by David Yoon
Walk slowly through the dark, don’t fear
For someday you’ll be far from here.
* * *
• • •
Dad’s getting worse.
I always wondered what his last day at The Store would be like, but that day just came and went before I even really noticed. One minute he was sitting on his still-new stool at the cash register, and the next minute he got the spins so bad he had to lie down right on the floor.
At the emergency room it was determined that his white blood cell count was dangerously low from the chemo. This means his immune system is extremely weak. This means he can no longer work or be among people.
This is the trade-off. Chemo means Dad will live longer. But it also means he lives worse.
I guess it’s good that Palomino High School has been brought to a standstill because of widespread inflammation of the senior, because it frees me up to do things like help Mom shuttle Dad back and forth from the hospital, help train Luis (the ex-con once jailed for a carjacking gone wrong) as a store assistant, and just sit with Dad at home, to build whatever jeong we can while we still can.
I sneak a selfie with Dad while he’s asleep—he’s asleep a lot—and send it to Hanna. Hanna starts to respond but never does.
I spend a lot of time at The Store with Luis while Mom mans the register. I like Luis. We put on our hoodies and move shit around in the walk-in cooler. He’s openly remorseful about his mistake, and loathes himself for carjacking someone just to get approval from his gang friends. Like most human beings he was desperate for validation. Now he gets daily validation by the armload from his wife and baby. He prays before every meal, at the end of every day, and every time he gets behind the wheel of his car to go home, for forgiveness.
Being busy and in constant motion means my fartphone goes unanswered for longer stretches of time. Joy buzzes and buzzes, wondering if I’m okay. If Dad’s okay.
“Your phone’s blowing up, holmes,” says Luis. “You got a girl or something?”
I like Luis. But it wouldn’t be very cool to just openly blablabla about Joy right in front of Mom, so I tell him no, there’s no girl, it’s just friends calling about graduation parties.
For four weeks I barely go to school, because I work basically nonstop at The Store. It’s the opposite of senioritis. I don’t see Joy. I live with a weight belt strapped around my waist. Q drives all the way to visit one time, and makes a comedic attempt to help mop the floor. Out of mercy Mom sends him out to get tacos instead.
Within those four weeks Luis has mastered The Store, and has even brought in his shy, ever-smiling teenaged cousin to lend a hand. And finally, one time as I’m closing up, I notice that me and Mom have barely lifted a finger all day.
Hey yubs, says Joy. How’s The Store? Wannaseeya wannaseeya.
I want to see Joy too. I need to get this summer of love going, stat.
“I have an idea,” I tell Mom. “I’ll be right back.”
“Luis doing everything so good,” says Mom. “Don’t tell Daddy.”
“That’s why I have my idea,” I say.
I take Mom’s bank card, drive out to Tweeters & More, and buy a dozen drop cameras. When I get back to The Store, I explain the situation to Luis before installing them.
“Listen, I trust you and your cousin completely,” I say. “This is not about you. This is Dad management.”
Luis clocks each of the cameras with a wary eye but readily understands why they’re a good idea. Still, he tweaks the angles when I’m finished.
“I need some kind of dead zone for breaks,” he says.
“You got it, Luis,” I say.
We craft a nice dead zone by the paper products.
“Just remember to call and ask how to do things now and then,” I say.
“Uh, okay,” says Luis.
“Even though you already know how to do everything, just call.”
Luis stretches his eyebrows. “Ah, I get it.”
My idea is perfect because I know Dad would never let someone work at The Store without him present. He’s too paranoid, too proud of what he’s built. But without him there’s only Mom, and no way am I going to let Mom work all day by herself.
So when me and Mom approach his bedside to break the news that Luis and his cousin will be operating The Store full-time, I make sure I have a brand-new tablet all set up and ready for him.
“No,” says Dad. “I never allowing full-time employee without I’m being there.”
That’s when I shove the screen in his face. “This lets you switch cameras. Here’s a tile view of all twelve. Full-color HD, Dad.”
“Frankie, no,” says Dad. “Luis stacking wrong way this one. He—”
On screen, the much younger, much stronger Luis reorders and stacks three hundred cans of beer in under a minute.
“Oh, he doing good,” says Dad, mesmerized.
“I told you,” says Mom. “That’s Luis.”
“Gimme one ice water,” says Dad, his eyes fixed to the screen.
“You got it, Dad,” I say.
Ring-ring. It’s Luis, calling Dad’s phone.
“You doing good job,” says Dad.
“Thanks, boss,” says Luis. “So quick question, boss: when does the ice delivery come in again?”
“Thursday ten a.m.,” says Dad. “You write down, remembering.”
“Will do,” says Luis. “Thanks, boss.”
I bring Dad his ice water, and he barely notices me. I squeeze Mom’s shoulder. She nods at me: go.
So I go to the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower. As it warms up, I finally indulge myself in a little fartphone time.
New exhibit at the Henry Gallery, says Joy. You free?
I smile. I’m free, I say.
Really? says Joy.
Yes.
Heart smileys fill my screen.
The shower’s hot now, but before I get in, I send a quick message to Q. It’s been a while since I set up a fake date. It’s high time for some Joy in my life.
My dear old bean, I say. Your assistance is crucially needed tonight for an impromptu rendezvous.
Confound it, says Q. For I am encircled by familial interlopers visiting with the irritating pretense of endless pre-graduation formalities.
Huh?
Got a bunch of relatives in town from DC using me and Evon’s graduation as an excuse for a California vacation with free lodging.
Crap, I say. So you’re busy?
I’m never too busy for you, mate. Give me a sec.
By the time I’m out of the shower, Q has responded.
Full steam ahead, my boy. The three of us are “watching” Dwarven Wars: Song of Torment.
I pump a fist. I have my in-car alibi for when I pull up to Joy’s house and the watchful eyes of her dad waiting there. Thank you, Q.
I get dressed, leap down the stairs, and lean from a doorjamb to inform Mom-n-Dad, who are still huddled over the drop cam tablet.
“I’m going out to see a movie with Q,” I say. I of course don’t mention Joy, for the same reason I of course don’t smack away ice cream from a child.
“Oh, Luis cousin doing so good job mopping,” murmurs Dad to the screen.
“We should be hiring sooner,” says Mom.
“We making less money,” says Dad.
“But more time we having, figure it out!”
“You right,” says Dad. “More time we having.”
“Guys,” I say.
Mom looks up. She looks like the girl in her yearbook. “Have a fun,” she sings.
Then she snuggles closer to Dad and returns to the tablet.
I’m so proud of myself I could puke rainbows.
“Ninety percent of Mexicans, they stealing,” says Dad to the screen, quoting hi
s own fake statistics. “But Luis not stealing nothing.”
“Not ninety percent,” says Mom, armed with fake statistics of her own. “Something like seventy-five percent.”
“Luis cousin no steal nothing too,” says Dad, impressed.
I roll my eyes so high it hurts, and leave.
* * *
• • •
It feels good to be back to what I hope will become an old routine:
Pick up Q
Go to Joy’s, have Q ring the doorbell
Get in the Consta, floor it
Go over the plot synopsis of Dwarven Wars just in case
Park, then give Q a big group hug to let him know how much we love him for this
Grow uncomfortable with guilt as Q shrugs and says, What are single friends for?
Part ways for three to four hours
“What are you gonna do with yourself?” I say.
“Plan out our next big Dungeons & Dragons campaign at a cafe, maybe,” says Q, shifting his heavy backpack. “Paul wants to play one more before summer ends.”
“Nerds,” says Joy.
We look at her like So?
Everything is full tonight in the warehouse district: the food trucks, the shitty Burger Mac, that brand-new Sixth Taste, everything. A woman and her daughter are grilling bacon-wrapped hot dogs illegally on a converted shopping cart—delicious, illegal hot dogs—and even she’s got at least a forty-minute line of customers.
It’s pre-graduation madness. Has to be. There’s only one restaurant that’s remotely feasible.
Cheese Barrel Grille.
“Shoot me in the head and stuff it with socks,” says Joy.
“That’s super disgusting,” I say.
“Let’s just go,” says Joy.
They give us an LED buzzer coaster, which Joy hisses at. We head outside and down the street to see if we can get tickets to the Henry Gallery, but there’s a surging line there, too.
“Maybe it’ll be shorter by the time we’re finished with dinner,” I say.
“Grr,” says Joy. “I’m getting hangry, so call me on my bullshit if I bullshit.”
“Easy, wild beastie,” I say. “They said half an hour.”
The only thing to do is get a couple of sodas and stand around a cocktail table shaped like a barrel with a cheese logo stamped onto its side. Joy sips fiercely. I wrap an arm around her, put my straw in her drink, pretend we’re an old-tyme couple in an old-tyme soda parlor, and she softens a little bit. We even kiss a little, until we discover a family of four staring at us and stop.
“Ng, party of four?” says the thin, European-American hostess with flat eyes.
The dad from Ng Party of Four triumphantly offers the hostess his pulsating coaster, and they vanish into Cheese Barrel Grille’s neon-lit interior.
“We were here before them,” says Joy.
“Were we?” I say.
Joy stabs her ice cubes with a straw. “Definitely.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Joy practically scowls at me. “Yeah, but I know. We were.”
I rub her back. “Hey, look, we have only like ten minutes to go. You want another soda?”
Joy cocks her hip and eyes the hostess podium. “I’m gonna say something.”
“Joy, come on.”
“Not gonna sit here and just take this kind of shit.”
The hostess comes bustling back, and suddenly Joy’s there to intercept her.
“Hey, we were here before the Ngs, miss—Becky?”
“Joy, hey,” I hiss, and slit my throat with my thumb.
Joy ignores me. “Why did they get to go first?”
The hostess gives Joy a blank look. “We seat our guests based on table availability. They’re four, you’re two.”
“So can’t you just split the table?”
“We’re unfortunately unable to saw our four-tops in half,” says the hostess, and begins dabbing at her podium screen.
“Are we next?” says Joy.
“I have you ready in about ten minutes,” says the hostess. “Would you like another soda?”
“I don’t want another soda, Becky,” says Joy.
Becky freezes in midtap and just stares at Joy. Is she considering kicking us out? Because that would make this already great night even better.
I lunge forward to grab Joy. “Ten minutes is great,” I say.
Back at our barrel, Joy stews. “Way to be on my side, Frank.”
“You said to call your bullshit, so I’m calling your bullshit,” I say. “Look at these guys over here. They’re waiting like big kids. You can wait like a big kid, too.”
I nod at two toddlers jammed in a stroller with a fartphone, and I can see Joy realize how petty she’s being. She offers me a simpering look.
“You’re just hangry, okay?” I say.
“Li, party of two?” says Becky.
“Thanks, Becky,” I say.
“We had a cancellation,” says Becky, and gives Joy an eyebrow.
The bread helps. It makes the hangries go away. After a prodigious delay our food finally arrives—Joy gets her plate of I-forget-what and I get my order of it-doesn’t-matter, because it’s all truly awful anyway. Fried something atop wax pilaf next to green mini-logs in a pool of salty milk, all easy to chew. Retiree food. We don’t even bother with any of the desserts, which are insultingly huge, like some kind of gluttonous dare. We just ask for the check, and wait, and wait.
“I’m a mess without my little China girl,” sing drunken voices amid the din of the restaurant.
Three huge European-American guys—fuck it, let’s just call them white—are crooning at Joy.
Joy buries her face in her hands. “You gotta be kidding me.”
But they’re not. My heart floods. The whole world stops down to a dark halo.
I stand. “Hey. Go find a gopher hole to fuck.”
“Grasshoppa mad,” says one.
“Ah so,” says the other.
“Hai-ya waaaah,” says another, and aims a flat hand.
“I will feed your severed dicks to each other,” I shout, just as there’s a lull among the shocked diners.
The three bros become sober. “I think this prick really wants to do this,” says one.
“Sir?” says a voice. It’s Becky.
“These—assholes—are antagonizing us,” I tell her.
“I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” says Becky. “Consider the meal our treat, compliments of the house.”
“Why do we have to leave?” I shout.
“Oh, both parties have to leave,” says Becky. “I’m giving you a head start.”
“We shouldn’t have to leave in the first place,” I say. “These guys started it.”
“Frank,” groans Joy. “It’s not worth it.”
And so, to the bemusement of all the dining patrons at Cheese Barrel Grille, me and Joy walk the long walk out of the restaurant. It is a bizarre walk of shame. Because what do I have to be ashamed of?
Outside, me and Joy find a stretch of wall to lean on and regain our balance.
“It’s like the world is trying to fuck with our night,” she says.
“I think that’s a little egotistical,” I say. “The world doesn’t care that much about two specific people.”
“Jesus, Frank, just agree with me.”
“I’m joking,” I say.
“No you’re not,” says Joy, and she’s right. I’m being prickly.
“Anyway, I don’t think the forces of fate are conspiring against us,” I say, and shove off the wall. I lead Joy around a corner toward the Henry Gallery. Might as well keep going, I figure.
But when we reach the gallery, we see that the d
oors have been closed with a handwritten sign.
AT MAX CAPACITY NO FURTHER ENTRY
BY ORDER OF THE FIRE DEPARTMENT SORRY
“Huh,” I say. “Maybe I’m wrong about the forces of fate.”
I glance at Joy. She looks like she’s fighting tears.
“Hey, come on,” I say. “It’s just one bad night.”
“Out of how many, though?”
“Don’t think like that.”
“But don’t I have to?” says Joy. “I haven’t been able to see you in a month, and I’m not blaming you, you were doing what you had to do, but I’ve been waiting a month and—this—is what we get?”
“It’s just one bad night. We’ll have more nights.”
“You are not ditching your dad to see me,” says Joy. “I won’t allow it. You have to see him while you can.”
“I’ll be able to see both you and Dad.”
Joy wrings her hands. “Be realistic. We don’t have that many nights together before summer ends. That’s the reason why I’m crying like a stupid baby right now. I just realized it, just now. There’s all this bullshit pressure for the few nights we have left.”
“We can have a do-over.”
“When, Frank? Next couple of weeks? A month? And that’s if we can find a spare sliver of time to sneak out in, and also if Q can fucking chaperone us?”
I approach, then gingerly touch her shoulders before bringing her in for a hug. “It does put a lot of pressure on us, you’re right. But I promise next time will be more fun. We can make it fun.”
“Summers of love are supposed to be carefree and la la la lovey dovey skipping in a meadow, not sneaking around to keep your parents from going to war with each other,” says Joy. She wipes her eyes. “I must look like someone just died.”
“Not yet, anyway,” I find myself saying.
And a strange spell must have befallen me, because now Joy is carefully kissing my face all over. “Oh yubs,” she’s saying. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Buzz-buzz. When I look, there are messages waiting for me, all from Q.
I’m back at the Consta.
Ready when you are.