kong, a list no doubt provided by his wife. An excellent cook, judging by the OFB’s generously padded physique. “I have to see the Peak and ride the Star Ferry and is there a junk trip I can go on?”

  Sounded like a guidebook. Middle-of-the-road guidebook, probably Fodor’s. Good Christ Almighty. Fast Eddy stifled a moist beer yawn and agreed to escort the OFB to Sai Kung for a seafood lunch. Most lovely. Sunday, say eleven o’clock?