Skin Food

by Type A

  Sam ran tap water into two white teacups and two red coffee mugs. For civility’s sake, he wished he had a proper teakettle, but the microwave would have to do. Four minutes for four hot waters. He set the cups, mugs, and tea bags on the coffee table so as to avoid more overthinking. Lana and Mimi chose the white teacups, and they all had green tea.

  “Not to seem ungrateful, but do you have eggs or meat?” Tyson asked when Sam brought over the peanut butter, crackers, and butter knife.

  “Nope.”

  “First world problems,” Mimi remarked.

  “Is Korea first world? I haven’t seen enough of it to form an opinion.” A smirk came over Tyson’s face.

  Sam came to Mimi’s defense. “Don’t mind him. He’s just trying to ruffle your feathers.” He turned his attention to Tyson. “I expect we’ll eat out a lot, and we can go grocery shopping together. Don’t blame me for the food. Blame the murderers.”

  “You think it’s more than one person?” Lana asked.

  “Yeah. I can’t imagine just one person doing this, unless they’re police or military. Koreans don’t have guns. There’s no right to bear arms here.” He dipped the knife into the jar of peanut butter. “Actually, I know how something like this could happen. At a Korean spa. People have such a false sense of security at jimjilbangs.” Mimi scrunched her brows. “Think about it,” he continued. “When is a person most vulnerable? When they’re sleeping. More so in a dark room full of strangers. My friend had his phone stolen in a sleeping room, and it was right next to him. Now what if someone walked into that same room and slashed everyone’s throats while they were sleeping?”

  Mimi brushed him off. “You Americans have such imagination.”

  “I’m Korean, too.”

  ______

  Twice or thrice a month, Steve attended a hweshik, a company dinner.

  Round One

  “When you sex, how many times?” asked his co-worker.

  “What’s that?” Steve thought he misheard.

  “When you sex, how many times, one night?” He stood up and thrust his hips for emphasis.

  Steve almost spit out his beer. “Oh, um, I don’t know.”

  “How many times?”

  “I… I’ve never counted.”

  “Me?” He raised his voice, pounded his chest, and looked Steve straight in the eye. “Seven times!”

  “Wow!” Steve feigned amazement at the seven fingers.

  “I’m Superman!”

  “If you’ll excuse me…” Steve got up without waiting for a response. He made his way across the restaurant and found his favorite co-worker.

  “Seung-ho, come save me.”

  “From what?” Seung-ho asked, mid-bite of a beef rib.

  “From whom. Jang-soon is getting way too personal.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Too much.”

  They laughed.

  Their bosses called them over. They were sitting in the middle of the table in the middle of the room. Their postures commanded the respect of Joseon dynasty monarchs, and they’d just summoned three pretty young things to their table—office workers two to three years out of high school. One of the bosses spoke to Seung-ho in private.

  “They want you to give a toast,” Seung-ho reported to Steve. It would be the sixth toast of the night—all extolling the virtues of the company.

  “Yeah, okay,” Steve agreed, shifting his gaze to the microphone.

  “But first they want you to pour shots for everyone.”

  “Huh?” Steve replied.

  “Yeah, they want you to go around to every table.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re one of the newest and youngest employees.”

  Steve closed his eyes and held the bridge of his nose. “In college, I never joined a frat because I didn’t wanna be hazed. Here I am working for a Fortune 500 company, and they want me to play bartender.”

  “What’s a frat?” Steve didn’t answer. “Listen, this can only help your situation,” Seung-ho said. “You shouldn’t fight the bosses on this one.”

  Defiant. In a word, that was Steve’s first performance review at work. More a personal than a professional issue, which made it that much worse. Steve’s bosses gave him the impression that he was a damaged good, that they could easily replace him with a new employee with a better personality.

  Four years earlier, Seung-ho, too, had had a bad first performance review. He’d been habitually late to work and missed some deadlines but had managed to get back in his bosses’ good graces. So after Steve’s performance review, when Seung-ho saw the deer-in-the-headlights look in the young buck’s eyes, he decided to help him.

  “I’ll do the shots with you,” Seung-ho insisted.

  “I thought I was pouring shots? Damn it.” Steve exhaled. “Hazing for real. I have too much pride for this. But I’m trusting you.”

  Eleven tables, eleven shots of soju. It was as if their livers were company property.

  “Thanks, Seung-ho,” Steve said, wrapping his arm around his friend. “You’re a heck of a wingman. If you ever need me to take a dozen shots with you…”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They gulped down a few glasses of water before Steve picked up the mic. {tap}{tap}

  “If I can have your attention… If I can have your attention, please. I’d like to raise a toast… to the company.” He felt like he was swaying. “To a fantastic year.” It was July. “Repeat after me. Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!”’

  “Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!” They raised their glasses with each cheer.

  Steve, usually a skilled toastmaster, felt embarrassed and insecure. He hadn’t said ‘hip hip hooray’ since grade school and had intended to use Korean in his speech. But the language barrier had worked in his favor. His co-workers took his speech in stride.

  “Time to move,” Seung-ho said.

  “Let me guess. A pub?” Steve asked.

  “Right.”

  Round Two

  Steve and Seung-ho sat in the corner with a pitcher of beer.

  “I never get to play the foreigner card,” Steve complained.

  “What do you mean?” asked Seung-ho.

  “I mean the company doesn’t care that I’m American. They treat me just like everyone else. It’s ten o’clock and I wanna go home, but I’m expected to stay out and socialize just like you and the other Koreans.”

  “So the bosses treat you like a standard employee. What’s wrong with that? It’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not fair to anyone. We all work overtime. That’s the nature of the beast—of working for a chaebol. But overtime and then a hweshik? This is some bullshit.”

  “Yeah, bullshit, man!” chimed in Superman, hovering over the table.

  Seung-ho and Steve looked at Superman disapprovingly, and he returned to his seat.

  Steve continued, “A hweshik is more of a burden than a bonus. Sure, we get free food and alcohol, but so what? I’d rather be sleeping, exercising, going on a date… saving my sanity.” He poured Seung-ho another beer.

  Since joining the company, Steve had developed health problems similar to the side effects of a poorly-tested prescription drug rushed to market: headaches, blurred vision, dizziness, an increase in blood pressure, and tightness in his chest. A dentist said he was teeth grinding and a doctor that he was overbreathing. In both cases, stress was the underlying cause.

  “How do you avoid burnout at work?” Steve asked Seung-ho. “I never feel refreshed. Hell, I never feel fresh.”

  Steve’s creativity, the bread and butter of his job as a research and development engineer, was stifled, and his ideas were turning stale.

  “I have no secret,” Seung-ho replied. “I just try to stay positive. It’s either that or quit, right? And I don’t think you’re a quitter.”

  “No. No way.”

  Quitting wasn’t an option. Steve had moved to a foreign land, and he was going to succeed, damn it. His
plan was to work for the chaebol for a few years. Make the big bucks, boost his résumé, toy with the latest technology, and get out with his soul intact. Just short of a deal with the devil and just about the same plan that his San Francisco BigLaw associate friends had.

  Round Three

  Steve followed his co-workers up the narrow and stuffy stairs, the reverb of a wannabe crooner becoming increasingly audible in their ascent. When they reached the reception room, Steve rolled his eyes. Cheap chandeliers. Checkered tiles. Animal print upholstery. A bow-tied employee. A neon sign that read “Luxury Noraebang.”

  Steve shook a tambourine to the beat of the music. It was the least he could do to keep himself entertained and awake. K-pop wasn’t his cup of soda, and K-dramas, which showed behind the lyrics, weren’t his scene. Steve’s co-workers, perhaps sensing his apathy, egged him on to sing.

  “Okay, okay, one song.” He reached for the microphone.

  He flipped through the fuchsia-colored three-ring binder and fast found a fitting song for the occasion. The Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian” to match the room’s theme and décor. As Steve sang, he slid his feet on the mosaic floor and shifted and pulled back his arms like a supposed ancient Egyptian. He did his best pole dance on a plastic papyrus column and ran his fingers down the tall statue of King Tut. With his back to the gold hieroglyphic-papered wall, he pressed his hands together and posed for a photo with the bust of Nefertiti. For his grand finale, he dove onto the plush pillow-covered couch.

  Steve’s co-workers hooted and clapped and called for an encore. He politely declined and broke out into a smile. Maybe, just maybe, he’d had a little bit of fun.

  Seung-ho high-fived Steve and excused himself from the room. In his absence, one of the bosses sang love ballads and a male intern an R&B song.

  “My wife called. She’s mad that I’m not home yet,” Seung-ho told Steve.

  Steve checked his phone. 2:12 a.m. “Let’s go.”

  They bowed and waved their goodbyes, skipped the noraebang’s complimentary ice cream, and found the nearest taxi stand. There was a slight chill in the air.

  “Thanks again for looking out for me,” Steve said.

  A deluxe taxi, black with a yellow sign, pulled up to the curb.

  “I know you’d do the same for me,” Seung-ho replied.

  “Of course.”

  Their handshake turned into a hug, and Seung-ho hopped in the backseat of the cab.

  ______

  Shortly before nine the next morning, Seung-ho slashed his wrists with a box cutter in the seventh floor restroom by the conference room.

  Steve noticed a shuddering and sobbing intern standing next to two stern police officers.

  “What’s going on?” Steve asked.

  “They’ll want to talk to you,” the intern mumbled, motioning toward the police officers.

  “About what?”

  The intern squatted down and continued crying. Steve saw yellow police tape around the restroom.

  He approached the receptionist’s desk. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She hesitated. “Um…”

  He blew past her and knocked on his boss’ door.

  “Nay? Yes?”

  “It’s me,” Steve said, inviting himself in. “Do you know why the police are here? What happened in the restroom?”

  His boss took off his reading glasses and laid them on the desk. “No one told you? Lee Seung-ho died.”

  “No…” Steve covered his face with his hands.

  “He cut himself.”

  “No!” Steve stormed out of the office.

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would Seung-ho end his own life? He was so full of it. And why would he kill himself at work? He could’ve done it anywhere, anytime. To commit suicide on company property was like a royal eff you to the Korean royalty that is the chaebol.

  The police officers and an interpreter found Steve sitting alone in the break room. They expressed their condolences and readied their notepads.

  “When was the last time you saw Seung-ho Lee?”

  “Last night.”

  “When exactly?”

  “After karaoke. We walked to the taxi stand, and he took the first cab. It was two, maybe two-thirty.”

  “Do you know why Mr. Lee might have taken his own life?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever talk about his problems?”

  “No. I just told him my problems. He was a good listener.” Steve paused. “I thought he was an eternal optimist.”

  Steve retreated to his cubicle and stared at his all-black screensaver in dismay. In distress. In disbelief. He straightened out a metal paper clip and scratched a line across his left wrist. Seung-ho, his ally. Steve retraced the line with the paper clip. Seung-ho, his fallen comrade. Steve scratched deeper and drew blood. Seung-ho, the friend he barely knew. Steve looked around the office. No one was watching. Shocked by his own actions, he pulled four tissues out of a box and applied pressure to his wound.

  ______

  Lana brushed her hair, light cinnamon and bra strap length, and looked longingly out the window. A side street view with minimal greenery, a few parked cars, and no pedestrians. Her and Tyson’s vacation had just begun, and she had an itinerary. Not with dates and times. He wouldn’t go for that. But with places and events, food and housing options. It was an ambitious agenda for their three-week stay—with mini trips to Gyeongju, Busan, and Jeju Island. Then they’d continue on to Japan.

  “Do you mind if I open the window?”

  “No, not at all,” Sam replied.

  Lana slid the window open and placed her wooden hairbrush on the sill. She pressed her face against the screen mesh, breathing in the humidity.

  Tyson observed her with romantic curiosity. He imagined her eyes closed, a soft smile forming on her lips as she mentally transported herself to a world of bliss.

  “Guys…” Mimi started. She was still at the computer. Lana scratched the tip of her nose and turned to face Mimi.

  “It’s not just Hongdae. It’s all of Seoul. I can’t... I’m in shock. So many people are dead.”

  Tyson and Sam rushed over to the computer screen. Accompanying the news article was a map of the city, with a half-dozen locations pinpointed in red.

  “How many?” Lana asked. “How many people are dead?”

  “At least fifty,” Mimi said with a quiver in her voice.

  “What’s happening?” Lana questioned.

  “No one knows yet, or they’re not saying.”

  “What about the police? What do they say?” Lana asked.

  “They’re telling people to stay home. To lock their doors.”

  “I think that’s for the best,” Sam said, “considering the woman downstairs.”

  Mimi saved some emergency numbers to her phone and Sam reached for his.

  “I’ll try Steve again,” he said.

  ______

  Away from the lights and sounds of revelry, Steve stumbled through the backstreets of Hongdae, destination unknown. He went up a hill and down another, enveloped in graffitied glass and brick walls. There was a circus scene with a leggy acrobat swinging high above the clouds, and a pastel pink teddy bear and two plate spinners in green uniforms standing atop the big top while a smiling, sinister clown stared from afar. There were music notes. A bucktoothed whale. The all-seeing eye. A tiger with rabbit ears. Snow White with a machine gun, SHAME FOR SALE, and LOVE, PEACE WITH YOU in black stencil. ‘Pooing’ in simple red lettering. What did the other, illegible tags mean? Only the artists or vandals knew.

  A gust of wind blew Steve’s button-up up. He tugged his shirttail down and clutched his left arm to his chest, favoring his wrist.

  At the end of a quiet street, he sat on the edge of the curb, with litter to his left and a dark alley, home to air conditioning units and public urination, to his right. He’d used the alley before—as a shortcut to a main road. He’d squeezed past the A/C units and climbed ten feet down a util
ity pole, much to the amusement of passers-by who’d paused and pointed up at him.

  Steve rolled up his shirtsleeve and peeled off a bandage to reveal an infected gash. Poking the pink skin, he sucked air through his teeth and spoke with remorse, “Damn.” He raised his chin up to the sky, starless. “I should get this looked at. Tomorrow.”

  Steve started to reapply the bandage when, overtaken by rage, he grabbed and smashed an empty beer bottle. He felt like a gun was being held to his head as he held the bottle’s jagged edge to his wrist.

  “Ahh!” A swift slice. Blood soaked into Steve’s white linen shirt, and tears welled up in his eyes. He thought of Seung-ho and collapsed onto the…

  ______

  “Any news? Updates?” Tyson asked Mimi. She was mid-text to her friend from Zen.

  “No, not really.”

  “Your family must be worried. Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Ilsan.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Northwest of Seoul. About a half-hour away.”

  “Do you work or study in Seoul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, which one?”

  Mimi set her phone on the arm of the couch. “I’m a student.”

  “So you’re from Dirty Jerz and commute to the city?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s like you live in New Jersey and commute to New York City.”

  She smiled at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ve never been to the U.S., but… maybe? Ilsan is a satellite city on the ring road around Seoul. I think of it like a tree trunk. Seoul is the pith—the center—and the newer satellite cities are the growth rings.”

  “That’s po-e-tic,” Tyson syllabled. “Where did you get ‘ring road’? I’ve only heard ‘loop’ and ‘beltway.’”

  “I lived in London for two years. A ring road can be as small as a street and as big as a motorway. Anyway, I must be losing my English accent.”

  “Careful, Mimi,” Lana said without a hint of jealousy. “Tyson will stalk you if you tell him too much about yourself.”