Death of a Revolutionary

I was alone honing my pitching skills on the hill near my house by throwing rocks at empty soda cans. I used to do this after school everyday because I didn’t want to go to the abacus lessons. I mean we were living in a later part of the twentieth century. Who needed an abacus? Screw doing meaningless calculations. I had a future in major league baseball, not in being a grain grocer.

“Hey watch out!” Someone shouted. Before I got a chance to look back, a stray baseball from the other side of the lot hit me in the back of the head and knocked me down. I got up and retrieved the ball. Embarrassing. “Are you okay?” It was Jun, waving his glove from a far. I could tell that it was him because of his thick eyebrows. I nodded stupidly and threw the ball back to him.

Jun didn’t remember this when I told him about the incident when we were in class together in our high school senior year.
“I was intimidated by you back then, always looking sharp, hanging out with older boys,”
I was looking at a skinny, badly dressed teenager with a black eye. He just smiled. I remember these little things. I guess people don’t.
“Well, you like me better like this, right?” He said. And I nodded. Except for the black eye. I was worried about him.

Jun was around. A kid from the neighborhood. We went to the same elementary school. I don’t think we were ever buddy-buddies but we knew each other’s existence. He came to my mother’s clinic when he was sick. My mother knew everyone in the neighborhood. It came with the territory. She told me about Jun’s family; his family fortune dwindled when his father died in an accident when he was in middle school.

Being in high school, it meant only one thing- study day and night for college entrance exam. But the politics and what’s going on around the campus (our school was conveniently located right in the middle of the University Way, a cultural mecca and favored demonstration spot for college students), seeped into the classrooms. It was still dangerous time in Korea. Military dictatorship was still in place and dissidents were violently oppressed and persecuted. Student protests were daily occurrences. Molotov cocktails were thrown and tear gas lingered the street.

Even the teachers were divided. Young, idealistic recent college graduates were supportive of demonstrators. The older teachers just thought the younger ones were hopelessly idealistic or, worse yet, North Korean spies and communists! Study, they would say. Still want to take to the street? After the exam! If you don’t study now, you don’t get to go to good colleges and that means you won’t get good jobs and you will be a failure in life. Period.

Jun had become a studious fellow. He was one of the best in class. He excelled in English, Science and math but especially Korean Literature. He was a spelling champ. It was a well known fact that he was involved in student protests. There were times he would be called out of the class by some authority figures. And other times he would be absent. Teachers regarded him as a nuisance and would give him hard time. They picked on him and beat him- the practice was common when I was growing up. And they regularly called him a commie.

Mainstream media didn’t report missing persons cases that often. But there were always rumors of arrested college student demonstrators going missing and turning up dead, supposedly tortured by riot police squad. Most of us didn’t believe it until we saw some photos that were put up around our school by so-called agitators. A dead bloated body of a young man- one of the missing protesters, was fished out from a river. His eyes bulging out from a blackened face. The pictures were very disturbing. Couple days later they were taken down by the police. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jun had been involved in pasting those pictures up.

A lot has happened in the past seven years; Korean people democratically elected a president for the first time after a long military dictatorship, two of the former presidents were indicted of corruption and found responsible for the massacre of civilians with their roles in military coup, and then the end of the bubble economy in the late 90s. My mother told Jun that I am in town. He arranges a party for my homecoming. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time.
He is still living near where my parents live. I meet him near the bus stop. We ride the bus together, which is heading to the University Way. He’s aged. He got rid of his glasses. But his eyebrows are still impressive. 3 years of military service, putting head on the ground (military drill, where you do push-ups with your head and feet without using your hands) explains of his rapidly receding hairline, or so he says. All this time, I’ve been dying to find out about his revolutionary past. “You were pretty passionate back then, about things, “ “Like what?” He says. “You know, what was going on in the streets, demonstrations…” He waives off my inquiries as the bus turns on to a traffic jam. “That was long time ago, when we were young…” He trails off. Long time ago? When we were young? That is it? “It is important that you don’t give up what you believe in.” I say stupidly, He looks at me dispassionately. Then he looks away. It is an uncomfortable ride rest of the way.

Over unnaturally hot, cheap street food and Soju (cheap Korean malt liquor), a half dozen of us spew crass humor about women, making fun of our physical appearances and talk about good old days. But we never talk about Jun’s revolutionary past.

Leather Pants

This tiny Indian restaurant was lit like some Christmas fanatic’s suburban mansion. Those bright, colorful blinking lights were almost seizure inducing.
“Are we ready for a birthday treat?” Marais said, grinning ear to ear.
“Whose birthday?” I asked.
“Yours of course, silly!” Everyone at the table burst out laughing.
Two Indian waiters sang Happy Birthday song while carrying out a special dessert cake with one lit candle in the middle of it. I blew it out unenthusiastically. Applauses all around. It wasn’t a big deal really. A harmless fun to get a free dessert out of this BYOB joint for a night out with my co-workers. But because it was Marais who initiated it, I resented it.

Marais was one of those people who got it easy in life because of his good looks. He resembled very much of a British actor, Ralph Fiennes. His wavy blond hair and charming smile were irresistible to many.
Marais came in for some carpentry work at a gallery where I worked as a lowly art handler. Then he charmed his way up to become a permanent hire in no time.

I got a leather jacket for my birthday that year. It was a jacket I had my eyes on for years but never had enough money to buy. I wore it day in and day out, not just because I loved it so much, but because it was my only winter jacket. Soon the pockets inside were worn out and had big holes in them. I’d lose my keys and change and they jangled inside it as I moved.
One day after work, I put my jacket on and found the inside pockets miraculously fixed. Marais tapped me on my shoulder.
“I think this is yours.” He said, handing me a leather jacket, which looked suspiciously similar to mine.
Apparently, Marais had exactly the same jacket as me.
“That’s funny, what a coincidence!” I told him, feeling mighty fraternal.
“Serendipitous it’s not. Mine isn’t all fucked up like this.” He said.
Holes in the inside pockets. Change, gone.
“Why do you have such an expensive jacket?” He asked me, smirking.
I didn’t like this guy.

It was an opening night at the gallery. People in fancy clothes crowded the place. As usual in these events, it wasn’t about marveling at those wallpapers passing as art but rather art of seeing and being seen. All staff had to work, serving wine and o'd'oeuvre to rich patrons. Marais fit in perfectly. He was having the grandest time chatting away. I saw countless old society ladies giving Marais huge tips and their phone numbers as they exited smiling at the end of the night. Call me petty. I hated Marais.

Then he disappeared. A Visa problem I heard.

I ran into him a year later on the street. I was contemplating where I would come up with $300 in two days for the deposit on our new apartment as I walked. I was still living with my then-girlfriend in a tenement building in Alphabet City, Manhattan; a real shit hole. We were about to move to Brooklyn for a better place. Everything was packed up and moved to a storage space and we were only sleeping there for a couple of nights until the move. Still $300 short. Those were hard times. Then I saw Ralph Fiennes smirking at me at the corner of 4th and Avenue A. It was Marais.
He looked sharp in a black dress shirt, a fancy velvet vest, black leather pants and riding boots. My fingers kept playing with the tattered inside pockets.
“I’ve got to ask you a favor. I need a place to crash tonight.” He said, smelling like gin and smoke.
“Bad timing. I’m about to move and-“
“But you are not moving today, are you?” He cut me off.
“Well, no.”
I told him the place didn’t really have a living room space. It was true. It had a useless long narrow hallway that led to two tiny rooms- one for me and my girlfriend and the other for my roommate. Marais was adamant and very persuasive.
“Come on, just for one night. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I finally caved in.
“Okay. You can sleep in the hallway.” I told him.
“All right, see you then.” He said as he turned around to leave.
“What? Where are you going?”
Apparently, he had some prior engagement. He’d call me when he came around.

“What an asshole!” My girlfriend exclaimed as I told her about Marais.
“And you’re letting him stay?”
“Well, you know that I usually don’t pick up an Euro-trash from the street on a regular bases. But gotta tell you, he’s very good looking.” I told her.

Marais finally showed up at the doorstep at two in the morning. He was completely inebriated. Before I even properly introduced him to my girlfriend, he fell on the floor face down. I had to back up because of the narrowness of the hallway.
“Well, nice to meet you too.”
I nudged Marais with my foot. No movement. Out cold.
“Look at him. Look at what he’s wearing. I bet those leather pants alone must’ve cost more than our rent.” She said with the tone of disgust.
That gave us an idea. We looked at each other and smiled mischievously.
Everything was going to be okay.

Signs

There is a McDonald's right across from my job. As I was passing by to get a coffee, I noticed the sign. It was done by a homeless guy sitting right outside McDonald's. I couldn't help myself but talking to the guy. I asked him if this was his opinion. He said, "No man, you can ask any homeless person, black or white, they will tell you the same thing, Asians are the least compassionate people in the world. Do you have a dollar?" I gave him some change. We got into a deep discussion. Richard, a nice, young black guy. Not crazy at all. He also said women are less compassionate than men. I mentioned it might be because homeless men are usually fucking scary. As if to prove his point, and maybe encouraged by me taking pictures of the sign, an Asian woman shop keeper next door came out and took a picture of the sign with her iphone while talking loudly on the phone, "I'm going to call the police, this is really unacceptable..."

Only in New York. I love it.

The Man Who Sailed His house

Found this article in, of all places, GQ magazine. It's a true account of a man, Hiromitsu Shinkawa, who survived three days at sea on the patch of what it was the roof of his house after the devastating tsunami in Japan last year. It's a harrowing tale of survival. it's a bit long but amazing read:

Illustrated by Yuko Shimizu

Click here for the story:
The Man Who Sailed His House

Dirty Backseat of a White VW

Our bicycle ride to Bainbridge Island was quite a trek. It was obvious for everyone to see that I wasn’t really a serious biker as I claimed to be. It was a typical Pacific Northwest Spring weather- overcast, cold and drizzly. I fell down twice and scraped my knee on the uneven roadside curb. I was with a bunch of other English as the Second Language (ESL) students. The head of the team was our athletic teacher, Ms. Susan. She had a reputation as a strict, no-nonsense teacher. She wasn’t the type who’d give you a passing grade if your English weren’t up to the standard. So she wasn’t loved among U.S. college bound students who are eager to get the certificate, the proof of their English proficiency. My English was definitely not good enough. I was in trouble.

You okay? My older Swiss classmate ran up to me with his bike. He pulled me up from the ground. The beat up bike I borrowed from a friend for the trip was lying in the muddy ditch. Ms. Susan passed by and looked at me with such disdain in her face, I felt I committed a grave crime. The extremely polite Swiss fellow traded his bicycle with mine, citing that my borrowed bike was too tall for me for everyone to hear.

It was a long ride back to Seattle. We were all exhausted. No one but Ms. Susan was still on the bike, huffing and puffing, her enormous thigh muscles bulging out, climbing up the Capitol Hill, which was ridiculously steep.

I arrived dead last of course at school as the sun was going down. Ms. Susan was waiting for me since the bicycle I was riding was one of four she personally brought in for her students for the trip. She smiled when she saw me and patted me on the back. You made it. She said, half-heartedly.

She needed some help putting 4 bikes in to her white VW Jetta- two in the trunk and two in the back seat. There were no covers for the white interior of the car. Does she expect me to shove in the muddy wet bicycles into her immaculately kept Rabbit? I didn’t care. I was completely spent and couldn’t think straight. As I was struggling to put the bikes inside, I heard a strange noise that of an animal, a choking puppy perhaps. A high-pitched short howl it was. Then I saw Ms. Susan’s face: her mouth agape with her hands covering it, with an expression that of horror and anger then resignation.


After a while, the scratching and moaning noise stopped. He didn’t know if he should feel relieved or worried. Then he noticed on the rear-view mirror the flashing blue and red lights. It was a police cruiser. He was getting pulled over.

He loved all animals. Ever since he was a child, he always surrounded himself with dogs, cats and all kinds of different birds. Being in a dog breeding business kept him close to what he loved the most: puppies. He couldn’t get enough of them. The little wet noses, warm tummies and wagging furry tails. He wasn’t professionally trained nor had a vet degree. Just an animal lover fell into the trade accidentally. His Korean purebred Jindo dog couple just had a litter and he was on the way to a buyer outside of town.

Sir, your right tail light is out. The patrolman said grimly from behind his shades. Oh yeah? He replied while handing over his driver’s license and registration. There was a light thunk in the back of his well worn VW white Jetta. They both were startled.
What was that? The patrolman asked. It’s just-
Thunk.
The patrolman removed his shades. Can you open the trunk for me please?
It was a site to behold. Six puppies were laid inside the trunk- some of them bubbling in their mouth, pink tongues hanging out, twitchy paws. The stench hit their faces like a brick. There was a puppy with a torn up electrical wires in its mouth on one side. It apparently tore a hole on the side of the trunk in desperation and chewed off the tail light wires.
What the hell is this?! The patrolman exclaimed.

He had to explain the situation. In the end, the patrolman cited him a ticket for broken tail light but did not arrest him under one condition: Puppies would sit in the back seat like some foreign dignitaries.

It was a dangerous ride to the buyer’s house. Puppies made mess in the back seat. They were everywhere, yapping and running around being puppies.

Call to Prayer

Sister Leisl has always been her favorite. Even though she was a couple of years senior, she couldn’t help but feeling like a little girl at the presence of her.

Penile * Vaginal * Anal Wart Treatment
Confidential, Private Dermatology Office
Consult and Same Day Genital Wart Treatment
Call: xxx-xxx-xxxx

They were playing tag in the convent courtyard. As it was usually the case, the game ended up becoming a ticklish affair. The courtyard was soon filled with shrieks and laughter of delight.

AM I YOUR MOTHER?
Adoptees & Natural Parents Can Find Each Other.
www. Adoptioncrossroads.org
xxx-xxx-xxxx xxx-xxx-xxxx

The sudden shower started to fall and broke the game abruptly, making them flee in all directions. But She didn’t. Standing in the now empty courtyard, she looked up. The rain felt good on her face. It drowned out all her senses. Everything became blurry.

CRACK & COCAINE USERS NEEDED
Ages 18-60 years old in good health for participation
in brain imaging medical research assessing the effects
of cocaine on the brain. Confidentiality maintained.
Transportation & Fee Provided
xxx-xxx-xxxx

She felt arms around her waist, softly hugging her from behind. Then she felt a hot breath brushing against her right ear, “You are it.” Sister Leisl said in a hushed voice.

24 Hour Prayer Hotline
Call anytime with any need.
This is a line dedicated for live prayers only
xxx-xxx-xxxx

She didn’t hear the phone ring at first or ignored it. She didn’t want it to end, standing there, in the rain, in Sister Leisl’s arms. But it was the phone in the hallway, ringing mercilessly. She was on duty.


After a long while, someone picked up the phone.

Hah, hah… Hello, Sister Madeline speaking, hah, hah…
Oh, hello. Is it a prayer service line?
Yes. Hah, hah. Yes it is.
So how does it work? I mean, I’m wondering how to go about it.
Sorry. I’m kind of out of breath…Let me…
It’s okay.
Well, if you think you need a prayer for something in your life, I say a prayer for you. And if you’d like, we can pray together.
Oh.
Do you need a prayer?
No Ma’am. I don’t think I need it now. I just wanted to know how it works. But if I ever need one, I’ll call back.

And then I hung up.

Gullible

So, how is your heart doing?

Well, she didn’t say. She just told me to take off my shirt, turned off the light, put some goop on my chest and prodded me with her magic wand and we watched my heart on the computer together. That was it.

So an echocardiogram is like an ultrasound?

It’s exactly like an ultrasound. But instead of seeing tiny hands and feet, you see this gray image of a pure muscle palpitating. You can hear its sound too.

Wow, really?

And it sounds like a swamp toad. Not graceful at all.

So when are you gonna know if your heart is okay?

I don’t know. She will give the test result to my doctor and he will call me by the end of the week, maybe.

Why did you have to get an echo in the first place? What’s wrong with your heart?

I had a heart surgery when I was seven. So I have to get it checked regularly. I can’t ever remember the technical term for the defects. Something to do with the wall of my heart having holes. So the-

The blood wasn’t pumping through your body.

Correct. The blood wasn’t sufficiently circulating through my body. I couldn’t really run. I walk, say, from here to over there to the door, I had to take a break. I had purple lips and fingernails.

But now you are all better.

Well, because I had a heart transplant. I have a baboon’s heart.

A baboon’s heart?

Yeah. They gave me a baboon’s heart.

They didn’t fix your heart? They replaced it with a baboon’s?

No, they didn’t fix it. Apparently baboon’s is the closest to human’s they say.

Did they give your heart back?

What do you mean?

You know like in a jar, like when they take your tonsils out?

No, I wish. They probably threw it in a garbage can or fed it to the dogs.

Don’t say things like that.

No. I didn’t get my heart back in a jar.

Too bad.

Well, now I got incredibly warm hands and feet and I sweat a lot. Thanks to my baboon heart.

Why is that?

Because it beats faster than human’s.

Is that why you are always hyper?

Yes.

Do baboons live long?

I detected a real concern in her voice. I couldn't lie anymore.

Gym Shorts

The recess was ending. Playing in the sandlot, you lost track of time. You were nine years old. You had to go to the bathroom really bad. The field cleared as the bell rang. Peeing in the corner of the building while no one was watching, at the time, seemed like a pretty logical thing to do in your mind. It was either that or wetting your gym shorts. You quickly looked around and pulled your shorts down. As you relieved yourself, someone tapped on your shoulder. It was a hall monitor. You knew you were in trouble. You were escorted to the teacher’s lounge, to Mr. Lee, who happened to be your favorite teacher. The hall monitor told him what you were up to. Mr. Lee dismissed the monitor and looked at you with a cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth.
“Peed on the school property eh?” He tsked, shaking his head.
“Come closer,” You obliged.
“You pulled your wee-wee out in front of everyone?” You were too mortified and embarrassed to speak.
He took a deep drag from his cigarette. You remember the red hot of the cigarette to this day. He pulled the front of your gym shorts toward him. Then he flicked the ashes off his cigarette in to your pants. Snap.

Your wife left you. Took the kid too. Things weren’t going well for a while between you two. The love was gone if it was there in the first place. Business school, MBA, night classes, 2 years of out-of-state training, overtime, business trips, junior lender at 33, two cars, house, bigger house… for what, you thought. She left. With the kid. 35 years old. You are on meds. Clinically depressed. Bipolar. Whatever.

It’s Friday night. Here you are at the City Central, a bar near the office. Drinking with your so-called co-workers. Larry, your boss is talking with some skank on the other side of the bar. He throws glances at you and smiles. You smile back lifting your Chivas on the rocks. You haven’t told him about your wife leaving him. You haven’t told anyone. The glass is empty. Do you want another shot? The barkeep says. You nod, then shake, then nod again. Fuck it, you say.

Larry called you in to his office two weeks ago. You’ve known him for ten years. He took you with him from the previous job. Bigger company, better pay. Linda and Damien, you know the names of his kids. You drank his homebrew. You play with his dogs. You are forever grateful to him. But the current financial crisis made you jittery. Made everyone jittery. The company’s cutting back. That means your job is on the line too. “Jung-bum came to see me yesterday,” Larry said.
“You know what he said to me? He said you were on anti-depressants?”
That little shit backstabbed me, you thought.
Jung-bum is that ambitious Korean kid who just got out of his MBA. You liked him. You took him in under your wings. In private, he called you brother in Korean affectionately. Now he tells Larry, your boss, of your defects, your Achilles Heel so to speak.
“He wants your job. “Larry Said.
“I didn’t have to tell you this. But you and I go way back. I guess the kid didn’t know. All I’m saying is, get your shit together and trust no one.”

Jung-bum approaches you from the other side of the bar with a drink in his hand. Fuck it, you say as you down your fifth Chivas.
“Great crowd huh?”
“Yes.” It pains you to see the kid in the face.
“Something wrong? You look pale”.
You don’t answer him right away. You ask the barkeep for another shot.
“My wife left me. She took the kid. Soon she will take the house, cars and all my money. I’m a mess.” You gulp your drink down.
“What?”
“I’m bipolar, too.” You let him have it all.
“I’m so sorry, bro.”
“No, you’re not. And don’t call me bro!” With that, you walk out of the Central Station.

You notice something in the alley as you look up from puking your guts out. It’s a homeless person sleeping. He’s an old Asian man. And he seems very familiar to you. Can it be Mr. Lee? You go closer to inspect. Certainly the man looks like him. You squat down next to him.
“Mr. Lee. Remember me?” No response.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today. A nice surprise.” The bum twitched in his sleep.
“You were my favorite teacher, you know?” Your smile is lost in the night.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought I would turn out this way, have you, all broken and sad….” You sigh.
“I did everything by the book, everything I was supposed to do, studied hard, went to good school, worked hard, got a good job, got married, a house, kid, cars….” You fight tears welling up in your eyes. You lay yourself down next to the bum.
“Mr. Lee. I really don’t know what to do. And I’m scared.”
The bum opens his eyes and gets up, grunting. The man is too drunk to stand up straight by himself. You get up to help him. He touches his groin area, grunting.
“You have to go, is that it?” You ask him.
You undo his fly and get his penis out just in time for the bum to start urinating. The steam rises. The bum releases a sigh of relief. You feel better, standing next to him, holding his penis, looking out into the darkness.

Art Supply Stores and the Cure

I was at a Dick Blick art supply store on Bond Street the other day and noticed the music playing there. It was the Cure's In Between Days. Then it occurred to me that they were playing the same music when I was in school, in the early nineties. The music never changes much in art supply stores. It's either the Cure or the Smiths. How could that be? There have been art stores long before the Cure or the Smiths ever existed. What did they listen to back then? James Taylor?

Good song by the way:

Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness

It's 6:14am.

Just had a dream and can't go back to sleep. In this dream, I was in town from somewhere and borrowed my dad's car to get around. Then I dropped in at a dormitory where my girlfriend was staying.

I usually dream of buildings, interior of the buildings to be exact. They are always labyrinthine, dark nooks and crannies, but always warm and inviting and never scary.

My dad has passed away a while ago and I don't think she ever lived in a dormitory.

It was an English as the Second Language (ESL) school. People I knew from the past were there, all mixed in together. She was exactly the same as I remember- lovely and adorable and sweet. Her gestures, warm smile, girlish demeanor, the same. I don't remember what we talked about.

She was my first love. It amazes me that after 20 years she still haunts me in my dreams. They put me in melancholic euphoria- my heart gets heavy and I can't shake away the feeling nor I want to. It usually lasts for a day.

It was late at night. After she and I parted, I wanted to see her again. There was a door between me and the other side where everyone's living quarters were. It wasn't hard to find her. I knew the way. She was with a young man and he was trying to hug her. She was gently and playfully beating his back with her fists in her usual adorable way. This time though, I didn't feel the fang of jealousy. I was confident enough that she only had her heart for me.

My coffee is ready. I gotta get ready for work.

I happen to be very attractive

Ladies and gentleman. Please may I have your attention. I'm pretty sure many of you know me already. I'm out here every night. I've been out of job for two years now. I've been looking for work all day. Things are tough these days. Excuse me ma'am.
I'm hungry and tired. If you have any change, I'd appreciate any help. If you have any food to give me, please put your money back in your pocket, I'd take any food in your bags. And if you don't have anything to give me today but if you happen to be really attractive, give me a big hug and we will call it even until next time. All right, I'm coming through that way. Excuse me. Coming through!

Well coincidentally, everyone in the train that day happened to be very attractive. And they all decided to give this homeless guy a hug. That night his stomach was empty but his heart was full.

The Forest

It was a treacherous drive up to the foot of the mountain. Their objective was to find a secret hideaway waterfall deep in the tropical rainforest. But the road wasn’t paved at all and the blue Jeep they rented rocked side to side with every centimeter they crawled forward. The directions the guidebook gave them weren’t very helpful. It had difficulty distinguishing left/right with straight ahead. This didn’t faze Gretchen’s young parents, not one bit. They were forever high-spirited, most optimistic people she had ever known. After they reached the dead end for the second time, mom said with a little sigh, “This here says left but I guess they meant right". Haha, a good one mom. Sometimes their nonchalance was sickening to Gretchen. After more than an hour of this choppy ride, her barely digested toasted frozen waffles breakfast was starting to creep back up to her throat. Her cynical ARE WE THERE YET? Protests went largely ignored.

Finally, they reached what seemed to be ‘the Gate’ at the foot of the trail. The stiff wall of the green mountain with its peak forever shrouded in clouds, was standing tall behind the gate: pretty impressive sight for anyone’s standard but not to our heroine Gretchen, who just started high school this year and now had to spend her Christmas vacation with her parents, away from her friends. “Can I have some water?” Gretchen asked her dad who had been admiring the view looked back. “Hon, water?” He asked his wife who was getting the backpacks out of the Jeep. Mom in turn asked Gretchen, “Did you bring water?” Great, my parents are idiots, Gretchen thought.

They started the hike. The sun was way up in the sky and being merciless. As they made their way into the forest the trail became narrower and narrower with its bright red earth forest floor covered with snaky tree roots and cacophony of decaying leaves. Birds with considerable lungs croaked and chirped all around.
The hike was stiff up-hill. Gretchen’s parents, a fit athletic pair, had no problems wading through the rough terrain. But even with her soccer league trained calves, the girl was lagging behind. It was hot and they all were sweating profusely.
She really didn’t want to be there hiking in the jungle. She wanted to be on the beach working on her much needed tan instead while reading the latest Stephanie Meyer book- just chillaxing. Her legs were still too pale for her liking.

A bright green gecko crossed the red earth in front of the girl. She tried to grab it but it was too fast. It wasn’t running away. Just out of her reach, it was running one step ahead, as if teasing her. She ran after it until finally it disappeared into dense bushes.
By the time Gretchen looked up to see the trail, her parents were gone. Silly them, they just went too far ahead without noticing me behind them, she thought. She hurried up the pace to catch up to them. After five minutes, she found herself alone deep in the jungle. She called for her mom and dad to no avail. The panic set in. She started to run what seemed to her to be the way she came from, in order to go back to the gate. She tripped on the exposed roots of a gigantic eucalyptus tree and fell to the ground. She felt moist red dirt on her face as she laid there. She noticed for the first time that the sound of the jungle subsided- no wind, no birds, as if time was standing still. Only thing barely audible was her heavy breathing. Tears welled up. Gretchen, get up! She told herself. You need to get moving. Stop crying like a baby. She got up and patted herself down. She was sweaty and her white shorts and sneakers were covered in red dirt. Her dark hair was tangled with leaves and red mud. She was very thirsty and burning up under the unrelenting sun. She removed her sweatshirt. Then she realized that in her panic, she left her backpack some ways back. But there was no way she’d go back. When she started walking again she experienced a searing pain in her right knee. It was badly scraped. The redness of the wound was accentuated by her whiteness. She bit her lower lip, as if not to cry.

The wind started blowing and the bird started chirping again. She needed to move down hill. After walking a while though, she noticed the trail was gone. She was completely disoriented in the deeper part of the jungle. The sun disappeared in dense vegetation. She called out for her parents again. Nothing. From dehydration and exhaustion, she felt dizzy. She decided to sit under a large tree to catch her breath. She couldn’t help herself from crying this time.

“Why are you crying?” Said the voice and it startled her to no end. There was a brown skinned boy about sixteen in front of her. He was wearing nothing but a long baggy swimming trunk and had a fuzzy unkempt hair. He smiled warmly.
“Who are you?” She barked.
“Devin” He said. “Are you lost?”
“Have you seen my parents?” She asked frantically.
“Calm down. What’s your name?” There was a very saintly tranquility about him.
“Gretchen!” She exclaimed.
“Well, hello Gretchen.” He said.
“Do you know the way out of this forest?”
“I sure do.” He said. “I live here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kauai is my home.” He said.
“Can you help me?”
“Of course.” He came closer to her. “You are a mess. And your knee…”
She looked down for the first time at her scraped knee. The pain that she pushed to the back of her mind during adrenalin rush out of fear came rolling back.
“Aw.” With that, Gretchen fainted.

Weightlessness, then piercing cold on her skin was what Gretchen came to. The sunlight fluttered in ripples before her eyes. Her own voice was muffled and she couldn’t breath. It was Devin who was holding her in his arms in the icy water in the middle of the forest.
“Cold!” She jumped off of Devin’s grip and fell into the natural watering hole created by a small gentle waterfall surrounded by rocks. She swallowed a mouthful of water involuntarily as she flapped wildly in fear. But soon she found that her feet were touching the bottom. It was a shallow side of the pool, only a waist deep.
“Hey, watch you step!” Devin shouted.
She quickly trudged through and got out of the water.
“What is this place? Why am I here?” She asked.
“You fainted. You were burning up.” He looked around calmly. “It’s pretty here, no?” He swam back and forth in the pool.
“I need to go find my parents. They are looking for me.” Gretchen cried out.
“Your parents are on the way Gretchen. I answered your phone.” He said, pointing at her backpack, which was leaning against the rock on the side. There were small threads of steam rising out of his body as he emerged from the cold water. There was something very assuring about the boy. If anybody could impress her, it had to be Devin and his calm demeanor.
“Relax, will you?” He said. “It’s hot out, come into the water. Soak in. It’s OK.” He splashed the water toward her, making large ripples.
"I need to pee." She whispered, blushing.
"Oh?" She couldn't look him in the eye.
"Over there. I won't look." He pointed to the bushes at the other end of the pool.
Gretchen had to double check if the boy was looking her way while she went.
"It's only natural. Don't by ashamed!" He shouted from a distance.

The water was so clean, she could see small creatures attached on the rocks at the bottom of the pool.
“Don’t be afraid, they are just tadpoles.” Devin said.
Gretchen read about them in her biology class that it was a good sign to spot amphibians in the water. It meant the surrounding ecosystem was healthy.
She slowly submerged herself, treading carefully not to step on those future cane toads. The water felt good. Devin came closer and she heard her heart beating faster. He laid his brown fingers on her scraped knee, which wasn’t bleeding anymore.
“Does it hurt?” He asked.
“A little.”
His forearm brushed against her exposed thigh. She blushed.
“Can I ask you something?” Gretchen asked.
“Sure.”
“Are you a vampire?” She asked earnestly.
“Don’t be silly now.” He said.

Lobster

It was Mizue’s 20th birthday. To my surprise, she agreed to spend her birthday with me. I promised her to make a birthday dinner. I was a 19 year old college student, living in a tiny apartment. I was completely head over heels about her. She had something in her that just made men melt. And she decided that she’d spend time with me on her birthday!

I couldn’t figure her out though. A couple of days before her birthday, I saw her with another guy. I spotted them while I was driving my beat-up Chevy on the way home from my job. Her hand was in his back pocket as they walked. It really shook me. It’s all right. She isn’t even going out with you. She has every right to do whatever she likes. I told myself.

It wasn’t all right. It hurt, in the chest. A lot.

I started a paper delivery job in the morning. I wasn’t short on cash but wanted to work. Partly because I wanted to impress Mizue, to show her that I was not some spoiled rich kid. Come to think of it, everything I did around that time was mostly because of her.

It wasn’t a difficult job but I had to drive and had to get up at 5am and finish the delivery by 7am the latest. My route had about 100 houses. I was new at this and sometimes missed a couple of houses. Then I’d get angry phone calls from customers in the afternoon from time to time. That day, I finished my route without a hitch. I’m getting better at this, I thought to myself.

I had absolutely no idea at cooking. But I was determined to cook a grand birthday meal for Mizue. Something big and impressive. All I came up with at the end were a lobster dinner and clam chowder. I went down to a fish market to look for lobsters. There they were, in a huge glass tank with blue rubber bands on those murderous claws. I was totally clueless. I had never cooked nor ate lobsters nor actually had to kill anything for a meal before.
A fishmonger noticed my hesitation.

“Can I help you with something?”
“Uh, do you have any lobsters…”
“Well, you are looking at it.” He pointed at the tank.
“That are dead?”

The fishmonger was puzzled.

“Why would you want a dead lobster?”
“Never mind.” I was determined. “I’ll take two.”
“Which ones?”

I just pointed in a general direction. “Those two.” I was the judge, jury and the executioner, great.
The fishmonger netted out two gigantic lobsters from the tank. They were flailing their little legs about. They were definitely not dead.

“Big dinner, eh?” The fishmonger put them on the scale.
“Would it be enough for two?”

There was a pause. The fishmonger narrowed his eyes.

“Sir, do you know what you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s 18 dollars a pound. These are at least 2 pounds each.”
“But it’s--“
“This can feed the family of four easy.”
“Oh.”
“For two?”I nodded sheepishly.
“Do you have a large pot?” The fishmonger held up the lobsters in his hands. The realization dawned on me. No large pot. I felt my face getting red. “I’ll just take one.”

* * * *

“You saw me on the street? Why didn’t you say hello?” Mizue asked me.
Because I saw you with that guy, I thought, not uttered. Your hand was in his back pocket.
The water was boiling. I went back to the kitchen area. It was a struggle to put the lobster in the pot. But I closed my eyes and did it. The process felt like eternity. When I opened the lid again, there it was, like a sleeping puppy snuggled in a cardboard box that is too small for it. But instead, it was red and scary looking. Immobile.
I threw in a Campbell’s canned clam chowder in to a small pot.

“Do you need any help?” She asked.
“It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t lift a finger.”
“It smells good.”

So I presented the dinner in front of Mizue. By her expression, she was more than surprised. It pleased me.

“Did you make this from scratch?” She pointed at the chowder. Scratch? “You know, like, you made it all by yourself?” I felt my face getting red again. “It’s from a can.”

She tasted it and smiled sweetly, “It’s fine.” Then she looked at the huge dead crustacean. “So, how do we eat this?”

I didn’t have anything to cut open the lobster with. Not even a hammer in my pathetic excuse for a tool box that’s been gathering dust underneath a sink. I actually used a brick to hang that La Dolce Vita movie poster up when I moved in. I couldn’t possibly use the brick to crack open the red, now dead monster in front of a girl I wanted to impress. That would be too uncivilized.

The phone rang. It was one of the paper subscribers who didn’t receive the paper that morning. The man sounded mad and demanded his newspaper right away. I hung up the phone. I had no choice but to go. What a day it had been, I thought. I told Mizue that I was sorry but had to make the delivery that it will take about an hour (30 minutes each way because my delivery route was in another part of the town). I apologized again and asked her as if I was going off to a war.

“Can you wait for me, here?”

She looked back at the intact red monster, then looked at me straight in the eye and nodded. This made me the happiest man ever lived.

Hankies: A Christmas Story

“Is there anything you want for Christmas, mom?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing.” She says.
“Come on, I’m sure there’s something you want.” I push on.
“Well… how about some handkerchiefs then?”
Handkerchiefs? After I hang up the phone, I realize asking mom to tell me what she wants was a big mistake. But I was out of ideas and it’s already the 15th of December. Where does one find women’s hankies? Are there differences in men’s and women’s? I am totally lost.

What do people do with their hankies anyway? I understand that they are environmentally sound, less waste. But do you really want to carry around snot stained scrap of cloth in your pocket? It sounds rather unsanitary. Well, that’s what mom wants.

I frantically ask people around me where to find women’s hankies. They are just as clueless as I am. A handkerchief in this day and age sounds as antiquated as a phonograph.
At my co-worker’s suggestion, I check the Craig’s List online. To my surprise, I find a handkerchief seller’s post with pictures in no time. Thank you technology. Colorful hankies. The seller is located in the Upper West Side. I can pick them up around this time tomorrow at my lunch hour. I reply to the post promptly, requesting immediate response since the time is ticking away.

My phone rings at almost ten at night. His name is Lee, Mr. Handkerchiefs from the Craig’s List.
“I have lots and lots of handkerchiefs. What kind of handkerchiefs are you looking for?” asks Lee in a gravelly voice.
I explain that they are for my mother as Christmas gifts.
“Does your mother like colorful stuff? Is she flamboyant?”
Flamboyant? My mother?
“No.”
I could hear him jotting down, NOT, FLAM-BOY-ANT.
I tell him that I’ll need something simple and conservative. We reconfirm each other’s phone number. He gives me directions to his apartment.
“Who was that?” My wife asks me.
I tell her about Mr. Handkerchiefs.
“What, some old guy is selling women’s handkerchiefs out of his apartment? And you are going up there?”
“I guess.” I say sheepishly.
“You know how it sounds right? It sounds like the beginning of a crappy horror movie. He could be a serial killer!”
“Honey, I think I can take care of myself.” I protest.
“He is luring young men like you with colorful hankies. You’re gonna end up in a snuff film. You’re not going up there!”
She’s half joking. I love it when she gets all maternal though. We compromise: I won’t go into his apartment. I’ll meet him outside his building. She makes me promise.

During my lunch hour, I go up to Seventy Fifth. I usually have no reason to go up to the Upper West Side. That’s where the rich people live. And it’s cold. The sky looks grey and menacing today. My heart beats a little faster as I approach the building on Seventy Fifth West. I can’t help it.
Lee meets me downstairs. He seems like a nice old grandpa. He is wearing a Braves sweatshirt and has fuzzy tufts of white hair on each side of his temples. My fears melt away. Then he invites me in.
“They are in the hallway. I brought them down.” He says.
I hesitate. My heart starts to beat again rapidly. My wife’s worried face and her words ring in my head.
“Come on in, it looks like it’s gonna come down any minute.“ He opens the door for me while looking up at the sky.
I will go in to the building but won’t go into his apartment. I tell myself. Life is series of compromises.
He has several plastic bags filled with old linens. It’s like a library of hankies if there was one. After exchanging some pleasantries, he shows me some of the gift boxes he made in advance. They are perfectly nice. I choose simple white ones with some embroidered flowers on them. He says he picked them up from Hungary long time ago. Some hobby this old Lee has.
I pay him and thank him. All went well, I think to myself. I turn to leave.
“Do you know someone who fishes?” Lee asks
“I can’t say I do.” I reach out for the door.
“Because I have a perfect gift for a fisherman. You can say no, but here…" He bends down to get to his small blue suitcase at his feet.
“It’s a fishing knife.” He continues. My heart skips a beat.
“No, no thanks.”
“Wait, it’s a perfect thing for fishing. It’s double serrated and has a measuring markings on the handle… you can fillet the ones you just caught and measured right away…” He is having a hard time with the zipper on the suitcase which is possibly filled with full of knives you can fillet something with.
I thank him profusely and run out the door. I don’t stop running until I reach the train station. Then I notice big white flakes of snow falling: the first snow of the season.

Needles

The Vanderbilts were obviously well off. The little Vanderbilt, that snot-nosed little brat, needed a piano in his room on the second floor of their giant white mansion on Long Island. So they called The Sullivan Moving Co. And that’s how Red Sullivan hurt his back on Tuesday.
It was rainy, and the grounds were muddy. And Mrs. Vanderbilt made Red and his partner wear plastic bags over their muddy work boots in a very contemptuous manner. It was not going to be a good day. Red knew. It happened in the middle of the spiral staircase. Rodrigo, his go-to guy among his crew, was manning the front of the piano and Red in the back, going up.

Red was a big, strong man in his prime (or so he thought) who just turned thirty nine that year. “You are as old as Homer Simpson now.” Missus Sullivan joked, as she pulled grey hair out of his temple with tweezers one morning. Silly woman.

A sharp pain shot up through his left shoulder and neck. Hmmph. It almost knocked the wind out of him. His muffled internal cry was loud enough, Rodrigo looked back concerned.
You OK, boss?
Can we stop for a sec? Red barely managed to say.
He looked up the top of the stairs and saw the little Vanderbilt sitting there picking his nose.
I don’t know how they managed to get the piano up, but they did. With great difficulty I’m sure. They exited the building as the little brat hammered on the keys some post-modern masterpiece.

* * * *

Red screamed as Missus applied some Ben Gay on the troubled spot on his hairy back. Ben Gay, the name always bothered him. Ben Gay on my back. He shuddered.
Missus told him to see a doctor right away. He whined about the ineffectiveness of going to the doctors. They are all swindlers. All they want is your money. He said with utter contempt.
In fact, Red hated going to the doctors. It had been at least two years since he stepped his foot in one: he hated the idea of a needle going into his flesh. He couldn’t think of anything more helpless than having someone poking him with a sharp object against his wishes.
Don’t give me that macho crap. You are gonna see that old doc of yous pronto!

That night in bed, Missus remembered while rolodexing her brain the list of doctors she knew, Gerry, a neighborhood kid who grew up to be a medical student at some ivy league school. He was studying Eastern Medicine and acupuncture.
I hear it does wonders. She said.
They teach stuff like that in school now? He said incredulously. She gave him a look.
As he laid himself down in bed, the pain shot up.
Anyway, I doubt that our insurance will cover that.
Well, nowadays, you never know. You are not afraid of needles are you?
He had to roll to the side, facing away from his wife.
I’ll go see Strauss. He said.
I hear it’s good for snoring too. She threw that in just as she turned off the light.
Red couldn’t get an appointment until Friday with Dr. Strauss. The pain didn’t go away let alone subsided. He was in real misery the last few days.

* * * *
The young Hispanic receptionist was on the phone chatting away as usual, not paying any attention to Red’s miserable state. He waited waited waited for her to get off the phone. She waved him off twice already. His appointment was at four, about thirty minutes ago. His face was getting red. He prided himself in being a patient fellow. But lately, everything was getting to him. He needed to calm himself down, really. Tranquility. Relaxation. Meditation. What luxurious ideas. He let out a big sigh, got up and approached the reception desk once more.
Did you want something? The little Dominican twat finally looked up from her phone receiver.
I…had an appointment at four. He flashed his grinding teeth. It was supposed to be a smile.
What’s your name again?
Sullivan. Red Sullivan.
Is this your first time here?
Calm yourself down. Nothing good can come out of losing your cool. The voice inside his head said.
No, I’ve been coming here for years.
I gotta go, she said irritably to the receiver and finally hung up the phone. What’s your name again?
Sullivan.
Sullivan what?
As he entertained the thought of breaking through the windows and grabbing her neck and snapping it like a twig, a young attractive woman in a lab coat opened the side door. She was wearing a silk blouse and a short skirt underneath the coat. Her black high heels made a sound that reminded Red of Fred Astaire movies.
Mr. Sullivan, come on in. She picked up the Sullivan’s medical file from the receptionist’s desk.
He followed her to a small examining room skulking in pain.

Sit yourself down here. She patted the examining table with her slender fingers. She looked in the file.
Mr. Sullivan, you haven’t been here for more than two years. Are you afraid of us? She smiled mischievously.
His eyes followed down her neckline as the top two buttons of her blouse were undone.
You are not Dr. Strauss. He finally said, smiling as his anger from minutes before was subsiding.
She bent down to listen to his heartbeat with her stethoscope. Hmm. She looked up brightly.
You have a heart murmur. The high heels said. Did you have congenital heart defects?
Got it fixed when I was seven. I got a scar to prove it. He said.
That’s nice, she smiled. Dr. Strauss is seeing other patients now. I’m just helping him out today. He will be here shortly.
A girl in scrubs entered the room after a brief knock.
She’s an intern. You don’t mind all the attention, do you? She teased. Congenital heart defect. She announced proudly, as if she’s in possession of a rare specimen.
Now they both were examining him with their stethoscope, fascinated by his heart murmur.
I want you to come in for an echo, soon. Nothing wrong with your heart but you need to check it out once in a while since you had a heart surgery. The intern jotted everything down with the ferocious concentration.
So, it’s your back that’s the problem? The high heels asked. He didn’t mention snoring.
She touched his back. Here? Mmmph.
Probably a severe case of back sprain, she said. It happens when the ligaments get stretched by sudden movement. Blah blah blah….
Pretty green eyes, he noticed on the young intern.
Acupuncture might alleviate the pain a bit. The high heels said. This caught his attention.
It turned out that Dr. Strauss practiced acupuncture.
I’m sure he can put some needles on you today if you want. The high heels said.
He had no idea the whole time he’s known Dr. Strauss. That old geezer, knew acupuncture. Ha! And apparently it was covered by his insurance. What do you know.
Does it hurt?
Well, there is a slight sting when the needles puncture the skin. But I’m pretty sure a big strong man like you can handle it. She smiled slyly. Try something new?

Oh, hello. The bald, white bearded Dr. Strauss said as he came in.
You just crashed our little party doc. The high heels said. Both she and the intern giggled.
Oh, sorry about that. Poor old humorless geezer, Red thought.
The girls said bye to Red as they exited. He smiled back.
So let’s see here… Dr. Strauss said, narrowing his eyes as he read what the intern had jotted down.
He gave Red a routine speech about the importance of posture and exercises and stretches. He also mentioned him perils of getting old and told him to take calcium and vitamin pills regularly. Red’s mind was now fixated on acupuncture though.
Doc. I didn’t know you do acupuncture.
Oh yes. I’ve been doing that for quite some time. I can’t guarantee the result right away. But…why, did you want that done on your back?
Can that do anything about snoring?
Why, do you snore?
Well, my wife says. He said, dismissively.
I understand. Well, it might work on sleep apnea. I can’t guarantee it though. Everyone seems to have a different reaction to it.
Red was suspicious about doc’s “Can’t guarantee” business but after all the greasing he was really up for this exotic treatment.
Well, poke me. Poke me hard doc. Red said. Dr. Strauss didn’t smile at this.
Doc went and took out needles from an unopened plastic package. He explained that those are disposable needles.
Take off your shirt please.
Red did this with difficulty. Doc rubbed some alcohol on his back, neck, the bridge of his nose and his forehead.
It will sting a little bit at first. If any of this is in any way uncomfortable, you let me know. Doc said as he put needles on his face, the back of his neck and then down his shoulder and finally on his left hand, in the fleshy part between his thumb and his index finger.
Does this hurt? Doc asked as he fiddled with each needle. There were about twenty on him.
No. I feel just a bit of pressure here and there.
You are supposed to feel the pressure. Doc smiled. Means it’s working.
Doc left the room telling him he would be back in five to check on him. You might have to sit still for about twenty minutes or so. He told Red. Relax.

Honestly it wasn’t bad at all.

Red looked at the dingy small room: A faded black and white “Smoking is bad” poster circa 1984, judging by the man’s hairstyle and clothes in the photo (he looked like the blonde guy from Hall & Oats), a human anatomy chart, pamphlets on HIV/AIDS prevention, a fake indoor tree, an oxygen tank next to a small white fridge marked with bio-hazard sign, etc. This was far from exotic and relaxing environment. But he was feeling mighty tranquil for some reason.

First, there was a faint odor of something sour, like spoiled milk. Red looked around to locate the origin of the smell. Nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of minutes later, his vision started to get blurry. All of sudden he was seeing colors on the black and white anti-smoking poster, around the blonde’s edges like 3-D picture. He started to panic.
The high heels tap danced in to the room along with the receptionist, alarmed by Red’s scream.
What’s wrong?
They had colorful glows around them.
Something is wrong. Can you take these off of me?
Red felt an incredible pressure on his neck. He looked back and saw the Vanderbilt kid squeezing his neck with a giant left hand. With the right hand he was picking his nose. The kid had a maniacal grin on his face. Red screamed. He felt his left arm tensing up then all of a sudden it went completely numb. Before he knew what was going on, his left arm took the mind of its own and went crazy. It knocked out all the bottles and glasses off the table, took down all the frames off the wall. And with an amazing strength, it hauled the oxygen tank against the medicine cabinet. Then with the lightening speed, his arm got a hold of the receptionist’s neck and broke it like a twig. The high heels was long gone. Tap, tap, tap...

Dr. Strauss arrived at the scene. The room was like a war zone: papers and broken glasses everywhere, the receptionist’s corpse sprawled on the floor like a discarded rag doll.
It’s the Vanderbilt kid, Doc! Red shouted. He is making me do this! You do see him behind me, don’t you? –was what he was saying but it came out like a wookie talk. His tongue was hanging out of his droopy mouth as he lost control over the muscles on his face.
Dr. Strauss went to a corner and broke out more needles from the now destroyed cabinet. With his left hand outstretched, Red went after doc.
Stay away! Stay away! doc shouted, swatting at the cursed hand. But The hand easily got a hold of the old doctor’s thin neck and lifted him up off the floor. Doc’s face was turning blue and his feet kicking the air.
Woooahaah ah, whooohaah (It’s the kid! It’s the kid!). Red cried.
Doc managed to remove a needle from Red’s left hand and was released from his grip. He fell to the floor on top of a dead receptionist whose lifeless dead eyes was looking straight at him. He crossed himself as he got up. Red’s hand was dangling from the wrist on, but his arm was still stretched out, still gunning for doc.
Woooahaah (Help me doc!).
Doc rolled under the murderous arm and got behind Red and placed a needle on the very top of Red’s cranium. With a brief howl, Red fell to the floor, face down.
I told you I can’t guarantee anything. Dr. Strauss mumbled, as he collapsed against the wall.

The Loneliest Man on Earth

I developed a strange habit of sizing up women on the train on the way to work and back home. I get on, spot women in the age of 25 to 40 and try to look at their ring fingers, all as inconspicuously as possible. I position myself all the way in the back of the car, right below where an emergency break hangs like some obscene tongue of a salivating animal. I scan the car methodically, clock-wise- there, no she has a ring on, over there, no too young. As the car fills up with commuters as we approach downtown, the task becomes more difficult. And I’m not that thick skinned not to notice when women shoot back the look of displeasure as I stretch my neck at an impossible angle to look through under someone’s armpit just to have glimpses of them.

I was looking at a tall pretty Russian girl and her older sister (maybe mother?) one day on the train. It was a weekend and the car was almost empty. The older woman noticed me looking at the girl. I looked away but not fast enough. They looked at me and talked with each other and to my surprise, the older woman came up to me with a very serious face.

You looking at my sister? She accused me with a heavy accent.
Uh, no.
You looking at my sister, I saw you. She narrowed her unibrow.
I looked away embarrassed. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward her.
You like that? You like looking at girls?
I looked at the tall blushing girl in the distance.
You do this all the time, checking out girls?
I was silent. The woman punched me on the shoulder.
Aw, that hurts.
How about us looking at you like that, huh?
Like what? I tried to sound as innocent as possible.
Oh, I think you know what I mean!
She went on punching my shoulder.
You are sick. She kept saying.
I noticed that the woman wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Are you married? I asked her as I was pulling out my cell phone from my pocket.

* * * *

Hello! How are you? I looked up and saw a short balding man with glasses.
Oh hello. I replied.
How are you my friend? How is your wife?
Oh fine, fine. She’s fine also.

I’ve seen him around. I’ve been living in Kensington in Brooklyn for the last six years. The area was dubbed as the most ethnically diverse neighborhood in the US by Newsweek Magazine recently, for whatever it’s worth. It’s true though- although heavily dominated by Hasidic Jewish and Pakistani population, there are also healthy Indian, Bengali, Tibetan, Mexican, Armenian and Russian population present as well.

Mohammed, as I came to know him, is a Bangladeshi immigrant and from what I gather, is a very lonely bachelor. We got into half a dozen lengthy conversations over the years, always on the street, on our way home. There on the sidewalk of Kensington, he presented his case.

Do you know any girls who want to marry?
Excuse me?
Do you know anyone who’s interested in marriage?
Hm. I can’t think of any at the moment.

I remembered my wife telling me that he started hitting on her on the street. She told Mohammed that she was married and his grin changed to an expression that resembled a death row inmate in an instant.

I’ve been living alone for twenty years. I’m 46 years old now. I came to this country and I’ve worked very hard. I have my own house. I have my own business. But it’s very hard to find a woman to marry. He said.
That’s hard to believe, I said, a good-looking guy like you-
I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. I’m a very good Muslim!
I’m sure you are-
You know I go home and turn on my computer- guess how much time I spend on the internet?
…um, how much?
I spend three hours everyday! Three hours, looking for a woman to marry!
But you have everything. I really can’t believe you can’t find anybody.
Mohammed felt silent.
Mohammed?
They don’t want to marry me because I’m a Muslim. They look at my profile online and they are not interested. They get scared.
You think?

* * * *

I was riding the train home with Olivia, a young co-worker of mine who recently moved to Kensington area. When the train almost reached our stop, I noticed Mohammed in the corner grinning at our direction. I waved and he waved back.
After Olivia and I went our separate ways, Mohammed caught up with me.

Man, I thought you were married! He exclaimed.
I am married Mohammed. I said, defensively.
Who’s the girl then? She’s beautiful!
That’s Olie. She walks with me.
Oh man, she is beautiful. She’s not married, no? It hurts. He grabbed his chest. His eyes were glistening with tears.
It hurts to see you with a woman smiling and I’m so lonely it brings tears to my eyes.
Mohammed, she has a boyfriend. Forget about her!
It hurts so much! He wiped the tears off of his eyes with a handkerchief.
Can you please let me know if you find someone who wants to marry? He pleaded.
I don’t care if they are young or old. Please let me know, my friend.
I promise Mohammed. I’ll let you know. I told him as I was putting in his telephone number into my cell phone directory.

Bhan-Chan

Siobhan was an enigma. She was the only white girl who’d ever worked as a waitress at Hana, a Korean restaurant where I was waiting tables. She slipped in to my life one day, and before I got a chance to really get to know her, she was history. Just like that.
It was a cold Saturday evening in late October when Siobhan first showed up. She was dressed in classy clothes, except for her blue backpack, which didn’t suit her at all. I took her for an adventurous young connoisseur of foreign food. Back then, Korean food fad hadn’t caught up yet with the general New York public. Even though there had been some lunch takeouts by white office workers nearby, a white woman alone coming in for a dinner was a rarity in a Korean restaurant in the heart of Koreatown on 32nd Street, Manhattan. Man-soo, our most seasoned waiter, with his forever smiling face, was there at the door to greet her. She bowed a little like a Korean girl and said hello in perfect Korean. She was inquiring about a job. This surprised Man-soo to no end.

So you are looking for a waitress. She said it in non-inflected Korean.

Well, not at the moment… Man-soo hesitated.

Siobhan pointed her slender finger to the door where the hand written sign was taped up: “Waitress needed. Must speak English. Inquire Within” – in Korean, She bowed again.

Oh, excuse me, but, did I make a mistake? She said smiling.

Man-soo scratched the top of his head. His smile was still intact.

Uh, ok. Give me your contact number and we’ll call you. He said it but not meant it.

Siobhan took out a pen from the blue backpack with a fox patch stitched on above where the Northface logo had been. A couple of customers came in and Man-soo had to sit them.

Give it to Moon. Man-soo said, waving at my direction.

She saw me watching her, smiled and bowed at my direction. I bowed back. She came over to me.

Can I borrow your back? She held up her pen.

It took me about a minute or so to realize what she meant. I turned around. She put her number down and I memorized it on my skin.

We had a busy week and a lack of another wait staff really showed. And that’s how Siobhan, a white girl, got hired as a waitress at Hana, a full out, unabashedly Korean restaurant. Siobhan got into the action pretty quickly. We were all surprised at her for how fast she adapted to her surroundings. Not that waiting tables there was the most difficult job in the world, but she was quick witted and personable. And her Korean was exquisite. The idea of a white girl yelling orders across the room in Korean we all had to get used to. Soon, we started calling her (Sio)Bhan-chan. Ban-chan in Korean means those little side dishes that come with a main order: usually couple of different kinds of kimchee(pickled cabbages, radishes), dried, candied anchovies, fried tofu, marinated bean sprouts, dried shredded squid in hot pepper and so on. She had taken some Korean classes in college, went backpacking in South Korea and had Korean roommates. "One of my few useless talents," she once said.

She even warmed up to our oldest female wait staff, the forever bachelorette, Hye-eun, who’s been known for her territorial pissing (she scared off at least three younger waitresses in tears, as I recall). Soon I saw her chatting and laughing with Bhan-chan over soon-dubu(spicy, silky tofu sea food stew) lunch.

Bhan-chan never missed her shift. She was a tireless worker. It took very short time for all of us at Hana to fall for her. But she was also a mystery. Not that she was unapproachable, but her being white prevented us from asking her too many questions. All we knew about her were that she was from New England some where, college educated and loved Korean food.

She is a good waitress and that is good enough for me, Man-soo said once to the girls after overhearing them gossiping about Bhan-chan.

I saw Bhan-chan on the subway platform one night after work. Apparently we were going the same direction, or so I thought. She saw me waving at her and came to me. She looked very different than in the restaurant.

Bhan-chan, you look very different. I said, admiring her beauty.
It’s just clothes, Moon. It’s same old me. She winked.
It’s just that, I never see you after work.
Well, here I am. She turned around slowly and laughed. I adored her.
Moon, you don’t remember me do you?
What do you mean?
The reason I work at Hana is because of you.

Apparently, Bhan-chan had seen me before, making a delivery to her previous job, an art gallery on the Westside. Her boss, a crazy Cuban, was nuts about Korean food.

That’s how I remembered Hana when I was looking for a job.
Really? I surely would’ve remembered you. If you were-
I was different then, not quite me yet. She said, lowering her eyes.
Why waitress?
I wanted to do something physical, to tire me out.

She was a mystery wrapped in enigma in a foggy day, like a turducken.
It was almost new years and all the wait staff were gearing up for the end of the year party one night after work. Man-soo assigned me the task of asking Bhan-chan out for the night of drinking and Karaoke. He asked me not only because everyone was uncomfortable asking Bhan-chan anything, but also she and I were about the same age and I was the only male wait staff without a date. Maybe he also noticed the way I had been looking at her.
I approached Bhan-chan, who was ringing up an order. She turned to face me and said:

Yes I will.
What? I asked incredulously. I didn’t even ask you anything.
I hear things, She said. I have ears. You Korean man don’t believe in whispers. She smiled.
Damn you Siobhan. You are too smart for us.

Siobhan could drink. She drank up Soju(Korean vodka) like an Irish sailor. Even Man-soo couldn’t keep up and passed out in the sofa of a tiny noraebang(karaoke room). Bhan-chan sang “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and “Rock You Like a Hurricane” badly. By the time she took the stage with her rendition of “Sweet Child of Mine”, many of us already have petered out and called it a night. It was two thirty in the morning. It was me, Bhan-chan and Mansoo. She stretched out the microphone for “Where do we go now?” chorus part. I sang along. I clapped as she finished her soprano screaming. She threw the mic and collapsed against me on the sofa, panting and wet from perspiration. She finally calmed down, breathing on my chin regularly. I downed the last shot of soju to cover up my big gulp and looked at her. She was looking straight at me with her big green eyes. We kissed. Then she whispered into my ear:

Don’t fall in love with me, in English. My heart ached.
You don’t have a nerve to say it in Korean, huh? I retorted bitterly.

She just stared at me for a long time, then looked away.

I’m leaving soon. She said.
Where are you going? I asked.
Up north. Alaska.
What’s up there?
Solitude.

I got a handmade postcard from Siobhan in early summer next year. It was the picture of the icy Bering Strait.

Ma Vie Sexuelle

I didn’t know anybody in New York and had no place to stay. It turned out that my grandmother had distant cousins living in Flushing, Queens, a central hubbub of Korean Americans in New York. I was to mooch off of the Kim family that I’d never met before, until I got a job and had enough money to find my own place. The Kims consisted of an old lady (my grandmother’s cousin), her son, his wife and their son, Alex. Mr. and Mrs. Kim were hard working first generation immigrants - they both worked at a post office and never around that much. Nonetheless, they all treated me well and I was grateful for their hospitality.

I got a job at a Starbucks in midtown and another one at a Mexican restaurant. I was also interning at a theatre group in the West Village. I hardly stayed at that apartment but to sleep. When I had a little time for myself, I wrote. Alex, then twelve, took an interest in me. As it was mostly the case with the first generation Korean immigrants, his parents put a heavy emphasis on little Alex’s schooling. He in turn, like a good Korean American child, excelled in school- top of the class, a math genius destined to be another Asian American doctor or lawyer or banker. I guess it was fascinating for Alex that I was not one of those but a struggling artist type.

What are you doing? Alex asked me one night.
I’m writing. I answered, as I wrote on my well-worn, trusty Apple computer (Mac Classic II, if anyone remembers that).
Well, what are you writing?

It's a script, a movie script.
Oh, what’s it about?
It’s about relationships.


This was my first magnum opus called “Flush”. I revisited the script recently and found it god-awful.

Can I read it?
Sure.
Alex read what was on the screen intently, and looked back at me with wide-open eyes.
You say(silently mouthing) “fuck” a lot in this. He giggled.

I regretted having him read it. I didn’t really know how to interact with twelve year olds.

It’s all right. I won’t tell my parents. He said.

Alex was a lonely kid. He used to sneak into my room at night to talk to me.

Lonely at the top eh?
Tell me about it. He used to say with a sigh.

Rendez-vous with French Cinema, an annual film series at the Lincoln Center was going on. I made myself available for one particular film, My Sex Life… or How I Got Into an Argument/Comment je me suis disputé... (ma vie sexuelle) by emerging young director Arnaud Desplechin. It was a typical French, twenty something, talky romantic comedy. It wasn’t a good movie or anything- rather long and monotonous. But I was happy to get a free movie poster of that film at the Center, only later to realize that I didn’t have any place to hang it.

After couple of months, I moved out of the Flushing apartment and into a small room in the East Village tenement building with a musician roommate from the West Indies. Over the years I lost touch with the Kims. I heard the passing of grandma Kim and the family moving to New Jersey.

****

I was reading a movie review in a magazine at the dentist office. It was one of those hip leisure magazines with full of pretty pictures and advertisements. The review was on The Christmas Tale, directed by Arnaud Desplechin and starring the venerable Catherine Deneuve. The review went on acutely pointing out Desplechin’s penchant for natural dialog and his strength in getting great performance out of the rather large ensemble cast. I was nodding along, basically agreeing with what the reviewer was saying- that his films are like real life but slightly amplified. But these particular sentences really caught my attention and made me look up the name of the critic:



…my first encounter with a Desplechin film was My Sex Life…or How I Got Into an Argument, in a movie poster form, which I found inexplicably in the closet of my parents’ apartment in Flushing, Queens. I never talked to them about it. It was a provocative title for a twelve year old. The poster hung secretly in my room and I became obsessed with the movie and its director…



The review was written by Alex Kim, my long distant cousin.

Pokemon Nightmare

I’m in love. I love looking at her falling asleep next to me. So trusting, so helpless, so care free. She trusts me enough and I am truly honored. I’d just look at her face, study her features- her bangs, forehead, eyes, nose, lips, chin…

She mumbles in her sleep: her expression that of fear and anger. This is not the first time I’ve seen her having nightmares. When I touch her to wake her up from her retched dream, she startles and screams even. I hate it when I add myself in her nightmares like that. She wakes up all distressed. She doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s probably something to do with her career, parents, zombies, a bully or clowns.

Then an idea comes to me: I should whisper something in her ear that will break the spell of her nightmares! What makes her laugh? I ask myself. I try to start a list of words that she'd find funny. I can’t ask her and discuss about it because it has to be unexpected. If I talked with her about it prior, any words that would be funny to her would get into her subconscious and be ineffective or worse, contribute to the nightmare that could be truly horrific. This is a tough task. Something silly, something totally non sequitur...

She is having a bad one. She keeps saying, “No…no…” Her face contorts in fear, shaking her head violently. This is my chance. I clear my throat as quiet as I can. I carefully brush her hair off of her perfectly shaped ear and whisper, “Pikachu, picka, picka...” in a high pitched cartoon character voice (granted my usual voice is a deep baritone). It takes about two seconds for her brain to register what is said (for me it’s an eternity). I can see the hint of smile on the edge of her lips. Her eyes open and she looks at me. Her smile gets wider and becomes a chuckle, then an uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Then she kisses me. I’m just happy as a clam.

For Nicole

Guttermouth

Fuck! Anna Delvecchio screamed as she put her right foot on the break. The car abruptly halted and the rosary on her rearview mirror swung and hit her face. She avoided crashing into the SUV ahead of her. Even before she got a chance to let her sigh of relief, she was violently jerked forward- a man with his small van rear-ended her with a crack. The rosary lashed her face again. Thank god for the seat belt!

The first thought that shot up in Anna’s head was to get out of the car and go after the driver who just rear-ended her. Balls, always go after the balls- her ex-husband’s advice to fend off possible sexual deviants played again and again in her head like a Buddhist mantra. She looked down at her feet and regretted not wearing her heels. They could do some major damage to the balls. She changed from her nurse scrubs to her regular clothes, but forgot to change her shoes at the hospital where she’s been doing another twelve hours straight graveyard shift. She cursed her otherwise trusty white sneakers.

The man was big and thick necked. He saw Anna charging out of her car. He did the same instinctively. The traffic light changed to green and the SUV ahead of Anna took off. The honking from the others began. It was a morning rush hour. Anna didn’t care. She assessed the damage on her car. A big dent on the bumper. Her car insurance bill would go up undoubtedly. She didn’t have any more money to spare. The thought enraged her.

What the fuck? Are you fucking blind? She charged.

The man stepped back and found himself leaning against his van.

I’m sorry. But you stopped so abruptly-
You fucking rear-ended me. You fucking cock-sucker!
Hey, it ain’t only my fault. I saw you avoiding the other car and that’s why you break-
Do you know how much it’s gonna cost me? Do you have any fucking idea?

Honk, honk. Get the hell outta road! People in the back were getting impatient.

I’m sure the insurance company will take care of it.
You didn’t even slow down. You fuck! Her blind rage was still going strong.
I’m telling you ma’am. It wasn’t only my fucking fault!

Honk, honk. Move!

Shut your goddamn fucking mouth you piece of shit! You know how much I paid for this car? She directed her finger to her mint-condition blue Toyota. Whole fucking lot!

The man went back to his driver’s seat. Anna got a little scared for one second, thinking he was going for his gun. But he came back with a small writing pad and a pen.

Look at my bumper. Look at my fucking bumper!
Would you please calm down for a sec?
You fucking ruined my life, you fat ugly fucking faggot! You fucking bastard son of a butt fucking whore!

He dropped his pad and pencil to the ground.
The honking was deafening.

You got some mouth lady. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
Don’t bring my mother in this, you fat, ugly piece of-
You kiss your mother with that?

****

She quietly opened the front door. The house was dark and quiet, same as when she left last night. She threw her heavy tote bag on the couch. She directly went to the fridge and pulled out a beer can, opened it and took a long swig. Her face was still red with rage. She raised her cold beer against her puffy, tired red face. It felt good. She breathed deeply.

Anna tiptoed to a small room where her mother was sleeping in bed. There was a cross on the wall above the bed. Her mother's two best friend, Ginger(wheelchair) and Fred(oxygen tank) were near the window, soaking in morning sunlight.
Anna silently crossed herself before approaching her mother’s bed. She looked at her mother’s small face; sunken cheeks and full of wrinkles. She gently brushed off her mother’s curly grey hair from her forehead.

Hi, mom, I’m home.

Her mother was sound asleep and didn’t respond.
Anna leaned over her to kiss her on the forehead. She stopped.

Fucking asshole! Anna mumbled as she squeezed the toothpaste out of the tube on to her toothbrush in the bathroom.