Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  I stared at Harold. He blinked back at me.

  Don’t mind him, said Mary, boxing her husband on the shoulder.

  Harold doesn’t talk too much, she said. Unless he’s got something stupid to say.

  Sounds like a good policy, I said.

  It is, said Harold. Gives you plenty of time to listen.

  And it is time for you to listen, said Mary. Lord knows I’ve heard you out for long enough.

  You ought to give people with sense the chance to speak, said Mary, winking at me.

  * * *

  I’d found the apartment online. The real estate agent was this whitechick in a sundress. Her agency was based in Katy, but they’d started snatching up property in East End, flipping shit over and brushing it off and tossing it back on the market. It was her second week on the job. She kept fiddling with her wedding ring. She told me the place may have looked like a dump, but the neighborhood was changing. This was the cheapest I’d ever rent around Wheeler again.

  The apartment’s walls were tattered. The fan looked busted. The floors were wood, but the wood looked discolored and chipped from room to room.

  I said it was spacious for the price.

  No kidding, said the Realtor.

  She asked if I had a wife or kids, and I shook my head at all of it.

  Then you can build the nest, she said.

  This is a hell of a tree, I said.

  It’ll grow on you, said the Realtor. If I had this space to myself, I don’t know what I’d do.

  There’s still time for you to grab it.

  That’d be nice, said the Realtor, grinning.

  But look, she said, trust me. Honestly. It’s a deal. Might not look like one now, but this area’s the next big thing.

  Next big thing or not, I needed a place. I’d just finished a long, messy thing with another guy. It’d take too long to explain. But he’d become something like a roommate with benefits, and he’d actually gotten a new live-in boyfriend, this motherfucker who was always side-eyeing me, and I needed a new situation, so I signed a lease that afternoon and it turned out the newbie Realtor was right: that apartment really was the last deal the neighborhood gave.

  Afterward, every spot on the block went to frat kids and professors. The neighborhood’s palette changed overnight. The Third Ward was rewired.

  * * *

  My phone pinged just past midnight.

  It was Ben. He was online.

  don’t worry about it, he wrote. i don’t drink often

  GOOD FOR YOU, I wrote. YOU’LL PROBABLY LIVE LONGER

  if you say so

  LET’S HOPE SO

  i’ll do that

  And then we hit radio silence. We’d reached the stage where one of us needed to give the conversation a boost.

  I’M MIKE, I wrote.

  i know, wrote Benson.

  ?

  you know Ximena?

  I DO

  she told me. we talked about that

  SORRY, GO FIGURE

  And then, more silence.

  And then, on a whim, I wrote: YOU WANNA GRAB A BEER SOMETIME?

  * * *

  Another few minutes passed.

  I counted the cracks on the ceiling.

  Ten minutes later, Ben wrote:

  ur very forward

  IT’S WHERE I WAS HEADED ANYWAYS, I wrote. WHY WASTE TIME

  To which Ben replied, immediately, i’m not really into hookups anymore

  I wrote, THIS IS JUST BEER WE’RE TALKING ABOUT

  And then, as if those were the magic words, Benson blipped offline.

  * * *

  The next morning, I had a message:

  sounds good, he wrote. u know a place?

  * * *

  • • •

  All of Eiju’s patrons had a story. There was always some convoluted mishmash for how they ended up in the bar.

  * * *

  One night, Hana stumbled in after a breakup. She’d been distraught. On her way out, she ran into a stool, fucked up beyond reproach. And that’s how she met Mieko, who was also drinking away the end of a relationship—but the difference was that she was celebrating. They came back into the bar and toasted each other. Afterward, the two were fucking inseparable.

  * * *

  One night, in the middle of June, Sana met Takeshi at the bar. And then Takeshi met Hiro. And then Hiro met Sana. A few weeks later, they figured out that they all worked in the same building.

  * * *

  Natsue was a childhood friend of Eiju’s—she’d known him since grade school. Knew him before he married my mother, before he’d even heard of Ma. After he’d told her they were getting hitched, Natsue told Eiju she was happy for his happiness but warned him that living in Tokyo wasn’t for him, and neither was marriage. Not that he was hearing it. Eiju called Natsue jealous. He told her to fuck off, and it was the last conversation they’d have before Eiju came back to Japan thirteen years later—but Natsue was the first person he’d looked up when he landed; he spent that first night in Kansai on the sofa in her older brother’s living room.

  * * *

  One night, I was shelving beer behind the register when Natsue asked what I had going on in my life.

  Hayato sat next to her, sipping from his wife’s glass. Eiju’d stepped out to the convenience store. Kunihiko and I held down the fort. Takeshi and Hiro laughed at some too-quiet joke, trying to rope Kunihiko into their conversation—and I realized that, for them, this scene was something like normal. For them, it must’ve felt like home.

  I’m just passing through, I said.

  We’re all just passing through, said Hiro.

  That’s the gaaaaaaaame of liiiiiiiiiiiife, said Takeshi.

  Stop that, said Natsue.

  And then to me, she said, You’re here for Eiju-kun, aren’t you?

  I blinked at her.

  I mean for support, said Natsue.

  You could say that, I said. He’s getting older.

  He’s not too old, said Natsue, but it’s nice to see that he’s got someone.

  That’s when a look passed between us. I wasn’t entirely sure what’d been exchanged.

  Hey, said Hayato, you’ve got someone.

  And I’ve got someone, said Takeshi, grabbing at Kunihiko, who flinched.

  Sure, I said, and I went right back to shelving.

  But when I looked up again, Natsue was still staring.

  Seriously, she said. It means something.

  Wait until you’re our age, she said. See who’s still around.

  * * *

  • • •

  Eiju’s doctor dropped by every couple of days. The first time I met him, it was too early in the morning. I heard this rapping on the door, and I opened it dazed, shirtless, not even thinking about it.

  The man actually gasped.

  Oh, he said. Sorry.

  Wait, I said.

  I’ll come back, he said. Didn’t mean to interrupt.

  Get the fuck out of the way, said Eiju, pushing past me.

  And put some fucking clothes on, he said. You’re not in fucking Texas anymore.

  * * *

  The doctor, Ryutaro, used to be a regular at my father’s bar. He’d been fighting depression for years. His wife and daughter died in a car accident.

  A truck T-boned their taxi. They’d caught the cab during a train delay. Hours beforehand, Ryutaro had berated the two of them for showing up late to a hospital function.

  In the days after the accident, my father kept Ryutaro company, and, eventually, the doctor cut down on the drinking. He returned to his practice. They welcomed him back. Ryutaro regained the roster of patients he’d built up pretty quickly, and he still visited Eiju’s bar from time to time, but now he only drank water.

&
nbsp; Once Eiju’d made the decision to give up cancer treatment, Ryutaro was the second person he told.

  My mother was the first.

  * * *

  After they spoke outside, Eiju led Ryutaro back through the living room. The doctor took his blood pressure and his temperature and his pulse. I watched from the futon, in a tank top and Eiju’s shorts. The heater blew warm air above us, and when Ryutaro brought up Eiju’s medication, my father burped.

  You know I’m done with all that, said Eiju.

  I know, said Ryutaro, but I still have to ask. Are you seeing a difference in your daily pain?

  Just the usual. Shortness of breath. Funniness in my gut.

  The wheezing, I added, from the sofa.

  Both men turned toward me.

  He collapsed the other day, I said. At the bar.

  I tripped, said Eiju.

  Over nothing? I said.

  Mind your business, boy, said Eiju.

  Eiju-san, said Ryutaro, and it was the gruffest I’d heard anyone talk to my father since landing in Japan.

  But then the doctor smiled.

  That information gives us a sense of scale, he said.

  Look, said Eiju, it’s all the same at this point.

  Not necessarily, said Ryutaro.

  Bullshit.

  It’s all data. We take what we know, and—

  Then you can fix me? said Eiju. Is that what you’re saying? This will help you do that?

  Well, said Ryutaro.

  Then it’s nothing, said Eiju, tugging his arm from the blood pressure cuff’s sleeve.

  * * *

  Just like that, the checkup was over.

  Eiju thanked Ryutaro, and Ryutaro waved him away. The old man shoved past me on his way to the bathroom, and when I heard him lock the door, I ran down the steps to chase down his doctor, and the woman living below us shouted something as I passed her.

  But Ryutaro had only made it up the road. He fumbled with a pack of cigarettes.

  Mike, he said, smiling.

  I’m his son, I said.

  Okay, said Ryutaro.

  His biological son, I said.

  Oh, said Ryutaro, smoking.

  We stepped into an alley by the building, allowing the flow of traffic to pass us. The doctor told me to just call him Taro. He took a slow drag, waving his pack my way.

  You have your father’s ears, said Taro.

  Most people say they’re my mother’s.

  I’ve never had the pleasure, but I’m sure that she’s lovely.

  That’s what people say until they actually meet her.

  But, Mike, said Taro, you only get one mother.

  Look, I said. How is Eiju actually doing? Really?

  Taro exhaled smoke toward the road. We watched some girls skip rope by a shopfront. When they turned toward the man sitting on the ledge beside them, he worked his cheeks into a smile. It disappeared when they turned back around.

  If you flew all the way here, said Taro, then you must have a general idea of where things stand.

  He won’t tell me much, I said.

  Sure. Your father’s a strong man.

  But he’s just a man.

  He’s only a man, said Taro. How long do you plan on staying?

  However long it takes, I said, surprising myself.

  Good, said Taro, nodding. That’s going to mean a lot to him.

  We watched the dude by the storefront stand, clapping his hands. The girls in front of him protested, pouting. But they each grabbed one of his wrists, disappearing around the corner.

  * * *

  • • •

  The first time Ben made it to my apartment, he looked around my yard, with its sloping trees, and its half-cracked sidewalks, and the Black people out and about, with the chopped and screwed mixtapes rattling everyone’s car windows rolling by, and my other neighbors blasting cumbia from their windows, in competition, maybe, or some sort of fucking concert, some kind of impromptu fucking southwestern ensemble, and when Ben saw all of this, the first thing he did was laugh.

  He watched my hands when I spoke. His posture mimicked mine. He’d stare at my mouth, reading my lips, like he was looking for the meaning underlying my words. Then he’d sit in silence, nodding along.

  Whenever he actually disagreed with something, he’d just smile. Whenever he agreed, he’d nod once, vigorously.

  He was stupefyingly shy.

  He was the fucking worst to figure out.

  But I wanted to figure him out.

  Mary watched us from her porch. I waved. She waved back.

  You know her? said Ben.

  She’s a friend, I said. She’s my neighbor.

  It’d taken three dates to get him back to my place. Ben lived in Katy with his father. He’d drive right back after we closed our tabs. I’d told him that the trip wasn’t worth it, that I really didn’t mind if he slept over, but Ben wasn’t hearing that: he was a guy, I learned early on, who considered shit five times before he committed, before he made a move. And, even then, he was shaky.

  We sat on my sofa. I made us both sencha. I slipped a little bourbon in mine, and when I waved the bottle his way, he winced.

  So, I said, who are you?

  I should be asking you that, said Ben. I clearly don’t know.

  How so?

  I mean, you live in this neighborhood. The Third Ward.

  Not what you expected.

  I don’t think anyone would’ve expected it.

  Because I’m Asian, I said, and Ben smiled.

  Because you aren’t Black, he said.

  So I’m not allowed to live here?

  I didn’t say that.

  But, said Ben, this isn’t a part of town that historically takes well to outsiders.

  History changes, I said. It adapts.

  In the best-case scenarios, said Ben. And this isn’t a best-case country.

  We sipped at our mugs. Benson took the silence to consider the living room. It was mostly bare, expect for the kitchen—I owned a TV and a rug and a table with a photo of Ma. I kept a tatami mat around the corner. There were a few candles, but I’d burnt down their wicks.

  So what brought you here? said Ben.

  I stopped fucking the guy I was fucking and I needed a place to live. This one was cheap.

  Sounds thorough and well-thought-out.

  I thought it was romantic.

  I didn’t say it wasn’t.

  The Third Ward’s as nice a neighborhood as any, I said. But it’s changing.

  You say that like it’s a bad thing, said Ben.

  You think it’s a good thing?

  I think it’s complicated.

  The neighbors beside us turned their music a little louder. The chattering Spanish gelled into a ballad. Selena’s croon settled over the neighborhood’s cacophony, flattening all of that shit, swallowing every other sound entirely.

  So what do you think is going to happen here, said Ben.

  Are we still talking about the neighborhood?

  That’s up to you.

  Then it’s anybody’s guess, I said, and I set a hand on his knee.

  Ben watched my fingers. We both inhaled. And before I could take my hand back, he laced his hand over my knuckles. When I looked up, he’d started toward my face, so I let him kiss me, and then I was on my back. He slipped his hands under my shirt, squeezing, while mine slipped under his. When we were both topless, suddenly, he sat up to consider me.

  This always happened. There was the person I was with my clothes on, and then the other guy. I never worried about my weight until I was just about to fuck someone, and then it hit me in the face, all of a sudden and out of nowhere. One time, I’d made it back to a guy’s place, and in the middle of kissing the moth
erfucker he looked up and laughed. Another time, some guy grabbed my belly, squeezing my waist, until I put my hands on his shoulders and asked if we had a fucking problem.

  But Benson just stared. He wasn’t an athlete or anything, but we weren’t the same.

  We can hit the lights if you want, I said.

  Why the hell would I do that, he said.

  I’m just admiring you, he said, and for the first time, I think, I reconsidered him.

  Ben straddled my waist, laying his body on mine, and then he just stayed there, grinding, and I wrapped my arms around him. I felt underneath his jeans, grabbing at his ass, and Benson slipped his hands inside my boxers, squeezing, and I settled under his grip. Eventually he worked a few fingers inside me, and I maneuvered to let him do that, with my legs on his shoulders, until I was looking right up at him.

  I took longer than I would’ve liked. Hit my head on the sofa’s shoulder.

  When I reached for the zipper of his jeans, Ben blocked me with his palms.

  You don’t want to? I said.

  I’m good, said Ben.

  Sure. But I want to make you feel great.

  I’m poz, Mike, said Ben.

  He turned his face away when he said it. Ben’s entire body stiffened, flattening against me. Wouldn’t even meet my eyes.

  Okay, I said.

  I should’ve told you earlier. I’m sorry.

  Don’t be sorry.

  I should’ve said something.

  Maybe.

  No, I should’ve.

  Whatever. I get it. But listen. I want to make you feel good.

  At that, Ben looked up. He met my eyes, with his chin on my stomach. The expression on his face looked a little like a grin, and a little like a smirk, and a little like he’d just been stumped.

  And, the thing is, I really didn’t care about his status. I didn’t not care, but it just wasn’t a thing that I could’ve possibly minded. This was just another thing about him.