The Life My Grandfather Never Lived

by Maximus Tsou

My parents envisioned me as their successor, the son who would take over the family restaurant.

Their hope was that the day I assumed responsibility, the restaurant would be profitable enough

to run. They put me on the register, the counter it was placed on right alongside the entrance of

the shop. From the entrance, I could look out the window and stare at all the people going about

their day. It was a smart move really. What young, coming of age, college student on the

precipice of having kids themselves could resist watching a little kid work the register? They

cooed and awed at me from the sill, finding it adorable that my stubby legs and hands barely

reached the tray of money.

Business was good. Customers flocked to our restaurant in droves. The dings of the

register opening and closing with each sale brought them one step closer to their dreams. The

dream of creating a successful family business. But what about my dreams? The question hung

itself in the back of my mind, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Even as the money rolled in, I

could not find happiness in their success. Was this what I wanted? To be a posterboy, a stepping

stool to their means? Despite the rush of activity in the shop each day, life as a cashier was

dreadfully boring. While they counted the bills in the back, I was left with nothing for myself,

my labor nothing more than an endless cycle of monotony, done for the sake of living. I began to

understand why you abandoned your life as a fisherman in the Mekong River.

“Mother, I don’t want this business.” I told her one day.

She returned me a look of incredulity.

“I want to be a writer.”

She paused for a moment, before getting up to leave the room, the look of disappointment

flashed across her face. My mother was the vocal type; she would yell whenever she became

angry or frustrated. She was the kind of person who requested to see the manager when her meal

wasn’t in order. But the times where she went silent, that was when she was truly furious. She

would be filled with so much anger that no amount of words could describe her emotions. And

why wouldn’t she be angry? Her son just professed to wanting to follow the steps of her failed

father, dreaming of a life away from family. There was nothing that I could say that would

appease my mother, not then and not now.

My mother returned down the stairs with thunderous footsteps. The look on her face went

from mild disappointment to wildly murderous. She brought to me a stack of papers and shoved

them in my face.

“Look at your grandfather’s work!” she screamed. “Look at what his writing brought us!”

They were all letters and notes of rejections, written and stamped by various publications

you presumably tried to publish to. Some were partially torn, while others were wrinkled at the

edges. Your writing was unmistakable, the same penmanship that I read over and over again in

your notebook. It seemed that of all your stories, none of them ever did sell themselves.

“I will not have you bring shame to this family!” she screamed. “You will take over the

business and forget about writing.”

...

Writing never really came easy to me. In my head are the most spectacular ideas known to man,

but I fear when I must take pen to paper, I will ruin those ideas forever because I cannot find the

right words to express them. Each letter, each word, each sentence had to have a purpose. I

remember hearing from someone saying that writers love to have written, but hate to actually

write.

In the weeks leading up to your funeral, some creative switch flipped in your brain. You

refused to put down your pen and notebook, writing in every single waking second. You were a

beautiful creature to behold, an artist with nothing left to lose. Your pen flowed across the page,

its ink leaving behind a trail of wonderful and magnificent tales. Rarely did you ever lift your

hand from the page for anything other than to eat or sleep. Once the nurse tried to pry your

canvas out of your hands so that you could take your medicine. She ended up with several

stitches in her arms and serving you a letter of intent to sue.

There was no one left for you to look after now. My grandmother had moved out of the

house a long time ago, unable to stand the shop you ran. My mother had run off to America,

taking me with her, in hopes of finding her future there. Your ‘friends’ that helped fund your

shop came to demand the money they invested returned, but left as soon as they realized you

were a dead man walking. At last, there was nothing holding you back from pursuing your plans

and no one left to care for you as you slowly withered away in your hospital bed.

But you never did seem happy. In the few times I visited you, a frown worked its way

onto your face and made itself a home. What is it, you were muttering, what is it that I’m looking

for? Indeed, what were you looking for? What did you have to gain from all this relentless

writing? Perhaps you were still looking for that final bit of inspiration, the one that would finally

finish the stories you’ve been hoping to publish for your whole life. I understand now the

frustration you must have felt writing in your notebook. To stare at a blank canvas with no idea

grand enough to grace its surface. Or, to be at the cusp of completing a story, but unable to find a

suitable ending. Maybe that’s why you were unhappy, not because of death, but because you

realized that you will never see your stories to completion.

The final story I have of you is of a frail figure lying on the sheets, veins bulging against

old skin. Tubes and wires criss-crossed each other from the several machines surrounding you,

beeps and whirring filled the room. You look defeated, forlorn, your frown transformed into

complete misery. You were still writing, trying to finish your story, but the joy and passion it

once brought you seemed to have left you, like everyone else in your life. This was not how I

wanted to remember you. But that was how your story ended. Penniless, broke, and alone.

...

The funeral was a small, quiet ceremony attended by few, and your death affecting even fewer.

For all the stories I’ve conjured about you from my family, your death seemed to be a

disappointing ending for leading such a colorful life. My mother could not bring herself to

appear. She didn’t have any kind words to leave you. She called you a scoundrel, a liar, a

worthless bag of shit, a failure. But she still mourned you like any daughter would her father. At

home, she shut herself behind the bedroom wall and sobbed her heart out. She cried well into the

night, her weeping soaking itself into our walls, and etching her grief into the floorboards. That

was the state of our house when I returned from your funeral. There was more intense sorrow

here than in any parting word uttered when we buried you. And found myself mourning along

with my mother.

My father was raised in a household where men could not show emotion. That anything

other than anger was a sign of weakness. He was the type of man who hated crying and slapped

you before telling you to get over it. So that’s what he did when he found me crying over your

death. I did not blame him for slapping me then and I still don’t blame him now. Everything he

heard about you came from my mother. To him, you were someone unworthy of my love, my

time, my tears.

“You don’t know him.”

In a way, he was right. I did not know the person that my mother knew. I never did get the

chance to meet you. This person who amassed the scorn and hatred that fills the mouths of so

many who speak of you today. My parents never allowed me to visit you, the shame of your

failure still permeating their minds. What little I know of you are the stories you left behind in

your notebook. Tales of grandeur and grander adventures filling the space between the lines,

detailing the life you never lived. I had to imagine my time with you, imagine what you were like

in the writing of your notebook. I would like to think I was your favorite grandchild, that you

would spoil me every holiday or family get together with a new gift or toy. But my favorite

stories were of us, sitting on the riverbed, watching the water and fish go by, wondering of a life

further beyond.

Perhaps then, my mother did not truly know you either. She never bothered to read your

notebook, unable to hold the physical manifestation of your failed hopes and dreams. Not once

did you ever pursue your ambitions to become a writer. You were always waiting for that piece,

that final slice of inspiration that would finish the story you claimed would change the world.

But the inspiration never came, and your story sat in your notebook, unattended, like a corpse in

a coffin.

Maybe that’s why I was crying for you on the cold, cloudy Saturday morning we buried

you. The lid of the coffin closed for the final time, the words uttered for you then would be the

last anyone would speak of you. Because the world never got the chance to mourn for the

grandfather I knew and loved.

Max is a writer who uses stories as a vehicle to explore unique journeys and exotic worlds that can exist well beyond the boundaries of this universe. He is a college graduate from the University of California, Riverside where he is a Psychology major with a minor in Creative Writing. He writes to share those unknown worlds with those who are looking for a life beyond the mundane.