by Leila Pakawongse

My father. 
He likes to smile when he meets people, maybe crack a joke if it’s appropriate, sometimes even when it’s not.  Most of the time it’s not.  He throws his head back, shows the under of his chin and the crookedness of his teeth.  That’s his signature laugh.  Now if some joke of his is really funny: he curls his body inward, like he’s had a good night of drinking and just took in the shot to pass the limit, grabs his stomach and chuckles.
His name is Sid.  He likes to be called Sid-Vicious.  Yes, that’s hyphenated.  Sometimes I call him Fa-Ja, again, hyphenated.  Fa-Ja.
He wears only sweats, Nike or Adidas, only the best.  My Uncle’s wedding, sweats.  My brother’s graduation, sweats.  The tennis shoes.  So key to his look, oh, and the cap.  One can never tell if he is ready to embark on a sweat run, a baseball game, or a relaxing walk around the town.  I’d tell you about the fanny pack, but I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of him. 
Did I mention that I am Asian?  Therefore, my father is Asian.  He has a thick Thai accent which is hard enough to distinguish without racking your brain of geography facts and locating Thailand.  For your information, people who speak Thai do not come from Taiwan, as I’m asked all the time.  He was born in Thailand, with ten brothers and sisters.  Now you might think that is an exaggeration.  It’s not.  He came to America following my mother.  You might think that is an exaggeration.  It’s not. 
They arrived in their twenties.  He didn’t know English but the first thing he did was go to the DMV.  Tired of walking, he wanted to drive.  He got an appointment to test that same day, got in the car and drove it out of the lot.  He didn’t realize he received an automatic fail for having left the driving test inspector behind.  The second time he drove off the lot, it took him seven blocks to realize the little old man had tried to stop him for driving with the emergency brakes on.  It took him a couple tries, to say the least.
But my father does anything but let something slip through his grasp.  My mother told him that she’d come back from Thailand.  He got on a plane and followed her to America.  She said that they’d get married when they were with all their family back home.  He took her to City Hall and got hitched that day.
For the sake of his high blood pressure I am going to change the names of those involved and tweak the story a bit, but believe me, the root of the story is true. 

The Boy.
My boyfriend had been kicked out of his house, for reasons that need not be mentioned.  Well, I just may mention them.  He skipped two months, one week and three days of classes.  Needless to say, his parents were a little disappointed with him.  So homeless and hungry, we devised the plan for a little sleepover at mi casa.  Now if you’ve never been introduced to an Asian man who fathered a XX chromosome, you have not yet known someone so strict.  Asian fathers are notorious for setting curfew before the sun goes down, for keeping an invisible, yet tight, leash upon their daughters and for speaking an entirely different language when it comes to dating, at any point before marriage.  Somehow marriage is supposed to occur without meeting said husband and or touching said husband.  Touching, big no no. 
The plan: 10:00 pm, around the cars, through the backyard, up the stairs over the neighbors cat and at the door, he ran into my room.  He had never been to my house before so he ran into the bathroom instead. 
Another side note for the history of Asian fathers.  If a daughter wanted to present said daughter’s father the boy she is dating or wishes to date, the daughter must realize that the boy in question will be cease in existence.  I kid you not.
So this plan had worked out decently.  Except that the invited guest, snores.  Now I was unaware of this little fact, and while I had hoped that my father was a deep sleeper, I knew he wasn’t.  Years of sleeping with nine other companions had caused him to wake up at all times in the night while his brothers and sisters used the restroom.  I had closed the door to the stairwell, the door to the living room and the door to my room.  None of which had locks.  I could hear his foot steps of the sandals he wore in the house coming nearer.  My father has a foot thing and hates that they touch the ground, he wears sandals in the house, don’t judge.  He pushed the door open to hear his little daughter snoring. 
“LEILA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
So that’s what you think he would say.
In actuality, this is what I heard, “RRRRRREEEERRRRRRAAAA!!!!”
“Fa-Ja?”
“What you dooo-en?”
“Nothing.  I mean, sleeping.”
….
“Oooo-Gay.”
Did I mention my father has poor eye sight?  And also, that his ‘K’ and ‘G’ tend to get mixed?  Laugh, it’s ok, I do.

The Brother.
I have an older brother.  He’s approximately three years, three months and three times two days older than me.  Approximately.  I know this because my father has to write down our birthdays every year on a calendar.  He forgets.
It was the New Year of 2005.  My brother, Mr. Big Shot and Short Stuff, had come home.  Well, stumbled home.  I let him fiddle with the house keys a solid seven minutes before I opened the door.  He had doughnut glazed eyes and a red face that wasn’t caused by his acne.  He laughed when he saw me.  I laughed when I saw him.  It was a mutual fascination.
I sat my brother down, took off his rather smelly shoes, grabbed his hand and helped him up our fifteen-step stairs.  For only being five foot eight inches, he was pretty darn heavy.  He fell on the third step, he fell again on the seventh step.  I don’t need to say anymore.
When we finally got to his bed, pops had woken up from the commotion. 
“Kee-thaaat? [Keita]”
It’s hard to translate my fathers version of Thai/English into writing.  He’s planning on a releasing an album soon, combining both cultures greatest hits.  I hope your purchase will bring you one step closer to understanding his greatness.
“Wassup dad-y-o?”  That was actually a quote.
“Ben alli?”  Which in Thai comes out to mean, “What’s wrong with you?”  but what my brother heard was,
“Berry high?  No high.  Jus drunk.”
Dope.  I guess it works out that my father can’t hear either.
“Ooo-Gay.  RreeeRraaa, go to sleep.  Ma [mom] and I try to sleep.  You make too much noise.”
My brother’s drunk appearance at our house is nothing, I mean nothing in comparison to my father’s greatest moments.

The Dad.
I found a picture of him in an old album.  He was wearing poofy neon pants, a side ways cap and a fanny pack.  The fanny pack, mind you, he still sports every day.  His shirt said,
One Tequila
Two Tequila
Three Tequila
Floor.

He and my mother like to go out and listen to live music.  I think it brings back some sort of nostalgia.  My mother was in a band, “Four Fingers” or “Three Toes,” I’ll have to ask her.  Sid-Vicious was their biggest fan.  So now a day, when they want to travel back to their musically talents ways, they go to the Marriot, next to the Marina.  High Class and Big Rollers.  That’s what my dad says.  Every time they return at mid-night and I greet them at the door.
“HELLL-OOOOOOOO-O”
“Have fun Fa-Ja?”
“Mucho gracias.  Thas Spanish.  Some one come by and say I have nice socks.  I realize, I DO have nice socks.”
He throws his leg on the living room chair, pulls up his Nike sweats and shows me his socks.  Tube socks.  He so proud.
“Momma, what did he drink tonight?”
“Long Island Ice Tea.”
“How many?”
“Just one.”
Oh dad.  In the living room you can see him walking around, he sees himself in the reflection of a picture frame and he laughs.  If you don’t remember his laugh, reread the second paragraph.
My father has a little collection going.  Shot glasses.  But that‘s one the side.  His big passion, hard liquor bottles.  He cleared out the medicine cabinet and neatly arranged all the bottles inside.  When the collection reached the capacity of the cabinet, he went out and bought a five hundred dollars glass showcase.  Only the best.  He has two of every liquor bottle.  His theory:  when my brother and I inherit the collection, instead of bickering over who gets the Cognac or the Jack Daniels, we would be able to have a bottle of every name.

Fa-Ja.
He loves soccer.  Well, he loves to watch my brother play soccer.  I was always dragged along to watch with him which meant I gave up my Saturday mornings.  It was ok, though, as you may have noticed, he’s a pretty entertaining man. 
We’d sit on the sidelines of the opposing team, only because my father didn’t want to mingle with the other parents and brag about his son, or more so, hear other parents brag about their sons.  We had lawn chairs that had the Dallas Cowboys logo on the back and side containers to hold beer, I mean, water.
There was always the problem of the sun getting in our eyes, or else the sweats being too unbearable for my father to wear while sitting.  Little Mr. Problem Solver found an umbrella and a little stand to prop it up. Amazing.
Biggest game of the season, the final, the championship, the culmination of the year… whatever you want to call it, it was big.  We had found the perfect spot, set up camp and basked in the breeze as the game started.  Twenty minutes into the game, the wind started to kick up.  The blanket I had brought had started to billow against my body and the hat my dad was wearing was stabilized on his head by his hand.  The umbrella started to rattle in it’s stand.
And then it flew onto the field.
Animal instincts kicked in and my father started to run after the umbrella.  A little shocked at the situation and a little shocked at his quickness and agility, I ran after him.
There we were, running across the field of the biggest match, chasing none other than an umbrella.
After our little adventure, we returned to our seats and quietly let the game proceed.  My brother ran up to us, smiled and said,
“Only you two.”