Me, Clint Eastwood, Mr. Cheng, Rowan Atkinson, and Some Twat from Algebra and Geometry

"What do you want to do, then?

"Dunno."

"Socar?"

"Eh...search me. My bike's still missing, and fucked if I'm walking downtown. Swim?"

"Too cold."

"Food?"

"Too early."

"Got me, then."

"How's about we spy on Mr. Cheng?"

This is me and my no-good mates, trying to decide what to do with a long-ago Saturday afternoon. My bike's been nicked (owing to my having left it on the Niagara Falls motel strip without a lock), and Mother won't buy me a new one. I think this is horribly unfair. Mother thinks it's just punishment for my having been in the Falls in the first place. I was supposed to be in my room at the time, cooling my heels after some stupid argument. By this time, I can't remember what the argument was about--just that I stormed out of the house in a huff, and the next morning, my bike was gone. That first bikeless night, I was arrested trying to sneak into America on foot, sans passport. I am in disgrace, and without transportation. I'm also in the armpit of rural Ontario, which means there's bloody nothing to do. Except, apparently, spy on Mr. Cheng.

Mr. Cheng lives near the park. He has a screened-in porch, and he likes to sit there in the afternoons, drinking tea and reading his newspaper. The reason we're spying on him is that he's a Mafia hit-man. Sez Shelley*, anyhow. Shelley was obsessed with Nancy Drew, back in grade school. I didn't know her in those days, of course, but I've seen the row of yellow hardbacks on her bookshelf. (Kind of hard to miss them; those are the only books she has, besides school ones. I secretly--no, openly--look down on her for that. Nancy Drew, indeed. I never!) Anyhow, she still fancies herself the amateur detective, I think. She says Mr. Cheng is an obvious Mafioso. Why? 'Cos he's got long hair and tattoos, that's why. Those are the marks of a killer. Either that, I think, or a hippie--but I don't say it. Truth is, I kind of want to spy on Mr. Cheng. He looks like a dark-haired Clint Eastwood, with his squinty eyes and walnut tan. Whenever I walk by his house, I ogle him out of the corner of my eye.

"Awright, then," I go. "Mr. Cheng it is." I put a groan into my voice, so it doesn't sound like I'm eager.

We head down the park. Mr. Cheng isn't home, so we sit on the grass till we see his car going by. Shelley's memorized his license-plate number, the twit. She took his mail once, too. Real scandalous stuff--a telephone bill, and a Klager's Foodmart flyer. I tried to sneak it back to him a few times, just in case he needed twenty-nine cents off hot sausages that week, but he was always there when I came by. (I could hardly just hand it to him, could I? Yeah, that'd've gone over well: "Ey, Mr. Cheng. You don't know me, but my stupid friend stole your mail. She thinks you're a contract killer--you know, for the infamous Southern Ontario mob. I guess she was going to dust your phone bill for fingerprints, or something. Oh, and it's been opened, in case you made any suspicious calls. See ya!" Right. That'd happen.) Eventually, his mail went missing from my bag. Mother probably got it. She often snooped through my stuff, in those days, looking for incriminating evidence. She had her suspicions, as well. I kept expecting to get in trouble for having somebody else's mail, but I guess she forgot.

"This is boring."

That's Maria*, who's also with us.

"I'm going home."

Correction. Was also with us. Now, I'm groaning for real. As long as Maria's about, Shelley doesn't get too crazy. When it's just me, she comes up with all sorts of fruity schemes. She thinks I'll do anything, just 'cos I've been in trouble with the police. The minute Maria's back is turned, she's rabbitting on about Mr. Cheng's back yard, Mr. Cheng's garden gnomes, and God-wot-all-what. I'm slapping my forehead like crazy. All I want is a quick keek. Mr. Cheng always has on a suit jacket, and a tie loosened round his neck. Sometimes, the top button of his shirt's undone, too. I've got a thing for men in suits, me, especially when said suits are in mild disarray. I just want to walk past, check out the guy's bod, and be on my way.

"...and then you can whistle, and I'll get out quick."

"Eh?"

"Out of his yard."

"You can't go in Mr. Cheng's yard, Shelley. He could have a dog, or anything."

"He doesn't."

"How do you know?" I instantly regret asking.

"No dog stuff in his garage--no leashes, dishes, food, anything. No dog hairs in his car. No--"

"What the fuck?"

"Huh?"

"You were in Mr. Cheng's car?"

"Yeah, he gave me and my dad a ride home, one time. We were walking, and it started to rain."

"Oh, big bad Mafia dude!"

"Up yours."

(I wish.)

I manage to talk her out of invading Mr. Cheng's garden by promising to spring for sodas at the Avondale. This honks me off, rather--I'd had that money earmarked for horrorbooks--but anything's better than trespassing charges. In spite of my police-related woes, I haven't got a criminal record yet, and plan on keeping it that way.

We slow down a bit, walking by Mr. Cheng's. He's out there, all right, but so is Mrs. Cheng. Mrs. Cheng is blocking our view. I make a frustrated noise in my throat: hnf! I can tell he's got on a suit (I can see his nice black shoes, and his pleatey trousers), but his torso's completely in shadow. Can't make out his tie, or anything. I'm tempted to throw something on their lawn, so Mrs. Cheng'll have to chase us away.

"Piece of tail," I mumble, meaning Mr. Cheng, of course--but Shelley thinks I mean his old boot of a wife.

"Yeah. She's totally his moll."

"His...what?"

"His moll. That's a gangster's girl."

That so makes up for my frustration. I laugh all the way to the Avondale. When we pass by again, coming back, both the Chengs have gone inside. I notice a heart-shaped welcome sign on their door, and point out how Mafia soldiers love all that sort of thing. That earns me a swat round the earhole. I don't care, though. I'm head over heels for this bloke. I'm in a happy daze, just walking by his house.

Now, here's the embarrassing bit (yeah, it gets worse--worse than swiping some guy's mail, that is, and trying to eye up his suit round his wife): Mr. Cheng, he's fifty years old, if he's a day. And me, I'm in high school. Pathetic, eh? I'm going along with some silly Nancy Drew fantasy, just so I can walk past some berk old enough to be my father. Sometimes, I even walk past him on my own. He waves if he catches me looking.

"Aw," he thinks--"look at the friendly wee kid."

"Caw," I think--"what I wouldn't do to you!" And then my ears go bright red, and I've got to hurry along.

The next year, I walk by one day, and there's a different car in the driveway. I check the door, and the welcome sign's gone. I tell Shelley about it--"Ey, Mr. Cheng must've gotten whacked!"--but she's grown out of mysteries by then, and blows me off. I don't care, anyhow. By this time, I'm in love with Rowan Atkinson, instead, and am ogling him every Saturday night on Blackadder. I especially like him in Blackadder Goes Forth, all decked out in his captain's uniform, although he's not half bad in Georgian attire, either. I have a shirt with his face on it, which I sleep in, and a Mr. Bean poster rolled up in my closet. (I hate having posters on my wall. I think they look horribly naff.)

In the real world, I'm halfheartedly seeing someone from my Algebra and Geometry class. He never wears a suit at all, and it's terribly disappointing. We break up when he asks me to the Hallowe'en dance, and I won't go unless he dresses up. He says wearing suits supports the establishment. I say "Too bad--I was going to put out, and all."

And that is the sad and laughable tale of me, Clint Eastwood, Mr. Cheng, Rowan Atkinson, and some twat from Algebra and Geometry.

* Fake name, to protect the silly--now, if only I could do the same for myself!