Laurent
I have never seen my father as an exceptionally violent man. It’s odd–there’s the popular schoolyard debate of whose father could beat whose in a fight, but I’ve never considered the question myself–I’ve never felt like I had to.1 To this day, I’ve never even seen my father run for something. He’s chill and mellow, seemingly ready to take anything as it comes.
On a dark, drizzling night, I was forced to question this particular view of my father.
It was December 2nd, 2021–A particularly rough day during a particularly rough time of my life. I still worked after school hours at a middle school up by West Harlem, and went between home, work, and NYU campus regularly.2
My days involved dealing with inconsistent, uncoordinated, and disinterested coworkers; people who sat around for a paycheck, happy to leave others to pick up their slack. On Thursdays I went from work to a class that I often fell asleep in–a class that I had a paper due for in a matter of days, along with every other end-of-semester project on my list.
I decided during class that I would remain on campus afterwards to get some work done. At an evening hour when every sensible student would be comfortably at home, outside of the dreary dark wetness of that day, I went to my commuter-student-hang-out building of choice. It was easy to find a spot that night–the building was practically empty, after all–and took out my phone to–
2021: Beebbe
Beebbe Doan checked his phone as it buzzed alight with two texts from his younger son:
Im gonna do some work on campus
Ill eat outside you dont need to make food for me
Beebbe sent his son an ok and set his phone down. Beebbe would never fault anyone for wanting to get some work done. It was very responsible of his son, in fact.3
Two or three hours after the first text, Beebbe’s phone chimed again–Life360 told him that Laurent would be home in just a minute or two. So Beebbe started cutting apples for his sons; Stephan was upstairs, Laurent would arrive home in time for the freshly prepared selection.4
The paring knife pulled along the surface of the apple, peeling skin from flesh. When both apples were bare, Laurent was still not home. The blade sliced into flesh, separating the apple into pieces and plucking the heart from it–but Laurent was still not home. Beebbe looked at the two bowls of sliced apple and narrowed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
Beebbe opened up Life360, which he rarely actually felt the need to do. Laurent’s location was still hovering around the corner of the block. Beebbe looked outside, the evening hour and the day’s rain casting everything in a shade that seemed far darker than it should have been. There was only water and bare concrete, and for a desperate, excruciating second, An was transported to another place, an older time.
In two minutes, Beebbe was ready and out the door.
Laurent’s phone was still showing up at the corner of the block. Beebbe’s vibrant red sneakers lightly picked across the sidewalk as he made his way towards his son’s last known location. The air was heavy with moisture and tension; Beebbe’s limbs dragged through the atmosphere as his eyes strained for any sign of his son. At the end of the block, he could barely make out the light from the deli on the corner spilling out into the inky darkness. Beebbe’s eyes narrowed, and his fist tightened around the object clenched within it.
As Beebbe approached the corner, the deli’s door opened, and a young man walked out with a backpack on and a black plastic bag swinging from his hand.5
Beebbe paused mid-stride as he recognized his son.
“Oh, hi dad,” Laurent said. The two came side-by-side. Beebbe wordlessly turned around, and they began walking back to the house together.
Laurent absently eyed the long metal pipe in Beebbe’s hand, but said nothing.6
“What do you have?” Beebbe asked.
“Sandwich and some popcorn. They raised the price again, it’s nine bucks. I used to be able to get one for seven at the deli by Stuy.”7
Beebbe grunted a response.
Laurent eyed the thick gardening glove that Beebbe wore, still clenched around the pipe’s haft.8 “Dad, why do you have a metal pipe?”
Beebbe hesitated for only a moment. “Life360 said you were stuck at the corner for a long time.”
Laurent cocked an eyebrow. “So you came out with a pipe? Did you think I got mugged or something?”
“I just think something don’t feel right.”
“Dad, are you serious? You came out with a pipe? You didn’t even call me first? I have my phone on me right here.” Laurent patted his pocket. “You literally saw me on Life360!”
Beebbe did not respond.
“Is my brother home?” Laurent asked.
“Yeah, he upstairs,” Beebbe said.
“So you told him you were going out, right?”
Beebbe grunted a very unconvincing grunt.
“Does he even know you came out? Did you tell him you were going out expecting a fight?” Silence stretched between them. Laurent gestured with his hands, his dinner bag rustling as his eyebrows remained raised in complete disbelief.
“No,” Beebbe finally admitted.
Laurent’s empty hand came crashing up against his own face in disbelief. “Dad, what? So you just came out by yourself expecting a fight, but you also didn’t get my brother to come with you? I feel like you should at least let him know.”
Beebbe remained silent.
“Is mom home?” Laurent asked.9
“Yes,” Beebbe said, deciding not to tell his son that Erika actually had no inkling of the half-baked pipe plan.
Laurent nodded in relief, and the two opened the front gate and headed up the steps together. If Beebbe was lucky, then Erika would be upstairs in their room, and he and Laurent could simply slink back inside undetected.
Laurent opened the door, and Beebbe saw his wife sitting at the back of the house. She called out a greeting to their son, then her eyes fell upon Beebbe.
“B, what the fuck are you doing with that thing?”10 Erika stood up from the couch with an expression that very closely mirrored their son’s expression from just a minute ago.
Laurent paused in the middle of taking off his shoes. “You didn’t tell mom either?”
Beebbe slipped his shoes off and wisely decided to answer his wife before his son. “Yo, man, he taking too long on the way home. I thought something happen.”11
“Are you dumb? You are an old man. What you think you going to do?” Erika laid into Beebbe as their son slowly made his way out of the verbal line of fire. Beebbe walked to the back of the house, pipe still in hand.
“Did you tell Gogo?”12 Erika shouted, even as Beebbe approached a normal talking distance.
“No, he did not call my brother!” Laurent poked his head out from the stairway to call out his accusation.13 “He also didn’t even call me before he came out. My phone was on!”
Erika’s eyebrows somehow came together even lower on her face, twisting it into a mask of sheer disbelief. Beebbe tried to ignore her as he walked to the back door to return the pipe and glove to their places in the backyard.14
When he returned from the backyard, Erika had reclaimed her spot on the couch. Beebbe silently sat next to her, his body stiff and rigid, trying to make up his position as inoffensive as possible. They pulled up the current C-drama they were watching. When Beebbe glanced to the side, he saw the storm brewing in his wife’s composure. As Erika pressed play, she opened her mouth to once again lecture Beebbe as they watched TV. Beebbe kept his lips sealed as his wife repeatedly questioned his decision-making, logic, and sanity into the small hours of the morning.
Laurent
I didn’t need my father to tell me this story.
I thought by not telling any of our family members about his plan, he wanted to somehow claim the heroics for himself. Somehow, on a hidden, almost immature level, I saw where he was coming from–that desire to be seen as a hero and stand up for someone or something? I’d seen it in both of us before.
That night, my mother was still lecturing my father by the time I headed to sleep. I heard her half-shouting at him on the couch, and I went to bed confused. I had never seen that side of my father before, never seen him so apparently ready to exact violence upon another person. Seeing my father with that pipe in his hand made something click. It made me recognize him as capable of violence. Not out of control by any means, but still capable of making the call to hurt someone.
At the end of the day, nothing crazy happened that night. And so the thought of my father committing violence left my mind, until around one year later.
Considering it now, though–my dad could totally beat your dad up. Maybe. Probably. Chances are, I don’t even know your dad. But still, mine would win.
I spent two-three hours each day just on my commute during that time.
I’ll give myself a nice pat on the back for this one.
For those who are unaware, preparing fruit is a classic display of unspoken love from Eastern Asian parents.
Chopped cheese with onions, pepper, lettuce, chipotle mayo. A bag of kettle corn for some sweet & savory crunch on the side.
I thought maybe a neighbor needed a pipe or something. Give me a second, I’ll get it eventually.
The deli by my high school was truly an institution for the youth. It was my first experience with New York deli culture, and I must have eaten hundreds of sandwiches from them during my time there.
A single yellow-ish glove. Very Thanos-coded.
Erika Doan. I love that woman very much, of course.
I don’t believe I had ever heard my mother sound so incredulous in my life. I don’t think I ever will again, to be honest.
“Yo, man,” is a bit of a catchphrase of my father’s. He uses it when he’s talking very casually, including when he is trying to pass something off as more casual than it really is. Like right here.
“Gogo,” pronounced kind of like “gaw gaw,” means “older brother” in Cantonese. My parents use it interchangeably with my brother’s Cantonese name when referring to him.
Sorry dad. Totally threw you under the bus.
Yes, you read that right. My father went outside and down to the backyard to get a gardening glove and metal pipe, came back up and through the house and out the front door before considering any more reasonable option–like calling my phone.