Posted by Kurt Wilde | Posted in | Posted on 5:37 AM
To catch up, two weeks ago I left the country to spend a year abroad in South Korea. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to do anything exciting or particularly interesting, but even so I like it here all the same. I think there is a certain mystique about living abroad, an inherent excitement, that keeps things interesting in the beginning even when a lack of activity would suggest otherwise.
I spent New Year’s Eve on duty as the ranking official in charge of an empty building. I wasn’t alone. I had a subordinate, a nineteen year old kid from Texas, assigned to assist me. His responsibilities amounted to cleaning the common areas in the building and sitting next to desk near the entrance and the phone should someone come calling while I conducted a security sweep. When I checked in, Texas was already at the desk, sharpening a set of knives. Later he would proudly explain to me that his family owns 73 guns and doesn’t consider that to be excessive. After we exchanged greetings I got a sense from his small talk that he was feeling me out, hoping to determine that I wouldn’t mind if put in a dip.
Our shift was to last from 9:00pm to 5:00am. The duty log showed that the previous pair on duty had cleaned the common areas. A brief inspection appeared to confirm the claim and as there was no one in the building to reverse the conditions, I told Texas not to worry about the cleaning detail. The building itself didn’t appear to be in bad shape; it still had electricity and heat. There wasn’t a reason for anyone to have anything to do with the building expect, perhaps, groups or pairs looking for seclusion to engage in prohibited activities which our presence was intended to discourage.
Aside from patrolling halls and the perimeter of the building once an hour, there wasn’t anything we had to do while time ticked away to the New Year and the end of our shift. Texas was eager to share his life stories and his interests. I’ve found this to be true of most junior soldiers. I listened, commenting when appropriate, over the pages of an issue of Uncut I had picked up because David Bowie was on the cover. This is how I learned that Texas, while on leave, had drunkenly married a girl in a court house who he had dated periodically since middle school. The girl was pregnant from the contributions of a third party and this was a circumstance that Texas was aware of and one that preceded the marriage. After sharing this, Texas lamented that he couldn’t divorce the girl until he returned from Korea and that he couldn’t afford to until she birthed her child, an event for which the Army would provide him with travel arrangements. I suggested an annulment given the length of the marriage. Old advice rang in my ears: “never be shocked by the stories you’ll hear.”
Still eager to share, Texas invited me to watch a performance by his favorite comedian on his laptop. I accepted. I had never heard of Rodney Carrington. He turned out to be a redneck comedian from Dallas. I’ve always felt that the “Blue Collar” comedy is mislabeled; it is almost always redneck, and I’ve never much cared for redneck comedy. It’s not that I consider myself too good for redneck comedy; I have just always found it to be inferior to my tastes. An audience of flabby, white Americans, cheering wildly and flashing the stage, men and women alike, as Rodney performs a song the proclaims, “show me your boobs if you love your country!” while an American flag waving on the screen behind him emphasizes my sentiment. Incidentally, many members from this audience are the same people who shout about morality when equal (gay) rights, and teaching science (evolution) in schools are hot button issues.
As a general rule, I never take a grown man wearing cowboy boots and/or a cowboy hat seriously or pay one any attention if I can help it.
At one in the morning I stand up from our desk to do my hourly rounds. Upon stepping outside I am greeted by cold air that floods my longs, chilling my body temperature. It stings at my nose and makes my eyes water. The snow squeaks and crunches beneath my feet as a walk along the west side of the building. I am alone. It’s a new year. At this particular moment, my friends back home haven’t even started getting ready for their evening festivities. I haven’t sent a message to my mother in nearly five days; she probably hates that. I’m not sad or lonely, I’m pensive. I have twelve full months to spend here, to establish my footing for the next five years, and appreciate a world completely foreign to the one I know. Unlike Texas, I don’t intend to spend those months bereaving the time spent away from my friends and family. Rather, I mean to come home with good stories to share with them.
It’s 2011, and all is well for me in the land of the morning calm.-K.W.
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