Olympic Boulevard

2016

HONGDARI

MY LIFE IN America comprises a series of vignettes as complicated as America itself. After thirty years of living in America, I am still trying to make sense of it, what I am doing here, and why. I drink a lot of whisky in the process, hoping the heavenly juice will help me understand what life is all about. But I rather think it complicates things further.

In the end, though, my life story is about people, mainly—my family, friends, and the occasional stranger. I share my time with them, see myself through them, and as far as I know, they do the same with me.

First, let me tell you a little about Hongdari, my only friend in this world. We share just about everything together, mostly booze and stories concerning life and death. He’s an old classmate of mine from high school back in Korea.

We weren’t good friends back then. Actually, he was a pain in the ass. I was a skinny kid, and he always made fun of me, calling me names like Myung Tay, or Dried-up Fish Head. Well, he was built like a grown man already, with square shoulders and muscular arms. He used to strut around the schoolyard like he owned the place, more like a soldier on the prowl than a high school student. When he saw me on campus, he’d come over and ask, Hey, Myung Tay, you got a cig on you? He knew I was a model student, not the smoking type, but he’d ask me for a cig just to bug me, and soon, he’d be asking for my bus ticket and lunchbox. I don’t know how many books of bus tickets he absconded from me in all, but I will tell you that I walked home from school on many occasions. If I showed signs of resistance about sharing my lunch, he’d glare at me with his huge bullfrog eyes and say, Let’s be fair and divide it in half. And he would cut a bigger portion for himself. He would chomp on the rice and say Don’t you know about sharing? It’s a ticket to heaven. The Bible says so. You like sharing, so you will go to heaven for sure.

For him, sharing went beyond bus tickets and lunch. He once sat behind me during a test and copied my answers, and promptly got caught. I was hauled into the office as well, even though he was the one who’d done the cheating. He had the gall to tell the teacher that I had shown him my test paper and he’d had no choice but to look at it, as if I was the guilty one. The teacher was appalled at his explanation, and let me go. Hongdari was great at twisting things around, saying he was doing me a favor by letting me share with him. I can’t recall how many times I had to walk home or go hungry on account of him, but strangely, I didn’t harbor any ill feelings. I didn’t feel I had to get back at him or tell on him, probably because he won me over with his sweet talk about sharing, heaven, and God.

Be that as it may, when we graduated from high school, we parted company, and I was happy to lose him. I felt relieved, as if I’d been cured of a bad toothache. But then he entered my life again here in America, twenty years later.

It was about two years after I immigrated to America, a time when I was struggling just to make it through the day. On moonlit nights, I’d get nostalgic and teary eyed, looking at the moon and wondering about all the places I’d used to roam as a young man in Seoul. I’d ask myself why I was doing what I was doing—living in America, working as a janitor at a hospital on weekdays, selling accessories at swap meets on weekends, all thousands of miles away from home.

That fateful Saturday, I got to the swap meet at five in the morning, along with my daughter, Woni, a junior in high school then. It was early in the morning, but I couldn’t find a good place to spread out my wares—necklaces, earrings, bracelets, ladies’ belts and such. America went by the rule of first come, first served, a lesson I should have learned early on. Location is everything in the swap meet business, and old-timers had camped out in their cars the night before to get in line for the choice spots. So by the time I arrived at dawn, I was the last in line. All the best spots were gone by then, and I ended up with one way back in the corner, away from all the foot traffic. I was ready to accept the fact that it was going to be one of those unlucky days. At this rate, I’d be hard pressed even to recoup the rental fee for such a lousy spot.

What did I know about running a business? A swap meet business no less. I had no experience, no English. Need I say more? I heard some people made piles of money in the swap meet business, but I didn’t see how.

That day, too, some enterprising Korean vendors were dumping clothes and accessories they had acquired by the container, and selling them at prices lower than I could buy them through wholesalers. I couldn’t compete against people like that, and they were hawking their goods by the entrance that day.

Customers swarmed their stall like flies while their six employees tended the crowd. They even had a couple of guards to make sure nobody walked off with their goods. Well, good for them, their bustling business would make them very rich in no time at all. But at the expense of others.

Dad, those people are hogging all the business, Woni protested. They should think of others, too.

Maybe they’re liquidating their inventory. I made up the story so she wouldn’t get a bad impression of other Koreans.

That’s not it, Dad. They don’t buy their inventory through wholesalers like we do, they buy container-loads at thirty thousand dollars each. They should be wholesalers, not retailers. Dad, don’t we have thirty thousand dollars?

In those days, thirty thousand dollars was an astronomical sum of money. I simply said no.

Seeing Woni upset, I felt bad for dragging her out of bed to help me with this lousy business. Poor thing. I shouldn’t have gotten into it in the first place. I began singing at the top of my lungs.

"Ah, moonlit night of Silla, did I come here to laugh, did I come here to cry . . ."

I didn’t care what people thought about my singing.

That was how I greeted the morning sun that day. Shortly, people came by to check out our merchandise, even though it was more expensive. I wondered if they were blind, but I said, Hi, how are you? Woni was good at sales, and she was better than me at talking to the customers. When she went to work on a prospective buyer, I stood back, my hands clasped. As the day grew, more customers came by, and I tried to be helpful by wrapping their purchases.

A swap meet is a marvelous place for studying humanity. You see all shapes and sizes—black, white, Hispanic, Asian, even Eskimos. When I wasn’t doing anything, I would go into a trance, fascinated by all the strangers strolling by. That was exactly what I was doing when I heard someone ask me a question in Korean.

Aren’t you . . . uh . . . Fish Head? I mean, Mr. Tay? Myung-ho Tay?

I turned and stared at the woman. A bit plump, and pleasant-looking. I didn’t recognize her, but I was happy to hear her speak Korean. Meeting Koreans wasn’t all that common then.

She clapped her hands together and said, Yes, I’m sure I’m right. I was watching you for a while. You know Hongdari, right?

Hongdari? I asked, surprised.

He’s my husband. He has your picture up on our living room wall. He was always telling us about this friend who helped him out during his high school days, and that was you. He even put your picture in the newspaper hoping to find you, when we immigrated to America. He’ll be so happy to see you. We never imagined that we’d find you here. Oh, what a wonderful fate we weave! You look just like your picture. She went on excitedly, holding onto my hand.

I’ve aged ten years in just two years here in America, I blurted casually, to this woman I’d never seen before. Hearing Hongdari’s name, old memories rushed back, even making me choke up a bit. What was odd, I hadn’t even thought about Hongdari for years, yet I felt close to him and to the woman standing in front of me.

I came by to find a cheap base for one of my flower pots. Here’s our home number. Give me yours. She spoke with the familiarity of an old friend. A bit too familiar, perhaps. The next minute, she shook her head and said, Wait a minute, I can get your telephone number later. First, let’s go to our house. Isn’t it time to close up, anyway?

I could tell she thought and talked just like her husband, fast and out of control. As she talked, she gripped my hand so hard my head started swimming from the pain that shot up my arm.

Woni, who had been watching all this take place, jumped in the conversation. Who are you to tell us where to go? She spat out her words, cold and curt, as if to thwart my being seduced by a strange saloon madam.

So Hongdari’s wife, Helen, turned her attention to Woni and went over the details, explaining that she was the wife of my old classmate. That I had been a benefactor to Hongdari impressed my daughter. Although about that time I was at a point where I could use a benefactor myself. Like Hongdari long ago, I had no bus ticket and no lunchbox. I badly wanted to tell Helen that I doubted if I would make it in this dog-eat-dog world, but I didn’t say anything.

Suddenly, Helen started grabbing accessories off the table, saying, These would make good gifts for my employees. She moved very quickly for a heavyset woman.

That night Hongdari came over to my house and gave me a rundown of his life in his usual crass way, both his struggles and successes. In short, he was doing terrific in the laundry business, with annual revenues in the six figures.

In a triumphant voice, he said, Look, you shared your things with me in the old days, now I’ll share mine with you. That way, I can make it to heaven too. Haha. We can walk through the pearly gates together, side by side. Wouldn’t that be great? Promise me that you will stay with me to the end. I never told you before, but I managed to survive every day because of the lunches you shared with me. He went quiet for a while, his eyes moist. Helen dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.

Hongdari licked his tears and continued. You’re my savior. If it wasn’t for you, I would have starved to death for sure.

By this strange turn of events, I got involved in the dry-cleaning business, with Hongdari’s help. Two years later, he set up a dry-cleaning plant bigger than a house, equipped with German-made dry-cleaning machines. So began our lives together in America, and our families were inseparable for years to come.

HONGDARI AND HELEN

WE SPENT A lot of time together over the years, sharing good times and bad. One of the things that bothered me about Hongdari and Helen was that they had frequent fights. Whenever they fought, Helen would pack a bag and crash at our house, driving us crazy. Worse yet, Hongdari would follow her over, and they would continue their bouts for a second and third round.

Let me back up about ten years. By this time, my American dream had lost steam, flat as day-old beer. I was mired in the daily grind, laboring over piles of laundry in our shop. I was busy doing my chores one afternoon when Julie called out to me—"Yeobo, yeobo!"—frowning like a cat that’s slurped vinegar. A woman of a thousand smiles, she rarely frowned like that. I tensed up inside, concerned.

Julie, what’s the matter? Everything okay?

She swallowed once before spitting out a reply. Helen is coming.

What? Again? Why?

Still frantic, Julie explained that Helen had called and said she was coming over.

I’m dead now. I let out a heavy sigh.

She wanted to talk with you, so I told her you weren’t around. But she said she was coming over anyway. She should have asked me if it was all right for her to come over, but she didn’t even ask. She is so one-sided. So rude. Julie spoke heatedly, as though reciting lines in a tense play. She turned pale recalling past nightmares from when Helen had stayed over at our house.

And so? I said.

I couldn’t say no.

Did they fight again?

I don’t know, but they must have.

So was she crying on the phone like she usually does?

No, it didn’t seem like it . . .

This is crazy.

I didn’t want to deal with this right then. I tried to sneak away by pretending to check on the boiler. Julie asked me where I was going in the middle of our conversation, and I replied that there was something wrong with the boiler.

It was fine all morning, she said, her face frozen with a cold stare.

Listen! Can’t you hear that hissing sound?

That? That’s the same as yesterday.

Exactly. I should fix it before it gets worse.

That’s fine, but shouldn’t you do something about your friends? On second thought, forget it. Some people have gotten shot for getting in the middle of a fight.

Ah, that thing in Burbank? That was an accident.

He shouldn’t have gotten in between the couple’s fight.

Well, he did, and the couple ended up getting back together because of his sacrifice.

Some sacrifice! Maybe you should sacrifice for your friends like that, too. That’s not sacrifice. He died like a dog.

I could never argue with her.

She continued. Don’t even think about sacrificing yourself and making me a widow. They’re your friends, shouldn’t you do something to help them settle their differences?

Of course. I told you I’d do something, didn’t I? That clown, he just doesn’t know how to live in peace.

Just then, Mrs. Rosenberger came in and said hello, saving me. Her husband was a lawyer, a high-powered criminal lawyer. That made them members of the upper crust of society, but for some reason Mrs. Rosenberger always brought in cheap clothes for cleaning. Maybe her husband was poor, either because he was an unpopular attorney or a conscientious one. In any case, all of their clothes came from bargain stores. Cheap clothes are always a pain for dry cleaners. Her silk blouses might look marvelous at first, but they faded in color or lost buttons regularly. The last time, all of the imitation pearl buttons on her sweater had melted away during cleaning. Made of cheap plastic, they’d disappeared without a trace.

Mrs. Rosenberger had laughed when her sweater was ruined. It’s all right, don’t worry about it, she said. Other people would have raised all kinds of hell asking for compensation for the damaged sweater, and even for emotional hardship. Some people claimed a hundred dollars for a fifty-dollar item, and others claimed that the damaged clothes had been brand new. But Mrs. Rosenberger laughed it off, saying she had bought cheap clothes. Of Jewish descent, originally from Poland, she said she’d had a hard time during World War II. She was an immigrant herself, having arrived in America fifty years ago, and understood what we were going through. Whenever she stopped by, she chatted with us for ten to twenty minutes. Her voice was soft and kind with a hint of a European accent. And the way she held her cigarette, she always reminded me of a classy lady character in a movie. We enjoyed her company and she ours.

Going back to Hongdari, we were fortunate to have found each other and really enjoyed our time together. That is, except when Helen showed up at my front door with luggage in tow. Under normal circumstances, she might have gone to see her mother, but her mother being thousands of miles away, she chose to come to stay with us.

I asked Hongdari one day why Helen came to my house when they fought, and he replied that they had never fought before, not until they met me. It was my fault that they’d begun fighting. That’s insane, I said, but he insisted it was true.

All married couples fight. That’s how their relationships mature, as they quarrel day in and day out. In my case, Julie and I spend all our time together, every day, except when we go to the bathroom. I feel as though she and I are in a three-legged race with our ankles bound together, each unable to make any moves on our own. I suppose that’s why we’re constantly on each other’s backs, even loud at times. Yes, things get dicey with us too, but Julie doesn’t pack her bags and go to a friend’s house.

On the other hand, Helen wanted to come over whenever she had a fight with Hongdari. She wanted us to help her through her hard times, which was fine. But why did they come all the way to my house only to continue fighting? How strange. Stranger yet, they turned into a sweet couple after their bouts at our place, and returned to their house all lovey-dovey and happy.

Well, I could survive all the crazy stuff they did, but they always left behind a lot of damage. A few broken dishes and ashtrays were no big deal, they weren’t expensive, but the mental anguish I suffered in the process was unbearable. What had I done to deserve such torture? Were we enemies in our previous lives? How could they unload all of their misery in my home and leave as if nothing had happened?

When Hongdari had said that he never fought with his wife until he met me, he’d been lying through his teeth. His wife told me that they’d used to fight like crazy, even giving each other bloody noses.

You gave Hongdari a bloody nose? I asked, incredulous. He was the king thug around school. How could he get a