People wonder how it got so far. They ask me if something happened and I tell them, “Yeah…my childhood”.

It hurts, doesn’t it? Are you in a lot of pain? Cause I was in a lot of pain.

I’m still trying to fix your damage. Still trying to cover up the scars.

You deserve this. You did this to yourself.

And I fucking hope it hurts.

“One or separate bills?”, the waitress asks us. She has a slight Japanese accent, but aside from her raven hair, her features are distinctly Occidental.

“One please”.

“We’re treating, Jeff”.

“Nope. You guys are in my town.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”, they ask, and threaten to leave if I pay. It does nothing to convince me or change my conviction.

“You guys are a lot more behaved than when I was your age”, says the man sitting next to us.

When the bill comes around, we wrench the tray from each others hands.

“Must be odd”, the man whispers to his wife, who’s laughing at us.

But it’s not odd to me. It’s the Chinese way. Like having too much food when you’re hosting a party because to run out is the ultimate embarrassment.

The same way it’s odd to hear North American people complain about their jobs. To the Chinese, a job is how you take care of your family. It doesn’t matter that it’s mindless, stressful, or hard physical labour. You’re just happy to have that opportunity. All my Canadian Chinese friends feel the same¹.

This is how we were raised. It wasn’t a rule that was spoken. We learned it by watching our parents, who would clip coupons for groceries, only buy clothes on sale, re-use paper by writing over again with different coloured inks, but go out to feast with ten people then fight to pay the bill. Sometimes, they’d even get up to find the server to make a preemptive, surreptitious payment. Occasionally there were spilled drinks and soiled clothes, as the fight became physical². I think it’s nice part of the culture to be so adamant about friendship and company.

And I’m glad to be a part of it.

1. Aaron is probably one of the few people I know who understands. He’ll fight with me, not just over a bill when eating out, but for movies, groceries, and other sundries. [↑]
2. I remember a child crying once, a relative of a relative, thinking the parents were arguing with anger. [↑]

They’re out now, the lot of them. Out-of-towners who drove five hours to celebrate with one of their own. People I haven’t seen in years. Seven maybe? God, I feel old. I’ve known a few of them since grade three.

But bar hopping isn’t my scene. There’s also this dull, nagging headache from staying up yesterday into the early morning. Catching up like old times. I’m reminded of the sleepovers. Summers putting on plays and learning how to make piñatas at Camp Creative. Catching minnows and crayfish in the streams back home.

I’m a different person now though. I was a different person from them then even. I never really fit in the group.

Sometimes I look at the pictures of their trips and events and I think to myself, “I wish I was more social. I wish I had more memories.”

I have to hermitize or I get overstimulated. It took me until my early twenties to come out of my shell. Then I think of the parties I’ve been to, the times I’ve had, the pictures I’ve taken, and realize that I do have memories.

I have enough.

I have my own.

She leans the chair back, my neck to rest in the cradle of the wash basin. The water comes out lukewarm. She knows it’s hot outside.

Shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. In small circles, her fingers work my scalp, massaging without too much pressure, scratching when there is no itch.

“This is the best part of my day”, I say.

“Mine too”.

It used to be on the left side of my head, now it’s on the right.

This does not make sense to me.