Seoul 2014, Winter

If someone had looked down the sidewalk heading away from Mapo Station, they would have seen two foreigners emerge from Exit 3 and gingerly step onto new-fallen snow.

Feeling the sidewalk beneath the snow, the two walked, gloved hands thrust deep into pockets and mufflers tight. They had just met at a party that had become so boring that they both agreed to leave for a drink elsewhere.

They moved awkwardly, as though not used to each other’s pace.

They walked until a road lined with red tents opened to their right. The shorter man gestured towards them, and other nodded in assent. The red tents were pochang macha, roadside bars that had first flowered during Korea’s Park regime, when work ran late, curfew came early, and you had to drink as near, quick, and hard as you could.

The tall man lifted the curtain to the entry revealing a dark space with a counter at the back, staffed by a small Korean woman of indeterminate age. Small chairs and tables are available for seating. The two men looked around.

The pochang macha was nearly empty. Perched on a small stool at the counter a monk, possibly from the nearby Jogyesa Temple, or Dongguk University a bit farther way, sat in his grey robes and comfortable tennis shoes single-mindedly attacking a bottle of soju on the table before him. That he was drinking alone was unusual. pochang had always been locations for alcohol to be applied as a group salve.

The taller man, Professor Richardson sat down at a round, metal table and asked the shorter man, “So, what was your name again? I didn’t catch it when Yongho introduced us?”

The shorter man responded, “I’m Steve.” He looked towards the curtain closing the pochang off from the outside world, “Terrible out there, just terrible.”

A moment passed and they both began, simultaneously, “What do you….?”

They both broke off, laughing.

The ajjumah behind the counter looked over to their table, expectantly. The standard introductory dance of foreigners in Korea would have to wait. The professor asked, “Soju?”

Steve nodded.

“Dakbal OK?” the professor asked. He intended the question as a kind of test, as chicken feet were often not popular with foreigners.

Steve hesitated almost imperceptibly, “Sure, fine.”

The professor ordered in highly accented Korean. The endings of his words lilted upwards.

Steve recognized that – like many foreigners, like Steve himself, – the professor had learned Korean from a woman and lacked the more monotonal pronunciation of a Korean man.

The professor asked, “So, what do you do?”

“Teach English,” Steve responded.

The Professor nodded.

This was well trod territory for both of them, a kind of initial squaring off in which a kind of virtue was signaled by who had the “better” job.

“Aaaaaaaah…” The Professor let it draw out. “Where?” Secretly he hoped the answer would be at a hagwon, the lowest level of English academy in Korea.

Steve paused as a bottle of soju was placed on the counter between them. “I’m at a University.” He stopped there.

The Professor nodded. “Me too.”

Steve’s turn. “Oh, yeah, which one?”

The Professor answered, “Dongguk.”

Steve responded quickly, “Ah, I’m at Ewha.”

Ewha was perennially ranked in the top 10 of Korean universities by the extremely influential JoongAng Ilbo survey. Recently, Dongguk had been rising, but was nowhere near as prestigious. It was more well known for being the only official Buddhist university in Korea and for accepting employed students if they were well-known in the entertainment industry.

The professor paused before letting his next words drop, “Yeah, I teach in the English Linguistics, Interpretation and Translation Department. You know, ELIT?”

Steve paused and responded, “Oh, that must be nice.”

Steve said no more.

The professor understood that Steve taught in Ewha’s general English Academy.

It was a kind of tie.

The professor thought for a moment. “It must be nice to teach at a Women’s University?” The question was a bridge away from the question of whose job was better.

Steve brightened. “It has its advantages, and it is a very well-ranked Uni.” He wasn’t quite ready to put the haggling about status away.

The professor laughed. When he had first come to Korea this conversation seemed silly, but he had learned in was a foreigner’s adaptation of the classic Korean introduction. Age, education, marital status, and even hometown had to be shared and assessed before friendships could be contemplated.

The professor grabbed the soju bottle, upended it, swirled it in the air and banged its bottom with his elbow.

After unscrewing the top, the professor tipped the bottle towards Steve, who responded by raising his shot-glass with both hands. The professor poured a shot, handed the bottle to Steve, and watched as he reciprocated.

“Warmer days!” Steve offered, and both men took their soju, one-shot.

The ajjumah slapped a paper plate of spicy chicken’s feet on the counter, along with kimchi, potatoes, bean sprouts, and other small dishes of food. Steve reached to a roll of toilet paper that hung from a peg on a tent pole, pulled off about three feet of it, and offered half of it to the Professor. Then, both men turned to the chicken’s feet.

Metal chopsticks went to work, and as he chewed, Steve nodded appreciatively, “Not too crunchy.”

Steve’s phone buzzed and he quickly glanced at its screen. Reading the screen, he silently mouthed, “Oh, shit!”

The professor looked at Steve, questioningly.

“It’s a friend, sort of. Says he’s depressed.” Steve looked at his screen again. “Apparently he tried to find me at the party.”

Steve let out a long sigh as his thumbs flashed over the screen of his phone. “I guess he’s coming here.”

The professor picked up another chicken foot and popped it in his mouth. Around chewing the gristle he asked, “So, what’s his deal?”

“He’s at the end of his second year. Kind of over the thrill.”

The professor nodded, “Second year is tough. Shit isn’t new and exciting anymore, just aggravating. You pretty much have to find a reason to stay or it doesn’t get better.” He finished his shot, smiled, and pointed to his wedding ring, “I found my reason to stay.”

The professor momentarily reflected on friends long gone back to their home countries. “How did he meet the girl?” he asked.

Steve, semi-snorting, waved a chicken’s foot in the air for emphasis. “Well, it’s a student at his hagwon.”

“Oh jeez, a student?” The professor coughed, “and at a hagwon at that. But, surely he knows the risks of…?”

Steve laughed, “The world’s oldest story – True love overcomes the threat of firing and deportation.”

The professor laughed in agreement, “until firing and deportation overcome true love.”

At that moment the flap of the tent opened. Both men turned towards the wind that rushed inside. The light dancing off the swirling snow outside outlined the shape of a husky man, cursing under his breath about the weather. Before their eyes could adjust or the man could step underneath the bare bulb, the man spoke, “Hey, Steve…. It’s… you…” The man’s voice trailed off, as they looked at each other, as though trying to figure out how to finish an apparently simple circuit, but one he had no idea how to connect.

The husky man stepped to the table and grabbed a stool. He sat in one exhausted motion, as though the string had gone out of his legs.

The professor shook his head to clear away the soju, and take a closer look.

The husky man noticed the professor’s look, “I’m Tim. You’re Professor Richardson, right? I think we might have met in Itaewon.”

The professor nodded slowly. At one time or another any foreigner in Seoul might have met almost any other foreigner in an Itaewon bar.

“So, Tim, what are you doing out tonight?” the professor asked.

“Recuperating,” Tim paused, “and now,” he slowed down, “commiserating, I guess. I broke up with my girlfriend.” Tim paused, “well, she broke up with me.”

“A full plate, then,” the professor responded indifferently.

Tim didn’t answer directly, instead turning his head. “Ajjumah, a bottle, please.” Tim turned to the table, “Don’t worry, I’m paying.”

The ajjumah hurried over to the table with a bottle and a shot glass. Tim grabbed the bottle, filled the small glass, exclaimed, “one shot!” and drained it. In the background the monk frowned. Pouring for yourself, drinking before anyone else could fill up, and then refilling your own glass was a radical departure from drinking etiquette. Tim quickly poured himself another shot and slammed the bottle onto the table. He opened his wallet and handed a 10,000 won note to the ajjumah.

Steve shrugged at Tim’s display; his eyes moving from the professor to the soju bottle, the wallet, then back again. The professor understood, and picked up the soju bottle. Once again, Steve offered his shot glass with both hands, and the professor filled it. As soon as the bottle was back on the table, the professor showed Steve the same courtesy. Silently, they had come to an understanding – Tim might be a little bit off, but he had money for drinks.

After two more bottles, Steve stretched and, pausing to look around, noted that the monk was now face-down on his round metal table, snoring gently into a small plate of pajeon.

Steve pointed, “There you go boys – Nirvana. No needs, no desires.”

At the word ‘desires’ Tim’s upper body clenched and he leaned forward with a small, awkward cough. Apparently suddenly overtaken by all the drinking, he gave a dry sob and eyes watery, replied, “Tragedy, it’s tragedy. It’s tragedy man.” He looked over at the drunken monk. “Lucky fucker. Probably celibate, too.”

The Professor and Steve both shook their heads, ever so slightly.

Steve turned to the stranger, “So, she was Korean?”

“Yes, I met her at the hagwon. She wanted to be a stewardess.”

“So, she must have been pretty?” Steve inquired.

“She was gorgeous to me,” Tim answered.

Tim turned and ordered another bottle of soju.

Trying to be a good sport the professor jumped in, “That means her English must have been pretty good?”

“Not really,” Tim replied, “That’s kind of how we got together. She asked if we could practice privately so it could get better.”

The professor turned to Steve as Tim refilled his soju glass and mouthed the rhetorical question, “Pillow Dictionary?”

Steve, knowing the phrase meant a romantic relationship based on learning English, shrugged before Tim could raise his eyes from his glass.

The professor finished his shot. “Her friends, did you meet them?”

The stranger seemed surprised. “It never came up.”

“Where did you meet her?” The professor waved an empty bottle towards the old woman behind the counter.

“At the hagwon I worked, I told you.”

The professor interrupted, “No, I got that. I mean when you dated, where did you meet? Bars? Coffee Shops.”

“Not coffee shops, she didn’t want to go to coffee shops.”

“A Korean woman who doesn’t want to go to a coffee shop?” The professor’s question included a very clear scoff.

“Probably afraid to run into her friends at coffee shops,” Steve mumbled to his drink.

Tim’s head jerked, “What do you mean by that?”

“You know. Hiding the foreign boyfriend,” Steve answered indifferently. “You never know who you’ll run into in a coffeeshop.”

Tim just stared. “I was supposed to see her today. We were supposed to be celebrating… She just entered a Uni.”

Steve shook his head. “Ah, did you ever meet her parents?”

“No,” Tim stared into the short depth of his soju glass as if deeper focus might reveal some truth floating there. “She said she had to prepare them, get them ready….” He trailed off for a moment, “I was a foreigner, after all.”

It was just as Steve had suspected – This really had been an affair of convenience. Now, it was over.

“Well,” Steve began hoping to make Tim feel better, “it’s not like this is a new thing. We all know guys who have been dumped without a hint or word. Hell, sometimes she marries a Korean guy the next week.”

“No!” Tim interrupted, “this was different, she was different!”

The professor nodded condescendingly.

Tim slumped and poured himself another shot.

Steve was glad the monk was still passed out.

The professor drank again and looked at Tim, diving in one more attempt to cheer Tim up. “Well, there are a lot of cultural differences to consider…”

“She said she loved me,” Tim interrupted, nearly sobbing, “she loved me!”

Steve was more prosaic. “Maybe? But most of these things are about … are, practical. What’s that word I want?” He thought for a second, “transactional, most of these relationships are transactional.”

Tim’s sobbing had subsided to a sniffle and he looked meaningfully at his shot glass. The Professor took the hint and grabbed the bottle of soju, waiting for Tim to raise his glass, then the Professor filled it.

“Hey man,” Steve said, trying to get the conversation pointed a better way, “at least you were getting laid.” Steve began to raise his soju glass in a toast.

Tim began openly weeping, “We were saving it for marriage…. For marriage!”

Before he could think about what he was saying, Steve blurted out, “Well, that’s the worst pillow dictionary I’ve ever heard of. You were a dictionary…” Steve paused as he thought of a punchline, “Without the ‘dick’ apparently.” Steve’s face lit up farther than the amount of alcohol he had consumed might have merited.

Tim’s face collapsed at Steve’s joke. He yelled, “You bastard! You’re married! You have a good job! You’re set. You’re here forever.”

After a moment of stunned silence at the table, Tim’s face turned feral. “That’s right, forever. You’re never going home! Forever! At least I can go home! Who’s the real loser?” He slammed the remainder of his shot, stood up, and rushed out the tent flap so hard it fluttered in the wind of the storm, a small amount of snow entering the pochang macha.

Steve and the professor, stunned at this quick turn, stared at the small pile of snow at the door. Slowly, Steve took hold of the half-full soju bottle Tim, in his haste to leave, had left on the table. He poured them both a shot.

Steve looked towards the Professor. “Well, I didn’t expect that. Call it tough love. I hope he got what we were saying.” Steve looked off into the middle distance. “After all, we’ve all had that kind of experience.”

The Professor noted the “we”, but ignored it.

They went back to steady drinking.

By the time they left, the snow had stopped falling and the lights of Jongno-dong were outlined in black, frosty air. The snow on the sidewalk had been beaten down by work shoes and high-heels.

They walked a few steps. “Fancy another place?” Steve asked.

The professor shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s all for me. But we can pick it up again some other time.”

They exchanged phone numbers and Katalk info.

“I look forward to it,” Steve said. “And next time we won’t be burdened by Tim.”

The professor laughed, “Unless we want to feel better about our lives!”

If the drunken monk or ajjumah had looked out the door of the Pochang Macha, they would have seen the professor and Steve walk unsteadily away, but steadily enough to not touch each other. They walked, through the falling snow that looked like interference on a radar screen, until, passing a streetlight, they would have gone dark black in outline, then walked beyond the streetlight and faded entirely away.

A week later a story hit the expat community. It spread like a frozen pipe defrosting; a steady drip at first and then an explosion. Each time the story was retold it gained new details.

Tim had gone from the pojang macha to his school, pausing to stop at a convenience store for another bottle of soju. He locked himself in the shared office for foreign teachers and wrote a long note – a note that no foreigner could ever have claim to have seen but of which each one knew the contents, even though no two versions of it were the same. Tim had poured his heart into the letter. He finished the soju straight from the bottle, recapped the empty, and carefully placed it in the trash.

Then slashed his wrists with a letter opener.

The cleaning ajjumah came in the next morning and, seeing a congealed puddle of blood under the office door, called the police. With the help of a translator to interpret the suicide note, they quickly determined what had happened. A report was filed and the coroner was called to remove the body.

The ajjumah was not particularly sentimental, and once the police and coroner were done, imperturbably turned back to her cleaning, eventually removing all evidence of Tim from the office.

When it all was over and Tim’s body had gone back to the States, Steve and the professor occasionally ran into each other. They might bump into each other in Itaewon, at a TESOL conference, or a party in a friend’s villa. When it happened, they only spoke the required social niceties and avoided eye-contact. They were never seen leaving any of these meeting together, and they never shared another drink in a pochang macha.

Tim’s hagwon had to hire another teacher, which was likely the greatest inconvenience in the entire series of events.