i was fresh out of grad school, moving to toronto for a small job that i thought was going to tie me over before i found the real thing. it was mindless, but back then i thought that such was life. i was drifting without knowing. i was new to a brand new city, the only two streets that i know were the two subway lines, the air was always too cold and too thin, and even when i was firmly on the ground, i suffered vertigo. i had too clear an idea of what i wanted to do yet too vague about getting there, and days evolved around me like a long sleep that i couldn't shake off.
that's when i met him, my sweet friend. i walked into the meeting room, we greeted each other, and before we knew we were laughing. i had few friends of my own age at that time, people around me loved me as if they were my aunts or uncles, so friendship from someone older was natural. i utterly enjoyed it, the attention of a lovely work contact, someone that i could connect with, without any hint of romance. soon i left the job, after the contract was up. i never bothered with keeping in touch with people, out of career pessimism. but he called. we continued our friendship. i was looking for a real job, i'd get frustrated, of course, and he'd say, every morning, look into the mirror and tell yourself that you're beautiful and you're bright. that trick, i still do it occasionally. and every time i'd think of him.
there was a period when he was telling me stories. i can't recall how long it lasted. maybe a few weeks, or a few months. it started with ireland. we were in a car one day, and an irish song was playing on the radio. he said, i was sixteen, i was at the airport, ready to come to america. i was happy, i was looking forward to it, my mum and sister were seeing me off. then that song played. and i just lost it, i just lost it.
there were many stories that he told me. most of them from the time before he came to canada, when he was just a young immigrant, going through all kinds of adventures, romantic, foolish, both. he'd been a teacher for the longest time, so he's eloquent. double that with all the irish charm in the world, a rich voice, layered, paced. i used to laugh so hard at his stories.
by the time i got my first real job, i'd pretty much learned about all his stories.
then something unspeakable happened. a family tragedy. i saw him a couple of times after that. looking at him, i knew that no words would bring him out of it. i thought, and that's something that i knew ever since i became an immigrant myself, we are all so alone in this world, and it doesn't matter how kind or eager people around us are.
i tried to keep in touch, but it became impossible. i'd reach the same voicemail, over and over again.
a few years later i tried to write down his stories. i missed him, and that's the only way i could remember him. i was still inhibited by that chinese sense of reticence, so his stories reluctantly manifested themselves into chinese text. i changed names, circumstances. i mixed them up with other people's stories. i was too constrained by all kinds of customs to write down his stories as they were. deep down, maybe i was frightened. if writing about someone isn't a form of deep affection, what is.
over the years i hated most of what i wrote, which i tossed out when i moved from one address to another, from one city to another. it's like they were literally crumbling into dust. there were probably 50 pages of them, then only 15, then it dwindled down to five.
i saw them again a few days ago.
they were in my files with bank statements, citizenship papers, old correspondence. sitting on the floor, going through them, i realized that i'd screwed up everything.
the stories i wrote were based on his. yet i no longer saw him in them. i saw my own youthful insecurities.
the worst part was that i'd lost track of the original stories, names, places. i thought that his rich voice had etched these details into my memories. what was the name of his first american girlfriend? where did they go to buy their smoke? is there a union station in boston? did he come from east london? and how old was he when he left london, sixteen or eighteen? looking at my own words, i can no longer recall any of it.
all i can recall was his voice.
and i don't even know where he is anymore. these stories are permanently lost to me. and i'd loved them.
you don't experience this feeling often, that acute sense of loss that evaporates in a matter of hours. looking at the ruins that used to be his life, i had my dosage of heartbreak of the day.
That's such a sad story that I can relate to. It's hard losing a friend you've known for so long.
Posted by: Konrad Chan | July 03, 2006 at 10:55 AM