Matching White Underwear

It sounds like a swarm of hornets, but it’s not. It’s plane after plane taking off, the airport’s dead appendages that shake themselves back to life and take flight from time to time, ignoring their whole to explore whatever else is out there.

Catherine’s at the airport with her dad. There’s dumb soft jazz music creeping through the terminal. Sometimes, she likes the looks of planes taking off: the crackling little glints of light bouncing off the fuselage, the way the wings break the dusty clouds.

“You got in pretty late last night. Sure you aren’t too tired today?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“What were you up to?”

“Just making my goodbye rounds, I guess.” She shrugs. “You know?”

“Okay, okay. Well, I’m gonna have a lot tougher time keeping tabs on you now. I gotta take advantage of it these last few minutes.” He mocks her shrug with an exaggerated one of his own. “You know?”

She shakes her head with a laugh and applies chapstick.

Catherine’s bags are checked. Her dad says, “About that time,” as they near her gate. There are only a handful of people waiting at security. There’s a low murmur of voices among the scattered beeps and unending whir of the carry-on baggage conveyer that leads to the mouth of the x-ray machine and its flimsy rubber teeth.

Catherine and her dad stop. She stands on her toes, then rocks back and forth. She is just a shy little girl with a vague sense of longing for anything, except she wants it to be more specific. And she’s distracted, thinking of blonde hair and the smell of kiwi shampoo.

Her dad says, “I guess this is it.” He doesn’t want to say much else, just hugs her and quickly continues, “I’ll see you next week with your mom and the rest of your stuff. We’ll make sure you’re settled and everything right before class starts. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad. I’ll be fine.”

He hugs her again, “Bye. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Her sandals are off while she’s waiting in the gate, and she eyes the bright white of her toenails. It’s not polish, it’s whiteout that was applied the night before. Whiteout was supposedly more stubborn and would stay on her longer.

Catherine’s already looked through her carry-on bag twice, hoping to find a stowed-away letter. She shuffles through the bag one more time to reveal nothing new.

Boarding starts.

At the front of the line, Catherine extends her boarding pass and driver’s license. She’s about to slip on a pair of white-framed sunglasses when the security woman speaks.

“Can you wait just a sec before you put those on so I can get a better look, miss?”

Catherine complies. She feels bloodless and muted and checks to make sure her jaw isn’t pointlessly slack. The woman takes a moment. Catherine twirls the sunglasses and ends up just biting her lower lip and raising an impatient eyebrow. She considers putting on more chapstick.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Catherine walks, listens to the flip-flop of her sandals, feels the outside warmth rising fast as she leaves the gate behind and nears the plane. She raises the sunglasses to her face, and she sees something written in black. It says, I’ll miss you I’ll miss you I’ll miss you, along the insides of the white frames.

*          *          *

Lindsay’s at her parents’ house. It’s too-early morning and she’s awake in her bed. She smells her mother’s coffee. Her feet are cold even under the blanket although the rest of her feels hot and mushy. She thinks of quicksand and sinking and wrestling for air and light.

She hears a buzzing now and thinks of hornets. But they aren’t there. There’s no sound. The house is so quiet.

Lindsay forces herself out of bed and joins her mom in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

She asks, “How was the big date with Dad last night?”

Her mom says, “Big date. Yeah.” She deposits a spoonful of sugar in her mug and smiles. “It was a lot of fun, really. There were more people than usual at golf. It was good getting to talk with them.” Steam rises to her nose and she takes it in. “And dinner was nice, too. Oh, you know what?”

“What?”

“We ran into one of yours friend’s parents at the restaurant. Ah, what’s her name?”

“Lay off the tequila, Mom.”

“Oh, stop it.” She pauses to sip her coffee. “Annie. We talked to Annie’s parents.”

Lindsay’s mom tells her about how Annie is leaving for college that morning, but Lindsay isn’t really listening. Her thoughts wander over to what she dreamt while she was sleeping: skinny-dipping at the public pool the month before, how she exited the water, naked and breathless, the chlorine burning her eyes, causing all the scenery to drip with watery shadows. Lightning bugs were multiplied by her fizzy retinas so it appeared as though thousands were dangling above the water, little floating gems that buzzed like endless vinyl records in her water-soaked ears.

Her mom says, “So, are you excited?”

“What?”

“Are you excited to leave next week?”

“Of course I’m excited, Mom. It’s college. Everyone’s excited about college.”

“Be prepared for your dad to give you a huge talk about not smoking cigarettes and not bringing home some tattooed boy for Thanksgiving.”

“Mom, come on.”

Lindsay’s coffee mug has left a brown ring on the tablecloth.

“I’m just warning you, babe. He was already getting started last night. I feel like he’s worrying enough for the three of us.” She takes another sip. “Just keep quiet and listen to him when he’s talking. It’s more for his own assurance than anything else.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. At least just make him drive at a reasonable speed when we go.”

“We’ll get there when we get there. Or are you just that desperate to get away from us?”

“You have no idea.” Lindsay tilts back in her chair.

“Just be glad you’ll have us to help you move in. It’d be terrible having to go out all on your own like Annie and some of your other friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

It’s morning outside and everything is becoming bright. Lindsay returns her chair’s legs to the ground.

Her mom asks, “Do you want me to make you an omelette?”

“Sure.”

“You’re gonna miss this when you’re gone. You’ll never find an omelette with these ingredients, this much taste, this much color.”

“Yeah, Mom. You say that every time you make them. Such colorful omelettes. All the colors. I get it.”

“You’ll miss this.”

“I know.” She circles the brown ring of coffee. “I know. Thanks.”

*          *          *

They’re wearing only matching white underwear.

“I just knew. I felt it, I guess.” Lindsay laughs. “That sounds dumb, you know? But I just felt it, really.”

They’re alone in the house, in Lindsay’s bed with no sheets or blankets, facing each other and exchanging warm, late summer breaths. A fan washes air over them. The leaves of the Chinese evergreen plant on the desk beside the bed sway. Their legs are clasped together like two hands forming a large, singular fist of prayer. A small streak of white runs across the top of Lindsay’s foot, an accidental smudge provided by the whiteout she applied to Catherine’s toes earlier in the evening.

Catherine says, “Yeah. Yeah, I felt it, too, I guess.”

The fan clicks every few seconds.

Catherine says, “I’m sorry I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“It’s okay.”

“But, plans, you know?”

“Planes?”

“No. Plans. But, yeah, I guess planes, too.” Catherine lets go of some nervous laughter.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Lindsay’s voice falls softer when she repeats the word. She pulls a strand of her hair away that’s stuck to the corner of her mouth. Catherine brushes Lindsay’s blonde hair off her face. They move closer to each other and the sound of some static in the bedsheets jumps like jingling coins. They kiss a little. Catherine’s fingers find the grooves of Lindsay’s ribs. Lindsay’s hand is at Catherine’s hip, index finger held against her body by the elastic of her underwear.

Catherine says, “Remember when we went skinny-dipping?”

“Yeah, and you had to sneak in back here and borrow this underwear from me after you lost yours.”

“Yeah. You have like a thousand pairs exactly like this.”

“I’m wearing them right now, too.”

The girls laugh together.

Lindsay says, “We got pretty good at all that sneaking in and out.”

Catherine starts to speak, but her voice catches itself and stops. She is scooped up and misty and her throat feels raw and torn.

They’re both thinking something about having more time. Lindsay lets her hand rest on the front of Catherine’s underwear. She wonders how she can make this last longer. She considers pulling aside Catherine’s underwear and counting each pubic hair. She considers counting every eyelash. She considers hunting down every freckle, connecting all those dots and shading in every screw-angled shape with different colors.

Lindsay slips her hand inside of Catherine and says, “I’m gonna dream about you tonight.”

Catherine breathes and says, “Yeah,” and her eyes are closed and she looks melty and soft.

They wiggle into one thumbed-over body. Thoughts criss-cross in the blankness that’s sleeping under the young, rushed sounds of wet mouths: something about having more time.

As a lifelong connoisseur of Taco Bell and all its quasi-Mexican fineries, I was elated to learn that, after an eight-month drought, I would be able to satisfy my unrelenting (and, I guess, unrefined) hunger in Seoul. While Koreans were previously able to run for the border (probably not an appropriate slogan for them around these parts), the city has been absent this dirty franchise for the past four or five years. It has finally returned after months of promises and delays.

Ironically (or maybe just tragically), the grand opening of the Seoul Taco Bell occurred over the weekend that I was back in the United States. I enjoyed a heaping helping of the succulent Grade E delights while I was on American soil, but I have to admit that I was somewhat down about missing the event that I’d anticipated for months. The Kansas Health Department would probably say that my Cheesy Crunch Gorditas were made with tainted beef, but I’d argue that they were only tinged with a little bittersweet sadness.

The day after my birthday, my friend Chris and I made the forty-five minute subway ride to the Itaewon district of Seoul, the location of the hallowed Taco Bell, and now the nexus of all fat residents of the city.

There she stood: a three-story restaurant filled with the hopes and dreams of the perversely gluttonous and insatiably depraved.

It turns out that three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon is a choice time to visit. Unlike the first couple of days on that fateful opening weekend, the tiny main floor where customers place orders was not crowded, and the establishment had all of its items in stock. I was next in line to place my order within a minute or two of entering. It was finally happening. Like a nervous high school girl in the backseat of Johnny Football’s Camaro on prom night, I stepped up to the counter.

Unlike American Taco Bells, the Korean franchise did not feature a staff made up exclusively of illegal Mexican immigrants, mentally retarded teenagers, and befuddled old women (“Goddammit, I said cinnamon twists, Nana!”). They were very average-looking Korean women* who just wanted a job, I suppose.

*Lou and I have a running joke that I find every Korean waitress who serves us attractive. I’ve tried to just go along with the joke and mention the hotness of all our waitresses, but I’ve found myself not even joking. I’m still just serious about their well-above-par looks. Almost always, our waitresses are very attractive young women. Taco Bell was (unsurprisingly, if I’m being honest about my assumptions, prejudices, and previous evidence) one of the few exceptions.

Though their looks were nothing to write a blog post about, their service was friendly and fast, and their English was solid. The woman was even able to understand my order through the mouthful of anticipatory saliva that I was involuntarily gurgling: one chicken Grilled Stuft Burrito, one Nachos Bell Grande, and one beef soft taco, for good measure.

Chris got his food first and found a table on the third floor. After only a minute or two more, my hearty platter was held aloft by the server and my order number called in a rush of Korean over the typically static-shrouded intercom. I stepped up to receive my destiny.

In the Korean Taco Bell, they do not have the sauces lined up for the taking with the napkins and plasticware. The server woman just tossed a handful onto my tray and told me to enjoy myself. Yes, fair maiden, I thought, I shall. I shall indeed. Another oddity: you could not get a water to drink. You would think that Taco Bell, knowing that they serve a product predisposed to giving those who ingest it severe diarrhea, would at least allow these people to hydrate themselves properly before having to split for the john.

I climbed the stairs to the third floor, sat down, and dug in. Like any sane individual, I began with the Nachos Bell Grande. The flavors were spot-on*. What a rich awakening for my long-dormant taste buds! I felt like a trolley car hopper who had happened upon a garbage bag full of Thanksgiving leftovers.

*I guess I shouldn’t be surprised: there are just as many dogs wandering the streets here as there are in America, and here it’s not taboo to use them in meals.

I’ll admit to being a little rusty in the fine practice of dining at the Bell, so I don’t feel bad about confessing that I forgot to pick up a spork, the all-important tool that any Nachos Bell Grande-eater cannot do without. I considered making the trek back downstairs to finish what remained on my plate, but settled on just using the trustiest apparatus at my disposal: my greedy fingers.

Waiting on deck was the Grilled Stuft Burrito. I lathered it in hot sauce and took a whopper of a bite. Now, the chicken did not have the kick of American Taco Bell, but the burrito was still a marvel overall. I would possibly argue that the tortilla kept its form and fold much more than the average American Taco Bell burrito.

Finally, I came to the mainstay of any Taco Bell order: the beef soft taco. This item is ubiquitous. Why wouldn’t you just toss this dandy of an eat on top of the rest of your meal? It adds no bloat (well, not any more than other Taco Bell products), costs pennies on the dollar, and leaves you with one more spectacular taste. I have to say, the Korean Taco Bell got it perfectly right with the beef soft taco. Well done, boys and girls. I patted my gut as I sat in dazed satisfaction. The meal was complete.

As I departed Itaewon on the subway train, I thought about the implications of the international transfer of corporations and their multi-billion dollar power in this still-infant global economy, and the subsequent shifts in culture both subtle and overbearing which come with this cross-territory market maneuvering. Also, my stomach was washed over by thick ripples of warm queasiness. It reminded me of the nacho cheese at Taco Bell.

Wasp Nest

I am holding her. I am holding her and not saying anything. And the barlight is corduroy and chic. We’re giving smiles all gypsy and vermouth. There’s a jukebox even though it’s unmodern.

My mouth is bloody against her shoulder, teeth throbbing but still there. I know there’s a gash across my nose even though I can’t see it. My eyes are soggy, waterlogged and slowly sinking, puffy black life boats surrounding them. I’ve got an itchiness like stale blisters.

Her shirt’s fluttery buffalo skin. We’re both spiked and completely deranged: paper hearts and skinned knees. She says something about coffee and cherry pie.

It’s a luckless, lushy pose.

///          ///          ///

I’m staring out a large, frosted window. My reflection is bright, and beyond it it’s starting to snow. Everything calmly flickers. Everything is muted static hovering. Piles of coats are quickly tucking the scents of cigarettes into their sleeves and seams. Our scarves slither up and down the booth.

And so we’re going to play some drinking games, maybe the one where we spin a quarter around on the table, keep it going, then slam the quarter into the knuckles of whoever fucks it up. My blonde friend always fucks it up. Since she’s deathly afraid of getting cut up by the quarter, we just make her drink as punishment. She gets needlessly trashed.

Me and my two friends start the game. The quarters jingle-jangle and slice the top of the table in clumsy figure-eights. We’re talking about a subway party we’re going to have tomorrow night with some of our other friends. We’ll get on the inner city loop line and ride it all night. One friend is bringing a boombox he’s held onto since his 1980s childhood. A girl is bringing decorations — confetti, streamers, random banners that say Happy Birthday! or Congratulations, Graduate! or It’s A Boy! — which we’ll wrap around ourselves and wear, along with our stupid party hats and Hawaiian shirts. We’ll pack thermoses of margaritas, daiquiris, mojitos, and pina coladas. A tropical subway party is just what December in the city needs.

After a half-hour of our quarter game, we move to the shuffleboard table. I’m my own team, playing against my two friends. He and she are kicking my ass. I can’t seem to get any sort of rhythm going being responsible for all eight shots having to continuously move back and forth around the table. The topsy-turvy game is ruining my normal flow. I feel like a fucking joke.

This girl behind me mocks my performance after three straight rolls slip over the salty surface of the shuffleboard table and careen off the edge like so many fiery movie car crashes. She’s just wearing a soft white shirt (cashmere? I don’t know) over a dark gray, long-sleeved undershirt. A red scarf is wrapped around her neck. An inappropriately short skirt covers just enough of her legs that she shouldn’t feel awkward in public.

I jokingly tell her to fuck off and ask if she thinks she can do any better. She takes up my challenge, obviously smashed.

It turns out, toxic blood alcohol level or no, she’s a fucking ringer. My friend starts to complain about her skills, but she slurredly shushes him and sets a puck right on the edge of the table. She rocks, man.

She secures the comeback in game two, knotting our teams at one win apiece. The third game sees me with my rhythm restored, my friends’ confidence and composure shattered (their expletives aren’t making their shots better), and this chick still cleaning up like a motherfucker. We win easily, and my friends buy shots for me and girl. She and my blonde friend (she’s blonde, too) take Slippery Nipples because their girls, and me and my other friend have Jaeger Bombs because whatever.

This girl invites us back to her table, where she’s left her purse and coat by themselves, no friends to guard them, no friends in the bar at all. I ask if she’s just a shuffleboard hustler, making her weekly rounds, picking up free shots to sustain herself. Actually, she’s just early, meeting up with friends who were at a different bar. She’d obviously been at another bar as well.

This girl wants to know if we smoke pot. We laugh heartily like we’re twisted aristocrats, sip our cheap beer, and nod in affirmation.

It’s noisier now in the bar, and all the surfaces are starting to feel sticky and warm. I can smell the heat and I feel a weird feeling looking out the window and seeing the chill wrap itself around the city as my palms get drippier and drippier. I rub them on the knees of my jeans, then start tapping my knees on the underside of the table.

So, she reaches into the black hole of her purse and pulls out a one-hitter that’s terrifically jammed with green business. My tongue already feels dry. My hands are still sweaty.

We each duck under the table to the hit the fake metal cigarette, a charade that draws more attention to us probably than if we just brazenly toked it out in the open.

We’ve all had our fair share and the one-hitter is finished. Shit is glassy and syrupy.

My friend tells a story about how one time a roommate of his shaved one of his sideburns and he didn’t notice for a day and half. He found out what had happened when he felt a zip-loc bag filled with the hair underneath his pillow.

My blonde friend tells a story about how one time when she was a little kid, two boys shit themselves at the same time when she was playing with them in the sandbox. She said she’ll never forget the smell: apples, tainted beef, and a slight grandfatherly musk.

This girl tells a story about how one time she quit her job as a waitress at a vegan restaurant by gathering the attention of all the shitty customers and announcing that many of the dishes were made with chicken stock and other unnoticeable but meaty ingredients. It wasn’t true, but they were shitty customers and she wanted out of the job pronto. There was some vomiting.

I tell a story about how one time when I was in high school, my friend caught a chipmunk in his backyard and let it loose in my car. Luckily for him, there was a box of Pop-Tarts under the passenger seat, so the little guy stayed in there for two days until I caught on to him and flushed him out.

We talk about dancing, but none of us move. We’re quiet, except for this girl telling us that her friends texted and said they wouldn’t be making it. We’re okay. My friends are about to make out. Her blonde hair is glued against her forehead with a dab of sweat. A neon light threatens to go out above them. It’s shorting out so beautifully. This girl has a look on her face like she wants to giggle but she’s being cautious about it or something. We touch knees. I want to eat popcorn. She probably does, too.

I have to go to the bathroom. It’s just me and this dude in there at the urinals. He’s really out of it, swaying, muttering to himself through a half-smile that seesaws slowly up and down his face. I’m just staring at this guy’s face, giving him a concerned look. I’m really, really fucking high.

This dude starts pissing against the wall to the side of the urinal now. It splashes and hits my hand. I say the word fuck so he’ll know what’s up and stop, but he doesn’t. His piss keeps splashing against me.

I say the word fuck again, but louder, and push this dude against the sink.

I walk out of the bathroom and I know he’s behind me, with improved lucidity. His steps bite the ground hard.

So, I turn.

His knuckles burst in little auroras as they hit my face. The world is funhouse mirrors and offbeat kick drums. So I’m spinning, then I half-dry-heave as I pull my body back forward and regular. My senses are back and my mouth has some spit in it now. I duck another punch, somehow, and almost fall again from my own dizziness. I tackle this dude and hold him against a table for second. I’m about to start hitting his head and throat repeatedly (like, just thrash him), but he puts his hands over my face. This dude’s not hitting me or anything, just blinding me, stretching my eyelids and tearing out the seedlings of my eyebrows.

So, I spit on his hands. He pulls them away and I slam my fist against his cheekbone. I want to see under his skin and watch the bone distort and malign. I’m figuring out this dude’s kind of an asshole. In the back of my mind, I’m getting mad about stupid things: my shirt will stain with blood; I don’t want to look like shit for the subway party tomorrow; I don’t remember if I set my drink down or if it flew out of my hand; I liked that song that was on and now I’m fucking missing it.

This dude’s face is tearing surgical, going so gnarly. A spilled drink is creeping into his hair. An ice cube edges against his left ear.

This dude coughs and flecks of blood dot the front of his shirt. They are scattered ashes. Or a Rorschach test. Or loose tea leaves at the bottom of a finished cup.

This dude takes a couple of aimless swings with each arm. They connect with my nose and close to my right temple. So I’m knocked back. When he tries to stand up, he stumbles: jerky and manipulated by the injuries I gave him.

A bartender has hopped over to our side and begins shoving this dude toward the door. My friend pulls me away from the scene. Broken glasses lie shattered into hundreds of baby teeth.

This girl is there. She tells me she’ll take care of me tonight, and she’s kind of serious.

///          ///          ///

I am holding her. I am holding her and not saying anything.

I’m staring down her back, paying attention to how her ass fits in her skirt, still wondering why she’s wearing a skirt in December. The words FOR PEACE are embroidered across it. I concentrate on the space between the words.

It’s last call or something and the lights go fully on.

She says I look like shit. I tell her she should see the other guy.

How I Think We’ll Do

A parade of ballerinas flutters in. They’re probably seventeen or eighteen. Dabs of makeup rest on their faces and the lighting in the hotel lobby’s restaurant forces them to glow. They look even more petite with that untouchable airiness of light floating around them, vibrating. They are saints shrinking underneath their halos.

A man venerates the girls with his gaze, craning his neck to peer over his wife’s shoulder to watch the flood of legs and frilly skirts. Her back facing them, the wife wonders what her husband is looking at. She turns her head around. One of the girls is whispering into another’s ear, who rolls her eyes and smiles, the whiteness of her teeth dancing in her mouth so gauzy and heavenshook.

She’s not amused when she resumes facing forward. The expression on his face is stripped bare by the bachelorettes. His knife lazily rests on the edge of his plate. He’s finished eating, but the tables around them are still scratching away at their meals. The squeaks and dinks of their imprecise forks and knives play counterpart to the tap and drag of all the footsteps crowding the marble floor. The ballerinas’ tiny Russian voices are singing.

She wants to say some things. She wants her soliloquy (even though she can’t quite remember that word, but she knows how to describe it). She would tell him, I want to talk about us. And I want to be optimistic. I think that we’ll do fine. But how I think we’ll do doesn’t really matter, does it? Her eyes are watching him. But she doesn’t say anything. She runs her teeth down her tongue, feels its brittleness before it reabsorbs the moisture in her mouth. She eyes the last forkful of scrambled eggs on her plate. She settles for a longer-than-necessary drink of her third mimosa. She feels veiny and acrylic. She wishes she hadn’t painted her fingernails this morning. It’ll wear off.

He shrugs. He can taste his own weariness in the salty bite of bacon hanging around in the pocket of his cheek. His mind’s gone loose inside its shell. She doesn’t know that after she fell asleep last night he took a bottle of cut-rate, lousy gin that he’d stashed underneath his socks in his bag and finished a solid four-fifths of it, heavy-breathed swig after swig after swig. At first he was quiet as he set the bottle onto the table, glass kissing glass lightly, so dainty and powdery-white-feeling. As he got drunker, he was more careless with the force with which he’d let the gin settle in front of him. He almost fell asleep in the chair: hotel bathrobe unloosened around his waist, socks pushed down in wrinkled stitches on his feet, ankles open to the breeze coming in from the room’s balcony. She went to bed early because she’d had too much to drink at dinner, so he didn’t consider convicting himself of any real crime for staying up and hammering himself into catatonia.

The glass in front of him is dripping itself to death down its sides, soaking the white tablecloth until its color is nearly beige and its once-starch surface is replaced with the sogginess of fresh paper Mache. The ice water will never be cold enough.

Reddest Roses

The taxi driver is yelling at me. He’s pissed because I don’t have the fifteen dollars to pay him for our ride. A girl named Amanda is slumped in the seat next to me, her legs poking out from her skirt and sticking to the leather. When she rustles lightly, her skin crackles peppery. All three of us reek of cigarettes. The dimness feels heavy, broken only by the overhead light and unreliable patches of streetlight that accidentally snake their way into the car.

Amanda puts her purse in my lap, says, “See if there’s any money in there. I don’t think so, but look.” I’m not sure if she’s opening her mouth or moving her lips while she speaks. The words are crowded and sloppy, malformed. But I understand, and start rifling through her shit. Nothing.

The driver motions to the bank across the street. I feel like he’s about to call me an asshole or a schmuck or something. He’d be right, so I oblige his directions and head to the bank. The emptiness of the roads and the nascent sunlight of Sunday morning make me feel like a vampire who’s running out of time. It’s after six a.m., and we’ve been out for the past nine hours. The slow breaths I take make me feel like I’m melting. Or maybe evaporating. I almost trip trying to hurry a little.

The bank’s closed, so I return empty-handed to the car. I should just untuck my pockets from my fucking pants and fully play the part of the penniless jerk vagabond. The driver shakes his head, but has another bright idea: the convenience store over there should have an ATM. Amanda’s still half-awake in the cab, the collateral.

The edges of the sky are pink.

I blink a lot when I enter the store, the lights too unreal and nervous for me. Instead of saying hello to the clerk, I just cough into my chest and nod my head. There’s a refrigerator next to the ATM, and as I make my transaction, one hand rests against its glass door and leaves fingerprints that look like drops of fog sleeping on top of a lake of ice.

I buy a package of fucked-up-looking rainbow-colored condoms and the clerk grins at me, which is totally unprofessional and makes me feel weird. There’s still some vodka aching in the back of my throat. I think of tundras.

My phone buzzes in my pocket while I’m opening the door to step outside. It’s Karen.

She texts, “I got the picture. Thanks. It was pretty.”

Earlier in the day, I’d texted her a photo of a pair of roses I’d seen. They were part of a small garden that bordered the roof of a bar I was drinking at. A clothesline on a neighboring roof with freshly hung laundry lay in the background of the photo. I sent her the picture and the words reddest roses. I wanted her to love them.

I respond, “Are you already awake? It’s so early.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna go run in a bit. Had a boring night last night.”

I think of her body moving, maybe a little sweaty.

But I’m back at the car, finally giving the guy his money while Amanda holds my arm and rubs circles into my elbow, her head on my shoulder, most of her weight falling against me all wobbly.

The driver is actually pretty nice now that he’s getting what’s due to him and tells me to have a good one. I can’t tell if he winks at me and motions to Amanda, or if it’s just my imagination, but I feel uneasy again and put him in the same class as that dude in the convenience store.

The short walk from the car to the apartment building is unstructured and full of swoops. I look at Amanda. The sun is really starting to shine. The light sparkles in the tiny cracks in her lips, the shallow crevices where the lipgloss I didn’t smear off with drunk kisses as we left the club an hour ago still remains. Broken bottles are cracking underneath us, and I’m scared for our feet for a moment, but then not.

“My apartment’s gonna be a mess,” I say. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Happens to the best of us.”

I let her use my toothbrush when we get inside. I’ll probably think that’s awkward when I recall it tomorrow.

There’s a half-full wine glass sitting on my desk, a little too close to the edge. It’s so red it almost looks black in the dark. At least the place smells like clean laundry.

She takes my glasses off and puts them on herself when we start fucking. I don’t know why. She looks cute though. As we’re fucking, I think about the names of different baseball pitchers and all the varieties of coffee I can come up with. She alternates between purring in my ear and screaming loud enough so I know the dude next door can hear clearly.

I come on her stomach and she giggles. She wipes it off with my shirt, and I start to freak out.

“What the fuck?”

“What?”

“That’s fucking gross.”

“You aren’t gonna do laundry ever?”

“I am, but, still. Like, I have paper towels.”

“I think you’ll survive.”

She’s obviously right, but I’m still kind of disgusted. She kisses me, our lips chalky and shriveled. She puts my arm around her, and I can feel her falling asleep. I wonder if she is too tired to wash off in the shower or if she just doesn’t care at this point.

My palms sweat. I feel the rest of me is on the verge of starting in, too. The bed is small and June is too hot for this closeness. I should turn on the fan across the room, but I’m lazy. Instead I just pull the sheet off of us and put my arm back across her chest. Her nipples are still hard. I forget her name for a second, then remember it. Amanda.

Karen. I think of calling her because I know I won’t be able to sleep. The room is spinning and my breathing is too close to hiccups. I’m tired of being drunk.

Amanda barely moves when I get out of bed. Her body stays in the same position as when I was there, like there’s a ghost version of me filling the space against her. A sigh or coo or something really tiny and soft exhales from her dry mouth and begins floating.

The opening (and then closing) door is noiseless.

The window in the apartment’s hallway shows traffic picking up. It’s far off and blurry. The cars are smudged diamonds, rolling and winking. The sun’s as up as it’s going to get, and it makes me feel nauseous to realize what time it is and just how far along most normal people are into this day. I’m a concussed astronaut, slouched against the wall, fighting anti-gravity and trying not to echo.

When Karen answers, I cough because my throat’s so dry. I should’ve brought water out with me.

She says, “What?” and I laugh.

“Hey,” I say. “Just a bad case of tuberculosis.”

“I guess it was gonna get you sooner or later.”

“Yeah. Happens to the best of us.”

I’m so quiet. My neighbor’s air-conditioning jumps into gear. I swear I hear a drip coffeemaker begin wheezing. Someone talks about making pancakes. The outside light is scratching the corners of my eyes. I wish there were plants lining the hallway.

“How was the run?”

“Good. Just a couple miles. Easy Sunday. Have you not slept yet?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“How drunk are you still?”

“Pretty.”

“Or is that very?”

“Take your pick.”

I’m about to let out a breath, but I stop, so I feel like I’m drowning. I picture myself underwater. And Karen’s up above me on a lifeboat, laughing as she gets ready to jump in after me.

I say, “What do you think about me? Like, when you think about me, how do you think? What do you think? Do you think about me?”

I’m puffed up and cloudy and the steam coming out of me is so sincere.

She probably holds the phone away for a second, then says, “Which one of those do you want me to answer?”

“Take your pick.”

“I think about you sometimes.”

And here I am, dumb smile crooked and gasping. I want to taste the perfume behind Karen’s ears. Maybe there isn’t any, and I’d taste only skin.

I say, “Do you want to have pancakes later today after I wake up?”

“What?”

“Like, we’ll make some pancakes over here. Then we can go to a park. We’ll have a pancake picnic.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. It’s supposed to be a nice day today.”

First: obviously, she’s no Steve Miller!

Seriously, though, this is a complex beast. My friend Claire and I have discussed, with no insincerity, the idea that this woman might actually just be a creepy ghost who flits about our hallways, haunting us with her very presence and scowly demeanor. What sharp features on this woman! What a cross disposition! Holy hell.

At first, it was just kind of a joke about how scary the woman is. Lately, I have gotten some serious cases of the heeby-jeebies. The unfriendly glances she casts my way have become more frequent and more unsettling. When I’m in the school’s small kitchen, which she oddly considers her domain, getting a fresh cup of coffee, I dread the sound of footsteps behind me, fearing she might slither up at any moment. I literally will not go into the kitchen if she’s there.

It was all just harmless hocus-pocus until last week, when the woman threw out a cup of erasers I had stored on my desk. These kids need those erasers! You should see the scribbles tossed across the pages now, zig-zags and blotches with no hope for cleansing. I was angry, and I knew it was the old woman, but my fear stifled my rage.

Yesterday, I noticed a single pair of scissors was missing from my classroom. If one child can’t cut his paper while his classmates carry on happily, we’re all fucked. Still, I did not want to confront the old woman about it. Instead, I talked to 채령, a girl I work with, lamenting the loss of my erasers and scissors, and outright blaming the janitorial “staff.” While 채령 did not agree that the woman had stolen my things, she had a clue as to why the lady was so creepy and dismissive toward me.

“She doesn’t like that you don’t say hi to her.”

“I say hi to her sometimes.”

“You don’t say hi every morning.”

“One, I at least nod my head when I see her. Two, you know I’m not that chipper in the morning anyway.”

(I am being very honest here. At best, I am aloof and unbalanced in the morning. At worst, I appear to be homicidally angry and unhinged. The glaze across my eyes is pretty fucking dynamic!)

채령 continued, “Well, you need to say hi every morning. She thinks you’re…” 채령 searched for the word. “She thinks you’re arrogant.”

“What?”

“Yeah. So I talked to her about it. I just lied and said that you were stupid and didn’t know how to say hello in Korean.”

“So she thinks that I’m arrogant and stupid?”

“Pretty much.”

“When did you talk to her about all this?”

“Two months ago.”

“Were you going to tell me about it?”

“No. Why?”

Here is where I should’ve said, BECAUSE SHE IS HAUNTING MY GODDAMN NIGHTMARES! I didn’t. I poured another cup of coffee (to soothe the lack of sleep caused by said nightmares) in the old woman’s kitchen and went about my day.

Epilogue

I did not say hi to the old woman this morning. Time to show these Koreans what American spite is all about.

Epilogue, part two

I guess it could be worse. The old woman acts strangely (and still creepily) friendly with Aaron, imploring him as to his churchgoing habits and religious affiliation. Now that’s scary!

Photo gallery after the jump…

]]> http://mikedentalplan.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/photobooth/feed/ 0 Mike D. http://mikedentalplan.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/i-am-made-of-chalk/ http://mikedentalplan.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/i-am-made-of-chalk/#comments Tue, 04 May 2010 10:55:01 +0000 Mike D. http://mikedentalplan.wordpress.com/?p=229 ]]> Lou and I got into a pillow fight at the bar after we attended International Pillow Fight Day a few weeks ago. Proof:

During the post-work conversation, after exchanging middle fingers to represent fuck you, Chloe made a gesture that she knew from American movies or TV or something, and asked me what it meant because she had forgotten exactly what it stood for. The gesture? Something like this:

Sorry.

I hid my head in my hands, laughing and red-faced. I explained that I could not tell them, that it would be too awkward and I would feel rude describing what this was to them. I could not hurt their shy, Korean sensibilities. So, they talked through it with each other in Korean and lobbed questions at me.

Kate: Is it, like, asshole?

Me: No.

Chloe: It is sexual, right?

Me: Yes.

Chloe: It’s, like, only for a woman?

Me: Uh, yeah.

Korean Girls: Oh…

With that out of the way, Kate asked the obvious question when it comes to trading languages: What is the worst swear word in the English language? I explained that although the word was losing a bit of its steam in recent years and has popped up more freely in people’s daily usage and in some comedy and art, cunt still has the power to stir up nervous, groundward glances and cause women to slap men in protest. Cunt.

Kate recognized the word slightly, having spent some time in Britain and New Zealand. She wanted to know the precise pronunciation of the word. I told her it is k-uhn-t, not k-awn-t. She laughed and laughed. It turns out, since she was in Britain, she sometimes will alternate between an American pronunciation and a more British pronunciation of the English language. From time to time, when she says the word can’t, the vowel sound ends up closer to k-awn-t, which will in turn range pretty near cunt, especially when she is speaking English quickly. So, she explained, she would sometimes have to defensively or assertively tell someone “No” and would end up saying, “I cunt, I cunt, I cunt!”

I cunt believe this all actually happened.

/     /     /

Do you know why my ankles are bound in gauze? - Joanna Newsom

Joanna’s are because she is the greatest poet, songwriter, artist, woman, well, hell, let’s just say thing, ever. Mine are because I just ran forty-two kilometers in the Seoul Marathon. Actually, my ankles are fine. I’m just bad at introductions. Let me give you a list of creeped out women’s names from my phone as references. Anyhow…

The day before the marathon went as well as it could with swarms of yellow dust clouds choking the city. (Thanks a lot, China!) After a 5k run to keep my legs loose for the race, I ventured out again into the apocalyptic-looking cityscape to go to the movies with some friends. Before we saw “Shutter Island” (good flick!), we treated ourselves to what any self-respecting, hard-working, intelligent marathoner would eat eighteen hours before the big race: Pop-Eyes. I have to admit, as much as I’d love to just make a joke out of that franchise, my meal was delicious. I think there is just something about the combination of fried chicken and ham together between two sexy buns that comforts American slobs like myself. Toss in a Coca-Cola and I had myself a nostalgic red, white, and blue (or is that bread, bite, and…you get it) meal. Just like watching an episode of Leave It To Beaver, but with fewer television commercials for cigarettes.

My imagination lit by Scorcese and company, I ventured to northern Seoul to pick up my registration packet (time chip, race bib, amenities, etc.), and then to Lou’s pad. The pick-up was simple and calm, and I was the only person even there at the time, which was the polar opposite of all other races I’ve been a part of. Over at Lou’s, he and I watched “The Informant” (an even better flick!) and went out to eat. After finding every close Italian place (PASTA!) closed, we settled for a sushi restaurant and got down to business. Fifteen plates later (pay-by-the-plate; small plates — don’t worry) and I was spent. So, it was off to bed…or so I thought.

My bed is always awful. The mattress is stiff, the sheets aren’t actually sheets, and I think its surface area is equal to that of a matchbook.  So I wasn’t anticipating the best night of sleep ever, even though that’s what I desired with the morning I had ahead of me. But I definitely wasn’t expecting the worst. I tossed and turned, listening to the crappy digital wristwatch that is lost underneath the bed beep every hour in cruel mockery. They flew by. Was it the sushi? Should I have invested in Tylenol PM? Will my boss pay me on time next month? Does that smudge on the wall look like a giraffe? The questions raced through my mind. I believe I fell asleep somewhere around five in the morning. My cell phone buzzed with a clatter against the hardwood floor at six. Yes, you added that correctly: I got one hour of sleep the night before I was to run forty-two kilometers. As they say in Korea, “Aye carumba!”

I dizzily gathered myself and what bearings I could find in my apartment through my latent, half-shook-off fog of insomnia: iPod, appropriate clothes, bag to check, bib number, T-money card (for the subway), oranges. The sun was filtered dimly through the clouds and morning greeted me with a wearied calm. The streets were glowing in my half-awakeness.

On the way to the subway station,  I bought a small bottle of water from the Buy The Way mart that I frequent. I’m sure the proprietor was greatly taken aback by my early patronship, but he did what he always does when I entered: continued reading his newspaper. My liquid secure (and my nagging headache increasing), I ventured out again to the silent streets.

I felt like a drunk on the subway train, swaying to and fro, the track’s rockiness exaggerated to nearly comedic effect. My attempts to tie the timing chip into my shoelaces with kindergartenesque, but I finally had the device ready after a handful of swear words and stern concentration. Instead of laughing at me, a fellow passenger who was also participating in the marathon took me under his wing. Though he was a native Korean, his English was impressive. I took his counsel and followed him to transfer lines at Sindorim (or, as I’ve colorfully renamed it due to its predisposition toward screwing me over, Shit-On-My-Dick-dorim).  I will refer to him as My Spirit Guide from here on, because 1) he was very helpful and kind while I was in sleepless pain, and 2) I am not entirely unconvinced that he was a sleep-deprived hallucination I created to allow myself to make this journey.

While riding Line 5 toward our final destination, we chatted briefly. This would be My Spirit Guide’s second marathon (just like me), and he was shooting for a time around three hours and fifty minutes (just like me). Other marathoners boarded the train, and the car was nearly packed exclusively with race participants. The others chatted jovially while my movements hiccuped and slurred. I offered My Spirit Guide one of the two oranges I’d packed. He declined, saying he’d been awake since five and already enjoyed a delicious breakfast with his wife. Lucky bastard.

We exited the train at the Gwanghwamun stop, and I followed My Spirit Guide with the loyalty of a terrier. The subway station smelled like sunscreen and toothpaste. I was intoxicated. I couldn’t tell if I was tired to the point of delirium or if I was excited to the point of nausea, but I was getting ready to run, sleep or no. Orange-clad race supervisors patrolled the underground as well as the street level, escorting confused participants and casually glancing at the oiled-up calves (I saw you looking!). When we reached Gwanghwamun Square on the surface, My Spirit Guide unceremoniously parted ways with me, intoning this simple, powerful advice: Enjoy the race. Oh, I will.

The cold was quite powerful, only around thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and after checking my bag, I had a half-hour to kill standing in it wearing only under-armor, a t-shirt, and shorts. I stretched and tried to find the largest swath of sunlight careening between the buildings in which to stand and warm myself. I heard a voice.

“Kansas?” a man said.

I realized that he had repeated the words drawn across the chest of my shirt and struck up a conversation with him. As it turns out, he was also from Overland Park, Kansas, and was visiting his brother, a member of the Air Force, and they were running this race together. Unfortunately for this man, he was a graduate of the University of Missouri. Fortunately, he told me, his father was sane enough to attend the University of Kansas. I guess the slave-holding, child-raping apple can fall pretty far from the tree!

Then there was some more standing. Exciting! Since I did not offer the race officials my previous marathon’s time when I registered, I had to wait at the back of the pack and start the race later. Annoyingly, it took half an hour of standing around for the race to finally kick off. And kick off it didn’t. I felt god-awful for the first five kilometers or so. I even had to urinate pretty badly, which is uncommon for me during races. My bladder was aching so badly that I decided to give in and jump off to the side and piss. There was a pack of men whizzing all over some kind of statue, so I zig-zagged through the crowd and joined them, cutting my legs on some bramble that surrounded the statue and standing in puddles of piss from previous pee-enthusiasts. No matter: the relief was tremendous, and after a handful of gummi worms, I felt even better. It would be smooth sailing from there on out.

The first half was pretty boring. I took the opportunity to wake myself up and pump myself up for the more-important second half. I was passing other racers pretty easily, and even ran swiftly by the Missouri man I’d spoken to pre-race. Our exchange was pretty funny:

Me: “How’s it going?”

Him: “I just ate a moonpie. I haven’t had one in years.”

Me: “It must be going pretty good then. See ya.”

See? Wasn’t that pretty funny?

I kept telling myself that I would hit a wall, because that’s what famously and tremendously happened when I ran the Kansas City Marathon. However, this time was different. I felt little pain, even as late as thirty kilometers. Around that time, a man unfurled an American flag a few paces in front of me, so I ran up to him and we high-fived. Patriotism! (I actually did get pretty pumped up from it.)

Around this point, I finally realized that there were packs of teenage Korean girls screaming for me whenever I’d pass a group of them. Although I noticed their cheering in previous kilometers, I didn’t until this late in the race understand that it was for me, the small-faced white man who had traveled across continents to entertain them with his thin limbs and jerky stride.

I zoomed over the bridge that crosses the Han River at the thirty-five-kilometer mark. Taylor Swift started singing in my ears, so I knew I was getting close. With only four kilometers left to the golden marker of forty-two-point-one, my left knee started aching. I forced recognition of it to the back of mind, along with the nagging pain in my right foot, and carried on. Upon rounding the final curve and seeing Olympic Stadium ahead of me, my body exploded like a revelation and I ran harder than I ever have before. The final kilometer was beautiful. I entered the Stadium and rounded three-fourths of the track to the finish line, blurring past the tired bodies that notched the way like lifeless fence posts.

Three hours and forty six minutes after I jolted myself into motion at the starting line, my body shook in dizzy reverberations as I tried to stop running. I blinked to remind myself that I had to remain conscious. After a minute, worry and pain ceased, and I was left with an awe and fatigue that felt like a strange, warm blanket.

(I think I’m massaging my thigh with my hand in my left pocket in all of these pictures, like a creepy child molester jingles the loose change in his pockets while watching local playgrounds. (Uh…))

My friends were waiting for me at the finish. After the minimal congratulating was through, they proceeded to just make fun of how pained and old I looked. I could’ve sworn I was in a nursing home considering the number of times I heard the words grandma and grandpa. We snapped pictures and left, eager to eat brunch at Butterfingers, a restaurant in the Gangnam district. I nearly resorted to sitting on the subway train’s floor, which is usually the lot of the bum. My body could not hold itself up.

Brunch was delicious. However, our server, Ryan (if that is his real name!), was new, and quite terrible. So slow. So wrong with orders. But my French toast and sausage-egg-cheese-biscuit sandwich were incredible. Unfortunately, I had to use the restroom at one point during the meal. This meant that I would have to trek up a flight of stairs to reach it. Someone actually asked me, as I gingerly stepped down afterward, “Are you okay?” I ignored this bit of concerned courtesy and wearily dragged my body back to the food.

My post-pace hunger sated, we departed Gangnam for our homes. Instead of making me deal with the pain of subway transportation and the crippling that would’ve surely ensued with all of its standing, we took a cab back to Guro. I sat shotgun. This gave the taxi driver, an old, hilarious man, a great opportunity to jokingly massage my thighs to ease their pain. You’ve never known kindness until you’ve known the sweet touch of a Korean taxi driver.