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the
bean
scene  nov 2000 |
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A precocious blend of the finest tanker bilge with a luminous hint of boat gas. Fuckit. It's coffee. It's sometime after clear thinking, but before 5:00 am. I just got back into South Korea from a day trip to Osaka following my first Korean deportation just in time to make my second arrest. Five hour interrogation in a Chunchon cop shop. I did alright. I saw the coffee cup on the sign. It glowed like the Grail. A coffee shop. Downstairs. Looks like a truck stop but with even more nagahyde and garish blue eye-shadow. My soul's about to double over so I take a hint and let my body follow suit on a stained couch in the corner. A slinky girl saunters slowly. I like it. Perhaps it's over compensation for recent trauma, but I drink in her body like a Chivas alkie. I want to bathe in her. "Coffee." It comes. She lingers for a bit, shyly. Looks too young to be working at whatever the hell time it is. "Thanks." Korean instant coffee. Did I mention the delightful notes of boat gas that linger in a slow waltz on the top of your tonsils? Setting the dance floor aflame. Note to self: huff the cup when finished. I add two hits of Red Label from a micky in my coat and do my lame ass wannabe noir rural Canadian red neck best to Chandler-up the situation. It isn't difficult. Pardon me; 'Ain't hard'. Fifteen minutes and I'm smoking like a fresh bullet wound. Korean menthols: lawn mulch seasoned with leprechaun spit. I feel a vague discomfort and unease. An odd malaise that only jet lag, sleep deprivation, swearing at a room full of Korean cops, and complete suspension of disbelief can produce. You know that feeling. Everybody gets it. Maybe you've been gang raped by a stampeding herd of wildebeests. Same thing. Coming back to myself. Head's clearing and I'm starting to get grumpy. Good sign. I feel beer truck blues settling in and welcome it. Just as big and twice as loaded. I need someone to shove. For the first time I look up. The room is three times as big as a rich kid's rumpus room. I don't know what rumpus is, but rich kids seem to need it. Must have something to do with having two parents. Now I'm just getting silly. Five girls including mine. One old woman. Roundabout twelve guys or so. Why are there no women customers? Must be studying for finals or something. Chunchon's a university town after all. One table's got three ROK brats. Republic of Korea (South Korea) soldiers doing their two years service. I order a fourth. I never understood why guys get off on watching a girl walk. Now I get it. She screws up her courage and speak, "Coffee." "...which I am about to receive in jesus name, amen." A panicked glance back to the old woman. She smiles her encouragement. Everyone is watching. It dawns on me they've all been watching for some time now. Too baked to pick up on it. "Sit down. Please." She settles and puts a saucer of apple slices on the table. I hadn't noticed she was carrying them. That's when it all comes together like a coal train shunting. This is a da-bang. A Korean coffee shop/whore house. Upstairs must be a motel that charges hourly. All a dream. Could this day possibly be any more pathetic? No. Could it be better? No. Coffee shops permeate the built landscape of urban South Korea. Four bucks a throw. You're not buying coffee, you're renting a table away from the noise. Usually the shops are quite cozy and elegant. Not at all my style. No wonder I feel content here. It feels 'real' in a drunken hack, trying-too-hard kind of way. What to do, what to do... Please god, nothing more stupid than what's already happened today. We get to talking. Her English isn't that bad. The same level as mine back in Grade eight. Keep to a simple vocabulary and it's all gravy. Like most whores, her job is to make a man feel more important than they both know he is. To listen. To nod. To supplicate and fawn. I never went for that. Ever. I teach English to Korean university students and professionals. Our jobs are the same. Perhaps that's why so many of my students quit. I don't mind doing it for her. In middle school she did poorly on the high school entrance exam. One bad test result. The only high school that would accept her was for bottom rung castaways. A girlfriend got her into the life three years ago. She's says she's twenty-one Korean age, which is nineteen or twenty Canadian. Probably seventeen. Do I like her Gucci handbag? Yes. It's amazing. The most wonderful purse I've ever seen. Look how shiny and black it is. The gold "G" is beautiful. She can put all of her make-up in it. This lipstick is from Seoul. Many girls don't have this colour of lipstick, but she does. Yes, it's a beautiful bright red. Do I like her? Yes, very much. And her black purse is really very interesting. Repeat after me: marvelous. Mar-ve-lous. Yes. A marvelous Gucci purse. I'm sorry. It's late. I must sleep now. No thank you. No. Thank you. I will see you soon. I go home with a cinder block lodged in my throat and enough heartsickness to kill redemption. I visit her occasionally. For coffee. |
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