by Chris Tharp
Glen slapped the table with one hand. “How much?”
Mark shrugged. “Hi Bill. How much is this gonna cost?”
“I’m afraid the fee is three hundred dollars. That’s on top of the original eight.”
“Three. Hundred. Dollars?”
Pause.
“Fine. Fuck it.” Glen got up and headed to the bathroom.
“What?” I had had enough. “DO THEY REALLY HAVE TO BUY THAT MUCH MORE GAS?” The other patrons shot stares my way.
Mark shook his head and licked saliva from his lips.
“Okay. Done,” he said, snapping the phone shut.
* * * *
Dad’s funeral went off without incident several days later. The priest was a graying man from Ghana, who was serving in the local parish for one year, a result of the current priest shortage. Some of my family had a hard time adjusting to his thick accent, but other than that they appreciated his warmth and the sense of joy that he brought, even to a funeral. After the Mass I gave him a lift to the cemetery, and I impressed him with my knowledge that the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan was also Ghanaian. He seemed shocked to meet an American who actually knew this. He was further astounded to discover that I could talk international soccer with him as well. It turns out that, aside from his national team, he was also an enthusiastic supporter of Chelsea. I liked him at once, and upon finding out that I lived in Korea, he peppered me with questions about the place:
“Is it true they eat kimchee with every meal? I have worked with Korean priests and I do not understand how they can stomach that stuff. Do you eat it? The smell!”
“Can they speak English well? I think maybe not so good.”
He also reflected on living far away from home, for he too was an expat:
“I get here to America and everything is strange. People get into their car to drive everywhere. Me? I don’t even have driver’s license! To have so many cars–this is crazy!”
That night was the annual Knights of Columbus crab feed, which my father used to volunteer for–it was one of the highlights of his year. It took place in Anscar Hall, a gym-like pavilion next to the main building that makes up Sacred Heart Parish. My brothers and I decided to attend as sort of a tribute to the old man. I sat at a table with them, eating garlic bread and prime rib, sucking out the meat from the steamed claws of Dungeness crab, and downing watery beer from plastic cups. One nice thing about being Catholic is that drinking is never a problem. We aren’t afraid to bust out kegs at church functions, unlike so many of those puritanical Protestant sects, some of whom are said to substitute grape juice for communion wine. (As if church weren’t boring enough.)
Sam Pellegrino, one of my dad’s closest friends and the main organizer behind the crab feed, came over to our table. He, of course, had been at the funeral just hours earlier, but had now traded in his dark suit for an apron, and carried two paper plates covered with tinfoil.
“Please give this to Gloria. I know how much she loves crab.”
I made the rounds under the hall’s fluorescent lights, greeting a few people that my dad knew. The African priest was there, all smiles and laughs, with a pile of empty red-and-white crab leg shells in front of him. I looked at the tables filled with good, hungry Catholics, eating and drinking and living, unaware that we had just buried Dad. Most of them didn’t even know my dad, but even the ones who did went on with life as it was before. Sam Pellegrino loved my dad and sobbed when I broke the news of his death to him, but that night he worked the kitchen and cooked the crab, just as he had done for many years before. My brothers and I ate and tried to talk above the din of voices and cracking shells, but few words came out. We did our best, but our hearts weren’t there. We really tried to enjoy the feed, but the beer was too weak and the food had no taste, and no matter how much we ate, it just didn’t fill.
INTERLUDE: JANUARY 26, 2009
SHANGHAI, CHINA
This beast of a city is alive with the sounds of war. Machine guns. Artillery shells. The explosions reverberate down the narrow streets of the French Concession and the air is thick with gunpowder and sulfur smoke, obscuring the European architecture in a blue haze. Everywhere are booms and bangs and pops and whistles–an orgy of fireworks–the opening minutes of the Year of the Ox. People are on the sidewalk and in the middle of the road, lighting off huge box-loads of rockets, missiles, and firecrackers. The amount of pyrotechnics is as staggering as the city itself. The Chinese revel in it and make our 4th of July seem flaccid by comparison.
I sit with Da-jin, Scott, and our friend Caf at Yin-Yang, a small bar run by what appear to be well-connected Chinese hipsters. The tables are full and smoke lingers in the room, though unlike outside, this smoke has a much more Amsterdam-esque taste and smell. Trance music pulsates through the speakers, punctuated by the rumbles from the decibel party in the streets. We sip from tall glasses of Spaten beer and take in the décor of the place. Portraits of Mao figure prominently, along with red stars and hammers and sickles. This isn’t commie kitsch; these guys are showing respect, and are likely left alone because of it.
The celebrations are exhilarating, but ill-timed. Dad has only been gone for two weeks now. I’m still reeling and feel like a heel for coming to the party, but I bought the tickets well before he left us. He also always wanted to visit China, so I’d like to think that I’ve brought at least a piece of his spirit with me. I’ll keep him in mind as I wander the city, a place almost too immense to ponder, over the next three days.
My emotions are a river. They change from day to day, hour to hour. I know such ups and downs are the natural result of the grieving process, but it gets annoying. Just today I lost my cool in a taxi ride to the Bund–the riverside walk that is Shanghai’s most famous attraction. Caf asked me if my father had left me any money or property. I responded with a venomous rant, almost cursing my dad’s name: “No! He died as broke as it gets. We had to pay for his fucking mess and will probably have to pay for more. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Thanks, Dad.” Twenty minutes later, my mood changed: I was laughing at a restaurant sign which read SPICY PLATE OF RAPE.
Da-jin is happy to be traveling with me but doesn’t like the Chinese so much. “They are so rude and loud,” she says. When a street-food seller seemingly overcharged us for some lamb-skewers this afternoon, Da-jin made up her mind. “Fucking cheating Chinese,” she spat, shaking her head and settling into a very deep Korean scowl. The fact that she is constantly mistaken for a local doesn’t help matters. She wants Shanghai to know that she’s not Chinese, that she’s different. She’s Korean and always will be. They must respect this.
Tomorrow we will celebrate her Korean-ness by visiting the site of the Korean government-in-exile from the Japanese colonial period. We will solemnly take in the grainy photos of the independence martyrs, bow, and maybe even eat a bit of the kimchee that she’s brought along to get through the holiday. China may be geographically close to the peninsula, but in other ways it’s as far as it gets.
CHAPTER 16: HERE FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Christmas is most always an awful day for expats in Korea–it’s a time when we feel truly alone–separated from our friends and loved ones, living strange and solitary lives an ocean away from home. This Christmas was more soul-wringing than usual. Being late December in Korea, it was windy and cold. I lay on the heated floor of my small apartment, barely able to stand due to a lower back that had decided to stage a painful insurrection against walking upright. This was also the first Christmas since my dad’s death, and I felt his absence in the deepest reaches of my gut, despite the fact that I hadn’t actually spent a Christmas with him in years.
Even more painful was the thought of my mom, whose condition had worsened in recent months. Because of chronic diabetes-related infections in her feet and legs, Mom’s doctors had deemed it necessary to perform a double amputation. She was now confined to a nursing facility back home, with only my sister to drop in on her. I was beyond homes
ick, wracked with grief and guilt. Above all, I simmered with anger at my inability to either comfort my mother or do anything to alleviate her situation. My mood was pure black, and I would have more than welcomed the cancellation of Christmas–right then and there–but the day had arrived. I decided to at least try and make the best of it.
I decided to stick with my evening plans, in an attempt to crawl out of my physical and emotional funk. So Da-jin and I jumped into a taxi and joined our friends for a Christmas feast at the Novotel in Haeundae. A group of us had made a reservation to hit their Christmas buffet, which–despite the fifty-buck-a-head price tag–was well worth it. In addition to the shocking amount of food, the spread included a no-limit wine bar, consisting of small barrels filled with white and red, respectively. It took me no time to begin to numb my self-pity with glass after glass of wine. After all, I had to feel as if I was getting my money’s worth.
After we had eaten ourselves pregnant, several of us, including Sam, Scott, Da-jin, and me, headed to a private party being held in one of the new beach condos directly next to the hotel. A party of young, new-to-Korea teachers had rented it for the night, and we joined in the festivities, bringing a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and several big beers to ease us into the yuletide cheer. I hung in the kitchen with Da-jin, Scott, and Sam, liberally filling paper cup after paper cup full of straight, neat whisky, feeling surly and mean and not really wanting to make “Where are you from?” small talk with the room of fresh-off-the-boat newbies. At one point we joined in a gift-swapping game, despite the fact that we had brought no gifts. There were a couple of extras, so we were allowed to join. When it was over, I found myself with a used copy of A New History of Korea, which, despite its textbook dryness, looked like a decent enough resource on the history of the peninsula.
At this point I was straight-up drunk. I was also surprised to learn that it was midnight. This is normally not so late for a Korean party hour, but Da-jin and I were to leave for a beach holiday in Thailand in two days and needed to buy some Thai baht the next afternoon, while the banks were open. She also had to work for a few hours in the morning, and very reasonably suggested that we get a taxi to our respective homes, which were just minutes from each other. Despite my already lit-up state, I wanted to stay out more, but acting the part of the good boyfriend, I acquiesced.
As we pulled up next to her family’s house, Da-jin said, “You promise to go home and sleep?”
“I promise baby, don’t worry. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” She pecked me on the lips and turned toward her front door.
Within seconds I was on the phone to Sam.
“Sammy, what’s up?”
“You drop your girl off?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go get more drunk at the Crown.”
“Good idea. See you down there.”
When I arrived at the Crown some fifteen minutes later, Sam was already there, nursing a thick pour of Jamesons and chatting with Andrew, the towering Aussie co-proprietor. Andrew greeted me with a “Happy Christmas” while immediately going for the bottle of Irish whisky, filling the iced glass to the brim and shoving it in front of me as I nestled myself up to the bar.
“Have a good feed, did ya?”
“Not bad, not bad,” I muttered as I made my way into the glass of steamy liquor. It soothed my stomach and turned up the heat inside, a heat which was already burning steadily due to the wine, Johnny Walker, and piercing anxiety which had taken a permanent hold of me during that year of my parents’ decline.
We were the only three in the grungy little bar, and at one point Sam stood up and climbed the steep stairs that led to the dreadful little toilet above. After about fifteen minutes I noticed that he had never come back down. When I trounced up to take a look, I saw the side door which opens up to the alley outside was ajar: he had pulled a runner, something he was known to do when pathetically drunk. I came back down, shrugged, and finished another whisky.
After paying my bill, I walked out into the sharp winter air, taking in the world in shiny, gelatinous sparkles. Despite the cold, I was warm all over and feeling a sort of boozy invincibility. Nothing could stop me and sleeping was out of the question. I felt the fire grow inside and knew that I had to do something, that the night could not end, that I needed to let go, to purge, to make an adventure, and what better place to do that than in the casino?
There are two casinos in Busan. Both are attached to hotels and are open to foreigners only: no Koreans allowed (save those holding foreign passports). Gambling is technically illegal in South Korea (with some exceptions), though like prostitution and traffic laws, these laws are inconsistently enforced. But the fact that Koreans are barred from entering these casinos is probably a good thing, since the compulsion to gamble is so great among many locals that to allow it to go on wholesale would invite devastation. But the powers that be are more than willing to separate foreigners from our hard-earned won, and many of us are more than willing to give it up in an attempt to cash in. While not like many people I knew who were casino fiends, I’d pop in and do some serious gambling from time to time, which is what I did that ominous morning.
I sat down at the Caribbean Stud Poker table and immediately ordered a beer, gulping it down while playing cards, throwing a modest amount of chips back and forth, quickly winning about one hundred dollars in the course of a couple of lucky hands. Just then I saw Scott walking my way, along with a friend of his from the buffet earlier. He was on his way to the roulette table and stopped by to say hello and wish me luck.
“What happened to the girl? You manage to slip away?”
“You could say that, I guess…”
For the next couple of hours I played and gradually increased my stack. At one point three men joined me. They were Russians. They chain-smoked and drank straight vodka.
“Where you from?” one of them asked.
“USA.”
“Ah… Americanski…” He looked to his partners and rattled off something in Russian. They laughed among themselves.
I continued to tread water with my winnings, keeping my stack around the three-hundred-dollar mark. The Russians stayed at the table with me, though they fared less well, losing several times and buying more and more chips. I sensed some resentment that I too wasn’t being cleaned out by the house. I just sipped and played minimum bets, ordering beer after beer. I must have been visibly destroyed at this point, but the casino–perhaps in an attempt to win back their small amount of cash–kept delivering the drinks. It was around six a.m. that Scott sat down with us and played a few hands. He lost quickly and stood up from the table.
“Hey man. I’m heading out. You probably should come with me.”
“Nahhhh… I’m okay… I just wanna win a little more.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m all right… really…”
“Okay man…” He leaned in close to my ear. “Watch out for these Russian guys. I don’t like the look of them.” Scott was an ex-hockey player who could smell a fight brewing hours before a punch was thrown.
“Oh, no man… they’re cool… they’re cool.”
Scott walked off at that point, leaving a near-empty casino, save the three Russians and me. At this point I began slipping in and out of lucidity. This happened for a couple more hours. I was drinking and playing the minimum, losing and winning, never making a real change in my stack. The Russians were smoking and talking and at one point, the one of them who spoke some English addressed me:
“You.”
“Wha…?” I came to, snapping my head up from a nod off at the table.
“You like Booosh? George-y Boosh?” He glared my way.
“No no. Fuck Bush. I hate Bush. Fuck him.” I took a swig to punctuate my disdain.
“Yes… fuck Booosh. We too hate.”
“Good. Bush is an asshole. Many Americans–we hate.”
More Russian speaking, shaking of heads. “You know Putin?�
��
“Yeah, I know Putin.”
“What about Putin? You like Putin?”
“No, I don’t like Putin. Fuck Bush. Fuck Putin.”
“You no like Putin?”
“No way. He’s an asshole too.”
This is where the mirror cracked. I can remember insults spat my way. I heard garbled words about America and Americans–disparaging my people, disparaging my parents, disparaging me. I felt the weight of the Cold War on my body and I needed to fling it off until it crushed the ugly trio in front of me. My Yankee gander was stoked and I was burning.
“Fuck you Russian assholes. Guess what? We won the Cold War! And if we had to do it all over again we would! And you know what? We’d win it every fucking time, you dirty pieces of shit!” I shouted, now standing at the table. Immediately I was surrounded by a phalanx of black-suited security guys, who gently attempted to push me toward the main door. As my senses returned, I realized that I stepped over a line: I had caused a big commotion in the casino, a real no-no in face-conscious East Asia.
“You have too much drink. You must go home now,” one of the black suits told me in English.
“Okay okay.” I held up my hands. “I am sorry. But I need my chips.”
“Chips?”
“Yes, my chips.” I still had three hundred dollars worth of chips on the table. “I want to cash them in before I go.”
He translated to his colleague, who went to the table to collect. I saw the man ask the dealer a few questions before he returned, empty handed.
“He say you gamble your chips.”
I thought for a moment.
“No, no. I had a pile of chips. I am certain of it.”
“I sorry. You gamble. You must go home.”
They tried to force me out of the door one more time. But, despite drinking for over thirteen hours straight, I was clear on one thing: I had not gambled away my chips.
“Listen. I really must insist. I DID NOT gamble away my chips. Yes, I have been drinking, but I’d know if I lost all of my money. Do you understand?”
