Bronson Gao

七月十七日

道

両親

“But yeah, he was their golden-child, their valedictorian, fuckin’ salaryman-asshole. Real Chinese-American hero, yeah. So of course I never lived up to that, in their eyes,” I say, as a long, probably pointless tangent. Some fuckin’ guy I am for that, man. “Sorry if that comes across…” How’s it supposed to come across, Gao? “I dunno, I just figured—”

“I get it,” she says. She looks at the floor, her hair shielding her eyes from me. I look over and bet they’re closed, anyways. “Me and my dad… we weren’t close, either, anyways.”

I think I can relate to having shitty parents, in some degree. It probably isn’t the same. I mean, judging by some passing observations, I’d guess it’s the opposite, between us two. Yeah, my mom is a good person, and my dad means well, but I won’t forget how it feels to spend your whole life training to be a replacement.

“It fuckin’ sucks. At least, in my case, it’s always a matter of comparison. ‘Well, your brother did this!’

“‘Your brother did that!’

“‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ Motherfucker, why can’t you? Goddammit…

“If I’m being completely transparent, I don’t… hah, miss him that much.” I feel my head bleed as this truth leaks out. God-fuckin’-dammit, man.

Now what’s she gonna think? What kinda asshole says that about their fucking brother, that who they hardly even knew? Yeah, some judge of character I am. You must’ve been right, Mom and Dad. Fuck me.

“Can I tell you… there’s something I wanna talk about. About my dad,” she says.

“Sure,” I say, glad to move on.