"Hello, Charlie?" I look at my alarm clock and even it can't believe someone is calling at this time; the numbers are glowing brighter than usual, as if angered. I know it's Susan. No one else is crazy enough to disturb people at two o'clock in the morning on a Monday night. She claims she only calls for emergencies. Last time she couldn't install her bubble-jet printer. I am surprisingly calm.

"Yes. Susan? What's wrong?" Like the boy who cried wolf, no matter how many times she gets me up in the night for apparently unworthy reasons (and this is mostly likely another of them), in the back of my mind, I know there is a chance she could be in real danger. I know it is possible that she could have been attacked or was involved in an accident, and so I try to prepare myself for things which one never expects. But to Susan, danger is relative.

"Boy-trouble."
"Susan, it's two in the morning. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, Charlie. I'm fine. Can you come over? I really need to talk."
I rub my face. "I'll be over soon," I hear myself saying and hate myself as I say it.

Minutes later I find myself dressed in sweat pants, a Blue Jays World Series T-shirt and aquatic beach slippers. I walk out to my apartment's parking lot and crawl into my Toyota. Fortunately, it is still warm outside. I put on my glasses, pop a handful of tic-tacs in my mouth and turn the ignition. In the silence of the early morning, the '87 Corolla whines and moans but knowing there is no choice, finally agrees to start— much like myself.

Of course, I should mention Susan is not the only one who takes advantage of this tragic flaw of mine. Several friends have phoned or dropped by at bad times. Susan just does it most frequently. For some reason, I have been informally elected as the resident friend-psychiatrist. They all say it was done democratically, each person contributing a vote. Each person, that is, except the person being nominated. Whatever the case, I really don't mind. It's just the timing of it all that is bothersome. I really do enjoy listening to other people talk about their lives. And really that's all people want, someone who will let them talk. Sometimes, I don't have to say much at all, they simply talk themselves out of their own problems. I've found that if you force people to articulate and organize their thoughts and feelings, they can help themselves more than you can. Sort of like confession, I suppose, but without the guilt, of course. But there are also times when I hear someone lying to themselves and I am forced to prescribe painful truths. Like the bitter cough syrup your Mother forced you to drink, it was horrid and painful, but you always felt better afterwards.

Yet here I am driving along a once desolate small highway that now gleams with warm neon signs. This is just another indication that the city is ever-growing, and its itchy fingers are feeling further north. Banks have now grown out of the land, and the money they store is of the multitude of restaurants, beauty parlours, computer stores, and fashion boutiques they serve. Most of which, are Chinese.

There is a very serene feeling when you are the only car on the road. Of course, you fear the worst, like picking up some hitch-hiker, making casual conversation, only to find out he's a cannibal. But those thoughts usually vanish after a few minutes. It would also feel lonely but the neon signs glitter, making it seem like I'm driving through Las Vegas, and that my Toyota is actually an old Chevy convertible. I feel as if I should be wearing a cow-boy hat, smoking a cigar. The area is definitely prospering, but instead of the clinks of coins dropping in slot machines, the sound of money is the clak-clak of chopsticks or the roar of European hairdryers.

My friends and I all went to high school in this area. I really can't say we grew up here because when we arrived, it was small and we were big, now it's big and we are small; all the growth has been of the land. I remember how all my relatives tried to convince my Dad not to move to the fringe areas of the city. They used to concoct wild stories of child-hungry black bears, or urban myths about the drunk White Man who always carried a loaded shot gun and fired at anyone who stepped on his property. My friends are all baffled why we haven't left to pursue a more romantic life in Paris or New York, or even downtown, which most people our age seem to do. Scared, I suppose. Most of us don't live at home with our parents any more, but are still automobile-close. I guess we're very Chinese like that, instead of the generational layer-cake of familial housing in China, we have just branched outwards, sprouting up in nearby yards.

Susan comes from a very well-off family. No, not well-off, irresponsibly wealthy. A lot of the bank money I spoke of is probably theirs. They contribute to most of the fat and MSG people consume in this city, owning two of the most successful buffet restaurants- Lucky Phoenix and Imperial House Buffet. Her restaurants were places where all our friends could get an easy job stirring heat-racked chow mein, or skinning Peking duck. We worked at the Imperial House Buffet, the local restaurant (the other is downtown). It wasn't a very rewarding or spiritually fulfilling job, and you always went home smelling of hot wok grease. But no one ever complained during lunch breaks. We were too busy stuffing ourselves with Yeung Chow fried rice and buk choy. I quit before I started university, but I still see some high school friends there who, after work, still pursue the teenage dream of rock stardom, singing songs of angst and melancholy. But everyone liked the food, and for me, being a devout Chinese food lover, it's heaven to be able to eat for free. Susan, on the other hand, is sick of it, and usually leans towards more foreign cuisine like French or Japanese. These restaurants her family owns seats hundreds, so when I say I'm driving to her place, I mean a luxury townhouse.

She lives alone, and probably would be lonely if she actually lived in the place, and not just slept there occasionally. I turn into her housing complex, complete with security check in. I feel like I should reach out and press the large green button and grab the ticket stub popping out of the machine, watching the parking gate rise in front of me. But no, it's poor Gary on night duty again, and I startle him by my headlights at this hour. I wave to him, and, he, relieved to see it's me and not a South Central L.A. gang, lets me pass. I eventually make out her house from the identical others, and pull into her driveway. The light upstairs is on. A head pops up. It's her. I turn off the car and my slippers make flop-flop noises as I walk to her door. She has a small garden which is cared for by paid gardeners who come every week. Tulips, geraniums, forget-me-nots—the usual. I ring the doorbell, hear footsteps scuttering towards me, and it opens.

Susan, like always, is immaculately dressed, even at three in the morning. Her face is done up like a porcelain doll, and her eyebrows seem painted with a fine Japanese brush. She has what they call a heart-shaped face, which tapers to a cute chin, framing a small bird-like mouth. Even as friends, I openly admit, she looks beautiful. She's all smiles.

"Hi, Charlie! Come in. You're such a sweetheart to come over at this time." She pecks me on the cheek. She has long fine hair, and as she quickly turns away to grab her bag, I get slapped with a thin fan smelling of exotic fruits.

"Because they're not stupid, Susan, and want their sleep." She ignores the comment.
"Oh, let's go sui yei! I have this total craving for wonton mein." This sounds better to me— food. I smell alcohol on her but know it wasn't her drink. She vomits with a sip of alcohol. It's probably her boyfriend, Danny's.
"Excellent idea. Did you just get in or are we going to some fancy hotel for wonton? I forgot to wear my tie." She puts on her shoes which have an incredible two inch club heel (they're in style but should be deemed illegal weapons) and we walk out. "Yeah, I was at some karaoke bar downtown. That's when everything happened." She gives me this pain-in-the-ass look.
"What happened?" I ask as we get in my so-called-car, and I somewhat apologetically start it again.
"I'll tell you later. So what's up with you? How's art school coming?"

I'm presently enrolled in an art college downtown, and not just an ordinary art school, it's what people call avant garde. Students there either have one part of their body pierced (excluding the ears), primary-coloured hair, or always carry a contemplative surreal expression. They're always making us do all these crazy things which seem totally irrelevant to the class. In drawing, for example, they made us sign our signature fifty times, then do it blind-folded, then sign it with our left hand, over and over again. I guess it's supposed to get us thinking about making marks, instead of consciously being aware of what we did or why. A type of training, really. "It's a bit different," I say. "but I'm learning a lot,"

"That's good, I guess," She's not too fond of art schools. Like a lot of other practical-minded Chinese folk, art college connotes a sympathetic but somewhat discouraging idea, almost like hair dressing school. "but have you thought about what you're going to do after you graduate?"

Oh-oh. The big life-after-school question. Being totally unsure, I give an ostensible answer. "Susan, you can't think like that in art school. You just have to believe that there is value for art, for certain skills, and eventually you'll find a role to serve. If I continue to think about dollars or what my relatives' think, I would probably go crazy. You really have to do it for yourself. Besides, I'm happy. Peace of mind is worth sacrificing a lot for."

I see her expression. I am passionate, but not persuasive. She's heard all of this before, and it sounds just as unconvincing now. Unlike other spoiled children with her wealth, Susan did go to school, graduated, and mainly supports herself, which is admirable. She one of those students who went to class most of the time, joined ethnic social clubs to party with people of the 'wave-length', and generally enjoyed the university experience, but never because of the work. In her mind, school and work are just things to be done, and if endured, pay off in some way. It's not that she bitterly hates what she does, but rather has no opinion. She's grown indifferent. She graduated from a prestigious university in western Ontario, with a business degree (whatever that means) and now works for a Chinese electronic company. Marketing is what I think she does, helping to direct a Hong Kong orientated business to a Canadian market, though she rarely talks about it.

Sometimes I think she's right, that I should have finished my computer engineering degree, but what if she's not? What if dropping out of my engineering program four months before graduation was the single most important thing I did? What if I was on a path to nine to five jobs, to a cold and infertile workplace, to vendor-hot dog lunches, to Bill Gates, to isolation without warmth, to a life that's good but could be better, to mediocrity? I don't want a life that could be better. I want the best life I can have. All of these questions flash through my mind daily, but for some reason (and it feels right), I keep the faith and drudge forward.

"Your parents must be still pissed. They were four months away from having an engineer as a son, and possibly early retirement. To come so close, then see it fall apart must hurt. Don't you think? Hey, slow down. The restaurant is coming up." She's trying to play the guilt card again. Effective with child-rebellion, but I'm no longer a child.
"I'm sure it does, Susan, but they have no choice. They are not me, and I'm not them. This one right here?"
"Yep."

We get out, and not surprisingly, it's still half full. This frightens people who are not Chinese. It's like a scene from a horror show where as the whole town is deserted, in a small covert, ghastly spirits wake and feast. While barely a car can be spotted on the streets, inside there is a festival of culinary sounds. There is the slurping noodles, the chewing of meat tendons, the crunching of fried bread sticks, the pouring of bottomless teapots, and all the moans and groans which accompany them; the sounds of any great feast. Instead of zombies who feed on human flesh, these devour shrimp dumplings and rice noodles. The Chinese really are addicted to their food, and when they need a fix, there's always a place to find it. These late-night restaurants are like twenty-four hour pushers.

But the addicts found here are not skinny, blood-shot eyed freaks. They are students who had a bad dinner, newly-weds who felt hungry after sex, and workers who just got off the late shift. Or in my case, people who have been interrupted from a delicious night's sleep and dragged out by close friends with 'boy-trouble'. The beautiful and ugly, the rich and poor— all of them can be found in a late night Chinese restaurant. Chinese food, unlike many others types of food, does not discriminate.

We enter. A woman in her late twenties, who obviously has worked too much, seats us in the corner of the smoking section (which in these restaurants, is anywhere you put the ash tray). Most of the waitresses are girls who just arrived from Hong Kong or whatever, and need a half-decent job which does not require fluent English. She hasn't slept well in weeks, and her eyes are half-shut from too much smoke. Sweat has matted her hair, and the black stirrups she wears have not been changed in days. She truly embodies the Chinese spirit, work and endure.

"What are you having, Charlie? It's on me. I know you wouldn't be here if I didn't call you. It's only fair," Susan says, starting the routine. I pick it up.
"No, it's okay. You don't have to."
"Charlie, yes," She grabs my arm firmly. I finish the role-playing.
"Well, all right, Susan, but next time, it's on me, really. This is what friends are for, right?" Ha! what a cliché. Both of us know this is just a formality, but an important formality nonetheless. "I think I'll have the deep fried chicken leg with sauce and onions on rice."
"You are a monster. It's not fair how you eat fifty-times as I do, and I have to work my ass off so it doesn't show." She lights up one of her Marlboros. I always wonder how she gets that brand, since it's not sold in Canada. Smoking, I'm sure, is one of her ways of not letting the weight show. Makes sense: nice legs for black lungs. "Another inequality God forgot," she adds.

The tired, over-worked, ten-years-younger-than-she-looks waitress returns with a pot of tea and takes our orders. "Have you been to church, recently?" I ask out of the blue. Susan turns to the side and blows the smoke out in a strong narrow stream.

"If you're asking me if they've forgiven you, yes, Charlie. You're virtually forgotten, except for some teenage girls who have been asking about you. You were a charmer, you know. It was quite a mini-scandal after you left, though. What happened anyway?"
I really did not want to get into this now. "Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. I just didn't feel I needed to go, that's all." I pour both of us a cup of tea.
"Didn't feel you needed too, eh? But you do still believe in everything, don't you? I mean, Christ, God, soul, salvation and all that stuff."
"I'm not so sure anymore, Susan." Her eyes dilate. She may not be a good Christian, but Christian nonetheless.
"Geez, this is serious. I mean, I know it can be a hassle sometimes, but please, is it worth frying your soul? Don't you care? There's rumours that you turned..." her hands make circular motions. "you know."
"No, I don't know, what?"
"Queer, gay, homosexual," She says in tone which young girls talk about sex in. Then, a little more boldly, "people think you're a fag, Charlie. Happy?"
"Jesus, where the hell did they get that idea from? Just because I'm in art school and don't have a nice docile Christian girl on my arm?" I said, curious how someone can turn gay.
"Hey, I don't make these rumours, I just hear them. I suppose they're wrong, right?"
"Susan, I've known you for all these years and if I was gay, you would be the first to know." She finds homosexuality secretly fascinating, and has always fantasized of having a gay friend. Not as a close friend, of course, but as an acquaintance to observe like a pet, just to see how they're like. I know she would drag me along to lunch with him, and after say something like, 'Man, did you see what he was wearing? Gorgeous! Gays have so much style. But I told you, he never uses his knife. He's so gentle!' I think she finds gay men attractive, but would never admit it. In a way, She is carrying around her own closet.

"Well, what the heck. You're still a hell of a guy, gay or not."
"Thank you, Susan. I'm touched, really."

At this time, our food arrives, steaming hot. Susan with her bowl of wonton noodle soup, and me with my monster-size rice platter. The waitress pulls out a pair of sewing scissors (another fright scene for the non-Chinese). "Do you want the noodle cut?" she asks in Cantonese.

"Thanks," Susan responds. From the corners the room, through speakers which look ready to fall, I hear American pop music. The place is not unlike other late-night restaurants. Hong Kong is a hybrid of two cultures, the mutant progeny of Chinese ideology and Western capitalism; and so in these restaurants you hear either Michael Bolton or Michael Bolton with Chinese words.

Her noodles look good, cooked to the right tenderness and not too mushy. The wonton dumplings are like jumbo Lionhead gold fish, fat and bloated, swimming in a pool of soup. You know, the kind that doesn't swim properly because its genes have been engineered for optimum goldfish colour and shape. Eventually, the fish become tangled in the web of noodles, trapped. It is wise to have one's noodles cut because it makes it easier to eat, instead of slurping it up spaghetti-style. Slurping spaghetti-style causes hot soup to splash in your face—painful. Topped with tiny rings of green onion, this is a classic Chinese dish for the middle of the night.

"So," I say, "what happened tonight?" Finally touching on the root of the evening, the reason which rudely disturbed my sleep. This has got to be good.

"Well," she puts out her cigarette. "I got home from work around six, took a short nap, and then Danny called about eightish. It's nice to have someone call you right when you wake up. It somehow makes it feel less lonely, don't you think? That's why I think babies are always crying when they wake. It's lonely and frightening. Anyway, he asked me if I wanted to go out, and I said sure. By the way, that looks good. How is it?"

"Excellent. Here, have some." I give her a piece of chicken, fried in a soft batter, not crusty like Kentucky Fried Chicken, but tender. "How is Danny, now a days? Still shipping in cocaine from the Far East?" She has a mouthful of shrimp and noodles, and while I wait for an answer, I take another spoonful of rice.

"He's not a gangster, Charlie. Just because he lives downtown and always wears black, doesn't mean anything." Danny is one of those people who seem to live off an imaginary income. No one knows what he does, no one knows where he works, he just makes money. And a lot of it. She tries the chicken. "You're right, this is delicious! I'll get it next time. So, he picks me up and we go to dinner at some Korean buffet place where you cook your own food. It's neat for a while, but you smell terrible after. We ate through little conversation, like always."

"Who paid?"
"He did. He always does."
"Oh."

"After that, we drove downtown, to who knows where, and end up in this karaoke bar. It was mostly a Chinese crowd, though some Vietnamese people were there. Nice little place. I don't even know why I go to these places. I never sing, and the people who do go up on stage usually are terrible. I swear, I must have heard Careless Whisper ten times. He bought us some drinks and we sat down with some people he knew there.."

"And then?"

"Well, I was sitting there drinking my ice tea, while he was downing beers like water. Disgusting. I was looking around the room, at all the guys with their shiny gelled hair, and pretty girls who pout childishly to them for attention. I stared at the smoke rising from my cigarette, how it wanted to leave me so fast. Then I looked over at Danny, half-drunk, red with alcohol. Everybody looked so sad, so ugly. Do you know what I mean?" She paused. "Then before anybody could notice, I went to the washroom to check my make-up. I was checking my lipstick in the mirror when I realized I had been crying. And I cried more, hard.

"I don't know what happened, Charlie, one minute I was fine, and the next minute I'm breaking down in some fucking karaoke bar with Careless Whisper being sung in the background. I felt so worthless for some reason, like if I died right there, no one would know or care." She turns away. "Have you ever been in a situation but feel like it was happening to another person, as if you weren't really there?"

"Yes, Susan. Many times. What happened after that?"

"I walked out, signalled a cab and went home. I don't even think Danny realized I left. I just had to get out of there. Danny can be an idiot sometimes. I don't know why I do these things sometimes. It's really nothing, I guess." She says, trying to dismiss the whole incident as routine for relationships. Susan is so Chinese this way, always trying to hide her vulnerability, her pain. It is as if she is determined to be the CEO of her feelings, coolly deciding when to stop manufacturing love. She has worked hard to become in control of herself, decades of tempering the rage inside her. Good method for business, I suppose, but people are not factories and now she's losing control.

I imagine her hanging off the arm of some gangster with a nice car, like a mannequin. I picture her in that karaoke bar, her ashtray full of Marlboros, blended in with the grotesque landscape of pretentious misguided teenagers. I know now that at times like those, she is just like the girls who sit and smoke while their boyfriends play snooker, concerned more with stunning the cue ball than noticing that their girlfriends are crying inside, partly from boredom, but mostly from a lack of intimacy. She is one of those people who do things they should, and not necessarily want. Susan has become decorative, an accessory, a beautiful woman who is worth a lot more than she makes it seem she is. "Why do you do this to yourself?" I ask.

"I ...I don't know, Charlie. I really don't know," her face longs with confusion and sadness. "It used to seem simple to me," she continues in a soft voice, "you know? If someone didn't love you, fine, you just move on. And if they were interested in you, that's fine too, you just go out with them."

"Just go out with them?" It is the same attitude with everything—school, vacuuming, taking out the garbage, sex—everything is done with the same indifference. Everything is a job, and you have to distance yourself from it. "What exactly are you afraid of, Susan?"

"Afraid of?" she says somewhat offended, "I'm just very practical about these things. Really, there's no guarantee anybody is going to stick around forever, and serve breakfast in bed for you, and I won't let myself weep under the sheets, that's all. It's really not worth it."

"Worth what?" I ask. "Falling in love?"

"No, well, yes. Love is a strong word, Charlie. It's just not worth being hurt, you know?" Her eyes look down, gazing. "It's not worth having someone call you everyday so that you eventually look forward to their call, and then have those calls stop for no apparent reason, so you promise yourself not to look forward to these things too much. It's not worth taking photos of yourself with some guy, whose probably sleeping with five other girls but you convince yourself you're not as naive and flaky as them, and that you're using him just as much as he's using you, but then wonder what exactly are you getting from him, and you don't know. You just don't know." She now pauses and holds her forehead. Reaching into her Louis Vuitton bag, she finds the pack of Marlboros and lights another cigarette. She has signed a contract with herself, a document which has let her live her life easily, so detached without pain or strain, the bargain which made her so happy and now is making her so sad. She was sliding through life, lubricated with the pragmatic pride oil of the Chinese, and now seeing the dullness and superficiality of it, she needs something to hold on to, something real, genuine; something which she was afraid of and now longs for. "This sounds pathetic. I'm wasting your time; this is useless. And it hurts too much to talk about it." she says softly.

"No," I say. "it's not, not at all. Pain is good sometimes, I think." She smiles at me like a little girl who's just been forgiven. I watch her finish her wonton, watch her swirl the noodle around in her bowl, carefully place it on her spoon and into her mouth. Susan must have been hungry tonight. Usually, everything she touches is left unfinished. I finished long ago, and only bones remain on my plate. My stomach is swollen, and looking down at my belly, I remind myself to buy a new belt. We are one of only three tables left, and the murmur of people eating is gone. The restaurant is about to close. A Hopper painting comes to mind. I start to feel sleepy. My stomach is monoplizing the energy in me for digestion. I glance around and see the waitress look at me, somewhat anxious to go home. I, knowing this and agreeing, raise my hand and signal for the bill.