Prayer Naked

I got back from the tour. Rhode Island, Virginia, then a long trek across country to Seattle, and then back home to LA for a show at USC. Fucked a few times, drank a lot, and did my best to become the vessel of a God-honest story. So that some silly fucking youngsters living in some forsaken place in the middle of nowhere America could feel some sort of hope. Some dumb ass Asian-American kid who didn’t know who they were could feel some sort of identity because it was my face that walked out of that airplane.

They loved the fact we came from Los Angeles. From Hollywood. They thought we were stars just because of the addresses on our drivers licenses. Poor stupid fucks didn’t realize we were just as lost as they were. We just were able to put it down in a poem or be self-centered enough to talk about it in public.

Three whole years I toured, performing at theatres, colleges, conferences, whatever, getting stipends, staying in hotels I didn’t pay for, eating meals they footed. I kind of felt like a star or a celebrity of some sorts, just because they acted like I was.

Really though, it was pretty retarded. I’d talk about how I worked at a strip club, how much money I would steal from the company, how much alcohol I’d consumed in just three months, and how many combinations of drugs I’ve tried just to see what dying felt like. And they ate it up. They loved it. They drowned themselves in my stories, thinking all of it to be some Hollywood script. They got drunk themselves off of the fantastical, the outlandish, the insane stories I would regale. They fell in love with the stories about my father.

Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…

On the way home from the tour, my family called me to tell me he had an aneurysm, and that I should come home as soon as I could. Instead, I told a story about him to a few thousand people while he was having surgery.

When I got home, my sister berated me for not coming home sooner. “He’s your dad. You should be at the hospital.” She said.

“I know he’s my dad. I look like him.” I said, luggage still in my hands. “You’re there already.”

I could feel disappointment through the phone. “What time are you going to visit him?” She asked, patronizing.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably see him when he gets home.” I said, still holding my luggage.

“Mom’s going to need you there.” She said. No tears. Just judgment.

“Look, what do you want from me?” I asked. “I’ll be there when they get home. You’re not going to be the one taking care of them. I will. So you go to the hospital now. I’ll take car of it when they…” She hung up.

I slammed the phone. It broke.

I stood there, in the dark. I hadn’t even closed the door to my apartment yet. I hadn’t even turned the lights on yet. I hadn’t even done anything yet. The first thing I did, was call my sister to see if my father was still alive.

He was. The surgery worked. It was a success. The doctors didn’t poke the wrong synapse and turn him into a vegetable. As far as I knew, he still had all of his memories. He was fine. I hoped.

Immediately, a guilt washed over me like a hard water cold waterfall. Daring me to rebuke the possibility of me being a bad son. One that was selfish and self-centered. One that pretended to care but was more afraid of proving. I ended up crying. Alone. In my apartment. In the dark.

I dropped to my knees. The tears hit my hands. I couldn’t see anything except the explosions inside my eyes. The milky light from the back of my lids, shut tight, hurting. My face was a crumpled mess. My neck had no strength. My shoulders sunk to my waist. I was the weakest thing that night.

“God…” I heard myself say. “Don’t let him die…”