I have long days.
The day started with a ten o’clock appointment with the cop. He always comes in on his days off. The first time I saw him was in uniform, about a year ago, when there was a shoplifter at Tarek’s convenience store next door. I saw him through the window while I was sweeping toenails off the tiles, and he nodded his head at me. All the ladies at the rub and tug, Ivana and them, manage to stay out of his way each time he strolls along our strip mall. I think they have an understanding. I’m pretty sure he’s a customer, and he enters their premises from the back.
“Good morning, Officer Tyndall,” I said when he came in today, out of uniform. He nodded. He enjoys seeing me feel afraid of him. I had decided a long time ago to never really look him in the eye. Instead, my eyes were on the footbaths I was filling with bleach and warm water to start the day.
“You ready for me?” His face winced at the smell of bleach. This made me happy. He had scheduled a waxing appointment. This was different from his usual manicure, when, as I do with any client, I unbutton his shirt cuff to reveal his entire forearm. With my right hand, I pump lotion onto my fingers. Inevitably, the pump is only half full of dollar store-grade lotion. Inevitably, the lotion splatters across my thighs. Inevitably, Officer Tyndall says, “Ooooh, is this getting personal, Edna?” I do not respond. I begin massaging the sinew along his forearms, toward the bend of his elbows, and keep my eyes down to avoid seeing the creases of his lips upturned. Smirking at me. My thumbs make their way to his palms, making circles along his lifeline. His smirk grows bigger. “If you can do this with my hands ... who knows what you can do elsewhere,” he says. I do not respond. I never respond. And still, he always says it.
Today, he had asked for a back wax and headed to the facial rooms. I closed the door behind me. “My girlfriend likes me smooth all over, you know?” He started to remove his striped golf shirt, revealing a turtleneck of hair from the bottoms of his earlobes to above the crack of his bum. I shuddered.
I had not even finished rolling out the paper on the surface of the waxing bed, and he had flopped his body facedown, like a child waiting for his bedtime story and for me to tuck him in. I snapped my latex gloves into place. I checked the consistency of the wax by dipping a tongue depressor in and out of the pot. Like caramel. Hot caramel. I shook baby powder across his torso to make it look like Christmas. Then I began to apply the hot wax along the direction of hair growth. He moaned since I refused to cool the liquid down one bit. If he were a different client, I would have blown on the wax before applying it. But I was enjoying his pain too much. Once he was covered from nape to crack, I began my torture. I chose the largest patches of linen strips I could find to begin the pulling process. From the small of his back I pressed the linen into the wax and pulled the hair from the root, like an ugly carpet in an ugly house that I wanted to demolish.
“Aaaaah! Ooooh!” He began screaming with every pull. And with every pull I thought of the times his knees made their way between my legs under the manicure table. “AAAAAH! YOWCH!” I thought of the times he leaned into me, to smell my ear. “SHIT! GOD, THAT HURTS!” I thought of all the times he handed me my one dollar tip and winked at me. “JESUS! PLEASE! IT HURTS! STOP!” I did not. I did not stop until he was as hairless as a newborn mouse. I turned him over and did it all over again on his chest. I noticed his eyes tearing up.
In the most singsong, docile voice, I said, “Oh, Officer Tyndall, are you crying?”
He buried his face into his elbow. “No.”
Eleven o’clock was Mrs Zoe. She is one of my favourites. Just like all days, she came in with new hair. I told her I loved it. She thanked me. She sat down and placed her cellphone on the table in front of her while I filled her acrylics. Her look is the stiletto pointed, Thursday nail manicure, which means detailing on the ring finger. Today she chose fake crystals, with a chocolate base on her other digits. She does not know my name but knows I will be paired with her when she comes in. She likes my attention to detail. As per usual, we sat in complete silence while she scrolled through her Facebook page, and I lovingly placed crystals on her Thursday finger. I love the quiet, and she does, too. The other girls had clients who were filling the air with conversation. But Mrs Zoe, even as I massaged the black skin on the back of her hands, closed her eyes, enjoying the silence.
Two o’clock. An older lady with glasses and a fancy bag hanging from her arm came in, wanting a pedicure. “I don’t want a varnish today. I want someone who is good at massage.” I asked her if she at least wanted a topcoat, to make her toenails shiny. “No, really, I just want the nails cleaned and trimmed. The focus should be the massage.”
After completing her pedicure, I dried her feet with my towel and positioned her soles facing me. Once I started the massage, the old lady began moaning in delight. She moaned and moaned like this was the first time she had ever been touched. Like she was seeing God. I looked up at her and saw that her glasses were askew. The touch was so pleasurable for her, and everyone in the spa could hear; I was surprised she didn’t begin undressing.
“I will see you next week,” said the old lady while fanning herself. She gave me a sly wink. I gulped.
By five o’clock, the girls and I had done about four pedicures each. The floor was littered and crunchy with nails and skin. Mae knew I wanted to finish work early, but I wasn’t able to shake my last client, Mrs Fitz, who insisted I do her feet. I hated her and used our sessions to meditate on what I had done in my life to deserve such torture.
Mrs Fitz was buffed and painted, fast and furious. This did not stop her from going on about her mother-in-law during March break. She gesticulated here and there with her newly painted hands. Finally, she ended her lengthy story with a downward inflection and placed a cold toonie in my hands. She held them for a moment. Privileged, upper-class pampered paws enveloped my raw-skinned hands. This is for you, and for your poor little family, said the gesture. A longing look into my eyes, waiting for a thank you.
“Thank you, miss.”
I hung up my apron, still littered with foot leather. From the corner near the sanitizer, I grabbed my newly purchased karaoke machine and tipped it on its side to allow the wheels to carry its weight. I tucked the mic with its extra-long cord wrapped in a haphazard bunch under my arm.
Mae and the other estheticians hadn’t even turned on the “closed” sign at the nail salon, and I was speed walking south down Poplar Road as fast as my flip-flops would allow, face hot, the skin between my big and second toe tender from my sandals.
“Wait! Wait!” Mae called out. The estheticians marched down the street in a caravan of clip-clopping soles and giggles. Tonight was the night.
Ms Hina met me and the girls at the doors of the school. She directed Mae and the girls to the ticket desk before shuffling me and my karaoke machine with its cassette tape deck to the back of the school gym. Past blue eye shadow and tulle skirts. Past polyester suits and frilly cummerbunds. Past matching jumpsuits and high top sneakers. Past crying kids suffering from stage fright. Past parents double-fisted with ice cream cones, hoping their kids would perform “Pearly Shells” on demand. Past the faded mustard yellow heavy velvet curtain. To my handsome Bing, dressed in a black and white tuxedo, his hair expertly combed to the side.
Ms Hina gave us both a hug before she rushed off to attend to a vomiting child.
“Ready ka na, anak?” I bent over slightly to meet the eyes of my son. I realized I didn’t need to bend over much. He was getting taller. Bing nodded silently.
I took both his earlobes between my thumbs and forefingers. Like I’ve always done when he gets nervous. Bing noticed my ivory bracelets were missing. He circled my wrists with his fingers, like placeholders. He looked at the new karaoke machine and realized the truth.
I changed the subject quickly. “Listen, ha? You need to relax. Tita Mae is out there. The whole gang is out there. Just have fun. We will be cheering for you.”
I held my son and kissed his gel-stiff hair. Then I turned to the karaoke machine and put the volume up to maximum. I turned the vocal track dial down all the way to one, then plugged the machine into a dusty outlet behind the curtain.
The gym doors were open to cool the humid room. The multi-coloured sports pennants on the wall drooped like felt pizzas in the heat. Parents were fanning themselves to no avail. They moving squeakily from one bum cheek to another, partly to keep themselves awake, partly to drown out the sound of the tone-deaf band. Nothing could help these kids: not the flailing arms of their teacher, not the encouraging smiles of parents behind cameras. When the screeching was over, there was uproarious applause, for the mediocrity was finally done. The curtain closed just shy of a music stand that a disembodied arm retrieved. Shuffles. Whispers. Stampede of adolescent feet to the wings.
The curtain opened with heavy increments of swish and slide, thanks to the scrawny arms of a small boy in Coke-bottle glasses. He gestured for Bing to go to centre stage. Bing obliged with karaoke machine in tow. Once he hit his mark, the squeaking of the machine’s wheels was replaced by the familiar hiss of a tape deck and the click of a microphone switch. Bing turned his tuxedo tails to the audience. I held my breath. For once the gym was silent.
The music began. Whitney Houston. Eighties synth. Drum kit. From the echo-filled mic, Bing began to sing. He whipped his body around to the audience, and I was stunned to realize the falsetto voice was coming from my boy. I looked around the gym. Faces were curious, putting two and two together.
Like a war cry, Bing sang a high lick while simultaneously ripping off his tuxedo jacket.
“Naaaks namaaan!” I screamed from the audience. Mae and all the gals from the nail salon stood up and cheered.
“Go, Bing!”
Parents found themselves applauding. Bing motioned for the audience to clap along. His shoulders pumped up and down to the downbeat. His hips swayed expertly from side to side. His beautiful voice echoed off the walls. Bounced off washroom stalls. Off glass cases and the trophies inside.
Just like we rehearsed, Bing began to undo his bowtie while gyrating his hips.
“Is this too much, Ma?” he asked me when we rehearsed. “I think people will make fun of me.”
“You will never be too much. You will never be too little, Bernard. You be you.”
The crowd was in hysterics. They sang along, a song they knew so well sung by a boy they had not understood. He tore off his button-up shirt and threw it to the floor. I caught myself doing the gestures I had helped choreograph. Just at the climax, he revealed his bedazzled pink halter top. Triumph.
I could not swallow my tears any longer. The warm salty water streamed down my face into the folds of my neck. It felt so good to see him display for all to see the magic I saw every day. This was my son. Beyond sainthood. Beyond Jesus. Beyond survival. Beyond lipstick. Beyond singing in the mirror. This was my son. My beautiful child.
The crowd rose to their feet, clapping and screaming.
Bing’s face was covered with sweat as he raised his arm in the air, striking his final pose. Standing ovation, prolonged applause.
I could see everyone clapping but could not hear it past my sobs. This is joy. All those hours working. Pulling hair. Shirking sexual advances. Feigning gratitude for one-dollar tips. How lucky am I to do so, to ensure the security of this child? How lucky am I to do this, in the name of mothering this magical person? How lucky am I to have been chosen by God to be this boy’s mother?