California Again

                Coming home to America after 13 months in Korea was full of difficult choices: Do I stay or do I go?  How do I say goodbye to new friends and my girlfriend?  What do I do next?  And of course, the most difficult question: What youtube video do I post on my Facebook wall?  Notorious B.I.G.’s “Goin Back to Cali” or LedZeppelin’s “Going To California”?  Biggie’s ode to the West Coast was triumphant, vain, but I wasn’t feeling like that.  When I was packing my bags on August 28^th I felt sad with a tear in my eye.  Where had this year gone?  Already it’s over—but I feel like I just got here.  By the time I finished packing, the morning of the 29^th, I felt the heartbreak of leaving a place that I learned to love and saying 안녕히 계세요 to all of the people I connected with.  It was with a heavy heart that I chose Led Zeppelin’s transient love song…

“…Going to California with an aching in my heart…”

                Now it’s those difficult choices I made that I will remember the most about this experience in Koera: Just coming to Korea, in the first place, was such a dramatic decision that I’m still dealing with all the catch-up back home, nostalgia, and new opportunities that are now available.  For example, I’m planning on getting CELTA certified with St. Giles in San Francisco; that will be expensive, intense, and open the door for more international travel and teaching.  Another big decision was mustering up the courage to talk to my girlfriend.  It made my time in Korea even more special, but I still feel the heartbreak of leaving her and leaving Korea, I may feel this for a long time; that might be just the consequence of choosing to love and being loved.

                Sadly, I regret not updating this blog the most.  I looked at the Little Wolf Express today, saw that I hadn’t written anything since June, and I felt the pang of missed opportunity.  Why couldn’t have I put forth more effort?  Why didn’t I write more?  I remember that there were nights where, as I closed my eyes, I fleetingly thought that I should jump onto the computer and write about my day, work, my love life—everything—but I didn’t.  Instead, I closed my eyes, slept, and the next night the same thing happened.  The simplest choices still haunt me, but I’m doing my best to rectify them now.  Despite my regret and heartbreak, I can only smile as I look forward and reflect after my time in Korea.

                Far from being over, this blog needs new life breathed back into it.  There are so many stories and anecdotes that I want to share about beautiful Korea and the wonderful people I met.  I want my family and friends, all over the world, to enjoy my stories as I orchestrate my delicate insights and ridiculous adventures.  (Plus, I want to be a resource for anyone who might be curious about travelling to Korea or teaching English.)  Even though I’m back in the US, the events and decisions from Korea still live within me and they’re itching to be heard and felt.  Sitting down to write them out is the beginning.  Thanks for being with me this far, it was a good choice to stick around; I’ll make it worth your while.

The PC방 Phenomenon

Admitting you have a problem is the first step to coming clean and rehabilitation.  So, friends and family, I admit to you now that I may have a tiny problem: I might be addicted to the PC방 (PC room--pronounced “PC bong”).  There are PC rooms all over Korea and one down the street from my house.  They’re dimly-lit, with no windows or clocks, and stocked with rows of computers that run faster than what I’ve got goin’ on in my apartment.  Not to mention that the Internet connections inside are the fastest that I’ve ever seen anywhere in the world (sometimes downloading at 7 or 9 megabytes per second!)  For five hours on a great system while sitting next to me buddies it’ll cost me less than ₩4000.  Folks, it’s hard to say no to a deal as good as this...

And I’m not the only one, yes, there are others like me (or not like me, actually).  I’m firmly committed to the good ol’ fashioned sense of willpower.  Willpower will help me leave early when I need too, but it’s damn hard to just walk away sometimes.  I might walk in at 11pm, tell myself I’ll be gone at 1am, but the next thing I know it’s 1:43am; I’m staring down the spout of an empty Mountain Dew can, waiting for the next round of Counter Strike with trembling fingers, and I keep telling myself, okay, after this next round--I’ll go home--it’ll be time then.  But the next round comes and I stay put.  My butt is glued to the seat and so is every other butt in this place.

Last time I was in the PC room I stayed from 11pm to 6am!  My excuse was that (supposedly) there was a typhoon outside, better to stay put and keep out of the rain.  My girlfriend didn’t like that.  She said that I was acting like a little boy and she’s not too far off.  Invariably, on any given Monday, the male students at my academy relish in their PC room exploits, (e.g.) I played Maple Story for 8 hours, I got a head shot [WARNING: may contain expletive material], I ate so much ramen and then threw up!  For months I never thought of the PC room, it’s for these brats, I’m never going, but here I find myself watching Dogma [WARNING: may contain expletive material] and wondering if my stamina to lose in Counter Strike has returned.  I can afford to stop gaming for a couple hours, watch some movies on youtube or download torrents, and it will only cost me a couple dollars.  I didn’t know until I came to the PC room that it was so cheap.  Again, it’s hard to say no to a deal as good as this...

However, like any addiction, there is a price: The lights in this place, small blue fluorescent bulbs, were purposefully made to damage the vision of anyone spending too much time here.  (Maybe it explains why more than half of my students wear glasses.)  After hours behind the screen my eyes tend to water and I eventually tear [no mom, they’re not happy tears].  Plus, by spending my late evenings and early mornings in the PC room kills my sleep cycle: I go to sleep at 3am, wake up at 6am (because I still don’t have curtains in my house and the sun forces me awake), and then drift in & out of lucid dreams until noon.  I could see how someone more irresponsible could let this lifestyle take over.  Apparently, students regularly flunk tests and employees habitually lose their jobs because they couldn’t quit the PC room.

I hate to say it’s different for me, but I think it is.  I’m not a student, my responsibilities are handled before I walk in the door; I don’t start work until 2pm, and I only come here with my friends.  We sit down in a row, play games, listen to music, and hang out.  It’s a smoker-friendly cafe and if we weren't here than we’d be somewhere else, doing the same thing.  It just so happens that here we have stupidly-fast Internet, the option to play games, and cheap coffee.  I know it’s easy for social activities to evolve into personal addictions, but I firmly believe that this is different: my PC room exploits are a phase and this too will pass like the kimbob phase and the jjimjilbang phase.

I’m not at the PC room every day, but when me and the boys show up it’s always a late night.  I know the side effects, the costs, and the scary stories.  The PC room is like anything that a person might do with his friends, but the mere act of doing it borders on “in control” and “being controlled”.  A weaker person could get sucked away into cyberspace, but I’m really not good enough at any video games to commit to playing much longer than my patience will allow.  Like I’ve said, it’s hard to say no to a deal as good as this, it’s much easier to say 네.

The Heartbreak of the Muscle

When we last left our superheroes they were departing from a bus stop.  The EWHA-3 was protecting Stormy and a melodramatic end left the superheroes bickering.  Since then, the EWHA-3’s larger-than-life member, Muscle, had experienced heartbreak: His girlfriend surprised everyone and turned out to be an undercover agent for Team Avalon.  She infiltrated the EWHA-3’s small network and shattered the heart of our beloved Muscle.  Will his misfortune mean disaster for the rest of the group?  This episode begins with a grim text message sent through vastness of cyberspace…

The EWHA-3 - EPISODE 2 - The Muscle

SHE RIPPED MUSCLE’S F#CKIN HEART OUT AND DESTROYED MUSCLE’S HOUSE.  NEED HELP.  BRING MCDONALDS.

This was the text message that Brain received from Muscle.  It was 10am and Brain had only been asleep for three hours.  His mouth was a scratchy sandpaper sandwich; he skipped the more-than-necessary shower and took a cab to buy McDonalds.  He told the driver, “keep the meter running,” but the driver didn’t speak English so when Brain returned the cab was gone.  Clambering into another cab, muttering curses and Muscle’s address, Brain sifted through his blacked-out evening prior: It had really been one of “those nights” and now it was turning into one of those mornings.  When Brain arrived at Muscle’s apartment the door was unlocked and Brain let himself in.  Upon entering, Brain’s expression changed from concern to shock: his mouth and pupils widened as he surveyed the damage.

                Muscle was a small depressed island in a sea of angry filth: spilled boxes of cereal, crunched bits of cereal on the floor, bits of rice in stuck in cracks and crevices, a 36” LCD television idle on the floor, an overturned table, bed sheets and shards of glass strewn across the room, chopsticks and perilous knives ripped from the drawer now on the ground, the silhouettes and specters of violence.  The refrigerator in the kitchen was on its side, still plugged in, leaking chocolate ice cream.  Muscle was brooding in the center of it all, sitting in his red leather chair heart-broken.

                Only four hours had passed since Muscle’s girlfriend left the apartment that she savagely ruined.  Muscle, with all his might, could do nothing as his drunken love tossed his possessions onto the ground, scratched his face, and shrieked at him menacingly.  He begged her, “please stop!  You’re drunk—please calm down.  I love you.”  But, she continued to rage.  Eventually, his girlfriend’s anger waned allowing for a moment of sober clarity, a smirk, and Muscle wondered what was happening.  She smoked a cigarette then left Muscle in quiet horror.  Hiccupping, as she stepped through the kitchen, she mentioned something about spying for Avalon.  Muscle couldn’t remember everything exactly, he was in shock, but he remembered her sadistic laugh as she closed the door and disappeared.  Team Avalon had planted a sleeper cell, a spy, in the midst of the EWHA-3: she sabotaged the strongest member, Muscle, and left him a distraught wreck.

                “She went crazy after we left the bar last night,” said Muscle.

                Last night, Muscle was with his girlfriend, drinking substantially—which was normal—but, only in hindsight could Muscle see that alcohol was the spy’s instrument of manipulation.  Muscle’s girlfriend wanted to drink constantly, rapidly, and Muscle recognized this pattern, but ignored it.  (He could handle his liquor, but she was beginning to show signs that she couldn’t.)  The love he felt was strong, as strong as he was, and he thought that their romance would endure.  But, last night was the perfect storm.  It left Muscle devastated, text messaging Brain for double-quarter pounders.

Brain tiptoed through Muscle’s house like it was a mine field and sat on Muscle’s bed.  McDonald’s changed hands and both superheroes threw their wrappers on the ground.  They ate quietly.  Brain didn’t remember how last night led to this, he ate voraciously.

                “You’re destroying that burger,” said Muscle.  Brain looked down at the rest of his quarter pounder: he was nearly finished while Muscle had half a burger still.  Brain was a bear waking from hibernation, eating like a glutton.  He looked up at Muscle and both superheroes smiled meekly at each other.

                “I’m starved and hungover…  Muscle, what happened last night?” and together they pieced together the doomed evening.

                It all began and ended at a dive bar: The Wild Card was on a lucky streak while playing pool.  He hadn’t missed a shot for half-an-hour.  Brain was a mess, drinking soju alone and sleeping on a table.  Muscle showed up with his girlfriend, both had drunk 2 bottles of soju each.  They tried to revive Brain and get The Wild Card to join them.  However, Brain was out of commission and The Wild Card had left the bar.  (The Wild Card had a tendency to ride his lucky streaks wherever they took him; his disappearance was not mysterious, but expected.)

                So they had the beginning, but neither hero could recall what caused such a fury at the bar and such an epic finale.  Muscle remembered smashed soju bottles, pieces of green Jinro on the floor, slaps on the cheek, bear paws to the temple, getting 86’d, and a long walk home.  Muscle explained that when he got home he was ambushed by his love-turn-spy.  Muscle grew sullen.  He had scratches on his neck.  Muscle’s voice was shaky.  He still hadn’t told Brain that she was a spy.

                “Muscle thought she had sobered up and was ready to talk, so Muscle let her in,” he began.  “She went crazy, destroyed Muscle’s house, and left smiling, laughing!  Muscle let her in Muscle’s heart and she plucked it right out, like a pepperoni off a pizza.  Worst part about it, Brain, Muscle never saw it coming.”

The giant put his face in his hands,

“Muscle feels so weak,” he said.

“Muscle’s the strongest guy around, but Muscle feels like the way his apartment looks: dirty…like trash.”

Brain surveyed the room again, it was indeed a mess, and at that moment Muscle did embody his home: they were both disasters.  Muscle had let someone into his inner-most chamber, his heart, and was deceived.  His heart ached, he felt alone, but the Brain put his hand on Muscle’s shoulder.

“You know,” he started, “I’m not really good with these kinds of things…women and heartbreak—I kinda wish the Wild Card was here—he’s better with this kind of stuff.  But…um…look…it’s over with.  You fell in love, that was genuine, and no one can take that from you.  In fact, besides your apartment, you’re alright, except a couple of scratches on your face and neck—we can clean this up too, no problem—besides, who knows, if it wasn’t for her being drunk she might have really tried to hurt you.  Perhaps, you know, this is a blessing in disguise?”

Muscle looked at Brain deeply.  It was a moving speech, Muscle thought, but just a speech.  Nothing could spare Muscle the heartbreak or shame he was experiencing.  Brain still didn’t know that she was a spy; Muscle had to tell him:

“She was an agent, Brain,” said Muscle bluntly, “for Avalon.  She lied to Muscle and spied on us.”

Brain went silent and the news seemed to echo throughout the room.  Brain went to the bathroom and returned to sitting on the bed.  Muscle didn’t move from his chair; his palms, on his chin, held up his head.

“I shoulda seen it coming,” said Brain and he sighed.  “I think about everything, but I never considered her as a spy.”

“Muscle either.”

“I see it now, I get it: They couldn’t beat you up so they got a girl to beat you down and now we’re here in a sad mess.  We could get ambushed at any moment and we’d be helpless: I’m hungover and you’re heartbroken.  We’re worthless.  I’m not drinking ever again—where’s The Wild Card?”

And with serendipitous timing, Brain’s cell phone vibrated with a text message from The Wild Card.

NEED 2 MEET-KNOW BOUT THE SPY-GOT A INSIDE GUY WHO GAVE ME A HEADS UP-FIND MUSCLE-GET MACDONALDS-CALL U IN 1 HOUR

                Brain relayed the text message to Muscle and they both sat in a quiet stupor.  The absent Wild Card had pursued a lead and now his fellow superheroes felt even more pathetic.  They wouldn't have to catch The Wild Card up to speed because he already knew (somehow), yet here they were sitting feeling sorry for themselves.  That wouldn’t last long though,

“Well,” said Brain and he stood up, “I guess we just wait for The Wild Card…might as well clean up.”

                So, Brain and Muscle returned the chaos to tranquility and left the apartment looking as it usually did: a mostly tidy home for a giant man.  They each felt a little better as they cleaned, but they still were shaken.  No amount of planning could have prepared the EWHA-3 for this, especially Muscle.  As the giant man and his small ally swept and wiped away the residue from last night that old feeling of harmony was repairing Muscle’s bruised heart slowly.  Muscle felt relieved because he knew that even though he had been hoodwinked, he had acted genuinely: He had loved truly and he had friends that would be there for him with encouragement, a lead, and a greasy burger.  He could contain his heartbreak and sublimate that anger for wrath.  Team Avalon had pissed off Muscle and now he was biding his time until he could reciprocate: Muscle was going to seriously mess up someone else’s house.

Pardon the Interruption

The Little Wolf Express has been quiet, less announcements from your conductor.   Let me give you some perspective as to why I’ve been so quiet…

In February 2011 I became the Head Teacher at my academy; within 6 months of working as a regular teacher I was promoted.  That’s awesome, but it meant that I had new responsibilities.  I was in charge of training new teachers, organizing curriculum, and I committed myself to whatever things my academy would need.  At first, this meant fewer classes and training the new teachers, Beatrice & Wayne; I wasn’t bogged down with work, but this changed.  Soon I was staying for meetings that lasted until 1am, becoming emcee of speech contests, and translating culture daily.

I felt moments of intense frustration and impatience with this new position.  All the ideas I had, I shared, and then I saw them not come to fruition.  The system we have at our academy is functioning, but not at its full potential.  There is so much bureaucratic jargon, double-checking and triple-checking, and an over-emphasis of writing in English without reinforcing correcting errors.  At first, I was so hopeful, but I’ve lost most of the hope and realized that I can’t do everything.  There are too many bosses, too many opinions and way too many meetings that clog up the road for improvement.

The Koreans in my office have an obsession with meetings (note: my 1am meetings) and deference; while the foreign teachers have an obsession with directness, brevity of bureaucracy, and earned respect.  Of course, the two worlds collide and the resulting friction is damaging for morale: The administration and supervisors are left clueless and the foreign teachers are left grumbling, holding up the proverbial middle finger.  But, have no fear because here I come to grease the wheels and wipe tushies: explaining to the Koreans how foreigners will understand decisions, explaining to the foreigners how the administrators have their hands tied, and ultimately bridging the cultural gaps that separate the bosses and the workers.  So work’s changed for me.  I’m not just a teacher anymore: I’m a cultural puzzle-solver, I feel like the oil that keeps the gears lubricated and running.

And when the jigsaw of work seems too confusing and incongruous, my private life and love erupts like an untimely volcano.  Relationships end, new ones form, and I’m pulled like the racked man between obligations and opportunity.  On the one hand, I have my obligations (essays, diaries, and other commitments); and on the other hand, I have my friends, my girlfriend, and the limitless opportunities of enjoyment that they offer.  Often, I find myself after work (if I haven’t stayed at the office until 1 or 2am) exhausted or just wanting the immediate entertainment of music or television.  On the weekends, I have a Korean class and the savory moments off the clock; when does Billy write?

Yesterday it was humid outside and I smelt that familiar odor of moisture, distant sewage, and fish that first welcomed me to Korea.  I felt a twinge of nostalgia from when I first smelt that unique miasma that hovers around my apartment complex.  I thought, it’s warming up.  I can feel the humidity returning.  I’m leaving soon.  I’ll start writing more, for everyone, but especially for myself.  To record these moments and let you all know that the Little Wolf Express is still chugging.

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.