Brandon J. Choi is a Korean American writer based in Brooklyn. He is a 2022 Periplus Fellow and has attended workshops at Tin House and VONA. He is currently working on a short story collection. This is his fiction debut.
In the summer of 2006, when my hometown’s beloved Choi’s Videos went out of business, Mr. and Mrs. Choi decided to sell their inventory as a last-ditch effort before retiring and moving across the street from their eldest son in North Carolina. A long line formed outside of Choi’s Videos on that final Saturday. Flocks of ahjummas chattered, sweat beading at their foreheads under the brutal Southern California sun. Television shows and movies were sold at three dollars and five dollars respectively but buying an entire season of anything got the price down to two dollars per video. That is all to say: this kind of deal wasn’t something they would ever imagine missing. The first to go were the popular sitcoms and the next were the box-office hit films from ten years ago that were otherwise unavailable in the States. Ahjummas emerged from Choi’s Videos victorious, with countless black plastic bags strung around their fingers that threatened to cut off circulation to their appendages if they didn’t make it back to their cars in time. The black bags were stuffed to the point where the sharp corners of tapes were starting to skewer through the shiny plastic.
I sat shotgun in Uncle’s dented 1998 Camry. It was a hand-me-down from Mom, if you can even use that phrase for people of their age. He was the only adult who let me sit up front, even though I was twelve and definitely allowed to sit there according to California law. We were parked near the front of the line even though there was an abundance of empty spots elsewhere. I saw the beat-up sign of Choi’s Videos reflected in the side mirror with its tacky black letters on a horrid purple background. I was shaking my leg, waiting.
“Stop shaking that leg,” Uncle said. “You’ll lose all your luck.”
Uncle was fixing his hair in the car mirror. He pulled at loose stubborn strands that stuck out near the top of his head and folded them into his clean part. He tried to smear some gel from other hairs over their rebellious counterparts, turning his head this way and that to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots.
“Do you believe in that, too?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he replied. “It’s a habit. Your grandpa used to tell me that all the time. But really. Stop shaking.”
Uncle closed the mirror. “Let’s go.”
As we walked towards Choi’s Videos, Uncle clicked his tongue and turned to me with a smile. He showed off those perfectly white and straight teeth that Mom always said I should have inherited from their side of the family instead of the crooked cavity-prone ones I got from Dad’s side.
“My, my,” he said. “Who knew this many people would show up? Surely, no one appreciates magic on the screen like we Koreans do.”
As we got closer, the ahjummas and the few elders in the line quickly hushed their gossip and bowed towards him.
“Look at this, everyone! Even our favorite pastor is here to pick up sitcoms,” said one chipper ahjumma. I vaguely recognized her from our church as one of the many ahjummas who felt it was her God-given right to tousle my hair or pinch my cheeks or slap my butt while lamenting how skinny I was and that I should eat more meat.
Uncle bowed and greeted them with a wide smile.
“Of course!” he said. “But I personally prefer films over sitcoms. The stories always end up with so much more depth and leave you thinking about the characters during the credits. Much like a good sermon, right?”
“What is it like to have such a cool uncle?” the ahjumma asked me. Then, as expected, she nudged me on the shoulder and pinched my cheeks before I could dodge.
She looked at the growing line before taking a step back to open a space in front her. She ushered us to cut her in line.
“Just come stand here with me,” she said. “We can’t have you waiting so long, right? You must be so busy.”
At this, the few ahjummas near her agreed in unison:
“Of course!”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“You can go ahead of me, too. I’m only here for a few things that I’m sure no one else will want.”
Uncle thanked them. He patted me on the back, but as we cut in front of them, I tried my hardest to avoid looking back. It was in moments like these when I found it unbelievable that Mom was Uncle’s older sister. She was petite and shied away from conversation. Uncle was tall with broad shoulders and, at thirty-seven, he was still in his prime and undoubtedly handsome. He turned heads in the produce section of the grocery store from women of all ages. When he talked, people wanted to listen; when he didn’t talk, people wanted nothing more than for him to talk. Soon, when the ahjummas inevitably resumed their gossip, I saw Uncle grinning and nodding to himself as he looked back at the winding line that was beginning to wrap around the block.
Choi’s Videos was more of a shack than a store. In the back, there were lines of mismatched shelves with barely enough space between them for someone to shimmy in and out to fetch orders. Mr. and Mrs. Choi both sat on stools at the front desk, which had a cash register that didn’t quite work and essentially functioned as a lockbox they had to manually open and close. There were stacks of random papers and mail envelopes next to half-eaten red-bean pastries and a roll of kimbap wrapped in foil. The Chois were a quiet couple who had started resembling each other in their old age. The small television mounted on the corner of a wall whispered the sounds from an old action film I would never watch.
I was going to miss Choi’s Videos. My family frequented the shack on Friday nights, when the latest shipments from Korea had settled and Mr. Choi had duplicated each tape into multiple copies. I was amazed at the sheer number of videos that the shop had accrued. On the following night, my family watched whatever we had rented for that week. Stretched out on the floor with my hands tucked beneath my chin, I looked forward to the names and faces of celebrities Uncle and Mom pointed out as the Korean superstars who were far superior to Brad Pitt or DiCaprio or whoever else I listed as my favorite American challenger that night.
By the time we reached the front of the line, my shirt was damp with sweat. Uncle listed five titles to the Chois, eventually writing them all down on a yellow notepad.
“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t heard of any of these,” Mr. Choi said. “What about you, honey?”
Mrs. Choi shook her head.
“You have so many videos back there. Could it be that you are simply forgetting?” Uncle was turning a bit red and his neck was flushed pink.
“Possibly,” Mr. Choi said, scratching the back of his head. “But I catalog everything myself, so I would think I could recognize at least one of these.”
“Would it be okay if I took a look back there myself?” Uncle asked.
“Of course, Pastor,” Mrs. Choi said, elbowing her husband. “Take all the time you need.” Mr. Choi nodded in agreement.
Uncle walked around their desk and scoured each shelf one title at a time. He muttered the names under his breath as he deciphered Mr. Choi’s rushed handwriting. Mr. and Mrs. Choi watched him, tilting their heads as if that might jog their memories. I suddenly wanted to go home and grew impatient as Uncle took his sweet time looking for these movies that not even the Chois had heard of before. They spent all day in this shop watching movies and shows. If they didn’t recognize a title, why was Uncle so set on looking himself? Wasn’t that considered rude? But as I was about to call him out, Uncle pulled out a video tape from a bottom shelf.
“Mr. Choi! Here’s one!”
As Mr. Choi rang us up, he inspected the video tapes and dusted them off. Uncle had found all five of them.
“You must have some unique tastes,” Mr. Choi said. “But the more you take off our hands, the less we’ll have to move with us.”
On our drive home, I wondered what these movies were that even the Chois had never heard of. Uncle drove with the windows rolled down and blasted the radio. Instead of the usual Korean sermons or the worship music station, Uncle turned the dial until the latest pop hits thrummed in the air. Back at home, as we waited for our garage to open, Uncle lowered the volume and turned to me.
“Let’s not tell your mom or dad about going to Choi’s Videos today,” he said. I didn’t know if I was supposed to respond but he continued, “You know how your mom can get when I spend money like this.”
I nodded, wondering if twenty-five dollars was considered a lot for an adult.
“I’ll just keep them in the trunk. Maybe we can watch a few on our trip. Who knows, maybe God will bless us with a hotel room that has a television.”
Uncle laughed by himself, as if the odds of God granting that wish was absurdly beyond the realm of possibility.
. . .
Uncle had just finished seminary school in Korea before moving in with us to enjoy that California sunshine Mom always boasted about. I didn’t know much about his life before, but Mom hinted at a wild history before he became right in the mind and followed after their father—my grandfather—and his father before that in becoming a pastor. A family of God, with a capital G.
“Your uncle, when he finally came to his senses, that’s how you know God is real,” Mom had said when we waited for him at the international gate at LAX. Anything and everything that worked in her favor was how we knew God was real.
However, after a few guest sermons at Korean churches in the county, Uncle still hadn’t been able to land a permanent role anywhere. It had been eight months since he arrived and, though Uncle didn’t seem to mind his unemployment, Mom’s patience was dwindling. So, when a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s cousin heard of a retiring pastor somewhere up in San Francisco, Mom had applied on Uncle’s behalf and gave him a time and place to go meet the church leadership and give a guest sermon.
“It’s time you commit to an actual job,” Mom said. “Just because people at church smile and bow doesn’t mean they’re not talking about you behind your back!”
“Okay, okay,” Uncle told her, raising his hands up in surrender.
That night, I had begged my parents to let me tag along with Uncle for the trip. It was almost like vacation, the closest one I could grasp for that year anyway when Dad’s business was tougher than the usual tough. I couldn’t bear being trapped in the monotonous cycles of my hometown for an entire summer.
“Ben is going to New York for some fencing camp, Kevin is going to Hawaii like he always does because he loves to remind us that he has family there, and Paul is going to San Diego for some science retreat,” I said, trying to guilt my parents.
“No,” Mom said. Dad just nodded.
“He might be of help,” Uncle said to Mom. “It’d be nice to see at least one familiar face in the crowd when I preach. Might make me feel more comfortable.”
Uncle was the only adult I knew who was like this. He existed on a plane closer to mine while my parents, on the other hand, seemed to float around in a different dimension entirely. They were so stuck in their miserable ways and no matter what I tried, I could never bridge that gap and get close enough to even try to understand them.
“Fine,” Mom finally said. She was always the first to finish eating and walked towards the sink to get a head start on dishes. “Don’t mess around when you’re up there. Your uncle needs to get this so he can stop waking up at noon every day.”
. . .
The trip started off with two disasters. First, though we had been told that we would be going to San Francisco, the actual destination was a small town called Rose Bay that was two hours southwest of the city. Secondly, by the time we were on the freeway, I realized Uncle had scribbled street names and exit numbers on a sheet of legal pad but hadn’t indicated any distances between the steps. The drive was seven hours of constant head-turning to make sure we didn’t get lost along the way.
By the time we arrived in Rose Bay on Friday evening, the sun had already set. The small town’s shops were closed and the streets were silent. We ate chicken-fried steak at a diner and ordered separate sodas instead of sharing one with multiple straws like we usually did. Cherry Coca-Cola for Uncle. Dr. Pepper for me, because Mom had ingrained in my head that if I was going to drink soda, I might as well drink Dr. Pepper so that I could become a doctor one day. I had begrudgingly grown to like the flavor.
The church had booked our hotel room. It had two twin beds and a small television with a cabinet underneath in which a VCR and a mini-fridge were tucked away.
“What did I tell you?” Uncle said, gesturing towards the television. “God provides.”
Uncle dropped his bags on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and jumped onto his bed. I felt the grease from dinner’s chicken-fried steak seeping into my bloodstream and summoning a food coma, but I resolved to push through.
I stood at the doorway, still holding my bags, ready to finally pop the question.
“Before we go to bed, can we watch one of those movies you got from Choi’s Videos?” I asked.
Uncle looked at me for what seemed like forever.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes!” He pointed at me with both arms cutting across the air. He leaped up, puffed out his chest, and dug through his pockets for his car keys. “I’ll be right back!” He sprinted out, leaving the door wide open in his wake.
Later, I sprawled out and leaned against the hotel pillows. Uncle was fidgeting with the VCR, being extra cautious with the tape.
“This one’s called To Love a Stranger is Certain Death,” he said. Uncle looked up at me, before continuing. “Don’t worry. It’s cooler than the title sounds.”
He inserted the videotape and I heard that familiar click. Uncle cranked up the volume, turned off the lights, and plopped down on his bed.
“I’m so excited for you to see this,” he said. He cracked the knuckles on his hand one by one, a nervous tick I had seen him do from time to time.
Trumpets blared to show a Korean production company’s logo that I didn’t recognize. The glow from the television smack in the middle of the room cast a cone of light onto us, illuminating the left side of my body and Uncle’s right. Then, my mouth dropped, and I swear I gasped loud enough for the room next door to hear when the movie started with a close-up of Uncle’s younger and slightly more chiseled face.
The plot of To Love a Stranger is Certain Death goes something like this: A woman (who only wears black the whole time) moves into the apartment unit next door from Uncle’s character, who is a mildly successful but lonely car mechanic. The woman turns out to be on the run from a big-name gangster after her ex-husband scammed the gang and ran off to Russia. A gruff detective shows up at Uncle’s shop and inquires about the woman. Uncle ends up keeping her secret but gets targeted by the gang. The final sequence ends with the detective holding Uncle’s limp body that is covered in too much blood to be believable. Uncle mutters the word “love” in his final breath. The camera zooms in on his pupils to see the reflection of the woman across the street. She turns to glance at him, reaches her hand out towards him but pulls back before rounding the corner and disappearing into the night.
When I say the film was terrible, I really mean the film was absolutely horrendous. The props were tacky, the lines were corny, the actors were stiff, and the editing in every action sequence gave me bouts of vertigo to the point where I almost regretted that fourth free refill of Dr. Pepper still fizzing in my stomach. But as the movie played, I couldn’t help but glance back and forth between the screen and Uncle.
He added commentary here and there:
“This scene! We had to shoot this like twenty-two times because the extras in the back kept slipping on the blood on the ground.”
“She’s pretty, right? She had a total crush on me the whole time! She kept asking the director if we could add a kiss scene. We never added it though because things were different back then.”
“Those are real tears, by the way! I had to think of really depressing things like your grandfather dying to get that scene right.”
The movie flew by because I couldn’t believe what I was watching. When the credits rolled, Uncle went to turn the lights on. He flipped the switch and stood there looking at me with such expectant eyes and an eager smile that I couldn’t help but clap. Slow at first, but then extremely enthusiastically until my palms stung.
“Thank you, thank you,” Uncle said. He bowed slightly. “I’m in four more! But that one was my favorite and my best.”
Luckily, we went to bed after that but, at one point in the night, I woke up and opened my eyes to see Uncle sitting up on his bed. The television was still on but the volume was barely audible. The screen’s light cast pockets of shadows on his face and he suddenly seemed so much older than the Uncle I knew who could always charm his way into an extra steamed egg at restaurants. And then I saw Uncle moving his mouth, reciting the lines perfectly under his breath. Lying still, I watched him for a while until I realized it had been too long for me to say anything. I closed my eyes and tried my hardest to sleep, but I felt my ears picking up those whispers, the dry smack of his lips speaking those ancient and awful lines.
. . .
The next morning, we were up bright and early to be the first ones at the hotel’s continental breakfast. Stuffed from stale blueberry muffins and watery yogurt, we made our way back upstairs to shower and then get a tour of the church. I pretended I was still half-asleep to avoid conversation. After the movie, I didn’t know if I had anything to say, but I was embarrassed of Uncle nonetheless.
After getting ready, I waited for Uncle to finish shaving and blow-drying his hair into shape. I heard him rehearsing lines in the shower and even when he was on the toilet. Let us pray. Let us pray. Let us pray. Clearing his throat before: Everyone, can you feel our savior’s presence with us today? He even feigned the audience’s response—a high pitched “Yes!” to emulate a mix of voices reverberating within the church walls.
I expected a grand building with a giant cross attached to the steeple and a sprawling parking lot. Our church back at home was so large that it had volunteers who directed traffic as people crammed in for the morning service. These were grown men in their Sunday suits wearing bright orange construction vests and squinting under the sun to see if a family had enough kids or grandparents in their minivans to deem them worthy of the main lot.
When we followed the directions that Uncle had received over the phone, we came upon the community center. Confused, we circled the lot four or five times, trying to see if there was another building around. Finally, we spotted a slender Korean man in loose jeans and a polo waving at us from the community center’s doors. I looked at Uncle. His hands tensed at ten and two on the steering wheel and he sucked in his lips for a moment before sighing deeply.
“You see, our church is still trying to find a permanent building around here. We’ve been using the community center for the past two years since our congregation was formed,” the man said. He said to call him Elder Kim. He spoke quickly and chuckled at the end of every sentence, though never cracking any actual jokes. He fidgeted with his hands, which he held together behind his back as we walked.
“Oh, and…” Elder Kim stopped, straightened his posture, and tried his best to smile at Uncle. “Your sermon actually had to be pushed back to Sunday evening.”
“Evening?” Uncle asked.
“Yes. The community center got booked last minute for Sunday morning and afternoon for a youth theater program.”
Before Uncle could muster a response, Elder Kim continued walking. He led us down a hallway, took a right, and stopped in front of the auditorium.
“Right in here. This is where you will be speaking.”
The auditorium was just a long room with a slightly elevated platform on one end that was no more than two or three feet high. The chairs were cleared out, but there were racks of metal folding chairs lined up against the walls. A laminated sheet above one stack read “PLEASE STACK CHAIRS AFTER USE! :)” A thick projector screen scrolled down from the ceiling, covered in a thin film of dust that looked fuzzy under the white lights.
Uncle walked to the front and sat down on the stage where he would preach. He slouched as he looked out into where the audience would sit. Elder Kim went and sat next to him, keeping a respectful distance away but close enough to show that he meant what he said.
“We know it’s not much, but we have a projector back there for our hymn lyrics and the audio system is better than you might think,” Elder Kim said. “Plus, the man we have running the AV system is smart and very capable. We have this lady who is pretty much a piano prodigy and her husband’s quite the tenor.” He cleared his throat. “Pastor, this room looks like this now, but during our sermons, these chairs are packed with barely any room to walk out and use the bathroom. Koreans come from all the neighboring towns.”
Uncle sat silently for a beat. Elder Kim glanced my way, but I looked away.
“Well,” Uncle began. “Thank you for inviting me. I look forward to meeting everyone tomorrow evening then.”
Back outside in the parking lot, as we were about to split ways, Elder Kim reached his hand out towards Uncle at the last minute. We turned to him and he pulled his arm back.
“I didn’t want to ask this earlier,” he said. “But I swear I recognize you. My wife told me not to embarrass myself by bringing this up with you, but I just can’t help it.”
Uncle smirked.
“So, forgive me for asking, but you used to act in movies, right?”
“Not a problem at all,” Uncle said. “You’re correct. I was in a few movies but that was a while ago now.”
“There was that one I really liked. The name is slipping…Something like…”
“To Love a Stranger is Certain Death, maybe?”
Elder Kim thought about it, then nodded. “Yes, that one. That must be it. You were truly spectacular in it. I can’t wait to tell everyone that we will be in the presence of a star tomorrow evening.”
Uncle laughed then. Loudly and long enough for Elder Kim to chuckle, stop, and then resume again out of obligation. When we parted ways, Elder Kim bowed and Uncle patted him on the shoulder twice and nodded like he was an old friend.
. . .
We ate dinner at a Japanese restaurant run by white people. Over smushed California rolls that we had to douse with soy sauce and wasabi, I asked Uncle if he was nervous about his sermon.
“No way,” he said.
“Did you prepare?” I asked.
“Of course I prepared.”
“So, you’re not worried at all about getting up there in front of all those new people?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Then, after picking at the knot of pickled ginger on my plate, I asked what was really on my mind:
“You used to be an actor. How come you’re a pastor now?”
Uncle picked at his ginger, too, holding a chopstick in each hand and pulling to separate the pieces.
“Your mother thinks it was a dumb phase of my life. And your grandfather agreed. They said I was delusional.”
I picked up a piece of ginger by one end, tilted my head back, and dropped it into my mouth. Parts of it were soggy, other parts were dried out, but it was still spicy on my tongue.
“So, you just quit?”
“I had to. Things were hard back then. I couldn’t spend all my time rehearsing lines in front of our bathroom mirror while everyone else around me tried to put food on the table.”
“But that man at the church recognized you. Doesn’t that mean something?”
Uncle didn’t eat any of the ginger. Instead, he gathered the chopsticks in one hand again before putting them down in front of him.
“Sometimes, I think about what would’ve happened if I stuck with it. Where would I be now? Would I be famous and have to wear sunglasses and a hat everywhere so people don’t chase after me? I really loved it, too, you know. Not just the acting, that was fun, but everything about movies. They said that I wasn’t good enough to make it though, that it was a waste of my time.” He paused. “What do you think?”
I pushed my tongue against my top teeth, trying to scrape off the remaining spice. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the film was terrible, that he was terrible. I hesitated though. Elder Kim had recognized him and was even in awe of him. Uncle sat across from me with those same hopeful eyes from the night before when the movie had ended. What else could I say?
“I think everyone should see it on the big screen in all the movie theaters,” I said, slowly looking down at my mess of a plate.
“Is that what you think?” Uncle asked.
He picked up his chopsticks, put a slice of California roll in his mouth, then another, followed by yet another, and so on until his mouth was stuffed to the brim and he ate it like it was the best food he had ever tasted.
. . .
Elder Kim was right. The auditorium filled up. Still, that really meant there were roughly fifty people in the room, including me, Uncle, Elder Kim, the dude working the AV system, and the two people who had just performed a half-dozen worship songs passionately but out of tune.
Uncle had been silent the whole morning, not even humming or rehearsing his greetings as we got dressed. The car ride had been quiet, and the roads had seemed to get the hint by remaining clear and letting us through at every stoplight. I sat next to him in the front row. Uncle looked straight ahead, completely calm. I was the nervous one and it just made things worse that I couldn’t shake that feeling or figure out why the heck I was anxious when all I had to do was sit there.
Finally, Uncle was introduced by the sweaty worship leader who passed off the microphone as he hopped off stage. Uncle scanned the audience. Most of them were older but there were a few younger couples seated together with their heads tilted towards their partners. He cleared his throat and began.
“Everyone. Can you feel our savior’s presence with us today? I thought long and hard about what I might speak about in front of all of you. We had a long drive coming up here. I’m not so good with writing down directions apparently.”
The congregation laughed, slowly relaxing into their metal chairs. I noticed Uncle had left his Bible on his seat.
“I knew I had to prepare something special. I am a guest here after all, though maybe I might see you all more regularly soon. I started thinking about my calling. What was I called to do? How was I called to serve? Do you all have thoughts like that sometimes? You must! Who doesn’t?”
Some of the older members smiled while the younger ones nodded earnestly.
“What was I called to do? I thought about this all night while my nephew over here snored on the bed next to me. And maybe it was the third cup of hotel coffee—you know, the very bitter kind—that woke something up in me deep inside. It hit me just this morning what I needed to do up here today.”
Uncle turned to look at me. The overhead lights seemed so bright at that moment. I felt dizzy, verging on sick. Uncle stepped down from the stage and jogged to the back of the auditorium. People turned their heads. Uncle motioned for the tech working the AV system to scoot aside. He pressed a few buttons here and there. The projector started to unravel, a slow mechanical sound squeezing out from above. The lights dimmed. The churchgoers started looking at one another, shifting nervously in their seats. Some seemed genuinely excited. The projector flickered. Then those cursed trumpets blared from the speakers as the movie began.
. . .
Now, I think I get why Uncle had to do what he did. I can at least confidently say that Uncle had no regrets about that night. I remember the white overlay from the projector on top of Uncle’s face as scenes flashed by, the whispers that crescendoed until the first person left the auditorium, and then another, and another, some letting the door slam shut behind them if they felt especially offended by what Uncle had done. Others bowed, nervously smiling and shuffling their feet to the exit like their life depended on it. I was frozen in my seat, barely managing to glance at Uncle from the corner of my eye. He bowed to some of those leaving but later stopped acknowledging them entirely. Eventually, when he realized this wasn’t some joke, Elder Kim ran and knelt in front of us with a bewildered expression on his face. Though he was fuming, he tried to be polite when he whispered.
“Pastor, what are you doing right now? Is there a point to this? What is this you’re showing us?”
Uncle looked at him. “What do you mean? This is that movie you like. The one I’m in.”
Elder Kim sighed. “When your sister called, she just mentioned that you used to be an actor. We didn’t hire you to be an actor. We didn’t bring you and pay for your hotel room for you to show us a movie that nobody has ever heard of for two hours. That money came from offerings! We brought you here to preach. We brought you here to get up there and preach! You can still go do it! I’ll laugh it off with you!”
Uncle didn’t reply. He faced forward with a smile that hung heavy on his face, like something he was forced to carry. He wore that smile until the movie ended, during our quiet drive home, when Mom yelled at him and even kicked him out of our house for a few nights. I don’t know where he stayed on those nights. Maybe he slept in his car or snuck in late at night knowing Mom would leave the backdoor unlocked for him just in case.
I saw Uncle just a few weeks ago. He’s a well-respected pastor at a small church in Pasadena, which my mom finds successful enough. Now that I make some money, I told him never to worry about asking me for anything. It felt like the right thing to say to him, the same thing I say now to every ahjumma and ahjussi who pinched my cheeks and pushed me to where I am today. At this, he tried his best to smile.
I’ll never tell Uncle that I still have a copy of that terrible movie. I dug it out all those years ago from our trash when Mom had thrown them out. The videos were still in that shiny black plastic bag from Choi’s Videos but tied up like they were stinky fish guts. I only salvaged the one we had watched together, mostly because I thought Mom might check to make sure the bag was still there on garbage day. I even got the movie digitized so I can keep watching it. For some reason, I find myself playing it every now and then. I’m drawn to it, especially when my mind spirals down towards those familiar dark corners that can be so overwhelming.
I was embarrassed and resentful then but, what the hell, I was only twelve. Now, I can laugh about what happened because it felt good to see Uncle risk everything just to get a few more eyes on his movie. It was refreshing because I didn’t know he was capable of doing that—wanting something that badly. I know my parents would never have risked their jobs for anything. But then I think: what would Mom or Dad throw everything away for? What scratches at their hearts when they can’t sleep at night? What do they tell themselves in saying that things turned out for the better? I wish I could see Mom or Dad do something dumb like that because it would mean that they felt like they could.
I know I’m partially to blame for what Uncle did, too. I remember what I told him over those disgusting California rolls. But I also remember how powerful I felt, sitting across from him. I had so little to give back then, and perhaps you understand me when I say I still feel like I have so little to give back to all of them from that generation. I would lie to Uncle’s face all over again if it means giving him a brief spurt of joy. I would lie to him, to Mom, to Dad, over and over and over.
At the end of To Love a Stranger is Certain Death, when Uncle’s character dies, a single tear rolls down his face and he dies smiling. The last scene gets me, punches me straight in the gut every time because that smile feels like the realest smile I’ve ever seen. The movie fades to black and I’m left in the dark, suddenly cold. Something pinches at my heart, and I think I should pray and give thanks and apologize all at once, but I don’t think I have enough words to say what I want.
