I stood nervously waiting for the elevator to arrive. Loitering in our apartment building was not a safe place for a boy like me. As I waited, an apartment door flew open, and a man in his 40s burst out, heading furiously towards the nearby elevator. His face was as red as a scorpion. It seemed as if dark clouds loomed over his head, as if to signal the coming of yet another wretched incident. As the man impatiently waited for the elevator to reach the 11th floor, he kicked the brick wall with his right foot in a show of frustration. He was out of breath, even though it was only ten steps from his apartment to the elevator. I recognised his face. He was known as Mr. A, which stood for Arrogant, Awful, and Abysmal among the members of our Filipino community. Mr. A was abnormally tall, which was probably the reason his shoulders were so hunched. His fragile hands were elegant in a pretty way, but his bitten fingernails seemed to reflect his tenseness. I usually only saw him on his way to and from work, not this late at night. He usually had a well-ironed out suit on, and carried a leather briefcase filled with paperwork. The briefcase seemed to grow bigger every time I caught a glimpse of him going off to work. Today however, he was wearing a rugby shirt with red and navy stripes and a casual pair of trousers. I suddenly sensed his rat-like eyes glaring over at me, and immediately knew that I had to scurry back to my apartment, but the elevator door had opened by then. Desperately trying to hide my fear, I darted to the back of the elevator and hoped he would ignore me.

We didn’t speak, but Mr. A muttered to himself in a frustrated tone. “What a…He is an arse. Pure favouritism. What a joke!” His voice became amplified as he continued. I couldn’t help but glance over at Mr. A. And of course, that was the exact moment when he looked up. Our eyes met. I could already sense the roaring thunder of war coming towards me. I could even smell the blood of my subsequent defeat. “Were you not taught proper manners flat face? You Asians are nothing but an obstacle to our country’s progress,” he said, “Too bad you were born like that!” He let out a laugh. Since I had always told by my ma that, “nothing good comes from talking to a white man”, I kept staring down at my worn out shoes, which my ma has gotten me for my seventh birthday. Then, there was a sudden thump, and the elevator stopped moving. Both Mr. A and I lost balance, and crashed into each other. Mr. A being Mr. A, he crudely pushed me backwards so he could keep his balance. I fell to the floor and stayed there, like a ferocious lion during daytime, too tired to fight back any longer. It was obvious that Mr. A was too flustered to act sensibly at this point. He had the audacity to continue to disparage me. “Why don’t you go back to your own country? You are not welcome here.” I was overwhelmed by the fact that a grown adult was berating a child like me in such a severe manner. It seemed to be that Mr. A had forgot who he was talking to, or rather, forgot that he had company.

Mr. A kicked the elevator door a number of times. His well-polished shoes, which looked as they were brand new. He let out a sigh.

“You there,” he pointed at me. “What day is it?”

“December 31st. Quarter to midnight, sir,” I answered.

“Just great. Brilliant.” He muttered sarcastically. “I might as well very kindly tell you why you people do not deserve to be here.”

Since I had nothing to say in reply, I gave him a shrug.

“You have all taken away everything that we had. You took away our jobs, our money, and our livelihoods. This should be good news for you. I lost my job today because the company found someone to replace me. And who was that? An Asian.” He paused. “For 17 years,” he then continued, “I worked for that company. 17 years!”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. A....” I replied in a quivering voice, realising I should not have said his name.

“What! Mr. A…?! My name is not...I know you all...and I know what the A stands for. What a heartless world. Are you all so mighty and great that you have the right to criticise me?” That moment, not only did I feel sympathy for him, but I also felt his sorrow of no longer having a sense of belonging. He made me remember the heartbreaking days of when I was excluded from my supposed friendship group, because I was the only one with coloured skin. His harsh words now had no power over me. Something had to be done to help him.

Mr. A asked, “Who are you anyway?”

“M…my name is Marvin.” I began. “I am 12 years old. My pa is a janitor. He told me that he lost his job too, but I gave him my good luck charm, and he got his job back,” I said.

Then, slowly, I took out the rock that I had found at the seaside that morning. The rock glinted in the light, as I placed it into Mr. A’s hands. “This is another of my good luck charm. You can have it.”

For a minute, Mr. A was staring at me, motionless. I could see the tears welling up in his grey eyes, and they poured out as soon as he blinked.

“And what are you doing here at this time?” Mr. A asked. His tone was no longer so condescending. I could feel the warmth in his voice, which for me meant that I could smile at him.

“My pa is coming back home any second. I want to wait for him downstairs.” I replied. There was no sound after that. But all around us, there were beaming lights of happiness and warmth. Just then, a twanging sound came from above, and the elevator started to move once again.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I heard a whisper, which seemed to say, “Thank you Marvin.” Or it could have merely been the sound of the piercing wind, which came right at me. But it did not matter. I saw my pa near the entrance, and I rushed over at him as he held his arms wide open to embrace me.

“Was that the nasty white man you were with just then Marvin?” my pa asked me.

“No pa,” I answered, “That was Mr. A, my new friend in the neighbourhood.”

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The Man on the Elevator

Collection of Hands #1