(2016)

“Hey,” Justin mumbles, “can we have a beer first?”

We sit down at a table and I walk over to the bar.

“Hey man, what is the strongest beer on tap?” I ask the bartender.

He points to the Brand IPA.

“Two pints please.”

“Ready?” I ask.

No response. It’s only 10 a.m.; time is on our side.

Ten minutes in…

Justin keeps texting his girlfriend, who is presumably convincing him to try it.

Twenty minutes in…

Beer half gone. Some people decide to rob banks in less time than this.

Third minutes in…

As concerned as Justin is about his appearance, he must be aware that this indecision is very unattractive.

Your boy needs to man up, I text Vincy.

Fifty minutes in…

“Don’t you find it ironic that it says ‘Dope’ on the front of your shirt?” I say to him, astonished that it has taken me all morning to spot the irony.

“You know, I have a really addictive personality. And you see what I become when I drink. I am scared this will take me to a whole new different level.”

I order another beer and leave him to settle his internal conflict.

One hour in…

I have many choice words for Justin, none of which can be shared here.

One hour fifteen minutes in…

“If I had recorded all this on time lapse, we would probably see your beard grow.”

He laughs a helpless laugh. “The problem is this is too accessible man. If I like it, I will be hooked.”

At least three groups of smokers have come and gone by now.

One hour twenty-five minutes in…

“Ok, I’m ready,” Justin declares with more flair than Lebron James’s infamous The Decision.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

“Wait, wait, let’s go back across the street to the coffee shop. It’s more authentic that way.”

It takes every ounce of my self-restraint not to punch him in the face.

(2000)

I remember arriving so early on a Sunday morning that our boutique hotel turned us away. I remember my mother quietly negotiating with the hotel receptionist before leading the family out for a stroll. I remember the empty streets. I remember the brisk, piercing morning that shocked my tropical lungs. I remember feeling miserable pretty much the entire three days; I was a teenager wishing to be anywhere but traveling with family. In every picture, I was wearing braces and a long-sleeve Manchester United jersey. I looked angry, untrusting, and awkwardly lanky.

We arrived on the day of Gay Pride Canal Parade, an event as massive as anything else a fourteen year old had experienced. Vigilant to leave the hotel room at first, I was quickly warmed by the friendly, festive crowd. Hundreds of spectators filled the streets. Elaborately dressed participants on decked out boats traveled down the canals with endless energy, passion, and public display of affection to a hero’s welcome.

“What are they celebrating?” I asked my mom.

All the commotion made little sense to me. By Hong Kong’s standard, my family was very LGBT-forward. My mother worked in advertising and I knew some of her gay colleagues and friends well. Being gay, I thought, was just how some people are. We don’t parade for people with short hair, or yellow skin, or blue eyes, or who hate cilantro. I waved back to a boatful of naked men with a strange feeling that our paths would cross again.