86 Steps

Cold Korean mornings when I was dozing, wrapped in warm comforter, were met with a groan and a struggle.  Eventually, I would leave my apartment and walk to work (less than a mile’s worth of footsteps).  The last stretch of my walk to work is over a pedestrian bridge that crosses a busy four-lane street.  The pedestrian bridge is 5 meters high, blue, and contains 86 steps: 43 up, 43 down.  I don’t mind this walk, the 86 steps included, or the idea of a pedestrian bridge interrupting my “walking flow”; but, occasionally, when the streets are empty or it’s late in the evening, I will jay-walk the street and skip the pedestrian bridge entirely.  It’s illegal, but a lot of people do it; I had one co-worker, Teddy, who never used the pedestrian bridge.  He’d jay-walk in the heaviest of traffic.  He didn’t like the inconvenience of the pedestrian bridge.

I know the pedestrian bridge has 86 steps because I counted during the winter.  The roads, sidewalks, roofs, streets—everything—was icy.  More than once I tumbled to the ground because of walking on the ice and I started to fret over busted ankles and thrown backs.  When the pedestrian bridge got slick it was scary to walk on: the steps were granite, extremely slippery, and I imagined that a fall here would be crippling.  So, I took the pedestrian bridge slow: Calculating every movement, breathing and balancing, and eventually counting the steps I crossed until I reached the other side.  I wanted to know what I was up against—how many potentially ill-trodden steps separated me from work?  The answer was 86.  Every day I had 86 steps that I needed to take before I reached my goal.

On January 2^nd, 2011, I woke up in the late afternoon because I stayed out until 7am for New Years.  I groggily logged onto to Skype to wish my family a Happy New Year, but the New Year started off poorly: On New Year’s Eve, in California, my dad was rushed to the hospital and an MRI revealed that he had a subdural hematoma.  For weeks at work I was dismal and unanimated because I was waiting for my dad to have brain surgery.  Thankfully, relieving the pressure of a subdural hematoma is a “simple operation” for neurologists these days and my dad regained his health.  Today he’s fine.  While I waited for the calm of post-operation good news, I’d mount those 86 steps everyday and walk to work worrying about my dad.  Actually, I couldn’t get the 86 steps out of my head.  I started to think and dream of the 86 steps: I hate walking over the pedestrian bridge, it’s such a struggle, such a pain, I don’t want to do it—but I have to do it!  I figured it out eventually, I was obsessed with the obstacle that the 86 steps embodied.

 Everyone faces their own version of the “86 steps” and I think that’s what made me obsess about it: The “86 steps” idea was applicable to everyone.  Whether it’s the icy walk to work, or brain surgery, obstacles separate us from the goals we seek.  And, regardless of what our aim is, there will always be 86 steps—or something like it—that separate us from the end; it’s how we approach and deal with these impediments.  Sometimes we can bypass what’s in our way because no one’s looking or because “everyone else is doing it—so it’s okay.”  Teddy may have jay-walked every day, but it didn’t remove the pedestrian bridge and he was lucky that he was never hit by a car.  We might cut the corner today, but the 86 steps will be waiting for us tomorrow.

As my dad went through rehabilitation I could only think about the 86 steps that he faced.  I hoped that he patiently took each step of his rehabilitation the way I did during those cold mornings crossing the pedestrian bridge: Calculating every movement, breathing and balancing, and eventually counting the steps he crossed until he reached his goal.  May all my readers do the same as they cross the many pedestrian bridges of life that separate them from their their goals.

The Anguish of the Brain

Here's is some fiction that I've been working on for some time--it's the first in a line of short fiction pieces I hope to expand on: a mysterious team of English teachers turned superheroes.

The EWHA-3 - EPISODE 1 - The Brain

The EWHA-3 (comprised of the ‘The Brain,’ ‘The Muscle,’ and ‘The Wild Card’) wait at a bus stop.  A beautiful girl is with them.  The EWHA-3 wants to put her safely on bus from Suwon (their base of operations) to Seoul (the girl’s home); it’s close to midnight.  Wild Card comforts the girl (her name is Stormy) while his eyes scan the street, waiting for a bus to arrive.  Stormy clutches Wild Card like flood victim in a deluge.  She smirks because deep down she loves this attention and the thrill.  The Muscle brandishes his behemoth muscles wishing enemies would approach.  The Brain is the only one sitting on the bench of the bus stop.  He is deep in thought, frowning.  Dread, apprehension, and paranoia collide…his thoughts consume him…  The Brain began to brew upon the events at hand:

The evening is cool in Suwon, but I know it will warm up soon.  Despite the mild weather, a sixth sense inclines me to believe that we’re due for a fight…great, my glasses are dirty.  I need to clean these in case we’re ambushed.   I take the glasses of my face, use my shirt to clean them, and smear the grease and eyelashes into the frames.  I meant to clean my glasses this morning, but I forgot—‘the Brain’ forgot…I can’t believe it…why am I the Brain if I can’t even remember to clean off my damn glasses?

The three of us used to be normal men—English teachers—but the Sunny One’s interrupted our normal lives as soon as we arrived in South Korea.  We were destined to become the EWHA-3.  We received our roles, The Brain, the Muscle, and the Wild Card, then, without question, shouldered the burden of the superhero.  Suwon needed protection: Team Avalon was making wanton advances, and we were the last hope of the Sunny Ones—those orbital entities that bestowed upon us our remarkable powers and abilities.

My mind swelled while other muscles atrophied and I took on my now emaciate appearance, I am the Brain.  I’m smart, I’m on the brink of telekinesis, but I’m too lazy to “break through” that cosmic barrier.  The eponymous Muscle was gifted with enormous muscles and impenetrable skin: he could shield himself from bullets, he could repel oncoming cars with his bare chest—he was the brawler that no normal man was matched for; however, his swelling muscles did diminish his articulation abilities and he was reduced to speaking in the 3^rd person…permanently.  The Wild Card didn’t receive any physical change, but some things did change for him: he started winning more at poker, at Monopoly—at everything!  Something of a supreme lucky streak emerged.  He took vainly and although he wouldn’t admit it, he’s ego swelled.  More than Muscle or I, he exuded a “success” pheromone that enchanted women, especially the beautiful ones; it was because of that charm that Stormy desperately clung to Wild Card now.

Am I jealous of the Wild Card?  Am I jealous that the women, like Stormy, flock to him and I’m just a sideshow freak, like Muscle?  I look over at Muscle, he looks deeply down the road, perhaps having my exact thought, but my wonder is interrupted as the 707 bus headlights appear.

“Bus,” grumbles Muscle.

“Thank god!” mutters Wild Card.

“I thought we missed the last bus,” says Stormy.  “Good thing I didn’t.”

Stormy’s arms are wrapped around Wild Card.  I adjust my glasses.  She stares into his turned face, his cheek, and I know what she’s thinking: She’s thinking that she’s only worth something in the presence of the Wild Card.  When she gets on that bus, she’s just somebody else on the bus, she’s not Wild Card’s girl anymore.  Come over, wrap your arms around me—The Brain—I can please you.  I can entertain you, make you laugh, protect you, I can do all the things that you want.  Wild Card impatiently looks at the bus; he knows he should have put Stormy on an earlier bus.  Having her around is a liability.  All the women he has around are a liability or become boring for him.  The bus approaches, I can feel the vibrations.  When I turn around I realize that the bus has been at a stop light for some time and the vibrations I’m feeling are from Muscle walking around.  He’s a walking earthquake.  Is he jealous like I am?  Does he wish that women flocked to him like they did for Wild Card?

I’m engrossed in my thoughts when I should be strategizing, preparing—that’s my job after all.  I’m the one analyzing environments, wind currents, cultural implications, exchange rates, relevant historical details, and then spinning it all to benefit the EWHA-3—that’s my job.  I do those things.  When there’s a problem, they just say, “Brain, what do we do?” and I figure it out.  “BRAIN!  We’re outnumbered, the odds are against us, how can we survive this?”  And in a second, I figure it out.  That’s my job…that’s it: I’m the brain, he’s the muscle, and he’s the luck.  That’s the order of things, it’s inflexible.

The 707 bus pulls up in front of me and it gently comes to a halt.  But, it’s not the 707 bus, it’s the 3003 bus.  It’s not Stormy’s bus.

“Muscle thinks this is not Stormy’s bus.”

Wild Card strikes his forehead, swears, and Stormy’s eyes are glued to him.  She’s looking for any emotional indicators, but Wild Card is an enigma…you can’t read his face.

“Can I stay at your house one more night, Wild Card?” pleads Stormy.  “I missed my bus, I can leave in the morning.”

“I guess you have to,” says Wild Card with feigned regret.  He doesn’t really mind the warm body he’ll have in his bed, but she’s still an inconvenience, a liability.

You can stay with me Stormy.  I won’t be like him.  I’ll show interest, and listen to you, and give you real advice to help you.  I would never put you on a bus home—I’d always see you to your doorstep or make you stay with me.

Without saying anything, Muscle has left.  I can tell what he’s thinking: this isn’t my problem anymore.  Someone should have figured out that the bus coming toward us was the 3003 bus and the not the 707 bus.  I stare in the direction of the echoing footsteps when Wild Card calls out to me,

“Brain, why didn’t you know that this bus was the 3003?”

Why didn’t I know?  I know all the details.  Why doesn’t Stormy just come with me then, Wild Card, I’m not inconvenienced by her.  I want to be by her.  I want her to stay…with me.

And then, without forethought, caught totally off-guard, ambushed, I say,

“I don’t read Korean, Wild Card, how can I know the times of busses if I don’t read Korean?  I thought Stormy knew Korean, she should have been able to read the times.”

The 3003 bus departs with a belch of exhaust and Stormy glares at me.  I can tell she thinks that I’m useless and conniving.  Why did I throw her under the bus like that?  In a moment, Stormy turns with Wild Card and they walk away.  I’m left alone sitting, at the bus stop, it’s past midnight.  I adjust my glasses then take them off and smudge them again.  I wait for the 707 bus that never comes.  I sit and think about the way things have changed until the sun comes up, I’m not concerned about anyone’s safety anymore.  No one’ll come and fight the Brain by himself.  There’s no fight there.  I defeated myself today—no, the inflexible order of things defeated me today.  The rigidity, the frankness, the inequality…it’s just so damn hard to wrap my brain around sometimes.

The Brain walks home alone, but the streets of Suwon are safe another day because of his lone walk.  No one will dare attack the Brain alone—why would they?  It’s not even a fight, because it’s just the Brain.  There’s no Muscle, no Wild Card, there’s no EWHA-3.  But, by himself, the Brain exudes an atmosphere of self-torment and painful anxiety; no one need attack him because he’s attacking himself: self-sabotage.  Without knowing it, he relies on Muscle and Wild Card to propel himself forward, to lead the group, and not lead himself into a mired existence.  The same order of things that devastates him motivates him and keeps him going.

Until next time…

Next time, I'll introduce the muscle or the wild card, not sure which yet.  This piece was more melodramatic than I wanted, but the Brain really came to life when I was writing.  I imagine the EWHA-3 as a comic superhero team, so expect some action next time.

February in Itaewon

While I worked in Garden Grove, CA, I lived in Newport Beach for a year.  Newport was not kind: At least three times I was insulted because I was Jewish, I saw a friend assaulted (and need facial reconstructive surgery after), I had a roommate who was robbed at gunpoint, and the archetypal “bro” jostled me at every bar I visited.  Newport was the kind of place where trouble was easily found, a lot like Itaewon actually.  In February 2011, I lived in Itaewon, a district of Seoul, and I saw the grittiness of Newport reflected during that month.  Itaewon is a tough area of Seoul: The U.S. army base is stationed there and droves of the soldiers prowl the streets on the weekends, racial friction (between Americans, Koreans, Arabs, Filipinos and Nigerians) has caused much violence, and prostitution is a notorious pillar of the city’s underbelly.  However, even in the presence of some nefarious elements, I enjoyed my month in Itaewon as I enjoyed my year in Newport.  My tales from Itaewon begin with Seolnal.  (Seolnal marks the lunar New Year: The white tiger of last year recedes and the rabbit replaces it.  Seolnal was on February 3^rd.)

For Seolnal and for the rest of February I shared an apartment with a friend, Otto, in Itaewon.  The apartment was situated north of the Crown Hotel and down one of Itaewon’s many alleys.  Beneath our apartment was Manila Bar, a mostly Filipino bar, which was owned by our neighbors and served frosty San Miguel.  Manila Bar was a quiet dive, off the beaten path, but beneath Manila Bar was Venue.  Venue was a lounge-type club that buzzed and vibrated the floor of our apartment.  Venue attracted a hipster crowd that was absent of the aggressive soldier-type; it was the kind of place where I could gorilla clap without disturbing the vibe.  On Seolnal we went to Manila Bar and met a group of fellow English teachers; they took us on a wild adventure: Up “Hooker Hill” (no hookers encountered), into a dive bar called Carmen, and (around 7AM) Otto and I enjoyed late night/early morning double-quarter pounders. 

Itaewon has a Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde feel to it.  At night, there is alcohol, friction, and so many women.  The women flocked to Itaewon and they were gorgeous.  The moon in the sky meant that the high heels were donned, the short skirts were adjusted, and groups of girls giggled throughout streets.  As the evening turned into the early morning the craziness of Itaewon accelerated: random hollering, inebriated yelling, dry heaving, pools of vomit, prostitutes, military police, arguments bordering on fist fights, occasional glass shattering, drunken singing, and the constant chatter of taxis and cars.  During the day, Itaewon was different though: The shops were all open, the salesman were outside offering “handmade leather vests”, the smells of exotic foods everywhere, and in the distance a vision of North Seoul Tower.  Itaewon was actually a family town during the day!  In my opinion, the best part of my time in Itaewon was treating myself to meals that I hadn’t had in a while: a burrito from Taco Bell, of course McDonald’s (breakfast and burgers), and a 12-inch Tuna on wheat from Subway.  Most of my meals though were not from American fast food chains.  I was eating Indian, Irish, Italian, French, Brazilian, Moroccan, and, of course, Korean food…I gained a couple pounds during February, but it was a savory gain.

While one must be careful in this city at night, it still had beauty to offer.  My advice: Take a walk, before the sun goes down, and see this city for what it is and not just the avenue of foreign shops and restaurants.  A sunset on one of Itaewon’s hills, above the chaos and looking at North Seoul Tower, is one of a kind.  If Itaewon was to resemble a person it would be a loud, threatening, muscular, cheap-beer drinking dude wearing Nikes.  (I swear I saw guys like that in Newport all over the place.)  Although Itaewon is rough around the edges, there are moments to be enjoyed there.