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Top 40 on the Radio
I rode in the car while you drove
I was teaching you how to drive, but really I was trying to convince myself that I was your hero. And you were trying to learn how to drive a car, but really you were trying to figure out how to get away from me.
You had both hands on the wheel, white knuckles, eyes locked on the pavement, and you stayed in the middle of the road. I swear you were sweating. American Top 40 of November 2014 played on the radio.
I instantly regretted it when the car lurched forward. But I appreciated that you kept your speed low, and I thought it was funny to watch you, normally so sauve and in control, lose your cool and panic. It made me love you.
You weren't supposed to be driving. You were totally deaf and it was dangerous. We weren't supposed to be in love: we were Mormon missionaries and we weren't supposed to have these feelings for each other. Looking back, watching myself watch you, I can draw a straight line between how my father ignored me as a kid, and why I wanted to spend all my time with you.
It's funny, because, to our own people, to the Mormons, we were this horrid taboo. Abomination, that was a favorite word. I know that all young people in love think this, but for our case, I can confidently say that most people wouldn't understand. We were a deaf, South Asian guy from Bacolod, and an anorexic white kid from the American Southeast, living in San Jose and navigating a secret gay relationship because we were also both Mormon missionaries who no longer bought what the Church was selling, and as far as changing things, you didn't want to and I didn't have the means. What would people have even said?
It doesn't really matter, in the end: no one else was in the car with us.
I was just trying to please you, by letting you drive. That was the crux of our whole relationship, really. Let me please you. But it was really arrogance, of a kind. I assumed that I could offer you this world you'd been denied, that I could bring you to life. I could be your knight in shining armor. I could teach you to love yourself. I could teach you to smile. I could teach you to drive. And even with all of it, I was watching you and smiling, and I meant it.
It's sad, because that's the kind of thing I would like to call you up and discuss. But, I called you about two years ago and you pretended to forget my name. But not even you can make me hate you, and, god, it's been eleven years, man. It would've been nice just to reminisce.
