By Jack Chase
(EDITORS NOTE!!! IT’S ONE OF THEM!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, AND DON’T BLAME ME FOR THE RESULTS!!!)
It was one of those kind of nights that was so hot and muggy that you have a bitter taste in your mouth and a sour smile on you face, when you smile at all. The air was super saturated with water. My clothes were muddy from the grimy damp air clinging to them. Hurrying from the bus stop to the subway station, I was passing people left and right. Hurrying as only a Westerner can. They talk about bali-bali in this country, but no offense intended, no one could keep pace with me on this night. With my hair plastered to my head, my clothes heavy and hanging low and my spirit abused by all of the travel I have to do just to make an insane amount of money. Everyone I saw looked just like I felt that night.
I felt as if anything could happen. In Korea, you always had to be ready. Nothing is predictable; at any moment madness could infect the next sedate and mundane activity. Perfectly sane people could and did become screaming, hysterical crazies straight out of some b-grade flick.
My private student that night had already been odd enough, I was in no mood to experience anything new, different, or weird. I had had my fill of challenges this day. My students mother had told me on several occasions not only just how unhappy her marriage was, but how absent her husband was. I could find no way to get her to accept lunch dates, or personal English lessons, or anything of the kind. The mother's behavior was totally suggestive and totally baffling. My student, bless her heart, would roll on the floor where we sat cramped behind a low table, trapped like rats in the labyrinth of the Korean education system, and the confining furniture, exposing vast expanses of fourteen year old thighs, and cleavage. I could only grit my teeth and hope for better days.
As I was walking, a dozen Koreans began to run. Assuming that the Koreans knew what they were running from better than I did, I ran too. Fear is my constant companion, when I figured I had missed some threat only obvious to Koreans, but completely obscured to my round eyes, I ran. It made sense to me. I hit the intersection like a halfback running a sweep. I picked out two ajumas to follow. They weren't big, but they were wily, seasoned, toughened veterans of the streets. They were vicious. No one caught in our path stood a chance. I got in close, ducked my head, and high stepped over the fallen left in their tracks. The cries of the injured that we left behind us in our mad attempt to cross the intersection before the light changed and unleashed the rapid pack of Korean traffic upon us left me shaken, but Korea is competitive and those who can’t don’t live to try another day.
Tombstone is a dark wooden bar done in the best tradition of seedy that the West has to offer. I liked going there on off nights when no one was around, because I liked to drink alone. I ignored the beautiful hostess, and concentrated on finding the most isolated bar stool. The bar had only a few Koreans in it, and thankfully, no white people were present that night. I sat at the bar and ordered a double bourbon on rocks, my favorite. Only a Korean man sat at the far end of the bar, and two Korean women sat at the corner of the L-shaped bar. I sat between them, hoping that it would leave no room for anyone to sit close as only a few stools now separated me from my companions on either side.
Before long, however, the Korean gent moved down to sit next me, a major miscalculation on my part. Starting my second drink, I tried desperately to ignore his prattle -- the typical questions of where you are from and what you do that I muttered sullen and surly answers to. He did not notice my disinterest and pressed on with his attack against my solitude.
"Why don’t you talk to those girls?" he asked suddenly.
"I’m too fucking tired, man," I replied hoping to shock him into leaving me alone, but his English was too good. In fact, his English was surprisingly good.
"They are beautiful and looked bored," he commented like a salesman hawking his wares.
"Whatever, guy, I’m tired; I’m tired."
"You don’t like beautiful Korean women?" he asked a hint of what was to come creeping into his voice.
"Korean women are fine," I replied, trying to keep my annoyance under control and hurry to finish my drink so I could leave. I found myself hating this guy.
"Oh, you are hairy," he said suddenly realizing my arm was exposed. "Korean women don’t like hairy men. In fact, Koreans don’t like hairy people. You are like gorillas in your looks and behavior." I am from the American Deep South, so I knew enough to ignore comments like these. It takes most of the power from them. I just took a gulp of my drink, finishing it. Before I could move, however, another drink was set down before me, and my newly found friend smiled. He was buying me a drink.
"Now, you teach us English, but soon your apish culture will be buried by us, and you will be learning Korean." I raised an eyebrow, and turned to him.
"Man, if you don’t like me," I stated in a low voice, "leave."
"Oh, I like you, you are not like the others. You realize your proper place. You have the quiet servitude that is proper for your kind."
"What the fuck have you been taking, chin-gu? I just want to finish my drink, and go home. Then I’m off to work again tomorrow morning to teach English to bored and exhausted children who don’t understand why they are there or why they need to. All so that your country can compete better in the market place with my country." I felt I needed to say something, but it was obvious that this was a tight rope to be walked with this guy. It would be one thing if he had been on a screaming tirade, but he was calm, a hole of unfathomable depth and blackness. It was his very calm that was so unnerving.
I took a renewed interest in this calm, yet hostile guy. I sized him up in the moment of silence that followed. I smiled at him, trying not to show my nervous fear least it set off some vicious attack. I caught his eye, and recognized the blood lust of uncontrolled racial hatred that had only been matched by Adolph Hitler and the odd Klan’s man in the Deep South. This guy was dangerous. He was dangerously close to snapping a berserker whose taste for violence would not be quenched until I was indistinguishable from the rest of the vomitus and phlegm left on the street. I dared not turn my back on him. I was angry and drunk, not a good combination. I guess, there’s a good reason why people get murdered in bars back home in the states.
"Ya know, I’m going to give you some friendly advice. Don’t go to the South. You look different from white people, and we usually kill those kind." I smiled at him, and raised my glass in toast. He was unimpressed.
"That’s what I would expect from a gorilla."
As I slid off of my stool and staggered for the door, and home, I kicked myself for trying to match his racism, for making some useless boast that Americans could be worse than he ever dreamed of being. I had to threaten his life, albeit indirectly and walked straight into a trap that I knew was there. I will be kicking myself for a long time about this one. I was wearied by yet another encounter with the unwavering and irrational beliefs of human beings about each other, and looking forward to silent comfortless sleep.