by Nate Granzow
"I'm sure my turn's coming, Richard."
"Just don't be in any hurry to get there, kid. Enjoy what you've got going right now, this freedom. Eventually, whether it comes as the result of a beautiful woman, a job, or old age, it all goes away. And damn…" he whistled, "...will you miss it, then."
After taking one more long pull, he breathed out grudgingly and looked over his barely-consumed cigar; then dropped it to the concrete and crushed it with his heel.
"These things will kill you, you know."
Careful footsteps sounded from the stairs. A South Korean colonel approached us, offering a handshake to the ambassador.
"Richard."
"Bae, how've you been, old man?"
Richard introduced me to the officer, a strong-jawed man with a quintessential soldier-like build—lean, with flawless posture. His dark, solemn eyes seemed to take in everything around him without the need to glance around, and his expression was that of a wise man with a wealth of stories and harrowing experiences he would never reveal.
"Is this the reporter?"
"Yes it is. This is Grant Cogar of the Chicago Herald. He's an old family friend. Grant, this is Colonel Bae Sang of the Republic of Korea Army, a career soldier and hero of the South."
Gripping my hand firmly, the colonel looked carefully into my eyes as though scrutinizing my character. "You've been on the battlefield before, haven't you?"
Surprised, I said, "I have. How'd you know?"
"I recognize a shrapnel wound when I see one," he said pointing at a jagged white scar on my collarbone, peeking out from beneath my shirt collar. "I've got a few myself."
Slapping my back, Chamberlain laughed and said, "You boys exchange war stories—I'm going to conduct an impromptu inspection of the troops. I can't hear whatever you two discuss, anyway, for the sake of deniability."
"Thanks, Richard."
The ambassador had done me a solid by introducing me to the colonel—he was clearly the kind of man unafraid to give an honest response, and as a soldier on the front lines, was likely detached enough from the political realm to disregard any wrist-slapping repercussions that might come after I got my story out.
As the ambassador walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling a Sinatra tune and staring at the sky, I let my cigar drop before turning to the officer.
"Colonel, if you don't mind me being blunt with you, what the hell is going on here? It's as though everything is a matter of such secrecy, no one can say a word."
He nodded.
"Mr. Cogar, the situation is exactly as it has always been, and just as it always will be. North and South have never known true amity. The frail thing we call peace that exists now is like a piece of porcelain balanced on the tip of a sword. So much as a breath could tip it one way or the other and shatter it."
"So all the talk of war, what do you think? Are they right?"
Shrugging his shoulders, the officer looked out at the treetops.
"Does it matter? War is little more than a change of the weather, here. They call it peacetime, and still our people are murdered by enemy artillery. They call it war, and guns sit silent." Absently wiping an invisible fleck of dust from his uniform's epaulets, he asked, "Have you ever been to Israel, Mr. Cogar?"
"Briefly."
"Israel is much like South Korea—surrounded by those who wish absolute destruction on its people. They have never known peace, and it is unlikely they ever will. The blood that has been spilled runs too deep. Men fight because the grandfathers of their enemy killed their grandfathers. I believe there is even a quotation from the bible that speaks of the coming apocalypse should Israel and Palestine stay peaceful for some years."
"Pretty safe bet on the part of the prophet who came up with that," I said.
"Yes, unfortunately," he said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his chest pocket and wiping at his nose. "There has never been a protracted war from which a country has benefited."
"Sun Tzu?"
"Correct, Mr. Cogar. And so was he. The Korean people have limitless potential, and we crush it because we cannot coexist peacefully. This unending war will always be a debilitating wound, and I fear we won't overcome it. Will my children be forced to wear this uniform and carry this gun as I have my entire life?" he asked, flicking the leather holster at his hip. "As much as I'd like to be optimistic for the future, I know, as you should, Mr. Cogar, that we are helpless to stop this cycle of violence now that it's in motion."
"That's a bit of a bleak outlook, Colonel."
He sighed.
"When I first commissioned, my commanding officer taught me that war, and in many ways, life, is like a chess game. You and I are only pawns, Mr. Cogar. We go where we are told, and we watch as the game unfolds, but our movement is restricted to the space immediately surrounding us."
Suddenly turning on his heel to look at me, Colonel Sang said quietly, "It just occurred to me that this talk of ours couldn't have been of much value to your article. I'm sure you were hoping for something more insightful. I'm sorry that I cannot offer more."
Extending my hand, I smiled and said, "All the same, I've learned a great deal, sir."
11
Bar Fight
My day with the ambassador had given me plenty to think about, but none of it would benefit my article. Despite the differences in their stories, everyone I had spoken to seemed to echo the same conclusion: Nothing was going to change. This whole fiasco was just another flare-up in a country where political and military tensions were as natural and ambient as the air and the sun.
As Richard steered the convertible into the embassy parking lot, I spotted Jessica seated on the concrete steps—knees together and chin propped on an open hand. The breeze tossed her hair and flicked at the pages of an open paperback in her lap.
"Looks like you've got someone waiting for you, Grant," he prodded. "A cutie, too."
I grinned, "No argument there. But I doubt she's here for me, Richard. I haven’t had much luck talking with her."
But Perry has.
It enraged me that Rothko was, even years after I'd sworn to never deal with him again, interfering with my life. His advances on Jessica at the embassy were clearly a power play—a reminder of how skilled he was at ruining things for me. I felt a familiar rage building, but breathed out deeply, trying to keep it in check.
"Don't let her fool you, my boy. For as long as she's been in my employ, she's struggled with expressing anything other than polished professionalism. That's not just with you, that's how she is with everyone. But that doesn't mean underneath all that there isn't a perfectly lovely young woman hoping that the Cogar of her dreams will come and sweep her off her feet," Richard joked. "You just have to break through those defenses. Love's a battlefield, after all. You of all people know your way around a battlefield, right?"
I nodded and smiled unenthusiastically.
"She seems like she'd make a good match for your boy," I said.
"If by 'match' you mean mother-figure, maybe. I was hoping her professional attributes—being on time, courteous, polite, articulate—would rub off on him. Don't know that it's working," he said resignedly.
Gripping my hand and slapping me on the back, Richard smiled and said, "good luck," before strolling inside.
The warm transition from the chilled, windblown convertible ride made me shiver. I pulled off my suit jacket and tucked it under my arm as I approached Jessica.
"Hey, are you looking for me?"
"Um hmm," she said without looking up.
"Well I'm flattered, really. But I'm afraid you'll have to make an appointment, I'm a busy man."
"Sure. Joyriding with the ambassador certainly makes it look like you keep a grueling and demanding schedule."
"Well, I do what I can to keep up appearances."
"Right. Shall we?" she asked, closing her book and slipping it into her briefcase. It sounded less like a question than a statement.
Climbing into the Escalade, I pulled my
seatbelt across my chest and settled into the leather seat.
"So where are we going? Movie? Sushi? I'm always so nervous on first dates."
"Harold wanted us to meet him at a bar downtown."
"Damn kid, always tagging along as the third wheel."
"This isn't a date," she said flatly.
We were quiet for a few minutes as I debated how best to engage her in conversation. I decided the direct approach was my best option. It had worked for me in the past, particularly with women like Jessica. The old adage, 'opposites attract' was often true. Being blunt and forward with a girl focused on formality and politeness sometimes worked to jar them from their comfort zone, shocking them enough to lower their resistance. It would get her attention, at the very least.
"You know, you are disarmingly beautiful."
Without smiling, she mumbled, "Thanks."
"And clearly very bright. The ambassador isn't the kind of guy to hire someone based on appearance."
She looked at me suspiciously.
"Again, thanks."
"But that's also tragic, in its own way."
"Excuse me?"
"It's tragic because you know how beautiful and intelligent you are. It seems to me it's just a matter of human nature for someone to look for a mate that shares the same qualities—or at least an equal number of qualities—they see in themselves. You'll turn down the advances of every man not your equal in search of someone comparable to yourself. The problem is, as I'm sure you've already noticed, you are so exceedingly gorgeous and smart, no man will ever be good enough."
"You think I'm that shallow?"
I sensed my plan going awry and tried to backpedal.
"I don't think it's a matter of being shallow. It's just human."
"You're an unusual man, Mr. Cogar," she said critically.
"I'd be flattered if I wasn't certain that wasn't a compliment. I prefer the word 'unique' or 'inimitable'. And you don't have to call me Mr. Cogar. My name's Grant."
"No, I think I'll stick with Mr. Cogar."
"That sounds nauseatingly proper," I said, frustrated that I had clumsily stumbled through my approach, which had the opposite effect of my intentions.
She was silent.
"Okay, nauseatingly may have been the wrong word."
"We're only a few minutes away, Mr. Cogar. Do me a favor and don't talk to me."
As we pulled to a stop at a red light, I began to apologize.
"I'm sorry, Jessica. Look, I don't mean to be so abrasive. It's just…I find you perplexing. It's fine if you're not interested in me romantically, but you seem to carry this disinterest in me as a person, too. I mean, I know I'm not the perfect guy, but I never thought of myself as boring."
"Mr. Cogar, it's nothing personal, really. There's nothing wrong with you, and I don't doubt that you're a very interesting person. But this is who I am." She took a deep breath before looking at me from the corner of her eye. "I have different priorities than most women you're familiar with. I know that probably makes me seem cold and uncaring. God knows it's hurt more than a few relationships I've been in," she said quietly, her voice softening.
What was that? Sounded like cracking armor.
"But I'm not going to change," she continued. "So there you have it, Mr. Cogar. Now you can stop trying to figure me out."
"Jessica, I'm not asking you to change who you are. I just want you to give me a chance. That's all. I really want to get to know you."
"Why? Because I'm 'disarmingly beautiful'?" she scoffed.
"Because I can tell, beneath that tough façade you put up, there's a captivating, charming personality."
I cleared my throat and sat up straight, shifting my gaze out the window. "I'm sorry I brought any of this up; I should have known better than to say anything."
*******
I struggled to think of anything other than the ache in my lower back as we sat on a row of chrome barstools inside a hybrid 50's era diner crossed with a trendy nightclub, the words Dosan Rock n' Roll adorned in neon across its front.
"Reporting a decent news story around here is harder than finding a legitimate Rolex for sale in Manhattan," I complained—mostly to myself—as I sipped on a porcelain cup of Soju. It was my kind of drink: a vodka-like liquor so inexpensive I could drink myself into a stupor for the cost of a candy bar.
"Don't act so dejected," Harold shouted over the pulsing bass, ordering another Budweiser with a two-fingered wave at the bartender. "That just means you're free to spend more time with us, right?"
He nudged Jessica, who, distracted by something on a far wall, tossed her hair as she turned, responding with a simple, "hmmm?" Having exchanged her glasses for contact lenses and let her hair down, she looked to me like an almost entirely different person. But after watching a steady stream of young men approach her with offers of drinks and dance, and seeing each one met with the same dispassionate refusal, I decided that the change was only an aesthetic one.
"Besides, what isn't there to cover here? You're in one of the most beautiful, lively countries in the world, Cogar. And it's only made more beautiful in contrast with those Commi fuckers across the fence. Why don't you write something about that? A nice op-ed column about how much better life is in the South? We could drop it like propaganda flyers over Pyongyang. If anyone can convince them to change sides, it's you."
I shook my head. "It's nice now, but this place is a time bomb, Harry. The war may not start while I'm here, but you can bet your ass that we'll see it in our lifetime. It's going to be a catastrophic chain of events, like fucking dominoes," I said, grabbing the small pile of Harold's bottle caps to illustrate my argument. "The North will eventually back up their incessant provocations with a full-on assault of the South, and China will back them just like last time. Maybe a little more political handwringing involved, but they'll support the attack either militarily or financially."
Making two parallel rows with the caps to simulate battle lines, I slid my cup behind the line nearest to me.
"Then we'll come running to help the South, just like before."
Reaching over to Harold, I plucked the bottle from his hands and placed it behind the opposing side.
"Only the game has changed a bit since 1950. The Chinese and North Koreans won't be running at us with sharpened sticks and antique Russian bolt-action rifles. Their military technology is on par with some of the most advanced countries in the world. It'd be one hell of a brawl, probably the next world war. I'll be surprised if we don't find ourselves back here with M4s in-hand instead of booze," I said, slapping the table and knocking my mock-up into disarray.
"You know what I appreciate about you, Cogar?"
"What?"
"Your refreshing optimism," he laughed.
Tearing off the bottle cap in one fluid, hurried motion, the bartender slid a fresh beer in front of Harold, then, glancing at my demolished war model, tossed the cap into the pile.
Harold grabbed his beer and spun around on the barstool, his ordinarily neatly combed-over, walnut-colored hair tossed about wildly, and shouted, "Fuck this place; let's go to Shanghai. That is, if Jessica here is done getting free drinks," his voice trailed off as he said something along the lines of, "Hell, I'd fuckin' dance with 'em if they were buying me booze."
He stood and took a deep drink from his beer before stepping into the crowd.
"I'm gonna take a leak, but you guys get ready."
Jessica and I stayed seated. I tried to catch her eye, to share in a moment of knowing maturity, but she only sighed and stared at Harold's back as he made his way to the restrooms.
Swiveling around, I slid my cup toward the bartender along with a folded 1000 won banknote—about 84 American cents and enough to buy the entire bottle—then stood to follow Harold's lead.
As I rounded the corner, my hand on my zipper, I ran into the chest of a towering Korean, arms crossed, standing before the door.
"Excuse me."
As I tried to go around, h
e placed a hand on my collar and pushed me back a few feet. Clearly he had established his dominion over this restroom, and I was an unwelcome guest. Perfectly content with carrying out my undertaking on an outside wall, I turned to leave.
Then, I heard Harold scream.
I should preface the following with an explanation of what kind of fighter I am. I've had more than a few experiences involving combat over the years, but I'm not good at it. I'm not a wrestler, or a boxer, or a martial artist.
I'm a dirty survivalist.
You learn quickly when defending your life or the life of someone you care about that combat isn't like you see in Hollywood. No one is enforcing any rules of nobility, and dirty fighting will be done unto you whether you reciprocate or not. I prefer not to give my opponent the benefit of the doubt.
Spotting a metal trashcan near my feet, I cocked a leg back and punted it at the guard. Batting it away as though it were made of foam, the big man quickly brought around his tree-trunk-like arm in a fierce right hook—much quicker than I had anticipated. Narrowly ducking his dinner plate-sized fist, I slipped close enough to the giant to plant an uppercut in his groin. The behemoth staggered, drawing a ragged, pained breath as he moved a hand between his legs and leaned against the wall. Jumping atop a chrome hall table to gain a little elevation, I leapt for his neck. Swinging like a chimpanzee onto the brute's back, I slipped my right arm beneath his chin and into the crook of my left elbow, wrapping my legs around his torso.
I knew what came next.
Driving both of us backward against the wall, the big man grunted as plaster caved around my shoulders. I was thankful he had missed a stud. Those hurt more.
Pulling my left arm toward myself, I squeezed against his neck with every ounce of energy I could muster. My attacker's hands gripped my forearms, pushed and scratched, and then flailed toward my head. I could feel my assailant's panic as he struggled to breathe through the headlock. After another series of wall slams—each one weaker than the last—the giant finally succumbed, toppling to the floor, unconscious. I took a deep breath; then kicked in the door to the restroom to find two men with Harold. One held his arm pinned behind his back, pushing his face into the sink beneath running water. The other had a knife to the wrist of my friend's outstretched hand. They began shouting in Korean, gesturing furiously at me, then at the door.
