The Catcher in the Lye -- Chapter Three

3


I wasn't dead of course, but I sort of wished I was, because this goddam comedy of errors appeared far from over. I just knew things would go from worse to worst. I have a pretty good sense of things like that, I really do.

After a minute or so I guess the guy also knew that I wasn't dead, because his expletives of "oh shit," "oh fuck" and "oh shitfuck" stopped, and finally he said "I'm going out for a smoke."

My eyes were closed, but as soon as he left the room I sort of opened them a little. Not too much that you could tell, though. That's one of my many talents. It's really not that hard if you make sure not to squint and instead make it look as though you're having a some sort of mild fit, like your eyes are rolling up into your head. What I had intended to do was give the girl a shock, sort of make her feel bad and realize what a colossal jerk her boyfreind was, but when I saw her I felt kind of bad for my duplicitous intent. In fact, for a brief moment I actually considered apologizing to her. Boy, I am certifiable sometimes.

She was dressed in a yellow T-shirt that extended mid-thigh. For all I knew that was it as far as her attire was concerned. In fact, I imagined that was the case, and wished for a moment that she was standing a few feet closer so I could be sure. I can be real perverty, real sexy sometimes, if you want to know the truth.

She had small bruises the sizes of thumbprints all over her leg. I'm not entirely sure how they got there, but like I said, people are into some strange stuff, and I had my suspicions. My imagination ran rampant trying to envision just how those bruises had occurred. Then I really started feeling sexy, so I tried to think of something very unsexy: a border collie eating a rancid sandwich that had fallen out of a garbage can. It was the only way to keep me from blowing my cover. I'd really have to apologize if that happened, if you know what I mean.

She was Korean, or at least she was Oriental. I was looking at her covertly for so long that I was afraid she would notice, but just as I was about to open my eyes and whisper I don't know what to her, her boyfriend came back and immediately spoke to me.

"So what's the deal, gramps? What are you doing here and how did you get in?"

Like I said, I can be sly as a fox sometimes, but when someone catches you off-guard like that it's pretty goddam hard. I tried not to, but my eyes snapped open and, feeling like a helpless animal, I looked up at the guy.

I told him my story. I tried to sound all nonchalant, but I'm sure the bastard saw right through me. He knew I was frightened, and the more I spoke the more menacing his look grew. There are people who will exploit your every weakness, and this was one such guy. God, I hated his guts at that moment. If I had eaten dinner I probably would have had more guile, wouldn't have laid all my cards out like that, but as I was I shook like a leaf in a stiff wind, inwardly hating myself, the heathen before me, and goddam Mr. Kim and his restaurant selection.

"We'll work this out at the school tomorrow," he told me, all the while scratching his ass and flaring his nostrils. "Too fucking tired now to go upstairs and bitch out that cocksucker Mr. Kim."

That final castigation almost made me forgive his heretofore vulgar language and demeanor. Almost.

According to Greg -- whose name I only came to know because his girlfriend kept saying "Greg, calm down" and "Greg, maybe I'm go" -- he was never told that he was to have a roommate, and in fact he was promised by Mr. Seo, the school's owner, a place of his own. Certainly there weren't any other bedrooms in the apartment; it consisted of the room in which I lied and a larger room which he called the main room. I couldn't picture that being the case -- Mr. Seo sounded so genuine and sincere the few times I spoke to him on the phone -- and imagined that Greg was just being a troublemaker. Anyone with a mouth that foul (and I should know, having been kicked out of my fair share of schools due to my abhorrent language) is bound to be a pain in the ass. Yes, even in Korea there are phonies. Maybe more than back home, if you can believe it.

Greg wasn't from the U.S.; he was from Canada. I visited Canada once with Phoebe and her kids. This was shortly after our mother passed away (emphysema). D.B. was on the set of some movie they were making in Toronto, because it's really goddam cheap to make movies up there, and I promised to tag along on condition that D.B. not mention the movies or try to introduce me to his phony actress wife.

I was curious to visit the place, actually, because I knew very little about Canada and Canadians. If you ever plan to visit there, don't make the same mistake I did and admit that to one of them, though. Rest assured, they'll fill you in and then some, and it can be really goddam trying on the old nerves. But I suppose that's to be expected when traveling in a communist nation.

Greg's girlfriend was kind enough to get some blankets and a pillow from the small wardrobe at the end of the room opposite the bed, and she made a pretty goddam comfortable setup for me on the floor of the main room. Her being Oriental, and no doubt used to fixing up comfortable sleeping arrangements on the floor, it probably wasn't very hard, but I appreciated it nontheless. In fact, she tried to convince Greg to give me his bed and for him to take the floor of the main room, but he didn't dignify her insubordination with a response. He looked angrier than when I first set eyes upon him, actually, and because I correctly imagined him the kind of guy to hold a grudge, what I did was quietly walk out of the room and into the bed on the main room's floor. I thought I'd closed the door, but after turning off the light I saw a thin yellow vertical line at the bedroom doorway, and I could distictly hear the couple's conversation: he wanted her to stay, she wanted to leave.

"What will he think about me, young girl spending night?" she asked.

"He won't think anything. You worry too much. Who fucking cares?"

But it was apparent that the young lady, whose real name I never quite caught (I doubt her given name was Lisa), was intent to go. When she exited the front door, the glass sliding door next to my ad hoc bed shook as though hit by a gale.

I looked at my wristwatch. It was 10:53 p.m.

I never saw her again, and I doubt that Greg did either.

I woke up at 4 a.m. with a headache as big as Long Island. And I was freezing cold. With nothing do do but wait for the sun to rise, for a while I pretended I was the sole surviving meteorological scientist of a 6-man party camping on the tundra, and to survive I had eaten the icy flesh of my dead colleagues. I imagined that I had a thick beard and that I had to continually wipe away the frost which formed around my mouth each time I exhaled air. When that stopped being fun I tried to picture faces and images on the wallpaper's print. Once I vividly made out a lion, but I soon lost my goddam concentration and wasn't able to relocate the beast.

Around 7 or 8 Greg awoke, and as he marched toward the bathroom with a towel draped over his shoulder I said "good morning!" as cheerful as a kindergarten teacher. My jubilation was manufactured, but after such an unpleasant first encounter I thought I'd amiably try to start things off anew.

He didn't reciprocate, slamming the bathroom door closed behind him.

And if I didn't meet Mr. Seo the very same day, only a few hours later, Greg would unequivocally have been the biggest bastard I've met in my life.