Thirty Two Faces - 2. Touched

It was a mistake on my part to think that the little reconnection at the garage had rekindled our old fellowship. No sooner than the next day, it crushed me to realize that I am still a mere peasant in his eyes.

“Where is Samuel?” I ask Mom over breakfast in the most casual way.

“Where is Samuel?” She repeats, rolling her eyes with a snort. “Do you have an appointment? If not, join in the queue like everyone else.”

Should I text him for an appointment, then? Mom looks at me strangely. Then I realize she was being sarcastic.

But I message him for an appointment anyway, asking if he wants to jog with me the next day.

What time?

5.30 a.m.

Are you crazy?

I guess that means no.

A few days later, I want to make an appointment for a swim together. I knock on his door gently. No answer. I check his room from the balcony, and I see two pairs of legs on his bed through the curtains. I don’t dare to knock again.

Around evening time, he comes over to my room while I am writing in my journal. He catches me at a bad time as I am venting my angst onto the screen, slapping away at the keyboard with my fingers.

Do I want to watch a DVD together?

Nah, later. Maybe.

Stupid pride, I regretted almost immediately. When he leaves, I replay that scene over and over again, wishing that I had dropped everything and said yes in the very first instance. Soon, I hear him leave the room, and he still isn’t home by the time I go to sleep.

For a few days, it goes on like this. Silence across the room, blank walls, complete darkness. Through the balcony curtains I find him sleeping alone or sleeping with guests; he is either not around or not available.

I feel like wallpaper once again.

What have I done to deserve this?

I want his attention badly, to laugh together like we did a few days ago when our minds run in parallel as we spoke fondly of the old days, like war veterans. My shame is stacked like sheets of lasagna: first, my inappropriate love and then my total lack of poise about it.

Is he always so difficult? I mutter under my breath, bemoaning how low I rank in his eyes, and at the same time scheming to elbow my way back into his field of vision. I decide that I am too eager.

For a few days, I will turn into ice. Maybe that will get his attention.

On our shared balcony, a civil greeting, an awkward smile, and if our eyes don’t meet, I avoid him completely. He doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. Another cheap ploy to win him over has failed spectacularly.

One day, the pain of peering into his vacant room, and another day, the thrill of seeing him at the breakfast table. It feels as though my entrails are being stirred upside down, built up like sandcastles and stomped upon afterwards.

I think I am going crazy. I am determined to encase him back into the ice where he belongs.

And when he offers to go jogging with me, all thoughts of exiling him are thrown out of the window.

“You know, we should spend some time together.” He leans against the frame of my wooden door, speaking with the tone of a neglected sibling. I feel like throttling and kissing him at the same time.

But I worship his feet anyway; just toss the slightest crumb of affection — a smile, a gentle pat – and I can forgive him for anything.

“What’s wrong with you these days?” Mom asks me during dinner.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were sulking this morning, and now you’re all smiling.”

Dad asks if I’m feeling unwell, if there is something bothering me.

“He’s a teenager, Dad. It’s called mood swings,” my brother says. Somehow, the idea of me being a teenager sounds alien to my parents. Sometimes, I think they might actually believe that I am one because I am so unfathomable to them. I’m not that hard to understand, especially if you are good at math. I can express myself very well mathematically.

As we head back towards our rooms after dinner, he nudges me when Mom and Dad are out of hearing range.

“Time to cough up. Who is it?”

Who is what?

“Who is she? I know that look.”

Without a second word, not even a glance, I scurry back to my room and shut the door in his face.

Early next morning, I wake him up before the first light of dawn. We run down all the way to the park and back, racing the newspaper delivery boy, passing the stores and cafés as they open up for business; squirrels scurry up the trees as we approach. I like the way we pace each other with the rhythm of our breaths and the soft thuds of our running shoes. Drumming in tandem as if our bodies are strung by the same puppeteer – it feels intimate. I particularly like running across the dirt tracks in the park when the singing cicadas give way to the chirping birds. The first light illuminates the woods, and you can see the soft glow on his face and the glistening sweat.

On our way back, I look down at the footprints he made earlier, secretly retracing the steps he took, fitting my foot exactly where he strode minutes ago. When the sky is fully bright, familiar faces smile at him -- neighbors, old shopkeepers, friendly strangers – and he waves back at them.

“What are you doing this Friday?” I ask.

“I’ve invited some friends over.”

I am crushed. It is my birthday.

Perhaps he is out of breath and the date slipped his mind. Maybe I hadn’t made the context clear. But I am not going to remind him.

To rub salt into the wound, he comes to my room later in the afternoon, asking if my old mountain bike is still working. I sit up from my bed immediately and pretend that I wasn’t about to take an afternoon nap.

It is still in perfect condition.

“Oh, great, can I borrow it? I’m going cycling with Mindy. She needs one.”

Sure, of course.

Moments after he leaves my room, I sob into the pillows like an inconsolable five-year old. I am again determined to ignore him.

Until Wednesday. He shows up for breakfast and sits next to me. I pull my chair slightly away from him.

Mom and Dad sit across us in their usual places. They throw glances at each other. Out of nowhere, Sam leans over to me like he’s whispering a secret.

“I’ve got a present for you.” He smiles.

Did I hear him correctly? I stare at him, food dropping out from my mouth. He jabs his fork at me in mock accusation.

“You thought I’d forgotten about it, didn’t you?” He smiles and flicks my ear.

He remembered. He was pretending all along. To think of all the anguish I went through for nothing!

“You’re so mean to Babe.” Mom says.

“He’s too cute not to tease. You should’ve seen his face, Mom.”

I thought Mom was on my side, but she bursts out laughing louder than anyone else when Samuel imitates my expression.

Dad shakes his head and smiles. I hide under the table; Mom tries to coax me out. My brother shows no mercy, and I groan to drown out his teasing.

“Look who’s as red as the table?” he chuckles, “and he blends right in!”

Mom looks pissed, but she laughs, chastising Samuel and trying to get me out at the same time. I refuse to budge until Samuel issues his ultimatum.

“You’re not getting my present if you stay down there.”

I gasp.

“Two presents, in fact.”

I hesitate.

“I worked on them for six months, you know.”

And he had been busy the last few days. That’s where he had disappeared to.

“I’m counting to three….” He smiles.

I feel so stupid for misreading all the cues [‘clues’?]. I crawl out from the table as he messes up my hair.

Suddenly, the gust of gratitude blows all decorum away, and I throw my arms around him. Unabashed, full-bodied embrace for thirty-seven seconds to convey the same visceral adoration I feel. He is taken aback momentarily, but he feels the words in my arms.

You still care about me.

And he holds me back with the same tightness that stole my breath on the first day he was home.

“That’s better.” He pats my cheek. “But you’re not getting your present so easily.”

I am reluctant to part when he speaks.

“W…Why?”

“You’ll find out soon.”

He throws conspiring glances around the table. He looks at Mom, Mom looks at Dad, and Dad looks at me and holds up a finger. Something is going on. I smile. Then Dad gets off the chair and disappears up the stairs. I look at Samuel with broad, gratuitous smiles for him, my eyes begging for a little hint. He rolls his eyes and shrugs, determining to keep it a surprise till the very end. When Dad returns, he hands me a white box.

“You’ll need to earn your present, son.”

Earn my present?

My heart is already pounding in anticipation at the very sound of it. The sofa thuds as I collapse onto it, putting the box on the table and scrutinizing the contents. I gasp at the first piece of paper that I pull out.

City Hunters Quest #261: Where is Babe’s Present? Deadline: Friday noon

I can’t believe it.

I haven’t played this for five years. The paper flies out of my hand as I fumble to grab it back. My grin widens as I flip through the contents quickly.

There is a thick white booklet inside a dark-blue ring binder that says Pollution and Environment Report, Wyoming.

Mom peers over my shoulder to peek at the rest of the contents.

Clipped on the cover, there is a small slip of paper with an email address, and next to it: Password: Birthday plus verification number.

Then below, there is a small, square, yellow Post-it pad scribbled on with the following reference number: BFN6341.25

The one that catches my attention most is right at the bottom. A plain piece of white paper, printed with large fonts that reads:

What prime Samuel to do this mission?

Never mind the broken grammar. When I see Samuel’s name in the mission, I go wild.

Jaws agape.

“Are—” I swallow. “Are you playing the mission with me?”

“Of course. Think you could win without me?” He winks.

It’s been five years since we played this game; I almost forgot how it feels to have his undivided attention.

I shake my head in disbelief.

Best birthday ever.

“Thanks, this means a lot to me.”

We used to spend countless hours together playing this game, scouring the city streets for clues, unlocking mysteries after mysteries. The adventures, the scares, the triumphs and the defeats are still freshly minted in my heart; every moment is a hook that claws our hearts together, like the little brackets at the ends of those small fishing boats that keeps them from drifting apart. We were schooled and raised in the streets.

“What are you boys waiting for? The clock’s ticking!” Dad taps his finger on his watch. Before we go, he says to us,

“Same rules; the prize gets forfeited if you fail the challenge. No questions allowed about the mission, either.”

Samuel pats my back and says, “We’d better win this, then.”

We grin at each other and synchronize our watches.

The countdown begins.

We are left with 49 hours, 12 minutes, 13 seconds, 12, 11, 10…

“What are you waiting for, Babe?”

The bed thuds as we land on our bellies, the list of clues laid out before us. What will be our strategy? The puzzles always test our academic knowledge, be it science, math, logic, language comprehension, history, literature, geography. We will be on the right track if we get the topic correct.

There are a total of five clues given to us: an environment report on pollution in Wyoming, a written puzzle, a reference number, an email with a cryptic password and the mission objective itself. One clue will lead to the subsequent clues. We just need to figure out which one to start with.

“Same arrangements, you’ll handle the math and I’ll handle the readings,” he says.

We always work as a team. He reads faster, so he combs through the thick environmental report for clues. Meanwhile, I google the report jargon and take down notes. The tempo of our quest is set by the furious tapping on the keyboard and crisp pages flipping back and forth, with a little banters in between to ease the intense morning air.

Side by side on my bed, I feel his warmth against my shoulders.

Occasionally, he leans over my shoulder to see my progress, and I feel his hot breath on my neck.

Sometimes, he catches me staring at him when I thought he wasn’t looking.

He’d go, “What is it, Babe?”

“Nothing…”

His forehead crinkles.

“You’re onto something?”

Yes, the beautiful swirls in Sam’s deep blue eyes. Then he stares back at me and chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“I’ve never seen you stare like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a puppy.” He smiles.

And I presume staring like a puppy isn’t a bad thing since he is smiling.

When we’re onto some leads, the room gets fired up with animated discussions and bellowing, laughing, arguments thrown back and forth as if we were Socratic scholars. Mom occasionally drops by to spectate, her curiosity aroused from the noises we make. She can hear us all the way from the kitchen upstairs.

After a morning of debate, both of us agree that the word puzzle is most likely to be our initial clue.

What prime Samuel to do this mission?

The only question is whether it is a logic puzzle or a math puzzle.

I scratch my head. “If it’s a logic puzzle, ‘prime’ means to prepare. What prepares you for the mission?”

He rubs his chin and points out that the grammar is wrong. It should’ve been read as what ‘primes’ Samuel to do this mission. Therefore, without the ‘s’, prime becomes an adjective.

“What if ‘prime’ means a non-divisible number, as in prime numbers?” I ask.

“But what has that got to do with my name?”

Back to google again, we searched for codes using prime numbers.

“Look what I found.” He passes his iPad to show me a website describing an old code used during World War II to communicate the coordinates of a rendezvous point. If you add up the numerical placements in the alphabet of the letters in Anglo-Saxon names, you will get a prime number.

Our eyes gleam as we smile broadly at each other.

I stare at the sheet of paper, my eyes focused on the words.

Samuel

Until the words break into meaningless string of letters,

S-a-m-u-e-l

Turning into numbers,

19 1 13 21 5 12

And then I turn to him, “It’s 71. The code is 71.”

“And you didn’t even need a calculator.”

An unfamiliar expression comes upon on his face. First, his eyes roll upwards and he snorts, followed shortly by a grimace. He is expressing displeasure that I didn’t use a calculator.

I am upset.

Could the brief camaraderie we shared this morning be so fragile?

Did I do something wrong? Is he unhappy because

1) He thinks I am abnormal because most people use calculators to add things?

2) He thinks I am showing off because he is not good at math?

3) He thinks I’m uncool because the ‘uncool’ kids in school are usually better at math?

I can’t figure it out. None of my explanations seem plausible since he knows how my brain works all along.

“Why are you mad?”

He seems surprised, “I’m not mad. What are you talking about?”

I get even more confused. “Then what’s that face earlier?”

“It’s mock contempt. It means I’m faking indignation to express irony.”

He stresses the word irony; his brows rise along with a slight curve to his lips. That means he is asking whether I understand what irony is. It’s an expression that signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.

“That’s right, genius.” He grins.

Just like if I want to be funny or tell a joke, instead of saying something opposite of what is expected, I can express ‘mock contempt’ when admiration is expected. Like he is supposed to be impressed by how fast I worked out the numbers, but he expressed ‘mock contempt’ instead.

Step one. Roll eyes.

Step two. Snort.

Step three. Grimace.

Step four. Say something ironic.

“Something like this?” I practice the face and ask him for feedback,

“Jesus, Babe, you are killing me…” he bends over and laughs, “And don’t try that creepy face on Mom.”

That probably means I did it wrong, so I record a video clip of his ‘mock contempt’ face with my phone and tag it with an explanation. In my phone, I have 3,185 pictures and 698 videos of his faces and expressions, annotated and grouped under different emotional categories.

After the little side track, we’re back to the quest and see what the code can be used for. The next obvious clue would be the email note.

jm1apr1965@gmail.com

Password: Birthday plus verification number.

Birthday would most likely be my birthdate since I’m playing to get my present. As for verification number, it would either be the prime code (71) we cracked earlier or the reference number slip (BFN6341.25) that was part of the clue. So basically we have three choices,

1) 0207199671 (if plus is meant semantically)

2) 02072067 (if plus is meant mathematically)

3) 02071996BFN6341.25 (if verification number refers to the reference number)

We have three tries to get the password correct before the account locks us out. The third option is ruled out because the full stop in the reference code is an invalid character for a password, which means we are left with two options.

Since the earlier puzzle is both a semantic and mathematical puzzle, option one or two is equally possible. So we try keying option two as the password and attempt to log on.

02072067.

And it doesn’t work.

Then we try the first option.

0207199671

It’s still the wrong password.

One more try and the account will be locked.

Mom pops by our room to ask if we’re having lunch at home. Both of us replied to her in unison, “Not now, Mom!”

We debate for an hour, our heated words echoing down the halls. We go back and forth to question our original assumptions. Maybe it’s not my birthday, but his? He thinks it would be an unreasonable clue because the association would be too obscure. Then he fiddles by creating an email account, going through the same process as Dad did to get a clue on what he might be thinking.

Then suddenly, he shoots up when he realizes email passwords have a complexity check requirement; they have to be alphanumeric. Just like Dad’s birthday is alphanumeric in the email address. Why didn’t we see it earlier?

And so he keys in our final choice: 0-2-JULY-1-9-9-6-7-1

The timer icon appears.

Loading.

And loading.

Still loading.

And bingo!

The blue email page flashes, and a pop-up message appears that says, ‘You have one new email in the inbox’. There is no attachment, and the email is almost 0 kb. We open it and find that it is a cryptic reply from an address named Robber1970 to Dad’s email. It reads.

[12:51 pm] Robber1970: It’s at the noisiest part of town. Look for Mr X.

[1:01pm] Jack Meier: Ok, in an hour.

The mystery deepens.

Samuel thinks the noisiest part of town is probably a dance club, but I point out to him that those clubs are only noisy at night. The email time stamp shows 1:01pm, when the dance-club area should be quiet.

Anyway, Dad wouldn't make me go into a dance club for the mission. The noise will freak me out, and besides, I'm too young to get in. That’s when the next clue comes in: the environmental report has an entire chapter on noise pollution by street. It is thirty-five pages long.

Our fingers go down the lines, scrutinizing the tiny numbers against the street names. And the highest average decibels stated is between Edgar Street and Westview Avenue. We smile at each other. Finally, we can head out to hunt for more clues.

Sam’s shiny-black sports car zooms down the hilly road of our neighborhood onto the highway towards the city. Sam’s elbow rests outside the window, a cigarette held between his fingers, his hand resting lightly on the steering wheel and his eyes focused on the road ahead.

As we drive past the railway tracks, we see sand drifts, sagebrush, and rocky hills in the horizon. Cowboys and old miners used to bounce along this road, riding their horses on a hot lazy summer day like this. Few people are out on the street: mostly children and old people out to bask in the warm sun. Rock Springs is like a small town compared to Portland. Once a coal-mining town, many buildings share the same rustic 19^th century architecture. We are like two sheriffs riding into the wild, wild, west.

Sam takes another puff as we arrive, finally squashing the butt with his boots as we get out of the car. The afternoon sun warms our faces as we shield our eyes from the glare.

“Here we are. Doesn’t seems very noisy to me,” he says.

“Noisiest doesn’t always mean noisy, you know?”

He winks, clicks his tongue and points at me.

I cringe for a moment; pointing upsets me because it feels like a poking into your eye. But I recognize that gesture; it means he agrees.

Our destination is an old, familiar, entertainment district, quiet except for a few pubs where country music is playing. Our eyes wander everywhere, scanning for possible clues, looking for anything that might stand out and mean something to us.

A few shops line the streets – cowboy accessories, gourmet wines, old western pubs, rodeo pubs, cafe, more cowboy accessories. Nothing in particular catches our eye.

Sometimes, Dad likes to hide clues in obscure corners to make us hunt for them. Curious bystanders watch us look under benches, circle lampposts, peek into trash bins. Samuel walks towards me, shirt rumpled and his hands grimy. I pinch my nose when he comes close.

“Ew...”

“Hey, I did all the dirty work.” He pinches my nose.

I smile at his pun: dirty as in undesirable and filthy. Then I roll my eyes, snort, and grimace, and I ask, “Have you been eating from the garbage?”

He smiles at my ‘mock contempt’, proud that I have understood and thrown it back at him. I’m not scared when he bares his teeth and wrestles me into a headlock. He is just playing with me, being affectionate. Just like sometimes dogs that seem to be hurting you when they are really having fun. Above all, I love being touched by him.

We discover a side alley three blocks down; a long line of red walls on both sides leads to a small, obscure café call the X Factor. The email says they are to meet next to Mr X.

There is a live band performing inside and a trash truck nearby. The loud beeping sound of the approaching vehicle startles me.

“Are you okay?”

The blaring sound and the wailing live band get a bit overwhelming. Most people can tune out the noises and listen to their own thoughts. But I can’t. That’s why I prefer to think in pictures instead of talking in my own head. Strange, cold faces stare at me as I slap my hands over my head. A huge headset comes out from Samuel’s bag; he passes it to me.

“Come, put these earphones on.”

It is the same headset he dusted off and exhumed from the garage.

The X Factor café is a trendy and eclectic place, unlike most establishments here. Old black-and-white photos on the wall are juxtaposed next to colorful posters. The age and design of the pictures and illustrations do not matter because they are iconic. I recognize most of the people in them: Mae West, Lucille Ball, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Manson, Dirty Heads – mostly singers or actors.

The few exceptions hanging on the wall are Nelson Mandela, Dalai Lama and Martin Luther King. The owner of the café probably hangs their pictures because they have the ‘X’ factor. I wonder if Mr X happens to be one of Dad's favorite actors or singers.

We order lunch, a large pepperoni pizza to share and some Bud Light for him. He gets me a hot chocolate with marshmallows, and I smile because he remembers my favorite drink. The waiter takes very long to serve us even though only three tables are occupied.

My mood improves tremendously after the live band leaves. Being in new places puts me on edge, but nothing bugs me more than a ruckus, except for the ones that Samuel and I make.

Samuel goes to the washroom after lunch, leaving me alone to fidget in my seat. Feeling uncomfortable, I pay attention to the wall pictures, trying to figure which one could be Mr X. My legs jerk when I feel something wet brushing against my calves. It is a bulldog licking and wagging its tail. It means it is happy. Dogs display their intentions with big gestures. I am about to play with it when someone shouts.

Ricky! Let’s go.

The dog follows its owner when she leaves the café.

Wait, miss! Hold on, your card-

The waiter chases after her.

“What do we have here? Look at Princess Leia.”

I look up and find a tall boy with two of his friends. I recognize them from school, but I’ve never spoken to them before. Talking to strangers is scary, but one of the boys talks to me first.

The corners of his lips are up; that means he is happy to see me. He points at the giant headset, which made me uncomfortable, but it is an object, not me. I understand the reference to Princess Leia from Star Wars; my massive head set looks like her side buns. He is telling me a joke.

I believe he is trying to be friendly. And so I smile back at him.

“What are you staring at?” he asks.

Dad says it’s rude to stare, but since he is smiling, that means he doesn’t mind. Samuel smiles when he asks that question, too. What are you staring at, Babe?

“Your face.” Obviously.

He snorts, rolls his eyes, looks at his friends and then back to me, smiling instead of grimacing, followed by a strange question,

“Why? You like me or something?”

I am confused whether he is expressing a mock contempt? He didn’t say anything ironical or grimace. I try to take other cues into consideration: he jerks his chin at me, instead of pointing; his lips are still curled up, one side higher than the other. His tone sounds like a question, and he wants to know if I like him.

Is he… interested in me? No one has ever walked up to me and asked something so brazen. How could I not like him? I blush.

His face looks red.

Is he blushing, too? Then he smacks me lightly on the head, “Do you think that’s funny?”

Samuel smacks my head sometimes when I say or do something funny. So I laugh; he wants to play with me. He smacks me again, this time harder and faster,

“You like that, huh?”

I get a bit dizzy when he does it the third time, and I tell him I don’t like it. When he hits harder again and again, I get angry.

Stop.

He smacks again.

“Retard.” He laughs.

When the headset falls off my head, I jolt up from the seat, grab the beer bottle and swing at his head.

The waiter appears at the entrance and grabs my hand. I heard him say, you don’t wanna do that. I jerk back when he points his finger close to my face.

I am about to hit him.

“Babe, stop!”

Sam pulls me behind him and asks the three boys what their problem is. His eyes narrow, and he starts shoving them as they talk back loudly. The waiter shouts for us to get out. We do, but before we leave, Sam’s fist lands a loud thud on the tall boy’s face.

On our way home, he asks if they hurt me. I shake my head. Then why do I look so gloomy? I look out the car window and shrug. I don’t feel like talking. It’s strange that I feel I’ve lost a friend even though I begin to doubt if he ever was one in the first place.

A picture says a thousand words, but faces are silent to me. I truly feel like a retard. Sam surprises me by putting his hand over mine. I haven’t felt those hands for years. A crooked grin flashes on his face,

“He looks a lot better after that punch. Don’t you think so?”

I can’t help but break into a chuckle.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks when we stand outside our rooms.

I don’t know how to answer, because I’m not hurt; but I don’t feel okay. So I look at him silently, unable to reply, but just to let him know I’m not ignoring him.

He understands and nods.

I take a last look at his face before he closes the door.

Collapsing onto my bed, I look at my face in the mirror. I think about the tall boy, and I slam the pillow over my head, wishing that he had never seen the eager look on my face. He must be laughing because I am the joke. So eager for friendship but taken for a fool. I don’t want to go back to school after this summer. In fact, I don’t even feel like getting out of the room right now. He smiled like Samuel, and he said similar things, so why did he hit me?

Eye rolls, snorts, smiles, and a question: Do you like me?

It sounds almost like mock contempt but it is actually mock friendship. Smiles aren’t always friendly, and I hit my head for feeling so stupid. No one told me such things exist.

Right now, I feel like a caged animal, naked and on full display. But instead of iron bars, I am in this small white room, and today I realize the surrounding mirrors are all one way; people can see in but I cannot see out.

Is that why I have preferred the darkness all this while?

So that no one can see each other? I draw the curtains and switch off the lights.

All these months, Dad has made me write in my journal so that I can understand my own feelings. Boys like me usually can’t explain why we feel certain things, and I wonder if this has made me more miserable instead. He promised that if I understand my feelings, I can explain them, and if people understand me, they will be my friend.

He is so wrong.

I already have a friend. And I don’t need everyone to like me.

I wipe off a tear and curl up in my bed, holding on to my phone, looking at my brother’s photo while I sleep.

It makes me feel safe.

And when I wake up for dinner, I find a blanket over me. The picture on my phone has changed.

It shows one of his happy faces.