The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.
Friday, June 5, 1998
I was already drunk when we arrived. I didn’t need any more alcohol, but it was a Friday and this was our thing.
Raymond and I left the university together, deciding to split a taxi back to our apartment building. Typically, I would have left the campus alone, taking a taxi to Eun-joon’s apartment, for our private lesson, but because this was the Memorial Day weekend, Eun-joon and his family were heading to Cheju, to visit his parents and siblings. I had no plans until later this evening, when Ray and I would meet with the rest of the teachers, likely heading out to TwoBeOne.
“Hang on a second,” Raymond said, as we passed a corn dog stand, “I’m starving. I need one of these.”
This particular stand, along the road that led from the campus to the main road, was one of my achilles heels. The hot dogs were large and plump. Placed on a stick, they were dipped in a thick batter and deep fried to a light, golden brown, before being dipped into a second batter, which also contained small cubes of potato, and placed back into the deep fryer. When it was finally removed from its second oil bath, the corn dog was perfectly browned, the potato pieces crispy and fully cooked.
It was one of the least-healthy snacks on campus, but the flavour was addictive. With a bit of sweet mustard drizzled over it, I found it hard to resist. But today, I was going to behave. Only Raymond would give into temptation.
We continued along the half-developed street, full of restaurants, bars, pool halls, school-supply stores, and print shops, originally planning to take the bus.
“I’m in the mood for makgeolli,” said Raymond, in between bites, “there’s a traditional bar that opened around the corner from our building earlier this week.”
“Is that the building that looks like a mud hut with the thatched rooftop?” I asked.
“More like twigs, but yeah. Want to go there for a drink?”
Assuming, of course, you didn’t consume more than a 700 millilitre bottle.
“I suppose I could have my arm twisted,” I said. Raymond was a good egg. He was a friend to anyone and everyone. And he liked to do the talking, so there was never a shortage of conversation.
“Good.” He pointed ahead to a taxi that was pulled over in front of a pool hall. Two young men getting out. “Let’s grab this cab. We can get to our neighbourhood faster.”
I was the closest to the cab so I took the opened door from one of the men. I climbed in the back and told the driver our destination. Raymond had one leg in the car, his body still stepping off the sidewalk. One hand was on the headrest of the front-passenger seat, the other on the door. His half-eaten corn dog was in his mouth. It was at this moment that the driver started to pull away.
Raymond fell backwards, settling hard in the seat. His right leg, still outside the cab, was struck by the door as it swung, closing by the car’s acceleration. He pulled his leg in and pulled the door closed.
“Jung-ji!” I shouted at the driver. Stop!
The driver hit the brakes, and we lurched forward in our seats. As we put our arms forward to brace ourselves, I wondered if I had only made things worse. The driver turned his head to try and look at me, and it was only then that he realized that I wasn’t his only passenger. He had pulled away when he saw that I had sat myself behind him, not knowing that not only had I not closed the door, but that I wasn’t alone.
Raymond, for his part, had his eyes closed tight and was moaning, the corn dog still in his mouth.
“Is your leg okay?” I asked, fearing that the swinging door had injured it. Raymond shook his head and then opened his mouth. He looked straight at me as he stuck his tongue out, revealing the pointed end of the stick protruding from the top. He had fully pierced his tongue.
“Ah-ah,” he complained, turning to face the driver, whose eyes went wide.
“Aye-go!” exclaimed the driver, watching in horror as Raymond pulled the stick out. Blood oozed from the small hole before Raymond closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Shit,” I said, “we should get you to a hospital.” The driver voiced similar remarks, as I heard the Korean word for it, byeong-won.
“Uh-uh,” said Raymond, moving his tongue around inside his mouth, assessing the damage, before speaking. “What are they going to do? Put a Band-Aid on it? Let’s go soak it in alcohol.”
The driver offered apologies and, from what we could interpret, was offering a free ride. We continued on our way.
“How’s your leg?” I asked again.
“It’s fine,” Raymond slurred. “The door didn’t hit it too hard, but the ol’ shin is going to have a bruise.” He swallowed again before continuing, “It’s a good thing that the tongue heals quickly. I’ll live.”
“I shouldn’t have ordered the driver to stop. I’m so sorry.”
“My tongue was pierced when I fell into the taxi, not when we stopped. It’s not your fault at all.”
As the taxi approached our apartment building, we instructed the driver to pull over a block short, closer to our destination. The driver muttered more apologies as Raymond and I stepped out. Just before the cabbie pulled away, Raymond spat out onto the rear door, near the handle, spraying his blood down the side of the car.
“That’ll maybe cause his next fare to think twice before opening the door,” he said, pitching the corn dog stick onto the pavement. “Let’s get that drink.”
The makgeolli bar was small and dimly lit, with traditional oil lamps burning at each table. Wallpaper that resembled rice paper, with black-ink illustrations of bamboo and magpies, water lilies and storks running in repeating patterns. The bar only had two other patrons, old men who stopped whatever it was that they were saying and doing to watch the wae-guks enter, cross the floor, and sit at the table at the back of the room. Apart from soft pansori emanating from hidden speakers in the ceiling, the bar was silent.
Until Raymond spoke up toward the proprietor, who also watched us make ourselves comfortable. “Makgeolli du byeong, chuseyo.” Two bottles of makgeolli, please.
“Do you think we can each handle a bottle?” I asked Raymond, gesturing toward the elderly gentlemen’s table, where a white, plastic bottle lay on its side, next to the drinking bowls.
“Hell ya, at least one. I’m in no rush, are you?”
It had been close to a year since I had tried makgeolli and I had all but forgotten how it tasted. I had been invited to a restaurant by one of my adult classes at the hagwon and four of us had shared one bottle. All I remembered was that I didn’t dislike it but I never found myself craving more. I would make a go of this bottle, since Raymond had ordered one for each of us. If I really found it too much to drink on my own, I was sure that Raymond would help me finish it.
“How does your tongue feel?”
“Hurts like a son of a bitch, but I’m tasting less and less blood.” He opened his mouth, and I could see a thin line of blood that didn’t seem to be flowing. Raymond was right: the tongue did heal quickly.
“Just wait until your next spicy meal,” I said.
“Good thing I’m between girlfriends,” he joked.
Our server, a middle-aged woman whose permed curls were only just beginning to show some grey, arrived with a tray that held two bottles, two small bowls, and a plate of ojinga—dried, shredded squid. She placed each on our table with what seemed like deliberate force, as though she was adding percussion to the piped music. “Oh cheon won, chuseyo,” she said. Because Raymond’s hangul had come out perfectly, she refrained from holding up five fingers to indicate the price.
“I’ve got this,” I said, handing our server a 5,000 won note with a supported right hand. “Komap-subnida,” I said to her with a quick bow of the head.
Raymond shook a bottle and unscrewed the plastic cap. He poured the milky-white liquid into my bowl, forcing me to hold it with my right hand in a gesture of respect. When my bowl was filled, I reached for the bottle and returned the favour, holding the bottle with my right hand, supporting my wrist with my left hand. In my peripheral vision, I could see the old men still watching us. One was muttering to the other, as though he was a commentator for this spectacle. With each of our vessels filled, we raised our bowls to one another and in unison said “gombei!” Cheers! This caused the men to audibly verbalize their delight with a resounding “ah” that rose and fell. On cue, Raymond and I turned toward the men and repeated the cheer, before taking a sip.
We were accepted into the fold, the men displaying their approval by resuming their conversation.
“I wish I had some hanbok to wear,” I said to Raymond, “then I would really fit in here.” Both men were dressed in well-worn Korean shirts and pants. I had a couple of light jackets that I had purchased last autumn, in Beijing, and while I had worn them a few times to work, I had never gone out with them in public. Not for any fear of being accused of cultural appropriation—hell, Koreans were always wearing jeans and t-shirts, and nobody said anything—but because I almost felt self-conscious wearing them in Korea, wondering what Koreans would think of me wearing Chinese garments.
“There’s a hanbok store just down the street from the Gaeksa,” said Raymond. “Brian has a couple of ensembles. He wears them on Korean holidays and at special events. I’ve also seen his wedding photos. He did a couple of wardrobe changes, moving from a lavish getup to a dinner suit, to a Western business suit.”
“Having lived here so long, I’m sure he feels as comfortable in hanbok as he does in a business suit. Maybe I’ll talk to him, see what he thinks about us wae-guks wearing hanbok.”
The makgeolli went down surprisingly easy. There was no strong taste of alcohol, as with soju. It was only mildly sour, which made it almost taste like a cheap white wine that was slightly corked.
“So, you and Tara are over?” I asked, remembering his comment about being between girlfriends. Tara, a Canadian, taught English at Chonbuk National University. She and Raymond met at SE, in April, and seemed to hit it off. Every Friday, they seemed connected at the hips at every ex-pat social gathering, until a couple of weeks ago, when Raymond limited his outings and opted to gather Jeonju University teachers at the apartment building. He stopped going to SE, which is where Tara and her colleagues tended to go on Fridays.
“Tara’s great,” he said, “but she became too needy. She wanted to be with me all the time. I mean, I enjoyed her company, especially in the sack. But it was getting so that I couldn’t have time to myself.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s better for her. I wasn’t serious and the sooner she found out, the better.”
I raised my bowl. “Here’s to moving forward.” We touched bowls and downed the remaining contents. Raymond grabbed the bottle and we refilled each other’s bowl.
Though it had been almost six months since Tanya and I had broken up, I still felt the sting of being dumped. After my personal tragedy, she was the first person to show me that I could find love again. I was alone, once again. Could I find love, again, here in Korea?
Raymond almost seemed to read my thoughts. He had met me on a trip to Cheju Island, when Tanya and I were just friends, and Brad and Wilma were newly dating. He had seen us, in Beijing, as a hot-and-heavy couple, and he had seen me, at the beginning of this year, shortly after Tanya had left me. “We’ve got to introduce you to some women, Roland, get you back on that horse.”
“I’m in no rush. It’ll happen when it happens.” Raymond didn’t know that I had been married in a past life, complete with a child, and I wasn’t about to bring it up. That story always led to sadness and I had fought hard to escape that pit of darkness.
“We should find you a hot Korean woman. Not necessarily a Mrs. Right but maybe she could be your Mrs. Right Now. You know, keep your little man below happy.”
“Who says my man down there is little?” I laughed, raising my bowl and taking another swig.
“I get you,” he replied. “That’s why Tara took our breakup so hard. Once you’ve had Close cock, you can’t get enough.”
“Bet’cha can’t eat just once?” I suggested, playing with the Lays Potato Chip slogan.
“You got it, Roland, you got it.”
***
The first two bottles went down quickly. Same with the next two. As the makgeolli house proprietor didn’t offer food beyond snacks—she served us a plate of cherry tomatoes with our third and fourth bottles—she allowed us to order in delivery. Raymond called the small restaurant that was close to our apartment building and placed orders for dwenjang-djiggae and bokum-bap. We used bottles five and six to wash our meals down.
The elderly gentlemen, well-liquored up after countless bottles of their own, bid us good night as they stumbled out into the night.
“We had better get to the apartment,” said Raymond, “most of our friends should be done for the day. It’s time to party.”
Though I felt light-headed, I wasn’t as drunk as I would have been, had Raymond and I consumed the equivalent in regular wine. “What are our plans?”
“You know what? I want to hit up a Korean night club. Not some ex-pat bar filled with folks like us. I want to see what the young Koreans get up to.”
“I’m up for it if everyone else is.”
“And who knows, my Scottish friend, maybe we’ll find someone to keep you warm tonight.”
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