Tommy Thompson trips over a precariously balanced stack of books and magazines on the floor…

Who is Tommy Thompson? I’m sure he’s 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 don’t think Tommy is you, really. So don’t 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, don’t suspect I am spying on you! Don’t 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 can’t be a woman, and I wouldn’t want him to be one, even if every woman in the world read this story. Tommy is not I, not you, and he’s not real. Obviously, you know this, because you are an intelligent person. I just wanted to warn you, before you accepted what I’m saying uncritically. There’s no reason for you to assume I’m doing this for your own good. Really, I have plenty of other motives. I wouldn’t !
torture a character like I’m going to just for you. I don’t 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 didn’t she clean up the last time, Tommy gripes to himself. Tommy has chestnut brown hair with this peculiar wavy disposition. Like a mood ring, Tommy’s coarse piles of hair adjust their relationship with the atmosphere in a manner oddly correlated to Tommy’s 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 don’t 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 Webster’s dictionary, a pristine Little and Brown‘s 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 Tommy’s 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, there’s 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 Tommy’s other Korean girlfriend. Well, girlfriend is not exactly correct. Tommy is Blue’s 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 Tommy’s 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 teacher’s 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, I’m giving you this conversation, translated and, I hope, realistic, for no extra fee. It’s 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 you’re carping on my skills. Far be it from me to know what’s going on in your mind, too. But I know the English-speaking ones are oblivious to the gift I’m offering. Of course, I’ll just let her speak English, because as far as I care, Tommy is hearing English. Yes, I made that choice, not him. He doesn’t understand Korean, all right! Because if he did understand Korean, then I’d 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, it’s 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 wouldn’t sue me, all right?

“Hey, mister!”

“What is it, old lady?” Oh, well, what’s another minute when you’re already late!

“Come here, mister!” It is not the blind lady singing what sounded like two cats fucking. It’s 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. Don’t 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 wouldn’t 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 Tommy’s 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 don’t need to intervene, but for the sake of the rest of the story, I promise not to let the police ruin any of Tommy’s 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 teacher’s office, and now…

“Tommy!” It is Robert’s 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. Don’t worry! I’ll bring the students to you. Don’t come out of this room until I tell you! Stay away from the boss! The only reason you’re still working is, because your 8 o’clock class said they loved you and didn’t 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 I’ll 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. It’s 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!”

“I’m not grumpy. I’m 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 children’s 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 let’s say the baggie full of powder fell on the floor the night before. Let’s not quibble over modalities, all right? It is a small room, after all. Tommy doesn’t 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 let’s 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 beer’s 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 Tommy’s attention. Actually Tommy’s 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? I’m 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 woman‘s 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 it’s 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 men’s 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 Trevor’s party at 8:30, he enters the room unseen, and there is Blue in the center of two expatriate’s 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 day’s work clothes and he has all the freshness of a car’s exhaust. His hair is clinging to his scalp, and almost looks freshly cut. He’s 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 can’t 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?” Tommy’s 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. “I’m 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 Trevor’s party. Trevor arranged Tommy’s 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 Trevor’s 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? We’ll probably fuck again, and she’ll stay until the morning. But I really want to know if Blue is at Trevor’s party? But if I go for five minutes, I’ll stay for an hour. No telling what will happen if I see Blue. I don’t want to lie to So-eun, so I’d better be at the house before she gets there. This one’s got some nice curves, though.

“Alright, this is a test, “ Tommy suddenly proclaims to the three students, who are starting to wonder about Tommy’s 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 Tommy‘s lascivious glances. “Ok! I’m 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 you’ll 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 don’t make it, I’ll 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-su’s 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. She’s 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-eun’s 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-eun’s 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 we’ve 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. Tommy’s hair is arrayed like fire. Every strand is like an arm reaching for the sky.

The girl serving coffee cannot take her eyes off Tommy’s hair, but she finally leaves with the order. “Did you sign a new contract?”

“You know, I just don’t like that school anymore,” Tommy blurts out, and So-eun watches the waves. “I’d like to stay in Korea, but these Koreans are tough to work with. Maybe I can work with you.”

“We don’t need any foreigners,” So-eun replies calmly, still looking out the window.

“You wouldn’t put a good word in for me?”

“I said we don’t need any teachers.”

“But let’s just say you did! Hey, look at me, “ Tommy reaches across the table. “Look towards me!”

“It doesn’t matter.” So-eun glances at him momentarily, and then returns to the waves.

“Doesn’t matter? What’s that supposed to mean?”

So-eun shakes her head, “So, what will you do next?”

“I don’t 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, “Let’s not see each other anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because you should leave and go back to your home. There’s nothing here for you.”

Tommy nervously chuckles, “There’s you! This isn‘t about that anti-American thing in Seoul, is it?”

So-eun sighs, “You know how many foreign guys I’ve met?” before Tommy can answer, she continues. “It’s 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! I’m twenty-seven by your count! Twenty-nine in Korean years.”

“Ok?” Tommy replies dumbly.

“So, I’m getting too old to marry! My parents are very angry at me.”

“Why? Because of me?”

“You, idiot! They don’t 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. “That’s 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.

Joseph Steinberg
InfidelWorld: http://www.infidelworld.com/index.html

Copyright © 2002 Worldbridges    Copyright Policies