Back then I didn’t know what the fuss was all about. There was nothing wrong with having fun. I did it all the time or at least try to. Up until I get a scolding and learn that, although fun, it’s not right to throw rocks at the neighbor’s cat or drawing on the walls with whatever I find, which usually constituted of whatever was in my nose. My whale masterpiece was there for years. But no matter what fun I had, I never got scolded by dad and for that, I loved him. What did I know, I was just a kid. Plus he was totally witty and I guess charming. Not like I knew what that was about at that time. But there was never a dull moment. We were always doing something, like fishing, or soccer, or what I thought was soccer, mainly trying to get the ball from dad as he flicked and moved the ball around himself. Afterward, I’d settle down, exhausted, lying on his tummy and listen to some funny story. I’d drift off to sleep meeting his ethereal image in my dreams. He would be in there finishing his story. Animated and smiling as usual. He wore this permanent grin that you can still see when he sleeps. Not like a maniacal one and not some jolly Santa-like one. It’s that hidden smirk of his that makes you wonder what’s scheming in his head. He wore his usual outfit, brown dress shirt, fitted with two chest pockets and his jeans. He wasn’t as skinny as most stereotypical Viets from Vietnam. He was slightly muscular and had a odd bumpy scar on his right shoulder that he told me was from his days in the air force. That always fascinated me. He’d stare into my eyes with those intense light brown eyes of his and tell me that fictitious story. A story of how and enemy fighter came firing down on him as he waved his squadron down to bomb. His arm happen to be outside when the .50 cal hit his arm. I was amazed how his arm still functioned and tested it many times hanging off his biceps. My dad was my hero.
“What do you want when you grow up?” he asked me.
“A 1970 red mustang,” I’d act like I knew what that was. It’s really what he wanted.
He smiled. “That’s quite a car. You sure you can handle that?”
I nodded.
“You have to be strong, fast, and know what you’re doing with that power. You sure?”
My head hadn’t stop nodding.
“Good. That’s a man’s car, you can’t drive it like some girl.”
“No,” I assured him.
Didn’t realize what he seeded in my head. All I could think about was flying down the Texas highways in that car. Windows down. Engines roaring. I’m behind the wheel with my dad in the passenger seat, both of our heads sticking out the window, like dogs in heaven.We’d hit those highway rises over the cross streets Duke’s of Hazard style. That was my favorite show back then and all I can imagine us doing. But the real image in my head would be closer to the fellas in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Just replace their faces with my dad and some kid who can barely see over the steering wheel. That was what my mind saw in the forefront, what it made me believe in was different.
Young was a Vietnamese guy, unmarried, and more importantly, a closer friend to mom. He was adapting to the U.S. in different ways then we were. Our family concentrated on getting a job and setting up a home. Young was more into the lifestyle. He was riding the remaining wave of the seventies. That is, he dressed the part, colorful paisley shirts and bell bottom pants with long frizzly hair. Given the typical skinny physique, with his big bug eye sunglasses you’d think he was a girl if it weren’t for his mustache.
“No,” I screamed.
“Aww, what’s the matter Khanh?” asked Young.
I pushed, then punched him when he got closer. “Men aren’t suppose to kiss men.”
“All I want is a hug.”
“Dad says you’re gay.”
“What?”
He shook it off and came closer to hug me and as a joke he puckered up, pretending to kiss me. That’s when I slapped him. It was loud. Then I punched him in the face. Not very pleasant I’d imagine. He fell back in surprise. This all could be warranted if we were alone and it was the start of some bad childhood experience, but it was in front of my parents. My mom stood there with her jaw dropped and dad was there with that devilish grin. I smiled back. Young looked up at my dad.
“Well, look at what you’re wearing,” my dad starts explaining himself.
They go on.
“That’s not nice,” mom kneels down beside me.
I stare at the ground.
“He’s a friend of mom. Be nice okay?”
Her words go through me. Same goes for Young’s words to my dad. I stared up at him. He was looking down at me, ignoring Young completely. He wondered what I was thinking. If I felt the same way as him. I didn’t of course. I didn’t care if my mom had male friends.
