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Chapter 4

Just a Dream

The sun was making a cameo appearance. It always rains in Vancouver, but not on that day—the sun was shining out of a perfect cloudless blue. If you looked carefully, you’d notice that the sky right above you was a slightly darker shade than on the horizon. But it was all blue—a beautiful silky blue. It was the kind of day when Vancouverites rollerblade on the seawall or ride their bikes on the dike that protects Richmond from being submerged by seawater.

Scattered light illuminated even the dark corners of the alley we’d been ushered into, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. It stunk of garbage and urine, and if you scanned the edges, you’d inevitably see a used syringe or some other discarded evidence of the unsavoury things that go on in dark places.

I tightened up my black bandana, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. After tossing my flimsy plastic water bottle into a dumpster, I gently tapped my cheeks to loosen my tense facial muscles. I walked towards the others, who were already positioned in front of a long two-storey wall that was years before surrendered to graffiti artists by shop owners too exasperated to repaint it yet again.

“All right. Everyone ready? Let’s roll! I need you all to look into the lens of the camera. I need attitude. Yeah, that’s right! Julian, tilt your hat to the left a little. Good! Girl, chest up, look straight. Give me that sexy look. Come on! Boz, point your finger at me. Act cool! Good. Fabulous! I’m feeling it.” The shutter went off in bursts of three or four shots per second. We were shooting profile pictures for our press kit. The session went on for 30 or 40 minutes. When it was all done, I had a self-satisfied assurance that things were finally really coming together.

Instead of diving headlong into the crevasse of my self-pity, I made a decision to turn my anger into artistic passion. For the year following the Warner Music debacle, I worked as a junior hairstylist in a Vancouver salon while completing a ten-song demo CD with my newly formed hip-hop crew. We named ourselves Syndicate. There were four of us: Yuen, our talented producer; Rita, our powerhouse of a female lead vocal; Julian, our handsome ladies’ man; and of course, me. We worked out of our basements producing songs with our own unique sound. We used English in the verses and stirred in Mandarin and Cantonese rapping—a sort of West meets East Asian fusion. The result was an innovative and refreshing style that no one had heard before—a sound considered especially cool by the Chinese community.

It took us about six months to feel and present ourselves like an official group. By that time our music was finding airtime at local college events and radio stations. Door after door of opportunity kept opening up. More and more people started recognizing us at the nightclubs. Requests for copies of our demo album kept coming, and it was very encouraging to see our efforts recognized.

Eventually, our music found its way overseas, and calls started rolling in from Taiwan. Different management agencies approached us for partnering relationships, and my schedule was jammed with online meetings and email correspondence.

An agent called my cellphone. “We think you guys are extremely talented and have a great chance with the Taiwan music industry. After years, we’re finally hearing a sound none of us has heard before. With a little more polish, you guys are ready for a launch. Our company has the ability to take you there. A draft of our contract has been sent to your email. Take a look and get back to us ASAP. We really want to work with you guys.”

“Thank you very much for your interest. We’ll take a look at the contract and will get back to you soon,” I replied with excitement but also with caution.

I started to learn how to deal with the business side of things. By now I had already read a few of these contracts, and there were many tricky lines hiding within blocks of boring legalese. From my past experience of dealing with people in the music industry, I learned not to trust anyone easily. After all, I had been burned by MTV Asia and Warner Music Taiwan already.

All the while we had to finish a full-length album in the studio during our spare time. We were getting so busy it felt like we didn’t even have time to eat or sleep some days. Our dream of reaching the top of the billboard chart no longer seemed an impossibility. Every time we went shopping for outfits as a group, we were showered with attention by giddy store clerks, some even suggesting sponsorship of our stage appearances. Of course, Julian was always the one who got spotted first since he was the tallest and best looking. “You have a great look, man. Are you a model or something?” a hip-hop clothing shop manager asked Julian in front of the mirror.

“Thanks! Nah, I’m not. I’m a local Chinese rapper. And this is my crew!” Julian pointed his finger towards us three.

“An Asian hip-hop crew? That’s fresh! I like it. You guys look sharp. Doing any gigs around?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we perform here and there. Got one coming up at one of the clubs on Richards Street. That’s why we’re shopping for outfits.”

“Nice, nice. Seems like you guys are doing pretty good. Got yourself a clothing sponsor?”

“It’s all right. We do have more gigs coming up. No official clothing sponsorship yet. We’re still local, you know. Still finalizing our demos and trying to get the word out.”

“Good stuff. Let me listen to your tracks. I see potential. If things are going good for you guys, maybe we can work something out together for your next gig. Bring your CD in, and then I can have a listen, and maybe we can talk further.”

Posing in front of the mirror we fantasized about modelling for our own clothing line one day, as many in Hollywood do. With everything seeming to fall into place, it was easy for us to believe we would make it. As our “stock” rose, so also did our pride, and as always, pride goes before a fall.

_______

“Well who do we have here? Since when does the superstar have time for us small potatoes?” The gang was really making fun of me as I stepped into the restaurant.

“Come on, guys. I’m totally baked. I don’t need this right now. Have you guys ordered yet? I’m starving.” I sat down at the only empty seat at the table.

One of the guys turned to me. “What you need, Boz, my good man, is to smoke a big fat joint with us. We just picked up some really good stuff yesterday, BC’s finest. It’s gonna make you feel so much better. You’ll forget all the BS you’re worrying your little head about. Guaranteed! Besides, it’s been quite some time since we all smoked up together. We had so much fun back in the day. Remember?”

“Yeah, those were some good times, guys. I remember them well. But things have changed now. Haven’t we had this conversation a few times before? You guys go ahead and have fun without me. I still need to head back to the studio when we’re done eating. It’s gonna be another long night. I still have loads of work to do.” I rejected the offer as gently as I could.

“Man, you’re no fun! What’s happened to you? No time for your friends anymore. Whatever. You’re the one missing out.” The guys turned and continued their conversation without me.

Three years had passed since my personal exit from the party scene. My cellphone contacts used to be almost entirely comprised of party animals, but now those contacts were nearly all replaced by music industry people. This was in the dark ages of flip phones that had limited memory, so I had to delete contacts to add new ones. Only a handful of old friends were still on my phone, and most of them were sitting at the table in front of me. These were the guys who were closest to me.

After my graduation, while pursuing my music career, I continued to meet with Blade every month to maintain my relationship with him. However, I was careful to avoid drugs and excessive use of alcohol because of my need to stay focused on my career and to maintain the public image that had become important to me. Despite the fact that I knew they were a bad influence on me, Blade and the other guys from this group always held a special spot in my heart because they had rescued me from my general social ineptitude in high school. If not because of them, I would never have graduated from my bowl cut, blue dress shorts, and white tube socks. This was the reason I felt so much loyalty towards them and why the boundaries I had set were relatively low.

Recognizing my weakness, Blade and a couple of the others would constantly take advantage of me: asking favours, borrowing money, etc. Against my will and better judgment, somehow I would always accommodate them, in part to repay the protection and acceptance they had afforded me in high school.

_______

“Copy that, we’ve got him here with us.” A uniformed police officer set his walkie-talkie down in the car, adjusted his sunglasses, and walked toward me slowly. “Mr. Poon, you’re now officially under arrest. You’re being charged for kidnapping and extortion. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I choked out. It was almost like someone else was saying the words and I was watching a bad dream from somewhere down the street.

“You have the right to talk to a lawyer. We’ll give you an opportunity to arrange for legal counsel if you don’t have a lawyer already. Be aware that anything you say from now on can be used in court as evidence. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We can do it the easy way or the hard way. Please extend your arms towards me.”

I was handcuffed, cold and tight. They felt like they were crushing my wrists—a metaphor for the crushing of every dream I’d ever had. I caught glimpses of my neighbours emerging from their houses to gawk at me and to whisper in each other’s ears, while my family wept in the driveway at the sight of me being arrested.

Why is this happening? What have I done?

They tossed me into the back of the paddy wagon, known affectionately as the “meat wagon” by those who pay it frequent visits. I sat down onto the cold metal floor.

After a few mind-numbing days between the interrogation room and the holding cell, I was scheduled to transfer to the pretrial detention centre from the former Vancouver jail behind the provincial court. By that time, I was exhausted beyond anything I’d ever imagined possible. I could smell the reek of my body odour wafting up from my white jumpsuit. I’m sure I smelled a lot like the downtown eastside folks who’d mocked and catcalled me as I was escorted into the station. I was sat down to wait for my ride at 7:00 a.m. The bus came to get me at about 3:00 p.m.

While we were on the road, scenes of what had transpired in the last few days flooded my mind in slow motion. I played and replayed all that I had lost: the singing career, the beautiful girl, the cover of a magazine. Now all I could confidently say I possessed was a throbbing headache.

I couldn’t eat. I had no appetite. But even if I had, the dry baloney sandwiches they slid through the door slot were only sustenance at best. I was completely overcome by the anxiety and uncertainty of what lay ahead of me. I know this sounds a bit strange, but I literally pinched my thighs over and over again to make sure that I wasn’t just having a bad dream.

Suddenly the vehicle took a sharp turn to the right, and I was thrown across the cab, hitting my head on the left wall. The shackles prevented me from bracing myself properly with my arms and legs.

Ouch! That hurt.

Reality was validated again.

After two hours of driving east, the vehicle came to a stop, and the officers came around to the back of the wagon. The door opened with an annoying high-pitched creak, and I was ordered to step out. My feet hit the ground, and I shuffled up to the gates.

Surveillance cameras protected by a bubble of bulletproof glass were in every corner. Lifeless tall grey concrete walls were everywhere. I was at the North Fraser Pretrial Centre in Port Coquitlam. They led me into the building and down a sterile looking corridor lit by the irritating glow of bad fluorescent lighting, unlocked my shackles in front of a door, and ordered me into the holding tank with room for about six to ten detainees.

“ARRRGGH! I’m gonna kill you all!” A bald prisoner exploded from the bench as we entered the room, making a run at the correctional officer who was escorting me. Smack, SMACK! I heard the sound of fists connecting with flesh. Within 20 seconds a backup squad rushed into the room and subdued him. They pinned his head to the tile floor, his face contorted, red, panting, and sputtering. Between breaths he would spew profanity and abuse at them. He was entirely undeterred. My heart was pounding while witnessing this whole thing that happened before my eyes.

What kind of place is this? What just happened? I kept asking myself.

“Pigs! Let go of me! SH*T! ARRRRRGGGH!” The guy was using all his might trying to prevent the officers from cuffing his hands behind his back, but it was no use. His strength was no match against four of them. To my surprise, they left the guy on the ground, walked out the door, and locked it behind us. I was left behind with my new best buddy.

What I observed next was so disturbing to me. While screaming at the top of his lungs, he made his way onto his feet without using his arms. He was beet red and looked entirely possessed. Running to the door, he head-butted the metal bars full force over and over. He was like a malfunctioning robot from Terminator who’d gone into self-destruct mode. I couldn’t believe what was happening. For over 15 minutes he kept banging his head on the door, screaming from the top of his lungs, before someone came and took him away. Releasing my fingers from my ears, I sat there entirely speechless. This was my introduction to prison life, and “frightened” didn’t begin to describe it.

Time seemed to stop behind bars. I was under 24-7 surveillance and always wearing the bright red two-piece uniform. My world came to a complete standstill. I was moved to a concrete cell with a double bunk and a toilet, a single roll of thin scratchy toilet paper, and a musty smelling uncomfortable wool blanket—the kind people toss in their trunks for emergencies.

I slept on the upper bunk. My roommate was a tall Caucasian teen who was all tattooed up and very proud of his gang activity and drug life. The room was dark, always dark. Every day we had a few hours to go out of our cell to the mess hall in the middle of the unit where meals were served, and we’d get locked up again shortly after eating. When we were out of the cell, the lights were on. Once we were called to go back to our cells, the lights went off and stayed off. There was a small courtyard beside the mess hall with four tall concrete walls and fencing at the top to prevent escape. There were showers, and we could ask for a tiny square of soap from the guard station. At night we got locked up around 7:45 p.m. until 7:00 a.m. the next day for breakfast.

After a week or so, the door opened at an uncharacteristically early hour, and two guards were waiting for me to get out of bed. They told me I had a bail hearing that day. After I made my bed, I was escorted to the holding tank. Waited there for another few hours until all the paperwork was done. Then the guards came into the room to shackle my hands and feet and took me along with a few other inmates to the vehicle. We then headed off to the provincial court on Main Street.

Upon my arrival, I was dumped into the holding cell as usual. By then I was accustomed to this procedure. After about an hour, the judge’s secretary called me in. An officer escorted me into the courtroom.

In the booth for the accused, I was put beside Blade and the rest of the gang. I was the last one to arrive. My parents and my aunt and uncle were there, and from a distance, I could tell that they had all been crying. My heart sank. I felt entirely helpless.

The process took about two hours because the lawyers kept going back and forth with the judge. The language they used was so specialized and formal that its meaning was lost on me. Once the pretrial hearing was over, my parents put their house up as collateral for my bail, which was about $200,000. As promised by the judge, I was released that same day after surrendering my passport.

Sitting in my parents’ sedan, I started to gain perspective of the scope of what I had involved myself in. It wasn’t just me who was affected but my whole family. They had put their house on the line. I only knew one thing for sure: I had no idea where to begin starting to mend the damage I had caused.

_______

When I was out on bail I treasured the temporary freedom. People who have never been incarcerated don’t realize how wonderful freedom is. The most boring day as a civilian is filled with excitement compared to a day alone staring at a cell wall. The other challenge was the way I felt inside. I was carrying baggage so heavy that I could hardly bear it.

Of course, the music came to a screeching halt again. My music crew was justifiably angry with me. I had been extremely unwise in my decision making, and all of their careers would be affected by my bad choices.

Ironically and painfully enough, while I was away, EMI Music Taiwan was offering us, as a group, a record deal. They promised to make us the next megahit group in Asia. They played it up like we would be the Chinese Black Eyed Peas. When I heard this, I knew I would again be like Tantalus from Greek mythology, the food coming down to my mouth and the water just coming up to my lips, and as I reached for it, it would vanish. There was no way that EMI would be willing to pen a deal for us while I was being tried for kidnapping and extortion. Going through the details of the group contract they had emailed me only made things worse. I sat there running my fingers through my hair and sobbing into my hands.

Why is this happening to me?

After many sleepless nights and seemingly interminable consultation with my lawyer, I was left with no other options but to accept reality. My bail conditions forbade me from leaving the country, and I was left with no choice but to withdraw from the group. In the hopes that I could mitigate the damage and prevent the dissolution of the contract offer, I personally called the record label manager to apologize and to beg her to sign with the group without me. I made up a story, telling her that my parents didn’t want me to enter this business and wanted me to focus on going to university instead. She was obviously disappointed and saw my decision as nonsense: “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you?! Do you know how many demos we receive at the front desk every day? Over a thousand! Most of them go to the garbage can before even crossing the threshold of my office. Come on, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Just get yourself to Taipei with all the crew within the next few days. Don’t play games with me. I want to work with you as a group—all of you!”

At this I couldn’t control myself and broke into tears on the phone. I had no idea how to negotiate this without ruining it for everyone. I just wanted to blurt out the truth to her, but I knew that if she knew the seriousness of the situation she might drop me like a hot potato. Eventually, I was able to convince her that I was not exaggerating and I really could not leave Canada, but I had to do it in a manner that did not reveal the seriousness of the matter.

With a lot of telephone negotiations over the next two months, we came to an agreement that I’d kind of act as an agent for my crew until such a time that I was free to travel. I managed to give the company enough of an excuse without telling them the whole truth of my trial: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry … Thank you so much for giving us a chance. I’d love to work with you alongside my crew. I’d die for this opportunity! You have no idea. But, you see, I’m in the middle of some very serious personal problems, and I can’t leave the country. I’m terribly sorry … it’s all my fault! Please work with the group even without me. Every single one of them is very talented. They’ll be just fine. You won’t regret signing them. I can guarantee you.”

To sincerely put the interests of others before my own was a new and humbling but strangely gratifying decision. Even though it hurt like hell, my heart was telling me that it was the right thing to do. In the end EMI accepted my convoluted explanation, leaving me an option to sign with them when my problems were resolved. I was deeply touched by this offer.

“I guess this is it. Man, what a shame that you can’t come with us! After all the hard times we’ve been through together … This sucks!” Julian was picking up his backpack.

“It’s all good. Just make it big there for me! Share our music, our spirit, all right?” I helped him with his luggage.

“Yeah, B, we won’t forget you! Get your things done here and come meet us ASAP. We’ll reserve your spot. No one can replace you!” Yuen was giving me a very firm handshake.

“That’s right, you hang in there, all right? We’ll give you a call right after we arrive. We’ll miss you.” Rita hugged me tightly.

There at the airport, in front of everyone—the group and their friends and family—I forced a plastic smile onto my face and waved goodbye to them. Watching them heading to customs one by one, I felt my heart tear in half. It was by far the most painful thing that I had ever experienced. The passport case that I’d bought for the last record deal was still sitting in my drawer.

Two days after my group-mates’ arrival to Taipei city, a contract negotiation meeting was scheduled. EMI included me in that meeting by conference call. I did my best to make my voice sound cheerful on the phone, but I felt like a violin string pulled taut and about to snap. Every chuckle, every friendly exchange, every scrap of happiness exchanged in that meeting was like lye poured onto an open wound. I didn’t want to be bitter, but I couldn’t suppress my feelings. Clenching my teeth, I held back my tears for five long hours until the meeting was over. By the end I was so exhausted I just lay down on the carpet by my desk instead of taking 30 seconds to make it to the couch.

This was the third time a record deal had slipped through my fingers. Was it some sort of cruel divine joke? Didn’t I have a unique calling that I was simply following? If I had been noticed by three major music companies, didn’t I have some genuine talent? Why did I get into these situations where there was so much promise, only to see it vanish at the last minute? Was this punishment? Was I such a horrible person? I needed some answers! If life was trying to destroy my spirit, it was doing a very fine job! I was crushed, and it felt like I would never recover. Slowly I stopped believing in hope, stopped believing in a brighter day. Maybe this was all just foolishness—just a dream.

“Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief.” (Prov. 14:13 ESV)