10.
I called my father. We hadn’t spoken in six months, since Thanksgiving. He’d been living back in China for business the past few years, but even before then, once I’d left for college, we’d had trouble finding things to talk about.
“Hi, Winston.”
“Hey, Dad.” We spoke in Mandarin, or rather, were silent in Mandarin. “How’s business going?”
“It’s okay. Sales are a bit down, but we may acquire a new client.”
“That’s good.”
“We’ll see. How’s your job?”
“Um, it’s okay. Been, um, migrating stuff to a new system so that’s been a pain, but it’ll be good for the company.”
“I see. What about your promotion?”
“Um, I haven’t gotten it yet, but I think maybe by Q3.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
11.
Scrolling my feed on the toilet, I discovered “Despicable Me” had come out.
The video was set in a cemetery, a mall, a high school, and a skate park, places that evoked teenage angst and early 2000s nostalgia. It was shot with a fake VHS filter and Trappa wore an emo minion costume with eyeliner, black bangs, scars on his wrists, and a broken bleeding heart splattered on his black overalls. The scenes were stuff like Trappa rapping lying down in an open grave, Trappa leaning against a school locker fake playing electric guitar, Trappa skateboarding away from a fat mall cop in hot pursuit, hopping from one escalator to the other to make his escape.
He also had an entourage of backup dancers, some also dressed up as emo minions, but most of them were like, hot emo hood strippers. One minute they’d be at the skate park doing coordinated tricks, the next they’d be in the school gym twerking and dancing on stripper poles, throwing money and waving bloody knives at the screen. The worst part was when Trappa led his emo posse through the cemetery, dancing and slitting their wrists in unison, blood spraying everywhere, slo-mo close-ups of Trappa looking sad.
I dropped my phone and curled up on the floor crying. I’d been artistically raped. They’d taken something honest that came from the bottom of my heart, from my deepest pain, and twisted it into something grotesque and sleazy just to get a bunch of clicks.
Kevin rushed upstairs and burst into my room.
“Winston! You see the video?”
“Um, one sec.” I wiped my nose and got up and flushed and pulled my pants up and washed my hands and streaking makeup, then came out of the bathroom. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“So cool, right? This is a real major label music video!” He already had his phone out and we stood there and watched the whole thing.
“Yeah, um, they gave him a big budget.”
“I know, man, look at those girls!” Kevin licked his lips, then glanced up at me and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, nothing.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Um, well, it’s not exactly the vision I had for the song when I—”
“Jesus Christ, you artists, man! So picky! Be more grateful, worry about your vision next time. This is a big deal! Pop star moment!” He slapped my back and I forced a smile.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“You’ll see, this is gonna be a big hit. Then you get your own deal. Make your own hit.”
“Okay.”
Kevin scrubbed through the video to replay key moments. “I gotta show Nancy.”
“Okay.”
He rushed downstairs, his eyes glued to his phone, the song playing him down like a fanfare to hell.
Nancy called a babysitter and we all went out to dinner at some Korean barbeque place in Koreatown. The ride there I sat in the back seat, out of the loop as they conversed in Korean, a pleasant discussion punctuated by Nancy’s frightened driving suggestions. When we got there, Kevin paid a valet to park the car in a strip mall parking lot next to a 7/11 flocked by homeless people.
The place was packed and the music and lighting felt like we were walking into a club. K-Pop music videos played on big TVs, huge girl groups and boy bands dancing in sync, the waitstaff threading between tables in their own synchronous performance, keeping the meat and soju flowing into the steaming barbeque booths ringed by red leather and loud patrons.
Kevin had just ordered soju and meat for the table when Julie arrived.
“Winston! Oh my God, congratulations!”
“Thanks, Julie.” I stood up and she gave me a hug.
“You must be so excited!”
“Um, yeah, it’s a big deal.”
“It really is. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
Kevin and Nancy stood up. “Julie, this is my wife, Nancy.”
“Oh my God, so nice to finally meet you! Kevin’s told me so much about you!”
“Really? I can’t imagine why I’d have much relevance in my husband’s business discussions,” she said with a smile.
“Well, Kevin’s very personal when it comes to business,” said Julie.
“I see,” said Nancy.
“Please, take a seat,” said Kevin.
“Thank you.” She sat down and I slid over and the waiter returned and put some meat on the grill and Kevin poured us all strawberry soju.
“To ‘Despicable Me,’” he said, raising his glass.
“Yes,” said Nancy.
“To Winston,” said Julie.
“To Winston.”
We clinked glasses and drank up.
“Thanks,” I said. “But next song, I want it to be my own.”
Kevin grinned.
“We’ll see,” said Julie. “You’ve gotta pay your dues, but if this song goes well…” she squinted, sizing me up, her glass tilted at a precarious angle. “We’ll see.”
“Okay.” I took a sip.
“No, we won’t see. We already know Winston’s a hit maker. He has pop star potential. The only reason that song is Trappa’s is because you tricked us with your shady contract, which is in the past, but Winston would be climbing the charts right now, booking interviews, getting ready for his world tour. Yes, Trappa is a safe bet to test out a new writer, but your caution is only slowing Winston down, and frankly, slowing down Stellastic Records, slowing down music! You think all those legends were discovered because they put in their time as ghostwriters and catered to the algorithm? No, labels took risks back then, executives had balls, no offense, but actually yes offense. How dare you put Winston in a cage when he should be soaring across the sky! It’s okay, you’ll see, and we’ll all be able to laugh about this, but today I’m very upset.” Kevin drank the rest of his soju and poured another glass.
Julie just laughed and shook her head. “You might have the most dedicated manager I’ve ever met.”
Nancy sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
They laughed and Kevin waved the waiter over to order more bottles. Over his shoulder, the TVs were showing a Korean boy band over a dozen strong storming their record label with baseball bats, smashing windows, computers, desks, ripping up contracts, threatening executives, dunking their manager’s head in the toilet, singing about “Going independent” and “Standing up for ourselves.” All this violence was intercut with the band members, particularly the leaders, out on dates with beautiful women, “I do it all for you,” flowers, swan boats, wine, chocolate, caught in the rain, a proposal, her whole face lights up, standing on the rooftop with label executives bound and gagged, a helicopter landing to whisk the boy band away, though I wasn’t sure how they were all going to fit inside, but it cut away to love on the beach, “Anything for you, my love,” the whole band’s out there, everyone’s in love, building sandcastles, splashing in the waves. They meet a friendly old man with a metal detector and he points it at them as they serenade the world and the detector goes wild! The band and their girlfriends all hop into stretch limos, the old man gives the drivers the go ahead, and they’re off, everyone’s living it up inside. They arrive at Sing-Song Records and the old man’s already waiting for them. “Welcome home!” The band and their girls all dance past the fountain and jump in unison holding hands, freeze frame, the song ends, fade to black.
When I zoned back into the conversation, they’d slipped into Korean. Nancy and Julie seemed to be getting along great, though Kevin looked anxious beneath his smile, immersing himself in grilling as more meat arrived.
“Mm.” Kevin ripped into a chunk of pork belly.
“Mm hmm,” said Julie, chewing. “Is this your first time at Korean barbeque?” she asked me.
“No, but this place is really good!”
Kevin swallowed. “This is the best Korean barbeque in Los Angeles. Maybe even America.”
“It’s always the best for Kevin,” said Nancy.
“That’s right, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek, leaving a sauce stain. She recoiled laughing and wiped it off. Julie watched them, calm, calculating. The food really was great, but I wanted to leave. I excused myself to the bathroom. The music was quieter but higher-fidelity and I sat down in a stall for a few minutes swiping through my phone, relaxing, collecting my thoughts.
My heart jumped.
WTF IS THIS??? NEW TRAPPA SONG IS DESPICABLE!!!
A popular music YouTuber had posted a reaction video to our song. I put my phone away, flushed the toilet, and washed my hands. Two guys came in and peed at the urinals.
“Man, you see that new Trappa video?”
“Nah, he’s got a new song?”
“Yeah, bro, you gotta see it. It’s literally the worst shit I’ve ever seen.”
“For real?”
“One hundred percent, bro, it’s like—” The guy started laughing and had to hold the wall to keep his aim steady.
I dried my hands with a paper towel and hurried back to the table.
The valet pulled the car out and handed Kevin the keys. Kevin tipped him a twenty and tossed them to me.
“You’re driving.”
“Um, but it’s not my car.”
“Come on, big boy, don’t you want to drive a Tesla? You can take it as fast as you want—”
Nancy slapped his arm.
“Okay, not too fast but come on, you’re gonna love it.” Kevin and Nancy got in the back seat and I got behind the wheel. I buckled up, adjusted the seat and mirrors, then jolted the car into drive and slammed the brakes before we flew out into the road. Nancy shrieked, Kevin laughed, his arm around her.
“Sorry!”
“It’s powerful, man. Take it easy.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and edged out onto 6th Street and made the turn. We hit every red light as we crawled towards a giant cathedral sticking out amongst the gritty strip malls and geometric high rises. Bit by bit I got used to the car, then I realized I didn’t know where I was going.
“Um, which way?”
No response. I kept driving, past the cathedral and a park and a library, right into a decaying neighborhood covered in trash and tents, the sidewalks ruled by drugged out and insane homeless people, weary Latinos hustling by or standing outside of one room churches and cell phone repair shops smoking cigarettes or selling food and t-shirts and random stuff you could just find in a grocery store. I stopped at a red light and could hear a homeless woman on the corner preaching about vaccines and the true children of Israel. The light turned green and I drove deeper.
“Um, am I going the right way?”
“Huh?”
“Is this the right way?”
“Uh, let me see.” Kevin checked his phone. Outside, the police had taped off the sidewalk and EMTs were loading a body covered in yellow tarp into an ambulance. “Yeah, we’re good, just take a right on Bixel and get on the 110.”
“Okay, um, how far is that?”
“You’ve got time, I’ll let you know.” He yawned and leaned his head against the window. The streets got more crowded and I got scared someone would run into the street, but suddenly they all washed away, nothing but cars and glowing store signs. Kevin forgot to remind me about my turn but I took it anyways and got on the highway and knew to take the I-10 west and relaxed as I settled into the flow of traffic and drove us home.
I pulled into the driveway and parked. “We’re here.”
Nancy unbuckled and got out and so did I. Kevin was fast asleep, drooling and slumped like a dead paratrooper caught in the canopy. I reached for the door handle, but Nancy stopped me.
“That was her, wasn’t it?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Winston.”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. “Yes.”
Nancy spat. “Let him sleep.” She went inside and I stood there for a while, listening to the wind of cars in the distance, not sure what to do.