Andy Quan

DOWN TO YOUI trampled those days, a lion, believedin myself with a ferocity that has sincenever been the same. They were dayswhen self-knowing became real, a dentedbud of a tulip infused with its ownfragility and what it might reveal.I’d discovered Great Men. This latein the century, in so vast a country, sofew gay poets. On my invitation, youread for the university’s first gaypride week. The dance that night,dining tables upended, chairs stackedin corners, nervous men and womenfrom town mixed with students. I dressedin what I hoped gay men might wear. Youasked my straight friend to dance, he triednot to show how proud he was not tobe an oaf, and when it was our turn, afterodd late-eighties tracks and disco throw-backs: everything you held high and toldyourself was true. It was my first dancewith another man, my right handawkward upon your hip. You told meit was your favourite Joni Mitchell song.We glided, slow-motion skaters, on thatcafeteria’s hardwood floor, the man Iwould become blooming in the distance,pairs of men and pairs of women in ourorbit, dim lights suspended from the oldrafters above. As the days come down to you.BOWLING PIN FIREThe secret connections between Chinese fathers.Grocer, banker, mechanic, photographer, bowlingalley proprietor. Their exchanges inexact: a cartonof this season’s first mangoes, a queue-jump to settlea mortgage, a replacement muffler, professionalportraiture. Quality was scrimped only when allagreed which corners to cut. The Spanish call itenchufe—a socket when filled poured moredelicious currents of electricity. And flow it didfrom one family to another. I tried keeping trackof Father’s cronies—my map remains a crayon sketchgone amok, the wax outlines losing shape. My ownnetwork is unanchored and rootless. My friends stopat random airports, fight to pay for meals. We emailand skype. I seldom know where they live.I grew up on Valley Drive sharing space with glassfishing balls, an ox-blood Ming vase, a paintingof Dad’s childhood home, another of teen-aged mom,porcupine fish—inflated, dried, and hung from ceilings,Bill Reid prints, tiny baskets from far-flung tribes.Our names marking our bedrooms. The living roomfireplace not often used, Vancouver winters toomild. We seldom gathered there, burnt onlywood from someone’s backyard, the deconstructedframe of a neighbour’s toolshed, pinecones dipped ina crumbling chemical the texture of icing sugarwith a tint of green food colouring. They glowedemerald, then pumpkin orange, tiny bombs of light. SPITTraffic backed up on the Second Narrows Bridge, they’dclosed our lane and made us merge, I saw the car swingup beside ours. My seven-year-old mouth cried don’tlet him in. You inched forward a hand’s width, so tinya provocation to cause such honking and shouting.The moustached man, sleek and muscled, eyes narrow, leaptout, cursing, yelling, engine running. Then you werecircling each other, a dance of men. He spat on the hoodof our station wagon. You tried to match his mark, spitforming at your lips, but it was not in you to. He grabbedyour placid businessman’s wrist, pinned it against your belly.I don’t know who was trying to hit or defend, the man’s facecrayoned with rage. He saw me and let go. Swore one lasttime. We shut ourselves back in, could not speak, hissaliva still not dry, its separate bubbles like sadjewels or the eyes of an insect. I felt your shame,I, who had perhaps saved you, who had caused all this.