The Beat November 2002

It‘s Sunday and I am cleaning the house with our new vacuum. The vacuum is two weeks old and yet to be used. As far as I know, neither wife nor mother-in-law has ever used one. I recall my first visit to my wife's house. The house had details that Americans find amusing on Halloween; rusted out windowsills and crumbling concrete walls with glass shards stuck in the tops to ward off rooks, or crooks. Inside the house dark old woodwork, brown decaying wallpaper and twenty years accumulation of cobwebs, dust and roach droppings.

That visit was probably the third week I ’d known my wife. I'd already decided to marry her if she'd let me. I knew then that I wouldn‘t marry her for housekeeping expertise. I wanted her because she is brilliant and witty and clever and has a radiant charisma that makes men dote on her. I wanted her because she can dance and sing and enjoys every day. I married her because no one else would have the patience to remain with me yet be so damn perfect. I knew I‘d be proud of my kids if she was their mother.

So I begin cleaning the so-called liquor cabinet full of so-called Korean fruit and herbal liquor. Next to the liquors sit some nibbled upon chocolates, some stinking rotten bags of candy coated peanuts and countless half-used cans of Raid and Fuma-Killer bug spray. My own mother sent us Raid cans last year, somehow figuring Raid roach killer would rid us of a minor bedbug infestation. I never did get around to soaking our bed sheets in Raid. Nonetheless, my wife's itching eventually subsided. I am still surprised the bugs did not leave earlier. In the summer, bug killer is to our family what petuli oil and incense is to a hippy. It lingers. My clothes smell like it. My meals and water taste like it. The furniture is polished with it and the sheen on my hair is related to the amount of FumaKiller used the night before.

The fruit or herbal liquors in the cabinet are really just bottles of Soju with decomposed fruit or roots. The liquors come in two colors, soy-sauce brown and rusty urine yellow. At the bottom of each bottle is a semi-gelatinous silt of would-be fruit. I ask my wife to ask my mother-in-law which fruits, which roots they are and my mother-in-law cannot recollect. I ask how old the liquors are and no one can recollect. I ask if the liquor is palatable and they say of course. I ask why she does not serve this to her drinking customers. By now my mother-in-law realizes her son-in-law is an ass, so she is too busy to hear. I toss out most the liquors but keep the ones in which the liquid is clear.

* * * *

Our bathroom is located outside of our house, in the courtyard next to the street. A small window opens out into an alleyway frequented by drunken old men. Lately, on several occasions I've had to run out of our house, responding to my wife's wails of distress. Another old pervert's been peeping in on her pissing.

I have mixed feelings about this. Given opportunity I would probably do the same. Just last week our neighbor, whose living room doors face our bedroom window, decided to watch the evening drama, naked and with the doors slid slightly open. A conveniently well-placed mirror on wall adjacent to these doors allowed me a full and unobstructed view. For me this was a teen fantasy come true. In middle school I was a notorious neighborhood peeper but had never once succeeded. This time I quickly turned off the lights, sat down and enjoyed fate's twisted blessing whilst feigning interest the television. I captured every angle of our 23 year-old neighbor girl for future reference before she realized what was up.

Occasionally a neighbor lady will come over to use our payphone, lingering in the doorway. Her body, beneath her thin dress, is silhouetted between the dusky darkness of our store and the intense midday sun outside. Clearly she wears nothing underneath. She seems not to notice my staring, but my mother-in-law knows. Last month she caught me checking out the lady upstairs leaning over to pick up a heavy pot of kimchi. Once again, as luck would have it, she'd slipped on a low cut house dress and nothing more.

Half-heartedly I chase off the drunken old perverts before sneaking after them to their next score.