from the Korean Army to being published

the blog of an "ex-patriot" writer in Korea

Random #40: Monster

with 2 comments

Two more. I’m guessing it’ll reach around 100 before I die.

“So, what do you feel like for dinner?” I ask as we walk down toward the main street. It’s still bright out and it’s raining lightly.
“I’m not really hungry. What about you?”
“I’m not hungry, either.”
“Then let’s go get a beer instead.”

There is little that’s more endearing than that simple statement coming from an attractive girl. If she wasn’t leaving the country at the end of the week, I might fall in love with this girl. If I had known that what she really wanted to say was, “Let’s go to your place and order in,” it would have been Game Over.

While I’m normally the one to propose starting off (and ending) a date at my place, it’s been a while since I had a chance with this girl and being an asshole hasn’t paid off for a long while. So instead, we head to a beer and chicken place for beer. Beer and not chicken but dried squid for anju.

We start with two pints. After a while, she asks if she can order soju. It’s the one poison I avoid, but she asks in such a sweet, endearing way that I can’t refuse.

“One bottle of soju and two more pints, please.”

She takes the bottle and gives a couple seconds’ pour into each of the pints. Then she pours a shot for me and I for her. I have to teach the next day but if I thought she wasn’t worth the hangover at work before, she certainly has proven she’s worth it now.

“I shouldn’t be drinking now,” she says as she takes a long sip from her beer. Her doctor had told her not to but she’s being good to me. We finish off the bottle of soju and our second pints. She gets me to drink the lion’s share of the soju but she drinks a respectable amount so I let her be. I’m an asshole but I can be a gentleman at times.

She wants to sing. She’s fucking adorable when she sings and some of our best memories took place at a noraebang and so we settle the bill and head back out into the streets. I’m sufficiently buzzed but we always sneak alcohol in with us so we stop by the Family Mart and pick up not one but two bottles of bokbunja. The liquor is too sweet for my taste but it’s strong and they say it’s good for a man’s stamina. “One’s not enough,” she says. I’m drunk so it makes sense.

We finish off both bottles in the hour we’re at the noraebang and it’s a given that we’re going back to my place. It’s a soju, beer, and bokbunja haze that obscures my memory of the trip back, but we somehow make it back to my place unscathed, physically and hormonally intact.

She goes into the bathroom to pretty her drunk self up, giving me time to clean up my shit and set the mood. I had a good idea we’d end up back here but I didn’t want to seem presumptuous.  

I’m stuffing my clothes into my wardrobe and lighting some candles when I take a step on something sharp, and instead of retracting my foot like a sober person would, my drunken inertia brings the full weight of my body down onto my foot, driving the sharp object deep inside my fleshy sole. Shit!

It stings. I fight to maintain balance as I bring my foot up, leaving a small pool of blood on the floor, and back down onto the sofa. I grab a handful of tissues and try to stem the flow of blood so I can pull whatever it is from the ball of my foot but the blood keeps coming and, even pushing aside the loose flap of skin, I can’t see it.

It must be glass. I dropped a jar of olives a couple of weeks ago and I’m not very thorough when I clean. Judging by the wound and the pain, it’s not a sliver. It’s got to be a chunk.

“What’s wrong?” She’s standing at the bathroom door, concern in her eyes and rose in her cheeks and eros everywhere else.
“It’s nothing,” I say nonchalantly, the alcohol and rush of blood to my cock numbing my awareness of the pain in my foot. “Come here.”

I forget the pain until it’s time for her to go home. There’s blood on my jeans, there’s blood on my sheets, there’s blood on the floor. I have an exaggerated limp as I walk her out to a taxi because it is in the ball of my foot and so I can only put my weight on my heel. “Go back in. You don’t have to walk me out,” she says. She’s a thoughtful girl. “Don’t worry about it,” I say because I’m not so thoughtful.

I limp the rest of the week. My students tell me to go to the hospital but I’m working intensives and I don’t make it home in time to go to the hospital. Besides, I figure it’ll come out on its own eventually. That’s what happened with the car accident. A week later and glass was still coming out of my arm. I spend the weekend in bed but on Monday the pain is the same.

Beginning to get a little worried, I go down to the hospital right after work. The doctors there are assholes but it’s close to my house. “What’s the problem?” the doctor asks, barely giving me eye contact. I fucking limped into his office, but then he didn’t look at me until I sat down so I explain. They have to take an x-ray.

“Yes, there’s a piece of glass in your foot. Go to the emergency room next door.” The doctors at the hospital aren’t very kind with their patient treatment, either. The soles of the feet are sensitive but they jab and poke and dig without much warning. While the ER doctor is digging in my foot, I can hear him cursing under his breath. Once it’s out, the nurse shows me the bloody shard. “You want to keep it?” “No, thanks.” “I’m going to stitch up your foot now. The cut’s deep.” “Okay.”

Two more stitches. I guess my foot was feeling left out. Forehead, scalp, cheek, lower lip, ear, left wrist, right elbow, and now right foot. About half of them are from collisions with sharp metal objects, the other half are from glass. It was only two stitches this time, but at the rate I’m going, 100 won’t be difficult.

[edit] The title of the post is from a reference in my last post, that I’ve been stitched up like Frankenstein’s monster.


Written by Young

August 22, 2011 at 2:49 am

2 Responses

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  1. There are other ways to achieve holey-ness. Please explain this to your feet and other extremities.

    Kevin Kim

    August 22, 2011 at 3:50 am

    • I would, but I doubt they’d listen. I’ve never had complete control over them.
      Besides, the search for “hole-ness” by a “mid-extremity” is indirectly what got me in the mess.


      August 22, 2011 at 11:20 am

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