Whichever Way the Door Swings

May 5

by Brandon Chan

Adelphi University

Brandon Chan discovered his passion for writing as a teenager when he began publishing stories on the internet. After working as a chef for nearly ten years, he decided to fully pursue writing full-time. He lives on Long Island, New York, and is a student at Adelphi University.

Special thanks to Katherine, Emily, and Bee.

It’s been nearly ten years, and I can’t help but notice that the booth I’m sitting in is exactly the same as it was the last time, inside a modified metal trailer that some long-dead designer from the 1930s managed to turn into an eating establishment named Tony’s Diner. In a world now ruled by Chipotle, Korean BBQ, and Uber Eats, the all-American diner seems to have become an endangered breed everywhere except in the dead center of the American Midwest. Even the decor is tacky: ripped red booths still held together with duct tape, wooden knick-knacks hanging from the ceiling, a few neon signs with half of the bulbs burnt out, and old black-and-white photos of the chef with his arms around forgotten celebrities. The greasy smell of French fries and hamburgers brings both an uneasy nausea and a twinge of nostalgic comfort.

I take a sip of my coffee; it's bitter and burnt compared to the fair-trade blend I’m used to sipping each morning. I tell my waitress, Kathy, that I’m waiting for someone when she comes to take my order. She doesn’t recognize me, even though I vaguely recognize her. She may have a few more wrinkles around her nose, and the bags under her eyes seemed to have darkened and sagged, but her Fanta-orange hair, horned-rimmed glasses, blue apron, and cherry red lipstick smile are all the same. I secretly envy how she’s so easily able to pull it off.

“Sure thing, hun,” she replies.

I don’t mind being called ‘hun,” mainly due to how universal that term of endearment is. Maybe it’s my Iowan roots poking out. I find myself staring at her as she saunters behind the counter to serve more coffee to an old man scrolling through his phone. I wonder how long Kathy’s worked here; perhaps she started long before I was born; she certainly moves with a practiced familiarity as she floats from customer to customer. Of course, I didn’t expect her to recognize me. My hair is much longer now. I’m wearing a purple tank top and a pair of skinny jeans I bought on clearance, and I've chosen a more muted lipstick to wear today. I have two developing breasts that create an indent in my shirt, a rose tattooed across my exposed right arm, and I’m wearing a silver necklace with a triangle emblem on it. I look nothing like how I used to, and I can at least be proud of that. Even still, I can feel the hardened gaze of several people from the adjoining booths, but I know they won’t say anything in public out of sheer Midwestern politeness, keeping their judgments to themselves. It’s fine, I’m not here for them anyway.

I’m seated next to the window with a clear view of the parking lot, and so I gaze out at my 2008 Subaru Forester. I didn’t park straight, so the car sticks out at an awkward angle, but I got it in between the lines, so it doesn’t matter to me. She’s been putting the work in; already two days on the road, taking me from San Francisco, where I’d been living for the last five years, to my new apartment in Norwalk, Connecticut, and getting to witness all the country in between. I’d never thought I’d return here, but fate conspired to have my relationship and job collapse within the same month. In a strange, manic moment within the rubble, something compelled me to take a shot in the dark and send him a text.

To my surprise, he answered. That’s how I found myself here, a mere pitstop on my journey to the East Coast. I already have a hotel room bookmarked on my phone for a place three towns over—I still have four hours to refund it.

My gaze shifts over to the twin swinging doors that connect the small waiting lobby with the inside of the restaurant. A few patrons on the way out push through them, letting them swing gently before resettling. I check my phone: 10:58 am. I double-check my messages again to make sure I said to meet here at 11, and just as expected, I did. I take another sip of my coffee as I watch the doors swing open as another couple passes through.

******

It’s an hour past. I’m on my third cup of coffee. I sent one final text, asking where he was, but I received no response. I stand up, place a ten-dollar bill under the saltshaker, and leave, letting both doors swing close behind me. I’m back on the road for another sixteen hours, never to think about this place again. While I’m disappointed, part of me is relieved that I can walk away so easily, although the lingering thread of regret still strums across my heartstrings.

******

The left door to the diner swings open, and in he comes, footsteps hard and stony. I feel my body stiffen as he approaches my booth, sitting across from me. He seems older; he's wearing spectacles, with a few noticeable gray hairs coming out of his nose to complement his grayed-out mustache and shaggier skin under his steely brown eyes, but it’s still him.

“Hi, Martin,” I say, trying to sound even.

“Hello, Edward,” he replies.

“That’s not my name anymore, it’s Red now. I’ve told you this before.”

He snorts, his graying mustache blowing out with his nostril air.

“If you won’t call me Dad, why should I call you what you want?” he replies brusquely.

I lean back defensively, trying to keep my rising heart rate calm. I had to be the bigger person if this was going to work. Based on his raised eyebrow, I instantly knew he had picked up on the subtle movement.

“You’re still mad about that election, huh?” he continues. “Trump promised us he’d bring this country back, and I’d say he’s doing a good job of it.”

The memory of Trump’s first election flashes through my mind, despite my efforts to repress it. I don’t remember the words exchanged, but I remember the anger, the pain, the disappointments, all bellowing out at once. That was the last night I saw my parents before I dropped out of college and moved to California with my boyfriend at the time.

“It wasn’t just about him,” I growl through my teeth.

This is a test, I realize. Getting angry or defensive would prove him right. I swallow it down. This was my one and only chance to speak my mind.

“So. How have you been?” I keep my tone steady, not backing down.

I can tell he’s judging me from the subtle twitch under his eyelid, looking at my clothes, at my jewelry, at the rose tattoo I had embroidered on my right arm.

“Funny, you haven’t seemed bothered about me since leaving home,” he responds, flatly. “Didn’t even bother to show up when your mom was in the hospital.”

That was the one piece of ammunition he had against me; I feel the guilt surging through my veins. He did try to call, three years ago, saying Mom was sick. I ignored it. At the time, I tried to convince myself I didn’t care; that she had been even more hurtful than Martin, that she was an old, bitter witch who deserved to be put six feet under. But I know that wasn’t the whole story, that was an easy lie that I used to protect myself from the pain. Maybe that’s why I’m here now, so I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

“I’m sorry. I know that I should’ve come home for the funeral. But you and Mom didn’t make it easy for me either, Martin.”

I can tell calling him by his first name is irritating him, just by the subtle twitch of his left eyelid.

“Well, you didn’t make it easy for us, Edward,” he replies, a bit too sharply. “Your Mom and I gave you everything, and you went and threw it all away. You telling us you were gay was bad enough, but this? What was it all for? Wrestling scholarship up in flames, neighbors talking about our family behind our backs, I can’t even look our church friends in the eye anymore, and for what? Just so you can pretend that you’re a woman?”

Kathy comes over and places a cup of coffee in front of Martin, but she quickly reads the room, says she’ll give us a few more minutes, and hurries off to her next table. Thirty years of customer service at its finest. He’s lobbed the first stone at my castle. Now it’s my turn.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t grow up to be the big-bad ‘son’ that you wanted me to be, Martin. You didn’t make it easy for me either. When you threatened to disown me for being a so-called ‘fag,’ when you and Mom took away my college funds, I had to go off and find my own way!”

His face turns red. “Don’t get smart with me. I know you’re still all huffy when Trump won the first time, but that was ten years ago. While I don't agree with all the decisions you've made…"

“This isn’t about Trump!” I angrily interject, “It’s about the fact that you haven’t agreed with a single decision I’ve made, Martin. Ever. You won’t acknowledge that you and Mom hurt me when I needed you the most, you won’t even call me by my name. I don’t even know why I bothered coming here. I’m leaving.”

I begin pulling out my wallet from my purse so I can pay and get the hell out of this awful diner. Martin grabs me by the wrist, and I stop.

“Edward, wait. I don’t…I just don’t understand why you’d throw it all away. Just please, admit you’re going through a phase. You’re the only family I have left. You can even be a fag if you want, I’ll swallow that much. Just tell me you’re still my son.”

I yank my arm away and accidentally knock it against the table, hard enough to make it shake. My coffee cup rattles, and the saltshaker falls over.

“Goodbye, Martin,” I say, angrily taking a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and throwing it onto the table.

“Edward! Edward, we’re not done talking!” I hear him call out.

I turn to him, wanting to spit, wanting to cry, wanting to slug him, but I don’t. I storm out of the diner, pushing the swinging doors as hard as I can so they slam into the side walls of the lobby.

I slam my car door with just as much force, put the GPS on my phone for the hotel, and block and delete Martin’s number before I pull out of the lot and away from the diner. Tears stream down my face as I take deep breaths and try to just focus on the road. I guess I won’t need that refund after all.

******

The right door to the diner swings open, and in he comes, footsteps hard and stony. I try to relax as he approaches my booth, sitting across from me. He’s wearing glasses, something I only remember seeing him wear a few times. Aside from his mustache being completely grayed out, indicating how much he’s aged, there’s a tiredness in his eyes, an exhaustion that I’d never seen before in him.

“Hi, Martin,” I say, trying to sound even.

“Hello…son.”

His voice trails off. He bites his lip; I can see it quivering underneath his grayed-out mustache hair. Maybe it’s with disappointment, maybe there’s still lingering resentment, I can’t tell.

“You know I’m not your son anymore,” I say, evenly.

There’s the reactionary part of me that wants to get angry, but I stay calm. There’s no hatred, no vitriol, no defiance. It came off more like he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s been a while,” I say.

“Yeah. You haven’t called,” he replies, “Even when your mother was in the hospital.”

“Well…” I try to formulate an excuse.

He puts his hand up, “Look, I want to be the first to apologize. Looking back, that election was contentious. Your Mom and I said things we regret that night; she went to the grave holding those regrets. At the time, well, it seemed like you were going through a phase, and it would pass.”

“It wasn’t about him. It was about a lot of things, I was going through a lot, and I don’t think I really ever explained it to either of you,” I reply, softening.

Martin’s eyes are filled with sadness. I expected him to be angry, to be the same as he’d been when I last saw him a decade ago, but something within that time period changed him. Maybe it was Mom dying, maybe it’s the fact he’s been alone all these years. For the first time, I feel like he’ll listen to me. I take a deep breath, brush the hair out of my eyes, and shift my body forward.

“You need to understand; this isn’t a phase. I’ve always been like this, and I tried so hard to deny it and carry on pleasing you. Wrestling, church, Jenni, all of that was to try and hide who I was. But I’m not a boy. I never was. I’m not dressing up because I want to pretend; it’s because this is who I am. I know it’s not what the church taught, but it’s reality. I’m a woman, and no amount of therapy, talking, or arguing is going to change that.”

I realize that I’m on the defensive, and I decide to take a couple of steps backward to keep the conversation on track.

“I’m sorry. I lashed out at you both because when Trump was elected, I felt so…alone. I felt like the world was out to get me, like it hated me for being who I was. I was so afraid and angry, and I took it out on both of you and pushed you away. I didn’t even see Mom before she died. I’ll never get to tell her…that I loved her.”

Martin rubs my hand. Kathy comes over and places a cup of coffee in front of him, but she quickly reads the room, says she’ll give us a few more minutes, and hurries off to her next table. Thirty years of customer service at its finest.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t, I just don’t understand. I don’t think I ever will. But I’m tryin’ my best. Just please, give me a chance. You’re the only family I have left. You don’t gotta prove nothing to me, I’ll swallow that much. Just, I wanna tell you that I love you, Red.”

Tears fall from my eyes, one landing in my coffee cup. I lean over the table, knocking the saltshaker over.

“That’s all I wanted. That’s all I wanted to hear for so long. I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Red.”

He hugs me back, and I feel his warm, strong arms wrapping around me. Tears stream down my face as I take deep breaths, feeling his heart against mine.

I guess I won’t be needing that hotel room after all.

******

I shake my head as my daydreams end. It’s 11:04, and I realize I’m still sitting at my booth in the diner. I look down at the table, staring at my own reflection in the glossy plastic that lines the wood. I see myself. It’s incredible to look at my reflection and just see myself.

From the corner of my eye, I can see his white 2006 Buick pulling into the parking lot. I see him climbing out of the front seat and slowly walking up the ramp to the diner’s entrance. He seems frailer, more measured in his steps. I take another sip of my coffee and watch the doors, waiting for whichever one to swing open.

David Armstrong

Whichever Way the Door Swings

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