Chapter 2: John

I've workedat Mulkey's auto shop since before it was legal for me to have a job. That's one of the upsides of a rural small town life. I'd come here straight after school, throw on a too big uniform that blended in with the rest of my too big clothes, and help my dad change oil while he discretely drank from a flask.

Toward the end, it was me changing the oil and fixing suspensions while my dad was laid passed out behind the tires. Even Pops Mulkey couldn't turn a blind eye to what a safety hazard my dad was—army vet or not—but when my dad eventually got fired, I begged to take his job, memories of hunger pains fresh in my mind. Pops was kind enough to employ me under my father's name until I was of legal working age.

It's because of those years of experience that I'm higher staff which means better pay, but, also, dealing with the day-to-day bullshit.

"Love," Tom calls from the front desk. It's not a term of endearment when he says it, just my surname that resulted in playground bullying and a big patch on my oil-stained work uniform that says "LOVE". Everyone else has their first name, but Pops is convinced having my last name on there makes me seem friendlier.

It's more like a cruel joke the world is playing on me. Me, who lost all the love he knew in the world at the early age of ten. Me, who still gets uncomfortable when Aaliyah casually says, "Love you". Me, who is more inclined to believe love is a chemical lapse in judgment than a lifelong commitment.

I slide out from under the Honda I've been working on and calmly make my way over to the front desk. Tom is visibly forcing a placating smile at the woman across from him. Her face is flushed in anger, hair frizzled even in the lower autumn humidity, but what worries me are her clenched fists. We'll have to call the cops if she swings, and that'll mean an early end to my shift and less pay.

I don't stick around for cops.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" I ask, letting my Southern drawl flow like honey in hopes it'll fill the gaping holes in her still cracking fa?ade.

"I came here earlier today for a simple oil change and now they're telling me I need to have the engine repaired." Her squawking voice makes my right ear ring—the side where my dad once shot a gun beside me while he was drunk.

It was a cruel reminder to both of us that no matter how badly he wanted to have well-meaning bonding activities, he was too drunk to ever achieve it.

"Hmm, let me pull up your file and give you the lowdown." I handle the ancient computer with one hand and work out kinks in my lower back with the other, all while keeping a pleasant smile on my face—not too big that it appears sarcastic, but not so small that she thinks I could care less.

I try not to think about how bad my body aches or how often I have to fight to keep my eyes open. Thinking about things like that doesn't make it any easier to get through the day. I work almost every day at the garage—doubles on Saturday and an afternoon stolen on Sunday—then another job on campus, and not to mention my constant studying to maintain the GPA for my miniscule scholarship, while also participating in more extracurriculars than I can handle. All in hopes I'll keep getting internships that might mean something by the time I graduate next year.

This angry Karen is just another dollar in my pocket. The longer and slower I talk, the more time I have before I have to get under a car.

Besides, judging by the Karen's nails and pristine white shoes, she can afford to pay a little of my tuition.

I peer at her incident report and think, maybe not.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you, but you waited so long for the oil change that..." I take a second to adjust my words into something that will make sense to her. "Well, it clogged up your engine and some parts aren't in working condition."

It's an expensive fix, but if she takes it to the dealership, she'll lose her warranty on the car—a brand new Jeep Wrangler with a yellow matte custom paint job. Judging on the miles it's already accumulated and the state of it, she completely missed the first oil change. It's tens of thousands of dollars that she's thrown down the drain because she couldn't care for her customized Jeep.

It makes my teeth ache with something like jealousy. I push the feeling aside like all the rest. There's no benefit in wondering why folks like her get all the money when I did nothing but work hard for a scrap of it.

"That can't be right," she complains. "Someone like you couldn't possibly understand the intricacies of newer cars like mine. It has to be a programming issue."

I'm exhausted enough to choose to believe that her slight has more to do with blue collar work than me being Black.

"I'd like to speak to your manager."

I stifle my smile and continue to massage my shoulder. "Ma'am," I say slowly, reveling in it. "I am the manager on duty."

I continue to massage my shoulder calmly as she yells at me. Profanities slip from her mouth and tears finally begin to fall when she fesses up that it's technically her daughter's car—a graduation gift. They didn't even have the foresight to check if freshmen could have cars on campus before getting it though.

Oh, to be the privileged few.

Despite my stoic expression and lack of response—I'm more concerned with the knot in my lower back than her supposed sob story—the Karen proceeds to tell me how she wasn't supposed to be driving the car at all and panicked when the oil light came on. I don't even bother nodding, only eyeballing the clock above her shoulder as I watch the time on my shift dwindle more and more.

She's full-on sobbing when the clock hits six.

"We'll have that out for you as soon as we can, but I suggest getting a ride home since it won't be done today, seeing as its closing time."

Or this week, for that matter.

I turn, leaving the woman gasping behind me and grab my stuff from our staff room. "You finish my suspension?" I ask Tom as I toss on a loose button up—it'll have to do until I get back to the dorms to shower off.

"Yeah. She seemed like a bitch."

"Don't use that word," I tell him, already clocking out.

Aaliyah's dormsmells like incense and nail polish. I add the smell of men's body wash into the already weird mix as soon as I step in. Her roommate—Keelie—gives me a patented awkward white person smile from where she's studying on her bed, bracelets jangling as she gives me a delayed wave.

I nod at her and step closer to Aaliyah's side of the room, where Aaliyah lays splayed on the floor with cardboard and paints surrounding her.

I groan at the itching feeling in my fingers—it's a compulsion at this point—and pull my Polaroid camera from my bag. I snap a picture and sit across from her, the rectangular film flapping between my fingers as familiar a sound as a tab clicking open on a beer can.

"John, you're a guy," Keelie starts.

"As far as I know," I respond, grabbing Aaliyah's notebook beside us, reading off the details about the Rally that Aaliyah has updated this weekend without me.

"What does it mean when a guy says he wants to get to know you more before he asks you out?"

Aaliyah sighs, long and drawn out, forcing a smile to crack my face.

"It means he just wants to sleep with you," I tell her, not beating around the bush. I'm still feeling shitty because of the Karen and the job and the homework and my morning spent in air-conditioned classrooms.

Keelie groans and Aaliyah and I both prepare for her typical onslaught. "Liyah, would you date me?"

Aaliyah snorts and shakes her head. "No chance. You threatened to hit your ex with a car."

Keelie holds up a finger. "Once and it wasn't like I was actually going to do it. I just wanted him to hurt the way I hurt."

I cough into my hand—hiding a laugh. "Maybe you just need to go into it knowing he's a man who can't commit. I always look for men who can't."

"Really?" she asks.

The first guy I hooked up with when I got to Duke was looking for something more. He was a khaki wearing Chinese frat boy two years ahead of me and I thought I'd picked safely. It had been more miserable than standing outside of the food bank when I was a hungry teenager. He wanted to know everything about me, keep me around, and make something out of what I thought was a one-night stand. I didn't give him anything but my body since he'd end up leaving one way or another.

Since then, it's just been quick romps with guys off Grindr, usually in their messy beds or in the back of the car. Those are worse because I'm always worried there's some poor wife at home putting the kids to bed, wondering why her husband is suddenly working so late. But I have needs too. Even if they aren't necessarily emotional.

I finally shrug at Keelie, picking up a pencil so I can start drawing the flyers we're putting up. I'm art-oriented, but when I had looked into prospective careers in the field, it was simply tabled as a hobby.

"I like men. Especially the ones I shouldn't."

Aaliyah laughs and reaches for one of my locs, tugging at the golden hoops fed through them delicately. "Did you ever hook up with that guy at the Fuqua Pride meeting?"

"Oh?" Keelie asks, always thirsty for gossip.

"That meeting dragged on, as expected from a bunch of business majors. But no," I tell Aaliyah with a scoff. "I don't shit where I eat."

Aaliyah frowns and I look away to start my sketch. She means well, I know she does, but there isn't a good way to explain that my biggest fear is opening up to someone enough that would qualify past a one-night stand. I'm afraid she'll send me to grippy sock jail if I show her even a sliver of my soul. I'm even more afraid that I'll guilt her into holding my hand through life as to not be another person who's left me. It's better to keep my fears to myself.

"John—"

"Don't start," I tell her as I finish painting a line of the Duke Chapel, where part of our rally will be.

"It's important to open yourself up to relationships," she starts anyway. "I have literally never even seen you give a guy a second look. Sure, they don't always go well, but you can always learn something from them."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, you learn a lot from the last girl you dated?"

Aaliyah frowns at this, and Keelie begs an explanation from her.

"On God, she looks at me and says, ‘you're not like other Black people.'" Aaliyah sucks her teeth in anger. "She genuinely thought it was a compliment, and I genuinely showed her the door." She glares at me, either annoyed that I brought it up, or annoyed that I'm right and not every relationship leaves you feeling like a better person.

"I'm sorry—" Keelie begins but Aaliyah raises a hand.

"Nuh-uh, don't need your pity when it's my daily struggle. I only wish I'd gotten it on recording so I could've gotten her fired from her job. Now she's out there in the world with her racist beliefs, probably doing racist things." Aaliyah sighs. "Let's move on."

In the corner of my eye, I see Keelie put in her earbuds, sensing the end of a conversation. I reach out and place my hand on Aaliyah's. She squeezes it back and mouths, "love you." At least with each other, we understand the anger and exhaustion that comes from microaggressions and blatant racism.

"I only wish back then I could own my anger," she tells me, now that Keelie can't hear. "Seriously, John. I swear you still code switch more than me."

I flash her my customer service smile, doing everything in my power to not look like a thug–which is code for Black. When I drop it, she gives me a sad look that I return. Aaliyah has often expressed to me that she feels like her life would've been easier if people didn't see her as an angry Black woman at the simplest complaint about mistreatment.

I look away from her and down to the poster, feeling like there is no break from the struggle.

When requesting that the campus put more effort into the fight for Trans Youth—and of course, all Transgender people who face their medical rights being stolen from them–it's probably a moot point. It feels like a moot point. I'm a political science major, and it feels like half of the debates I study now are either trans rights or the more silent, underhanded bills being passed while we worry about LGBTQ+ rights.

North Carolina itself bans gender affirming care for those under eighteen, despite medical research detailing the benefits of it. No puberty blockers. No voice therapy. No affirmation.

There are some students on campus under eighteen. Early achievers who skipped more grades than I even want to think about. What if they'd been looking forward to getting out of their parents' grip to finally start their transition only to be met with these new, bigoted laws?

My hands shake as I attempt another straight line of the chapel. Aaliyah reaches out and cups my hand—a mirror of my earlier comfort.

"Hey, it'll be okay. I'm sure lots of people will show up in support."

No matter how little I've given the rest of the world, Aaliyah has still been able to read me like a book.

I flash her a small smile, because I'm not as strong as Aaliyah. It's better to keep my feelings far from my heart. "You're right. It'll probably be packed," I lie.

In truth, I believe that soon the entire country will follow Missouri's suit and ban gender affirming care for some adults as well. It feels like a repeat of the Black Lives Matter protesting.

A camera will point at us, calling us brave and bold and a changed America. At first, maybe some politicians will budge or they'll throw us a bone or two—performative actions like cops kneeling and taking cops to trial—only to turn around and hit us with tear gas or rehire those fired cops in different districts.

I used to think political science was a major that could help me change the country around me, but the longer I spend looking at the news, the longer I feel like politics are too fucked.

It makes me want to shout, and scream, and burn down a building. But no one would listen and since I have nothing better to do, I continue on with the flyer that will probably end up under band flyers and ads for new roommates. If not for me, then for the trans kids who are too scared to have a voice yet.

My lips press against each other with the desire to say something. Anything. Do you think this is pointless? Do you think we're actually going to make a change? Do you think one day they'll run people like you and me out of town? But I don't because I can't.

"Okay, that's that sign done," she finally says, fanning her hand over the wet paint. "I'll bring it to the Fuqua Pride meeting on Tuesday. Unless, of course, you want to?"

I shake my head at her and show her how far I am in the flyer.

"Ugh! I'm so jealous. I've always wanted to be able to draw."

"Nah, your sign looks great," I say. "Drawing takes too long anyway. You'd be tearing out your hair by the end of it."

She pulls at a spiral tucked along with the rest of her afro. "I'm thinking of putting in braids."

"Basketball season is coming up and you'll miss blocking everyone's view," I tell her with a grin. I love basketball, I only wish I had been able to play somewhere other than the concrete courts at the end of the trailer park.

She laughs and grips my forearm. "Not if you go with me! Then it's even better because no one says anything about you being tall."

"Well, now that you've got Gonzales, he'll cover the sides too with his shoulders. Seriously, he's huge."

She smirks mischievously.

"Oh God. Stop. I do not need to know the guy's dick size," I complain.

She holds up her hand. "I won't. I won't. Promise. But just know that you're a subpar gay friend for it."

I roll my eyes. "That's homophobic."

"I'm pan," she argues.

"Fine. Gayphobic and stereotyping," I reiterate before holding up my drawing. "Your turn."

I don't like my handwriting, especially if it's going to be displayed.

"Do you ever just take a break?" Aaliyah asks when she looks up from the flyer only to see me already working on assignments. "You're like an Energizer bunny."

"I wish."

Everything I'll need to finish this paper is organized in front of me, and I put my notebook in my lap as I get started on the final few chapters.

"Do you want to borrow my laptop?" she asks.

"Nah, I'll just use mine later." I've written all my papers by hand and I've got a general idea of when I reach my word count this way. Transferring it over isn't too tedious as long as I use a computer at the public library; I never know when mine will randomly shut off from overheating.

"One day, when I'm rich, I'll buy the fanciest computer money can afford. Then, I'll never even turn it on because I'm rich and I can afford it," I tell Aaliyah wistfully, thinking back to the Jeep sitting in the shop.

"If I were rich, I'd fund your campaign to run against my dad," she responds, lying on her stomach beside me.

We sigh and think of all the things we hope the future holds. Even though I've become cynical, it's impossible to tamp out the small fire burning in my heart that longs for things to improve. One day, it'll either grow so bright that it'll obliterate everything, or it'll fizzle out as it's smothered by the world.

Isamu

It feelslike I belong on the couch after these past two days and I hate it. I've been missing my leg for long enough that I'm as used to it as I can be, but it's still a blow to my ego when I'm being knocked flat on my ass from moving into Gonzales's apartment.

It doesn't matter how much therapy I've gone through, it's still a shock every time I'm limited by my prosthesis. But I am. No matter how much I train, or work out, or rehab, or get my prosthesis adjusted, it won't ever be the same. The prosthesis isn't some sort of super-powered, high-tech upgrade like it is in the movies. It's a supplement; a tool to help replace what's been lost, but it isn't the same. My residual limb swells inside of the prosthesis and sharp phantom pains still keep me up at night. My other leg aches from overcompensation, spine tight and sore despite the hours of gait training I've put in.

Once, I carried one-hundred and twenty pounds of equipment across the desert, complaints on my tongue. Now, I'm thankful to be able to carry these boxes. Not everyone is so lucky. It took a lot of therapy and time spent wallowing. Even now, I still catch myself resentful on days like today. It's impossible to not feel some sort of resentment as I realize how limited I've become.

But my life from before is gone, filled instead with a new perspective—a new day—that I will never take for granted.

"Son," my dad says, because that's how he speaks. "Son," like we're the imperial family instead of a bunch of immigrants searching for a better life.

"What?" I respond, because that's how I speak. "What," like I'm an immigrant who chose a life with my finger on the trigger instead of being trapped behind a desk. There wasn't ever a winning choice between either capitalistic hellhole.

"We've already put your bed in the room. You can go take a nap and we can get this all finished."

I groan and look over at my dad. Gonzales is sweating from underneath a box labeled Video Games. Three flights of stairs are a lot, even for people with two legs.

"Do not worry. I am still strong," my dad supplies with a grin, flexing his lean muscles.

"Speak for yourself, Takeo. I think I've lost twenty pounds." Gonzales sets down the box and wipes his brow.

My dad smacks him across the stomach. "Don't listen to him, Isa. In just a week, he'll regain his healthy coating with all that Pozole he's been making."

I laugh, just imagining my dad trying one of Gonzales's dishes and complaining about the saturation of flavor. Just like when Gonzales first moved in with us.

He may have been a little quiet but in the kitchen, Gonzales always came alive. Something about caring for his also beaten-down sister was healing for him. After she left, Gonzales stayed in that kitchen like it was his own form of therapy. I would loiter around on the countertop until one day, he finally asked me if I'd show him some Japanese recipes. And then it became our therapy.

Gonzales has always been there for me like I've been for him. All in and one hundred percent, but I can never ignore an opportunity to pick on him.

"Hey," I start, pointing at Gonzales. "Just because your food tastes so bad you have to cover it up with chili doesn't mean we have to eat it." I smile to let him know I'm only saying it to get him riled up, but riled up he gets.

Boxes in my dad's car are long forgotten in favor of rough-housing. We end up jostling each other, dodging boxes under our feet, and I threaten to call his new girlfriend to come over and wrangle him, even though that's far from the truth.

Inu wags her tail and barks, off duty and anxiously watching the humans around her behaving so strangely. My dad sits down calmly on the couch and turns on whatever show he's been watching, knowing this is going to take a while.

Eventually, after Gonzales has given me a speech about different spices from Mexico while holding me in a headlock, I wander down to my dad's car and grab a box. When I turn around, Inu is sitting patiently beside me.

"What are you doing here, hun? You're off duty." I scratch her behind the ears.

"She is nervous because her dad will not relax. You should listen to me and rest now."

I look up at my old man who has apparently also come to investigate my comings and goings. He walks over and puts his hand around my bicep.

"We have not had a chance to really talk since you came back."

I shrug but give my dad a smile. "I mean, I just came back yesterday."

He nods as if I've told him everything. "How is your mother?"

When my mom left to take care of my grandmother, I was just starting basic training. It was weird to be so enveloped in this world of exhaustion and getting through the next drill, that I don't think I ever gave myself the room to fully understand. It wasn't until I came home and my mother wasn't there that I finally realized things had changed. I never had the heart to ask my dad if it was some sort of separation, but now that I know he's retiring to go live with her, I feel worse than I did back then somehow.

My mom took me all over Japan when I went to visit, but never once did I see my grandmother. Even if she was sick, it's not like there wasn't free health care. But maybe that's callous and selfish. Maybe I just want my parents back the way they used to be before I left—sitting around the dinner table, enjoying each other's company while all doing different things. Chopsticks in hand, I'd be watching film of our next basketball opponent while my dad poured over assignments and my mom read gardening books.

I only wish I'd known it would end. I would've looked up from the screen a little more often.

"Ma's good," I tell him. "She misses you and said she'll be sad to see the garden for the last time when she comes to help you pack."

He smiles and looks away, hopefully lost in a good memory. It may just be my own fears that surround him moving because I know they've been looking forward to being reunited since my mom left. The last time she came back was only because of my return from Afghanistan, sans leg.

"Come, Isamu. Please rest and Gonzales will bring your things up while I make us all dinner," he tells me, using his grip on my arm to herd me up the stairs.

No matter how old I've gotten, my dad always tries to take care of me. It's kind, but obnoxious.

There's only a few boxes left which is the only reason I take him up on the offer, pointing at Gonzales and saying, "since chili is so good for you, I'll let you get the rest."'

I lay down a box in the pile that takes up half the living room, then get started on my process of care for my residual limb. Gonzales finishes bringing in the boxes just as the smell of katsu fills the kitchen.

I hop over to the bar on one leg, Gonzales poking my sides in an effort to trip me up—opposing hand out to catch me just in case—and sit at one of the stools.

"Why are these so tall?" I complain as I look at my single leg dangling from the stool.

"Have you thought about being less short?" Gonzales asks.

"Jesu—" I cut myself off, realizing my mistake. "Dude, shut the fuck up," I finish lamely.

"Nah, come on. Say it," Gonzales eggs me on.

I roll my eyes as Gonzales sits beside me. My dad stays standing, preferring to eat that way so he can pace, and the plates of breaded chicken laid out before us.

We all quickly open the meal by saying the Japanese words. Even Gonzales says it—saying he prefers it over the Catholic prayer of his childhood.

"No. I can't believe I forgot." I lift a piece of chicken between my chopsticks and rub it into the Tonkatsu sauce pooled on the plate. "When I got to the military, everyone thought I was religious because I always hesitated before saying it."

"Saying what?" Gonzales asks, playing dumb.

"What did you tell them?" my dad asks.

"Told them I was living with a self-absorbed—Jesus Christ!" I shout, being cut off from my sentence as Gonzales sticks his wet finger into my ear.

"You called?" Gonzales asks, finally pleased I've said his first name.

"Stay pure for Jesus," I add, out of habit, even if I'm annoyed that he got me to use his first name.

"I feel like it shouldn't even count if we say it like Gee-zus instead of Heh-seuss," I complain, lapping at a bit of chicken stuck to the corner of my mouth that I almost spit out when Gonzales harassed me.

It falls and I reach for it, and Gonzales's hands come out to make sure I don't fall from the stool. He sees me stick it in my mouth and grimaces. I shrug, not one to waste any food after too many MREs.

Being surrounded by my family—including Inu—fills me with a sense of rightness. There were times when I was afraid I wouldn't get this again; when I was scared it would never be the same. But right now, with katsu warming our bellies and laughter in our throats, I feel like nothing has changed. At least, not yet.