Free 98 Wounds by Justin Chin Page A

week in supplication so that God would find a good wife for him.
    I was the best man at my brother’s wedding, I love my sister-in-law, I simply adore my little nieces to whom I am the wacky uncle who buys them amazing books and scads of completely impractical but absolutely fabulous presents.
    I love my mom, she is so beyond PFLAG already. She’s going to fast and pray to God, that’s with a capital G, the Big Man as seen in the pages of the Holy Bible, Jehovah, Yahweh — the same God that Baptist conventioneers pray to in order to save the known Earth from wooly shit-stabbing perverts — and she’s going to beseech Him to find me a partner. “I truly believe that God has a good man in store for you,” she tells me. “And you know what would be nice?” she says, “It’d be so much better if you fasted and prayed at the same time with me!” Okay, that I can surely do.
    Five days later, Mom calls and asks how my fasting and praying is going; she has been steadfast in her faith. At that moment when she called, I was sitting with a box of Popeye’s Fried Chicken in my lap, watching Mixed Martial Arts on cable.
    I like fried chicken because it is chicken, and it is fried.

    Chapter 15, verse 34 of The Gospel According to St. Mark tells us that “at the ninth hour, Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eloi Eloi, lama sabachtani?’ which is interpreted, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’“

    Life is difficult, and I am a useless, useless person. Look to the language, I’ve been told. But we all have the same language, used in the same epoch; we all have the same raw ingredients. Except some folks will make a lovely marinated smoked herring, to be served with a marsala custard on homemade pancakes. Some will make a good, filling unpretentious ham and cheese sandwich. And there are those content with an oily but tasty take-away with dubious nutritional value. And then there’s McDonald’s. This is why I hate cooking shows on television and why I love movies where the Amish fall in love; which is all neither here nor there, but I already told you I was useless.

    I am checked into a room in the tower of Babel. It is a tall building with many rooms. I wander through hallways and corridors rushed with the colors and soundtrack to this life. Somewhere at this time, somewhere in the world, someone is falling in love to Sam Cooke crooning That’s Heaven To Me , and here, in this one room, I will find my love. Here in this room, there is nothing that cannot be named, and nothing that needs to be. He speaks to me in barbed wire and I reply in gasoline. He kisses me fire-ragged and I smooch back lava-perfect. We crucify, we resurrect, we beloved, we end, we begin. We know. We tender. We open wide enough for birds to fly through and nest wherever they should desire. And in this one room, I know what it is to be happy.
    I’ve been told that there is a Japanese word for something that is made more beautiful by its use. I know there is a French word for the trail a scent leaves in its wake. There is a Dayak word that could mean either nausea or affection, all depending on the context, tone, circumstance, and the relation between the speaker and the subject. That’s the sort of guy I want to be when I’m tormented by love and its bafflements. But I don’t even have the proper words to describe what I want to be, how pathetic is that? Love, that cocksucker. Oh, if only there was truth in naming.
    I used to want a daddy. Now, I want a daddy to mother me.

    I still sleep on one side of the bed. I still love the way guys smell. I still harbor in my heart something that resembles hope but is not it. And I still want to see the ending that has yet to been written.
    I still want to be king.

    And in spite of it all, I still do love my life in all its queer permutations. Even on the days when I so desperately want to be saved,