And now for a little present …
This little story didn’t make it in time for this hot dog … but it is loved all the same.
I got out of work early today, I thought it would have been a good night to do some cooking, try one of the recipes from that spatula girl blog, but I’m f-ing tired, so bibimbap it is, again. Take out. It’s a bibimbap and Dexter night.
So I went to the gimbap heaven in the bottom floor of my building, “bibimbap ssah joo say yo…” I mumble sweetly. I don’t know what this means exactly, but it gets me what I want: rice, with vegetables, spicy sauce, and a fried egg in a large Styrofoam bowl and then covered with plastic wrap, usually a side of gakdugi and chemical-yellow pickled radish, and some kind of clear-broth soup.
After 7 or 8 minutes of staring I exchange 4 blue paper rectangles for my parcel and, string together a bunch of syllables in a sugary affectation of a voice (which sounds more foreign to me than the words I’m using), that I hope will be construed as me saying “thank you. goodbye.”
Me and my bibimbap hop in the elevator and ride it to the 15th floor. I sometimes enjoy being in this elevator, hustling silently against gravity in a fluorescent chamber, lined with mirrors, usually when I’m alone and slightly drunk. But right now, I’m neither. Beside me is Shawn. A 22-year old boy with a short neck and big hands who lives on the 17th floor, #8. I know this because I woke up there 2 Saturdays ago wearing the dress I wore out Friday night, with nothing on underneath. We don’t have much to say to each other. So he asks me what’s going on tonight. His voice makes me want to throw up, so I say a lot of unnecessary and awkard things while examining my knuckles. I have successfully prevented him from speaking again when I hear “sheep-oh-teem-nida” and say “see you later” and walk toward my room, praying the neighbors are not fucking again.
— Rachel Hinkle