Crush

I didn’t realize I had a crush on her until I had a dream in which she kissed me. I’ve no idea where the dream came from. Why now when I had worked with her twenty-five years ago? It’s been almost as long since I have seen her. Sure she comes up in my social media feeds and I appear in hers. We comment on occasion or react to what’s going on in each other’s lives, but we haven’t had a conversation in I don’t know how long. Perhaps it’s the election. I read something before bed last night, a post of hers about the Supreme Court and her views of the new nominee. They’re both Catholic. Once upon a time, I was Catholic also. But I rejected the church before they could reject me.

Based on nothing more than a few comments tossed around here and there, I suspect that Kelly and I are on opposite sides of the political spectrum. Though my gut tells me we will be voting similarly next month. I’ve nothing to base my suspicion on, except that she was always a kind and compassionate person. But maybe she’s changed. I know I have. For one, I wasn’t queer back then. Or rather I was, I just didn’t realize it. No that isn’t exactly true either. I knew, but that Catholic upbringing of mine buried the truth. I struggled to grasp it, and it was at a point in my life when I was struggling most that Kelly and I met.  

The both of us were displaced and living in Seoul when we became friends. Teaching English was an easy gig and it landed in my lap randomly one autumn evening. It was shortly after I graduated, tending bar to pay the rent, when I heard several women loudly placing bets in the back. Apparently, one of their friends had signed up to teach at some foreign school named Wonderland. I chucked to myself when I heard it. Wonderland? Seriously, it had to be some sort of front for something else. I moved closer under the guise of picking up empty bottles, and learned that I wasn’t the only suspicious one. One of the friends said, “Fifty bucks says you end up a sex worker in some foreign whore house.” Another friend seemed certain she’d be back in the states within two months, “You know they eat spicy food and dogs. You won’t make it till Christmas.” That’s when they spotted me. The woman who was leaving the country waved me over, “Let me ask you? Do you have a college degree?”

Not that it was any of her business, but I didn’t mind the conversation, “Yeah, why?”

“Any interest in Asia?” She asked, as she shot her friends a look of annoyance.

“I guess. It would depend on where.”

“Korea.”

“North or South?” Not that I could ever remember which was communistic and which wasn’t.  

“South.” Then, as if she could tell what I was thinking, or simply used to the repeat follow up question she added, “The south is safe.”

“Now when you say interest, what exactly do you mean?”

She reached into her back pocket and handed me a business card. “Call that number. If you mention my name I get an extra $100 bucks. You will too.”

“And what exactly do I have to do to get the money?”  

“Sign the contract. One year of teaching.”

I laughed, “Thanks, but I have three younger siblings. I want nothing to do with kids.”

“Yeah well, I’m not keen on kids either, but the pay is fantastic.”

“Which is why I’m thinking sex work not teaching,” her friend cut in and I graciously bowed out, returning to the bar.  

I had no desire to call, but later that night as I was closing up curiosity burned. I’d been cheated on tips again by my colleges and I was close to having words with them. My temper, though, would defeat me. It often did. Perhaps it was best if I found something better. But Wonderland? It had to be a joke. Nope, it was legit. In the morning I picked up the phone and after a twenty minute interview the woman on the other end of the call hired me. All I needed was a passport. Three weeks later, I was on a plane.

Kelly met me at the airport. The school paid her well to go and collect the newbies. At the time I was clueless. I thought she had done it to be nice. Back then I was awfully naive. I suppose in some ways I still am. She let me go on believing that her motive had been kindness for another seven months, until her own contract expired and her boyfriend told me the truth. By then we were friends, so I didn’t let it bother me. What was the point? She was already gone. If we saw each other again I’d be surprised.

Okay, so maybe it’s not the election, but the divorce. I haven’t told anyone. Not yet. We — my spouse of seventeen years and I— just signed the paperwork and I’m still swimming in oblivion. It didn’t hit me as a surprise. Kim and I have been miserable for months — years, if truth be told. I simply tried to ignore it, brush it aside because I didn’t want to be a part-time parent. But Timmy’s getting older. Spending time with his friends fills more and more of his time. His moms are secondary, and without him binding us together, we’ve got nothing. But for fifteen years, I was the one who stayed home and tended to his needs. I taught him to walk and read. I carted him around to lacrosse practice and piano lessons. I chose to be a stay-home mom because I wanted him to have what I craved most as a child — attention. My parents always worked. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have done more with my life if they ever noticed me, or cared when I came home after failing a test.

While my son was at school, I drew and painted. What a fool I had been, thinking that if I didn’t give up I’d eventually make it as an artist. Artists starve. I am no exception. I tried teaching for awhile, but it wasn’t for me. I grew frustrated at the kids who didn’t care, the ones who completed their assignment half-heartedly because they rather spend their time gossiping or doing homework for more important classes. Sure there were a few gems — some of whom had talent, others who just had gumption. But in the end, I grew despondent. Why invest so much of myself only to have the administrators berating me for not investing enough? It infuriated me. And after teaching in Korea, I expected more. The Korean parents were on my side. They listened to me. Here, I felt as if I were at war with a different parent each week. But perhaps my honor code is outdated. I didn’t believe a student should get an ‘A’ just for showing up and completing their work.

I never made it as an artist. And teaching wasn’t for me, so after two and a half decades I’m back to bartending. I don’t love it, but it’s a paycheck. And since Kim killed me in court, all I get is a measly monthly check for child support. It’s not even enough to keep food on the table. But I hate not being home at night. Timmy’s too old for bedtime stories, but I’d still like to be there for him.  

Last night while I was working, pouring shots for dudes that make more in a week than I’ll see in my lifetime, Timmy was home combing through the boxes I specifically told him not to touch. I haven’t moved out yet, but I will as soon as I find a place. It didn’t take me long to box up my things. I don’t have much. In the last fifteen years I’ve bought myself new clothes when the old got too many holes, but that’s about it. Money was always tight and what we had went to Timmy. What I spent on myself, I spent on art supplies. An investment I called it, but after a while Kim laughed at me. “An investment,” she scoffed, “means you intend to make money. You only throw it away.”  

Yes, she called my work garbage, or that’s how I interpreted it. But for nearly twenty years she’s been telling me I’m overly sensitive. Maybe I am. Maybe I simply hoped for a little support from my spouse. But every time I finished something, the lines are too bold, your colors are too dark, why does everything you do look like it belongs in a crypt. That last one really hurt. I think it was after that one that I gave up. Maybe she was right. Maybe I had wasted my time. What was the point of painting when the one person you counted on for encouragement always made you feel worthless?

Timmy was different. When he was little he’d sit in the studio with me and we’d draw together for hours. Some days he’d make up stories and I’d illustrate them. The more convoluted and crazy, the more we’d laugh. But it’s been so long since we laughed. One day, when he was about ten, he picked up the cartoon I was sketching — one with the albino dog he created, a dog who ate only bacon cheeseburgers with extra pickles — and he tossed back onto my desk declaring, “This is silly. Maybe you should do something serious instead.”  

I lifted the sketch from the desk, stared at the half drown dog with ketchup on his lip and to hide my tears I turned toward the window. It was raining, and the patter of the drops on the window reminded me of the monsoon rains in Korea. For one year, I was happy. I came and went as I pleased without any attachment. I had time to draw and money to travel. Why did I ever leave? But instead of exploring the reason, I croaked out a response, “Your right. I’m not much of a dog artist anyway.” I tried to laugh, but the laughter burned in my throat and came out like a groan. By the time I turned back, Timmy was gone.

That was it. For the next five years, we didn’t talk about art. Until last night. “What are these?” He asked me — well after midnight — when I got home. In his hands, he held three thick journals. I hadn’t looked at them in years, but I didn’t need to open them to know what they were. The week before I left for Korea, Barb, my best friend, handed me an awkwardly wrapped gift. “Make some magic, and bring me back the fairytale.” Inside were three leather-bound journals so that I could sketch my way around Seoul. “Don’t miss anything. I want to see it all,” she instructed. But she was already dying. She’d been battling leukemia since I met her and we both knew that once I got on the plane I’d probably never see her again. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back. Either way, I did what she asked, and then she died and I forgot all about my promise to her until Timmy, bleary-eyed from being up late turned to a sketch of the Gyeongbokgung Palace and said, “This is amazing.”

“Thank you!” Cranky and tired, as I always was after work I brushed off the compliment. The journals were old. A long ago chapter in a life that never really went anywhere. And I didn’t want to dwell on them. I didn’t want to sit and assess all the things I should have done differently over the years.  

But Timmy sat down on the edge of a cot I was using as a bed and turned to another page — a garden filled with bizarre abstract sculptures I once encountered on my way to Bukhansan. “Seriously Mom, these are incredible. Did you draw all of them?”

I nodded and sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall and crossing my ankles. I wanted to go to sleep, but it was the first time in months that Timmy actually wanted to talk, I wasn’t about to push him away. “Yes, I drew them all, many many years ago.”

“I didn’t realize you were so talented.” He turned another page and I wanted to cry. He meant it as a compliment, but I felt it as a slap.  

“They’re just doodles, a way to pass the time.”  

“How come you never did anything with these? Why are you tending bar when you should be doing something with this?”  

I tried, but I couldn’t stop the tears. I leaned my head back, stared at the dark ceiling and allowed the tears to blur my vision. But he was waiting for an answer. “Because, tending bar pays the bills.” It was as close to the truth as I could come. As close to being honest as I dared to get. “And not all dreams materialize, no matter how badly we want them to.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” and with that he got up, set the journals on my desk, bid me goodnight, and went into his own room.

Not too late, I laughed to myself. I was fifty-one years old. I had squandered my youth on prioritizing being a mother. Maybe I should have put Timmy in daycare like Kim wanted to do. Maybe then things would have turned out differently. But I couldn’t reverse the clock. The years had ticked away.  

I couldn’t sleep, so I poured myself a drink and opened the first journal to the very first picture I drew in Korea — Kelly, walking through the airport lobby with a sign bearing my name. Her smile was infectious. She put her arms around me and squeezed so tight that suddenly I felt wide awake, despite not sleeping a wink on the plane. She took me out for coffee, chatted amicably about how wonderful life was at Wonderland, and then brought me to our apartment. Her roommate had just finished her contract. I was her replacement.  

Dropping my bags in my room, I wanted to lay down and go right to sleep. But it was only half-past ten in the morning. Sleeping would have exacerbated my jet-lag. Kelly knocked on my open door — there was that smile again — and told me to put on comfortable clothes. She took me to I’taewon — Little America. I had just left New York. The last place I wanted to be was a knockoff of home, but she told me every time she picks up a new recruit she feels a pang of homesickness. A burger at Nashville is what she wanted, and then, if I was up for it, dancing at Hollywood. I wasn’t, but I begged for another cup of coffee and told her I’d go in a little bit.

She pulled out a box of packets of instant Nescafe — I was too desperate to complain — and put on a pot of water.  

The sketches of the apartment were meticulous, right down to the graffiti scarred living room wall and the tiny goldfish on the kitchen counter. I skipped ahead in the journal to sketches of Wonderland and my favorite student, Pam. All the kids had English names, because the Korean ones were too difficult for us foreigners to pronounce. It would be years, before I realized how wrong that was.

Too many pages had pictures of food. In the age before social media and smartphones, I documented my exotic meals with pencil and paper. As I started at steaming bowls of Kimchi-jjigae, a fiery barbecue of bulgogi, and a helping of bocumbab my stomach rumbled. I promised myself that when I woke up I’d take to trip to H-mart for lunch

It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning, as the sun crept into my room, that I put the journals down and allowed myself to fall asleep. That’s when I kissed her — in my dream, of course. The kiss was awkward and she pulled away quickly, as if afraid she might get caught. For the rest of the dream I tried to embrace her, but each time she evaded me. We were at a party and she was the host. There were things she had to do, people she had to serve, wine she had to drink. Eventually, I gave up and left. As I pulled open the heavy wooden door, my eyes opened, and I found myself alone in bed, the sun already curving back down toward the horizon.

By Elizabeth Jaeger

From: United States

Website: https://jaegerwrites13.wordpress.com

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