Afterparties

by Anthony Veasna So

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Monk D asked, breaking our silence. I told him I did have a girlfriend. “Why you staying here if you have a girlfriend?” he responded.

  “Because I’m supposed to be here,” I said. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m here because I want to be here.” He stood up and brushed the dirt off his robes. Then he went back inside the temple.

  I jogged around the backyard after Monk D left. I counted my laps by having the cross-eyed Buddha work as my marker. It was probably the jogging that wiped me out, but every time I counted a lap, I swore passing the Buddha by was draining my energy. Like it was haunted and a ghost was sapping the life from me. It would’ve made more sense if the statue guy had never added extra muscles, if the Buddha was just a regular fat Buddha.

  Times Pou calls my dad a shit, around 5 a day

  Times Pou talks about mom, hardly ever but sometimes

  Times Pou calls my dad a shit while drinking low-calorie beer, too many to count

  Times I agree with Pou, usually I think

  When I woke up, the Cha said to meet him in his office after lunch. I found myself rushing through my chores. I think I swept even more dust into the smaller prayer rooms. I hoped the Cha would finally teach me some ritual I needed to complete. Something that would help Dad’s spirit not be restless. Something that would guarantee him a peaceful new life, anything nicer than the shitshow that was his last one.

  The Cha’s office was smaller than I’d expected, the size of a supply closet. I couldn’t imagine how the Cha had gotten his desk through the doorway. Monk A and the Cha sat on the same side, on mismatched folding chairs. They crammed against each other so closely their arms touched. There was no chair for me. I think Monk A had taken the chair that was supposed to be on my side of the desk. I felt awkward there in front of them.

  “Rithy, how are you doing?” the Cha asked, and Monk A nodded.

  “I’m fine,” I said. For a second I considered squatting to their level. I wasn’t sure how to position myself. Now I’m pretty sure that looking down at a monk counts as being disrespectful.

  “We want to check on you,” the Cha said. He shuffled through a stack of papers. On his desk were a bunch of Pou’s dirty notepads. “Make sure you’re doing good.” This time Monk A didn’t nod.

  “That’s it?” I blurted, and both Monk A’s nostrils got wider.

  “Boy, you better watch your tone,” the Cha said, lifting his head from his papers. “You have something you wanna say?” he asked while squinting at me.

  “I mean . . . I’ve been here for three days and all I do is clean.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “Aren’t there more important tasks I need to complete?” I answered.

  “Being here is fine,” he replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I thought I’m supposed to be worrying?” I said. “Isn’t that the point, to worry about my dad’s spirit?” My voice rose and I stressed my words by waving my arms. It just happened. I couldn’t help it.

  Then Monk A scolded me in Khmer. He told me to calm down in a hard, intimidating way, but I was on a roll.

  “Why am I here if it’s not directly helping my dad?” I continued. “How is me just being at the wat helping anyone, except you guys, who get to do less chores for a week?” My hands pointed in the direction of Monk A, and this made him mad. He yelled at me in Khmer for a long time, louder than I’d ever known him to speak. Louder than when he addresses an audience at weddings and funerals. He spoke so fast his words blurred together and my head hurt because I couldn’t translate at his pace.

  “Please,” I said, interrupting Monk A. “I need some air.” Without waiting for a response, I left the Cha’s office and went outside, knowing I’d come across as rude. I paced back and forth. I was tired of Monk A and the Cha acting like they were helping. And I was tired of feeling fuzzy, about the temple, about everything I did.

  The other monks stared from across the courtyard, smoking in silence. It was like they had never moved from those spots. Like they did nothing but kill themselves with cigs.

  Rooms I’ve swept at the temple so far, 5

  Total push-ups I’ve done at the temple so far, at least 300

  Hours I work a week, 60

  Total cigs I’ve smoked with the monks so far, at least a whole pack

  Little cousins I drive to and pick up from school, 4

  How much I owe people outside the temple, too much to think about

  The Cha told my uncle about our interaction. He called me into his office again and it reminded me of that time I got sent to the vice-principal’s in high school. I’d missed too much class and some other shit. I got tagged in the records as truant. He didn’t know that sometimes I skipped sixth and seventh period to make money and help Pou pay his doctor bills. That was a rough time, when Pou’s spine got fucked and he took a break from fixing cars ten hours a day.

  Monk A wasn’t in the room, only the Cha, but the spare chair had stayed on the Cha’s side of the desk. I figured that was intentional on his part. After a moment, the Cha pointed at the phone lying sideways on his desk. I had to lean forward because it was old school, with a cord and everything, and right when I lifted its speaker to my ear, Pou screaming “What kind of crap are you pulling?” nearly knocked me over.

  “Jesus,” I said, then felt weird for saying Jesus in the temple. “Pou, why are you so mad? I’m just trying to complete a good bon.”

  Pou snorted. “I don’t give a damn about your father’s bon.”

  I looked at the Cha’s blank expression. I wondered if he also didn’t give a damn.

  Pou went on: “But you wanted to do the wat, so you need do it right. Don’t make me look bad. If a monk wants to lecture you, hell, if he wants to slap the stupid out your skull, you better stay put and take it.”

  “I am trying to do the wat right,” I said. “All I want is some guidance.”

  “Look, traditions don’t gotta be logical,” Pou said, sounding more exhausted than mad but still pretty mad. “What do you expect? We aren’t home, so why the hell would anything make sense. Now stop doing all this thinking and do what you’re told.” I wanted to ask how I could do what I’m told when no one was telling me shit, but then Pou added, “Don’t forget, you have to help with the roof. You better not forget when you get back.” That was the last comment he said before hanging up. Later, Monk A doubled my daily chores for the rest of my week here.

  So now I am sweeping the whole building. I am supposed to be learning a lesson, which is not to ignore a yelling monk, I guess. Honestly, I thought about leaving the wat, calling Maly to pick me up, but I can’t face Pou, not without patching things up with Monk A and the Cha.

  Monk D approaches me while I’m cleaning the big prayer room. He puts his hand on my shoulder. It almost seems like he wants to hug me. But he only points at the speakers. “You hear that?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer, “it’s some praying song.”

  “Focus,” he says, raising his finger a little higher.

  I close my eyes to catch the music. I listen for a bit, following the beat. Then it hits me. “It’s a cover of ‘Hey Jude,’” I say before laughing.

  Monk D nods, smiles at me, and walks away.

  Doing the rest of my chores, I think about what Pou told me, about us not being home. If I had to choose, I guess anywhere Maly’s living would be my home. Though we’ll probably break up when I leave for the army. She’s not the type to wait around for a guy, and I don’t need her to be. I didn’t enlist because I want more pressure. That’s the opposite of what I want. Funny, I’ve lived here, in this city, my entire life, but I wouldn’t really call it my home.

  Years Maly and I have been together, since we were 18, so 2

  Times Maly broke up with me, 4

  Times I broke up with Maly, 2

  How often Maly goes down on me, usually but never after I work out />
  How often I go down on Maly, sometimes but maybe not enough

  How long our sex lasts, an entire episode of The Simpsons, so 22 minutes

  How often we have sex while high, we never have sex not high

  The monk’s early bedtime really isn’t going well for me. Even though I was exhausted from the double amount of chores, I couldn’t fall asleep that fourth night. I found the joint I hid in my room and twirled it in my fingers. For a good hour I considered lighting it up, right on my mat.

  I’d tucked the joint into my shoe before coming here. It’s what I used to do in school, because sometimes I toked up during fifth period, behind the boys’ locker room. Sometimes I got stressed. It’s pretty gross to hit a joint that has touched my feet. But it gets the job done. Smoking weed would’ve knocked me out. But I’m trying to kick the habit. Can’t depend on grass to sleep in the future. Plus, I’m saving the joint for my last night, when Dad’s bon is complete.

  I figured staying at the wat would help me get away from weed, at least for a bit. My crew didn’t understand. Because I have some time before leaving, before my basic combat training, they told me I should be as high as possible, all day every day. “The shit isn’t addictive,” they said. “What’s the problem?” They think I enlisted to make myself miserable.

  For a while, I saw Dad only when he scored weed from me. He called using a different number every time we set up a deal, and I never told anyone about seeing him. Pou would flip his shit, even now that Dad is dead. Pou always swore he’d kick Dad’s ass for bailing after Mom died. But I have to give him one thing, really. Dad kept my cell number memorized, all through those last few years.

  We usually met at the donut shop not owned by Cambos, as Dad always wanted to be discreet. He’d try to make the whole deal seem like a regular family breakfast. He’d buy me coffee and whatnot, make a point of remembering I like crullers. He’d ask me questions about my life. We never talked about his stuff. I knew neither of us cared to hash that out sitting in Happy Donuts. I half think he wasn’t that into weed. I mean, the guy was shooting up every weekend. But maybe he needed the extra motivation to talk to me while sober. I bet he sometimes just wanted to feel normal for twenty minutes, or thought he did at least. He’d forget who he was sometimes, I bet, and then convince himself to see his son and eat donuts. And then, afterward, when he remembered himself again, he’d smoke weed on top of the junk, because maybe his normal felt that bad? If his normal hadn’t been terrible, why else did he end up the way he did?

  Once I almost brought Maly to meet him. It was Dad’s idea. He said he’d make sure Maly, as the old Cambos say, wasn’t a woman who carried a basket with holes. I was about to text Maly about it and everything. I wanted Dad to see me with a girlfriend, because he would actually understand that. It wouldn’t register as nothing, like everything else I told him. But I knew Maly might try to defend me, start yelling at him for not being around. I didn’t want that. He’d been through so much, I still feel like I owe him. The guy had endured genocide to get me here. The guy had lost his wife. He deserved a break, even from being my dad.

  THINGS I WILL MISS WHEN I’M SHIPPED OFF

  Having sex with Maly

  Maly, in general

  Smoking weed with the crew

  Watching kung fu movies

  Cambodian food

  Being able to decide things for myself

  Today Monk D and I ate dinner together. Then, when it got dark, we walked into the field behind the temple. Empty Coke cans and plastic bags crinkled under our steps. Trash litters the dead grass, practically the whole field, even though New Year’s was in April and now it’s winter.

  “You know,” I said, “I used to think it was cool the monks lived outside the city. Like it made them gangster or something.” I lit a cig from a pack Monk B had given me. “But now I think it’s sad. I guess the city decided there’s no space for the wat.”

  “Everything’s sad. That’s how it goes,” Monk D said. He put a cig in his mouth, but then the lighter didn’t work because of the wind. He signaled for me to help. Our faces leaned into each other. Our cigs touched and lit up.

  “That’s messed up,” I said, stepping back and looking around. The last time I’d stood in the middle of the field, I talked to an army recruiter. It wasn’t the first time recruiters tabled at Cambodian New Year, but it was the first time I saw an Asian guy doing it. I recognized him as some Hmong dude who’d been a few years ahead of me in school. He was smiling in his uniform, ignoring the mean-mugging looks from the Cambo grandpas, who hate Hmong people for no legit reason. We started talking and he asked me how life had been. I didn’t tell him I was working two shit jobs, that I’d dropped out of my first semester of community college. I shrugged, and then said, “Eh.” He told me he “got it,” before handing me a stack of army literature. A week later, I flipped through the pamphlets. I liked how organized the headings and subheadings and bullet points were. They could detail every second of a guy’s future, I thought.

  “Do you have a picture of your girlfriend?” Monk D asked me out of nowhere.

  “I don’t carry pictures of my girlfriend in my monk robes,” I answered.

  “Explain her to me then,” Monk D said.

  “Lemme finish this smoke.” I glanced at the temple. All the lights were turned off, so it looked like a giant black blob. It seemed weird that people went there for answers, peace, or anything really. I thought about Maly’s body. My hands cupping her breasts as she got on top of me, the way she always did. Feeling myself inside of her, and herself surrounding me. How warm that made me feel. Breathing in her smell. I could feel a hard-on growing under my robes. I didn’t feel embarrassed though. It was dark out. And I felt comfortable around Monk D, like he wouldn’t mind.

  I finished my cig and threw the butt into a patch of dirt. I described Maly to him. Basic stuff. How tall she was, the color of her hair. Monk D told me to stop. “No, no, explain how she is in the world,” he said, waving his hand so that his cig made spirals in the air.

  I started explaining Maly, which parts stick out to me, the things I will never understand yet will always appreciate. His eyes were closed and his cig started to burn out. He looked happy. It feels good I had something to do with this.

  HOW I EXPLAIN MALY

  Knows exactly how to say something to make it funny

  Walks like she knows exactly where she’s going all the time, even when she has no idea

  Laughs a lot, like she sees something you don’t see, not in a mean way, more like she wants you to be in on it, too

  Super protective over people she loves, like her cousins

  Sounds smart and like she’s from around here at the same time

  My second-to-last day at the temple started normal enough. I woke up and did push-ups, then did some chores. I don’t know why, but I was turned on the entire morning, almost hard. Definitely had a chub the entire time I polished the relics in the prayer room.

  I was gonna find a place to bate in the afternoon, but at lunchtime, the Cha told everyone to gather in the garden. By the biggest statue of Buddha, the one lying on the ground like he’s chilling in bed and listening to music. We chugged the rest of our cold porridge and walked outside. Monk A was already there, standing by the Buddha’s giant feet. He had lit incense and stuck the little sticks straight into the ground. There was haze floating all around him. It made him look pretty cool and badass, to be honest, like a superhuman.

  When everyone crowded around Monk A, he called for me to stand next to him. Then the other monks sat down in the dirt. They assumed their usual prayer positions, where you tuck your legs under your ass and it feels like doing core exercises. Like planking for an hour straight, or until you start shaking. Monk A chanted a prayer and the other monks joined. I stood there like a dope with nothing to do. I looked at Monk D and he smirked at me, which made me feel better.

  When Monk A finished chanting, he placed his hands on both my shoulders. The
other monks all looked at me, too. Monk A started speaking about me, how my time here had almost ended, how my dad would be proud to see me honoring his life. Then he touched the Buddha statue’s feet and gave a long speech on the original temple the Buddha’s based on. People in Cambodia used to climb a mountain to visit this wat. They’d wash the great Buddha’s feet to bring themselves good luck. To center themselves in a correct place.

  Before I knew it the Cha was handing me a bowl of water, telling me to wash the giant feet. “Come on, do it,” he said. “This is what you asked for.” When I didn’t budge, he pushed me closer to the statue. He pointed at the wet rag inside the bowl, then at the feet. I lowered myself to the ground and made dark wet circles on the stone. I looked behind me and the monks’ heads were down. They chanted another prayer. I had an audience cheering me on, but I was still just doing chores.

  THINGS I WON’T MISS

  Doing the dishes and Pou’s laundry

  Pou talking at me about the future

  Pou talking at me about the past

  Thinking about my dad, seeing him around town

  Interacting with Monk A

  Getting random texts from fools I don’t know looking for weed

  Being forced to decide things for myself

  After I was sure the monks were asleep, I went outside again. I wanted to get high. I walked back to the giant Buddha and stared at his feet while I smoked my joint. I waited for a weed vision to come to me. I’d cleaned the Buddha’s feet to the chanting of a bunch of monks, and now the feet were supposed to become my spirit guides, unlock the secrets of the world for me, tell me about myself and Dad, grant me some out-of-body experience. Lead me someplace better, anywhere. But the feet stayed the same, and so did I. Just a big old rock and me, a regular dope getting high.

  Monk D came up to my side. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he said, taking the joint.

  I thought of asking him to explain the feet-washing ritual, but then I realized Monk A had already explained it. “It’s getting cold,” I said instead. “Let’s go to my room.” I continued to stare at the Buddha’s feet as I waited for Monk D to kill the joint. I remember thinking that the feet’s true power might be unleashed if a real monk was high. But still, nothing happened.