Here in Maryland (2)

We were in the U.S. Capital, well, then, when we were going through immigration, but really our home was in Baltimore. Some place downtown. A townhouse, one typical of colonial Maryland. That is, red brick houses and with a towering triangular roof. Cookie cutter homes stacked next to each utilizing as much land as possible. At least that’s what they looked like in photos. Our old 70′s washed out Polaroids. I barely remember the place. The only memory I have is the living room and kitchen area. And for some reason, it’s always dark there. The living room was sunken in. There were couches and a TV. I think I watched plenty of Sesame Street on that thing. The kitchen was open, no wall or separation. The place was small, and that was coming from a kid. The biggest thing was the window. It was a bright portal that whenever I looked through it, the room would darken.

It was a strange place. I wonder if I cross images of my nightmares with my memories or vice versa. If one word could describe that time, I’d say “chills.” Thankfully we didn’t stay there too long. Yet, I don’t remember how long it was.

My family stuck together in the area here. This townhouse was for everyone except for my older aunt. She stayed with her husband in another house outside the city.

We called her, Aunt Hoa. And no, it’s not translated, it was literally, “Aunt Hoa” like how country folk would say. You may wonder if this makes any sense, because she was the one married to an American, Uncle Chuck, yeah, that’s what we called him too. Maybe because we were learning English and didn’t know any better. But this never changed. Even stranger, we called my mom’s younger brother, Uncle Diep. There were no ties to an American there. Not yet at least. Then there’s the youngest sister, who we call ouc, which isn’t her name, it’s a Vietnamese word for the youngest in a family. Grandmother was Ngoại, Vietnamese for our maternal grandmother. And my mom, everyone else calls her No, and that’s Vietnamese, where you’d say phonetically “nuh” in tone 3 for those of you who study Asian languages. We just called her Mẹ, or mom. So dad was Bà. And if you haven’t figured it out, “we” are my brothers and I, and “they” were everyone else in the family. Tuan’s the oldest, Phong’s the middle, and I pull in last. My name’s Khanh, but everyone in the family calls me chu tư, which I translate, with my awful Vietnamese, to “Mr. Fourth.” Odd, I know. A revelation a decade later informed me that, my mom had a miscarriage with her first child. So out of tradition, we kept our nicknames. In our culture, addressing people properly and respectfully was huge. Everyone had a particular name depending on your relation to them, mom-side, dad-side, younger, older, it was very confusing if you weren’t constantly practicing it. That might as well sum up why our names weren’t consistent. Some were salutations, others were pronouns, and the lucky ones get to keep their names, or nicknames. My brothers and I were at a culture clash. Somehow the names stuck.

For the sake of clarity, I’ll continue forward with our English versions.

Uncle Chuck and Aunt Hoa were quite a couple. Chuck was this big brawny guy. Put a picture of a lumberjack in your head, minus the red cap and axe, that would be him. Full of energy and the center of every conversation. He could go on about his opinions on how the world worked, what was wrong the system, what we needed to do to fix it, and so on. Didn’t help me the slightest since loud things made me cry. And he made me cry plenty. Mom loved his helpfulness. He got things done for my family in the fashion only Uncle Chuck can do. Messy, but quick. Hell, that’s how we got here ahead of all the madness. Makes you wonder how he got along with Aunt Hoa. She was this dark piercing eye individual who’s eyes can cast a judgmental stare even in her sleep. This may be a bit harsh to characterize her as such, but I think everyone has someone in the family that isn’t scared to call things out and draw that line which you didn’t know you crossed. Everyone has someone like this around. She just happens to be my aunt and I love her for it. Sometimes.

The other thing was, she wasn’t the oldest. My grandfather had eight kids total, three with his first wife and five with Grandmother. When we left, the oldest was left behind. I never got the full story why. She eventually came with her family many years later. At this time though, we were without her, Chi Năm, um, “Older Sister Five.” I know, I’ll figure this out one day.

In any case, the lot of us stayed in this townhouse. That was until my dad found a job in the oil business. It paid well.  Enough for us to pack our bags and head on south. Oh Texas, I never knew the draw of money came at such a risk.

room – 3

“Mom?”

She raised her hand, signaling me not to disturb her mid-prayer.

She sat on the edge of her bed, facing the wall where the door was. Her face was colorful and full, not like the time she was pale, skinny, and sick. There was that peachy color in her cheeks I haven’t seen for ages. Even her hair was normal. Curly and black, like my oldest brother’s, but of course, longer. No wig covering the fallout that months of chemotherapy would do to you. She was her normal self, bubbly brown glasses and all.

I listened as she went from one prayer to another.

The words was undecipherable under her droning voice. I recognized the melody, but the words. The words weren’t right.

I rushed down the hall and down through the stairs. My heart was racing as I left through the front door. The glass screen closed slowly behind me. I was in the front lawn. I looked down the street and to no surprise, it was my old neighborhood. We were at the start of the block that was filled with single family homes. All were similar to ours.

There was another Vietnamese family in the house to the right front of ours. I ran over and banged on the door. I wasn’t sure what to tell them. If it was a miracle or if it was something unnatural. I wasn’t sure. I just wanted someone.

No answer.

I ran frantically to our neighbor’s house. Their family had also dealt with cancer’s terminal effects on loved ones. And like us, everyone had moved away when everything was over. Leaving the unwanted memories behind in the home they no longer saw the same way again. I decided not to knock on their door and walked back to mine.

Outside I stood. Looking at the home I had left.

All the blinds were drawn closed . On every window.

The only look inside was at the middle. Where the glass screen door had automatically pulled itself shut even as I left the main door flung open on the inside.

I was scared I’d see my mom there.

But I saw stairs, one set down and one set leading up, beyond the glaring reflection.

I felt ashamed.

It was my mom. Her normal self. Not some apparition. Not some ghost trying to scare me or pull me into a world that I don’t belong. I took a deep brief. Calmed my nerves. And went back inside.

room – 1

I hated my older brother. We always got into pissing contests and I hated it when I won or lost. Cause it didn’t matter. Not that I had to deal with hearing all of the excuses. That I could deal with hanging out with the friends I had. No, it was the condescending tone I get from something as simple as a “hello.” It’s just aggravating. Makes it quite an ordeal to restrain myself from punching him in the mouth.

I could hear it now.

“What are you doing home?” he’d say.

It’s that subtle curl of the tone that makes you wonder what he’s getting at. Like a hint that I didn’t belong. That this wasn’t my home too. Or that I was the arrogant one. That somehow my schedule had freed up for them. That it was me that didn’t understand what family meant. That all these years I have been leaching. A burden to everyone under the roof. Spoiled and undeserving. But the thing is, I think I knew it the best, out of us three at least, my two older brothers and I. It was probably what kept my fist back all these years. All for the sake of family. My mother’s request.

I pulled a stack of blinds down and peered outside. The drive way down below was empty. His 80′s red Camero wasn’t hogging up the tiny asphalt space. Our little white Corrolla was there though. Parked on the right facing the house. I thought about taking the car, but I didn’t know where the keys were.

Where is he?

Who? My oldest brother? I thought I’d never think that.

And where’s Paul?

Now, my middle brother, that made more sense.

But somehow, I really needed it to be my older brother.

Especially now, to tell me why I was back here, in the living room, of the house we all had left over ten years ago.

Paper Planes

People are always telling stories about how hard their lives were growing up. No food on the table, parents working four to five jobs, cockroaches the size of rats running rampant in the apartment, the tales go on. My story is nothing to that extent. Nope, my upbringing, though poor, was nothing for me to complain about. We grew up in the shadier parts of Montgomery County, one of the wealthiest counties in the DC metropolitan areas. So you can say we were frowned upon by the wealthy but too stuck up to live in a place that needed police cars patrolling the block every hour. No we were above of that.

Well, not really, for me at least. This was a perfect place for me to thrive. Less cops around, meant a less chance for my friends and I to get caught. It started with the usual teenage troublemaking. You know. Moving traffic cones around on the road and watching cars slow down trying to make sense of the new traffic pattern. It was hilarious. One time we made such a ridiculous maze that one driver stopped, got out, and tried to see what he was avoiding. We cracked up so hard behind the trees that I swear he heard us and called the cops. Because before you knew it, the cops came flying down the road. I don’t think I ever ran as hard as I did then that night. You’d think that’s enough to scare some sense into us. Nope. Not us. We knew our juvenile records would get wiped cleaned once we hit eighteen, as long as we didn’t do anything too outrageous. Nothing criminal. That was our strength. We had enough sense to keep ourselves at bay. Play the system. A law is broken if and only if someone gets caught. It was a messed up way to think, but we were all opportunists. Take advantage of the situation and milk it for what it’s worth.

Besides, we were kids with nothing at school to do. Why the hell would we want to try out for the any sports? We hated half of the people on the team. A bunch of snobby ass rich kids. As for clubs, I don’t think you’ll find my ass in any sort of debate club or chess club. Only reason I’d step into one of them after school clubs is if there was some hot chick. But that time though, I was already seeing some girl from a different school.

It’s not like I’m trying to paint a picture of juvenile delinquents lacking morals. We had morals. Just a different set. Mainly, it dealt with family. My family came first then came my family of friends. The rest are just people in my life. It’s how you want to be part of my life that makes you who you are.

When it comes to family, it’s just my mom, my sister, and me. As for my dad, well, he decided on living a different life. Let’s just say there’s no way I want to grow up to be like him. I’ve seen enough pain he’s caused to my mom. My sister and I, we’re close, but not that close. She’s a bit naïve when it comes to certain issues. Not saying she’s dumb. No way. She’s by far smarter than me. Book smart. There’s no subject in school she sucks at. Straight A’s on every report card. It gets annoying though, when your mom is constantly getting on your case about why your little sister can get better grades than you. It’s alright, I’m the man of the family now. Old enough to take care of both my mom and sister. She can go to college while I find ways to bring money into the house. My mom can only make so much money working two jobs. She’s a cook during the day and a tailor by night. The bad thing about it is she’s good. Real good. She’s hell of a cook. So the manager needs her at the restaurant all the time. Only thing we get out of it is are nice leftovers from the restaurant. As for the tailor thing, it’s just a side job for extra money. You can probably figure that I’m usually taking care of my sister all the time. It’s both a love and hate thing. I know I can be a bit protective. But I’d rather have her hate me than have anything bad happen to her. I remember a time when we were small. We loved making paper airplanes when we were small. I showed her how to make it fly in loops by folding the ends of the wings up and how to make it fly further by making it sharp. She made this one plane that flew far and high. Even I was jealous. One day it got stuck up in the tree, right next to a bee hive. I told her not to get it and boy we had a huge fight. She thought I was jealous of the plane. Maybe I was a bit, but to climb a tree with bees would be a disaster. Oh she wouldn’t stop crying and ran inside. I felt bad, so of course, stupid me decided to climb that tree. Wouldn’t you know it, the bees attacked be and I fell down. Wasn’t much of a fall, right on my ass, but I got it. Ran inside. I think I got stung about five times. When I gave her the plane, it was a bit crumpled from the fall. She thought I did it on purpose. Man, she hated me for weeks. I don’t know why I never told her what happened.

Anyways, I’d do anything for family, especially my mom. We didn’t have much compared to other families. The TV was old. Anytime you turn it on, you’d have to wait five seconds before the picture faded in. This would be normal if we lived in the seventies. But we had this television up into high school. There was no money for this. My mom only cared about making sure we had food. Good food. A healthy caring family was her priority. Something she instilled in us.

So things got a bit rocky toward the end of high school. There was no scholarship awaiting me after graduation. It was community college for me. I had to work to pay for myself. I took a small job at the mall. One of the big retail stores. I was over eighteen at this point, but my mentality was still the same. With my friends working at the same level, we just thought up more ways to beat the system. Bagging unscanned items at the register was our new scheme. Ludicrous, simply ludicrous. We’d just scan a pair of socks and bag like jackets, sunglasses, cologne, and game systems. Now we were just hooligans, well dressed looking hooligans. I was loving it. Didn’t take long for me to move off into other schemes. I wanted money, not things.

Mom was getting older and the work was getting to her. Little sis also developed her little click of high maintenance friends. You’d thing with me working on my own, the house would need less money. But mom told me how much money my sis spends these days. She’s so obsessed with clothes and looking good. She hardly ate. I thought like everyone else. Blaming the magazines for their anorexic images. But this was mom’s little angel. Her grades started faltering and she started to come home later and later. Oh, I had to do something. We had a talk. OK, more like an argument, many arguments. This is when I just couldn’t deal with her with all the things happening in my life. Let the spoiled brat live. I know I’d be annoyed if someone got into my business. So I let it be. Work, get money and give some to mom. I just never knew I’d get that much money.

You see, hooking up friends is one thing, hooking up other people is another thing. My time at the mall introduced me to some other people. Badass people. Not like you see in the movies. They just got their shit together. You want to roll into the club. They’ve got the hook ups to get you in. Just go right up to the front and watch everyone in line wonder. Sometimes I’m not even going in with a group of girls. It’s just me with a bunch of shady ass dudes. Yet, we get the best table and grab all the bitches on the dance floor to drink with us. All I had to do was sell off some pills. Not a hard thing. Movies always portray drug users and dealers as some skinny assed cracked out reject. In this world, though, the users are doctors, lawyers, musicians, and even computer geeks. Well-dressed and well-mannered individuals, they’re just recreational users, the easiest to deal with. They know how things run. They’re careful. They’re cautious. No one wants any trouble. Out to have a little more fun in their lives. Dancing around all dilated. A half of this is all you really need and you’d be rolling.

It wasn’t about being lucky that things didn’t break down. The system was flawless. The right people that needed to be involved were involved. Basically, it boils down to when I wanted to stop. When was it a good time to stop? Maybe after I graduate. Take on a normal job. Something with a retirement account. Vacation days. Paid holidays. I don’t know. Can I really picture myself doing this?

My network was growing larger. Not like one of them WMA pyramid business models. It was small, but each person that came under me brought me a few extra hundred every week. I was spreading myself out now. More people meant more risk. But like I said. This system was flawless. Really. There wasn’t a mole or anything to worry about. The people under me are regulars. They just wanted to hook up their friends. And then there was the surplus. It wasn’t like this stuff increased to meet demand. No. That’s when your dealing shitty ass pills. They’d chop up the pure stuff and mix in other stuff to increase the quantity. Not my source. I could barely ask for more. The real benefit I get from having people under me is work, plain and simple. I hardly have to be out there now. I go to the clubs to have fun now. No working. This is when I’d stop. When the last few buyers is taken care of. Either they don’t ask anymore or someone steps up and takes care of these young snakes. But really, they don’t stop asking.

Stopping is inevitable. No way around it. You’d stop if you’d get caught. But like I said it was flawless. So for me, it was the last person that came up under me. She was younger and steadily increased her demand over the years. Cool gal. A bit young, but knew what to do. Her people have been doing the stuff as long as she had. No new friends. No real flaws. Just wanted a better deal. Gave her a discount in return for keeping a few other clients supplied. Bingo. I was set, over a cup of coffee at Starbucks – another type of drug if you want to look at it that way.

But this wasn’t why I stopped. It was there, sitting at that coffee shop. Sipping on my gay ass frap. Going over the numbers with my new recruit, her friend walks in. I didn’t see her and obviously she didn’t see me. She just sat her diva ass self down. My new recruit slipped her a few under the table. And with the biggest attitude, rolling her eyes and shit, she finally turned to me.

I’ve never fucking tried one of these pills my whole life. But if I had known, I would have done so a long time ago. All to show that the crumpled plane that is my body would be what’s in store if she climbed that tree.