Come Undone

1

Dad Shoes

“Do you want to have children,” she said with just a hint of a Beijing accent.

There was no question mark because it wasn’t a question. And she was right not to ask: I was a thirty-­eight-­year-­old Asian American man; it was unquestionably time for me to have children.

“Do you want to order entrées first?” I joked.

“You order. Be a man.”

Camantha was her name. Pronounced like “Samantha,” she told me. “But with C, so spicy.”

I got set up with her through Benicio, a contemporary-­art dealer who represented some artists from her family’s gallery in Beijing. Part of Benicio’s service to the family was finding Camantha a suitable partner in L.A., where they’d relocated her.

Benicio invited me to a show at his gallery to meet Camantha, but before we were even introduced she caught my eye, because she is objectively stunning and visibly miserable at the same time, a dish I tend to order if it’s on the menu. She also had Rick and Morty drawn onto the side of her orange Birkin like it was a twenty-­dollar bong. It was a hideous bag, the equivalent of burning bricks of cash in public, which got me hot and bothered since I also enjoy financially self-­destructive behavior.

• • •

We had the bread and butter, a crudo, and a roast duck breast with root vegetable puree, morels, and an onion relish, as well as a fillet of hake with potatoes au gratin.

She chose the kale salad with some farmers-­market nepo citrus named after the granddaughter of a producer of Everybody Loves Raymond backed the restaurant.

To me, a menu is giving corny, unsustainable late-­stage capitalism when everything down to the lineage of the citrus is a nod to the restaurant’s financiers.

Hailey Rosenthal’s Clementines
Julien Cave’s Chocolate Chip Cookie
Stephanie’s Tuna Fish Sandwich

As I considered the concept of illuminati produce, Camantha volleyed another statement-question.

“Benicio tell me that you have food travel show, Dad Shoes.”

“Yeah, I host Dad Shoes.”

“So why you have show about dad if you don’t want to be one?”

Dad Shoes is the name of my food travel show because I’m known for my stupid sneaker collection. Originally the name of the show was Hubie’s World, but when we went out for a new brand partner post-­pandemic, there was a sneaker brand resurrecting the Dad Shoe aesthetic that had marketing money to flush, so that became the name of our show.

“I mean, I always figured I’d love someone enough to be a dad, like I figure I’ll change the batteries in my smoke alarm, but instead I just let it beep until the battery dies.”

“How long does that take?”

“About three months.”

That got a laugh out of her.

“Wow, you are not shit,” she said.

“It’s important you remember that if we are going to be friends.”

Her smile vanished. “Who said anything about being friends?”

• • •

Things were great for about eight weeks.

I’d take her out to dinner, then we’d meet her friends in Ktown, West Hollywood, or Beverly Hills, since she only hung out with other upwardly mobile East Asians who drove Lamborghini Uruses and tagged their Birkins.

One night early on, she invited me to a twenty-­person dinner at Madeo—­an Italian restaurant tucked into the 1 Hotel off Sunset. I showed up wearing a waffle-­knit Auralee sweatshirt and nondescript Evan Kinori pants. Both garments are technically engineered to look weathered, effortlessly chic, and a touch proletariat, but come numbered out of a run of 150 and cost about seven hundred dollars, so it was all a lie.

I admittedly dress for other men who are into menswear or women that lean into being girls’ girls so hard that they come out the other side of the horseshoe as tomboys dating ancient skaters and other derelict types.

Camantha was neither of these things.

On this night, she was wearing a full Bottega Veneta maxi dress that I have to imagine was in the range of three to five thousand dollars. I went to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she turned her face at the last second, making us look a lot more serious than we actually were, locking lips on arrival.

When I turned to face the rest of the dinner party, all eyes were on us. Some of her friends smiled, some frowned, others hid their expressions behind a drink.

“Wassup,” I said, since there was an awkward silence and eighteen people looking at me.

“Heyyyy!” they said sort of collectively.

At that moment I realized this was a setup. They had all come to meet Camantha’s man.

I really didn’t want to go down the line meeting each person, but that’s what happened.

“I’m Joe.”

“I’m Vivienne.”

“I’m Joseph.”

“I’m Veronica.”

“I’m Frank.”

“I’m Valerie.”

“I’m Freddy.”

“I’m Vicky.”

“I’m Francis.”

“I’m Victoria.”

I swear to god 75 percent of the women had names that started with V and every man was some variation of Joe, Freddy, or Frank, besides one guy named Eagle and another who named himself Bob, after Cheddar Bob from 8 Mile.

Most of the men had on monochromatic or iridescent dress shirts, blazers, or bedazzled T-­shirts or monogrammed tops. Eagle was wearing the monogrammed Bur­berry shirt that is a staple at any out-­of-­wedlock baby shower.

The women were all dressed like extras from Bling Empire: lot of Versace, Tribute heels everywhere, and Chanel flap bags. A deranged Off-­White crossbody bag made an appearance.

I was astounded by how much evidence of poorly spent money was in the room, which coincidentally made me dumb hard. My therapist got a lot to say about the shit, but nothing turns me on like botched surgery, misplaced Botox, or a beautiful timepiece devalued by aftermarket ice.

Vulgarity really will have me sucking my teeth at a chick like Bust Down Keanu Reeves.

After going around the table, Vivienne popped the question. “So, Hubie, how serious are you about our girl Camantha?”

I hadn’t given it much thought but nervously decided to deflect by channeling Ben Stiller from Meet the Parents instead of sorting through my emotions in the moment and giving a genuine answer.

“I’d say strong to very strong.”

“Strong to very strong?” she responded quizzically.

“I mean serious to very serious.”

I put a hand on Camantha’s thigh for effect and looked to her eyes.

Vivienne, Victoria, Veronica, and the other V girls giggled, which I took as approval.

• • •

I think I had a gut feeling it was never going to work, because Camantha cared what other people thought.

Camantha cared how her parents felt; she was part of a friend group whose respect she wanted, while I had committed to resenting anyone else’s opinion by about eighth grade. I didn’t give a f*** about my parents’ much less anyone else’s.

I was simply horny for Camantha, and despite being assigned Socrates in a high school humanities class, it never occurred to me to get to know myself enough to understand why I was attracted to her.

I just got in where I fit in.

• • •

Dinner was feeling a little intense and I have irritable bowel syndrome, so after I dropped a heater in the bathroom, I stepped out to smoke a joint. When I got outside, I rummaged through my pockets and realized that I’d left my lighter at home. One of the Freddys with an iridescent button-­down from dinner was outside as well, but I didn’t want to get