by Sonia Patel
I stagger to my room. Swig. Sideswipe my bookshelf. A few paperbacks tumble onto the floor. I grab the edge of the third shelf and teeter. I manage to find my balance, but my eyelids droop and my head lolls. At some point I get steady, and my eyes land on the taped photo of my parents and me. I stare at Mom.
I lift a shaky finger, point it at her. “You!” I say, “You picked meth over me. You left us. You ruined everything. I don’t need all the details, I just know it’s all your fault,” I whimper. It takes all my concentration to turn my finger back and jab it into my chest. “You left me!” I scream, jabbing a couple of more times.
Ha-na…
Swig.
Shit rolls downhill, Ha-na…
I hug the whiskey bottle and stroke it. “My little baby, I’ll never leave you again,” I whisper.
I rub my eyes, but things are still blurry. I totter to the nightstand and slam the whiskey bottle on it. I seize our family photo from the floating shelf, stare at it. Then I tear it in half. I tear it in half again. And again. And again. And again…until it’s nothing but tiny bits, which I sprinkle everywhere like snow. I snicker when I’m done and grab the whiskey, chug. I go to put it on the nightstand but miss. Thud. Touch my face. It’s not my face. I look down in slow motion. It’s the bottle’s ass. The beautiful liquor leaks all over my floor. I’m too drunk to count the seconds or even give a shit. I fling myself onto the bed. “It’s all your fault, Mom!” I yell before I roll over. I almost fall off the bed. “So selfish, so selfish,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Druggie child abandoner,” I mutter. “You don’t deserve my tears.”
Suck in my snot. Rub my eyes, hard.
I jump out of bed and stomp to my armoire, wake up my knife. “Time to work,” I say to it, squeezing the handle.
I lumber over to my designated throwing spot. The beam goes in and out of focus. I aim at it as best as I can, but my eyes drift to my arm. My sleeve is bunched up so that my skin, my tats, are visible.
… you can’t hurt me more than I can hurt myself.
Mom. Ha-na. Mom. Ha-na…
My brow furrows. Pressure builds, it’s about to destroy me.
I turn my blade on myself, dragging the tip through the skin of my inner forearm. Pain. But it isn’t as bad as the anguish in my head. Bright red line, red relief drips onto the floor. This is why you do it, I think, picturing Ha-na with a fresh cut, a bloody knife, and a mollified smile.
18.
I pound the empty streets of Seoul like a drunk giant trying to sprint. I struggle to slow down. I want to walk, but my legs won’t let me. I try to avoid the cracks, but the ground keeps shifting so that each of my lolloping steps ends up breaking my mother’s back.
Suddenly I’m not alone. A throng of wounded, limping zombies trudge towards me. I race by them, bumping into a few who turn their heads slowly to me. My own fear pours out of their wide, shiny anime eyes. I shrink back from them and take a sharp left into a deserted alley. The sun blinds me for a second. I blink, then shield my face.
The air becomes thick, sludgy. I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs, and I start heaving. My heart drills my chest. I reach for my knife with my trembling hand…it’s not there.
I’m running faster, panting and sweating. In the distance the sun attempts to hide behind a couple of skyscrapers, but its rosy amber beams leak out the sides.
A cool breeze, then my steps slow. Soon I’m walking, my breath calm and my heartbeat steady. I look down. My feet pass over the cracks. Knife? I check. It’s there. I exhale in relief.
I’m at the Han’s edge. The gentle water, a glossy mirror, licks my toe caps. I close my eyes with hopes of serenity, only to open them to a raging, muddled mess of frothy brown rapids. My heart sinks as twigs and debris rush by. The river’s surge relays a message.
Come.
The far bank gets farther away. Out of nowhere, a long, narrow dock appears at my feet.
Come.
I step. The boards creak and tilt. I steady myself. One slip and the dark churning water would surely swallow me.
I make it to the end.
Look, it says.
I do.
The water slows long enough for me to see what’s floating by—a dead girl.
My hands fly to my mouth.
Bluish-white feet. Tattered hem of a dirty ivory dress. Slashed up arms stretched out like she’s on a watery crucifix.
No. It can’t be.
Her face. I lean forward, squint.
It is Ha-na.
But then a tiny spider crawls out of her ear. A few more follow.
I rub my eyes.
When I look again, it’s not Ha-na. It’s not a girl. It’s a woman. It’s my mom.
19.
I wake up, but the bluish-white feet linger in my mind’s eye for a few seconds, crystal clear.
It’s dark in my bedroom except for the red digits on my clock. 11:35 p.m. My sheets are soaked.
Ha-na.
Spiders…
Mom.
The nightmare’s over. But reality is scary in a different way.
Ha-na won’t forgive me. Mom’s gone, been gone.
I touch the scab on my inner arm, then touch it two more times.
Check the clock. 11:36 p.m. Check again: 11:36 p.m. I grab my face and turn it away. But no, I have to check again. Still 11:36 p.m.
I really should sleep. I lay back down and close my eyes. Minutes pass.
Can’t sleep.
More minutes pass.
I should count.
Get to two hundred one.
This is ridiculous.
I hop out of bed and go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I consider calling my boys. But what for, this late? To whine about my nightmare? No way. That’s my secret.
Peek in Dad’s room, he’s not there.
I remember what Braid said—that according to In-su’s phone conversation with my dad, there’s a big “business” deal at the club tonight.
That’s where Dad must be. I wish he would’ve taken me with him. Then maybe I wouldn’t have had this bad dream again.
Another time check. 11:45 p.m. Hmmm. Dad won’t start the deal until 12:30 a.m. Yeah, yeah, thanks In-su. Maybe I still have time to make it.
I get dressed quick, then hustle to the underground parking. I have to stop for a second when I see the sleek red body of my car. The Tsukuba red really is the best red, especially with the contrast of the aggressive black and silver rims.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
I look over my shoulder.
An older woman hurries towards the elevator. Her eyes are on my dragon tat. She looks up, and our eyes meet for a second. She drops her head and walks faster.
Whatever.
I slide into the driver’s seat, sink in, and start the ignition. I wrap my hands around the leather steering wheel cover. So smooth. Each rev of the engine makes my inner smile stretch. Perks.
I fiddle with the stereo to crank up the bass. That’s the only way to listen to the Korean hip hop that’s on. The entire car vibrates, pushing one of Dad’s Marlboro cigs off the dash and onto the passenger seat. I pick it up and sniff. Not as good as my Dunhills. I slide his cig, his traitorous cig, into my pocket, thinking about the first time we took a ride together in my car that his TSP “business” money bought.
Bloody-gang-drug money is more like it.
I hunch over and rest my head on the steering wheel. My index finger and thumb clutch the key, I almost turn off the ignition.
Almost. Fuck it.
I back up one-handed, then peel out. At first I cruise down the street, but then I push the pedal when I realize I might be late. I maneuver around the few cars that are out.
I reach Itaewon. It’s an assortment of boisterous colors—loud yellows and greens in the background and reds, blues, and purples pop up like blaring alarms in the foreground.
I lean my seat back a little more and head nod, pretending I’m in my own music video.
Damn! My sweet ride gets me where I’m going before the next bass heavy song is over.
I park a block away from the club because the TSP bouncers would recognize my car. As soon as I step onto the sidewalk, I toss Dad’s Marlboro into a trash can and light up a Dunhill. I smoke and walk, keeping my head ducked.
Club Orion’s front entrance announces itself with a rowdy crowd of locals, tourists, and G.I.’s. They spill out from the row of gold stanchions connected by red velvet ropes. I turn my head the other way as I pass the bouncers.
I make a right into the next alley. It’s narrow and pitch black. I let my fingers skim the concrete wall that’s doing a lousy job of containing the thumping bass from inside the club. I shake my head, what a perfect cover for the shit that’s about to go down in the back, that hopefully hasn’t already gone down.
I get to the fire escape and quick check my pocket watch. 12:34 a.m. I look over my shoulder. All clear. I clamp down on my cig—yank the rusty, creaky iron ladder down, climb to the landing, and hop onto the railing. I balance by grabbing a vertical pipe that’s running down the length of the wall. Steady…stretch my free arm. Steady…I grasp the wide-ish ledge, pull myself up in one swift motion, and crouch next to the small window, which I nudge open a crack.
Dad’s inside with three of his men. Plastic bags filled with crystal are neatly stacked on a large stainless steel table. Looks like Dad and his men are waiting for the buyers. Dad’s eyes are closed, and he’s waving his finger like it’s a conductor’s baton. I listen closer. Yup. The Three Tenors. Nessun Dorma.
Three heavy pounds on the door. Dad drops his hand and opens his eyes.
I stub my cigarette on the wall. Check my pocket watch again.
12:38 a.m.
The buyers are late so I figure they’re probably American.
Chul-moo looks through the peephole before he unlocks the door and tugs the handle.
Sure enough, two Americans are standing on the other side with anxious grins and poor grooming.
I size them up.
The taller one has dark brown hair in a buzz cut. His uneven stubble and sleepy eyes make him look like one of those hungover American tourists wandering around Itaewon at five in the morning.
The other one has blond hair also in a buzz cut. He looks young, maybe only a few years older than me. He keeps blinking like he has something in his eye. Or is it nerves?
Chul-moo motions for them to enter with his chin, muttering something I can’t quite make out.
I lower my head so that my ear is next to the window opening. I want to hear everything.
The blond is carrying an enormous, bulging duffel bag.
In-su straightens his red pocket square. “Pat them down,” he instructs in Korean, though he speaks English.
So do my Dad and Chul-moo. I doubt these Americans speak Korean.
Chul-moo frisks the tall one.
The tall one reaches for Chul-moo’s red pocket square.
Chul-moo slaps his hand away.
“I was just trying to fix it,” the tall one says in English.
And…I was right.
Chul-moo mutters in our mother tongue. “Yeah, of course. You Americans think you can fix everything. Maybe you should try learning my language first.”
Hak-kun checks the blond.
The tall one stares at Hak-kun, then nods and smiles. “Love your David Bowie eyes, man,” he says.
Yes, Hak-kun has one brown eye and one blue, like David Bowie, but I silent groan and roll my eyes. We don’t all know who David Bowie is! Why should we? Do you know all of our famous singers?
The tall one turns to Dad and attempts to make small talk. “It’s been a hotter spring so far, hasn’t it?”
Dad doesn’t answer.
He tries again. “Seoul is such a beautiful city. Reminds me of San Francisco. I was there before I got stationed at Yongsan.”
Dad ignores him, his face etched in apathy.
My fists clench. When I’m boss, maybe I’ll stick to deals with clients from either side of the Korea Strait—other Koreans or Yakuza—because I know they won’t try to get all chatty like these Americans. They understand that business boundaries prescribe keeping conversation to a minimum.
The tall one opens his mouth yet again. “Great food too.”
I’m out here but still being tortured by this guy’s stupid, unnecessary conversation. Wonder how Dad feels. He looks calm and cool.
Dad lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and blows three smoke rings. “Do we have a deal?” he asks in English.
The tall one’s eyes feast on the crystal. “Yes. We’ll take it all,” he says. He turns to the blond and throws him a chin up. He looks back at Dad. “Here’s the money.”
The blond steps forward with the bag.
Dad puts one hand up.
The blond stops.
“How much?” Dad asks.
The tall one coughs. “Five, like we agreed on,” he says, his voice cracking.
Dad gives a slow stroke to his sideburn with his index finger. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tall one and smiles. “Gentlemen, this meeting is over,” Dad says. He switches to Korean and instructs Hak-kun and Chul-moo to show the Americans to the door. He pauses, then adds, “Carve three stars on their chests before you throw them into the alley.”
The alley! Oh shit. I gotta get out of here! I prepare to climb down.
A faint smile forms on Chul-moo’s lips as he touches his knife. He and Hak-kun bow and walk towards the Americans.
“Wait! Wait!” the tall one cries in a trembling voice.
I wait and look.
Hak-kun and Chul-moo look at Dad. Dad nods. They look back at the Americans.
The tall one swallows unnecessarily. “Did I say five? I meant ten, yay, that’s right. Ten.”
Dad takes a drag. He doesn’t say anything.
Hak-kun shakes his head a little.
Chul-moo smirks as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. Then he punches his tight right fist into his open left palm.
“My friend here is gonna go get the rest from the truck outside,” the tall one says pointing at the door with his thumb.
The blond hands the bag to the tall one, then makes for the door, his chin tucked.
“Chul-moo, escort him,” Dad says in Korean. “Bring him back if he tries anything funny.”
Chul-moo bows and follows the blond to the door. They leave the room.
We wait.
The tall one opens his mouth to say something. But then he gets a load of Dad’s irritated expression and shuts it.
Good idea, idiot. Did you really think you’d get away with paying only half? I’d tell your boss about your treachery. Then again, it’s your boss’ problem if he’s got a thief in his lair…
Dad takes one more drag before he stubs his cigarette on the table.
Five minutes later, three heavy pounds on the door.
The blond walks in first, carrying another duffel bag. He gives it to the tall one, who holds both bags out to Dad. “Ten.”
Dad looks at Hak-kun and Chul-moo. “Count it,” he orders.
They take the duffel bags to a table in the back corner.
The Americans keep their eyes plastered on the concrete floor while Hak-kun and Chul-moo count the bundles of Benjamins. Dad glares at the Americans. The tension is thick and sticky like the spicy rice cakes I buy at the food cart down the street. The only sound is the shuffling of money bundles.
“Five million,” Chul-moo says when he’s done.
“Five,” Hak-kun confirms.
Dad half smiles. “Looks like we have a deal,” he says in English. He holds out his hand for a shake.
The tall one hurries forward. He gives Dad a double handed handshake. “Nice tats,” he says, pointing to Dad’s hands when he lets go. He whistles, then says, “With tats like that, you must be the boss.”
If only this dumbass could see the rest of my dad’s ink. He’d shit in his pants.
“Great doing business with you, boss,” the tall one says.
That’s when Dad lunges forward and punches the verbose a-hole in the gut.
The dude gasps and it looks like his eyes might pop out. He drops to the floor, clutching his belly.
“No one gets away with trying to short me,” Dad says in English. Then he kicks the bastard in the flank three times in a row.
I thump my fist once over each of the three blank spaces under my suit. Don’t fuck with TSP.
Meanwhile Hak-kun and Chul-moo are holding the wild-eyed blond.
Dad lets the tall one writhe on the floor while he goes to the large cabinet at the back.
I go to thump my someday stars again. But my fist freezes when Dad comes back holding up a machete. A wicked shadow passes over Dad’s face. He stands over the tall one and raises the machete over his head. His lips curve up into an evil grin. He plunges the blade down fast and hard…
I slam my eyes shut. My fist falls to my side as a wave of nausea hits me. I turn my head away before I dare to open my eyes. I’m not thinking, just moving. I jump onto the fire escape landing, then scurry down the ladder. I sprint down the alley, tripping once. I’m almost to the main street when a tsunami of nausea batters me. I stop and lean forward, pressing my hands onto my knees. Heave…
The congealed contents of my stomach lays in a slimy puddle near the shiny toe caps of my Ferragamo’s. I watch my barf spread on the ground, but all I see is the tall one’s blood filling the cracks, coagulating.
20.
I rouse from sleep aware that the sheets feel softer. The light trickles in from my window, a blurry delicate gold. I stretch my limbs, then curl up with the covers to soak up the warmth and comfort. The clock reads 7:00 a.m., but time seems gentle and unhurried, like rolling mist. I yawn big, rub my knuckles into my eyes and wait for a second, holding my breath. No raging rivers. No dead Ha-na. No dead Mom.
Maybe those nightmares are over?
I exhale, cautious, tap my nightstand three times, then push the duvet back. More confident, I swing my feet off the bed, jump up, and head to the living room with only the pleasant flashes and echoes of hanging out with my boys yesterday evening. We spent almost six hours at the noraebang mostly singing but also joking, at each other’s expense of course. Talking about this and that, nothing in particular. All without a drop of soju, whiskey, or beer. All without a single word about school, our gang stuff, or Ha-na. All without a mention about my dad and his machete. Yeah, I told them about it, and we all agreed that what my dad did was beyond brutal, so terrible in fact that it couldn’t be real. We decided that what I’d seen was actually a horror film disguised as a gangster action film that my dad happened to star in. It’s possible. I mean my mom starred in those kinds of films. I’ve seen them. We’ve all seen them.
