Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,5

of the old craftsman with our stomps and jumps and sprints. When clients—all immigrant mom-n-pops from the neighborhood, understandably intimidated by American tax law—would happily toss back any toy balls or vehicles that happened to stray into the living room, where Mom and Dad held meetings in English, simple Korean, and even simpler Spanish.

It was also the time when Gray helped me make my first costume—a tinfoil helmet—so that I could play squire to his knight. Together we conquered the backyard lands and stacked the corpses of pillow goblins ten high, often joined by customers’ children enchanted by Gray’s charms. Even back then, Gray had charisma like no other.

Magic missile! Gray would scream. And I could practically see it!

Magic missile!

But.

Mom and Dad—hustling like hell all over every county in Southern Californialand—landed their first C-level client with C-level cash. After that, they could not imagine going back to the mom-n-pops with their handwritten checks and collateral jerk drumsticks.

Landing a few more C-level clients—all in Rancho Ruby, all acquired through word of mouth—enabled them to move us into the seven-bedroom monstrosity we lived in today.

“We’re here,” said Dad.

I jerked awake. The Inspire NV had taken us to the cartoonishly oversize carriage house of the Rancho Ruby Country Club. Three young valets—one for each of us—helped us out of the car. They wore hunter green. They were all Hispanic.

“Sup,” I said to my valet.

“Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Dae,” said the valet. He looked about twenty-one. Gray was twenty-one.

Dad handed him the key fob. “I appreciate everything you and your team do,” he said.

The valet, unaccustomed to such sincerity, brandished the fob with a smile.

“Of course, Mr. Dae,” said the valet.

Lion’s-head doors opened to reveal a heavily coffered oak corridor leading us toward the restrained din of a dark velvet cocktail lounge and beyond, deep into the cavern of the dining room proper to sit in deep leather booths as rusty crimson as a kidney.

A waiter—dressed in real steakhouse whites with a real towel draped over his forearm—led us to our booth.

“Thank you, Tony,” said Mom.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Dae,” said Tony. “Medium rares all around, extra au jus?”

“You know us so well,” said Mom.

The dining room murmured away, for this was where the serious networking happened; I watched Mom and Dad as they alternated between scanning the room and checking their phones, scanning and checking.

“Now, will we be needing this fourth place setting?” said Tony the waiter.

“Not tonight,” said Mom. She’d been saying this for three years now.

Tony began stacking the place setting.

In order to distract Tony, I pointed and said, “Is that stag head new?”

Tony glanced back at the wall, giving me time to palm a miniature teaspoon.

“That thing’s been creeping me out for years,” said Tony.

I glanced at Mom and Dad, but they of course did not notice my pilferage.

Tony whisked the plates and utensils away. That fourth place setting had been meant for Gray. It was sweet that the staff still put it out, just in case.

Gray had forgone college against Mom and Dad’s wishes. He was living forty minutes away in Hollywood, the glowing nexus of every dazzling arc light crisscrossing Los Angeles, and well on his way to becoming a rock star.

I imagined Gray, lit from all sides by flashbulb lightning.

“Honey, did you get my Hastings Company email?” said Mom, tapping at her phone. “They’re asking about reseller permits.”

“What the hell do we know about reseller permits?” said Dad.

“Just make something up, Mr. CEO,” said Mom.

“Fake it till you make it,” said Dad, and he high-fived Mom.

Then they returned to their phones.

“Sunny,” said Mom. “Did you get my email about later tonight?”

“Uh,” I said.

“I sent it this morning?” said Mom, growing disappointed in her son. Tony swept a drink in front of her, and she swept it to her mouth for a sip in a fluid motion without breaking eye contact with me.

I was terrible at email. I would leave it unchecked for days at a time. Email was the awkward transitional technology between snail mail and texting. Pick one or the other. Even the word email—electronic mail—sounded vintage, like horseless carriage.

Mom frowned. “Your morning email is what sets the tone for the rest of your day.”

“Email is fundamentally incompatible with my workflow,” I said.

Dad raised his eyebrows as he worked his phone. “I got your email, dude. The Sohs, right?”

“Yap,” said Mom. Something appeared on her extremely large smartwatch, and she flicked it away. “So, to reiterate what was in the email: Our old friends from college,