My Mother Is A Pornstar

Chapter Three

Despite what the title suggested, Mrs. Wong, the guidance counsellor, was hardly a woman at all, and to even relate her to such would be an insult the entire gender. She could be much better visualized as a waddling ball of Asian stereotypes with two slits carved out for eyes, and a black mushroom cut that held far too much resemblance to the head of a penis. She had been sent to our school at the beginning of the year in some sort of exchange program that nobody really knew anything about until it was dumped into our laps this early September in a very brief announcement; the reason it was done in this fashion was probably so that, even if complaints were raised (and you can bet your ass they were) it would have been too late for anyone to take a step back as the woman had already been installed within our institution. I'm sure on paper the whole operation seemed like a great opportunity. A clashing of cultures. A fresh mind with a bright and exotic outlook on helping the young boys and girls of our school.

Of course, in reality, that's the kind of logic that can only result in utter shit.

But seeing as I'd never even passed the guidance room before, I was blissfully ignorant of Wong prior to entering her office. I even faintly recall wrestling with a blind hope that I might get through this with my sanity intact. It was just a bit of therapy after all, I thought to myself as I searched the many corridors of our school for my torture room. But as I continued to hunt, one wrong hallway turned to two, to three, to four, to half a dozen. I'd never even realized the size of this building that I'd spent so much of my life in. The search went on for so long, I actually started to reconsider the tale as myth.

This is the real punishment, I was thinking while peering into anther wrong end. Thimble sending me out on a wild goose chase without any fucking goose. That'll be his twisted punishment.

But just before backing out, I did find the god-forsaken place. It was way, way, way in the back corner, squeezed in between the janitor's office and a fire exit.

I approached it on weary traveller's feet. They still had yet to change the name on the door for Mrs. Wong, so I read bold title Mr. Doherty thinking I'd be meeting some middle-aged balding dude wearing a sports jacket, maybe caring for a mint in his mouth that he sucked on just a little too hard, and taking notes while I spilled my guts over the side of the couch I was comfortably laid on. So you can imagine my surprise when I entered to find this hugely overweight Chinese woman in a dirty room that was blatantly naked of any couches. The only furnishing was the write-off of a desk she was propped up behind, and two scraggly chairs that looked like they were the ones with the most mental instability; and then of course there was the old eight-inch television that was stationed on the desk in front of her if that counts as furniture, which it doesn't. I didn't know what she was watching, but it must have been one hell of a show because she was practically laughing the rolls off her neck. The jewelry that coloured her from head to toe sang like a wind chime. I never would have thought laughter could get lost in translation, but it was impossible not to notice all of Wong's 'ha-ha-ha's being regurgitated into 'ra-ra-ra's.

She must have thought I was Thimble at first because she unplugged and hid the television in such a swiftly and practiced motion, I wondered if I'd seen the damn thing at all. Then to inspect me, she turned her nose to the ceiling with her pupils sitting on the bottoms of her eyelids as though she needed to bend the light to properly see what the exactly it was in front of her.

This was my first impression of Mrs. Wong, and despite what they say about a book and its cover, some books serve to be a very shallow read.

“Oh ... you nawt Mista Tim-bowl,” she said and replaced the television to it's spot. I thought she was about to start watcher her show again, but instead that's when she decided to begin glowering at me, staring me down with those two slits-for-eyes for a period of time that was miles past polite.

I stood awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do. I began to count the rings on her chubby fingers but lost track at twelve. What the hell was she still looking at me like this for? You'd think I was the one who defiled her Sensei's grave the way that glare of hers drilled through me. Her eyes were pinched so tightly, combined with the fact that she hadn't appeared to have drawn a breath in over a minute, I actually wondered if she might have died right then and there, but she assured me of her consciousness upon suddenly jabbing one of her big sausage fingers towards a chair. It had me flinch. The rings on her hand splashed green, red and blue hues around the room.

“Seet,” she said. It took a second for me to realize she was actually telling me to sit through a dense tangle of Chinese-trained tongue.

But I wasn't going to be anyone's bitch but the guidance counsellor. Staying on my feet, I asked: “Where's Mr. Doherty?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Doherty. The guidance cousellor. His name is on the door,” I said, pointing to it.

“There no Meesta Dowtey. I am yo guidance counsella, Meesus Wong. Naow SEET!”

No Mr. Doherty? My dream cloud of hope bruised to a rain storm. This was who I had to spend my unknown length of time with, and already I hated it.

Reluctantly, I sat.

I guess I must have somehow disturbed her posture when I'd entered because then she began wiggling in her seat with in a manner that can be best described as violent, almost as though she were attempting to scratch her ass without using her hands. I couldn't tear the image of a hen nestling into its coop from my mind and half debated making a comment about the dozen-or-so eggs she was keeping warm, but I figured I'd landed myself in enough trouble as is.

“Naow...” she said, voice descending, eyes appearing squintier than ever. “Wha' you heya? Wha' you want?”

Everything she said was so curt, like my presence in the room alone was enough to annoy her.

“I was sent here to speak with you,” I answered.

“Speak bow wha'?”

“My behaviour.”

“Bee-have-yaw?”

She stared at me without even so much as a guess. She didn't understand the word. Jesus-fucking-Christ. Here I am, sitting in a room for verbal healing and the counsellor can't even speak the language.

“My attitude,” I explained. “I've been acting badly and am supposed to come here everyday until Mr. Thimble says so.”

“Acting ba'ly?” Here she pffts aggressively enough to douse me in spittle. “Aoull you Canadian act a ba'ly. An you know whye? Eez becawz you aoull smoke a Marri-Wanna.” Now she leans in for a shouted whisper. “I know you high.”

Marri-Wanna? I had no idea what she was talking about. I assumed it to be another dose of her Chinese jibberish, but despite her undecipherable accent and Canadian stereotypes, so far this was much better than whatever Thimble had intended for us. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about in hoped to keep this rhetorical ball rolling.

Now her squints hardened again, flaring up the crows feet embedded in the corners or her eyes. “Oh, you know what I am a talkin' abouwt. Eez awll tha same with you Canadian. Is a may-powl seerup this, and a Michael Phelps that.”

“Who the hell is –”

She came down on me with a flyswatter that I didn't even know she was armed with. “You watch yo' language! Meez Wong onleh one who 'llowed to say hell. Naow you massage feet.” And she kicked off a big sandal to reveal a foot so hideous my eyes begged to water. Each and every toe was callous to the bone, wrapped in more jewelry than was possibly legal.

I stared from the foot, to her chubby face, foot, to face.

“You have to be kidding.”

“Eez punishment fo' yo language! Dees how you leawn,” said said, waving her foot at me.

“I'm not massaging your foot.”

“Oh, yes you are,” she said. “Ow're I will tell Mista Teem-bowl that yo bee-have-your not changing.”

“Then I'll just tell Mr. Thimble that you tried to make me touch your feet!” I exclaimed. “That's child abuse.” Was I actually having this argument? I'd been in the room for a grand total of fifty-eight seconds and already this man of a woman was ordering me to rub these two stunted foetuses she claimed were feet.

“Who he gon' believe. You ow me?” Then she turned her head up and away into an imaginary movie camera, lip pouted out with soft eyes. “Oh, Mista Teem-bowl,” she begged. “I try, an I try to hewp rittle boy, but he no wirring to change. Oh, why, Mista Teem-bowl; why rittle boy no wirring to change with Mees Wong? ... An why he tell me I fat, and aw'll a China peoplre rove to eat dog!”

“I never said that!” I cried, but I was already too sure of this woman's game.

She turned back to me grinning devilishly, and pushed her foot a toe's worth closer. I stared at that foot the same way you stare at a car accident. “If you think I'm actually going to do this, you have to be fucking insa–”

She swatted my vulgarity down again, only this time it came across my face. I felt the skin blush without embarrassment.

“Naow you get other foot, too,” she said and kicked off her second shoe, revealing the Devil's twin. Now the smell began to waft. Sweet Jesus, they stunk too, lying somewhere between spoiled milk and a spoiled corpse.

Every fibre of my soul screamed to walk out of the room right then and there. This was insane. Literally fucking insane, to massage this woman's horrid feet like her butler, but she had already made it too clear that she was blackmailing me. I couldn't get expelled, no matter how much I hated this place. I would rather massage a million crusted feet than end up education-starved and find sustenance like my mother had.

My legs felt numb as I lowered to the floor. My hands were being molested with pins and needles. I didn't dare give Ms. Wong the satisfaction of eye-contact as I lowered to the ground, but her grin of victory over-top of me was blistering.

“Heya you goo-OO-ooo,” she pinched, inching that ghastly appendage closer to me.

I stared at it for just a little longer to prolong my sentence.

It was so fucking ... flaky. Did it survive a wood chipper?

“Wha' you waiting fo? Eez not goin' to massage self.”

So I bit the bullet, and began moving my fingers forward. It were as if each of her toes were emitting a force that pushed my hand away, as if to make any sort of physical contact with them were a crime against the laws of physics.

But I broke through that forcefield.

And began to massage with both hands.

They were just as rough and cold as I'd dreaded, like handling a dead lobster. Closing my eyes I could somewhat pretend it was a wood carving, but every time a twitch wrung out, reality dragged me back in with my legs kicking.

She let out a long “AHHH-hhhh,” and leaned back in her chair. That in itself made me twice as mad, and I tried my damndest to pulverize those toes into dust but it was like trying to squeeze a brick of iron. Did this woman bathe in cement?

“Ssss-ooeee, wha you wan' talk 'bout?” she asked.

“I don't want to talk about anything,” I answered, doing anything I could to take my mind off the harrowing task at hand.

“Then why you heya?”

“I already told you, because Mr. Thimble told me to come.”

“What he want us to talk 'bout?”

“How should I know? You're the guidance counsellor! And why are your feet made of bark?!”

“Hey! Less question, mo' massage.”

“How about I give you more foot up your ass,” I whispered.

“Soe ... Why are a you having with this bad bee-have-your?” she asked, although her improvisation was blatant. Based off this school's standards for a guidance counsellor, I was more than fit to perform a lobotomy in my own god-damn spaceship. “Why notte be good rittle boy and stoppe giving Mista Teem-Bowl hard time?”

“I don't know, probably for the same reason you abuse students into massaging your feet. It's fun.”

“You have a fun giving hard time? That notte a normal. Are you retard oh some-ting?”

I sighed. “No, I'm not a retard.”

“I have a cousin in China. She retard an no rike a rice. Every-wan a China rove rice, but she saeh 'No! I no want a rice'. We try and a try to fee' hewr a rice but she no eat. Finerary, we seh: You can rike rice, or you can rive in Japan.” She smiles now. “Now she rooove rice.”

I had no idea why she was telling me about her handicapped relatives or eating customs in China, so i just nodded and said: “I rike rice.”

It had been an attempt at mockery, borrowing her own accent, but turned out to be the best thing I could have said.

“You ... rike rice?”

Now I smiled, in spite of the crustaceous hoof I was being forced to touch.“Rove it.”

“Hmm,” she hummed. Something had sparked her interest. “Maybe we can strike a rittle dearl.” She pulled her foot back. I let myself breath through my nose for the first time in what felt a lifetime.

“A deal?” I repeated back. Now I was cutting deals with my blackmailer. Why, oh why, did I have to choose today to whack it in the bathroom. From what I'd gathered from this woman, Mrs. Wong was probably going to have running pounds of coke to the fucking Asian market.

“Do you want to talk 'bout yo problems?” she asked.

“No,” I said sharply, realizing I was still on the floor and got back into my chair. I found it hard to look Wong in the eye after spending so much time around her toes.

“Then this what I say, because Wong no want to hear 'bout yo problems. Mista Teem-Bowl no let me leave school to make a rice. He say I need to 'stay here in case stoodent have a problem' or some shit.”

My mouth opened. “Hey! You can't swear if I can't!”

“Fuck-a you!!” she lashes. “Missus Wong say what she want! Naow, you want to heya proposition or notte?”

“Fine,” I growled, wondering where the hell she'd learnt the word proposition.

“You bring me rice tomorrow after school. We watch Ting-Tang. You go home. Mista Teem-Bowl think we make with the betta bee-have-your.”

What in the sweet name of fuck was Ting Tang? I had no idea, but I was in no state of mind to spend another second in that room around those ungodly things Wong clearly had used to walk across hell and back.

“All I have to do is bring you rice and you'll tell Thimble we ... did whatever it was he wanted us to?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” I said. “So can I go?”

“Yes! Leave naow! Missus Wong no want to see you no more!” she cried and flicked her tiny television back to life. As I left the room, the sound of her ra-ra-ra's came seeping out from underneath the door.