Dishonorable Discharge

David Ames hated riding the subway, but what other option was there? Bus? During afternoon rush hour? Forget about it. The temperature outside was subzero; here, in his mock turtleneck sweater and parka, it was unbearably hot. His face flushed red. A line of sweat accumulated at his hairline. He held a hand strap and rocked hypnotically to the beat of the train's rhythm. It arrived at Jamshil Station, and after the doors had closed plenty of empty seats were free, but no way was he going to take one. He hated sitting while riding the subway, and would do so only if the car were completely empty. Nothing to look at but the faces of the passengers sitting across from him, see. No thank you. Made him nervous. He could look at the advertising placards -- an endangered species after the 2003 Daegu subway fire -- lining the car's walls, sure, but there was always a chance someone would stand in front of him, in which case he had to either stare at that person's crotch or look downward like a defeated schmuck. So he chose to stand. Even if the car was half occupied. Maybe that made him look weird. So be it. For him, it was better than the alternative.

Yeah, he could take a book to read, but from November through March his nose ran like a leaky faucet, so he tried to keep his head inclined as much as possible. Sometimes it made his neck hurt. Sometimes swallowing mucus turned his stomach. That's the price he paid. Besides, who can appreciate a good book while riding the subway?

There he was. Standing. Sweating. Head inclined, eyes focused on a life insurance advertisement. Mucus sliding slowly down his throat. REM played on his iPod. I've got my spine, I've got my Pocari Sweat, his thoughts sang.

Born and raised in a Colorado suburb (go Broncos!), David quickly learned that living in the big city of Seoul wasn't about adapting, it was about coping. Toilet paper instead of napkins in restaurants? No problem. Makes sense. It soon lost its queerness and became practical. Logical. Waking up in the early morning hours to the stereophonic bleating of a vegetable salesman's truck? Beer, lots of it, before bedtime. Sleep right through it. A feeling of isolation living as an expatriate in a foreign environment? Internet message boards. And lots more beer.

No, David Ames was all right. He wasn't exactly happy, but he was content. Satisfied. More than can be said for most of the denizens of this fucked-up planet, he believed.

Visiting Steve was a chore, though. For one thing, the guy lived on the other side of the city -- the subway commute to his neighborhood took close to ninety minutes, not including the transfer. For another, Steve was a complete douchebag. A likeable douchebag, maybe, but a douchebag nonetheless. David still smarted from the last time they went out drinking and Steve had -- playfully to Steve, painfully for David -- given him an unrivaled nipple twist.

But Steve liked to drink. More specifically, Steve liked to drink on weeknights. And he liked Tennyson, Talking Heads, the films of John Cassavetes, and knew all the lyrics to the Dead Milkmen's Big Lizard in my Backyard (surprise, followed by disgust, followed by expletives every time they went to a karaoke joint and "Takin' Retards to the Zoo" wasn't on the song list, which was always). Best of all, Steve, like David, was a fairly handsome guy, which meant there was no shortage of conversations -- and sometimes more than that -- between them and adventurous (slutty?) women whenever they hung out. David didn't particularly want any of that tonight, though. He just wanted to have a few beers in green bottles, maybe a shot or two of Jack Daniels, and call it a night.

He almost missed his stop. He almost lost an arm. The Cars' "Good Times Roll" was playing, and he was so into it that he didn't notice the train had stopped at Hongik University Station. When he did, the door was already closing. Without thinking he made a run for it, like a deer driven by instict to leap before a motorist's highbeams, turning sideways at the last second in an effort to slip past the door's narrowing gap.

Caught. The automatic door pinned him on both sides. Pain flared in his right shoulder and thigh. Caught like an animal he thought madly, an image of a rodent -- a rabbit? -- trapped in a snare flashing for a split second in his mind's eye. He squirmed like an earthworm on methamphetamine to free himself from the door's vise. He shook, he shimmied. Everybody let's twist again like we did last summer. Scraping the shoe of his free leg on the platform for leverage, he found his footing, pressed down hard, and managed to pull himself free.

Save his arm. It should have slipped through more easily than what preceded it, but -- and of this David is certain -- someone inside the subway car was holding onto it. A middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair. She was smiling, her teeth, top and bottom, nearly double the normal length, the sclera of her eyes a dull yellow.

The train began to move, at first crawling, then building momentum in increments like a sadistic treadmill. David staggered along with it, then jogged, then started running alongside, his favorite right arm helpless in its grip.

Then, fuck everything holy, the rest of the passengers stood, almost in unison, and came to the aid of the crazed woman inside the car. Those who couldn't get a grip on David's arm wrapped their own around the waists of those who could and pulled. Pulled mightily.

Panicking, running at full speed, David saw the end of the platform near. Resigned, he shielded his head with his left arm and fell limp.

He's lucky to be alive. The train's velocity ensured that his arm would dislodge and break. It did. As David describes it, the bones in his arm are like "bits of cereal at the bottom of a box of Corn Flakes, an impossible jigsaw puzzle of chips and shards." But it's still attached to him, and for David, despite the pain ("the painkillers are all right, though," he laughs), that's a true miracle.

The incident's psychological trauma, however, will not go away. He still belives that teeming commuters attempted to kill him. He frequently refers to a yellow-eyed woman with rectangle teeth, who he says haunts him to this day.

The therapuetic, peaceful atmosphere of Manitou Springs will, his parents believe, soothe his nerves and aid recovery. David agrees, though he admits he continues to sedate himself with beer in order to fall asleep.

Because of the vegetable trucks.