The following is a rough-draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context.
Friday, May 15, 1998
Mr. Lee stood me up. Again.
This was the third Friday that he missed our lesson but the first time where he didn’t call me to let me know. The last time that I saw my old student was on April 24. We would often meet at my apartment, where we would have a formal lesson, and then we would go to dinner, where we would speak, in English only, for a couple more hours. Lee Hyo would always pay for the dinners, of course. At first, I tried to explain that he was already generously paying me for my time, but it became a futile argument. I was the teacher: he was the student. And the student always paid.
At our first meeting, in March, Mr. Lee insisted that he pay me for his lessons up-front, as he had done when I taught him at Kwon’s hagwon. I tried to explain that my other private students paid me at the end of each lesson, which was fair because sometimes, I had to cancel and other times, they would cancel. But Mr. Lee explained that sometimes, he might have to cancel a lesson at the last minute and that wasn’t fair to me. In some ways, I thought that Mr. Lee felt guilty about the hagwon’s sudden closure and about how Kwon had defaulted on paying me my final month’s salary, plus the stipend that was mandatory upon the end of my contract. I had met with Mr. Lee shortly after Kwon let me and the other teachers go, and he helped Tanya and me move from the apartment that Kwon had given us to the spare room in Jamie and Jody’s apartment. At the time, Mr. Lee told me that he wanted to continue lessons with me and would pay me the same fee that Kwon had charged him.
“Five-hundred-thousand won is too much,” I told Mr. Lee when he first came to my Junghwasan-Dong apartment.
“Not too much,” countered Mr. Lee, “you good teacher.”
“You are a good teacher,” I corrected, “and thank you.”
“See? You are a good teacher.”
“And you are a good student. And a good friend.”
“Yes, friend, also.”
On the last Friday in April, Mr. Lee gave me another bank draft for May’s classes but told me that he would be away on the first of the month, on business in Seoul.
“But why pay me the full amount if you know, this week, that you will be away? You pay me too much.”
“Not too much,” repeated Mr. Lee from our original conversation. “You are a good teacher.”
“Excellent, Mr. Lee, and thank you.”
On the following week, Mr. Lee called my pager number and left a message that he would be unable to attend that lesson, as well. And tonight, thirty minutes into our allotted time slot, Mr. Lee was absent without a message. With two more Fridays left in the month, I will have earned less than half of what he had paid me. For me, the guilt of being paid more than I was worth was greater than the anger I had felt when Kwon failed to pay me for what I was owed.
When more than an hour beyond the start of our lesson time had passed, I left my apartment and walked down the hallway toward Russell’s unit. His door was wide open, a clear indication that visitors were welcome.
The teachers on our floor came up with an unwritten system for visiting one another. If a door was wide open, anyone was welcome to walk right in. If a door was closed, we would knock before coming in. If a door was closed and locked, either the teacher was away or wanted some privacy.
I walked into Russell’s unit, which was the mirror image of my own but was less furnished. I found Russell standing over his two-range gas stove, stir-frying what looked to be thin strips of chicken and mixed vegetables in a dark sauce. “I made extra,” he said, turning to face me as he continued to stir. “There’s rice in the steamer.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll take you up on that offer. My dinner plans have been dashed.”
“Your student cancelled again?” We all knew that each of us had some teaching on the side. We could trust one another to keep it within the walls of this building.
“Aye. Look, I think I have a couple of bottles of beer. Let me fetch them.”
“Sounds good. Dinner is about two minutes away.”
My fridge held two one-quart bottles of OB Lager, which I had picked up at the corner store between our apartment building and the main road. I grabbed both and returned as Russell was unfolding a small table. Two cushions were already in place where we would be sitting on the floor. His rice cooker was plugged in and resting on the floor next to where we would be dining. I went to one of his cupboards, where I knew he kept his dishes, and took out two bowls and two cups. We set the table and Russell took the pan off the stove, and placed it on a large cork coaster between the place settings.
“This looks good,” I said. Russell and I ended our Friday work day within an hour of each other, and both of us usually headed straight back to the apartments. A couple of weeks after we had settled in to our units, Russell, Cathy, Nelson, and I had purchased used motor scooters from a dealer near the baseball stadium. Faster than either hailing a taxi or waiting for a bus, we could zip between the apartment and the university. We also noticed that while on the scooters, with our helmets covering our heads, most people in traffic or on the sidewalks could not discern us from Koreans, and so we could travel around the city in relative anonymity, which made it easier to get to some of our private students. It cost less for a single tank of fuel than for a single ride in a taxi to just about anywhere, and because the four of us purchased three scooters, we were able to negotiate a good price. For less than one hundred American dollars, I had transportation and a helmet, with a visor, that both protected and hid my face. A purple motor scooter wasn’t my ideal colour but Cathy and Nelson wanted the blue scooter, and Russell had chosen a bright yellow one.
Russell opened the lid to his rice cooker and handed me a ladle. “Help yourself.”
I added a scoop of the jasmine rice and passed the utensil back. With a metal spoon, I added some of the chicken and vegetable bits to my bowl. “Smells amazing.” As Russell served himself, I opened a bottle of the lager and divided it between our cups. “Kombei,” I said, raising my glass.
“I think Ashley and Raymond are performing at TwoBeOne again tonight,” said Russell after a sip of the beer.
“They seem to perform there every other Friday,” I said. Having missed their first show at this foreigner-friendly bar, I vowed to never miss another performance. As soon as any lesson with Mr. Lee was finished, I would head straight to the bar that had now surpassed Urban Bar and SE, the first ex-pat bar I used to frequent, in popularity. Shin Hoon, Urban’s owner, tried to bring patrons back with live music but couldn’t generate the same level of energy that came from this dark basement establishment. Koreans and westerners alike would hit the stage, and a large dance floor directly in front brought the crowds to their feet. “Those lads are drawing quite the following.”
“I heard Ashley say that they had found a drummer who was going to join them.”
“Waegukin?” Foreigner.
“Korean,” said Russell. “He said this guy is the brother of one of his students. He heard Ashley and Raymond perform a couple of weeks ago and asked to join them. They’ve been practicing every day this week.”
“That will make for a nice jazz trio.” As good as Ashley was on the piano and Raymond on guitar, they sounded like something was missing. Percussion was just what they needed. “Is everybody else going?”
“As far as I know, the Cathnelsons are in. Brian said that he and his wife might join us.”
“I’ve never met Brian’s wife.” Brian Rogers had moved to Chŏnju about ten years earlier and met his wife, a Korean, on a Christian retreat. They married within a year and Brian immersed himself in the culture, becoming fluent in the language and helping lead in his church community. Rarely did he socialize with the other teachers, so the promise of an appearance, his wife in tow, was welcome news.
“I think only Raymond and John have met her,” said Russell. John Peterson was also a long-time teacher at Jeonju University and was also married to a Korean woman, but that’s where the similarities ended. A vocal atheist, John took every opportunity to criticize the Korean culture. It was a wonder that he wanted to stay here.
“Hey, Cathy told me the other day that you finally withdrew from the Korean master’s programme. Congratulations.”
“Yes, thanks, I told Mr. Kim, on Monday, that I wanted to withdraw but he urged me to reconsider. I skipped my classes on Tuesday and on Wednesday I brought Chul-won with me to the registrar’s office, to help me formally withdraw. Thursday was the deadline for withdrawing and getting any sort of refund. I lost fifty-thousand won but that was nothing, compared to the two-million they wanted for this semester alone. I should have been smart like you, Roland, and withdrawn on Day One.”
“I never applied in the first place. It wasn’t a condition of my employment.”
“Nor mine, but I should have had some backbone and stood up to Mr. Kim after the first day.”
Kim Sun-ho was the dean of the Korean Cultural Studies department, the only one that offered a master’s degree to foreign students, though we learned after Russell’s first week that no foreign student had ever applied before. No educational institute outside of South Korea would even recognize the degree but the English department wanted to be able to brag that all of its teachers held, at minimum, a master’s degree. A bachelor’s degree wasn’t good enough, and Russell and I were the only teachers to not hold a master’s, let alone a PhD, as Brian and John held.
Mr. Kim had sat with the university head, Mr. Cho, during my interview, and had said that the university would hire me right away if I considered registering for this cultural studies program, to which I immediately answered, “I’m considering it right now.” Hands were shaken, forms were signed, and plans for a work visa were arranged.
As soon as I had my contract signed and the E-2 visa paperwork filed, I visited Mr. Kim in his office and told him that I had considered his degree program, but would respectfully decline. His face clearly revealed his disappointment but he respected my reasons and frankness. “I want to focus on my students, Kim Gyeosunim, and I cannot give them one-hundred percent of me if I’m also trying to give you my very best. And while the full programme is two years long, my contract is for only ten months. I cannot earn my master’s degree before I go home.”
“Have no fear,” he assured me, “if you would like to finish your degree, I’m sure that the university would extend your contract for as long as you would like.”
“But you see, Kim Gyeosunim, I agreed to a ten-month contract because I wish to return home next year.”
Mr. Kim bowed and we never spoke of the degree again. But to appease him, I agreed to take Hangul lessons from him, free of charge. Six weeks into it, my reading comprehension and conversational Korean were already much-improved.
Just the other week, I was walking down the crowded hall of our language building, on my way to a class, when I had to squeeze past some students. I came behind one of my own students, Yi Shin-hye, the one I stupidly called ‘beautiful’ on my first day, and said, “Shillyae-habnida.” Excuse me. Shin-hye turned around. Her eyes went wide and she let out a shriek before jumping out of the way. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.
“When I hear you, I think you are a Korean man. I not expect to see you. You sound just like Korean. Your accent is very good.”
“Kamsa-habnida,” I said with a smile. Thank you, though I was sure I had Mr. Kim to thank.
I swallowed a mouthful of the OB Lager before I spoke. “The important thing, Russell, is that you’re no longer chained to this useless degree. Our interaction with Mr. Kim is minimal, at best. Don’t give it another thought.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
***
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| The real ToBeOne. Photo ©1998 Ross Brown. |
We were going to need more soju.
As Russell and I took our seats, the others had just recovered from a fit of laughter. I was sitting in the middle of the table, facing Ashley and Raymond, who had their backs to the stage. When it was time to perform, they would leave me with a clearer view of the stage.
“You just missed a great story,” said Nelson, who was to my left. “I still say it’s one of those urban legends that gets passed around us waeguks.” Nelson and Cathy were also taking Korean language lessons.
“People do crazy things, living here,” said Ashley, seemingly defending his story. “I believe it.”
Nelson began to summarize the story. “Some time, last year, some lady was driving her car along a sidewalk, but, like, at a really slow speed.”
“Slower than the pedestrians,” added Cathy.
“Well, there was some crazy Canadian who was on the sidewalk, walking toward the driver, and, like, he wasn’t going to move for her.”
“Let me guess,” I said, “he walked up onto her hood and right over her car.”
“So, you’ve heard this urban legend, too,” said Raymond.
“No,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “I was that crazy Canadian.”
“Get out!” laughed Cathy.
“No way!” cried Nelson.
“Are you serious, Roland?” asked a surprised Ashley.
“As serious as a car wreck.”
“Dude, I want to shake your hand!” Ashley stood up and offered his hand. “You’re my hero. So many of us have seen so much goofy shit by Korean drivers, and you stood up to one. Good for you.” He looked to the Koreans who were seated at our table. “No offense, folks, but none of you know how to drive. And this man is a living legend.”
“Man, that was some dangerous shit,” said Raymond. “What if she had hit the gas with you standing in front of her car or once you were on top of it?”
“It was a concern as she got right up to me but I had seen her approach others who went around her as she got close. My biggest worry was her hitting the accelerator while I was on the hood. I didn’t want to go into the wind screen. As soon as I was on the roof of the car, I knew that if she hit the gas, I’d stand a good chance of being able to jump clear.”
“I heard she screamed her brains out,” said Ashley.
“Aye, that she did.”
“I can’t believe it was you. I just can’t believe it. You’re a hero. If the table wasn’t in the way I’d hug you.”
“Thanks, Ashley. I didn’t give it much thought. I just did it.”
After shaking my hand, he sat back down. “I just can’t believe it. I’ve been telling folks this story for months.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“There’s a guy I met last year at SE, his name was something like Arizona or some other American state.”
“Nevada Rhodes,” I supplied.
“You know him?”
“Knew him,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in months. And I can guess where he got the story.” Nevada was a regular at both SE and Urban Bar, and at one time had been dating and living with one of the teachers at my old hagwon, Mike, who we aptly began calling Mike the Thief, because he was stealing money from his fellow teachers. He also stole a bunch of money from Nevada—money that had been collected from fellow teachers from around the Chŏnju area for a trip to Beijing. It was a trip that Tanya and I had also signed up for. The scandal of the stolen money and Mike’s attempt to throw Nevada out of the Dongsan-Dong apartment resulted in a fight that made Mike scramble back to the United States.
Mike was working at the hagwon when I walked over the car on the sidewalk, right in front of our office building. When I returned to the office, immediately afterward, I told Mike the Thief and Carrie, another teacher. Mike must have told Nevada and the rest became history.
Perhaps no longer an urban legend but now certainly not an urban myth.
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