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LAMBPA Prose Contest Winners
the heat and wetness are
making me see things, everyday
when i walk by the isetan department
store and through the construction
walkway keeping the overhead train
construction debris from hitting pe
destrians (me) i have visions of my
father, he is on the edge of my mind,
if i close my eyes and reach past my
eyelids i can almost see him. but i’m
walking along a busy bangkok street
and at nineteen, i don’t have the bal
ance to walk with my closed, so i
imagine him instead, he is wearing
gold lame hot pants and one of the
fake skin-tight armani t-shirts which
are sold by every other street vendor,
the t-shirt is black with gold letter
ing. he’s lost the weight he put on
after he turned fifty, his whole body
shape is different, but i dismiss this
change as a minor one. he’s in my
head, he can be whoever i want him
to be.
i’m crossing the street and
walking into lumphini park, the qui
etest place inside the city and the only
place where there is a crosswalk light
which works, my father is with his
friend george. george is an ex-priest,
twice, george is wearing black
leather plants, his body is also trim,
much more visibly contoured than i
remember, his dkny t-shirt is white
with red lettering, he is the femme
in this relationship.
the one thing which bothers
me, seeing them together, is that they
are walking around clutching each
others’ asses, this is not appropriate
behavior in thailand. passengers on
the bus are careful to not touch one
another, even when the bus is packed
full of people, they are so visible as
farangs, as foreigners, their grasp of
one another is so easy, so sure.
i walk right by them, i stare
at both of them but neither of them
recognize me. i have not seen my
father for five years, i have not seen
george for six-and-a-half years, but
(My) Sensual
fieography
by tyrell haberkom
my father and i have the same eyes,
hazel with green flecks, our noses
are the same shape, definitely not-
tumed-up.
he wears a mets cap, to shield
his very bald by now (i can only imag
ine) head from the sun. the cap is
incongruous with the rest of his out
fit. i like incongruity, i wonder if his
hair is still silver underneath or if it
has turned white, i sit down in the
park, pull out the last letter i got from
my mother and realize my father is
an illusion, he is not a gay man. he
left my mother and me five years and
six days ago. he is not grabbing an
ex-priest’s ass on a busy street.
it is me who wants to be
touched, it is very damp and if any
one touched me their fingers would
stick to my body, it is me who longs
to be bumped into on the street, on
the bus, in shops, it is me who wants
to touch.
Flipping the TV channel but
ton to 26, PBS, one of the two chan
nels we actually get on our near-death
television, I yell, “Hey Louise, are
you going to watch this documentary
with me? It’s about gay men in Thai
land, Cambodia and Vietnam. It’s on
PBS.” Louise doesn’t like watching
network television, just like she won't
eat sugar. I buy fairly-traded coffee
but put sugar in it, which she sees as
self-defeating.
PBS has been doing this se
ries all spring about gay men and les
bians around the world; the programs
have been of various quality in places
where English isn’t spoken, it some
times seems like there are things the
translators are not saying. Or maybe
something is lost in the translation.
She walks into the room and
stops next to the edge of the futon-
sofa where I’m sitting. Her hand rests
briefly on my shoulder. I find that so
erotic. I spent one summer so starved
for touch, any touch. I imagined that
I could save the random bumps and
shoves I received standing on the bus
and walking on the street and could
trade them in for a hug, or a night of
sleeping in someone’s soft, flannel-
covered arms. Her soft, flannel-cov
ered arms.
“No. I think I’m going to run
to the grocery store for some man
gos.” She removes her hand.
“Mangos aren’t in season in
March. Especially in Chicago,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. But the
bodega on 63rd Street always has
them. Even in March. I want to make
mango milkshakes.”
“Okay. Whatever. Would
you take the recycling down? There’s
not any more space m our container.”
I love that Louise is buying mangos.
I can’t eat sugar because workers
aren’t paid enough to harvest and pro
cess it, but she can buy off-season
fhiit? She doesn’t forbid me to eat
ccmnorons
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