We return to the Cambodian donut joint we had gone to earlier hoping that Thor will be here to perform. It makes sense. It’s open mic. It’s poetry. He’s definitely in cosplay. I am so perplexed about why he stole Goldy’s notebook. My notebook. It’s got a crocheted cover, for fuckssake.
Unlike a few hours ago, the parking lot is now absolutely packed. So is the parking lot across the street at Dhaliwal Gas. Because we’re driving the ice cream truck, Mindii tells me to go past the twinkling sign for Madam M’s Marvelous Donuts and we park near a large trash receptacle at the back of a nondescript beige office building. Perfect! We bypass the blaring horns. We walk on through the main entrance this time.
All of the tables from earlier have been put away. There are seats for the audience set up all around the small stage, making it a very intimate experience.
The place is bustling. Cosplayers from across so many fandoms are sitting, standing, milling. I see Ngozi and her new pal Aisha cosplaying Naruto a couple rows back. I wave at Ngozi. She waves back.
But I’m really looking for Thor. I scan the room to no avail. There are way too many people here for me to be able to identify Resham.
“Just a heads-up,” Mindii says. “Things may get weird.” She takes out a nail file from her purse and starts filing.
“Uh . . .”
“Uncle Channthy!” Mindii yells out as he takes the stage to adjust the microphone and move the speakers. He pauses to wave.
Taped to a chair in front of the stage is a glowing neon sign that says The Hangout.
I’m mesmerized by the colorful cosplayers sitting, standing, leaning, squeezed in to narrow spaces. I don’t even recognize the fandoms, but want to take a closer look at the material and design work. From this vantage point, it just looks like a blur of spandex, armor, and feathers.
“Can you believe,” Mindii says, “that there was a time in your life you didn’t even know what a red-bean donut tasted like?”
“It’s a travesty,” I say, grinning at her. Then I frown again. “You weren’t kidding when you said this place was gonna get packed earlier.”
“I don’t joke about situations involving parking. Okay, do you see him anywhere?”
My stomach sinks. Thor the Destroyer and Stealer of Notebooks. I’m ready to confront him, to take back Goldy’s notebook. But what I really want to do is find out what else he knows about Goldy. And what the hell is so great about the poem.
One of the things that nobody ever tells you about cosplay is that it isn’t as simple as it sounds. It’s not just dressing up. There are a lot of considerations that go into the art of costume play, and the most important is balancing character integrity with your own comfort. I wore long-sleeve moleskin one time to San Diego Comic-Con in August and vowed to never do that shit again. Hence the breathable Dafydd outfit I’m wearing now. Every time I’ve been a cosplay doctor, there’s always someone who busts a heel or gets armor stuck, or tears part of the material in a most embarrassing way while attempting to use the bathroom.
A group of cosplayers make their way toward us. They’re wearing easily recognizable Starfleet uniforms from Star Trek: The Next Generation. One has curly black hair, a purple dress, another has bright red hair, a long, flowing light blue cloak.
They talk to Mindii in Hmong for a minute as they’re headed toward the stage, and she gets this weird look on her face. I may not understand what they’re saying, but I am an expert in awkward and uncomfortable situations. One of them, a dude cosplaying Data, with gelled-back brown hair and android-white greasepaint on his face, is looking at Mindii with a keen interest.
My stomach churns. Is this the boyfriend? Who am I under the circumstances?
“Do you add a special powder to keep the f-fff-ffff?” I’m standing close, almost spitting in his face. “F-foundation from smearing,” I say, exhausted from that stutter storm.
“Baby powder,” he says, leaning back a lot, eyeing me with suspicion. I look at his triangular Starfleet point and immediately want to cover my sideburns with my fake beard.
“M-may the Force be with you,” I say nervously. Data looks irritated. They all do. Shit. I know the Force is not Star Trek. I don’t stutter when I’m nervous, but apparently I do get my fandoms mixed up. Sue me. At a Star Trek convention, this would probably get me killed. Cause of death: Mixing up the fandoms.
“Nope,” I say, flustered. “Not that. May the Force not be with you is what I mean, but then why mention the Force at all,” I muse aloud, “because it doesn’t exist in Star Trek, although . . .” I gasp and take a huge breath. Let out a laugh. Data is pointedly not making eye contact with me. The girls in his group are chuckling. Instead of shutting the fuck up, I continue speaking. “Captain’s Log. Stardate . . .”
The girls crack up. Mindii doesn’t even try to stifle her laugh. It’s beautiful and loud.
Mindii puts away the nail file and I see her inhale deeply. It’s the first time I’ve seen her do that all night. Suddenly, I don’t give a shit about who this guy is. She isn’t looking at anybody the way she’s looking at me.
She reaches over and takes my hand. In front of people. She looks at them and smiles, broadly. “This is Sunny,” she says. I feel volts of energy coursing through me. Like the euphoria of waking up to the aroma of Mama’s freshly brewed masala cha.
The lights dim, we take our seats, and the troupe of Trekkies take the stage.
Data takes a seat in the center of the stage, the other members taking their places around him. It’s a poetry recital within a poetry recital. So meta. He starts by explaining the poem is in honor of his pit bull. “I call it . . .” He pauses. “An ode. To my pit bull, Sparky.” We all laugh, and the comedy of the scene builds the more seriously Data takes the poem.
It’s funny and poignant because of how Data doesn’t get human emotion and can’t read the room. This dude is fully committed to the character and the poem, while the other Star Trek cosplayers are hamming it up with how excruciating it is. He doesn’t care how boring it is. It’s hilarious. We snap our fingers with enthusiasm. It’s kind of fun and not as pretentious as I envisioned. Over the next ten minutes a series of groups and individuals cosplaying and performing as Doctor Who to Sailor Moon take the stage and they’re all fun, yet I have knots in my stomach. Where’s Thor? I still don’t see him.
It’s not just about getting my notebook back anymore. I have questions. If I had my phone I would have started compiling them already. This may be a one-shot deal.
And then the crowd shifts and I see him walk on through. The red dastaar, the beard, the Viking clothing, the hammer. Isn’t Thor supposed to be blond? What’s with the red? He’s making his way to the stage. There are a couple of other Sikhs with him. The two dudes don’t look like they’re in cosplay. They look like, well, turbaned Sikhs. The three women are also wearing turbans, but also odd maroon face coverings that are definitely not a part of Sikhi. And they’re up next.
The first Sikh is wearing a purple collared achkan flowing down, his thick black beard resting comfortably on his face, his turban a tartan parna that’s usually just worn around the house. I recognize the cosplay. Randu Singh. Super old-school. Friend of Jason Blood from a comic book from the ’80s. I used to crave any kind of media: books, comics, movies, TV shows, literally anything that featured anyone who kind of looked like me. Randu Singh was constantly rescuing Jason Blood, who, I’ll be honest, was the most boring character in the entire series.
The spotlight goes on Randu. And he starts his poem slam style.
“Ran-Do,” he says to a hushed crowd.
“Ran-Don’t,” he says, extending the vowels, pausing for effect.
“Ran-Do. Ran-Don’t. Run, D!” He puts both palms to his temples like Randu did in the comic book. It’s that racist-ass orientalist mind control shit the white writers tasked him with.
He steps back. Fingers clicking.
Next is Sadhul Singh from the same series. My eyes glare at Thor standing on the side. Part of me wants to beat his ass, but a bigger part of me wants to hear him perform his shitty poem and have everyone laugh at it because of how terrible it is. All of a sudden the three women explode into a medley of hip-hop and spoken word, tearing up the floor.
“Mera naa Gun.”
“Te menu kehnde Fist.”
“Blade naal panga,” the third says, followed by all of them rapping in unison, “will not be changa!” They stomp real loud to make it sound extra. Kind of. I guess you gotta use your imagination a little. It’s really entertaining and catchy. Meanwhile Thor remains standing, stoic, his hammer shielding him. Then all eyes are on him. Doesn’t even talk about being Thor. Or why his dastar is red. Opens up Goldy’s notebook like he owns it. Recites two lines.
“Ik munda panchi vangu udd da.” A boy soars through the sky like a bird.
“Thale lishqdi kach nu vekh ke.” Distracted by a shiny glass on the ground . . .
It’s not just a poem. There is no raag, there is no tune. There’s only a beat. And Resham’s voice. He’s rapping. And as much as I hate to admit it, it sounds pretty good when you ignore the lousy lyrics and focus on the other elements: the beat, the tempo, the rapping skills. I hate that this isn’t garbage.
I hold my breath. This is not how I imagined those lines would sound. At all. I’m in the middle of translating the poem in my head. Another poetry group goes on as Resham’s group shuffles offstage and heads toward the exit.
I sit in my chair, stunned, watching Resham walk away.
I’m kinda tired of learning all this different shit about Goldy. Was he secretly a cosplaying Nordic rapper too? Sometimes you don’t want to learn things about people.
Then I suck in a breath as a dark cloud moves over me. Why am I still sitting here letting the notebook escape again?
I exhale loudly and angrily, leaping out of the chair. I leave Mindii sitting there as I comb through the crowd, pushing past cosplayers and donut eaters. Is this Thor da bacha already outside?
I can’t breathe. I need air.
I rush to get outside to the parking lot.
And there he is. Thor. Resham. He’s holding a red cup in his hands, surrounded by a handful of people.
I don’t move. My hands graze my face and I must look like I’m mauling myself, because I’m just not used to touching my face without my beard.
I march straight toward him, pushing past all the people surrounding him. Fans? Resentment raging like bile in my stomach, in my mouth. Other people notice me, but don’t really pay attention, like I’m another fanboy, desperate to get in a word. Then Thor looks at me, curious, confused. He takes another sip from the cup.
I push my way through the circle and my hand rises up with one rage-filled slap, knocking the cup right out of his hands, sending the liquid flying out, splattering all over clothes and shoes and faces. It lands a few feet away with a less-than-satisfying thunk. It’s what I wished I would have done to Goldy every single time he was “just keeping things social.”
Is Thor an alcoholic? I don’t fucking know. Could be. I don’t know shit about Goldy. The “poem” in his own notebook isn’t even his. Goldy is the damn panchi. The bird. The glass is what? The alcohol? Who came up with these basic-ass metaphors? If this madarchod gaslights me and tells me I’m reading too much into it, that it’s literally about a bird, I’m going to . . . Who am I kidding. What the fuck am I gonna do. I’m too delicate to get into a fistfight. Thor crunches up his face, rotates his hand Punjabi style, fingers pointed upward in a “what the hell?” gesture, then vocalizes it. “What the deuce, man?” He doesn’t seem even the least bit bothered that I’m here. He obviously recognizes me. He sought me out to steal my notebook.
Everything feels like it’s in slow motion. The drink has splattered everywhere, on people’s clothes. Then everyone starts yelling at once. The liquid is clear. It’s odorless. Vodka?
“Give me my notebook.” I may have stamped my foot like a toddler. Maybe.
“It’s not your notebook.” His voice is even, patient. He hasn’t said no.
Everyone stands there awkwardly, then they start to disperse as they realize the drama is not worth their time. Thor walks over and picks up the cup, which still has some of the liquid in it. He brings it to me. “This,” he says, annoyance seeping through, “is water.”
“You’re so . . .” I say, clenching my fists and biting my lip. But I can’t get the words out.
“Give me back the notebook.” I’m not crying. Yet.
“No,” he says. “It’s not yours. It’s mine. Do you even know what it is?”
My rash decision notebook. My only connection to Goldy. The answer to everything.
“It’s his art therapy journal,” Thor says, his voice low, patience thin. “He started it in rehab. Before he met me. And then kept adding pages to it as a way to stay calm.”
“You know what, keep the goddamn journal,” I say, my voice breaking. “You’re a terrible lyricist and rapper. You will never make any money as a poet. Couldn’t even find a yellow dastaar? Thor is blond, you fool!” I say. This guy deserves nothing.
“Go read some Norse mythology,” he says loudly. “Look, I know you think this is gonna bring you closure.” He steps closer. “But this notebook is not it.”
I flinch. “Why’d you write that dumbass poem in Goldy’s journal?”
“I didn’t,” he says. “The night before Goldy left for recovery housing . . .”
“What?”
“The rehab in L.A. Where he stayed there . . .”
“Just say rehab,” I bark.
“Okay, yeah. So before he left for the rehab, he wanted me to freestyle a love poem. So I did and he wanted to write it in his journal before he left. He drew a picture of me just because that’s what people do. The poem is there to remind him to come back to me.” His eyes are watery.
He laughs sadly.
I’m not sure what to do with this. “What other faltu poems you write?” I ask.
“He made me sugarless cha one day and I got really pissed. We got in a big fight. Then I felt bad about going off on him and wrote a poem in iambic pentameter, you know like Shakespeare, called ‘toon cha banai bina khand ton.’ ”
“That literally means you made me sugarless tea. Fuck, man. Do you got another job?”
“I work in insurance,” he says.
He looks down, like he’s lost somewhere, in a moment long ago. “I mean, there’s more to the poem than just cha. It’s a—you know. What’s that thing called?”
“Metaphor,” I say quietly. I feel as though an incredibly heavy rock is on my chest. Goldy is gone again, but in a much more profound way. He’s actually gone. Never coming back gone. I realize that, even if I wrestled this notebook away from the fucker, it isn’t meant for me.
I don’t know how to fix this. My eyes dart around as I realize what I’ve just done. Holy shit, I just left Mindii inside. I look at the entrance, which has cleared out, and I could easily walk through and just find her. Why am I not moving?
As if on cue, Raj pulls up in Goldy’s ice cream truck. He gets out, leans against the wheel, arms folded, beard conveying some emotion I can’t properly read. It’s not jubilation, I can tell you that. If I were in his position, I would not simply be standing there with folded arms. I would have a plan. Perhaps this is Raj’s plan. Maybe in his notes, he has written:
Step 1: Confront Sunny by looking menacing while leaning on ice cream truck.
Step 2: Beat his ass.
Step 3: Tell his mummy and papa.
I could just run in the opposite direction. Raj doesn’t look like he’s got the energy to catch up to me, not this late. But I don’t have the fucking energy either. I grip my crocheted pouch tightly, my palm pressing into the contours of the phone in the basmati. I wish I could just turn it on.
I raise my hand in front of my face. “Siri, how do you outsmart an irritated, angry Sikh man standing next to an ice cream truck?”
Mindii’s probably still stuck inside, wondering why I disappeared. Ngozi is outside, out of breath. Naruto isn’t with her.
“You all right?” she says.
I want to tell her the truth. No. Instead I force my emotions down to the pit of my stomach, down to my knees, until they’re all the way at the bottom of my feet and I can step on them, crumbling them to dust.
“Give me the keys to Mindii’s bike. Quick. It’s a matter of g-great urgency.” I take quick breaths as I consider what I’m about to do. There’s no going back from this. I’m about to leave Mindii. I’m ending the night. I feel a hollowness as I look back up at Ngozi.
Ngozi looks at me, incredulous. “Have you completely lost the plot? You don’t even know how to drive a motorbike.”
“I’ve been riding on the back of one all night long.”
“You don’t want to steal her bike.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”
“I know you, Sunny. And I know you’re upset and hurt. I love you. I’m here.”
This would be a beautiful, tender moment for us to hug. Instead I feel my face tightening up.
“Fucking typical!” I yell. “You don’t get to dictate everything. Gordon Bennett!” I say, getting louder. Raj is patiently waiting through my outburst, just leaning on the tire. “You go enjoy the rest of your night!”
She says nothing. Me and Ngozi have been friends so long that she knows when I’m self-destructing.
I curl my hand into a fist and let out an aggravated scream.
She stops talking and leans in toward me, arms outstretched.
“I’m sure it’ll be awesome leaving Fresno.” I’m shouting now. Louder. “And going to your froo-froo faraway college. ‘Ooooh. I’m Ngozi. I study neuroscience and the classics at Berkeley. I only tell jokes in Latin now!’ ” Then I pretentiously laugh just like I imagine her new laugh with her new friends in her new life will sound like.
“Hang about, am I laughing like a daft cow because of the hilarity of Latin jokes? Latin? Like the dead fucking language, Latin?”
“Yes! That was you A-AND your new crew ALL laughing like a motherfucking gaggle of daft cows!” I say.
“Well, none of these scenarios makes any sense,” Ngozi says.
I see Mindii start walking out. She’s looking for me.
“You don’t even make sense!” I yell at Ngozi. I stomp loudly toward Raj.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need Ngozi.
Don’t need Mindii.
I can tell Raj is about to say something, and I’m ready to beat his ass. How’s that for a plot twist? He’s about to say something slick and then kapow, I’ll kick him right in the face. Knock him down. Then steal his ice cream truck. AGAIN.
Dammit. I’m tired. And before I do any of that, I need a nap. But Raj doesn’t say anything to me. He opens up the ice cream truck, starts the engine. I slowly open the passenger side and sit down, holding the seat belt tight to my chest.
We drive in silence. No yelling or quietly telling me he’s disappointed. No nothing.
I’ve done it. Ended the night. Ended things with Mindii. Whatever this thing even is. Was? Now what?