Five Minute Stories

Going to Japan

2008-02-28T06:35:00.000-08:00

It could have been worse I told myself. I could have lost my passport. I kept repeating this potential scenario in my head, but it wasn’t helping. I was on a train bound for Dong Deagu an hour later than I was supposed to be. My trip and tickets to Japan were planned and reserved. It was supposed to be a two-day, one night trip to the Korean Consulate in Japan. I was to fill out paper work, and they would give me a visa to work in the country. The trick: I had to be everywhere on time. Sounds easy right. Which is part of the reason this portion of my trip is particularly difficult to discuss.
My day began at 5:45 in the morning. After an orange juice and a bowl of cereal, I dressed and left. I stopped in the foyer and patted down. Passport? Wallet? House key? Toothbrush? Directions? I had everything. I trotted down the sidewalks and through the sunlight that twinkled through the tree leaves. I arrived at the subway station. The long escalator sank me slowly into an enormous opening. Granite walls circled me, and their balconies held erect pines and tufts of ivy curled over its rails. Glass doors drifted open to welcome me into the marble foyer. I wondered until I came to an automated ticket machine. I could not read anything except the illustrated subway map overhead. I needed the train bound for Ansim, a change at Banwaldung, and that would take me to Dong Deagu station. I boarded a brand new subway car and sat on a carpeted row of seats. I read Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge then I arrived at Dong Deagu. Now to find the train station.
The escalator lifted me to a street corner. I circled around a few times. I saw a man and approached him. KTX? I said with my reservation papers on display. He put his hands up and shook his head. I paced a bit until by chance I saw a huge window front buttressed by white trusses. That must be it. I ran around shrubbery and a large compass embedded into the ground. I passed a fountain while the morning sun was lifting itself above the large glass front I was approaching. I walked inside and looked around—cuddled in a small corner I found the automated ticket machine. I tapped through the touch screen windows and my train ticket printed. I waited for the train schedule to flash in English—I sank down another escalator to the right boarding dock. I was ten minutes early for the train heading for Busan. I relaxed on a bench and had another turn at The Mayor of Casterbridge.
Things became bad. My train whined to a stop and the doors opened. I stood to board when I noticed I was boarding car number 12. My ticket was for car 7. Why I did not just board car 12 and walk to car 7 while on the train is the question that haunted me the rest of the day. For some reason, I didn’t. I was one car away from number 7 when the doors closed and the train started to leave. I showed my ticket to a staff member. Too late he said—buy another upstairs. I limped back to the escalator with my hand on my brow. In the ticket line, an army man told me that another train was head to Busan at 8:05—perfect. I’m only going to loose fifteen minutes. If this line moves fast enough, you might be able to make it. Sure enough, I got my ticket on time and raced back down the escalator to the boarding section. I sat down on the bench and decided to spend the remaining five minutes with The Mayor of Casterbridge. This is the part that requires a fair amount of patience for human blunder. In my haste, I took the wrong escalator to the wrong boarding dock. It was 8:10 and I looked around to see if the train was possibly late. A teenager at a convenience stand broke the news to me: you’re time is up and this is the wrong boarding dock. Up the escalator this time, I was leaning on the rail with my face buried in the crook of my arm. I got another ticket for an 8:40 to Busan. The trip took an hour.
Once I arrived at the Busan station, I needed to go the Busan international ferry. And the boat was to take me to the Hakata port terminal in Japan. I shuffled through my backpack to find my reservation paper. It did not say when my ferry was leaving—just it’s number and reservation code. It could be a late departure. I could be on time. I found enough consolation in my own guidance to calm myself enough to enjoy The Mayor of Casterbridge for the rest of the train ride. When I got to Busan station, I walked through another enormous glass front buttressed by white trusses into a panorama brick esplanade. Each light post was connected by a string of Japanese lanterns. I ran to the edge of the esplanade to two cab drivers lounging on rock slabs smoking cigarettes. Taxi? I said. He pointed to a list of cabs idling in front of a glass, waiting hut. I showed the cab driver my directions (written in Korean) to take me to the port. We drove through alleys: crisscrossing power lines over head, vendors rummaging through their fruits and vegetables, a man shining shoes sitting on an upturned trash bin. We turned into a main road passing through a green light adorned with ivy and tree leaves while seagulls flew over-head. I arrived at the Busan international port terminal.
The place was empty. Not a good sign. I saw a woman typing through the window of a closed ticket booth. I showed her my reservation ticket. She printed a new ticket for me. Yep, I missed my ferry. The next one was not leaving until 2:15 and the boat takes three hours. I think I forgot to mention too that the Korean Consulate closes at 5:00. Damn-it. I was alone in the waiting room, I had three hours to wait, and for all I knew the trip was a bust. I flopped into a chair and took out the cell phone my manager let me borrow.
Hmmmm. I don’t know what to tell you. Tough Break man. I will call Janice and let her know. I put the cell phone away. Then, I saw a family of westerners—weighted with two suitcases, a Korean guidebook, and a baby in a backpack. I made eye contact to get their attention.
Ahhhh, good day mate. I’m Cameron and this is my wife Katrina. And the little guy I’m carrying is Andrew. They were from Cairns, Australia. And they were on a month vacation exploring the Asian coast. They just finished venturing through Korea and now they were on the final leg of their vacation: two weeks in Japan. The husband and wife were both majored in science. He was a marine biologist and she was temporarily retired until their kids grew (they were planning on two more children). I chattered on about the places I’ve been in America—Indianapolis, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Chicago, New York, the south east, the southwest and parts of Appalachia: they had never been to the states. They talked about Cairns and how tough it is to find a good paying job in the sciences. And so we passed the three hour wait in the lobby while their son wondered about pushing buttons, riding escalators and elevators—the conversation altered between husband and wife while they took turns chasing their son down—and people gradually populated the lobby. I had forgotten I wasn’t going to make the consulate on time.
On the boat I drifted between sleep and The Mayor of Casterbridge, until resting blue-mountains emerged. Soon, crisscrossing highways were visible: and bordering pine trees. I was approaching Japan. At customs I showed my passport and declaration papers, and waved goodbye to the Australian family while I was being patted down and shoes inspected. Good Luck with the consulate he said and they disappeared through the door. I felt fortunate to have met them.
Downstairs I showed my hotel brochure to a woman at the information desk. She marked a map of Fukuoka for me and I needed the number 51 bus into town. Outside, I crouched under the bus roof in front of a weed-entangled fence. People gathered and disappeared with each bus. The red sun was descending behind the Hakata port terminal. A friendly woman asked me if I needed help. I showed her my brochure and said I needed to get to Fukuoka. You can take this bus—It’s a different number but it follows a similar route.
Where are you from? She asked.
Philadelphia. You?
I’m from Japan. she giggled.
Where in Japan? I saved myself from embarrassment!
Tokyo.
We boarded the bus and moved under towering highways of roving cars and tucks, and through plain-faced buildings of either pink of blue. I exited the bus. Glowing taxi lights, towering ads, passing bicycles, and hundreds of people six inches shorter than me: Fukuoka. I showed her my map and asked her if she could point me in the direction of my hotel. I thanked her for her help and walked down the sidewalk. I needed more assurance that I was headed in the right direction so I turned into the post office. A row of no-back vinyl chairs made a long rectangle down the marble lobby. Behind the desk: employees donned in blue shirts moved large yellow sacks of mail amongst littered desks, cubby holes, and the ephemeral glowing of copy machines. I showed a man my reservation ticket (one half of it was written in Japanese) and asked where. He pulled a map-book from under the desk, leafed through a few pages and traced a street line with his finger. He tapped the spot once and said to me: at corner make left. I crossed the street and entered the Watanabe stretch. I walked a few paces and saw two people eyeing a map display. Unsure if they spoke English, I showed them my hotel reservation ticket. She lit up and told me my hotel was a ten-minute walk down the sidewalk.
I checked in and on the lift up a dusty-haired man—his hair brushed over his eyes—look at me and said where from? Amelica?
Yes.
Where?
Philadelphia.
We shared a smile and I went to my room. At this point, I knew the consulate would be closed, I had a whole night to myself, so I thought it would be a good idea to try a dry run so I would not get lost. In the lobby, I showed them my reservation ticket for the consulate: fortunately, it to had Japanese lettering on it. I asked where and the woman pulled a paper with directions on it. It was a challenge to decipher the English on these directions—and as I’ve demonstrated in this passage: I get lost easy. I concluded it would be best to show a cab driver the Japanese lettering on my consulate reservation ticket. I showered, had a turn at The Mayor of Casterbridge and fell asleep.
The morning came with a new feeling of confidence. I decided to try the directions, but first I needed to change my won into yen. I walked back to the post office took a number and waited. A Czechoslovakian man sat down next to me. We talked briefly about music: he liked Radiohead, Tool, Rage Against the Machine, and his brows narrowed when I told him I liked the Beatles and he winced when I expressed my love for Bob Dylan. He said he spends a lot of time in South Street and was in Japan selling music samples of his band: we shook hands and he said it was nice to meet other people with open minds. I exchanged 60,000 won for 6,000 yen ($60 American dollars). I had 1,000 yen in my pocket and with what I just exchanged: I had enough to cover the consulate fee and my cab ride.
The cab ride. Everyone says cabbies love to gyp foreigners and they do it by taking the looong way. The alternative was wondering around the subway all morning. Cab drivers know the city and I don’t. At this point in my trip, I did not want to be lost: I decided to take my chances with the cab driver. The trip only took ten minutes and only cost 1,000 yen. I counted myself lucky.
It could be worse I repeated to myself. And again it was not working. To my chagrin, a visa takes a whole night to process and there was no way I could get my visa or my passport until 10:00 the next morning. I sighed, flopped into a chair and assessed my situation. I was checked out of my hotel and my reserved ferry was departing back to Korea in three hours. The cell phone my manager lent me had a dying battery and I did not know Korea’s international calling code. What a fix. I could only think about Dong-Daegu: all I had to do was walk to the correct car while onboard the train. I would have initiated the visa process yesterday, and on my way to Korea today. But no. I was alone in the consulate with all the time in the world, and no way back to Korea.

My predicament was not completely hopeless: the consulate had a water cooler. Something about the cold cup of water helped me recollect myself. I asked for a map and if she could highlight the nearest hotels. My new plan seemed simple enough—I would check into a hotel, come back tomorrow, and I’d buy a new ferry ticket—worse thing: I’m out a hundred dollars for the hotel and a new ferry ticket. But luck was on my side. Walking into the consulate just then were three friends who I met at the training session. They were Brent, Mike, and the South-African. (I feel terrible. I did not catch his name when we first met. And too much time has passed between us for me to ask for it, without me blushing profusely. What’s worse everyone else I ask from the training session does not know his name either) Mike spoke a fair amount of Korean.
Just ask her to call the ferry company—say I don’t know any Japanese can you see if you can change my boarding pass. Mike asked her in Korean. The woman was on the phone for about 10 minutes. It worked! I had a new time tomorrow at 2:15—I did not loose my reservation! Things got better. Even though Brent and the man from South Africa had to leave for Korea in a few hours, Mike had the whole day and night to wait like I did. I had someone to explore the city with.
I checked into the hotel and we went to lunch. We walked into a snug restaurant. At a long table shared with other businessmen we sat and ate our ramen. Brent and the man from South Africa talked about how they partied with Jeff all night—and massaged their temples when they talked about their pounding hangovers. Back at the hotel, I waved goodbye to Brent and the man from South Africa again as they descended from view into the subway.
The crosswalks glowed white in the sunlight. Mike and I crossed through a crowd of businessmen in pinstripes, and gorgeous Japanese girls: mascara, rust colored hair, curled to a bun, shadowed by the floral-paisley umbrellas they carried while pedaling bicycles with white high heels. We strolled through open-air malls, down long tunnel hallways with arced glass tops. Merchants were bustling about their wares: furniture, clothing, cell-phones, all adorning shelves sprawling into the walkway. We were true foreigners—snapping pictures of what they find common. The subway under Watanabe road: the ceilings were decorated with green, wrought iron floral patterns. And the lights on the wall gave a comfortable white glow while speakers played birds chirping. We had dinner at a Zen bar. From my booth my knees pressed hard against the counter. But the tempera (I don’t know if I spelled that right breaded, it was deep-fried shrimp) was very good. On an escalator in canal city, a group of kids on their way down said hi to me. I waved said hi, how are you and they giggled amongst themselves. We watched a clown juggle knives on a unicycle. The sun was setting and the city lights reflected off the river we watched from atop a bridge. We were exhausted from walking. We found a line of glowing huts along the sidewalk. We parted into the folds of the drapes for a small dinner and sake. We made plans for tomorrow, I said goodnight and was quickly asleep in my hotel bed. Much to tired for Thomas Hardy.
In the morning we each had two donuts and a coffee at Mister Donut and rode the subway back to the consulate. Our visas were finished. A small group of children crossed the road—each holding onto a section of leash—all to the beat of their teachers whistle. We passed them with a smile on the sidewalk and all their white uniforms were bright in the sunlight. I was headed for the Hakata station, but Mike’s plane was not until 8:00 that night. He patted my knee with a grin: are you sure you’re ok to find your way back?
Yes. I will be fine.
I’m going to exit here and see what I will find. I said goodbye and watched him disappear into a crowd outside the closing subway doors.
Inside the Hakata station, I found another westerner. Her name was Ann and she was from England. Are you for the 2:15? She asked.
She was another English teacher as well, but with a different company. From there she shared stories about the six years she lived traveling through the Far East. And about the fever she caught from a mosquito in the Philippines. She had made a living in New Zealand for a year, doing odd jobs.
Was it nice there?
Oh, it was a dream. She said with a sigh. I miss it so much.
Have you ever been to the sates?
I was in L.A
I’m sorry.
Yeah, the people there are so phony. And L.A is it’s own bubble: they don’t care and are ignorant another world exists. I was working in a bar, and someone asked if my accent was practice for a part. I said no….I’m from England this is how I talk. He could not understand that I was working in a bar just to work in a bar. No ulterior motive, seriously!
I chuckled. And another woman asked me what language they spoke in England, and someone else told me to speak English after calling an elevator a lift. Um hello, it was my country that spawned the language!
I laughed. America is so much more than L.A. I’d recommend Chicago.
Oh I’ve wanted to go there.
It’s a gorgeous city. And Midwesterners are genuine people, just be wary of the scary, Bible-thumping, holier than thou crowd.
We got in line. Or as she called it: queued. I had my passport out and she seemed very impressed with it. She leafed through its unstamped pages and marveled at the artwork, and pictures of legendary moments and landmarks of American history. British passports are so plain she complained. The gold lettering on the front of hers had long since worn away, and visas, stamps, and declaration papers billowed out from it.
A man from a few paces back called her name. They talked for a few moments. I did not think anything of it until we sat down again after customs. So I know I’m probably being a total bitch, but that man I was talking to in-line is really starting to creep me out.
Oh yeah?
He’s been asking for my address and email. And when he saw me here today he said oh I thought you would be on this ferry.
Uh oh.
I’m probably just being paranoid—he was probably just trying to be nice.
You can’t be too careful traveling alone I said. Does this thing happen often?
Yeah, I seem to have a knack for attracting strange folks.
There must have been 100 open seats in the lobby and the above-mentioned man flopped down in a chair right next to mine. I wouldn’t have minded except we were both Americans and he was definitely crossing the American personal space boundary as he leaned in to talk. It was uncomfortable. Especially when he was talking about how him and his father got robbed in a rough part of Philly. He said black kids came and knocked out their truck windows.
We boarded the ship. Ann paused and turned on the stairs for the second floor. It was lovely talking to you.
I wish you the best of luck teaching. I said and turned the corner and took my seat.
I buried my face into the crook of my arm to watch from the windowsill the departing Hakata terminal. A light blue shade fell upon crisscrossing highways, palm trees, shipyards as they shrank into the distance.
At the Busan seaport, I saw the man again. Do you have any won?
No I said.
Do you want to get a cab?
No.
Do you need won?
No. With that I walked down the asphalt path and crossed the street. I’m not proud of giving that man the cold shoulder like I did—he probably was just trying to help and I could have been more diplomatic. But Ann’s story had really shaken me a bit. A Korean man helped me find the subway and we descended together.
Back in Korea, I met a man who helped me find the train I needed to go to Dong-Deagu. He said Car 7 was a few cars down.
I’ll just board now and walk down while aboard.
Suit yourself he said.
His name was Jang-Ju and he had a business apprenticeship in Seoul: which was where he was headed. He was also coming back from Japan—except he was on a five-day vacation. Jang-Ju had been everywhere. His apprenticeship had taken him to England, Germany, Italy, and France. We talked about sports. And he seemed a bit surprised when I told him Japanese liked baseball more than Americans. It is our national pastime I said but Americans get more excited about the NFL. Raindrops scattered and streaked across the windshield as we hummed along.
Dong-Deagu station came—he asked if I would be ok finding my way. I smiled and said I would be fine. I left the station in dark, steady rainfall and took the subway back to my apartment. Nothing is better than a hot shower after dripping wet clothes. Things could have been worse I thought—I could have boarded the right train in the first place and missed all this.

Classroom Disruptions

2008-02-28T06:18:00.001-08:00

I love classroom disruptions. First they are funny. (I hope the following will be as funny for you as it was for me) All of my lessons are taught from a workbook and each part of the book is supposed to take a specified amount of time. But there are some sections of the book were it becomes difficult. To fill fifty minutes allotted to teach three pages of an over simplified Journey to the Center of the Earth is not always easy. Why I love classroom disruptions? They fill the voids that would have otherwise left me staring blankly at the class: having finished the segment 10 minutes early (Hangman anyone?). Each disruption takes at least five or six minutes of time. There are two or three minutes for the disruption to take its course, and then there are the two or three minutes for the kids to calm down. And I will take an additional two minutes to lecture about how there isn’t time for disruptions: “Everybody quiet!” I’ll start with. “We have a schedule to follow and there is simply too much to do and no time for this horseplay.” Although there are some times when the disruption can hardly be blamed on the students. One night it was hot, the air conditioner wasn’t working, so the windows were open. My classroom is on the fourth floor and the storefront is a bar. Suddenly, gruff shouting came up through the windows. My entire class dashed over desks and chairs to huddle against the windows—hoping to see a good row. I walked over and peered atop the heads of a cluster of students. Down through crossing power lines and waving tree branches, a crowd poured across the sidewalk from the restaurant and into the street. It gradually became larger as other people collected to see it. A circle formed and from the sides I could see two pairs of outstretched limbs, their owners, being restrained and trying in vain to take a swipe, and hollering angry Korean at each other. The students loved it. Johnny and Hal leaned through the window, pointed and started shouting at the crowd—while the other kids clapped hands and doubled over, heavy with giggling. “Ronny, what’s that man on the street saying?” Ronny turned away from the window.
“Teacher, he say son of bitch.” A small breeze stirred the tree leaves, and the neon light illuminated the white t-shirts, the black top rain puddles, and parked cars along the street side with a blue and red glow. The scuffle had been going on for long enough I thought.
“Ok every back from the window and in your seats.” I walked back to the window. Hal had thrown himself on top of Ronny and Brad and had stolen John’s glasses so he could see. I pulled Hal from off the top of the pile. “Everyone, seats now!” The men in the street were not making my life any easier. Just when I had almost everyone calm, I heard “kay-sekie!” and more anger coming from the street. All the kids started laughing hysterically again. Some of the kids repeated it in English, in between red-faced giggles: so I could understand.
“Teacher he said son of bitch.” Ok guys I heard it the first time. We do not need to keep repeating it. I heard more yelling. “Johnny why don’t you pull that window shut.”

In another English Chip class, “Hal sit on all fours!” Hal was leaning back in his chair. Hal sat down with a thud. Not fifteen minutes later, Hal was leaning back in his chair again. Next thing I hear—a heavy dull bang—like a stack of books slamming to the floor. Hal fell back in his chair. The entire class let out a melodramatic laugh. The next day, Ben asked: “So there was a bit of a disturbance in your class yesterday?”
“Oh, yeah. Hal was leaning back in his chair and fell out. And the entire class laughed hysterically. They like to laugh at Hal. Even if the laughter is a bit forced.”
“Sure, It’s a bit gratifying when they fall. Especially after you’ve told them to sit.”

Korean culture is very collectivist. Everybody is always thinking of the group. Backwards through American eyes, but heartwarming when witnessing it first hand. If any student has a snack—chips, Jelly Beans, gum—it’s shared with the entire class. Like Sarah: “Teacher, gum?”
“Thank you.”
“Teacher, Jelly Bean?” I looked down and saw a yellow, marbled Jelly Bean.
“No, no! Teacher, blah!” Monica made a fake wretch noise into her hand. Ben walked into class. He saw a student of his with a bag of chips. Ben lowered his brows. “What are you eating? Give me a chip.” Then student handed Ben a chip and smiled out of class. “By the way, they think it’s amusing when you treat them like crap.” Ben handed me the daily report, “Cheers” and went back to his class. Back to the Jelly Bean: I put the bean to my mouth, with a more urgent warning from Monica—she had her hand up in a stopping motion. I ate the bean and to my pleasant surprise it tasted like popcorn. But Monica continued to look disgusted. Jeff offered me a piece of chocolate. It had an interesting taste to it—dry, bland and waxy. No sugar, was that it? I immediately assumed no other country, aside from England, puts more sugar in their chocolate than Americans.
“Teacher do you like it?” Diana asked me.
“Not bad, but American chocolate is much more sweeter.” Jeff had passed his chocolate around to the rest of the class. Suddenly, Diana, Hailey, Sarah, Monica, Bill, Austin, Anne, Mike, Peter—everyone who ate the chocolate all started wincing bitterly.
“Teacher, Teacher drink, drink!”
“Why what’s wrong?” I said over the noise. The classroom suddenly got loud with similar cries and impatient shuffling—rocking their chairs and kicking their desk legs.
“Tastes like Crayon.” Diana cried. So while, everyone left class for a cup of water, Jeff sat smiling triumphantly from the back of the room—having, single handedly delayed class for a good ten minutes—while still enjoying the last of his chocolate. Of course, students never just go for a drink. They will stop in the bathroom, socialize in a corner, and best of all: Bill rushed through the hall door and dropped the stopper so Sarah and Monica were locked out. When I open the door, they were angry and wanted vengeance: “Teacher X point!” Before that would happen, I sat patiently waiting for the students, with my own brand of relief. I felt slightly better that it was not because I was a foreigner that that chocolate tasted foul…
…“Never take anything they give you!” Jarred advised as we approached the subway. “What ever they offer, say thank you and put in your pocket. Because no matter how awful or weird it tastes you’re forced, being in the center of the classroom, to finish what you’ve started eating.”

In English Chip class, during break, Johnny and Brad were talking near the door. I just finished grading when I saw Bob staring intently at Johnny and slowly creeping toward him. “Where is he going with this?” I thought. Bob still moved closer to Johnny, knees akimbo, and arms out—like he was about to hug a dwarf. Like a flash, Bob dropped to the ground, scissored Johnny’s ankles between his own legs, then Bob flipped his body over. Johnny dropped to the floor with a heavy thud—his head just missing the corner of my desk. “Whoa Bob! Don’t do that again! Especially to me.” Johnny got up like nothing happened and returned to his desk. I related the story to Ben the next day.
“From a very early age, all kids are highly trained in Tae-Kwon-Do—most reaching a black belt by eleven or twelve. So when fights break out in class, it’s quite a spectacle to see them fly at each other. And like all martial artists, they will have a go and be best friends by the next day.”

English Chip Level Three

2008-02-28T06:05:00.000-08:00

Everyone has embarrassing moments. At the time nothings feels worse than having those scarlet patches surface across your face, but recounting the story to a friend or a group in some dark, snug bar somehow makes one glad it happened—because everyone likes telling stories…
It was my second English Chip level 3 class. Hal had done something very funny. I could feel a laugh bulging my lungs with air, but I was biting my tongue, slowing my speech, everything to keep my composure. It was useless. My voice wavered over syllables and my mouth corners turned. Unfortunately my diaphragm was holding the laugh like a rubber band holds a ten-pound weight: it snapped and the laugh rushed through my nose—carrying a small booger with it. Suddenly, fourteen Korean students laughed all of them tapping their nose: “teacher, teacher!” They didn’t know the English word for booger. I quickly took a Kleenex from my pocket and wiped it away, while Hal, gesturing with his finger and thumb, suggested I flick it at somebody.
“No Hal, this is going in the trash.” I leaned over the desk and tossed the Kleenex into the plastic trash bag. The reason I was trying not to laugh in the first place was because of an event that happened earlier. The students were working on an assignment called Story Mapping. Their workbook gives sentences and some of the words are written in bold. First, we read the sentences as a class. Next, the students replace the words that are not in bold. I had called on Brad a moment before to make a new sentence from this: Pete looks at some beautiful stamps from South America. And Brad’s sentence was Hal looks at some beautiful girls from Africa.
No! No! I kill you! Hal yelled as he shook his metal ruler from across the room at Brad—the ruler came down with each syllable. Hal had his pencil case open: scissors, colorful pencils, a razor, and black eraser hairs were strewn about. Arms and machine guns were doodled on the curled, creased pages of his workbook.
“Hal!” He looked up at me through his thick, brown-rimmed glasses. “Keep your voice down.” In all fairness I decided to let Hal go next. His sentence was: The shopkeeper stands near Pete and watches him. Hal’s sentence: Hal stands near Brad and stabs him.
“Teacher, Hal crazy!” Bob was pointing behind me at Hal. He had wielded his small razor blade.
“Hal, why did you bring that to class?”
“To cut.”
“I don’t think so. You can have this back at the end of class.” I took it and put it on top of the white board with various other artifacts from his pencil case, Johnny’s Rubik’s Cube, a can of soda, and Tom’s empty glue stick. (More on the empty glue stick in a moment) I heard The Moonlight Sonata over the intercom: break time. Jumping with their hands on each other’s shoulders and over desktops, they all bustled into the hall.
Tom stayed in the class and he started pushing me toward the wall. If he pushed me back far enough, he would be able to reach his glue stick.
“Tom you’re not strong enough. You should give up.” I said effortlessly holding him back. His arms stretched up to their full length from underneath my arm. I had taken the glue stick earlier when I heard: “Teacher! Teacher!”
“What’s the matter?”
“My glue stick! He steal!” Tom said pointing at Hal. I was confused because Tom was holding the glue stick in his hand.
“Well you have it now, so can we go on?”
“No he steal.” He showed me the vacant canister. Then I realized what happened. Someone had stolen the glue.
“Ok, who took the glue?” The students frowned, shrugged and lifted their hands from under the table. I did what I thought was appropriate: I took the empty glue container and put it next to the Rubik’s Cube. “You can get this back at the end of class.” I said. So presently, Tom was trying to get his glue back. Hal came back into the room. He pressed his hands into Tom’s back, ducked his head below his elbows, and started pushing. I held the two of them at bay. Then, a staff member from downstairs walked into the room—slippers, a grey skirt, and a champagne blouse. Hal and Tom receded to their seats. She talked to Johnny, Brad, Joe, Bob, and Nick in Korean. I could tell they were being lectured because Hal rolled his head along his forearm—and from that position he grinned at me: “ahh teacher no understand.”
“No Hal, I don’t know any Korean.” The staff teacher left with a grin and goodbye. The students mingled—mingling with out purpose except for the chance they might find one. Like Johnny attempting to reach the top of the white board, Alice, head turned into her workbook: brushing through pages and the pencil, eraser tip, placed and resting gently on her lower lip, and Joe quietly: arms crossed, curiously, dreamily, looking out the window from his seat.
“Teacher is tall.” Johnny said—the top of the white board just out of his reach. Other students tried to touch the ceiling. I showed off: I touched it while standing flat on my feet. Moonlight Sonata. “Everyone in seats!” I closed the door and when the lesson was finished I gave Johnny his Rubik’s Cube, Tom his glue stick, and Hal his scissors, pencils, ruler, eraser, and sheathed razor. I got up from my chair moved into the crooked horseshoe of empty desks among the emptied chocolate gum wrappers, desktops with penciled doodles and various Korean characters, and the outturned chairs students moved to leave their desks. I picked the trash, mended the horseshoe, collected my papers into my backpack, and turned out the light—class was over.

Ali: A story about a crazy Egyptian part 2

2008-02-27T22:23:00.001-08:00

Scene ii. Much later in the day: Jared and Stephen are walking back to their respective apartments after a venture downtown. Stephen’s phone rings and he answers it.
Stephen: Hello?
Holly: I just wanted to apologize for what happened last night.
Stephen: Hey don’t worry about it. You can’t help it that guy went crazy.
Holly: I just feel bad you had to see that.
Stephen: Have the phone calls stopped?
Holly: No. I’ve gotten three messages since morning. They all say the same thing. ‘If you go to Busan you die. If you go to Seoul you die.’ Then I delete the message with shaking hands.
Stephen: How are you going to handle this?
Holly: I talked to Ben today and the school’s going to give me a new phone. And they will also install some extra door locks. Well, I will let you go. I just wanted to apologize for what happened.
Stephen: Sure, I hope this gets better for you.

Act II. Scene i: It’s the first week of August and Lindsay and Holly are sitting in Holly’s apartment. Everything is the same except for two new, and large locks on the door. They hear a knock at the door. It’s Stephen so Holly gets up to unbolt the door and Stephen enters.
Holly: Stephen, those locks aren’t there for decoration.
Stephen: Oh, right. (He goes back to the door to slide the bolts into place then has a seat on the couch)
Holly: I’ve been meaning to tell you, I ran into Ali this weekend when I was up in Seoul.
Lindsay: What! Really?
Holly: Yeah, I was out with Erica. I kept saying to myself, as long as I stay with someone I will be fine. So we get to the bar and stay for fifteen minutes or so and sure enough I see Ali. ‘Ok, Erica we need to leave now.’ ‘Sure she says, but I really want to get a drink made.’ ‘Fine just be quick—I just spotted Ali.’ Well sure enough, Ali spots me and begins making his way towards us. ‘Erica, he saw me. We need to go now.’ ‘Oh you’ll be fine the bartender’s almost finished my drink’ she says. ‘Erica. He will be at the table in less than a minute. I’m going to start walking toward the door.’ ‘No don’t leave me, my drink’s finished and I’m going to pay.’ It was too late at that point. I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn to face Ali. ‘Wholly’ he said. ‘Why you no answer your phone.’ I didn’t say anything I just stared at the floor. At that point, Erica returned with her drink and we both made for the door then ran for a cab. Ali did not follow us, luckily.
Lindsay: Note to self: never go to the bar with Erica.
Holly: Yeah no kidding.

It’s the end of September now. Holly just recovered from torn ligaments in her back. The injury started because she stood out of bed wrong or something and pulled a muscle. It got much worse when chasing her new dog Roxy into the bathroom. Roxy knew it was time for Holly to go to work and did not want to be put into the cage. So it was a habit to run into the bathroom. Her former method of escape, under the bed, was sealed off. Holly taped cardboard to the base of the bed. Well the floor was wet in the bathroom and Holly slipped and fell. Later that day in class, it became even worse. Shane was writing a note to another student. Holly scolded at him and made to steal the note. Shane, not wanting Holly to see it, dropped the note in between the wall and his desk. Holly went around to pick the note up. To block Holly, Shane pushed himself and his chair to the wall to keep Holly from passing. He did not block Holly so much as smash her into the wall, as she was already halfway to the note. Holly was immobile for a few minutes waiting for the sharp pain to take it’s course. Shane, horribly guilt ridden that his fisticuffs cause Holly so much pain, spent the remainder of class composing a three page apology letter. Seven weeks later it’s the end of September. We have two days off to celebrate the Korean holiday Chuesok. It’s 10:30 at night and Lindsay, Holly, and Stephen are walking home from work. And they are discussing plans to go to Seoul to celebrate Holly’s recovery.
Holly: I can’t wait to get up to Seoul this weekend. It’s been too long.
Stephen: How long have you been injured.
Holly: Seven weeks. And I wasn’t injured Stephen, I was crippled.
Lindsay: Let’s just pray we don’t run into Ali.
Holly: That’s the best part about his weekend. It’s Ramadan. So Ali won’t come into come into the bars.

(It’s the end of Chuesok and everyone is walking home from work like the previous night.)

Stephen: I trust you all had an Ali free weekend?
Holly: Kind of.
Lindsay: We saw him from across the street. He didn’t come into the bar, but He was standing there smiling at us.

The next time Holly ran into Ali was a month later. She was up in Seoul again with her friend Erica. They are in the same bar, just as before. And just as before Ali sees them and starts to approach them. Holly, naturally, wanted to leave. But Erica held her there and strongly advised her to speak to him. This will never be over she said until you have it out with him. Just go up there and tell him why you will never talk to him again. Ali came to their table with his friend. A man who could speak better English. He began speaking Arabic to his friend. His friend translated to Holly
“Ali wants to no why you don’t answer your phone.”
“Because I don’t want to talk to him.” Holly said. Ali’s friend translated. Ali spoke back and his friend again translated to Holly:
“He really would like to know why.”
“Ok. Well, after he took Lindsay by the neck and threw her across the room…”
“He did that!” Ali’s friend was shocked.
“Yes. And he left a bunch of death threats on my phone saying he was going to kill me if I ever went to Busan or Seoul again.” Ali’s friend was even more disgusted. He turned and translated to Ali this time maintaining a note of contempt and condemnation in his voice. Ali looked surprised and innocent and spoke back to his friend.
“He says he was upset and that he is sorry.”
“Sure, Holly replied. I still don’t want to talk to him.” This exchange must have softened Ali because he took great lengths to make his case stronger. The next time Holly ran into Ali was sometime in November. Ali approached her with a bouquet of roses and said: “I’m sorry.”
“Aww, well that was nice. So you’ve forgiven him?” I asked.
“Yeah, Stephen we’re back together.”

Now I ask for your patience as I take a break from the Ali story to tell a tale of my own affairs. It may seem irrelevant at first but it’s necessary to understand the cause of a string of events that happened as a result of my own mishaps.
It was another Saturday night. I had a sleepy buzz. My eyelids sagging and was ready to sink into my bed and drift into a heavy sleep. My phone rings. I answer the phone and it’s a friend of mine I met a few months back.
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Already? Get your ass back here. I want a cheap cab ride home.”
“Aw. No. I’m out of money. I’m ready to go to bed…”
“I don’t care. Go to Family Mart and withdraw money and get down here.”
“Fine if I come down, you’re buying me Burger King.”
“Fine.” So nobody thinks poorly of Mike’s character, he was very drunk on the phone. And under normal circumstances, he is not so pushy. I myself, as I’ve admitted before, had a few drinks. And had I been sober, no way would I have gone back out. But I did. I withdrew money and got into a cab. My Korean is terrible when I’m sober, but in my present condition—I’m sure you get the idea. Needless to say where the cab driver let me off, I didn’t recognize anything. I tried another cab and must have repeated this process three or four times. By this time, I was so furious that I listened to Mike, lost close to thirty dollars in cab fairs, that I told the next cab driver to take me home.
I get to my door. I reach into my pocket—my fingers rub against the cotton pocket lining as I curl my fingers around nothing. My heart pounds against my chest and I grab my other pocket—nothing. Immediately, I realized what had happened because it’s not the first time I’ve lost a key in this manner. My legs are longer than most peoples and when I get into cabs I have to put knees up to the dashboard so I can fit the rest of myself in. While I had my legs up in one of the cabs, my key must have fallen out of my pocket before I could get the seat back.
“Damn it Steve!” I ran around the corner of the apartment prepared to do what I did the last time. Climb the wall to get into my second story apartment. Climbing the wall sober is easy. But I wasn’t sober. I put my phone in my jacket pocket and took a deep breath. I put my hands on the cement wall and hoisted myself up. Part one was finished. Next there was a brick arc that connected the two buildings that I needed to get on top of. Flowers and daisies bloomed atop of in the summer months disguising the air conditioning units. From the arc I needed to place one foot on a protruding pipe and I would just be able to reach my window ledge. I started to pull myself up to my window. My foot slipped and my body drug down the wall. The friction forced my cell phone from my jacket and it hit the ground with a clack and broke. I about fell myself from the lost grip on the window the slip caused. I somehow managed to maintain my tentative grip on the window edge and pulled myself and regained a second drive and heaved myself through the window inside. I sunk down my kitchen wall, until I fully drooped to the floor. I leaned against my kitchen wall with my legs outstretched not wanting to move forever. I had to explain to my boss how the phone broke and how I lost my key—again.
“Ben, this weekend. I broke my phone and lost my key.” That was all I had decided to say to him. Fortunately, before Ben was married he was a party-going, rebel rouser himself. A man who could trump even the most, wild story I could conjure let alone live to tell about. The point I’m making is that Ben, more than anyone else understands, don’t ask don’t tell.
“You had it in your bag and left it on the subway. And it’s gone now.” After Ben said that I breathed a sigh of relief. “But your key—you didn’t make two copies the last time?”
“No the last time, I wasn’t planning on loosing it again.”
“Alright, well I’ll talk to Janice. Just give me a week. It’s the new semester and she’s real stressed out so I don’t want her to fly off the handle.”
“Yeah, sure thing. And I’m totally prepared, if fact, I would like to pay for a new cell phone. Can it be deducted from my next check?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The thing is it’s a company phone. And I don’t know how CDI gets its phones. They may have a contract deal where they get new ones every so often. Your phone wasn’t state of the art or anything was it?”
“No. Just a standard phone.”
“Ok. Well, like I said. I’ll talk to Janice in a week. And let you know what happens.”

It’s the second week of January. I walk into my classroom and see the replaced cell phone sitting on my desk. I take it out of the box and walk to Holly’s classroom to exchange cell numbers. I read Holly my cell phone number and I notice she stops entering it.
“That’s my old phone.” She says.
“You mean the tainted one?”
“Yeah. I guess you can look forward to phone sex with Ali now.” We both had a good laugh.
“Don’t worry. Ali won’t call you.” Lindsay said after I told her the story later.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, the last time we were in Seoul Ali wanted to know why Holly never has her phone on. And Holly just told him that she got a new one. So he knows better now.”
“Alright. I was really going there for a minute.” Lindsay shook her head to reassure me that my suspicions were ill founded.
That Friday morning at 2:45, the cell phone rings. I smile. No way that’s Ali. But why would Holly, Lindsay or Jared be calling me now. I look down to see the number as something strange.
“Hello?” I hear a man’s voice saying:
“Wholly. Wholly. Where’s Wholly?
“I don’t know who that is?” I was still not sure that this wasn’t some kind of elaborate joke.
“It’s Ali. I want to speak to Wholly.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. Silence. He hung up. I thought, even if it is Ali. It’s Friday and he was probably drinking, and was drunk dialing. No big deal.
Saturday night. My phone vibrated with a text message. It says:
“Where are you?”
“My apt.”
“Apt? Is that a new club??”
“Who is this?”
“Ali, bitchk.” Whoa! I stopped texting and put the phone down. I put my palms to my temples and started pacing circles around the room. No way. No way. No Way. I put pants on and dashed down to knock at Holly’s apartment door. Holly shouts over Roxy’s barking:
“Come in!” I enter to Roxy barking at me from the bed. Instantly thereafter her backside was visited with a sharp swat by the flyswatter Holly pulled from behind the bed. “Shut-up!” Roxy obsequiously retired, lowering herself, putting her ears down behind her head, into a den of pillows piled on the bed—deciding it best to watch the following events from the safety of her cove. “Hi Stephen. What brings you down here?”
“Oh wow. You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What.”
“Ali just started texting me. Here look.” I said removing the phone.
“Let me guess. It says Ali bitch?”
“Yeah. Is that what he usually says?” Holly started laughing.
“No. I texted that to you. Didn’t my number come up on your cell?”
“You’re number did, but I didn’t save the name so I didn’t recognize it.”
“You thought we were Ali!” Lindsay joined in the laughter.
“Well that’s because he called me the night before.” They both stopped laughing.
“Stephen shut-up.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can’t believe, after seven months, he still calls that phone. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing really. He was drunk I think. He just said ‘Wholly, Wholly. Where’s Wholly.’ And I said ‘I don’t know who that is.’ Then he hung up.”
“What a loser!”
“That’s why we shouldn’t joke about this stuff Lindsay because it will actually come true.” Holly looked at me. “Well, Stephen, I guess you have a new boyfriend now.”
“I guess so.”
That night was two weeks ago. And now I’ve brought you to the present.

Ali: A story about a crazy Egyptian

2008-02-27T22:20:00.000-08:00

June. The evening started in Holly’s apartment. I was drinking on her couch watching candle light glow off the walls. Holly was at her computer typing and Ali was sitting on the corner of her bed with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. His look showed he was bored despite my in between attempts at talking to him and trying to meditate with the throbbing candlelight. And Lindsay was there too, sitting next to me on the couch also trying to talk to Ali. We were waiting for Jarred then going downtown to roam about.
‘Anyway, Stephen, Lindsay, this is Ali. Just like the boxer. And he’s from Egypt. I would have been on the introduction earlier but I’ve been drinking!’ Holly said with a laugh that clearly indicated the truth of her claim.
“I’m Steve.” I leaned over to give his hand a shake.
“Lindsay.” She gave a nod to Ali.
Like every drunken person, after they’ve had a bit to drink, I have a natural inclination to ask every non-English speaking person I meet how to say ‘masturbate’ in their language. I will openly admit I, though highly ashamed of myself later when sober, am quite prone this behavior.
“So…Ali, how do you say masturbate in Arabic?”
“Hmm?”
Holly turned from her computer. “How. To. Say. Masturbate. In. Arabic.” Ali still didn’t get it. So Holly complimented her speech this time with a suggestive, exaggerated hand gesture between her legs. Ali understood this time. His brows lowered and his face darkened. He told me the word but like every drunkard I forgot the word five minutes after asking him. And like every drunkard, I didn’t realize the severe consternation my inquiry caused. Having upset his disposition thus, we mutually retired from conversation. Until Jarred, without knocking opened the door and slipped off his shoes to share a seat on the couch.
“Hey kids what’s the plan?”
“Ready to leave when you are.”
“Alright.” We left the apartment not noticing the dancing candlelight on Ali’s even darker face and deeply furrowed brows—evidently, seriously grieved that too many men were in Holly’s apartment.

Several hours later, at the end of the night, I opened the door to my dark apartment. While the florescent bulb was flickering after rubbing my hand darn near across the wall until I hit the switch, I closed the door and flopped belly down on the floor. The floor stopped my descent with a smack—skin on linoleum. But the dark space behind me eyes started spinning. I was mumbling to myself, while untying my shoelaces. I rolled to my back and pushed my self along the floor by my legs until I got to my wardrobe. I made myself naked and crawled into the bathroom for an icy shower. My phone rings. I put clothes on first and answered it because to me, talking naked on a phone feels the same as talking naked face to face.
“Oh hi Stephen, It’s Holly. Are you finished masturbating?”
“Nah I was about to get in the shower.”
“Well, whenever you feel like it, do you want to come down here?”
“Ok.” I put socks on and stepped into my flip-flops. I walked down the stairs and from the foyer that connects the flights between our apartments I saw Holly’s door open and I heard a lot of noise. I thought the wild night was still going, so I entered the apartment in jovial spirits. What I saw in progress was quite the opposite of a party. It was Ali in the center of the room wielding a long, plastic stick with a rubber fist and using it to fend off Holly and Lindsay. They surrounded him and were taking turns shouting for him to leave the apartment. Ali saw me enter and he dropped the toy fist and approached the door to take me by the hands.
“Friend! Talk to them!” He stood at my side and pointed at them with vigilance and a quivering finger, as if they were a set of crazed harpies.
“Yes, Ali. I’m your friend. Now come with me and we will talk about this outside.” I motioned him outside. He wouldn’t have it. Ali realized my allegiance rested with Holly and Lindsay. And with a growl, he shook off my grasp and swung me inside.
“You sit and watch!” Just then, and just as before, Jarred walked into the apartment.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I could tell by Jared’s face he was once under a similar impression as myself having a drunk-happy face turn to horror after walking into what he thought was a party instead of the present situation.
“What! What! You let any man to your apartment!” Ali shouted to Holly.
“Get out!” Lindsay stamped her foot and snapped her arm and finger to the open door: a most commanding order that Ali should exit. An order I didn’t want to give for fear Ali would react as he eventually did. He became even angrier and ringed his hands about her throat and shoved her with a force that sent her reeling into Jared. Who, having met Ali’s ferocious glare at the doorway, quickly sought refuge in a corner behind Lindsay. After shoving Lindsay off, he took a huge breath, and whipped his shirt off over his head and flexing his muscles, cords bulging out of his neck shouted:
“I’m from Egypt! Everybody go home! Holly and me have sex! Now!” I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. Ali noticed and was about to ring my neck screaming: “You! This isn’t funny!” I put my hands up to stop his and reassured him of the situation’s seriousness. Meanwhile, Lindsay having recovered from the shock at having been thrown across the room collected her self and was about to, from the looks of her face, dash his eyes out or leave a set of dripping fingernail crescents into his cheeks. When Holly, suddenly visited by an idea, stood up and said:
“Ok Ali. Ok. Lets go talk. We can talk outside.” Ali lowered his arms in victory and gave a last glare to the three of us—a warning he wasn’t to be trifled with again in such a fashion—as he was leaving the room. He balled his shirt into his hands and walked outside. The old bugger fell for it! He didn’t notice Holly kept one foot inside and one hand on the doorknob. Showing an adept dexterity, Holly stepped inside, snapped the door closed, slid the bolt in place. We heard a muffled shotgun blast—Ali’s fist into the door. Then, he gave blood-curdling cry—no doubt upset at how easily he was foiled. He ran around to the front of the building. We could see the vague outline of a middle finger pressed to the dimpled glass window, shouting: “Fuck you Canada! Fuck you Canada! Two men come out. We fight!”

Act I Scene i. Silence. It is morning and sunlight peaks out over the mountain and streams in illuminating the apartment. To the left, Jared and Stephen share and orange-vinyl couch. And two the right, Lindsay and Holly are sitting on Holly’s queen sized bed. In front of the bed, there is a television, and behind the television, a refrigerator on top of which is a microwave. Between the couch and fridge is a sliding door that leads into the kitchen. By this time, everyone is sure Ali has left. And that it’s safe to start talking again. Holly is the first to break the silence by breathing out a long sigh of relief.
Stephen: Wow.
Lindsay: What a jackass.
Jared: Glad that’s over.
Holly: So Lindsay—come to Korea. You can get thrown across the room by crazed Egyptians.” (A few weeks before, Holly had been convincing Lindsay, her best friend from home, to teach English in Korea.)
Lindsay: Yeah, for the record, Let’s hope I never live through that again.
Stephen: Lindsay you looked prepared to have his throat out.
Lindsay: That’s because you don’t hit girls! Even my American friends know better—no offence Stephen.
Stephen: None taken.
Holly: So how about Jared hiding behind Lindsay?
Jared: Hey, if hiding and watching someone else get manhandled instead of yourself makes you a coward—then I’m totally OK with being a coward.
Stephen: What did you say to him that made him fly off the handle like that?
Holly: Umm, that I didn’t want to have sex tonight.
Jared: That’s all it took?
Holly: Well he wasn’t happy that Jared walks in and out of my apartment without knocking because it makes me look like a whore. And it certainly didn’t help that Stephen asked him how to say masturbate in Arabic.
Stephen: Like that’s the first time he’s been asked that question—hanging out with drunken white people. (Holly shrugs her shoulders)
Holly: I just hope he doesn’t come back.
Lindsay: Well you said he works in Busan right? So it’s not like he can just come over on a whim.
Holly: After tonight’s episode I wouldn’t put it past him. It just sucks I can’t go to Busan anymore.
Jared: Would you talk to Janice about switching apartments?
Holly: Yeah, or at least putting extra locks on the door.
Lindsay: Does he still go to Seoul on weekends?
Holly: That’s right. I guess I can’t go to Seoul anymore either.
Jared: I wouldn’t worry about that. The military base is there and if any G.I sees and Arabic man heckling a white woman they will most certainly intervene.
Holly: That’s assuming they can intervene before Ali puts a knife in me.
Stephen: Yeah, but Seoul is a massive city. What are the odds your paths will cross?
Holly: We both like the same bar. That’s where we met. Anyway, Lindsay, are you staying over?
Lindsay: Umm, yeah.
Stephen: I think I’m going home.
Everyone together: Goodnight.

Stephen crosses the room to the door and steps into his flip-flops. He peers outside the door for a moment and dashes back in doing his best to appear trifled.

Stephen: He’s still here! He’s still here!
Jared: Hey Stephen, fuck off.
Stephen: Ok, that was inappropriate good night.