In Real Life

by Lawrence Tabak

After we eat Hannah says she’s got to get back to work on her English paper. Which makes me groan, because I haven’t started mine either. It’s an essay on 1984. On the way home we talk about what to write about. I always try to go for the easiest topic. For me, it’s a discussion of how much stuff in the book has come true. That’s perfect, because truth be told, I haven’t had a chance to finish it and I can pick up the missing ingredients in about five minutes on SparkNotes. I try to convince her that it’s that easy. That she should come over for a little.

  “It may take you fifteen minutes. It’s going to take me a couple of hours.”

  So she insists I take her straight home. After I drop her off I go sit in front of the computer, trying to get motivated to do the English paper. Instead, staring at the kiss photo and feeling awful. I thought talking to her would fix everything, but it’s actually worse. Because for years all I’ve been thinking about is making it as a pro-gamer. It’s like in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy and her friends first see the Emerald City. All shiny and bright and all you have to do is follow the road. But then they get to the scene where the road is overgrown with poppies and it’s not so clear anymore.

  Thinking about Hannah is like those poppies. When I’m thinking about her the path gets foggy. This plan, which over the years has hardened clear and crystalline, like one of those trophies they give the winner of a Starfare Grand Prix, it drifts out of focus. And I have to blink my eyes, like windshield wipers in a fog, to get that image back.

  After that night out, when we meet at school it’s all good. But it’s the same old story if I suggest we get together after school or do something on the weekend. The one plus is that without work and without Hannah I’ve got more time to try not to fall further behind with my gaming. As soon as I get the crap like the English paper out of the way. So I do. I’m still using the five-paragraph essay that they taught us in GE English in fifth grade. Lame intro, three things in the book that came true, a paragraph on each of those things, repeat the intro. It takes me exactly thirty-four minutes. I’m sure it will be at least a B.

  Coach Yeong and I have been trading emails and he helps set me up with games when he can, which is hard with the time difference. Sometimes he’ll watch and send me notes afterwards, things that I can work on. So for the first time in my life I actually have some direction and feel like it’s really helping. Who knows, maybe I will make a fortune yet.

  Hey Hannah, it’s me!

  Who?

  You know, Seth. Calling from Korea.

  Oh yeah. Bad connection, could barely hear you. So how are you?

  Great. In fact, I just won my first Grand Prix event. It comes out to close to $20k.

  That’s wonderful, Seth.

  Yeah, well, the reason I’m calling. I know it’s almost spring break, and I thought we could get together.

  Get together?

  Yeah—I’ve got tickets reserved for both of us. We can meet in Hawaii on April 6. Maui, actually. I’ve booked five nights at the best hotel on the best beach. I’ll email you a link. They’ve got all these pools with waterfalls and stuff. It’s amazing.

  Oh, Seth. That sounds like a dream come true. I can’t believe you would do that. I can hardly wait…

  54.

  As the semester comes close to an end, it’s like the days are accelerating. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do and I want to see Hannah. When I’m sorting through my clothes, making piles of stuff I think I should take, I see the yoga pad and DVD in the corner. I pick up the pad, set it down on the floor, do a couple of dumb stretches. Then I text Hannah. Ask if I can stop by to give her something. She says she’s doing some project for world history so she can’t hang out. Fine.

  She steps out onto the porch and I hold out the pad and DVD.

  “I’m not taking this with,” I say. “Thought you’d get some use out of it.”

  “I can’t,” she says, glancing back at the door like she’s worried. That the dog would get out? That the guy from the environment club will pop up? “This was a gift from your mom.”

  “She’d want it to be used,” I said. “Otherwise it’s just gathering dust in the corner.”

  Hannah reaches out and takes them from me. Hugs the pad the way I’d like to be.

  “God it’s cold out here,” she says. And then I notice she’s just in stocking feet. Goosebumps on her arms. “Hey, we’ll get together. At a better time.”

  “Right,” I say, standing awkwardly, now that I have nothing to hold. “Well, good luck with the history project.”

  “Oh it sucks,” she says. “I’m terrible at these big papers.”

  “No you’re not,” I say. “But too bad you can’t do it with photos.”

  “No kidding.” She’s sort of jumping from foot to foot. From the cold. Or maybe she’s just anxious for me to leave.

  “OK, well, I’ve got to go too,” I lie.

  “Yeah, I know how crazy it is. When you’re getting ready to move.”

  “OK, well I’ll text you later.”

  “Great,” she says. As she turns back to the door, she looks over her shoulder. Strand of hair across her right eye. Those hazel eyes. Watering a bit—from the cold? Click, I think, wishing I had this photo, forever. “And thanks for the yoga stuff. I’ll use it, I promise.”

  “Great.” The screen door slams. And then I’m just standing there, alone on the porch. It seems like a long drive back.

  Part 2

  KOREA

  1.

  Looking out the window of my Korean Air jet out of Chicago, I see, through a break in the clouds, the checkerboard snow-spattered pattern of what might be Illinois. Or Iowa, maybe. I’m already lost.

  The last few weeks are a blur. Getting through all my classes and getting everything ready for the trip. Worrying about the passport arriving, and then still worried when it does. And then there was that weird photo session. Coach Yeong arranged for me to go to a place downtown where they took about 200 photos of me in my green Team Anaconda shirt. I might have looked a little glum, since all I could think of was how much more fun it was having Hannah take my picture.

  And Hannah. When I think back, she really was great. Even though she could see the dead end ahead. After I gave her the yoga stuff we had this great week. We’d either do something together after school or I’d come over to her house after dinner. Her dad was never around, but her mom always seemed happy to see me. Of course, it might have been only because she knew I was heading halfway around the world in a few days. When I asked how it was that we had so much time together all she said was, “I’m being selfish.”

  So Hannah and me. We’re still something, I guess. At least, we were. I mean, I know I’m as crazy about her as always. And there were a couple times over the past few months, when we were finally alone. Wow—not healthy to spend too much time thinking about that. Not while sitting on a Korean Air flight going 700 mph just about as far from Hannah as possible.

  Then there was the scene at the Kansas City airport. It was so weird that it already feels like it happened to someone else. In my mind, I wanted it to be just Hannah and me. One of those romantic goodbye scenes from the movies. Full of longing stares and pitiful embraces and promises.

  But Dad insisted on coming with us, so it was the three of us. I checked my giant bag with my entire wardrobe of hoodies and jeans. We were standing there awkwardly near where the security line begins. No one was really talking.

  I was looking at Hannah, who was trying not to look at me, while Dad pretended to be looking somewhere else. She looked sad, but smiling. And tears. I’m sure I saw them, barely.

  If I was the weeping sort I’d be right with her. It just felt awful. Awful to be leaving her, and home, and Dad and being so far from Mom and Garrett too, if truth be told. But awful to be excited about going too. Like I’m somehow a traitor.<
br />
  So in the end, I gave Dad a hug, and he patted me on the back. And then Hannah, and I really want to kiss her goodbye, but it just felt wrong there in public with Dad watching. Now, as I watch the clouds rushing past below, I’m pretty sure I blew it. That she will never forgive me for wimping out. As soon as I can I’ll write her and tell her that I really wanted it be different. Like the New York street photo we posed for. That’s what it should have been like.

  And when I’m not thinking about leaving Hannah and home, there’s Starfare. Could I be nuts to think I could be one of the best in the world? What will they do if I can’t measure up? Where would I go if they fire me? Go back to high school? After graduating? That seems impossible.

  Instead of figuring it out, I dig through my backpack and get out the first book for my Internet class. I really hope I can knock off this class as easily as possible. The lectures are all online and you can work through at your own pace. My intent is to get it over with fast so I can concentrate entirely on getting my game up to speed.

  I pull out my copy of The Scarlet Letter and start speed reading. I just want to get the flavor of it before I resort to SparkNotes. I get through a couple of chapters when my eyes get heavy.

  I’m out for what must be about an hour when I’m wakened by a young Asian flight attendant. Korean or Western dinner? I’m a little flustered, because I’ve been wondering about Korean girls for a couple of months. And now here one is, leaning towards me and smiling, speaking perfect English.

  I decide to go safe and get some sort of Western-style chicken dinner. Plenty of chance ahead to experiment with Korean food.

  2.

  Luckily I sleep for most of the flight but am groggy as hell when we land in Seoul. All I can see out the windows is blinding sun. I nod off again as we taxi and wake to the bustle of people gathering their things. I slip on my backpack and it’s only by luck that I notice that my headset cord is lying on the seat, still plugged in. I can almost hear my dad’s voice, telling me how bad I am at looking after my stuff. But I think I do a pretty good job of looking after my important stuff. It’s not like I’ve ever lost a laptop.

  I just stumble along with the passengers in front of me, trying to remember the dream I woke up from. I was playing a game of Starfare, in front of huge, cheering crowd. But instead of having a hand on my mouse it was a fork. And still, I was playing, and in the dream, the fork was working, but not very well, because my cruisers were moving in slow motion, no matter what I did with the fork. The crowd was booing and laughing and making fun of me and I was probably doing some weird things in my seat, because when I woke up I was curled in a strange position and my forehead was damp with sweat.

  The passengers lead me down a long corridor. When we go by a food court I’m relieved to see signs in English as well as Korean. It’s mid-afternoon but to me it’s the middle of the night. Although I recognize some of the restaurants, there is something different about the food smells, something foreign and sour. The same with the overall scene: all the thousands of people pulling their little wheeled bags, dressed in regular clothes, but the buzz of conversation has a different tone, and as people walk by I hear what I only assume is Korean. I’m still groggy and I just follow the flow to baggage claim. I hope it’s the right one. But after standing for a few minutes I see our flight number up on a display on top of the carousel. So at least I can relax about that. How I’m going to connect with Coach Yeong or whoever they send is still a mystery.

  At the luggage carousel I stand back and wait for my bag. I read something online how Asian people think English sounds like dogs barking. Well, Korean has a sing-song sound to it, like it was being chanted, not just spoken. I wonder how long it will take before I can say a few things. Like, “Nice game, better luck next time.”

  When I get my bag I follow the flow of people to a large room with a couple dozen long lines. I’m used to grabbing my bags off the carousel and scooting out of the airport. Customs, I realize. I find a line with other American-looking people, dragging my bag along as if it were loaded with weights. There is an older couple in front of me, and a family behind me, talking in French or Italian. I’ve been in line for about ten minutes when I notice that everyone is holding little cards.

  The woman in front of me sees that I’m trying to get a glance at her card. She just gives me a motherly look and starts talking. She’s short, with hair so neatly streaked in blond that it has to be dyed.

  “It’s a customs card. Have you filled one out?”

  I shake my head. She turns to her husband, who isn’t paying a whit of attention to me or his wife. He’s wearing a Nike baseball hat over graying hair, staring in the other direction, focused on the lines, as if trying to figure out which one is moving fastest.

  “Honey,” she says. “Honey—you have an extra customs card don’t you?”

  “What?” he says, turning, surprised and perhaps annoyed that I’ve become part of his scene.

  “You’re always grabbing extras. You have an extra card for this nice young man?”

  “Oh, hang on.” He starts patting his pockets and comes up with another card and holds it out. His wife offers me a pen.

  I start filling out the form. Name, address, blah, blah, blah. Push my bag forward a few steps. Local address. I dig through my bag and find Team Anaconda’s return and write that down.

  “Are you doing a semester abroad?” the wife asks.

  I really don’t want to get into it so I say, “Well, yeah. Studying. Might be more than a semester.”

  “I bet you’ll love it,” she says. “Every time we come over to visit my daughter I think how much I missed by not traveling when I was in college. Of course, back then, it was a pretty exotic thing, to study overseas. Now everyone seems to do it.”

  “You got the passports?” the husband barks.

  “Yes, dear.” She smiles at me, as if excusing his rudeness.

  “Our daughter did her junior year in Korea and now she’s in her third year of teaching English in Seoul. Honey, is this our fourth or fifth visit?”

  “Fifth,” the husband says. The line moves and we all push our gear ahead.

  “So, do you have friends in Korea? Other students traveling with you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, I’m going to give you Sarah’s number. She’s so well acclimated to the culture. Plus she’s always taking people under her wings. Just her nature. Even when she was little. Always bringing home stray cats, lost dogs. She’s just so nurturing.”

  She pulls out her pen and a pad of paper, scribbles something and hands it to me. I fold it and put it in my wallet.

  She continues to chatter until we’re up to the counter. I’m digging out my passport when a little guy in a uniform steps up to the counter and calls out, “Mr. Seth Gordon?” Like an idiot, I raise my hand, as if I’m in sixth grade.

  He motions me to come with him and we walk past the counter a bit down the hall where he unlocks a door and takes me into a small room with another uniformed guy at a desk and two older Korean men standing. I’m thinking, maybe someone planted drugs in my bag. I’m probably going to go prison for thirty years and have to crack rocks with a sledgehammer as heavy as my luggage.

  Then one of the men grins as big and bright as a neon sign and lunges towards me. I instinctively step backwards but he stretches out a hand and grabs mine and our hands are pumping up and down like we were are sharing a Wii controller.

  “Mr. Seth Gordon. I welcome you to Korea. I am team manager Soong Kim. Coach Yeong is busy with team.”

  I shake Mr. Kim’s hand. And ask him how Coach Yeong is doing.

  He smiles blankly and says, “I am Soong Kim. Team manager. I welcome to Korea.”

  Then he motions the second, older man over, bowing his head as he does. “This is Mr. Kim, marketing director of special projec
ts, ANC Computers.”

  I shake his hand, also very enthusiastically. For an oddly long time. I wonder if the Kims are related. He’s got a fixed grin on his face that looks like it might be stuck there permanently. The stalemate is broken when the uniformed man at the desk says with a heavy accent, “Passport and card please.”

  I hand my stuff over and he starts thumbing through my passport as if he can’t find a blank spot, then grabs a hand stamp and hammers it onto a page. He holds my passport out for me and I take it with a mumbled thanks.

  “Mr. Seth Gordon,” the older Kim is saying. “Very nice to meet you and have you in our Korea,” he says, in a way that suggests it may be his only phrase in English.

  The younger Kim half pulls off my backpack and grabs my big bag, and despite my protest that I can manage, starts dragging it out of the room. I’m surprised how cold it is. People bustling in and out of the terminal in coats and hats, just like back in Kansas. I can tell that Koreans believe in getting their money’s worth out of their car horns.

  A driver in a black sedan is waiting at the curb. Kim leans forward and mumbles something to the driver and then he plops back in the seat next to me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card and reads.

  “We go directly to your new apartment. Put you to sleep. But there is some one thing to see on way. Surprise.”

  I can see from the dual-language road signs we are headed towards Seoul, which looms hazily in the distance like the Emerald City, except for the coloration, which is a pale shade of yellow.

  Kim gives the driver some more directions and I can see we’re heading into the towers of downtown, inching towards a section which is glowing like Las Vegas. Store signs are vertical, from street level up several stories. Mostly in Korean, but with a smattering of signs and brands in English: Canon, Coffee, KFC. A light changes and we take a turn to the right and Kim shouts out something in Korean. He’s pointing up in the air, at the roof of the car and at first I look there, but then I realize he wants me to look outside. I press my face against the glass and peer up at a wall of neon signs that are each stories high.