Tommy Thompson trips over a precariously balanced stack of books
and magazines on the floor
Who is Tommy Thompson? Im sure hes not me. There are
no books on my floor right now. Could he perhaps be you? Might he
be like you? Your name, or my name for that matter, does not begin
with a T, but you have books on the floor, right? I dont think
Tommy is you, really. So dont get annoyed with me, if I hit
a nerve. If I describe Tommy, and you notice some shared personality
trait or coincidental bit of an experience, dont suspect I
am spying on you! Dont shut the window or set the paper down.
Tommy is not you! He - and Tommy is a man and has to be, or should
be. He cant be a woman, and I wouldnt want him to be
one, even if every woman in the world read this story. Tommy is
not I, not you, and hes not real. Obviously, you know this,
because you are an intelligent person. I just wanted to warn you,
before you accepted what Im saying uncritically. Theres
no reason for you to assume Im doing this for your own good.
Really, I have plenty of other motives. I wouldnt !
torture a character like Im going to just for you. I dont
like him, but you can, if you want.
and curses aloud. The room resembles a cave full of stalagmites.
A momentary urge to arrange the mess into a less irksome kind of
messiness quickly subsides. It is two days since So-eun had last
visited the apartment. Why didnt she clean up the last time,
Tommy gripes to himself. Tommy has chestnut brown hair with this
peculiar wavy disposition. Like a mood ring, Tommys coarse
piles of hair adjust their relationship with the atmosphere in a
manner oddly correlated to Tommys frame of mind. This morning
the right half of his thick, unwashed mane hangs limply, and the
left is defying gravity to join the right half. His dark blue eyes
also refuse to observe anything but the door. The blue knots on
his shaky hands testify to his lack of sleep, a lazy refusal to
eat breakfast, and a hangover. His coat is also out of easy reach,
and his feet are bare. His brown corduroys, t-shirt, and skin-tight
flannel sweatshirt are generally arranged functionally on his body,
although the bu!
ttons, zippers, and outer ends dont line up. Tommy is late
for work as usual. He continues his invective against chaos all
the way through his final dressing routine, until, hidden beneath
a heavy, woolen overcoat, he looks like any other person on the
street hurrying somewhere. Any anxiety about locking the door is
remote from the furious cacophony of unintelligible stream of electro-magnetic
clutter in his head.
Suddenly, he realizes he has forgotten his backpack. Maneuvering
over scattered patches of ice makes walking challenging, but now
his worn soles increase the interval between the disorganized commands
in his brain and his recalcitrant body even more problematic. Tommy
is a textbook case of how the laws of physics are not always intuitive.
Tommy is a graceless jet aircraft, a one-dimensional buckyball,
a ponderous crystal. The front door is indeed still unlocked, but
shut. The backpack, in the corner with a pile of slippers and shoes,
is laden with heavy books. Inside are some books: a pocket thesaurus,
a tattered Clancy novel, musty, hardback Websters dictionary,
a pristine Little and Browns text, and a dog-eared English
textbook. There are also two half-used lip balms, 1, 450 won in
small coins, at least fifteen crumpled receipts, three months worth
of statements from his employer (exactly the amount of time since
he had sent money home), six ATM withdrawal chits, three p!
acks of gum, and six pens, three of which are dry.
Grunting, Tommy, befuddled, starts the race before the rest of
his body is ready. The key drops to the concrete slab and disappears
in the web-choked slot .
Perhaps, this is too much. He might be too much like you, but definitely
not me. Fast forward to the overpass.
The first victim of haste is common sense, at least in Tommys
case. Overpasses are questionable conveniences in winter. The wind
seems to swirl under and over and through them, but ice sticks directly
to them. Even in a traffic jam, a young man in a hurry, with one
thin layer of tattered frocks, threadbare shoes, and a rightward
lean, should avoid an overpass in winter. In addition, theres
the stress of the shallow-stepped stairs ascending and descending,
all the pedestrians jostling for position, and luck. The overpass
chooses Tommy this morning.
It is very late, too - late enough for the vendors to be out and
set in their temporary fixtures on the street and on the overpass.
Tommy is not only late; he is derelict. He forgot his cellular phone;
the one Blue bought him last month .
Blue is Tommys other Korean girlfriend. Well, girlfriend
is not exactly correct. Tommy is Blues toy, one of three toys,
as a matter of fact, but a fact of which Tommy is blissfully unaware.
before one of her Sunday morning appearances at Tommys
door. That is important, because Tommy does not wear a wristwatch.
But then again, buried under a pile of discarded clothes, as it
is right now, Tommy is spared from hearing the three increasingly
belligerent messages from his boss in broken English and the considerably
more generous one from Robert, the expatriate teachers representative.
Even with all the congestion on the overpass, it should be easy
for anyone to race across without too much hassle from the vendors.
Especially considering, that Tommy is American, and no one within
three blocks of him speaks even a smattering of broken English,
Tommy should pass unscathed. But today, Tommy will not be so lucky.
Tommy stanches the blood flowing from his palm and little finger
of his right hand. He chooses to ascend the left side of the stairs
exactly as a whole river of Korean students, businessmen, and housewives
are descending. Students squeeze against the rail, and Tommy is
forced through the interior of the flow. Some stop, some continue
inexorably downward, but a space opens around him. He reaches the
span only to collide with an old lady handing out flyers. Along
the right side of the span, vendors, behind makeshift tables and
sitting on blankets, block any quick path to the other stairs.
Hey, mister!
Through the magic of fiction, Im giving you this conversation,
translated and, I hope, realistic, for no extra fee. Its not
enough I have to provide a story in a daily-changing, yet fashionable
style, but now, in this globalized era, I have to translate every
Korean word, too. Of course, likely there are those of you who do
speak Korean out there, and no doubt youre carping on my skills.
Far be it from me to know whats going on in your mind, too.
But I know the English-speaking ones are oblivious to the gift Im
offering. Of course, Ill just let her speak English, because
as far as I care, Tommy is hearing English. Yes, I made that choice,
not him. He doesnt understand Korean, all right! Because if
he did understand Korean, then Id have to endure the whole
load of crap from Korean pundits. All that load of bull about transliteration
versus translation, or maybe you expect me to download some Hangul
program, so I can type in two languages! For crissakes, its
just a st!
ory, not a god damn political tract! Really, this job sucks! I became
a writer so I can torture imaginary people, so real people wouldnt
sue me, all right?
Hey, mister!
What is it, old lady? Oh, well, whats another
minute when youre already late!
Come here, mister! It is not the blind lady singing
what sounded like two cats fucking. Its not the umbrella vendor,
either. It is the hideously gnarled and hunchbacked creature perched
on the soiled patchwork quilt of a hundred pastel colors. It is
nearly impossible to see the little twist-tied baggies of olive-green
powder all over the blanket. Call it curiosity or a self-destructive
urge, but I will have him pause, although, to his credit, he is
impatient.
Sex power! Now, she does say this in English, with
a very pronounced Gyeongsang accent. She holds a baggie out for
Tommy to take, but he just stares incredulously at her. She is so
hideously unattractive, he thinks, she could be the devil himself.
Dont get the impression, that Tommy is devout or even philosophical.
I am referring to that foreboding of evil many of us get at certain
occasions, but cannot express intelligently.
OK, how much-che? Tommy eventually asks in his ignorant
attempt at comprehension.
1,450 won!
Tommy just flashes here a dirty look. You sure 1,000 won
wouldnt do? The old creature just chuckles and shakes
her head once. At this point Tommy realizes he has left his wallet
in another pair of pants. Sorry, lady! No cash!
Backpack! She points through him.
You want my backpack? Tommy smiles, and looks up, watching
the other vendors grinning at him.
Give me! The old lady is motioning with her hands,
but Tommy just starts laughing resignedly. Another woman manages
to get behind him, and she slides the strap off Tommys shoulder
without him noticing. She hands the bag to the old creature, even
though Tommy, a little more worried now, starts to protest. The
old creature just sifts through the main compartment, and then the
front pockets. One book, two baggies!
Just give it back! Tommy places little faith in Korean
police, and I will not let any appear in this narrative. Of course,
I really dont need to intervene, but for the sake of the rest
of the story, I promise not to let the police ruin any of Tommys
escapades. The old creature replies, that she does not understand
English, but Tommy did not know that. She was still inspecting each
pocket, overturning the backpack at one point, and letting all the
contents fall out. Fortunately, there is no wind. See!
Tommy points at a pile of coins. Money!
The old creature grabs the coins without counting them, and hands
Tommy back the nearly empty backpack. The one book remaining inside
the main compartment, the dictionary, falls out now, and lands on
his toes. Fortunately, Tommy is blessed with an unflappable disposition;
some might even call him a schmuck. Ten! the old creature
quotes her offer for the books and rubbish, excluding the dictionary.
Tommy tries to rub his toes without losing his balance, but he manages
to grab the books, leaving the rubbish and the coins for this creature,
which he is certain is evil. Loading the backpack again with his
back turned to her, he curses to himself. A few passers-by just
smirk. The same lady who had robbed him of his backpack, touches
his shoulder, and offers him a baggie of olive-green powder.
You should have given her the backpack! the younger
woman says, but Tommy does not understand Korean. He just snatches
the baggie and walks away quickly.
Walking fast, faster, and then through the doors. Up the stairs.
Into the teachers office, and now
Tommy! It is Roberts voice, but Tommy is still
rattled. Hey, buddy! You alright! Tommy just nods anxiously.
Robert grabs him by the arm, and together they furtively escape
into the hallway. In front of Room 158, Robert halts him. All
your classes today are in Room 158. Dont worry! Ill
bring the students to you. Dont come out of this room until
I tell you! Stay away from the boss! The only reason youre
still working is, because your 8 oclock class said they loved
you and didnt bitch! The boss knows, and we both know you
only have a few weeks left on your contract, but please try to be
on time! Robert gives him a strained smile and brushes back
his thinning hair, sighing. Tommy still has a deer-in-the-headlights
sort of look on his face. Oh, and Ill bring you food!
Around 3:30! He is then all the way down the hall and out
of view.
Nothing important happens at work. Fast forward. Walking home.
Nothing important. Dinner at a little Korean restaurant. Stir-fried
rice, a little sweet, and too much oil. Continuing home. Its
9:41 on a Monday night. Next door to the little store, though, is
a larger restaurant with more ornate décor. A Korean man
is meeting So-eun through the aid of a matchmaker. The man, in his
mid-thirties, is ten years older than So-eun, and fourteen years
older than Tommy. In about 30 minutes, So-eun will decide this doctor,
although he has very conservative views about married life and is
quite ugly, is a suitable man to marry.
Tommy trips over another stack of books. Tossing the scattered
hardbacks into the corner atop the pile of clothes, there is a crisp
thud. Rescuing his cellular phone from certain death from soot and
the remote possibility of laundering, he notices a message from
So-eun left at 6:30 early that evening: Call me now!
Hello, So-eun answers perfunctorily in Korean. The
noise in the background nearly drowns out her voice.
What do you want? Tommy simultaneously asks with a
little irritated.
There is definitely another voice in the background. Nothing!
What?
Can you call back in an hour?
Then why did you tell me to call now?
That was this afternoon. You sound grumpy! Go to sleep!
Im not grumpy. Im having a bad day!
Ok. Bye! And the phone disconnects before Tommy can
stop her. He throws the cellular phone back into the pile of clothes,
and collapses on the bed. About five minutes later he drifts into
a deep sleep lasting until the cell phone awakes him at 7:00 in
the morning.
Breakfast, the first order of the day, after taking a piss, is
a cup of milk and a small bag of Korean honey-coated baked grain
snacks, amazingly similar to childrens cereal. Tommy just
pours the milk into the foil bag, and stirs the resulting concoction
until it expands into a tan ball of dough. After a few minutes he
just slurps down the pulpy, sugary mess down in one gulp. As he
eats, with a dexterity deliberately practiced over many mornings,
he prepares a pot of coffee with one hand, and starts the coffee
maker. Then, he endures a very jarringly cold, limp shower in a
little cubicle adjacent to the narrow kitchenette.
Because the air is so frosty he dresses before he towels off, and
the coffee maker, just enough for a mug, finishes dripping. Tommy
is superstitious, and the apparently flawless unfolding of his morning
schedule augurs well for his fortunes that day. Tommy is not blessed
with a quick and reliable memory, so lets say the baggie full
of powder fell on the floor the night before. Lets not quibble
over modalities, all right? It is a small room, after all. Tommy
doesnt even have sugar. Actually, sometimes he just throws
honey puffs into the coffee. Today, though, he drops a few dashes
into his cheap, black coffee. He gulps down the dark green, bitter
sludge in a single gulp.
Fast forward through the day. Nothing special happens, just a whole
lot of blather in English, most of it beyond the comprehension of
his students. Ramyon for lunch. A few potato chip breaks washed
down with vendor coffee. Dinner at another little shop, this time
with a friend, Trevor, from work. They eat some Korean-style bacon
served with spicy chili paste, hand-sized leaves of lettuce, rice,
and a table full of pungent, fermented vegetables. Both are really
too hungry for memorable conversation, so lets fast-forward
again to Tin Pan Alley, a bar in the trendy city center.
Both Trevor and Tommy are drinking OB lagers, an inexpensive local
beer, and Bob Dylan is jamming with The Band on the television on
Forever Young. Trevor is leafing through a single-paged,
itemized list of American music selections, since neither of them
appreciates The Last Waltz. A woman bartender, Su-young (or Susie,
as most of the customers called her) is washing glasses behind the
counter in front of them. An obscenely hilarious plastic statue
of a laughing Buddhist monk in a prone position, holding his belly,
where the tap for the draft beer extended, conveniently stands between
them. No one is talking much, and the television is turned up a
little loud. Mike Kovacs, the editor of a local expatriate newspaper
walks over.
Can I get you two to help me with an interview?
Sure, mate! Trevor turns around.
How about you? Mike directly asks. You can do
it anonymously, if you want.
Yeah, why not?
Mike raises a small camcorder to his eye, and presses a series
of buttons. What makes Korea such a great place? he
asked like a reporter.
Trevor eagerly speaks up. I like Korea, because I can experience
a foreign culture, food, places, and meet people for real cheap.
The beers cheap, too!
The girls are sweet, too! Tommy hastily adds. Su-young
just chuckles, but Mike shuts off the camcorder, thanks both of
them, and continues looking for other people to interview.
Trevor and Tommy continue drinking cheap bottles of beer, and eventually
move over to the pool table. Tommy takes the cue ball for the break,
and selects a stick. A young woman - she is in her late twenties
actually, but in the dark, with a heavily painted face, she looks
like a high school student - catches Tommys attention. Actually
Tommys hair, which tonight is generally oriented downward,
except at the top, amuses her, but Tommy mistakes that for warmth.
When Tommy scratches on the break, she turns back around to her
male Korean escort and forgets all about the odd-looking foreigner.
After Trevor wins a game---no mean feat considering the shape of
the felt and the left corner tilt---he is set to leave. Did
I tell you about my party Friday? Im sure I did. I think I
told everyone at work and most of the students. Maybe we can get
a few of the hotties to show up. If you have time, stop on by!
Tommy stays for another fifteen minutes, and tries to figure a
way to distract that young womans eye again. He is restless,
and torn between an urge to continue onto the next bar and a need
for sleep. Not that he has any concern for how a hangover and a
few hours of sleep will affect his teaching performance, but because
he is having difficulties sleeping lately. Usually Tommy is a deep
sleeper, impervious even to loud noise and bright lights. Sometimes
it is an annoying inability to fall asleep quickly. Then there are
the times he awakes at 2:00 and begins his morning routine without
realizing it is way too early for that. That was all before, but
now he is experiencing very erotic dreams, involving Blue, a married
woman from Seoul. That was about all he knows of her. Perhaps its
the green powder in the coffee, he muses to himself as he resolutely
guides his feet through the subway station.
One stretch of sleepy movie plot he does recall is a hyper speed
series of montages, all with Blue appearing in the climactic denouement.
One, in particular, when Blue is ensnared in two mens attention
in the excrement-filled toilet stall at a train station, continues
both to nauseate and fascinate him. No more, though, than the time
she appears, ecstatically writhing on a table in his classroom swathed
in silk bed sheets through which the rippling limbs of countless
invisible attendants envelop her. Arriving at Trevors party
at 8:30, he enters the room unseen, and there is Blue in the center
of two expatriates attention. The alarm awakens him.
Fast forward to Friday around 8:30. Tommy raps
Trevor looks like the butt of a loaf of stale bread. He is still
wearing the days work clothes and he has all the freshness
of a cars exhaust. His hair is clinging to his scalp, and
almost looks freshly cut. Hes smoking a cigarette.
the door with his knuckle.
Hey, Tommy! This is difficult to say Trevor leads
him into the hallway, holding his hand firmly at his kidneys. Embarrassed,
he confides, I need to pick up two students at the subway.
But, you know, I cant really leave my house to these people.
So, could you?
Tommy is not really listening. Sure. Fast forward to
the subway station.
So now Tommy is leaning against the railing next to the gates at
the subway station. He does not know if this is the most convenient
place to wait, and, without any clues, distinguishing one group
of Korean college students from the hundreds passing by him is an
impossible task. Tommy does not want to go back to the party now.
He has some eerie sense of impending catastrophe, but he is unwilling
to admit to himself the cause. Actually, it is that awkward, adolescent
territoriality most men experience, even though they fully comprehend,
that their lover will not reciprocate their commitment. Tommy does
not want to face his fear that his dream of the night before will
transpire. Besides, there is always So-eun.
He notices two young women pointing at him. Tentatively, like sailboats
tacking against a foul wind, and nearly bowed and huddles together
in uncertainty, one musters the courage to ask, Are you Tom?
Tommys cell phone then erupts into a chime.
Where are you? So-eun playfully asks.
Tommy pauses momentarily, glancing at the two college students,
giggling, but waiting patiently. At the store.
So-eun believes him. Im going to your home. See you
in thirty minutes. Tommy snaps the cell phone shut. There
is also another student, a man, pacing behind the girls, whom Tommy
assumes is an escort.
How
Blue is at Trevors party. Trevor arranged Tommys first
meeting with Blue, because at that time he was only three months
in Busan, and completely clueless about finding getting a woman
in Busan. But now Blue is bored, and is using Trevors party
to let Tommy know. Trevor is stalling. I could send Tommy right
back to the party, but I have other plans for these two young women,
and watching Tommy melt down in the middle of their first outing
with foreigners is not included. Koreans, men or women, do not often
go to parties. Young Koreans generally meet at restaurants serving
food and liquor, and usually featuring live music. Rooms are too
small for many people to interact comfortably. There is also the
language problem: young Koreans are too shy to practice their English-speaking
skills, too worried about face to be seen making errors, and expatriates
do not speak Korean well enough. But Bo-ra has convinced her boyfriend,
Chang-sup, and her classmate, Hae-su, that this is a g!
ood opportunity to practice English and impress their teacher, Trevor.
Since they also studied with Tommy a few months before, they knew
him, although he has forgotten them.
are you? Bo-ra barely manages to ask as she and Hae-su
try to keep from giggling.
Fine. How are you? Tommy repeats the pat reply when
Koreans practice English conversation without noticing them. One
of them is attractive, Tommy muses, but his head is filled with
scenarios. Do I meet So-eun? Well probably fuck again, and
shell stay until the morning. But I really want to know if
Blue is at Trevors party? But if I go for five minutes, Ill
stay for an hour. No telling what will happen if I see Blue. I dont
want to lie to So-eun, so Id better be at the house before
she gets there. This ones got some nice curves, though.
Alright, this is a test, Tommy suddenly proclaims
to the three students, who are starting to wonder about Tommys
peculiar behavior. Listen carefully! Are you ready for directions?
Bo-ra nods, but the other two are already confused. Perhaps that
is why Bo-ra is a good student. Chang-sup and Hae-su both realize
Tommy is getting rid of them. Hae-su hates Americans, and resents
Tommys lascivious glances. Ok! Im ready.
Bo-ra claps, because she likes the challenge.
Go up the stairs, the ones on the right over there,
he begins as he points to the exit. Continue on the right
side of the road towards the mountain. Go four blocks till you get
to the Family Mart. Turn right and go up the steps. On the left
youll see Hyundai apartments. Building 2. Fifth door. Go up
the stairs three floors. 532. Right in front of you. Understand?
Yes! Bo-ra eagerly replies, although she really does
not understand more than a few words.
Alright, if you dont make it, Ill tell Trevor
to give you hell! Tommy raises his hand, and they all perfunctorily
bow as they retreat. Tommy casts a longing glance at Hae-sus
ass in bell-bottom jeans, and then walks away.
Tommy is having difficulty concentrating as he stands on the subway
no. 1 platform. The narrow strip of concrete is full of students
heading for a night out with their friends at the dance clubs or
the restaurants. He is lost in a sea of black hair and dark eyes.
An occasional cajoling shriek or yell punctuated the monotonous
vibration of humdrum conversation. There is an empty space several
arms lengths around him. He will never know the language. He is
completely oblivious to the game going on around him, between girls
and boys, and the part is unknowingly playing.
Fast forward to about forty-five minutes later. Tommy is watching
television.
So-eun walked into the open door Tommy left ajar twenty minutes
ago. So-eun is wearing a black skirt and white blouse, her work
clothes. Shes a teacher at another commercial English school.
She tosses her wool coat on the bed. Her purse is in the foyer with
her shoes. Tommy ignores her, even as she unbuttons her blouse halfway
down, revealing her white cotton bra. She then unzips her skirt
at the hip and wriggles free. Without even a grunt, or a sound from
Tommy, she removes her white stockings. She walks across the mattress
and slides underneath the blankets. She rolls over, but Tommy is
sitting on the blanket. He gets up to go to the bathroom, and she
curls up into a fetal position against the cold wall.
Tommy watches a video for a couple hours, and then removes his
clothes down to his briefs. He pulls a length of blanket from So-euns
death-like grip, and lies back on the pillow. After an hour, they
fuck for about thirty minutes, and then after an hour again. After
Tommy wakes up a few hours after dawn, he fucks her again. She gets
out of bed finally around noon, showers, dresses, and leaves. Aside
from some incoherent noise, they do not talk or kiss.
Fast forward to the afternoon. Blue does not appear or call. Tommy
goes to the bars. He drinks alone, and no one approaches him all
evening.
Fast-forward to early Sunday afternoon at the Seaside Coffeehouse
near the beach in Gwang-an. So-eun is waiting for Tommy, whom she
has just called thirty minutes before. She looks out at the surf
crashing into the sands across the main road through the glass front.
Another wave always hits another patch of sand, she considers, from
today and even after I leave this seat. Nothing is permanent, she
concludes.
Sorry, I had a little trouble finding this place,
Tommy suddenly appears, shattering So-euns repose. You
know, if we made this a permanent thing, I might get here much faster.
So-eun does not respond, but Tommy does not notice anyway. Tommy
is looking all around the room. This is only about the second
time weve met out in public.
Yes.
What? Tommy finally looks around at So-eun. She is
wearing a black leather jacket, a white blouse, and jeans. Her face
is entirely plain and devoid of cosmetics, and she wears only comfortable
shoes and stud earrings. Tommy has never seen her so unadorned,
since even in the morning she still has some make-up sticking to
her face.
Some things are difficult, So-eun almost says to herself.
Do you want some coffee? She looks over at Tommy now,
too, and she chuckles painfully. Tommys hair is arrayed like
fire. Every strand is like an arm reaching for the sky.
The girl serving coffee cannot take her eyes off Tommys hair,
but she finally leaves with the order. Did you sign a new
contract?
You know, I just dont like that school anymore,
Tommy blurts out, and So-eun watches the waves. Id like
to stay in Korea, but these Koreans are tough to work with. Maybe
I can work with you.
We dont need any foreigners, So-eun replies calmly,
still looking out the window.
You wouldnt put a good word in for me?
I said we dont need any teachers.
But lets just say you did! Hey, look at me,
Tommy reaches across the table. Look towards me!
It doesnt matter. So-eun glances at him momentarily,
and then returns to the waves.
Doesnt matter? Whats that supposed to mean?
So-eun shakes her head, So, what will you do next?
I dont know. Another school. Maybe just work part-time
tutoring or at one of the clubs. Are you pregnant or something?
So-eun has her head down, her eyes shut, and her fingers are fumbling
in her lap. No!
Then what? The girl returns with two coffees, sets
down the check, and leaves without a word.
Without hesitating, So-eun emotionlessly says, Lets
not see each other anymore.
Why?
Because you should leave and go back to your home. Theres
nothing here for you.
Tommy nervously chuckles, Theres you! This isnt
about that anti-American thing in Seoul, is it?
So-eun sighs, You know how many foreign guys Ive met?
before Tommy can answer, she continues. Its just a one-year
contract for you, but for me its another wasted opportunity.
What? Tommy replies defensively.
Do you know how old I am? So-eun finally pours sugar
and cream in her steaming coffee.
Tommy shrugs his shoulders. Twenty-four or three?
So-eun glances at the ceiling with bleary eyes. No! Im
twenty-seven by your count! Twenty-nine in Korean years.
Ok? Tommy replies dumbly.
So, Im getting too old to marry! My parents are very
angry at me.
Why? Because of me?
You, idiot! They dont care if I sleep with a foreigner.
They only care about weddings. So-eun sips her coffee, and
leans across the table. Do you want to marry me? Tommy
rears back, dumbstruck, and before he can reply, So-eun interrupts
him. Thats ok. So-eun cradles her mug in two hands
and sips her still bitter coffee. After a few painfully still moments,
in a broken voice, she says, Please leave first.
Tommy, bewildered and uncertain, waits for another word. When one
does not come, he leaves. So-eun takes long, wounding tugs on her
coffee mug. The saccharine and sour coffee burns her throat and
race into her belly, where the steam congeals into poison. Finally,
the drug passes out of her eyes in slow, salty tears.
On his home back to his house, Tommy walks back through the route
he took everyday to the school. Fixing the cuffs of his pants, he
realizes he is wearing two odd socks. His shaven cheeks are pocked
with pimples, and his eyes are sunk into dark rings. His aftershave
and alcohol-choked perspiration no doubt irritate his red-streaked
eyes. He labors up the stairs to the overpass in the sharp coldness.
Even with all the congestion on the overpass, it should be easy
for anyone to race across without too much hassle from the vendors.
Especially considering, that Tommy is American, and no one within
three blocks of him speaks even a smattering of broken English,
Tommy should pass unscathed. But today, Tommy will be luckier.
There is the blind lady singing what sounds like two cats fucking.
And, the umbrella vendor, too. But the woman on the soiled quilt
of a thousand pastel colors is not here. Tommy passes to the other
side unmolested.
Fast forward to three weeks later. Tommy is boarding a flight to
the Philippines. He hands the Korean immigration official his alien
registration card, and pauses. The man just stares at him quizzically,
and flicks his hand dismissively. Finally he just points to the
gate in the distance. Tommy does not protest. The stench of his
unwashed hair, matted by the motel pillow, stays behind.
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