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Authors: Anthony D'Aries
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balances a young Vietnamese woman on his knee. He shouts at her over the music. She also wears a black cowboy hat, as did each of the young girls talking to the men in suits. I look back at Vanessa and Ngon clapping and singing. The black lights at the foot of the stage flash on, illuminating the white cowboy hats on the older Vietnamese waitresses, as they wipe dirty tables and stick their fingers into empty glasses.
After the arm-wrestling match between a short Vietnamese man dressed as Rocky and a stocky Irishman pretending to be Ivan Drago, Ngon asks for the check. Vanessa and I pay the bill.
I feel embarrassed, but can't say why. I don't own the saloon. I didn't choose the entertainment. I don't know for sure that the waitresses doubled as prostitutes. But I feel connected with the jumbled, distorted assortment of American pop culture that pulsed between the faux-wood tables and plastic cacti. I grew up on it. I know all the lyrics and movie quotes by heart and, though I hate to admit it, a part of me was comforted by the sights and sounds of it all. It felt similar to seeing McDonald's golden arches rising high over New England back roads, how on a long scenic drive that bright "M" elicits a mixture of guilt and ease.
We walk Ngon back to her apartment and she thanks us repeatedly.
"I hope it wasn't too much," I say.
"No," she says. "The pizza was very tasty."
She and Vanessa speak for a few minutes. They hold hands. I watch them talk, amazed by Vanessa's ability to connect with people so quickly. She has only known Ngon for a couple of days. Perhaps the hand-holding is a custom I am unfamiliar with. But then I remember a photograph from Vanessa's trip to the Philippines: Vanessa sitting on an old woman's couch, their hands clasped tightly between them.
"I feel bad," I say to Vanessa on our walk back to the hotel. "I hope I didn't offend her."
"No, not at all," Vanessa says. "She's fine. It was an experience."
"I wonder what my Dad would think of that place. This whole place. It's like walking into one giant Hard Rock Café. All the stuff that once meant something else is on display or for sale."
"It
is
weird," Vanessa says. "But what did you expect?"
"I don't know. Not this." It was quiet for a moment. "It's amazing that you and Ngon are so close already."
"She's a really smart woman," Vanessa says. "And she's been through a lot. She lost her father during the war. That's how she put it. 'I lost my father and I look for him all the time.'"
I reach over and hold her hand. She looks up at me, then gently presses her cheek to my shoulder. It makes sense now why Vanessa is so open with Ngon. The word "father" sounds different to me when Vanessa says it, as if when the word moves between her lips, it does not have the same meaning. If Vanessa happens to mention "father" in an e-mail, the word seems to glow, cast in permanent highlighter. Sometimes I feel a little uncomfortable even saying the word "father" around her. From what she's told me, her father was a loud, dominating presence: His incessant yelling from the sidelines of her soccer or basketball games, his fits when the orange juice cap wasn't twisted tight enough, or his tirades over Vanessa's hair in the shower drain. Once, knowing he'd use the shower after her, she spelled out her name with long wet hairs on the tile wall. He didn't talk to her for three days.
The night Vanessa moved away to college, he wouldn't open the door to his apartment because she was five minutes late. He yelled out through the window, but refused to see her. She left. Soon after, his body rejected a second liver transplant, and he died.
Perhaps if I met the man I'd feel differently, but each time I visit Vanessa's family, her mother and sister sitting close on the couch chatting like girlfriends, it's hard for me to imagine him in the family. I know his death is a wound, but the three women seemed to have healed, in the way a scar pulls taut the healthy skin that
After the arm-wrestling match between a short Vietnamese man dressed as Rocky and a stocky Irishman pretending to be Ivan Drago, Ngon asks for the check. Vanessa and I pay the bill.
I feel embarrassed, but can't say why. I don't own the saloon. I didn't choose the entertainment. I don't know for sure that the waitresses doubled as prostitutes. But I feel connected with the jumbled, distorted assortment of American pop culture that pulsed between the faux-wood tables and plastic cacti. I grew up on it. I know all the lyrics and movie quotes by heart and, though I hate to admit it, a part of me was comforted by the sights and sounds of it all. It felt similar to seeing McDonald's golden arches rising high over New England back roads, how on a long scenic drive that bright "M" elicits a mixture of guilt and ease.
We walk Ngon back to her apartment and she thanks us repeatedly.
"I hope it wasn't too much," I say.
"No," she says. "The pizza was very tasty."
She and Vanessa speak for a few minutes. They hold hands. I watch them talk, amazed by Vanessa's ability to connect with people so quickly. She has only known Ngon for a couple of days. Perhaps the hand-holding is a custom I am unfamiliar with. But then I remember a photograph from Vanessa's trip to the Philippines: Vanessa sitting on an old woman's couch, their hands clasped tightly between them.
"I feel bad," I say to Vanessa on our walk back to the hotel. "I hope I didn't offend her."
"No, not at all," Vanessa says. "She's fine. It was an experience."
"I wonder what my Dad would think of that place. This whole place. It's like walking into one giant Hard Rock Café. All the stuff that once meant something else is on display or for sale."
"It
is
weird," Vanessa says. "But what did you expect?"
"I don't know. Not this." It was quiet for a moment. "It's amazing that you and Ngon are so close already."
"She's a really smart woman," Vanessa says. "And she's been through a lot. She lost her father during the war. That's how she put it. 'I lost my father and I look for him all the time.'"
I reach over and hold her hand. She looks up at me, then gently presses her cheek to my shoulder. It makes sense now why Vanessa is so open with Ngon. The word "father" sounds different to me when Vanessa says it, as if when the word moves between her lips, it does not have the same meaning. If Vanessa happens to mention "father" in an e-mail, the word seems to glow, cast in permanent highlighter. Sometimes I feel a little uncomfortable even saying the word "father" around her. From what she's told me, her father was a loud, dominating presence: His incessant yelling from the sidelines of her soccer or basketball games, his fits when the orange juice cap wasn't twisted tight enough, or his tirades over Vanessa's hair in the shower drain. Once, knowing he'd use the shower after her, she spelled out her name with long wet hairs on the tile wall. He didn't talk to her for three days.
The night Vanessa moved away to college, he wouldn't open the door to his apartment because she was five minutes late. He yelled out through the window, but refused to see her. She left. Soon after, his body rejected a second liver transplant, and he died.
Perhaps if I met the man I'd feel differently, but each time I visit Vanessa's family, her mother and sister sitting close on the couch chatting like girlfriends, it's hard for me to imagine him in the family. I know his death is a wound, but the three women seemed to have healed, in the way a scar pulls taut the healthy skin that
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