 
DAS ROAD

by Brian Bakos

Copyright 2013 Brian Bakos / revised 08-2020

Smashwords Edition

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Dedication: to my PC buds

Table of Contents

One: Oori Nara Korea

Two: Summer of Decision

Three: The Long Way Back

Four: Mad Pursuit

Five: Restless Interlude

Six: Underground Realtor

Seven: Stages of Revolution

Eight: Into the Maelstrom

Nine: Home Again

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# One: Oori Nara Korea

_Whatever road I take, the guiding star is within me. –_ _Anthem_ _, by Ayn Rand_

1. Wild Ride to Choon Chun

I don't know where I am!

A crowd is squeezing me in its claustrophobic grip. I hate crowds. Steps appear in front of me; the mob forces me upwards.

An empty seat emerges, and I plop back into Korea. The alcohol murk in my brain retreats a little. The Korean guy sitting next to me looks over, his face brightening like a Christmas tree.

"Glass _Sonseng_!" he cries.

A sobering chill tingles up my spine. I can think more clearly now. "Who?"

The man's Christmas lights dim.

"Are you not Mr. Jon Glass?" he says in English.

"No!"

"Excuse me... uh, your sunglasses... I am very sorry." The man turns away.

I hadn't meant to raise my voice, but what the hell is going on? This is the third time this week somebody has mistaken me for this 'Jon Glass' character. First a couple of tea room girls and now this guy.

Who the hell is Jon Glass?

The guy next to me looks mid 30's and is friendly enough, but I'm in no mood for company. I stuff my bag under the seat, retaining only my camera.

Koreans pile aboard—middle-aged women _adjumonis_ carrying bulging _pochecki_ scarves, high school boys in camouflage school uniforms, elderly men maneuvering with walking sticks. The pungent smell of _kimchee_ hovers in the still June air, betraying the contents of one pochecki.

My claustrophobia kicked in again. This crowded space seems to be no longer an ordinary bus, more like a coffin on wheels. I fight the urge to jump up and push my way back outside. I close my eyes, and the blessed _soju_ buzz returns, three big slugs worth.

Who is Jon Glass?

The name rings a faint bell, but I am certain I've never met him. The ID gaffs are unsettling, especially people's acute disappointment when they realize that I'm not him. Somebody takes the aisle seat across from me. Eyes still closed, I fantasize about who it might be. Is it some lovely _yoja_ , hoping to share the ride with a dashing young American?

She'll be looking over at me thinking _: "My God, how fortunate I took this bus today!"_

Or maybe it's Yun Hee herself.

Right! She's heard of my imminent departure and has rushed here to make up with me. I'll be aloof at first, slowly letting her back into my good graces. Then I'll take her hand across the aisle and...

Fingers, tough as old leather, stroke my bare forearm. I jerk as if from an electric shock; my eyes pop open behind the sunglasses. An ancient _haraboji_ in white robes and a horse hair hat is sitting across from me exploring my Caucasian forearm.

He mutters in amazement, something to the effect: "Goddam, look at this hairy Westerner!"

My seat mate finds this amusing, judging by his broad grin. So nice that he's entertained.

"Would you rather sit by the window?" he asks.

"Yeah, thanks." I move over.

I study the man surreptitiously. He might be a public school teacher, as he reminds me of the English instructors at my middle school. He has that down-at-heel dignity of a man with good status but low income, and his English isn't bad.

The driver, a short, husky guy with close cropped hair, bounces into his seat with authority. The bus girl shuts the door, and we start moving through the Seoul outskirts—crowds of people maneuvering along the sidewalks, dingy little stores and repair shops, bus and automobile traffic spewing a poisonous miasma. Not exactly the _National Geographic_ ambiance I'm always seeking.

But soon we are cruising past beautiful green rice fields and small villages. A light rain begins, and the tires hiss along the pavement. The miles roll by pleasantly. I pull the lens cap off my Pentax and gaze into the glassy depths. The lens glitters at me gold and blue, a Jewel Eye promising romantic adventure.

"Very nice camera," the man beside me says. "Is it Japanese?"

"Yes."

He gives a thumbs up. "Japanese cameras, very good. Japanese people, not so good."

I smile, not wishing to overtly disagree. I've never met a Korean yet who doesn't hate Japan. This guy might be old enough to remember the brutal Japanese occupation, too.

"My name is Mr. Jong." He offers a hand. "I am English teacher at boys' middle school in Choon Chun."

"I'm Tyler Lakatos."

"Glad to meet you." He continues with typical curiosity. "Why are you in _Oori Nara_? You don't look like G.I."

He's slipped the Korean phrase for 'our country' into his English.

"I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer."

"Peace Corps very good!" Another thumbs up. "You know Mr. Jon Glass? He is also Peace Corps, I think."

"Is that so?"

Mr. Jong counts on his fingers, folding the thumb in first, Korean style. "Mr. Jon Glass. He can drink, he can sing, he can fight! And number one with girls, too."

"He sounds like quite a guy."

The standard questions begin: "How long have you been in Korea, Lakatos _Sonseng_? Are you married? How old are you?"

"One year. Single. Twenty-three years old."

By this time we've reached the mountainous areas of Kang Won Province, and the gyrations of the bus cut off further conversation. Something has gone haywire with the driver. Ignoring the wet conditions, he careens the bus down the steep, curving road much too fast, then guns the engine for the ascent. We rock fearfully in our seats.

" _Aigoo_ , _chugetda_!" Oh, I'm going to die! A passenger exclaims.

The driver growls something and yanks us into another descent. My stomach churns. I've always prided myself on being philosophical, but when the going gets tough, an alcohol buzz sure helps. Mine is fading fast, though. I raise the Pentax and begin snapping pictures out the window. In the rectilinear world of the viewfinder, at least, I am invulnerable.

A mist has settled on the treeless mountains, making the scene mysterious and inviting. Green rice fields nestle in the low areas, along with little thatch-roofed farm houses. Elegant white cranes take flight from a field.

_Click_ , _wind_ , _click_ , goes the Pentax.

At every valley and picturesque village I want to get off and explore the impenetrable mystery lying at the root of all life. But this is an express bus, and the driver won't stop. Besides, he's crazy.

We zip past a billboard touting the government reforestation program. Each year trees are planted on the barren slopes, then poachers hack them down. Each year people in picturesque little villages die in mudslides from the denuded hills.

The driver whips us through a gut-wrenching turn, and Jewel Eye clicks the last frame on the roll of film. I pack away the camera and pull out my smokes. Mr. Jong's face is a pale, stony mask through which he is trying to maintain some dignity. I offer a cigarette.

"Oh, thank you." He accepts with a shaking hand.

Just as I light a match, the bus begins skidding out of control on a curve. A horrified gasp shoots through the passengers. A precipice looms outside the window, and my stomach drops over it without me. I jerk my eyes away.

Isn't your life supposed to flash before you in such situations? All I see is the match flame burning huge as a forest fire. The bus becomes deathly quiet. Then my terror suddenly vanishes, replaced by a deep sadness. This is it? I'm checking out before I have accomplished anything worthwhile?

I glance out the window again. The world is moving in nightmare slow motion. The sky is pitch black, and the hind quarters of the bus look ready to swing over the edge, taking us on a leisurely, backwards plunge into the abyss.

Let's get it over with already!

The driver, with skill matching his recklessness, brings the machine around safely. All wheels bite the pavement, and we begin an ascent back to the world of the living. A collective sigh issues from the passengers. I light our cigarettes.

Whatever madness that possessed the driver seems to depart, and he guides the big vehicle across the mountains without further incident. I resume sightseeing.

Without my camera eye, things should look ordinary again—the familiar scenery, my aimless life. But things have a clarity now, as if the world has been etched into sharp glass for me.

Yes... Jon Glass.

Choon Chun appears, nestled in its humid valley.

Mr. Jong has taken a liking to me, or maybe he just feels like celebrating his survival. Anyway, he invites me out for a night of drinking, beginning with dinner at his house. The bus rolls into the station, and we passengers trundle off.

I clap the driver on his shoulder. "Thanks for the ride, pal," I say in English. "It was real."

2. Tea without Sympathy

" _I wonder what I am good at? Not at love, it escapes me." – Valentina, speaking in_ _La Notte_

"I need tea _now_." Mr. Jong says.

We enter a nearby _tabang_ and take a table near the back. It's the usual type place—dimly lit, a largely male clientele. Pretty girls circulate around bringing drinks, flirting, stopping occasionally to have a cup. A television set mounted high on the wall blares a Korean soap opera.

Mr. Jong downs a cup of tea and smokes a cigarette. Tension drains out of him. Compared to the distressed person on the bus, he now looks as fit as the New Socialist Man, though that's a bad analogy to use on this part of the Korean peninsula.

"I must go home and tell my wife to expect a dinner guest," he says. "We have no telephone, unfortunately."

"Sure thing."

"Please excuse me, I'll be back soon."

Mr. Jong departs, and I settle back with my coffee and cigarette. Tobacco smoke curls luxuriously, hovering over me like an old friend. These Korean cigarettes aren't half bad, if you stick to the top brands. Deferred exhaustion from the booze and the bus ride try to overcome me, I might nod off were it not for the chatter coming from the television.

On the TV screen, a young couple dressed in traditional clothes is having a worried conversation. Their surroundings are all smashed up, like an area in a combat zone. This must be one of those melodramas about the Korean War era.

I look away and rummage in my bag for a fresh roll of film. Exotic East Asia is constantly passing before me, and Jewel Eye must be prepared to record it with Ektachrome snapshots.

My whole life seems frozen like a snapshot. Not an ugly picture, but not all that fabulous, either. How close had I actually come to the end today? Have I been reprieved by God so that I can move on to accomplish great things, experience great adventures?

Or am I just fishing for insights like those dickheads back in college with their drugs and mystical religious experiences? It wasn't God who saved me, after all, but that crazy bus driver.

I've already missed the great adventure the government offered every male of my generation. I could have walked into any recruiting station and said: "Gimme that one-way ticket to Vietnam."

Of course, I might have survived and come back home totally messed up, like my brother Victor...

The drone of Korean issuing from the TV abruptly changes to the harsh rasp of a different language. Russian? I look up to see a character dressed in a Soviet military uniform barking commands at the young couple. The girl is shrinking away in terror while her man tries to put up a brave front, failing miserably.

The actor portraying the Soviet officer wears a peaked cap pulled low to obscure his features, but I can tell he's a real Caucasian rather than a made-up Korean. His performance is scary. Even from this side of the screen he is intimidating—a man of great ruthless power who might unleash it any moment. The actress probably doesn't have to work hard to look frightened.

The scene fascinates me on some primitive level, as if I'm there myself. The Soviet officer is advancing on the couple, pulling out the riding crop from under his arm—

"Agh!" The tabang matron reaches for the channel dial.

A soccer game replaces the soap opera, and I snap back to reality as if from some low-budget nightmare. A tabang girl sits down across from me. Man, is she cute!

"How are you?" she asks.

"Oh, fine. Would you like some tea?"

She nods and gestures to one of the other girls to bring her a cup. Looking at her perfect face with its almond eyes and rosy health, obvious even in the poor light, I understand why I worked so hard to learn Korean. Why else study a language except to converse with beautiful women?

I start a chit-chat conversation. I'm really rapping the Korean _mal_ now!

"You speak our language very well," the girl says. "How long have you been in Oori Nara?"

The usual battery of questions follows, but I don't mind. She wears a subtle perfume which blends with the cigarette smoke into an intoxicating incense.

What's her background, I wonder. She likely started working as a waitress or a bus attendant. Perhaps she is sending money to her family so they can pay for their eldest son's schooling. That's how it works among the poorer classes. The family honor rests with the male heir.

I thought I'd be taking an Asian beauty home with me—Yun Hee, a teacher at the boy's middle school where I taught English. Things were going great with her. She even took me to meet her family, which is the ultimate sign of a Korean woman's interest.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Yun Hee informed me that her parents frowned upon "international marriage" and had located a more suitable Korean fiancée for her. He was a man of good education, she said, with much potential for advancement in his career. They would be married in the Fall. She wouldn't have to work any more and could settle down to being a dutiful wife.

When I managed to scrape myself off the floor, I phoned Mom to say I was quitting the Peace Corps. Then I disposed of my meager furnishings, moved out of my house, and got drunk every day.

Now I'm on my farewell weekend to Choon Chun, the best town in Korea. Monday, I'll officially resign and pick up my plane ticket home. But right now, I am enjoying the company of the pretty tabang girl. She sips her tea, eyes smiling coyly, while I sip in her beauty. Our table makes a pleasant little world of its own.

The atmosphere changes drastically. Chairs scrape along the floor, angry mutterings. The girl's smile fades, her apprehensive eyes look toward the door.

"Son of a bitch!" someone snarls.

I twist around to see a couple of beggars moving down the aisle toward us. One is an elderly woman, toothless and gray, the other is a little boy maybe four years old. A wave of hostility follows them like a blast of freezing air. The tabang matron rushes forward and speaks angrily to the old woman. The little boy walks on alone and stops right beside me.

Our eyes meet. I'm astounded by his appearance. He looks more white than Korean, with a rounded Western face and light, wispy hair. Almond eyes give away his mixed parentage. He must be the illegitimate offspring of some American G.I.—a man who is back in the States now unaware, or unconcerned, that he's left a child behind. The little boy extends a chubby hand toward me.

"Get out!" shrieks the manager, seizing the boy's arm and propelling him towards the door where the old woman waits in stoic humiliation.

"Hey!" I begin to stand up, but the tabang girl grasps my arm.

"It's all right. Don't worry."

Some bastard at the last table kicks at the little boy as the manager drags him by. I fling off the girl's arm and stand up. She rises to block my way.

"Please, _Sonseng_ _Nim_ , sit down!"

I brush past her and head toward the door. The man who kicked at the boy is chortling with his buddies, proud of his achievement. As I pass, I shove his chair hard, pushing him against his table. The laughter stops.

I reach the door and bump into Mr. Jong.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "Was I gone too long?"

"No, uh..."

I hear somebody coming up behind and spin around, expecting the hero I'd jostled to be coming back for more. It's only the girl. She holds my camera and shoulder bag.

"I am so sorry." She thrusts the items into my hands.

She and the tabang matron, both mouthing apologies, escort us out the door. Throw us out, actually.

"Looks like I missed some excitement," Mr. Jong says.

"Yeah, right."

"For a moment, I thought Mr. Jon Glass was here."

A taxi is waiting for us, and we get in. I scan the street but see nothing of the old woman or the boy.

God damn! It's the same rotten deal all over the world. Innocent little kids get screwed while slime balls laugh at them. A thumper headache builds behind my eyeballs. I massage my temples with rigid fingers.

3. A Night on the Town

" _You must keep company a long time with a man before you know him thoroughly." – Sancho Panza_

We arrive at a bland new subdivision on the city outskirts, an area of straight lanes and uniform little walled-in houses lacking in picturesque, meandering ambiance.

Actually, even the 'old' section of Choon Chun is fairly new, as the entire city was leveled during the war and has subsequently been rebuilt. We get out at Mr. Jong's place. Unlocking the gate, he leads me through the tiny courtyard and into the house. I take off my shoes at the door.

Mr. Jong's wife approaches. She has the faded beauty so many Korean women develop after they marry. She appears to be about 35 and is several months pregnant.

"I am sorry because our house is so poor," she says by way of greeting.

"Not at all," I reply with ritual politeness, "I can't begin to say how nice it is."

There is no introduction of her by Mr. Jong. The wife appears strictly in the role of servant. This is correct etiquette, however odd it strikes Western sensibilities.

Anyway, who knows what really goes on in this house? Maybe Mr. Jong gets the hell knocked out of him every night, but for now, he's lord of the realm. The wife brings us into a side room and indicates cushions on the floor beside a low table. After a brief interlude, she returns with a dish of sliced pears.

"I have two children, and, as you can see, another is on the way," Mr. Jong says after his wife leaves. "It must be the electricity in this part of town. It keeps going off so..."

He makes an expansive gesture in front of his abdomen and laughs, showing a couple of gold teeth. "The government says to stop at two, but that isn't always possible."

I grin to cover my discomfort.

Considering the short notice, the wife has prepared a fine meal. She brings in metal bowls of anchovy soup and an excellent selection of _pan chan_ —dried seaweed, fish, _tubu_ , kimchee, even some oysters. And rice, of course. Then she leaves us men folk to ourselves.

Two small children, a boy of about four and a girl a year or so older, appear at the doorway. Curiosity overcoming his fear, the boy enters. Mr. Jong cuddles him.

The little boy points a finger at me and says, " _Mi gook saram_." American.

" _Kurochi_!" I say. So it is!

I open my blue eyes wide and lay a finger alongside my nose to indicate its immense size, by Korean standards, anyway. The boy digs tiny fists into his eyes and cringes, to the great amusement of his father.

"What is your name?" I ask.

The boy braves up enough to answer, "Kyung Soo."

He is almost too cute to be real.

"Maybe I will have another son," Mr. Jong says. "My wife dreamed about a big carp leaping out of the water. This is a good omen."

Right. As a Korean proverb states: "Riches, honor, many sons. Poverty, lowliness, many daughters."

"What's your name?" I ask the little girl hovering by the door.

She stares at me with something approaching terror. She backs away and is quickly gone.

After enjoying our leisurely meal, we, too, are gone.

I am in a good mood as we stride into the _sool chip_ , but a little apprehensive, too. How well do I know Mr. Jong, anyway? Korean men can be fierce drinkers, I know from experience, and can be very unpleasant when drunk.

The teachers at my school, with whom I've been out drinking occasionally, seem to have entire souls full of anguish and frustration to wring out. They can really get blasted, drinking to forget whatever was painful in their lives. They place no premium on 'holding one's liquor.'

Another Oriental proverb comes to mind: "You can go out drinking with twenty friends and find yourself surrounded by twenty enemies."

Put another way, how long does it take a room full of angry Koreans to turn on the only white guy? Well, it's too late now for such considerations.

The outer area of the wine house contains the cheap seats for the all-male clientele. Numerous tables constructed from upended oil drums crowd the room. Braziers fitted in the tops sizzle with mounds of tripe or _tak kalbi_ marinated chicken ribs. Smoke wafts up little chutes above each table, some of it escaping to create a murky atmosphere.

Two ROK, Republic of Korea soldiers, sit on stools at one of these tables. Poor, burdened with their country's defense, they seem to symbolize common soldiers everywhere. Their crisp, green, American-style uniforms contrast with their gloomy faces. Each wears a plastic name tag with English and Korean script. One is called Kim, S. C. and the other Li, J. H. Although a young man, Kim, S.C. has many gray strands mixed into his short, bristly hair.

Paper lattice doors divide this main area from a the small side rooms where better-heeled patrons cavort with the wine house yojas. A matron leads us into one of these rooms where two girls await.

"You're back!" the girls cry.

I've never been here before and do not recognize them, but they are too pretty to disagree with.

"Nice to see you again," I say.

So, the night moves on pleasantly. Booze, food, female companionship. What else matters?

I recline luxuriously on the floor and drain my cup of _makoli_ 'rice wine.' It tastes horrible, synthetic—the government-mandated concoction that substitutes God knows what chemicals for the natural ingredients. Have to conserve rice, the official line goes. Too much of this stuff will blow off the top of your skull and give you a memorable case of the runs.

Munchies clutter the low table—octopus, sea slug, tripe smothered in hot sauce—stuff I could never imagine eating back home. All delicious. I feel contented for the first time in many days.

Yun Hee recedes into an alcoholic mist. She remains there even while the girl sitting next to me sings a traditional song of love gone awry:

"... although Kapsun's heart was only for Kapdol,

on the surface she pretended it wasn't so!" etc.

The girl has a beautiful, clear voice. With one hand she beats metal chopsticks against the table edge in time to the music. With the other hand she discreetly massages my crotch, kind of beating my chopstick, too. Mr. Jong sits red-faced across the table with the other girl, singing along lustily and out of tune.

My girl finishes singing to appreciative applause. In her traditional _hanbok_ with its puffy red skirt, white top and flowing bow, she seems like some magical confection waiting to be devoured. Light rouge accents her perfect skin, and her tied back hair, jet black, frames a face so pretty it should be illegal.

Mr. Jong thrusts the wine kettle toward me and pours unsteadily. My cup fills to the brim as the last contents dribble from the kettle. The girls applaud.

"A good omen!" Mr. Jong cries in blurred English. "You're going to have a son."

"But I'm not married."

"All the better."

It is my turn to sing. I bellow out a morose Korean song about a guy pondering his distant hometown and lost youth. At least it's easy to sing.

Enthusiastic applause.

"Thank you, thank you!" I say.

It is one of those transcendent moments when you feel like you're a true citizen of Oori Nara. Then I happen to glance at a mirror angled down from the wall. In the middle of the group of Asians gleams a pale white face. Things immediately jerk back into perspective.

Another kettle of makoli arrives and I fill Mr. Jong's cup. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and detect a flicker of anger there.

A warning sign. The booze is melting his inhibitions and some bogeyman penned inside him is aching to bust out. I should be planning my exit before things have a chance to turn ugly, but my girl is prodding me.

"Sing another song, please. You have such a manly voice!"

I look away from Mr. Jong's livid face. Through my makoli buzz, the girl beside me glows with heavenly radiance. Her lovely brown eyes, her little mouth, curving up just the right amount. She is every beautiful Korean yoja rolled into one. She is the perfect woman I was supposed to be taking back to the States.

"I love you," I whisper in English.

"Eh?"

"Nothing, nothing at all."

I begin a rendition of the old Confederate army song, _Goober Peas_. While I'm singing, Mr. Jong begins manhandling the girl next to him, grabbing her breasts and attempting to kiss her roughly. She fights him off and stands up.

"Godammit!" Mr. Jong cries in English.

My song trails off. Mr. Jong's girl flings open the paper door and stalks away.

"Your friend is very drunk," my girl says.

"God damn!" Mr. Jong says, his face a snarling beet. "Fucking CIA! Fucking Peace Corps!"

Not the old CIA routine again. Often I've heard the ridiculous story that Peace Corps Volunteers are actually spies. Well, if I've somehow been spying for the CIA this past year, then somebody owes me back pay.

One thing is obvious, though, I have a mean drunk on my hands.

" _Yobo seyo_ , look here," my girl says. "Why not take your friend home and then come back for me? We can go to a _yogwan_. You want that?"

I feign ignorance.

"A yogwan, why?" I ask innocently.

"Ai!" She squeezes my crotch.

"Okay!"

I look over at Mr. Jong, hesitant to say anything that might anger him further.

"Mr. Jong, shall we leave?"

"What you say?" He demands in English.

"We should be going, your wife must be waiting."

"Fuck!"

Big mistake. Mention of his wife enrages Jong further. He hurls an ashtray at my girl. Just in time, she throws up a hand to protect her head. A cloud of cigarette ash pollutes the air.

Her lovely face turns ferocious. "Crazy S.O.B!"

I intervene quickly, helping Mr. Jong to his feet while pinioning his throwing arm at the same time. I want to break it for him. With his free hand, he withdraws some bills from his pocket and flings them on the table.

"Godammit!" he says.

The sight of the money placates the girl. She becomes pleasant again and even escorts us out. The main room has largely emptied with only a few drinkers remaining to observe our inglorious departure.

At the door, Mr. Jong breaks from my grip and reels out into the darkness. Before I can follow, the girl seizes my hand.

"You're coming back?" she says.

"Yes, yes, in a little while."

It's a twenty minute walk to Mr. Jong's house, every step a bitter struggle. Twice he attempts to dash in front of traffic and I have to drag him back to the sidewalk. His language reels from profane English and Korean to maudlin statements like: "You-me, America-Korea, same-same!"

I feel like a idiot. Pedestrians gape at the disgraceful spectacle. I don't dare hail a taxi for fear Mr. Jong will begin a row with the driver. I'm usually pretty good at locating places, but since I am fairly drunk himself, I stand only a problematical chance of finding the house again. Mr. Jong is too far gone to provide directions.

Thank God, after only a single wrong turn, I bring us to the same gate from which we'd departed in such high spirits a few hours before. Jong sags against me, semi passed out. I'm preparing to ring the bell and dump him when the wife opens the gate of her own accord.

"Please come in," she says.

Mr. Jong struggles back to life. "Fucking CIA!"

I don't want to subject the poor woman to the indignity of wrestling with her husband in the street, so I tighten my aching fingers on Jong's arm and bring him into the courtyard.

"I am sorry, I am sorry," the wife keeps saying. "This is such an inconvenience for you."

"It's all right," I say lamely.

With a furious yank, Mr. Jong breaks my grasp, unzips his fly, and begins to urinate indiscriminately as he staggers around the courtyard. I dodge a fire hose of piss. The poor, humiliated wife bears this further outrage stoically.

I retreat toward the gate. I feel huge, awkward. Nobody back home would say I am a particularly large person, but in this tiny courtyard, I feel oversized. I stumble into the street and flee.

"Thank God that's over!"

I gulp in cool night air like a drowning man breaking the surface. Well, Mr. Jong is definitely off my Christmas card list. Mom said that her father was like this, too—okay until he got drunk. He left the state after Grandma filed for divorce and I'd never met him, although he died only a few years ago.

It's well past 11:00. At midnight the police will begin picking up curfew violators. I quicken my steps, propelled by lust for the wine house girl.

She meets me on the street outside the wine house. She wears a battered coat over her hanbok and carries a small bag.

"Yobo seyo," she says. "I didn't think you'd come back."

She takes my arm.

4. A Day of Desultory

" _Well, a man makes many mistakes in his lifetime." – Nikita Khrushchev,_ _Khrushchev Remembers, the Glasnost Tapes_

The massive bell of some Buddhist temple reverberates, heralding the dawn of another day in this world of pain and rebirth. The hermit monk who lives in a cave on _Bong Yi San_ mountain begins his mad howling.

Lying on the yogwan room floor, wrapped in the _yo_ and _ibul_ , I wonder if these sounds really exist or are merely a personal symphony echoing around my mind. Weary ROKs, who have spent the night hunting North Korean infiltrators in the mountains, will be stretching themselves and watching for the sun.

The paper lattice door slides open. The wine house girl reenters and slips back under the covers.

Another night, another whore. This is it?

I fumble in my shoulder bag for cigarettes and discover that my condom supply remains untouched in its box. Idiot! Too drunk and befuddled to roll one on, eh? And now an almost guaranteed dose of VD.

A wonderful going away present! Hopefully, it will be nothing worse than 'nonspecific urethritis' which can be easily cured. With less luck, gonorrhea or maybe even the Big Syph. I smoke a cigarette, silently cursing myself. The girl is sleeping by the time I finish.

I'm too agitated to drop off, so I withdraw a blue felt-tip pen from my bag. Until recently I'd used it to check student papers. I pull back the covers. The girl is lying on her back and stirs a bit at the sudden exposure. Her body looks soft and inviting in the dim light, very petite with firm breasts and full hips, just like Yun Hee's.

Not that I'd ever seen Yun Hee naked. She'd made it abundantly clear the 'big event' would have to wait until after she was married. That was frustrating, to say the least. I wonder what it would have been like to pull the covers off her some morning and realize that she was there just for me.

I glide the felt tip over the wine house girl, and she startles half awake. I draw lazy spirals around her nipples, then join them at the solar plexus. She squirms and giggles. I arrive at her navel and draw another spiral. Then arrows pointing south toward the short pubic hairs.

I etch a quote from Li Po on her inner thigh:

All I want is to be drunk forever

On her other thigh, the companion verse:

Only the great drinkers immortalize their fame.

I toss the pen aside. The girl seems to have enjoyed it.

"You're even more fun than last time!" she giggles and pulls me on top for another ride.

To hell with the condoms; too late for them anyway. The ink smears over our skins.

Afterwards she says, "You must give me 500 _won_ for a bath. I can't go around like this."

"Sure," I say.

I can afford an extra 500 won, about one American dollar, even though it is far above the going bath house rate. My frustrated energies spent, I cover up beside the girl.

So, my journey to the Orient is almost over, this roller coaster ride of thrills and disappointments. I drop off to a dreamy half sleep and envision the middle-class American suburb to which I am returning. It rolls up to my mind's eye like some large, insipid billboard on wheels illustrated with daisies, uniform houses, and blue sky.

Life will be safe and steady, no longer the unpredictable struggle it is here. I'll do ordinary American things, visit typical places and never see an exotic nook of creation again. I'll become just another person slumped behind the wheel of an automobile, following a career track towards old age. The ibul presses down with suffocating weight, and I shove it off myself.

I'll miss Oori Nara, miss it already. Here, even when you feel lousy, at least you know you're alive.

A couple of hours later I'm on my way. The girl seems interested in going with me, but I don't want her company. She is so lovely that I'll start fantasizing about her, developing foolishly romantic ideas. Our 'relationship' is a trashy, futureless thing, however, so I wander off alone.

I walk to the lower slopes of _Bong Yi San_ at the edge of town and breakfast at the King Sejong tourist hotel. At one time the hotel's scrambled eggs, bacon, and muffins seemed an incredible luxury, now they are just a harbinger of things to come. I peer out toward the American helicopter base along the river past the city outskirts. Lethal machines hover like dragon flies, too far off for their engines to be heard.

Then I move down the slopes and half way across town for a stroll through the market street. Crowds of women, many with children tied to their backs, shop the food stalls and carts. A sudden fear grips me that I might bump into Mr. Jong's wife, and I keep a sharp lookout to avoid an embarrassing encounter.

A blind beggar man, led by a little girl, plays a bamboo flute. I follow them briefly through the crowds, enchanted by his complex little tune. A young Buddhist monk in gray robe and shaved head is having a miserable time chanting and banging a wooden jingle bell at shop entrances, begging for alms. The shopkeepers make their irritation known.

Savory odors fill the air around street vendors cooking potatoes and clams. A less pleasant fragrance attends the steamed snail vendor. A positive stink wafts from a cart selling cooked silk worm pupae. I've never mustered the nerve to eat one of those.

Bob West, a PCV friend, once described the experience as, "biting into a fried pimple."

I determine to soak up as many impressions as possible. The Pentax helps. I carry it in one hand discreetly covered by my shoulder bag, pulling it out to snap a picture, then hiding it away again. The camera feels like an extension of my own body.

What had I read in that children's book? "The stuffed toys reflect your love like a mirror reflects your face."

Do I love this hunk of metal and glass? That seems a bit of a stretch. Though maybe the Pentax Spotmatic II is my Velveteen Rabbit that will someday turn real, and about which I will say: "Why, that looks just like my old camera that was lost!"

In the afternoon I catch a milk run bus out of town with the notion of visiting Choon Chun Dam reservoir. The atmosphere aboard is crowded and convivial. Nobody pays much attention to the gangling foreigner.

An adjumoni boards with a couple of live chickens in plastic baskets. A farmer gets on lugging a vile-smelling canvas bag which he sets onto the floor with a thud. The bag squirms, and the pig inside squeals.

My heart feels as overburdened as that canvas bag. Why am I going to the reservoir anyway? The ghost of Yun Hee's memory is hovering out there like some dismal vapor, and breathing it will do me no good.

We'd once spent an afternoon at the reservoir venturing over the water in a little rented boat. Once in the middle, I'd ceased rowing and had laid back contemplating—the broad cloudless sky above, the watery depths below, and us suspended in between.

"What are you thinking, Tyler?" Yun Hee asked.

She never could say my name right, pronouncing it _Ty-rer_. I loved her for that, and for everything else.

"I'm thinking about how your presence unites these two infinities for me," I replied in English.

She'd looked pleased, if a bit confused. She took my hand, and...

The thought of seeing the reservoir again becomes suddenly unbearable, and I can't stay on the claustrophobic bus another moment. I approach the driver.

"Let me out, please."

The bus rumbles away leaving me alone on the narrow dirt shoulder between the pavement and the hill sides. Across the road and down a steep embankment, the river bubbles cool and inviting. A small convoy of military trucks rumbles past bearing ROK. In their U.S. style uniforms and helmets, they resemble scaled down versions of American troops.

They call out to me, some in a friendly manner, others less so.

"Hey, G.I.!" one yells.

I respond with a thumbs up and a wave. This seems to please them, and many return my 'Number One' gesture.

I consider going down to the river. Some boys are playing on the embankment, though, and I don't want to deal with them. Maybe they are the mischievous sort who will toss stones at the white-whale foreigner bobbing in the water, confident in their ability to escape any lumbering pursuit. I look up the hillside toward the higher peaks. They beckoned seductively.

5. Highlands Idyll

_Men, animals, trees, stars, they are all hieroglyphics; woe to anyone who begins to decipher them. –_ _Zorba the Greek_ _, by Nikos Kazantzakis_

I ascend rapidly, pushing my physical limits, shoulder bag and camera jostling along. Within an hour I've reached the higher slopes.

I pause at the crest, heart pounding. Each inhale pulls in clear mountain air; each exhale blows out cigarette smoke and urban pollution. I am young and immortal, and it feels great! Sweat evaporating off my shirt brings a momentary chill. Far below, the river and its parallel ribbon of two-lane road wind back toward Choon Chun. Afternoon sun brings golden illumination to the valley's rice paddies where elegant white cranes stalk about.

In all other directions mountains fill the world. Like our Smoky Mountains—misty peaks marching off in ranks, each one less distinct than the one before. But these Korean mountains are enchanted, as if they contain whole legions of spiritual forces, most of them kindly or at least benign, others more sinister. Siberian tigers once roamed here, and you can almost detect their echo.

In folk belief, a _San Shin_ , mountain spirit, inhabits these highlands. Traditional paintings depict a benevolent old guy with a wispy beard reposing under a pine tree and leaning against a harmless, silly-looking tiger. I wouldn't mind seeing him, sans tiger.

Numberless wars have swept through this rugged terrain, the most ferocious one in my own lifetime. And the conflicts still continue. The newspapers constantly blare accounts of North Korean infiltrators prowling the highlands. I feel an added chill through my sweaty shirt.

These mountains are a balm for my wounded soul. Here I can forget my sadness, become a wandering hermit and never run out of fresh vistas. I pull out my bamboo flute and start playing. The instrument has only five holes, but you can coax out a wide range of notes.

My playing sucks big time, if the truth is told, so I stop the racket. I pull my Silva compass out from under my shirt. Not really necessary to take a reading, since the view is excellent from up here, and the route clear. But the compass gives me a grounding, a slice of the familiar

In previous mountain explorations I've discovered grave mounds, caves, little Buddhist temples. What else might there be? The mountains beckon to far horizons of adventure, yet I am planning to ignore their call. Hidden in some depression stands the great suburban billboard blocking my way.

I think of scrapping my resignation plans, but quickly reject the idea. Another aimless year at the boys' middle school would be unbearable, and always I'd be glancing over at the desk in the big teachers' room where Yun Hee used to sit.

I pause by a rock outcropping and light a cigarette. Then I notice something peculiar. Someone has scratched an inscription into the stone. It consists of two Latin alphabet letters and some Korean writing:

My lips form the Korean words, " _Saram choong eso han saram_."

Translation: "From among the people, one person," or perhaps, "One man amid many others." Something like that.

"Man of the people," I say aloud. "That's what it means!"

Who wrote this cryptic inscription? Some bearded hermit with a staff in one hand, bamboo flute in the other, muttering profound nonsense as he walks along? It is an immoderate mystery.

Are the letters _J G_ somebody's initials? My Judo instructor back at college was a Korean man named Yi Jang Goon. You don't suppose he'd come here before? I know this is a small world, but...

Victor, before he dropped out of college and got drafted, had toured Central America. While on a battered airplane flying to some Maya ruins in the jungle, he'd met an elderly gentleman. Turns out the guy had just retired to Costa Rica. His former house back in the States had been only two blocks from ours.

A strange idea enters my mind: the J G must stand for _Jon Glass_. He's been up here scouting this terrain and has left his mark for me, his alter ego and mistaken identity fall guy, to discover.

Absurd! I flick on my cheap little transistor radio; it protests with a burst of static. The tuning knob is starting to go, but I manage to find the American Armed Forces network. The DJ is playing up-to-date American rock, a foretaste of home.

I must have passed into a reverie—walking, listening to music and the gentle breeze, drinking in the scenery. Time passes without me being aware. Before I know it, the sun is cutting long shadows across the landscape. It's high time to head back.

Half way down, dense thickets choke the mountainside. Narrow paths cut through the thorny tangles then disappear. I follow one trail, then have to double back and try another. I end up struggling in absolute frustration as dusk settles in.

"By God," I vow, "I'll make it down no matter what!"

Then I trip, wrenching my ankle and tumbling several yards downhill. A lightning bolt of pain shoots through me; the entire world focuses on my throbbing misery. I sprawl among the thorns inventing new swear words.

When the pain subsides a bit, I sit up and examine my ankle. No apparent broken bones, thank God. I wipe a hand across my face and it comes back smeared red. A coppery taste permeates my mouth. I check Jewel Eye and find it to be undamaged.

Hey, I can take a self portrait: _Idiot Posing on Mountain Slope._

I light a cigarette and ponder my dismal options. Negotiating these thickets in daylight is tricky enough, but in gathering darkness with a hurt ankle, no way. Even if I do get to the road, will any buses still be running? Town is several miles away, and I could end up wandering the road past curfew. A military patrol might pick me up, and the ROK might not be so friendly again.

Evening moves in, pressing me with chilly hands. Violating curfew in town is generally not too serious. At most, you'd have to spend the night hanging around the police station, or else the authorities might simply tell you to go home once they see your Westerner's face leering out of a flashlight beam.

But out here? Nobody could mistake me for a North Korean infiltrator during the day, but in darkness might not some edgy ROK decide to shoot first and investigate later? Speaking of North Koreans...

I glance up the slope, fearing to see hunched figures with assault rifles coming my way. For a blazing moment of terror, I envision myself as a hostage in North Korea, imagine hot needles poked under my fingernails, see myself on television mouthing communist propaganda statements.

Jeez, get control!

I hobble to a less steep area and break down the underbrush to clear a space for my 'camp.' Then I sit down on a rock, light another cigarette, and brood while night closes in. What a humiliating predicament for Mr. Wilderness Survival.

Since taking a mountaineering course in Wyoming a few summers ago, I've prided myself on my outdoor skills. So, now I'm trapped in the mountains with a bum ankle, a camera, a bamboo flute and an American Tourister shoulder bag filled with useful items—laundry, cigarettes, paperback books, toiletries, a half busted radio. And don't forget the condoms, those will _really_ come in handy.

At least I can use the book pages to start a fire. Then again, the acres of dried underbrush would serve just as well. I can incinerate the whole damn mountainside if I want, do the human torch routine as I flounder about trying to escape.

I crush out my cigarette.

Now that I have accepted my fate, my last reserves of energy drain away. I feel like a wound-down mechanical toy. Adjusting my makeshift pillow of laundry into the least uncomfortable configuration, I settle onto my stony mattress and am almost instantly asleep.

Some time later, a dog jars me awake with ghastly, coughing barks and long mournful wails. I jump to my feet, glancing around the darkness, expecting an attack any second.

The howling continues. Sometimes it seems distant, echoing through the far mountains; other times it is fearfully close, the voice of some beast preparing to charge out of the darkness and rip out my throat. A terrifying passage from the novel _Mulatta_ barges into my mind:

In the distance, a dog was howling because his sense of smell told him that the tree he was standing under would be used for a coffin.

" _Cof-cof-coffin for whooooooo!" And the tree wept leaves._

Something stirs in the thicket beside me. I stumble back as a dark, brutal shape leaps into the air and flutters away.

Stealthy, four-legged intruders move just outside the limit of my vision. I hold the bamboo flute dagger-like in my left hand. I wrap Jewel Eye's leather strap around my right hand, ready to swing the camera with skull cracking force against any creature that might emerge from the darkness. I crouch, ready for combat, taking in my dark, threatening environment, like Kirk Douglas in that _Spartacus_ movie.

One time, back at college, I'd been taking pictures in a deserted alley when a derelict suddenly appeared.

"You got any fucking matches?" he said.

I looked away from the viewfinder to see this big, hunched-over man in a dark coat, his eyes burning out of a bearded, pale face. I'd never seen such frightening eyes before.

_Don't do anything to upset this guy!_ a voice in my head warned.

"Sorry," I replied.

I kept a smile on my face while unobtrusively repositioning Jewel Eye in my right hand. If the situation looked to be turning violent, a surprise blow with two pounds of metal and glass could end the conversation in my favor. The man wandered off muttering.

I've since become familiar with such burning, ferocious eyes. They are the eyes my brother Victor wears at times.

Things quiet down on the mountainside, and I relax out of my gladiator pose. I light a cigarette. Damn the fire risk, damn the North Korean sniper who's drawing a bead on the glowing ash. Whose coffin had that dog been howling about anyway?

Night drags past with increasing chilliness. I observe the stars and shuffle around to keep myself warm. I have no watch, so I use the progress of the constellations to estimate the passing hours.

Julie Lindberg, my girlfriend back at school, pops into mind. She'll be starting her junior year in the fall. My whole life has turned completely over since we last met, while her experience is still encompassed by the small liberal arts college. Maybe I can look her up when I get back, _if_ I get back. This is a foolish notion. Someone as beautiful as Julie will have no dearth of boyfriends.

My surroundings are lovely and peaceful, once I get over my heebie jeebies. An insect chorus accents the silence; an occasional breeze rustles the vegetation. A crystal clear sky, illuminated by countless stars and a sliver of moon, arches overhead. Quite the transcendental stage set. A person could have some great religious-type illumination in these circumstances, but I'm not very receptive to such things.

I finally nod off only to awake with the first rays of sunlight. Of course, a good trail is only a few feet away from my camping spot. Had I been able to find it yesterday, this whole drama could have been avoided. I hobble down the path and am soon out of the thickets.

The trail leads by a small thatch-roofed farm house. I try to creep past unobtrusively, but an adjumoni emerges from the kitchen. She is dressed in an ankle length brown skirt with a flower pattern and a mismatched red top with a different flower pattern. Rubber _komoshin_ adorn her feet.

" _Mua_?" she says in surprise.

" _Anyang Hasayo_!" I reply with ersatz heartiness. "I'm just out for a little walk."

She gives me a sideways, unbelieving glance. Korean-speaking Westerners probably don't appear at this isolated farmstead every morning.

I make some B.S. statement about how much I'm enjoying the lovely day. I must be making a hell of an impression—clothes rumpled and face scratched, walking with a limp. She motions me to sit on the narrow wooden porch.

"Thank you." I take my place.

The paper door beside me slides open revealing an ancient haraboji smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He nods an acknowledgment to my greeting and takes me in with wise, kindly eyes. The adjumoni brings me a low table of food, typical Korean fare of rice, soup and side dishes. An incredible feast.

The old haraboji quietly observes me while I eat, a gentle, amused expression on his surprisingly smooth face. With his wispy white beard and dignified manner, he seems like the San Shin himself. The adjumoni brings us bowls of makoli, the real thing. It's sweet and potent, with bits of rice floating around.

The makoli courses through my body like a magic elixir, banishing the pain from my ankle. I fish out my last unopened pack of cigarettes—top quality _Kobukson_ , Turtle Boat, brand—and present it to the haraboji using a polite two-handed gesture. He accepts with amused pleasure.

Draining my bowl of makoli, I catch sight of a medium-sized brown dog standing under a nearby tree. I dare not look too closely to see if the tree has wept any leaves.

After many cordial thanks, I continue my descent with renewed vigor. When I turn back for a final look, the house is gone. Is this some trick of the landscape? I haven't walked very far. Shouldn't the place still be in view?

I think of turning back but decide against it.

6. Seoul Nocturne

" _The Hungarians are a harsh people, very harsh." – Nikita Khrushchev,_ _Khrushchev Remembers, the Glasnost Tapes_

Back in Seoul, I check in at the _Nam Goong_ yogwan and crash for several hours. The yogwan has an exalted name for such a modest place: 'South Palace.' It's as clean as most inns, though, despite the occasional rodent, and is conveniently located on a lane around the corner from the Peace Corps office.

Late afternoon, I clean up at a public bath house and am appalled by the amount of hair that shampoos loose from my head. Damn! Other PCV guys report this same phenomenon, maybe we aren't getting enough vitamins or something.

After a restaurant dinner, washed down with a large bottle of Crown _mekchu_ , I'm ready to retire for the evening. I stop at a newspaper stand attended by a brown, wrinkled old woman, and buy a few loose cigarettes. I don't feel like walking to a _kagae_ on my sore ankle to buy a whole pack. Besides, I'm a bit dizzy from the beer and want to get back to my room.

The news stand lady shuffles out my change from a coin pouch tied around her waist. President Pak Chung Hee's gaunt face leers from the front page of the English-language _Dong Ah Ilbo_ , East Asia Times. He is pinning yet another medal on somebody's chest.

The rest of the front page is taken up with reports of the latest anti-Japanese incidents. "Women's Body Protests Japanese Intrusion," reads one story lead. Korea / Japan relations are at a low point, and frequent demonstrations are breaking out in the streets of Seoul. The government seems to tolerate these public outbursts, maybe even encourage them. The people can vent their frustrations on a foreign power rather than at the authoritarian regime.

Ah, yes, 'Democracy Korean Style!' Now that Pak has beaten down the last vestiges of press freedom, he can appear unchallenged in every newspaper. The American government attitude appears to be: "Sure, President Pak is an s.o.b., but he's _our_ s.o.b."

It's reassuring to know the U.S. is picking up the tab. Thousands of American soldiers are strung along the border with North Korean as a 'trip wire.' If war breaks out, these guys will be massacred on day one. I'd never claim to be a military expert, but this simply doesn't make sense to me. Who thought up this troop deployment, the same transcendent geniuses who got us into Vietnam?

I enter the gate of the Nam Goong and limp across the courtyard to my room in the far right corner. Native-speaker English coming from a room on the opposite side of the courtyard catches my interest, and I walk to the partly opened paper door and knock.

"Yeah!" somebody answers.

I slide the door open. "Hi."

Four PCV guys are sitting on the floor around a low table, playing cards. They look up expectantly. I know two of them somewhat. They aren't my usual crowd, being health care workers rather than middle school teachers like myself.

One is Charlie Streicher, and he has an extraordinary face which has gotten worse since I've last seen him. The other is Nick 'The Greek' Karmanos. He is always talking about his ethnic heritage. It's as good a shtick as any, I suppose.

"Hey, come on in," Nick says.

Ditching my shoes, I enter the room and slide the door half way shut again.

"You're J... ?" Nick says tentatively. "No wait. Tyler Lakatos, right?"

"Yeah."

The two remaining guys introduce themselves as Eric and Bill. A large, dried squid occupies the center of the table, along with a quartet of glasses. Booze bottles litter a corner.

"Have some squid," Charlie says.

"Thanks." I rip off a tentacle and take a seat.

"I've wanted to ask you," Nick says, "is _Lakatos_ a Greek name?"

"No, it's Hungarian."

"Christ, a Hungarian!" Charlie explodes. "Bad enough there's a Greek here. Open the door, let some air in."

Bill slides the door wider open.

"Nice going, Charlie," Nick says. "It sure is great hanging out with a class guy like you."

"That's the way it is with us literary types," Charlie says.

Literary type... Charlie?

A deluge of ethnic humor follows, mostly old 'Polack' jokes revised to insult other nationalities.

These guys certainly are crude. Then again, if I'd been assigned to some rural medical center administering TB drugs, I'd probably be pretty hard-bitten myself. Among us volunteers, they speak the best, most profane Korean. They are the most ferocious drinkers. And they have the least access to healthy relationships with Korean women.

Country families watch their girls closely. For these unfortunate PCVs, the only female contact they can generally hope for is at the red light district of some neighboring town, or else in Seoul at the _E Tae Won_ ville outside the American Eighth Army base. They'd doubtless been there last night.

I add to the banter. "You know what the common knowledge is, don't you?"

"What?" Nick asks.

"If you've got a Hungarian for a friend, you sure as hell don't need enemies."

Everyone laughs.

"Hey, I like you!" Charlie says. "Have a drink."

He pours me a glass of clear, fiery _begal_ – 'Chinese rocket fuel' as it is commonly known. I unwisely slug the whole glass down. A vile, embalming-fluid taste pollutes my mouth. This is worse than the Victory Gin in _1984_.

In swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club.

Korea has many _1984_ type characteristics, come to think of it – the dictatorship, for example, with its double speak brutality, the way inconvenient people tend to disappear. I'll think more about it later, once the rubber clubbing wears off.

Nick grins. "Be careful, Tyler, that stuff can give you the runs."

This opens a whole new topic of conversation: "The worst time I had the shits."

I tune out the discussion as best I can, concentrating instead on chewing the rubbery squid. These guys might not be up to my usual social standards, but I don't feel particularly out of place. Sitting here in this cramped room, among this company, with a dried tentacle in my mouth seems like the most natural thing in the world.

Yeah, maybe it really is time to go home.

"...and I wasn't solid for a month!" Charlie cries, mercifully concluding the discussion.

Talk moves on to whores and booze. I lean back against the wall quietly observing, Charlie mostly. Although only twenty something, Charlie has an aged, blown-out face. His complexion is grayish-putty, and his skin sags, especially around the eyes. The effect is mask-like, as if his features have been gouged into a rubber eraser. His face lacks expressiveness and hangs on his skull baggy and immobilized. His left eyeball twitches.

I know other guys with similar faces, though Charlie's is the worst. They've poisoned themselves with so much cheap alcohol that they've suffered nerve damage in their faces, and God knows what other physical deterioration.

A Korean acquaintance, who worked at a soju distillery, grew uncomfortable when I queried him about the drink's ingredients.

"Soju is made out of potatoes and, uh, chemicals," he replied.

A horrid thought strikes me. Is this the road I'm treading? Since the Yun Hee disaster I've been hitting the bottle pretty hard. I run desperate fingers over my face and flex the little muscles under the skin. Nick gives me a surprised glance, then rejoins the conversation.

Charlie's hand resting on his knee holds a lit cigarette, the glowing tip of which almost touches the matches beside him. Wooden matches come tightly packed in large, octagonal boxes with their tips facing up. There must be hundreds of them in a nearly full box like this one. If that cigarette coal touches the match tips, the whole box will go up like a Roman candle.

I choose not to say anything, motivated by perverse curiosity. Or maybe I'm a little resentful over the ethnic slurs. Charlie brings the cigarette to his lips.

A question pops into my head, or rather, it must have been rattling around there for a while unrecognized. "Do any of you guys know Jon Glass?"

The laughter dies down.

"Who?" Nick asks.

"Jon Glass, I think he might be a middle school volunteer."

"Oh, yeah," Bill says, "he's that _Tae Kwon Do_ fanatic, isn't he? Real big guy."

"No, he's not real big, average," Eric says.

"Actually he's kind of small and skinny," Charlie says.

"Who isn't skinny these days?" Nick says, pinching the minuscule roll of flab on his gut.

That's true enough, I've dropped thirty pounds myself in Oori Nara. I think they're pulling my leg about Jon, but they seem completely serious. They've already initiated me into their group with the ethnic jokes, so they have no further reason to jerk me around.

"He's a university volunteer, isn't he?" Charlie says. "One of those guys with nothing to do because of all the student strikes."

"Maybe he's a health care worker, but I doubt it," Nick says after a thoughtful sip of begal.

"Didn't Glass walk from one end of Korea to the other last summer?" Eric says. "He started by the DMZ and ended down in Masan."

"I don't know," Nick says. "I do know he really pissed off the Peace Corps when he started playing a Russian general on TV. Kenton nearly hit the ceiling."

The others laugh.

So, it was Jon I'd seen on the TV soap opera! No wonder they can't describe him. I can't either. He'd seemed to waver on the screen disguised by the military uniform, a blur of hostile energy.

The conversation ends abruptly when Charlie's cigarette touches off the matches. A roar of ignition echoes through the room, and a flame shoots up to the ceiling.

"Ahhh!" we shout in unison.

We tumble outside into the courtyard, practically smashing the door in our haste. A cloud of acrid smoke follows us out.

"Wouldn't that be enough to burn anybody?" Nick says.

Charlie brushes the singed hairs on his forearm. The flame-thrower blast from the match box extinguishes itself as quickly as it flared up. We stand around foolishly, hoping the manager hasn't seen the pyrotechnics.

An attractive young Korean woman is crossing the courtyard from the office, a suitcase in her hand. She walks past us, smiling, and sets her bag by a room a few doors down.

"What do you think she's doing here?" Nick asks.

"Let's find out," the others say.

Of course, I want to make her acquaintance, too, but decide to beg off. She doesn't look like a whore, but respectable women simply don't appear alone at yogwans. Something is amiss.

The others don't share my apprehensions, but swarm around her like starving barracuda. I retreat to my room.

With nothing else to do, I play around with my Pentax, wiping its silvery burnished surfaces, pampering it like a trusty old friend. I unscrew its wide angle lens and replace it with the telephoto.

A few years ago, as a poor college student hoping to take a photography class, I'd been shopping for used equipment when Mom suddenly appeared at school with this wonderful camera. This was not long after good old Ed had come on the scene, so maybe it was a guilt trip present intended to buy me off.

Nick comes by waving a piece of paper. "She gave me her phone number, Tyler!"

"That's great. Did you find out why she's here by herself?"

"I don't know. Who cares?"

He leaves, folding the paper reverently and tucking it into his shirt pocket. He seems like some little kid anticipating Christmas. Night sets in. Soon it will be curfew time. Outside, the great city begins to shut down, its roar of street traffic petering out.

I rummage a book out of my shoulder bag, _Horror Stories of Ambrose Bierce_. A stamp on the inside cover reads: 'U.S. Air Force Library.' I have no idea how I got this volume.

My dim, yellow room light is inadequate for reading, so I move to the little lounge area around the corner and park myself in a battered chair. I light one of my recently purchased cigarettes.

The Nam Goong settles into quiet darkness, my little overhead bulb providing the only illumination. Outside, a final street vendor passes the gate clanging his big scissors-like noisemaker. He is selling _kim pap_ , the little disks of seaweed-wrapped rice and pickled vegetables.

"Kim Paaaaaap!" _clang, clang, clang!_ "Kim Paaaaaap!"

The voice is sonorous, like a lost ship's fog horn, making me glad for the shelter of the Nam Goong. In the cigarette smoke curling above my head, I imagine the visage of the mixed-race boy I'd met at the tabang. He was a cute little guy, and if he survives he'll be a handsome young man with striking Eurasian features.

His heart will be bitter, though, and twisted from the ugly treatment he's received. If I'd had children with Yun Hee, they would have looked very much like him.

Agh! There she is again, barging into my thoughts. Get lost, babe, and take Jon Glass with you! I open the book.

Soon I am absorbed in a gruesome tale, _The Boarded Window_. In it, a man sits in his pitch dark wilderness cabin, grieving over his wife's corpse lying on the table before him. From the far depths of the forest, he hears an unearthly wail. It comes closer. My eyes bulge as I read:

Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same moment he heard a light, soft step, another, sounds as of bare feet upon the floor!

He was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. He tried vainly to speak the dead woman's name...

I sense something moving across the room. I jerk my eyes up to see an enormous rat slithering out of a hole midway up the opposite wall. It plops onto a cabinet top with a sickening thud.

"Ugh!"

The yogwan gate bursts open, and a tremendous din erupts in the courtyard. A young man is out there shouting violently. The inn-keeper charges outside and begins shouting, also. The two men confront each other, as if they will come to blows any instant.

I cannot understand a single furious word. The girl emerges from her room clutching her little suitcase. The man dashes across the courtyard and seizes her arm. In another moment they are both gone through the gate.

Who was that guy? A jilted husband, a brother defending the family honor by removing his sister from this den of iniquity? The other guests stand outside their rooms, dumbfounded.

"Does anybody want her phone number?" Nick asks.

There are no takers.

7. Report to HQ

" _There is no democracy without strength!" – Pak Chung Hee, ROK president_

I'm a bit logy when I get to Peace Corps headquarters the next morning. Still, I carry myself with determination. I plan to go straight to the Director's office and present Mr. Kenton with my resignation. No muss, no fuss, just give me my airplane ticket home, please.

The ten-story glass and concrete box which includes PC headquarters has to be the most characterless building in Seoul, which is saying a lot. Entering the lobby is a dreary event. Maybe it's because I only seem to come here for unpleasant experiences, usually for retraining seminars which include inoculation updates.

We PCVs have been pin cushioned by every imaginable shot: typhoid, cholera, Japanese encephalitis, rabies. Worst of all are the dreaded GG, gamma globulin, inoculations against hepatitis. Doctor Kim, or his assistant, stabs this horse needle under the skin of your upper buttock and injects a burning load of GG serum. Sometimes you get two whacks. Then you suffer the rest of the day while your body absorbs these painful little subcutaneous pillows of gunk.

I get on an elevator alone and quickly realize something is wrong. The car ascends erratically and seems about to jerk to a halt any moment. Ominous vibrations accompany my progress. I make ready to punch the alarm button.

My destination finally creaks up. When the door opens, the elevator floor sags several feet lower than it should be, leaving a sinister discontinuity. People standing in the hall above me gape with astonishment. I feel like a lowly penitent begging for redemption.

Somebody reaches down to me. Sunlight blaring from the nearby window bank throws him into harsh silhouette, so I cannot see his face. I grip a forearm hard as an iron bar; the hand clasping my arm transmits great strength. I hoist myself out, or rather am hoisted out like a sack of potatoes.

"Thanks a lot..." I start to say, but my benefactor has already moved off with the crowd and boarded the adjacent elevator.

Inside the office, I ask to see Mr. Kenton.

"I am sorry," the Korean receptionist replies. "He is out until one o'clock."

I feel let down, like when you finally muster the nerve to call a girl and she isn't in to answer the phone. It's only 10:30, so I go to the mail area and empty my box.

My mail consists of the latest PCV newsletter, a sealed telephone message, an official looking envelope from the Bank of America, Seoul branch, and an aerogramme from my stepdad, Ed. I jam the aerogramme into my back pocket.

What motivated that jerk to write me? What I want is a letter from Mom saying that she's finally wised up and divorced the guy. I've been waiting over a year for that letter, instead I've gotten one from good old Ed himself. I enter the lounge area in a foul humor. The place is empty, except for Bob West who is sitting on a couch along the windows.

I hold my hand up to block the sunlight glaring through the uncurtained panes. I know the dark outline on the couch is Bob, though, because nobody else has his bulk. My mood brightens.

"Back already?" he calls.

"What do you mean, 'back?' I just got here a minute ago."

"Oh, sorry, Tyler. I thought you were somebody else. How's it going?"

I move to the couch and shake hands. "So, you're all finished up?"

"Yep. I've served my two years with no time off for good behavior. I'm just hanging around town a while before heading back to the U.S."

I sit on the couch beside him. "Hanging around _E Tae Won_ , you mean, right?"

Bob chuckles, and his gut jiggles along. He is the only PCV guy I know who isn't thin. He's maintained his bulk while the rest of us have shriveled. This girth sets well with his good-natured personality, ruddy cheeks, and sandy, boyish hair. He reminds me of certain beer-guzzling fraternity types I knew back at college. Only a faded black eye mars his genial appearance.

"What happened to the eye?"

He fingers the bruise delicately. "Not a topic for discussion. Okay?"

"Sure, sorry."

An awkward moment passes before Bob changes the subject. " _Oori Nara_ will never be the same. A whole bunch of us are pulling out—me, Tom Stratman, Chuck Beech, Jon Glass."

"You know Jon Glass?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"What's he look like?"

A puzzled expression crosses Bob's face. "Jon? He's kind of... well, he was just here. Didn't you see him?"

"No."

"He left right before you came in. You probably passed him on the elevator."

I light a cigarette and settle back on the couch. "Yeah, maybe I did see him, or at least his arm."

Bob gives me another puzzled look. I let it pass.

"So, what brings you here today, Tyler?"

Now it's my turn to be reticent. I fiddle with my mail, then draw in a deep drag of smoke and blow it out slowly. "I'm calling it quits."

Bob's eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"

I shrug.

"I get it. Not a topic for discussion either, huh?"

I nod, grateful for Bob's sensitivity. But it doesn't take him long to zero in again.

"Let me guess," he says after a brief pause. "It's because of a Korean girl, right?"

"You're very perceptive, Bob."

He pats my shoulder reassuringly. "Try not to take it so hard. Why, I can't count the number of times I've been dumped."

"That's very comforting."

Bob glances about the room, then continues in a lower voice. "Have you told anybody else yet?"

"No. I'm going to see Mr. Kenton at 1:00."

Bob nods. Wheels are turning in his head, I can see.

"You know, Tyler, it is summer vacation. Why rush things?"

"Mmm." I look to my mail as a way of terminating the conversation.

The newsletter front page is festooned with a piece by Charlie Streicher entitled: "Too Bombed to Bargain, an Odyssey of Towering Ennui." I scan it briefly.

It is a 'humorous' tale, written in iambic pentameter, concerning Charlie's efforts to shop at a village market while in a state of extreme inebriation. I set it aside. I can come back to it later if I'm really desperate for reading material.

I open the telephone message. It's a cryptic admonition from Ed dated eleven days ago: "Don't make a move yet. Await letter and notification from Bank of America."

What is that supposed to mean? I pull the crumpled aerogramme from my back pocket and rip it open:

Tyler,

By now you should have received notification from the Bank of America, Seoul branch, concerning funds I have cabled to you from the U.S. Consider this money as a travel fund.

Take your time coming home and see the world a bit.

Good luck.

Ed

I tear open the bank letter and read of a substantial sum that has been deposited for me. I gape in total astonishment; the paper hangs from sweaty finger tips.

"What's the matter?" Bob asks. "You look like somebody whacked you with a GG shot."

I hand over the aerogramme and bank letter. Bob reads them with growing excitement.

"Wow! Looks like you hit the jackpot."

"I can't believe it. Ed is like the world's greatest tight wad. Why would he send me so much money?"

"Who cares? When a plumb drops from heaven, open your mouth."

I shake my head, incredulous.

Bob glances around the room again. "Let's discuss this someplace else, eh? A tabang where there won't be any curious ears."

"Well..."

"Come on, Tyler. The tea's on me."

8. Chaos Street

_The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living. – Karl Marx,_ _The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte_

We leave the building and move out onto the broad sidewalk with its heavy pedestrian traffic. A beautiful summer day smiles on us, evident even through the choking downtown air. Bob walks briskly, with barely contained excitement. I quicken my pace to keep up, limping a bit on my tender ankle.

"I think fate is at work here," Bob says.

"Really?"

"Yes. I'd been sitting on that couch all morning wondering what I was going to do, and then you showed up."

"Imagine that."

"You know," Bob says, "since I've been abroad, I haven't seen anything besides a few parts of Korea."

"What's your point?"

"The point, Tyler, is that the Peace Corps is providing me a resettlement allowance and 'cash in kind' airfare to the States. It's not a hell of a lot, but enough to have some fun with."

We pass a group of adjumonis, then a couple of young men walking hand in hand.

"I can either blow the money when I get home," Bob says, "or blow it before I get there."

"What's your preference?"

"I'd prefer not to waste the money at home doing the same old stuff. I want to experience new things before I'm old and burned out, but I'm too lazy to go off on my own. I want somebody to come along on some adventures."

"Like me, for instance?"

"Right! Listen Tyler, if you're going to be traveling around anyway, why not go together? We can sort of watch out for each other."

"I don't know, Bob. I just got the damn letter."

A plague of high school _haksengs_ crowds the sidewalk, contesting every inch of space with their book bags. The girls in black & white school uniforms and straight-cropped hair styles that ruin their attractiveness, the boys in standard black tunics and caps.

"What are these haksengs doing here?" I say. "Aren't all the schools out?"

"One of those 'cram academies' is nearby. They're studying for college entrance exams."

"Let's get out of here."

We cross the street and continue going the same direction for a while before making a right turn onto the main drag. Big mistake. A street demonstration is gathering momentum, and we have blundered right into its path.

A wall of people approaches us from a block away, hogging the pavement curb to curb, gigantic banners fluttering. The great crowd projects a primordial echoing sound.

"Cool!" I fumble out my camera.

Fortunately, the telephoto lens is still attached. It draws the demonstration closer, but the people in it are unreal, like images on a movie screen. As long as my eye stays at the viewfinder, I am a godlike being unaffected by whatever might be happening in the real world.

Bob grabs my elbow. "Come on, man, let's get out of here."

I pull away and position myself at the curb for a better view. A large group of college student types are leading the demonstration with older citizens right behind. Rage precedes this mass of people like a shock wave. Many wear bandages on their heads bearing the slogan _Pan Il_ 'anti-Japan.' The banners also bear anti-Japanese slogans.

I fire away with my camera, oblivious to the approaching danger. Somebody begins yelling into a bullhorn—violent, rapid-fire shouts punctuated with stock phrases:

"Japanese animals! Blah blah blah!" Roars the bullhorn. "Jap monsters! Blah blah blah! Down with Japan!"

The crowd bellows approval and surges forward like some giant, aroused beast. A line of riot police moves in to block their progress. People jostle in front of me on the sidewalk; somebody pokes an elbow in my gut. I brace myself against a street lamp and keep taking pictures.

The police, looking like ancient gladiators in their mesh face masks, move in on the demonstrators with shields and clubs. I photograph them as best I can, struggling to keep my position as the crowd swirls around me. A truck sprays pepper fog into the demonstrators, and I stop taking pictures. Even the unreal world of the Jewel Eye can't hide the danger billowing on the wind.

"For God's sake, let's go!" Bob shouts.

I need no further prodding, as the approaching cloud of tear gas speaks load and clear. The crowd around us on the wide sidewalk mills with confusion. A squad of police appears in front of us. They shove everybody off the sidewalk and down a narrow side street.

We're hemmed in. The crowd moves faster and faster down the alleyway, picking up fear momentum. A stampede seems ready to break out any moment.

"Tyler!" Bob shouts.

His head rises above the struggling mass of people several feet away. I'm too crushed in to call back. A man goes down beside me. I try to pull him up, but the mob sweeps me away. People coming towards us down the alley turn and run for their lives.

Suffocating pressure assails me from all directions while an irresistible, back-breaking force drives me from behind. When I manage to pull in a breath, an acrid whiff of tear gas goes up my nose. Water stings from my eyes. Terror shoots through the crowd along with the tear gas, driving it on with even more insane power.

I hold the Pentax over my head and simply move with the mob unable to resist its power. I surge along like some half-baked Messiah leading the multitude, my holy grail-like talisman hoisted in benediction.

Just as I'm about done for, when the last spark of life has been squeezed out of my body, the narrow lane widens. The crowd vomits out into the wider space and loses momentum. I can breathe again.

"Bob!"

I find him braced against a wall numbly watching the crowd pour by. I grab his arm.

"Let's get out of here."

He looks at me through blank eyes.

"Come on, Bob!"

He snaps out of his daze and we start moving at a fast walk. We flee down the street, turn the first corner and take the emptiest route available, then turn another corner. In this manner we outdistance the crowd and find ourselves in a quite area.

"Look, a tabang!" Bob cries. "Nirvana."

We burst into the tabang, like a couple of desperadoes escaping the posse, and make for a vacant table. We flop into chairs. Bob is so flushed and out of breath I'm afraid he'll keel over any second. My ankle throbs sharply.

"That was crazy," Bob pants. "Thank God we got out in one piece."

"Actually, we're in two pieces." I dab my watering eyes with a napkin. "Besides, I thought you wanted to experience new things."

"Some experiences I can do without."

A tabang girl comes to take our order, giving us a rather surprised look but asking no questions. The fragrance of tear gas must still cling to us because she wrinkles her nose and steps back. She's very attractive, but Bob is too distraught to notice.

"Bring me some _insam cha_ ," he says.

I feel oddly exhilarated now that the danger is over, like someone who has dodged a shotgun blast and is feeling pretty cocky about it. Our drinks arrive, coffee for me and Bob's insam cha, a grassy-tasting tea made from ginseng root.

My cigarettes have been mangled by the press of the mob, but I manage to fish out a relatively undamaged one. I light up and take a swig of coffee. Everything tastes new and surprising, as if I am enjoying coffee and tobacco for the first time in my life.

Bob touches his facial bruise gingerly. "Just what I needed, somebody smacked me again out there."

"It does look worse," I agree.

Bob drains the rest of his tea, then slumps back into his chair. "Did you know the Peace Corps has a new doctor? A woman no less. She took care of me this last time."

"How is she?"

"Fine, I suppose, but I don't like the idea of a female doctor. Can you imagine having to see her for a VD dose?"

Unfortunately, I can imagine the possibility quite well. "She's a medical professional."

"I don't care. She's somebody's mother. She's this frosty virgin, up on a pedestal, staring down at my wanger!"

"That's a rather unworkable metaphor. If she's a virgin on a pedestal, it's unlikely she'd be anybody's mother."

"Whatever." Bob waves an irritated hand. "Figure it out. You're the literary guy."

We order more drinks. Another tea for Bob, while I opt for "morning coffee" with a raw quail egg.

"I didn't know people actually drank that stuff," Bob says with a queasy expression as I mix in the egg.

"Hey, don't knock the breakfast of champions."

Bob turns philosophical. "You were lucky to be stationed in Seoul. At least you could have a real girl friend, even if things didn't work out. Man, in the little towns like mine, you've got to hang up your nuts for two years."

"Very delicately put, Bob. Anyway, it wasn't just her."

"What else matters?"

"The whole set up. I wasn't accomplishing anything. My role seemed trivial and irrelevant. This country is moving ahead so fast; we seem like an anachronism here."

Bob nods. "Maybe that's true."

"Talk to the staff members who have been here a while. A few years ago you couldn't buy Coke or decent milk. If you wanted something cold, you had to get that frozen bean curd stuff."

Bob shudders at the mention of the brown, deceptively scrumptious looking concoction that tastes like library paste. "Sounds like you wanted the _National Geographic_ experience and didn't find it."

"I don't know, maybe," I say. "But look around—more and more private cars, sophisticated universities, industrial development, freeways. Korea is like a race horse trying to gallop ahead but is being hobbled.

"By what?"

"This dictatorship and the U.S. policies that encourage it." I take a slug of quail-egg coffee. "If there's a war, how many of our guys are going to get killed because the Korean forces are commanded by incompetent politician generals? Think about that, Vietnam in spades!"

I'm becoming irrationally angry. The Vietnam war has barged into my consciousness, and that always puts me in a rotten temper.

"Calm down, please," Bob says. "Have another raw egg."

I need to make a final statement, though. "Yun Hee was the last straw. Without her, I have no further reason to stay."

"I feel your pain, but don't you love Korea anyway?"

His question surprises me. "Well... yes."

"And hate it, too, at the same time?"

I can't help but chuckle. My foul mood drifts away. "Like I said, Bob, you're very astute."

"So why jump the gun with a resignation? You can see Kenton any time. Stick around a while to sort things out. There's a teachers' workshop in a couple weeks, right?"

"Yeah, up in Kangnung."

"Did you volunteer for it already?"

"I did say I'd be going, come to think of it."

"That settles it then," Bob says. "Hang out a couple weeks, then do the workshop. We can leave for Japan in early August and take it from there."

"Well..."

"It wouldn't be like we're married. If we get on each other's nerves we can split up. No hard feelings. I just need somebody to get me started out of my rut."

Bob is talking sense.

"Okay," I say, "I'll put off until August. Then, if you're still interested, we'll head out."

We clink cups to finalize the agreement.

# Two: Summer of Decision

9. Marking Time

_Stability, the prime and the ultimate need –_ _Brave New World_ _, Aldous Huxley_

The next couple weeks pass in mostly pleasant idleness.

Like clockwork, the VD symptoms appear, and I go to the new Peace Corps doctor. She is something of a 'frosty virgin'—a stern, middle-aged Korean woman who brooks no nonsense.

She fixes me a sharp glance over her half-moon glasses and comments: "In future, be more careful while pursuing your... outlets."

She examines my ankle next and, with another sharp look, pronounces it still usable. Perhaps she thinks I injured it while pursuing my outlets. Then she whaps me with antibiotics and presses a box of Korean-made condoms, not noted for their utter reliability, into my hands.

"No thanks, I've got plenty of those," I feel like saying, but decide to just get out with minimum fuss.

The infection clears up quickly, thank heaven.

I next go to a Korean dentist for a checkup and am horrified to be informed of three new cavities. The diagnosis fills me with apprehension. I don't trust the guy, even though he is recommended by the Peace Corps and has a certificate from a West German dental college hanging on the wall. His name, _Dr. Uh_ , does not inspire confidence.

"Show me the cavities," I demand.

Dr. Uh thrusts a little mirror into my mouth and, angling a second mirror, shows me the rotten spots in my back teeth.

"Okay, let's get started."

He proceeds drilling with extraordinary skill, and I feel absolutely no pain. I leave his office with new respect and a sense of relief even greater than when I'd escaped the Frosty Virgin.

Probably the diet is to blame again. The Korean food must lack something we Westerners require, or else we can't digest it properly. Good thing I am leaving, as I'd soon be bald and toothless. Then again, it seems to be only the guys who experience these symptoms. Many of the PC girls have actually put on weight.

At least I've overcome my drinking problem. Charlie's face put the fear of God in me. It lurks in my consciousness, a ghastly Death's Head gaping toward my future if I don't shape up. Only at night sometimes, when Yun Hee's memory hovers too oppressively in the cigarette smoke, do I take a drink. I've cut back on cigarettes, too, buying only a few each day from the newspaper vendor.

I'm getting fed up with my self-pity routine. Deep down, do I really want the permanent responsibility of a wife? Maybe I'm just the star in my own pathetic soap opera. Sure, my relationship with Yun Hee had been fascinating, everything about Korea was, but how fascinating would she seem years down the road after waking up to her every morning? Beneath my pain is undeniable relief.

Through this all, I wrestle with the resignation issue. I'd approach the PC office, but something always sidetracked me. When I saw the doctor, I intended to visit Mr. Kenton's office afterwards and tell him I'd be quitting after the workshop. But I was so grateful to escape the Frosty Virgin that I fled the building instead.

I idle in tea rooms and restaurants, visit museums, go to the tourist hotels to browse the shops and drink cappuccino. I take a day trip with the Royal Asiatic Society, an association of mostly Western aficionados, and visit a shrine to a Korean suicide bomber who attempted to assassinate a Japanese general.

Such bombings were esteemed acts of patriotism during the Japanese occupation. This particular martyr died in the blast, but the Japanese general survived with the loss of a leg. Our American tour guide actually knows the General's daughter in Japan. He said he had to be careful not to make some insensitive remark the next time he saw her, like:

"Hey, I just visited the shrine of the guy who blew off your dad's leg."

I hitch along with some new PC trainees to visit the _Pan Moon Jom_ truce site at the DMZ. It's a tense place swarming with military personnel. The North Koreans look pretty grim in their old style uniforms, voluminous hats, and jack boots, like extras in a demented comic opera. One of them throws a rock at our bus.

An American guard shows us the conference room with its microphone wire dividing the table and delineating the international border. "If you step this way, you can enter North Korea. Get your thrill for the day."

We do so, not very thrilling.

I stay as busy as possible evenings so as to avoid the booze / bar girl trap of _E Tae Won_. Mostly I go to the movies. Cinematic fare consists mostly of romantic dramas or martial arts flicks. My inability to follow most of the dialog seems an advantage. All shows begin with propaganda blurbs for President Pak and his cronies—guys like Kim Chong Pil, the secret police boss, or Kim Jong Shik (a.k.a. Kim Jong _Shit_ ) who is the prime minister or something.

And always, there's President Pak officiating at yet another ribbon-cutting ceremony. He has a hard and humorless face, a real ass kicker. Maybe such a leader was necessary in earlier times when the country was still devastated from the war, but he's been in power way too long.

There's plenty of ass kicking going on here—arrests of regime opponents, political kidnappings, censorship. As a foreigner, I'm insulated from these events, but I can detect the vibe.

I also attend movies at the French Culture Center. One of them concerns an embittered French paratrooper suspected of murdering his unfaithful wife with a quick snap of her neck.

"These days even the village idiot is a judoka," the suspicious, though empathetic police inspector tells the paratrooper. "And anybody can crack a victim's neck."

Good-looking Korean coeds attend these French movies. I'd like to meet some of them but am too burned out to make the effort.

The heavy rains of the July _Chong Ma Chol_ rainy season arrive. I purchase flimsy bamboo and blue plastic umbrellas from street vendors at 50 _won_ each. The newspapers report entire hamlets disappearing under mudslides with great loss of life.

Drunk, partying Koreans come to the Nam Goong some nights. As my room is tucked into a far corner, the racket usually isn't too bad. I see no more rats, though I do hear them scurrying inside the walls now and then. Late nights I spend reading—books, censored American magazines, newspapers. I even read _Too Bombed to Bargain_. It's so bad, it's actually good.

This prolonged decompression is better than an abrupt exit. It resembles my departure from college. After switching majors, I did not have sufficient credits to graduate on time. I'd had to go an extra term.

Then, too, I'd read away the late nights, mainly plays for my Shakespeare class. I met Julie, an unbelievably cute freshman, and she'd been hot for me. I was too foot loose and hormone driven to want anything serious, though. I wanted to see the world, and here I am.

Bob West is not in evidence, and I almost forget about our sketchy plans. It seems I might drift through the summer and end up back at the middle school come September. I really don't want to leave but don't want to stay under the circumstances, either. Bob is right, I do love it here. Although often I hate it, too.

At night, sometimes, memories of Jon Glass bubble up to disturb me. I feel his iron grip on my arm and see his terrifying figure on the TV screen. Then erotic fantasies arise, and thoughts of Jon flutter away. These concepts seem linked, somehow—tangled together yet hostile to each other.

These sensual imaginings often involve Kathy Funk, who is also teaching at the Kangnung workshop. We'd undergone training last summer in Choon Chun with the rest of our PCV group. We'd spent some time together—talking, relaxing in the rare air-conditioned tabang, nothing spectacular. I'd always wondered if things might have clicked under better circumstances.

The weather was horrific that whole summer, the cool Chong Ma Chol never arrived, and the humid mid-90 temperatures oppressed us. Our yogwans and classrooms were sweat boxes. A quarter of the training group quit. Then I'd met Yun Hee and forgotten about Kathy.

Maybe things will be different, now that the weather is more moderate and twenty other PCV guys won't be vying for Kathy's attention. Maybe I _will_ stay the second year... if things work out.

I leave for Kangnung without having turned in my resignation.

10. Misfortunate Sojourn

" _People sometimes go in quest of one thing and meet with another." – Sancho Panza_

Kangnung, a small city by the scenic northeast coast, is an excellent location for our English language workshop.

For two weeks we PCVs will provide intensive instruction to the Korean middle school English teachers who attend. Classes during the day, forays to restaurants and drinking joints at night, a weekend trip to the beach. Fortunately, Mr. Jong from Choon Chun is not in attendance.

Kathy has gotten in tight with some of the female Korean teachers. They stick together, leaving scant opening for me to approach. So, I just keep an eye on Kathy and wait for my chance. Both eyes, actually, since there is plenty to see.

One day, between classes, I catch her alone in the teachers' lounge. I mention conversationally that I am planning to sojourn up the coast after the workshop and visit Sorak San national park.

"Really?" she says. "I'd like to go there sometime. The scenery is supposed to be fabulous."

"Well, why don't you come along, then?"

She hesitates, and my heart virtually stops beating.

"Okay, Tyler," she finally says. "That sounds like fun."

We clasp pinkie fingers, Korean style, so as to formalize the _yaksok_ , promise. I've handled this casually, but inside, my emotions are raging. The touch of Kathy's finger jacks up my lust meter several notches.

Travel in Korea can be difficult for unaccompanied Western women, so we guys often take PCV girls with us on trips. Usually we go in groups, sometimes just two of us posing as a couple. In this manner the girls can avoid being harassed. We even room together at the yogwans. Usually this is a familial arrangement.

Not to say there isn't _any_ fooling around between male and female volunteers, but the women PCVs usually seem more like sisters to us than potential lovers. Besides, we are all drooling after the Korean girls.

At heart I know I'm being an idiot and that the chances for a romantic liaison with Kathy are slim. I can always hope, though, can't I?

On the final day of the workshop, everyone poses in front of the school for a group photograph. We Americans sit on chairs in the front row alongside the most senior Korean teachers. The younger Korean instructors stand on the four levels of stairway behind us. About seventy people altogether. The whole arrangement is very Confucian in its recognition of status and seniority.

The Koreans look typically solemn and dignified, while an occasional American cracks a smile. Above us hang large slogan-bearing placards:

ANTI COMMUNISM

SECURITY THROUGH STRENGTH

UNIFICATION THROUGH THE DESTRUCTION OF COMMUNISM

After the photo shoot and closing ceremonies, everybody clears out. Since it's already mid afternoon, Kathy and I decide to stay in Kangnung until the next day and get an early start for Sorak San. She is staying with a Korean family in town and they are happy to have her remain a bit longer. Everybody likes having Kathy around.

I return to my lonely yogwan room and dream about the coming trip. People are screwing noisily in the next room, which heightens my sense of frustrated anticipation.

The next morning we meet at a tabang. Thank God, Kathy is alone! My greatest fear was that she'd show up with a girlfriend who is just dying to see Sorak San, and wouldn't it be nice if we all went together? I drink my morning coffee and quail egg with profound satisfaction.

Then we head toward the bus station. People watch us, and I feel the 'on stage' sensation I so often experience in Korea. Kathy walks easy and relaxed, as if she is on some American university campus. I move along beside her, fantasizing that she is my girl.

I've grown accustomed to Asian standards of beauty, and Kathy is quite a change with her light hair, blue eyes and faint freckles playing about her nose. She is taller than the typical Korean girl, too. I can definitely get used to these differences, however.

Her demeanor presents a subtle combination of mixed signals. She draws you along in her wake, paying polite attention, while letting you know at the same time that you are not in her league—unless she chooses to let you in. She wears make up, very tastefully, and her cologne wafts like a rare incense.

We enter a small kagae to get munchies. I buy some mandarin oranges and shredded squid. Kathy purchases a bunch of grapes which the store owner rinses under a hose. As we sit on a bench waiting for the bus, Kathy begins eating the grapes, shoving each one into her mouth whole.

"You should pop those out of the skins," I say.

"Why? They've been washed."

"The skins might still contain pesticide or something. They probably spray all kinds of stuff on them here that's banned in the States."

She shoots me an exasperated look. "Get something straight right now, Tyler. Don't ever try to tell me what to do. Okay?"

"Okay, sorry."

I say nothing further, thus observing a universal law: The better looking the girl, the more crap she can give you.

I decline to eat any grapes, fearing that she might get annoyed watching me remove the skins. So, she continues eating the whole bunch by herself. I light a cigarette, making sure the smoke drifts away from her. I feel as awkward as some junior high kid on a first date.

It is unusual to meet single American women overseas who are as attractive as Kathy. Gazing into my tobacco fumes, I theorize the reason for this is that the more beautiful a woman is, the more romantic options she has. With so many men interested in her, somebody in Kathy's league would get snapped up quickly—sexual entanglements, early marriage, etc.

Years afterwards would come the laments: "I wish I'd waited to get married / have children... I wish I'd traveled like I'd wanted to, etc."

I've heard such commentary before. This smacks up against Rule Number One of my core beliefs: People generally do whatever they want and then like to complain about it later.

The bus arrives and we get on.

En route, Kathy becomes violently ill, and we have to stop at Yangyang, miles short of our destination. I check in at the first available yogwan while Kathy dashes for the WC.

"Your wife is sick?" the adjumoni in the yogwan office asks.

"Uh... yes, something she ate."

The adjumoni nods gravely and hands me a tiny bottle of _yak_ , some patent medicine type concoction.

"Thanks," I say.

I sit alone in our room waiting anxiously for Kathy to return. With each passing minute my fears grow worse until I can barely contain them. I spread the yo and ibul out on the floor for her when she comes back, if she comes back. If she hasn't already passed out on the WC floor.

My God, what if she needs to be hospitalized?

I open my wallet and fumble out the blue card listing U.S. Army medical facilities. We PCVs are strongly advised to seek emergency care at American military bases. Horror stories circulate about hapless Americans who have blundered into Korean hospitals.

The nearest Army clinic is in Choon Chun, according to the card.

I spread out my new tourist map. The goddam thing has all the place names written in Chinese characters. I locate what seems to be Yangyang and Choon Chun and measure the distance between them. Not too far as the crow flies, but the two towns are separated by some of the roughest terrain in South Korea, with only secondary roads traversing it.

In my distress, I unconsciously open the yak bottle and drain it. The taste is unspeakable, like pineapple-flavored battery acid. Again I feel the rubber club strike the back of my head. The door slides open and Kathy enters, trembling and pale.

I take her arm. "You should see a doctor."

She crosses the few steps to the bedding and flops down. "Just leave me alone, please."

I hover around her like a mother hen during the next hours—peeking in, bringing insam tea, buying aspirin at the nearby drug store.

Last winter, during a retraining session in Taegu, a PCV friend got food poisoned from a hard-boiled egg he purchased from a street vendor. He actually turned green. Two of us held him up while a third guy hailed a taxi. We rushed him to the nearby American military base for treatment.

Yangyang is much more isolated than Taegu, though. We are above the 38th parallel here; this whole area used to be in North Korea before the war shifted the border. I fiddle with my radio. Hell, I can't even pull in the American Armed Forces network!

Kathy seems to be getting better on her own, thank God. Her color improves, and except for an occasional foray to the WC, she sleeps away the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon. Late in the day she sits up, rubs her eyes, and glances about our room.

"Christ, what a dump. Can't we move someplace else?"

She's feeling better.

While Kathy washes up at the public bath house, I find us a nicer yogwan. Then we go out to dinner and get a private little side room at the restaurant. I'm famished and dig into the full meal spread on the low table. Kathy delicately consumes _mandu_ soup and a bowl of hot, steamy rice.

This is an official conservation day during which restaurants are not permitted to serve rice, but one look at Kathy and the owner decides to bend the rules. I am served a bowl of coarse barley.

As we eat, an angry comment hovers unspoken in the air: "I _told_ you not to eat those goddam grape skins!"

I say nothing about Kathy's foolishness; moreover, she expects dutiful silence. The matter is definitely not a topic for discussion. She consumes her light fare slowly, a little smile playing about her lips occasionally, as if she is enjoying some private joke. Man, if that smile was intended for me, I'd throw myself onto the floor and grovel. Instead, I order an O.B. _mekchu_ , then another, until I have my first alcohol buzz in weeks.

At the new yogwan, our room has been prepared for us with a large yo and ibul spread out in the middle of the floor. The little _gomah_ comes in with a kettle of hot barely 'tea' and some metal cups. He places these items in the corner and begins to leave.

Kathy gives me a sharp look. "Well?"

"What?" I ask innocently.

"Aren't you going to ask him for another yo and ibul?"

I have long since given up any idea of a sexual tryst, but I'm feeling frisky. The devil is in me, having poured himself in with the beer. I spread myself luxuriously on the quilted bedding.

"Why not share these? They take up most of the floor space anyway."

"You get others right now!" Kathy splutters. "I'm not going to sleep with you, Tyler. It isn't... it wouldn't be... NO!"

Not much to misunderstand there. I obtain a second set of bedding and wrap myself in it, nestling against the wall for comfort.

11. A Walk in the Park

" _The sensitive are always with us, and sometimes a curious streak of fancy invades an obscure corner of the very hardest head." – H. P. Lovecraft_

I am up early. Kathy remains sleeping in the midst of her vast yo and ibul, and I dare not disturb her. Alone, I venture into the yogwan courtyard.

A glorious summer day sparkles there. Soft, warm air transports floral aromas. Bright sunshine, moderated exactly right by clouds, bathes the world. I feel a deep yearning for freedom and consider jumping on the first available bus, abandoning Kathy.

No, I'll have to play out this scenario. To do otherwise would not be the act of a gentleman. If Kathy wants to break off the trip and return alone to her town, though, far be it from me to oppose her wishes.

A desperate thrashing from the far courtyard disturbs the morning's harmony. A bird, caught by a spider web, is thumping against the wall.

"What the hell?"

The unfortunate creature fights mightily but cannot extricate itself. The web has twisted into a string which holds its feet tightly. The bird is larger than a sparrow and would seem strong enough to break a web designed to catch flies. It does not cry out, which makes its struggles more terrible.

With a swipe of my bamboo flute, I break the web. I think the bird will fly off, but it falls to the ground between the wall and a steel fuel drum. I roll the empty drum away, no sign of the bird.

"What the hell?"

I tip the drum and examine its rusty bottom; I scan the whole area. Still no bird. I stroke my chin stubble. A person of a metaphysical cast might discern some underlying significance to these events. I'm simply baffled.

As far as I can see, many things just happen without any explanation. Benefits rain down on some people randomly, while disaster strikes others unbidden and undeserved. Myself, I have never won a single thing in my life—contest prize, 50/50 raffle, nothing. Nobody has ever grabbed me as I walked into a grocery store and presented a 'millionth customer' award.

Yet, my birth date came up well over 300 in the draft lottery, instantly erasing my worries of being taken for the Vietnam war. Had I been born six hours earlier, my lottery number would have been in the low 30's, a virtual guarantee of induction.

Correspondingly, some poor guy a few hours older than me had been conscripted. Maybe I'd just saved up a whole lifetime of luck for that single win.

Kathy rolls out of bed and takes her sweet time preparing for our departure. The beautiful day advances unused while I hang around impatiently. Although my earlier reverence for Kathy has evaporated, I don't really dislike her. Rather, I've come to regard her as something to be gotten past as quickly as possible—like a head cold, or a trip to the frosty virgin.

I'd never claim to be Florence Nightingale, but I did the best I could for her yesterday. Her illness put me through some genuine hell. A simple 'thank you' would be very appropriate but seems beyond her ability to express. Not only that, but my so-called pass of the previous night had hardly been serious, and her shouted 'NO!' response was definite overkill.

At last she is ready, and we move out into the street. Some small children ran after us shouting, "Hello!" and " _Mi gook saram_!"

"How are you?" I flash my politician's smile and snap a picture of the braver kids. Kathy merely ignores the little pests.

We board the bus for Sorak San, having barely exchanged a word. Is Kathy angry about last night? She wears her usual little inward-looking smile and views the passing scenery from her window seat. I maintain polite aloofness.

We get off at the national park and enter a swirl of Korean tourists. I immediately feel out of place. For more than a year, I've believed myself to be a part of Korea—an awkward appendage, maybe, but still someone who belongs. Now I seem to be just another dumb jerk tourist with a camera hanging around my neck.

Magnificent jagged mountain peaks adorn the background, and a sprawling Buddhist temple lies before us. Young Koreans with back packs and pseudo Alpine outfits, including feathered Pinocchio hats, crowd past us on their way to the mountain trails.

Harabojis clad in traditional hanboks walk by with great dignity, their long white coats billowing. An elderly couple poses for a photograph in the temple courtyard. Kathy and I are the sole Westerners.

The temple complex is magnificent with gracefully curving tiled roofs, ornate wood work, paintings, and carved stone. The building interiors smell of old incense. I'm unable to absorb such complexity. The whole Buddhist faith with its myriad Bodhisattvas, guardians, and mysticism overwhelms me.

A sign proclaims that the original temple had been destroyed by Japanese invaders and subsequently rebuilt. The usual story. Most Korean landmarks have been destroyed / rebuilt repeatedly throughout the centuries.

Kathy proclaims her opinion. "God, how depressing."

We visit a gigantic Buddha statue and other cultural artifacts as we circulate through the tourist sites and off into a less frequented area of the park. Late afternoon, we stop at a little restaurant past the crowd fringes, a picturesque locale alongside a rushing stream.

A small waterfall rumbles in the background. Except for some picnicking middle-aged Koreans doing a round dance, the area is deserted. I politely decline an offer to join the dance. If I'd had a couple of sojus first, I might have agreed.

Our waitress, Miss Yi, is a pretty, rosy-cheeked teen-ager. I induce her to come outside for some portraits. I photographed her standing by the waterfall and then seated on a rock with a sharp mountain peak framing her.

For the first time I feel comfortable in the park surroundings. Freed from the press of the tourist crowd, the old Korea is reasserting itself. A wood fire burns somewhere, adding a wonderful outdoorsy scent. Kathy stands around glancing at her watch. Her impatience annoys me, and I ignore it the best I can.

"You're leaving soon?" Miss Yi asks.

"Yes, probably," I say.

"That's unfortunate."

"How so?"

She gestures to a trail running alongside the stream and explains that it leads to a mountain top hermitage with overnight accommodations.

My interest picks up. "How long to get there?"

"A few hours. If you leave now you could arrive before dark."

I inform Kathy that I intend to hike the trail and stay overnight at the hermitage.

"But I want—"

"Do whatever you want, Kathy," I say. "I'm going up to the hermitage, though. You're welcome to come along."

She isn't pleased. Ordinarily, all she has say is, "I want" and us guys fall on our faces. Well, not this time!

We tramp uphill in miasma of tense silence. As I negotiate the rocky trail, I can feel Kathy's hostility stabbing into my back. I'm being a jerk and know it. The realization does not please me as it conflicts with my nice-guy self image.

I stop and turn around. "Okay, maybe we should head back."

"Too late for that, Tyler!"

Kathy zips past me.

"You coming or not?" she calls over her shoulder.

She sets a pace difficult for me to match on my tender ankle. The magnificent scenery makes up for all difficulties, however, especially the sight of Kathy's ass flexing under her jeans as she climbs.

Isn't this the way of the world? No matter how smart you think you are, you always end up chasing one of those.

Aside from Kathy's excellent buns, the scenery includes pine trees—mostly small ones, but also some giants with great, dignified limbs curving over the brook. Ridges hem us in, blocking the sun. An invigorating scent composed of evergreen and sparkling water fills the air.

The stream rushes more insistently with the steeper gradient, and Kathy seems to tire. She slackens the pace and eventually calls a halt. I sit down beside a large boulder and massage my ankle.

An odd sensation overcomes me, as if some ghost has puffed his frosty breath down my neck. I know _something_ is on the rock, even before I look. Not that it's large or obtrusive; in fact, I have to search carefully to find the shallow engraving in the stone:

I stare, teeth gripping my lower lip hard enough to hurt. Is this some goddam bad joke? Another unfathomable omen? I run my fingers over the indentations, hoping that my touch will erase them somehow. But they remain, confronting me with their mystery.

Kathy kneels beside me, instantly banishing awareness of everything else. Her face is a bit flushed and she is slightly out of breath.

"Sore ankle?"

"Yeah, I sprained it a while ago."

Then a miracle happens. She leans over and kisses my cheek.

"Thanks for taking care of me yesterday, Tyler."

"S-sure... you're welcome."

She stands and flashes an amused little smile, eyes sparkling. I must look comical—a stunned expression on my face, my fingers caressing the blessed spot her lips have touched. Every particle of my resentment vanishes into the mountain air replaced by awe-struck worship.

"Just don't get your expectations up," she says, "or anything else for that matter. Okay?"

"Sure... right."

We continue walking. Kathy allows me to go first now. Maybe she's tired, or perhaps she's gotten chilly since I've been undressing her with my eyes so much. An occasional wooden sign indicates the distance to the hermitage. We haven't far to go, but the steepening trail slows our progress greatly.

Without Kathy's fabulous body to distract me, my mind creeps back to the mystery of the rock inscription.

_Only it's_ _not_ _a mystery, you know very well what it is._

The _J G_ stands for _Jon Glass._ He's been through here before me and has left his moniker. Among the jumble of rocks, I've found it as sure as if it had been sending out a search light beam.

I don't want to acknowledge the strange recurrence of Jon Glass in my life, but my denial strategy is wearing thin. I recall that weird story where the guy drives across the US seeing the same hitchhiker, the one who means to sweep him off the land of the living.

It's getting late, and I fear we'll be stuck outside when darkness comes. How would Kathy handle a night in the open after she's been so ill? We simply can't continue after dark. Even with a flashlight, I'd probably break both my ankles.

Shadows lengthen; gloom issuing out of the rocks brings dour thoughts. The stream's rush, pleasant enough in daylight, becomes an ominous rumble. Frightening things lurk in the gathering darkness. Jon Glass waits out there, ready to suck my identity away like a giant leech.

God, what a warped thought!

Kathy comes up behind me, so close I feel her warmth in the dimness. I grow calmer. My life lacks an anchorage, I realize. With the right woman at your side centering your emotions, you can stand almost anything. On his own, all sorts of creepy things can twist a guy's mind.

The darkness increases rapidly. I have almost decided to pitch camp for the night when the trail takes an abrupt turn and we step out into a broad, flat area. I spy a low building which seems to be a primitive inn. A tent is pitched nearby, and a campfire spreads cheery warmth. Farther on, a small temple reposes in the gathering mist.

"We made it!" I say.

"Of course. Now aren't you glad I decided to come here?"

A large, ominous figure approaches through the gloom. I step in front of Kathy to confront it.

12. On the Mountaintop

_One could hear the rustle of the pines and feel the deep, impenetrable mystery that lies at the root of all life. –_ _Karate, My Way of Life_ _, by Shoto Funakoshi_

"Kind of late, aren't you?" a deep American voice asks.

"The elevator broke, so we had to walk," I say.

"Elevator?"

I can see the guy more clearly now—a round, clean-shaven face with a baffled look on it, short hair, glasses reflecting the camp fire.

"You're joking, right?" he says.

"Yeah."

He laughs, a not entirely pleasant sound. "The wife made some coffee. Come on over."

"Thanks."

Kathy has remained silent throughout this encounter, content to follow my lead. I take some macho pride in this.

The man leads the way to the campfire, his broad back obscuring the flames. He's acting friendly enough, but I take an intuitive dislike to him. There seems to be ugliness beneath his laughter. He introduces himself as a captain in the US Army, but his last name instantly blows out of my head as I have no wish to retain it.

We give our names.

"Lakatos?" he says. "You're Greek, right?"

"No, Hungarian."

"Oh."

"I didn't know that," Kathy says, without enthusiasm.

People don't seem to have many positive associations about us Magyar types. If asked to name a Hungarian, they'd mention Bela Lagosi with his vampire cape and chilling accent. Of course, anyone who'd bothered to read _Dracula_ would know the Count was not Hungarian at all, and... to hell with it.

We take seats on a large rock by the fire, and the wife hands us plastic mugs of coffee.

"Thanks," we say.

"You're welcome," she replies, the only words she'll utter.

The coffee tastes great, genuine American brew far superior to the instant concoction I've been drinking in tabangs. We savor it as conversation ensues. The 'conversation' is really a monologue about what a helluva big nuts, take-no-crap guy the Captain is.

He has a desk job now in Korea, he says, and has torn himself away for a brief vacation with "the wife." Earlier he did a combat tour in Vietnam. While there, he'd "passed the test of manhood" by "getting blood on my hands."

The coffee begins to taste sour, and the air turns colder as the Captain drones on, slashing the air with knife-like gestures. Kathy moves closer until she is pressed against me in the darkness, like some vulnerable child seeking protection. I place an arm behind her.

I've never heard my brother, Victor, nor any other combat veteran talk like this. Their battlefield experience must have been such a traumatic horror that they never speak of it at all, let alone in the macho terms the Captain is using. Maybe he's simply a bullshit artist, or perhaps he really is a war lover type with a lust for violence. The only person who might know is the wife, and she just sits staring into the flames.

Prior to entering the military, the Captain was some sort of reserve police officer and had "kicked some ass" during an anti-war demonstration. I decide not to mention the war protests I'd participated in, not that I could have gotten in a word if I'd wanted to. I begin to feel threatened, paranoid.

As the Captain talks on, I scan the ground for weapon-sized rocks and review the submission holds I used back on the college judo squad. I know from experience how effective these techniques can be, even against larger and stronger opponents.

For a while in Seoul I'd studied _Tae Kwon Do_ , Korean style karate. One of the other students, a big, mean guy with a bull neck, thought he could knock me around with impunity. During one match, I bowled him over with a single-leg take down. His head bounced on the wood floor, and I tangled his jacket around his neck in a strangle hold.

He almost passed out before the instructor broke things up. Of course, these tactics were illegal for a Tae Kwon Do match, but the guy got the message.

The Captain is too formidable to trade blows with; I'd have to take him down quick. Best if I crack his skull with a rock first, or maybe I can use my camera as a club. I'd feel safer with a .45 automatic, except that he probably has one, too, and is undoubtedly a better shot...

Jeez, get a grip!

I'm around this guy twenty minutes and I'm already thinking of lethal violence. I drain the last of my coffee and start planning our departure. Then, inexplicably, he turns the conversation our way.

"What are you doing in Korea," he asks. "Passing through?"

"We're Peace Corps volunteers," I say.

"Oh." A frown creases the Captain's face. "There was another one of you up here yesterday."

He stares into the fire, toying with his empty mug. The macho brashness is gone. He looks a bit scared in the flickering light.

I stand up. "Thanks for the coffee."

The Captain gives me a disappointed look across the flames. Maybe he figured that I was supposed to be a fan club member.

"Think I'll arrange for our lodgings," I say.

"I'll go with you," Kathy says quickly.

We leave the campfire and head for the little temple building. Kathy walks close, her hand dangling casually alongside mine. Our fingers brush, and soon we are moving hand in hand under the mountain stars. I can't believe this incredible gift from heaven!

At the temple-ette, we slide open the door and peer into a large, empty room with a seated Buddha statue at one end. Candles provide dim illumination, and the place smells of stale incense.

"Let's check it out," I say.

We doff our shoes and enter. The floor sags, and the whole building presents an aspect of general disrepair. It tries to impose a hush on you, as if you shouldn't be talking at all unless you are making some pious, elevated type statement.

"God, what a dump," Kathy whispers.

"May I help you?" a voice says in perfect U.S. English.

I flinch my eyes toward a tall, gaunt figure with a shaved head entering from a side room. He wears the gray robes of a Buddhist monk.

"Ah... yes," I say. "We wanted to stay overnight."

He approaches silently, his limbs scarcely moving. I resist the temptation to look down to see if wheels are attached to his feet.

"You must be Americans," he says. "I am, too."

"Really?"

He wears a beatific smile and has a bifurcated look in his eyes, as if he is seeing not only us but also some parallel world at the same time. He reminds me of guys I'd known in college who had done a lot of drugs. Hell, he could be one of them. Who can tell with that shaved skull?

A second bald, gray-robed figure enters. I am astonished to see another Caucasian, a middle-aged woman this time. She holds wooden prayer beads and is murmuring something. She bows to us, and I bow back, rather foolishly.

The man grins, seeming to enjoy our surprise. "We are the resident foreigners. All the other monks are Korean."

"Oh?" I say.

"Yes. We've got hermitage duty this week, so at least we can avoid the tourist crowd at the main temple."

I nod.

"The inn rooms are quite small," he continues, "feel free to take as many as you need. The place is empty tonight. The couple brought a tent, and the... other one left earlier."

He shudders slightly at the mention of "the other one."

"Thanks." I'm getting pretty good at single word replies.

He gestures to a small box by the door. "You may give a donation, if you wish."

His face has that expectant look people wear when they're seeking an opening to talk about themselves. Well, everybody has a story. Why not hear this guy's?

I open with the standard question: "How long have you been in Korea?"

"About six months, mostly at this temple."

He goes on to say that, after doing a lot of drugs in college (I'd been right about that) and nearly killing himself thereby, he decided to follow the path of Buddhist aestheticism. His quest took him to the campus meditation group, then to Japan, and finally Korea. The first Korean temple he approached had not been receptive.

"I'd like to go to the meditation hall this afternoon," he'd said.

"What do mean?" a senior monk upbraided him. "Six years! You haven't even read our sutras."

"They're written in Chinese," he protested. "I can't read Chinese."

"There's a start."

So, he came here where the attitude is more tolerant toward foreigners. I know what's coming next—a lecture on Zen philosophy, maybe even an invite to a meditation session. Not that I object to Eastern religion, I've even made a study of it. But by trying to immerse myself in Oriental thought, I've come to realize what a Westerner I am.

I interpose a change of subject. "This other guy who was staying here, he's gone back down the trail?"

"No. He headed deeper into the mountains. Said he wanted to catch a glimpse of North Korea."

Kathy is already edging toward the door, and I swiftly join her. We make a polite, bowing exit, and I drop some cash in the donation box.

Outside is dark and clear, magical. Huge mountain peaks tower like cathedral spires, restricting the stars' illumination to directly overhead. I take Kathy's hand again, hoping for a romantic stroll and intimate conversation. For a while she seems to want this, too, but soon she turns our steps toward the inn.

"I'm really beat, Tyler. I need to get to bed."

The campfire is down to dying embers. The Captain and his wife have apparently retired, thank God. The inn rooms are scarcely more than cubbyholes, Spartan accommodation intended for a single person. We select adjacent chambers.

I'm pretty beat myself and prepare to hit the rack. I squirm out of my clothes and spread a clean T-shirt over the rice-hull pillow. The place feels like a morgue drawer, and I leave the lattice door half open to help dispel my claustrophobia. I am almost instantly asleep.

Later, in the deepest time of night, I jerk awake—cognizant of a presence at my door. The Captain! A vision of him lunging upon me with a bayonet shoots through my terrified brain. I attempt to cry out, but a finger presses against my lips, silencing me.

I can't see in the cold darkness, but I recognize Kathy's scent, her long hair and soft body. She slips under the covers and cuddles up spoon fashion with her back towards me. She wears a flannel nightgown, unbuttoned in front. I slip a hand inside, and she turns towards me, shedding the gown in one smooth motion.

She presses above me, her body shielding me from the cold, and we move in perfect rhythm.

13. The Departure Begins

When did the unruly sea

Suddenly quieten down

And freeze into these precipitous peaks

Vast, sublime, imposing?

– _Mountains Crimsoned with Flowers_ _, Li Ying_

Kathy is gone when I awake, and for a moment I wonder if I've simply dreamed her into my lonely bed. A trace of her cologne still lingers, though, along with a smudge of eye makeup on my T-shirt pillowcase. Her love fluids, dried to silky sweetness, attend my body.

She is already prepared to leave by the time I roll out to greet the day. The Captain and his wife are gone with their tent.

"Good morning, Tyler. Sleep well?" Her voice carries an edge of forced cheeriness.

"Very well."

I almost add "thanks to you" but hold it back. It doesn't seem proper for me to mention the night's passions. Kathy will mention them herself when she thinks appropriate.

I almost say, "Is something wrong?" but hold onto that as well.

Kathy acts friendly and polite, but with a nuance that keeps me at a respectable distance. When I try to put an arm around her waist, she moves away. Not in an offended manner, but more like she suddenly has to get someplace else, to check her luggage or something.

I'm disappointed, but what can I do? Our relationship can develop only on Kathy's terms. I feel awkward, disjointed, as if I've just tumbled out of a hot romance novel into a humdrum travelogue.

Kathy leads the way down the trail, bounding with the surefootedness of a mountain goat. I lumber carefully behind, favoring my ankle. I realize that my departure from this phase of my life is now beginning. From this point on, every step I take is another one on the way out of Oori Nara. I feel light, transitory, an _en route_ person who isn't really here.

About half way down, Kathy pauses and says, "Take my picture?"

"Sure."

She poses midstream atop a large boulder. I snap one picture of her standing hands on hips and another, much sexier, one of her reclining, fingers stoking her long hair.

We trade positions and she takes my picture. When she returns the Pentax, it radiates a curious warmth. It would be nice to use the self timer and photograph us together, but Kathy doesn't suggest this, and I don't want to make any presumptions, "get my expectations up" as she phrased it.

After breakfast at the little waterfall restaurant, we leave the park and get on a bus heading south. We part company in Kangnung where Kathy catches another bus for her town. I offer to accompany her, but she declines.

"Goodbye, Tyler." She pecks my cheek. "It was fun. Maybe we'll meet again someday. You can give me the pictures then."

"Sure, Kathy."

She glances around, to see if anyone is watching, then gives me a longer kiss on the lips, pressing herself against me. Then she is gone.

I ride back toward Seoul through some of best mountain scenery in the country. I scarcely notice the vistas. Is this to be my fate? Have one spectacular woman after another come into my life only to leave again, dumping me in a tea room, a bus station?

At least Yun Hee made a clean break of things, but why this mystifying warm / cool treatment from Kathy? Friends, antagonists, lovers, just friends again.

Another voice tries to surface in my thoughts, but I oppose it as it doesn't confirm my self-pitying mood. By the time I reach Ichon, I'm ready to listen.

" _Vife, chilren? Plenty of time later,"_ my Grandfather Alois says in his thick Hungarian accent. _"See de vorld first, boy, haf some adventures."_

There's much to be said about this philosophy. The loss of Yun Hee was very painful, and the fade out with Kathy has been a baffling, melancholy experience. Amidst my disappointment, though, I feel an sense of liberation. I'm free to be my own man!

Obligations, the expectations of others—I'm setting all this aside and striking out to parts unknown. Kathy closed the door behind her when she'd entered my chamber last night, and the resulting sense of entrapment had been unpleasant, even during the most passionate moments. And when I'd been floating in the boat with Yun Hee, I couldn't help measuring the distance to shore. If I jumped out, could I swim that far?

I smile at the recollection of Grandfather Alois—his almost comical accent, his old-world mannerisms. He truly is from another era. I'll never forget the way his face lit up when he heard I was going overseas.

Mom and Dad grew up in an ethnic community, not learning English until beginning school. Yet, they never seemed foreign to me like Grandpa does. Dad told me, when I was very young, that he wanted to travel the world "someday." He never did, though. Marriage and kids saw to that. Hell, he was only 44 when he died.

How many more good years do I have left?

I spend a couple days in the Ichon area, hiking the hills and rice fields, reprising my self-pity routine. Then I return to Seoul and check in at the Nam Goong. Bob West is there.

"Tyler! Where the hell have you been?"

"Took a little side trip after the workshop."

Bob's face assumes an expectant, worried expression. "So... what's next, pal?"

" _Capshida_." Let's go.
14. Pusan Sendoff

_If you stay around a teacher too long, he starts to get worried about you. –_ _Zen and the Art of the Controlled Accident_ _, by Alan Watts_

I hand in my resignation the following morning. A few days later, I take a final ride, on the freeway to Pusan in an air-conditioned bus.

I scarcely glance out the window as the soulless ribbon of concrete zips along. This isn't the old Korea passing by out there, but a generic landscape that could be anywhere in the world, alongside any other freeway.

The seats are meant for slim Korean builds, not hefty Americans, and Bob takes up too much room beside me. I consider telling him to sit the hell someplace else, but haven't the heart. He is acting very subdued. The idea of leaving Oori Nara seems to fill him with apprehension, and he's clinging to me like a security blanket. Maybe I need a security blanket, too. It isn't so easy to abandon a country you've come to regard as home.

"Just think," Bob says. "We're going from one end of South Korea to the other in a matter of hours. The country is so small you almost feel like you're wearing the place."

"That's quite a figure of speech, Bob."

"It's different back home. The U.S. is so huge it can overwhelm you. At least I'm from Michigan, so it's not so bad."

"How so?"

"Michigan is a peninsula, two of them actually," Bob explains. "It has natural boundaries."

"Makes sense."

Bob holds up his hand and points to a spot below the base of the thumb. "I live here, and—"

"You live on your hand?"

"No, no," Bob says impatiently, as if he is explaining something to a three-year-old. "It's a map. Michigan's lower peninsula is shaped like a mitten."

"Oh, yeah. It must get pretty cold up by the fingertips, eh?"

Bob ignores my smart assery.

"Wyandotte, where I'm from, is here. It's a Detroit suburb."

" _Wyandotte_ sounds like an Indian name."

"Right, the Wyandotte tribe once lived in the area."

Typical scenario, drive off the native people, then name the town after them.

"If you go north, east, or west you bump into the Great Lakes." Bob indicates these locations alongside his hand map. "Canada is right across the Detroit River."

I become interested in spite of myself.

"Michigan feels manageable," Bob says, "but if you drive down into Ohio, there's a flat, gigantic land mass spreading all around you."

This is food for thought. In any case, it constitutes the sum total of our conversation. We get to Pusan late afternoon and purchase tickets for the car ferry to Shimonoseki, Japan. The boat is departs next evening.

* * *

Ferry tickets in hand, we walk through a seedy waterfront section of town. Young louts hanging around the sidewalk outside a pool hall make insulting remarks as we pass, something to the effect that our noses are bigger than our dicks.

I always try to ignore such street punks. Bob is not in a good humor, though. He advances on the leader, glowering ominously. The guy shrinks back, intimidated, seeking protection from the others who are equally scared.

"Let's get out of here," I say.

I take Bob's arm and draw him away from the visibly relieved punks. They refrain from making further comments.

"I hate bastards like that!" Bob growls.

"I'm learning a lot more about you. Geography expert, street fighter. I'm impressed."

That's true, even though Bob's physical capabilities probably don't amount to much. His size is largely a flabby illusion, and I know from our experience in the Seoul demonstration that he possesses little by way of endurance.

We check in at a yogwan and go for a leisurely dinner at the restaurant next door. The place has a tank of flounder in the middle of the floor; you can order one of these flattened sea creatures on the hoof, to use a mixed metaphor. We relax over our seafood meal and listen to the chatter of the young waitresses.

They speak the lilting Southeast dialect. Every other syllable seems to be "yeh" spoken with a downward intonation. The standard Korean we'd been taught is uninflected and can tumble out of your mouth in a monotonous stream. It seems a language well suited to barking out slogans and military commands, like the German you hear in war movies.

Once I'd witnessed some Korean soldiers undergoing training. The commander kept up a constant torrent of invective, punctuated with shoves and kicks. He ordered one poor guy to dangle by his hands from a beam and proceeded to whack him on the calves and thighs with a wooden pole. He didn't seem like the sensitive type.

Outside the restaurant is dark and chilly with a hint of mist in the air.

"How about a last kettle of makoli?" Bob says.

"Sure. Let's put on some warmer clothes first."

We return to the yogwan and don our white woolen _Cheju Do_ sweaters. Irish missionaries run a sheep and pig ranch down in Cheju Do island, along with a woolen factory. They market the "hand made" sweaters at Seoul tourist hotels. Right, I'd thought when I'd bought mine—hand made by machine.

Yet, when I later visited the Isodol Ranch on Cheju Do, I saw a bevy of Korean girls sitting on the factory porch knitting away. The sheep were nice, not so the hogs—enormous pink monstrosities quite different from the dark little native pigs. One brute glowered at me with hate-filled eyes and chomped the metal bars of his pen. He would have much preferred to chew my leg.

We've barely left the yogwan when all the electric lights in the neighborhood blink out.

"Dang," I say. "What now?"

We stand uncertainly in the dark, narrow street like two lost sheep in our woolen sweaters. Candles appear in the shop windows, and the hiss of gas lanterns adds a comforting note.

"The people seem well prepared," Bob says. "This must be a common occurrence."

We advance carefully down the pavement, keeping an eye out for pot holes. No sense providing free entertainment for the locals. Screaming American flopping about with a sprained ankle. Been there, done that.

"Where do you suppose the red light district is?" Bob asks.

"Count me out. I've already had the 'Frosty Virgin' experience."

"What?"

I do not elaborate.

We enter a sool chip dimly lit by gas lanterns. It's the usual type of wine house. In the outer area are upended fuel drums with built-in braziers. Standard clientele—soldiers, laborers, idlers. Pretty much the same as the place in Choon Chun.

Sliding paper doors conceal the private rooms where better-off customers are being entertained by girls. We are drinking on the cheap, though, and plan to remain in the proletarian outer area.

"Hello there!" a friendly voice calls in English from one of the drum tables.

I turn to see a couple of foreigners waving enthusiastically.

"Let's check them out," Bob says.

A thin young guy with dark, curly hair stands up and grips my hand.

"Good to see you again!" He says in an Irish accent.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't you remember us?" Even in the dim light, his face sports an alcohol glow. "I'm Father Patrick, from the island, and this gentleman here is Father Clarence."

A genial, red-haired young guy sitting at the fuel drum offers his hand. "How have you been?"

"Pleased to see you both," I say, "but I really don't know who you are."

"Ah, you're right about that," Clarence says. "I see it now. Sorry, we thought you were somebody else—this light, this fearsome makoli. It's enough to addle anybody's mind."

"Since you're here now," Patrick says, "why not join us for a cup?"

We take seats at the fuel drum. "Or a 'Glass,' so to speak?"

Father Patrick gives me a surprised look, then breaks into a grin. "So, what might your names be?"

"I'm Tyler Lakatos."

"I'm Bob West. We're returning Peace Corps volunteers, former English teachers."

"Excellent!" Patrick says.

"Speaking of excellent, try some of this," Clarence says, handing us metal cups of makoli.

The 'wine' slithers down to my stomach from where it sends back ominous rumblings.

"Good grief," I say. "I thought the makoli in Seoul was bad."

"Yes," Patrick agrees, "I think they pump the water for it off the harbor bottom. But you won't notice after a few drinks."

I pass the empty cup to Patrick with a two-handed gesture of respect and fill it for him. We drain the kettle, order another along with some chicken ribs and octopus tentacles in hot sauce. We tell our stories. I like these guys a lot.

Patrick and Clarence are Irish Catholic priests stationed on a small island in the Yellow Sea. Patrick is the pastor of the church there. He's quite young, but Clarence looks even younger, scarcely my age. They are in Pusan for a couple days on church business.

"Our island is a lovely place," Patrick says, "quiet, no motor cars. It's so mountainous you have to walk or take a boat to get around."

"You'll find the best makoli there," Clarence says. "An old woman makes it the proper way. Illegal, but who's going to turn her in? She's just full of goodness."

"We'll be there about a year until a senior priest can be found to take over the parish," Patrick says. "After that, I'm afraid we'll have to leave."

A mournful silence follows. Clarence pours another cup for Patrick and gives him a squeeze on the shoulder. Clarence has a warm, child-like smile overflowing with kindness.

"I see you're wearing our fisherman sweaters," he says.

I glance down at my sweater, daub at a spot of spilled makoli. "Fisherman sweater?"

"Yes. Traditionally, fishermen in Ireland wore those. Notice the pattern down the front? Each one is different."

Bob and I compare sweater fronts. Sure enough, the knitted patterns differ.

"Why's that?" Bob asks. "Just for a little variety, eh?"

"In a manner of speaking," Clarence says. "If a fishing boat goes over and the men drown, the corpses could be in a very poor state before they are recovered. Sometimes the only way to identify the bodies is by the sweater patterns."

Bob and I exchange apprehensive glances.

"We're taking the boat to Japan tomorrow," I say.

"Happy sailing!" Patrick raises a cup. "And please disregard any commentary about your apparel."

A wine house girl in a red and white hanbok bustles past, slides open a nearby paper door and enters the side room. She is really cute, like the one I'd met in Choon Chun.

"Did you see her?" Patrick exclaims.

"Yes," Clarence says. "Marvelous."

They laugh and clap each other on the back like a pair of kids. At first I'm a bit surprised at this display. Catholic priests are celibate, right? They are supposed to be elevated beings, far above the carnal lusts of us lesser guys. My sympathy goes out to them. No wonder they drink so much.

"I like our island because it reminds me of Ireland," Patrick says. "The hills, the greenery, cliffs leading to the sea."

A dispute is brewing up in the side room the girl had entered. I hear shouts and the clatter of dishes being roughly handled. A burst of déjà vu shoots through me. I seem to be in one of those arty movies where the same scene gets replayed from different viewpoints.

Patrick bursts into a Gaelic song, and Clarence joins in, their booming voices mask the altercation developing behind the paper door. I listen raptly, though I don't understand a word. I can almost hear Irish pipes and drums behind the excellent voices.

They conclude their song with a flourish of emotion. Bob and I applaud. The fight in the adjacent room can no longer be ignored. Men and women are shouting violently with a girl's screeching voice being uppermost.

" _Ke Seki_! S.O.B.!" she shrieks.

A middle-aged man in shirtsleeves, his necktie streaming after him, crashes through the flimsy door and sprawls halfway into the main room.

"Oh my," Clarence says, "I hope we don't have a candidate for the last rites."

The girl shoves her head through the smashed door and continues her torrent of invective. Another man, a bewildered expression on his face, tries to escape the room. The manager and a crowd of patrons close in on him.

"Let's get out before the cops arrive," I say.

Tossing some bills on the table, we beat a hasty retreat.

# Three: The Long Way Back

15. Extreme Passage

_A dead whale or a stove boat! –_ _Moby Dick_ _, by Herman Melville_

We spend the final day hanging around tabangs and restaurants, walking the streets. The Pusan environs include beaches and cultural sites, but I have no desire to visit them. In my heart, I'm gone already. Toward dusk we board the car ferry for Shimonoseki, Japan. The ship is dark and huge.

Relations with Japan are still at a low point, and Japanese visitors are being discouraged. So, the ship is largely empty with only a modest number of Koreans and a few Westerners on its spacious second class deck. The whole area, except for the aisles, is covered by straw tatami mats. Some storage cabinets complete the Spartan décor.

Bob and I gravitate toward the de facto Westerners' section in the stern. Two PCV girls are already there. They say they're going to Nagasaki to visit a Japanese family. We try to make additional small talk, but the girls are cool, preferring their magazines to our company. A thin, reddish-blond German guy named Rolf is also present.

Rolf possesses a remarkable piece of luggage—a record player, with battery backup, no less. It must weigh a fair amount. What a thing to be dragging around. Hasn't he heard of cassette tapes?

"I like that," Bob says.

Rolf spins an LP, some Chuck Berry wannabe group singing vintage American rock with German accents. The girls glance over, then return to their reading.

"I can't play it once the ship gets going," Rolf says in good, if overly precise English. "Too much motion."

He seems to be around our age, but has a serious, lined face that makes him look older. Maybe the stress of lugging that machine around has prematurely aged him.

Just before the ship pulls away, a young New Zealand guy with long, sandy hair appears. He eyes us with thinly concealed disdain, as if he's doing us a great favor by sharing our section. He shoots the girls a quick glance over, decides they are not up to his standard. I take an instant dislike to him. He looks like some beach bum who enjoys kicking sand on people.

The boat starts moving, and we settle down for a long ride. The ship's mighty engines begin their steady cruising vibration under the deck. It doesn't take the late comer very long to get on my bad side. One of the girls is reading the business section of her magazine where a graph indicates the monthly stock market fluctuation.

The New Zealander looks rudely over her shoulder. "That's what I find interesting about you Americans. Always your main interest is economics. Screw the rest of the world, eh?"

The girl cringes. He laughs, a sarcastic bark, as if this is the funniest thing in the world. He glances at Rolf for support, gets none.

"Wise ass," I say.

Anger flashes across on his face. He moves towards me. "What's, that?"

Bob interposes his bulk into the situation. "My friend says you're a wise ass. Is there a problem?"

The New Zealander regards the united front against him, and his anger drains away.

"No harm meant." He retreats to a spot against the far wall.

"So much for international harmony," Bob mutters.

I settle back against the steel hull. I want to be alone with my contradictory emotions, and this little blowup gives me an excuse to withdraw. A dramatic sunset stabbing through a porthole blazes into my eyes, and I shift position.

I'm depressed about leaving Korea, but also glad to be sloughing off my entanglements there. And I am relieved to escape the mystifying Jon Glass syndrome. The Twilight Zone aspects have creeped me out far worse than I've been willing to admit.

My status the past 14 months has been neither fish nor fowl. I've been woven into an Asian culture but have not really been a part of it. Sure it's been fun, but also a psychological drain. This had been especially true when I was with Yun Hee, speaking Korean for such extended periods that my jaw ached as if I'd been chewing bubble gum too long.

"Don't you think this is for the best, Tyler?" she asked on that final day in the tabang. "How could an ordinary girl like me fit into a foreign world?"

She took my hand across the tabang table. Hers was warm and soft. Mine had turned frigid as a corpse's.

"I've never known anyone like you," she said. "You frighten me sometimes."

"Frighten you?" I croaked.

"Yes. You have so much churning inside, as if your spirit contains a whole second person struggling to come out. You are a very different type of man, Tyler. Your woman must also be very different."

Lulled by the ship's vibration, I begin to doze. As I drift in and out of wakefulness, I catch snippets of conversation. Some of it's real, I know, mostly Bob and Rolf discussing music. Other comments are more like half dreams. One of the girls mentions Kathy Funk. I think she says Kathy is quitting the Peace Corps and returning home to marry her old college boyfriend.

I don't know if this is real talk or just the rumblings of my imagination trying to tie up loose ends with Kathy. Later, when I'm fully awake, I do not seek verification. More urgent matters command attention.

The gathering night is bringing rough seas. The ship's flat, steady progress becomes a rocking motion that rotates me against the hull like a rolling pin on a bread board. An edgy silence replaces the conversations. The ship lurches, rapping my head on the steel. I open my eyes to see the deck gyrating in the throes of a developing storm. Tight-lipped expressions crease the faces of the others. Rolf looks more somber than ever.

The sea becomes steadily rougher over the next hour until the ship is bucking like a psychotic horse. As there is nothing to grab on to, we simply roll around the straw mats or try to brace ourselves against the walls.

"I've got to see what's happening out there," Bob says.

He stands up and tries walking the few steps to a porthole. The deck heaves so violently that he can't make any progress, cannot even fall down, but rather stumbles about like some bizarre drunkard. He tumbles over. This might be comical, if I felt like laughing. Crawling now, Bob finally makes it to the porthole. He seizes the edge and pulls himself up.

"Jesus!" He drops down and rolls my direction, eyes wide. "You don't suppose that's true about the sweaters, do you? They can identify your body?"

"I don't know, maybe."

"Should we put them on?"

"Go ahead if you want!" My philosophic serenity is unraveling fast.

The ship wrenches like a mad carnival ride. Rolf, the girls, and the New Zealander spread themselves out along the tatami mats so as to allow maximum rolling room. Bob sticks close to me, grasping his shoulder bag, ready to yank out his sweater at a moment's notice.

I crawl to the porthole and peer out; the view is terrifying, hypnotic. Mammoth swells, crusted with white foam, surge out of the darkness, materializing in the ship's lights moments before slamming the hull. Lightning flashes in the distance. The black wall of the ship's flank rocks crazily under the assault.

The East Sea boils like a witch's cauldron—the treacherous passage where typhoons wrecked Mongol invasion fleets in an earlier century. The _Kamikaze_ "Divine Wind" had saved Japan then. The wind on this trip doesn't seem divine. It's a demonic blast.

"What kind of weather reporting have they got?" Bob cries. "Couldn't anybody figure out this storm was coming?"

I tear my eyes from the ghastly world outside the porthole. Bob looks about half his usual size, curled up on the mats, his face ashen. Elsewhere, people are getting sick. Unable to get to the bathrooms, they simply throw up in place. Rivulets of vomit move back and forth along the aisles with the ship's motion.

Are these objective events, or merely an analogy for something else?

This feeble mental gymnastic does nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. Thank heaven I've eaten nothing since breakfast, or I'd be throwing up, too. Perhaps someday, if there is a someday, I can poeticize this reality, but not now.

I slither down and wrap myself in a blanket. We all lay inside blankets, adjusting ourselves to the storm's rhythm. Time drags past. The ship's gyrations become predictable. Maybe you _can_ get used to anything.

Then, just as I'm starting to visualize an intact arrival in Japan, a massive blow strikes from a new direction, flinging the stern out of the water. For a heart-stopping eternity we hover in mid air. The engines' dogged churning becomes a frenzied scream as the screws clear the surface.

We slam down with incredible force. Dishes fly out of a storage cabinet and shatter, their jagged pieces tumbling in the vomit. Rolf's phonograph careens my way.

"Hang onto that thing!" I yell.

Rolf crawls after his machine. The dim overhead lights flicker and die. The night passes in violent darkness.

16. Japan at Last

" _I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train." – Gwendolen Fairfax, speaking in_ _The Importance of Being Earnest_ _, by Oscar Wilde_

Daylight carries the blessed land to us. A condemned prisoner, the noose already around his neck when his pardon comes through, could understand our relief.

We resume our customary demeanors of world-traveler nonchalance. Of course, none of us had _really_ been afraid last night. Through the porthole, I see a bright, sunny morning in Shimonoseki. Such an orderly place, much different from the more scruffy Korean ports. Private cars seem to be everywhere.

Passengers crowd toward the exit, waiting for the door to open.

"Aren't we going?" Bob asks.

"In a minute. I hate standing in lines."

Bob seems to be turning something over in his brain. Finally, he speaks. "Okay, Tyler, I'll tell you how I got it."

"Got what?"

"My black eye."

"I don't care how you got your black eye!"

Bob shakes his head. "I know you've been dying of curiosity but were too polite to say anything. Now that I've been to the mountain top, I want to unburden myself."

"All right, shoot."

"I was at _E Tae Won_ drinking with some buddies, six of us, and we all had girls. Mine and one other girl were nice; the rest were real hard core, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, a fight broke out among the girls."

"Man!"

"They tumbled out into the street," Bob continues. "Of course, the two nice girls were getting creamed. A crowd of drunk G.I.'s gathered around cheering."

"Ah, yes, our uniformed ambassadors of good will."

"I tried to rescue my girl from the pile up, but some G.I. slugged me. I got up off the pavement in time to see my so-called friends speed away in a cab. The whole crowd was closing in on me."

"How'd you get away?" Despite myself, I've become keenly interested.

"An ROK appeared out of nowhere. 'Follow me!' he says. I had nothing better planned, so I did. We ran through back alleys until I was safely gone. The whole thing was Terror City."

"That's some story."

"Yeah." A melancholy smile crosses his face. "It's all over now, isn't it? The good and the bad stuff."

The little crowd at the exit moves out, and we follow. The girls and the New Zealander disappear unlamented.

Rolf bids us a cordial farewell. "Maybe our paths will cross again."

"Yeah," Bob says, "be sure to bring the record player."

My body carries a rocking sensation onto dry land. I breathe deeply. The atmosphere is nothing special, just dockside air, but it carries a sweet buoyancy.

"It's great!" Bob says.

We sniff the air like judges at a florist convention.

"Yeah," I agree. "The authoritarian aroma is gone."

Bob looks puzzled, then nods.

We walk out of the dock area. The busy street seems like some parallel universe to Korea—neater, more organized. The people look similar but are better dressed and more prosperous. Freedom is in the air.

"Korea will feel like this someday," I say.

Bob turns toward the harbor and blows a kiss. "Good luck to them!"

And that is our final good-bye to Oori Nara.

I'm in charge of the itinerary by default. Whenever I pulled out my guide book to ask Bob's opinion, he always said, "Anyplace you pick is fine."

So, I make a decision—time to eat. We enter a small restaurant and take a table in the main area. People glance up briefly then go back to their meals. A girl takes our order. All I can read are the numbers, so I simply point to reasonably priced menu items and hope for the best. I am pleasantly surprised to be served a delicious noodle dish and a pungent soup.

I'd been the top Korean language student in our PCV group and had seldom experienced difficulty with day-to-day talk. Here I feel major frustration. At least I can handle the chopsticks, and I dig into the noodles with gusto. Bob busies himself writing in a notebook.

"What's that?"

Bob hands over the notebook. "I'm keeping a trip diary."

The first line reads, "It was a rough voyage from Pusan." The next line says, "We arrived in Shimonoseki the following morning."

"You didn't write much about the boat ride."

Bob shudders. "I'll write more about that later, after I've had a few beers."

I laugh. It's easy to laugh, now that the danger is over. "What's the title of this travelogue?"

"I don't know. How does _An East Asian Tour_ sound?"

"Not much of a ring to it. How about, _Tour de East Asia_?"

"Yeah, that's better. What's 'East Asia' in French?"

"Beats me," I say.

Bob spoons up soup, quiet and thoughtful. Inspiration strikes him. "I'll call the journal _Das Road_."

"Excellent! It has not only a whimsical, pseudo-foreign sound but metaphorical resonance as well."

"I agree, whatever that means."

He closes the notebook. The cover is printed to look like blue denim and sports the English notation "Seminar Note Book for Young Fashion." Lower down is a picture of two little kids in a bucolic setting. The notebook looks incongruous in Bob's large hands. He writes _DAS ROAD_ in bold, felt tip letters along the top.

"Here's to das road ahead!" I toast.

We clink tea cups. A drop sloshes onto the diary cover, smearing the ink.

17. Good Times

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

We board a ferry for Osaka via the Inland Sea. What could be better after a harrowing ocean passage than another boat ride? But there's beautiful weather and fabulous scenery. Best of all, the water is calm.

From Osaka, we'll head for Kyoto. Tokyo next, then on to climb Mount Fuji.

Maybe I'll pass on the mountain climbing part. Fuji has become an obsession for Tyler, a kind of spiritual quest. He even uses Fuji film in that camera of his. But for me the whole thing sounds like a lot of pain.

I wish he'd lighten up. Right now, for example, there's a beautiful Japanese woman standing at the rail in front of us. This sensuous female shape framed by glittering water. And what's Tyler doing? Reading another book, _Inside the Third Reich_ no less!

I don't want to give a negative impression. Sure, Tyler's a little odd, but aren't we all nuts in some way? He gives me a sense of life's possibilities. Like when I fronted off those punks in Pusan, or that New Zealand jerk. Having Tyler around made me almost wish that a fight had broken out.

"Hiroshima is that direction," Tyler said at one point, gesturing over the water. "Do you think we were justified in dropping an atomic bomb there?"

How was I supposed to answer, and on such a glorious day as this? All I know is that the big leaders never consult guys like me when they make their death decisions. The President didn't ask me if I'd like to go to Vietnam, all I got was a notice ordering me to Fort Wayne for an army physical.

The worst day of my life. Plodding along with a bunch of other depressed guys like cattle, being manhandled and jabbed with needles. I saw my entire life going down the sewer. By some incredible miracle, I flunked the physical exam and escaped getting drafted. I don't know the exact details. Too overweight, my blood pressure sucked, whatever.

I'll never forget the mournful faces of the other guys. How many of them got killed or maimed in Vietnam, or came back crazy? God bless them all.

We churned on towards sunset. Long shadows moved across the boat, and the water sparkled golden. Tyler braced his camera on the rail and leaned down to compose a picture. Suddenly, he jerked upright as if he'd gotten an electric shock. I thought the camera was going overboard. He stared at the rail for several seconds, then retreated back inside.

What the hell? I examined the railing. Something was written in blue felt tip, Korean text along with the English letters "J G."

I couldn't make out the Korean words as the light was dim, and my knowledge of written Korean is also pretty dim. Let's just say I wasn't the Peace Corps's shining star when it came to language skills.

Why all the fuss? Tyler sure has his strange moods.

Kyoto / Nara

We caught the train to Kyoto and checked into a pension. Mrs. Hirao, the owner, was gruff and unfriendly. She didn't display the Japanese hospitality I'd heard so much about.

"Well, it's cheap," one of the foreign lodgers said. "That's why we're all here."

The place accommodated numerous bedraggled "world travelers." Some had been wandering for years. Mostly they hung around the hostel talking about where the cheapest deals could be had. They were okay, I guess, but I didn't leave any valuables lying around.

"See the Imperial Palace in Tokyo," one guy said. "I was there when Nixon resigned. I listened to his speech on the radio. What a rush!"

We toured the ornate temples of Kyoto, then Nara. I got saturated but didn't complain, as I've left the scheduling up to Tyler. Later, I learned that he'd also burned out. He'd only set things up this way because he thought I would like it! I should stop being so lazy and help plan things.

Everything is so neat and well organized. You practically glide along the crowded sidewalks. Even the cheapest train station box lunch is tasty and pleasing to the eye.

I think the girls are prettier here, but I'd never say that to Tyler. He's still bummed about his Korean girlfriend. He regards the whole thing as a blown opportunity. Or was it just an opportunity to get blown? Better not say that either.

Bid a fond farewell to Mrs. Hirao, she grunted something back. Then we got on the Shinkonsin bullet train.

The bullet train is twice as fast as any American one. Why don't we have them? While we were waiting in the station, another Shinkonsin express roared through, sending a blast of air over the platform. There seemed to be some kind of poetic image here—things passing you by, whatever. Tyler would be able to figure it out.

As we approached Tokyo, Mount Fuji hulked in the distant haze.

"Look!" Tyler practically climbed out the window taking pictures.

Tokyo

The first thing we did was dash to the McDonald's franchise. In Korea, burgers & fries were available only at U.S. army bases, if you had black market dollars.

"This isn't very dignified," Tyler said as we hurried down the street.

"Right!" I picked up the pace.

Usually we ate at Japanese restaurants with wax menu items in the window. Such an exciting city! Daytime sightseeing, Imperial Palace, etc. Kagaes sold fruit at shock prices. _Namu pisamnida_! (too expensive) as we'd say in Korea.

Nights were best. Blaring neon signs everywhere, bustling crowds, bars, gambling joints. _Pachinko_ was the big draw at the gambling parlors. Looking in from the street window, I saw rows of flashing devices like small upright pinball machines. People fed in little steel balls and flipped levers, as if they were in a trance.

"Let's go in," I said.

We were nearly through the door when we noticed a guy in a puffy green cap sitting at a machine. He was turned our direction just enough so we could tell he wasn't Japanese, even through the cap was pulled low over his face. Tyler stopped cold. He looked really pale, but that might just have been the crappy lighting.

"Think I'll pass," he said. "Those people look like robots."

I'm very suggestible. Once I was enjoying some bread until somebody told me it was made from zucchini. Then I didn't want it any more. I didn't want to play with robots, either.

Funny thing is, I don't mind zucchini itself, it's just the word 'zucchini' that turns me off. If it had a cool name, I'd like it better.

We wandered into a flashing, blasting hostess bar. Two Australian girls were performing on a little stage. Their outfits were scanty to say the least (or most). Later they joined us for a drink. The next night, some Japanese college students eager to practice English treated us to food and booze.

Then on to Mount Fuji.

[addendum] Time to grim up.

18. Mount Fuji, Ho!

_Random chance was not a sufficient explanation of the universe. Random chance was not sufficient to explain random chance. –_ _Stranger in a Strange Land_ _, by Robert A. Heinlein_

Tyler's Account

The Jon Glass inscription appeared again, on the boat railing this time. Just as I was getting into the rhythm of the trip, this jarring reminder of the past materialized.

Bob said that Jon was leaving Korea. It's possible, therefore, that Jon has taken the same route as us. There must be numerous ferries on the Inland Sea, why did I happen to be on the same one? Who is this guy, why do I keep finding evidences of him? And that creepy dude at the Pachinko parlor...

Anyway, things are going pleasantly enough. Bob is lots of fun, if you don't try to out drink him.

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

The bus dropped us part way up Mount Fuji, and we began climbing amid a sizable crowd. I felt awkward amid so many compact Japanese. We were the only foreigners. Soon we were above the tree line and the slope was all stones, cinders, and crap.

I began to have second thoughts. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get carried away by Tyler's enthusiasm. I wished that somebody would carry me away to a comfortable hotel!

Tyler said the trail was not particularly difficult, but I was wearing out fast. Many Japanese hikers had large backpacks, walking staffs, and heavy parkas. How cold was it supposed to get anyway? Hopefully my Cheju Do sweater would be sufficient. I hadn't needed it yet, as I was plenty overheated without it.

The scenery was dramatic, but I was in no mood to enjoy it. The trail became steeper, and I had difficulty breathing the thin air.

Finally we reached the "guest house" that was to be our overnight lodging. The plan was to move on early the next morning and catch the sunrise on the upper slopes. Think I'll pass on that. If the air gets much thinner I'll be going into cardiac arrest.

The lodge didn't look bad from the outside, a one-story building made of wood and stone, but once we got inside, my _kibune_ plunged. (That's Korean for "spirits" or "morale") The place was set up like a concentration camp barracks with tiers of sleeping shelves reaching up to the ceiling. We were supposed to pack ourselves onto these like cord wood.

Numerous Japanese peered at us from the sleeping platforms. I half expected to see prisoners in striped uniforms among them. What else could we do, camp outside on the rocks? At least it was friendly. Our two spaces were on the top shelf, and Tyler went up to check things out.

"God damn it!" Tyler said loud enough to stop conversations below.

He bounded back down with a major league grim expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"I'm just so sick of this, Bob!"

He asked the manager if we could move, but the guy said we'd gotten the last two available spots. I was totally confused, and embarrassed, too. Tyler climbed back up and I joined him a few minutes later.

I don't know what the big complaint was about. Our spots didn't seem worse than any others. Fortunately, the other inmates were still below, so we had some room to maneuver.

Hunched beneath the ceiling, we spread out our things, organized them, and repacked our bags more efficiently. The light was pretty low and somehow I managed to jam Tyler's Cheju Do sweater in with my stuff. On the support beam by his space, Tyler had fastened the torn-off front cover of _Inside the Third Reich_.

"Can't say much for your taste in interior decorating," I joked.

Tyler didn't answer. He was tense, upset. Later, when he went out to the john, I peered under the book cover. Damned if somebody hadn't written Korean words on the beam in blue felt tip, along with the English letters _J G_. Just like the inscription on the boat railing.

Who the hell was doing this...Tyler? What would motivate him to secretly write some bizarre Korean message and then freak out as if somebody else had done it?

It had to be Tyler writing this, who else? Unless you want to believe that somebody was going on ahead and leaving little souvenirs for us to stumble on, like dog poop. I didn't know which idea was more twisted, so I decided to think about food instead.

The staff was cooking large pots of curry rice and we all dug in, washing it down with tea. None of the Japanese spoke English, or else they were too embarrassed to try. They shared their munchies with us. I think more than one joke was told at our expense.

I informed Tyler of my plans to descend solo in the morning, and we arranged to meet tomorrow at the tourist hotel we'd seen from the bus. I was wondering how we'd be able to squeeze onto our shelf. When the lights went out, though, Tyler stayed on the ground floor, sacking out alone by the doorway.

19. The Great Climb

The dirt mound from which Emperor Yao addressed the people was only three feet high, yet he is remembered through the ages. The builders of the Great Wall are forgotten. – Chinese proverb

Tyler's Account

Bob cut out early and headed back down. I'm frankly surprised he made it this far. It's good to be on my own for a while if you call being sandwiched into a crowd of Japanese hikers as being "on my own."

My ascent is delayed because I can't find my Cheju Do sweater. I tear apart my bags, search the area, gesture my predicament to the other hikers—all without result. Dark thoughts of thievery descend on my brain.

Then it strikes me. Bob must have packed my sweater in with his own stuff yesterday. The dumb oaf! How did he manage to do that? Worse yet, how come I hadn't even noticed?

I'd been distracted, that's why. My mind was in turmoil, and somebody could have swiped all my possessions without my noticing. That damned inscription popped up again, written on the wood right by my sleeping area. The Jon Glass beacon. Of all the trails and lodges on Mount Fuji, I had to pick this precise spot.

Something weird is going on, way beyond the realm of mere coincidence. I'm feeling like that guy in the horror story who keeps meeting the same hitchhiker.

"Helloooo," the hitchhiker calls. "Going my way?"

Finally, the guy flips out when he learns he's actually dead.

To hell with all that! I'm here, in the living flesh, and I'm not going anybody else's way.

I put on my warmest available clothes, two short sleeve shirts, and head outside. The Japanese are wearing parkas. Maybe this is overkill, but I sure wouldn't mind some kind of outer garment. The trail steepens, requiring a fair amount of effort. If I had a jacket, I'd have unzipped it to allow cooling air inside. As it is, I'm plenty cool. The encroaching damp mist increases my paranoia.

Who wouldn't be paranoid in my place? I thought I'd left this Jon Glass business behind in Korea, now it's reaching out for me again. I don't understand it, and that scares the hell out of me. But is understanding really necessary?

Think of a boxer pinned against the ropes, holding his arms up to shield himself from a rain of punches. How much understanding does he require? All he needs is the ability to endure and slip away from the danger. I will endure this. Something is trying to screw with my mind, with my basic sense of identity. I've come to climb Mount Fuji and, by God, I will!

Sunrise is a disappointment, just a vague spot of light in the icy mist. I stop to watch amid a crowd of other hikers. They are all very still, while I keep moving around in place to keep as warm as possible.

Many cameras click, but I don't pull out Jewel Eye. The fabulous sunrises I've heard about must be reserved for clearer weather, or maybe I'm just not high enough. Speaking of being high, I wouldn't mind a stiff drink about now. My lack of protection against the cold disheartens me, the presence of so many other people robs the mountain of spiritual power.

What am I doing up here, anyway, seeking some half-baked Zen insight?

I'd romanticized the old bromide that one must climb Mount Fuji to obtain wisdom. Mount Fuji is supposed to be sacred, but why? It is really nothing more than a pile of volcanic rock. The mountain's significance comes through the multiplication of its component parts. It influences you to the extent that you permit.

This worship of gigantism seems to be a fundamental human trait. On Mars there's a volcanic mountain 7½ times the altitude of Fuji, with a base the size of Arizona. Would that make it 7½ times as sacred? The Grand Canyon is also regarded as sacred, but Mars has a huge gash that could swallow it many times over.

I wonder how many people have died fighting over sacred places and sacred doctrines while all the time failing to realize that they, themselves, are the pinnacle of creation. I wouldn't claim God-like power or longevity, but why should I feel insignificant when staring out on this cloudy mountain vista?

Maybe I have gained some insight. In any case, the cold is penetrating right through me and numbing my brain. I can't go on to the summit. A guy barrels up the trail behind me, passing the other hikers.

"Excuse me, man." He brushes past me. "Interesting up here, eh?"

An odd chill accompanies him, a couple degrees cooler than the surrounding air. He continues the ascent at a blistering pace. His jacket collar is turned up; he wears sunglasses and a rather odd, puffy green cap. I can't see much of his features, but he certainly isn't Japanese—more like a human mountain goat. He pauses in his headlong rush and looks back down at me a few seconds. An amused little smile seems to cross his face. Is he laughing at me? Then he is gone.

I take the express route back, charging down a slope of loose stones and dead cinders, my shoulder bag flying back in a slipstream of black, dusty cloud.

"Yahoo! Freeeeeee!"

Anyone hearing me might think I've gone nuts, but nobody is around. I've left behind the bovine crowd still toiling upwards. I begin sliding in a skiing type motion, nearly tumbling over a couple times. I make incredible progress, rapidly blowing off the altitude gained by so much tedious hiking.

I reach the lower slopes and head for the tourist hotel where I'm supposed to meet Bob. I clean up as much as possible in the lobby bathroom, but it's a lost cause. I'll require a full shower to get rid of all the black grime. I peel off the top shirt; the one beneath is somewhat cleaner.

Next stop, the elegant hotel restaurant for lunch. The Japanese wait staff is very polite, bowing to me and smiling as if I were some VIP. I can only imagine what they must be thinking _, "God, look at this dirty Yankee!"_

Bob joins me at my table. He looks neat and refreshed, as if he just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial. "Sorry, Tyler. Somehow I packed your sweater in with my stuff."

Anger surges in my heart. I want to slug him, or at least scream a few obscenities. Then I recall the 'expedition behavior' philosophy of my wilderness survival course: Be tolerant of your companions' failings because you never know when you'll screw up and need their forbearance.

I paste on a smile. "No problem, Bob, I didn't miss it."

20. Fringe of China – Taiwan

_I had throughout the faint feeling that everything was not square. –_ _Thurnley Abbey_ _, by Perceval Landon_

Things are expensive in Japan, and we'll soon blow so much money we'll have had to curtail the rest of our trip. Bob loves it here, though. In keeping with our no-expectations agreement, I tell him it's all right if he chooses to stay.

He prefers to come with me. I'm glad.

He isn't enthusiastic about Taiwan, 'Nationalist China,' but we won't spend much time there. After that comes Hong Kong, and when I tell him about the gambling casinos in next-door Macau, his eyes light up.

In the morning, we ride the subway train out toward the Tokyo airport. The car is largely empty when we get on, and we take seats facing the door. As we near downtown, however, briefcase toting 'salary men' start packing on. Soon it's standing room only. The air becomes stale.

The train makes a stop, and a few lucky individuals escape. Then a powerful surge of salary men thunders aboard, uniformly dressed in dark, militaristic business suits, their faces blank. Wordlessly, they occupy every cubic inch of space, compacting the flesh of anyone in their way. The car fills to the bursting point.

The onslaught presses Bob and me into our seat; a black wall of business suits hovers over us. My claustrophobia kicks in big time. I feel suffocated, on the edge of panic. I look over at Bob.

He manages a smile for me. "Remember Rolf from the boat ride?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder if he's still dragging that record player around."

I manage a chuckle, and my terror retreats slightly. Bob launches a barrage of humorous banter—satirizing Rolf's German accent, imitating the gruff mannerisms of Mrs. Hirao, lauding the sexiness of the Australian bar girls. His obvious intent is to distract me from my suffering, and I'm glad to play along.

At last we move beyond the downtown area; the car empties out again, and the _Bob West Comedy Hour_ shuts down. I'd been tempted to chide Bob for taking my sweater, but had said nothing. Now I've gotten a wonderful pay off, about which—in the emotionally constipated manner of guys—nothing will be said, either.

We catch our plane to Taipei. Bob seems morose, so I try to cheer him up.

"This is a great opportunity to see authentic Chinese culture. The Communists have wiped out many traditions on the mainland. They even abbreviated the written characters."

"Is that so?" Bob says.

His indifference speaks volumes, so I drop the subject. One of my PCV friends in Korea majored in East Asian studies and was excited by the prospect of getting Chinese language radio broadcasts from the mainland. But when she tuned in the station, all she got was a non-stop propaganda harangue:

"Chairman Mao says, blah blah blah!" The announcer cried. "Chairman Mao says, blah blah blah!"

The announcer's tone was strident, frantic, as if he feared somebody would put a bullet through the back of his skull if he didn't quote Chairman Mao correctly.

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

Taipei sure is a change from Tokyo, and hot, too. We only stayed long enough to see the National Palace Museum and wander the streets a little. Tyler bought several books at the Caves book store. Chinese philosophy, mostly, and something about Taiwanese folk religions.

Alishan

Next day, we headed south to the mountain resort of Alishan. The bus driver had a little red packet hanging from the rear view mirror. I'd noticed one earlier in a taxi as well. Tyler said the packets contained ashes.

"What!" I said. "You mean from cremated people?"

"No, no. Incense ashes from temples. It's supposed to bring good luck to the journey."

"We could have used some on the trip from Pusan."

This seemed like a harmless custom, but it still made me feel kind of weird. [addendum] A lot of things about this trip are making me feel weird.

For the last leg, we boarded a narrow-gauge train. The rusty old steam locomotive looked like it couldn't even pull out of the station. It took us into the high mountains, though.

The climate began to change. We'd started in a jumble of tropical-type vegetation, including giant poinsettia bushes. As we chugged uphill, the bushes became smaller, then disappeared along with the other odd-looking plants. By the time we reached the top, evergreen trees grew straight as telephone poles.

"Fantastic!" Tyler said.

"Sure beats walking," I said.

A solid mass of clouds spread below us with mountain peaks jutting up here and there. We checked into the excellent hotel, the best place I've stayed in over two years. Tyler headed back outside with his camera, but I stayed in to enjoy a marathon shower.

At dinner we met a young unmarried couple. Talk about a great place to bring a girl! I wish I had one here to keep me company while Tyler goes out wandering in the mist. She was a white American and the guy was Chinese. Lots of white guys tied up with Asian girls, but the reverse situation is unusual.

They were one of those super dull couples, always gazing into each others' eyes and holding hands. They'd have little spats, then kiss and make up. You could hardly talk to the girl. If you asked her a question, she'd look over at her boyfriend and he'd answer for her.

"God, what boring dinner conversation!" Tyler said afterwards.

The wind kicked up in the night, like thunder roaring through the trees. Tyler headed outside again. He knew better than to ask me along.

The Edge of Weirdness

The next day, we rode a bus along the west coast. Spectacular scenery with hills reaching down to the empty coastline, jagged rock chimneys in the water.

We arrived at some sort of research station at the southern tip of the island. We wandered about the grounds a while, usually on the paved walkways, but sometimes shuffling through the high grass. Inside the station, a poster showed colorful snakes and lizards.

"What're these?" I asked.

"Poisonous reptiles," an official explained. "Last year a visitor was bitten in the grass out front and died."

"Oh, really?" Tyler said.

He was trying to act casual, but he'd turned a shade paler. Should have read that guidebook a little closer, pal! It was too late to be scared, and Tyler obviously felt stupid, so I didn't say anything nasty.

We went for a long, rambling walk to the Edge of Weirdness. I usually avoided such excursions, but what was the alternative, stay behind and look at the snake poster?

The wind got worse until it almost pushed us along. The rolling landscape was treeless, and heavy clouds whipped by. The crumbled white walls of a ruined building sat on top a low hill. Tyler wanted to check it out, but I refused since we'd have to walk over open ground to get there, and that meant snakes. To my surprise, Tyler didn't argue.

We continued on to a cemetery. The atmosphere inside was other-worldly. You could almost feel ghostly presences wandering among the tombstones with their red Chinese characters. We became separated for a while, and I got pretty spooked. Not another living soul around.

We approached a strange, blocky mausoleum type building with high pink columns and a tiled roof. We stood for a while in the protection of the porch and observed the wind howling through the little pine trees and over the cement grave mounds.

I was creeped out, but Tyler looked full of energy and excitement. I half expected him to spread his arms and fly like a kite in that awful breeze.

"You know, Bob, in the Taiwanese folk religion, just about anything can be worshipped—evil spirits, trees, corpses floating in rivers—maybe even the wind."

"Thanks, I really needed to hear that."

He began snapping pictures. I turned away as I didn't want any evidence that I'd ever been to this Zombie Land place.

A gruesome sight confronted us as we left the cemetery. A dead cat hung from the gate, a cord around its neck. The snarling look on its face showed that it had died in great agony.

"My God!" I said. "Was this here when we came in?"

Written on the gate, beside the dead cat, was the same inscription I'd seen on the ferry and on Mount Fuji.

Tyler turned ashen. "Let's get out of here!"

He practically ran back. I fell farther behind until I could scarcely see him.

Who the hell did that? Again, I suspected Tyler. We'd been separated a while, after all. But that cat. Was Tyler capable of doing such a horrible thing? I didn't want to even think about it. Something terrible was happening way beyond my ability to understand.

Penghu

The next day we went to Kao-hsiung and caught a boat for Penghu, the main Pescadore Island. The weather had turned heavy and overcast, like a scene from a Dracula movie. I was shuffling along on autopilot, praying that nothing else bizarre would happen.

We wandered a stony beach, then visited a strange folk cult temple. The altar had dark, ghastly statues of gods dressed in glittery clothes. They were horrible enough to scare anyone into becoming a believer. Tyler loved the place.

I've got to get out of here. I'm thinking it's time to split off and continue on alone. This whole trip is going off the deep end.

21. Fringe of China – Hong Kong / Macau

" _Then why are you so apprehensive?" – Bruce Lee, speaking in_ _Enter the Dragon_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

This is more like it! The British might be in charge here, but Hong Kong has _my_ kind of Chinese culture.

I wish we had enough money to stay at a nice hotel. As it is, we have to make do with our usual flop house style lodging at a hostel in Kowloon.

The flight from Taipei was very tense. Tyler and I sat with an aisle between us, both suspicious. Now and then we'd look across at each other, but said nothing. Paranoia rode along with us.

I thought of splitting up at the Hong Kong airport, but decided against it, just barely. I have this weird feeling that Tyler needs me, somehow. Who knows why? Maybe I need him, too. All I know is that this trip is turning into more than I bargained for.

Late afternoon, we took the Star Ferry to Hong Kong island. I was so excited I stood up too soon at the end of the ride. The boat banged against the dock. I would have fallen and cracked my skull if Tyler hadn't caught me. I started to feel better about having him around.

We rode the Victoria Peak tram to the island high point. Tyler went nuts taking pictures. There are really three of us on this trip—me, Tyler, and "Jewel Eye" as he calls the camera. Like a kid naming a stuffed toy.

Then down into the crowded streets and an excellent dinner. The awful memories of Taiwan started to fade. Who has time for them? No spooky memory ever bought me a beer.

I was still a bit leery of Tyler, though. He seemed okay, but there was no telling when something else weird might happen. Well, I've got my passport and my own bankroll. We'll see.

"Let's go to a Chinese opera," Tyler suggested.

Well, why not? It was quite a performance with crashing music and acrobats jumping around. The female singers hit incredible high notes.

"They sound like cats," Tyler said.

Yes, cats... that strangled one hanging from the gate. Thanks for reminding me. I was too exhausted to appreciate the show. Earlier today I'd escaped from Taiwan. The hectic plane ride, etc. I dozed off despite the opera racket.

Then back across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon. Fabulous lit up skyline. We stopped at a girlie bar for a drink. A couple of shady characters followed us as we left, but they dropped away. Either we seemed too formidable for them, or they realized we were going to the flop house and wouldn't be worth sticking up.

A whirlwind of sightseeing the next day. A sidewalk fortune teller promised me happiness and long life. Tyler refused to get his fortune told, said it was "against my religion." Then a sampan tour of Aberdeen harbor.

"This is like _Enter the Dragon_ ," I said. "Remember the scene where Bruce Lee gets rowed out to the junk?"

"Right. So, what's Bruce Lee got that we don't?"

"A body, for starters," I said.

We ate at a floating restaurant, and Tyler got into one of his strange moods—just as I was feeling pretty good from a couple glasses of plum wine.

"Do you think it's possible for two people to be on the same wave length and not even know it?" he asked.

"My old girl friend told me to get _off_ her wave length."

Tyler frowned. Hey, I didn't think it was such a bad joke.

"What do you know about Jon Glass?" he asked a few minutes later.

"Why'd you bring him up?" I indicated the crowd. "Do you think he looks Chinese, or something?"

"What _does_ he look like?"

The discussion was idiotic, and I wanted to blow things off with another joke. Tyler looked very urgent, though.

"I'm not exactly sure," I said. "I hardly knew the guy."

With all the sensory overload of these past weeks, how was I supposed to recall some minor acquaintance from Korea? Tyler was waiting for me to continue, though.

"I don't remember actually talking with him ever," I said. "He wasn't the type of guy you felt comfortable around. He was kind of..."

"Kind of what?"

"Spooky."

I expected a sarcastic response, but Tyler only nodded.

We cruised Nathan Road back in Kowloon. Tyler stopped at a book store and loaded up with Red Chinese literature. How's this for a reading list?

_Quotations from Chairman Mao,_ a.k.a. The Little Red Book

10th National Congress of the Communist Party of China, documents

And best of all: _Little Ching and Hu Tzu Guard the Cornfield_

I scanned the children's picture book. Auntie Chang's geese had escaped from their coop and eaten the new corn plants. The kids stop them and educate Auntie Chang about the importance of protecting collective property. The last page shows them all standing together, smiling.

Little Ching holds up a copy of the Little Red Book and says, "Chairman Mao asks us to store grain, so we should protect the fields and grow more."

"That's a boring story," I said. "Don't the Communists just shoot anybody who causes problems? Put Auntie Chang against a wall and let her have it?"

"Yeah, it is pretty dull," Tyler agreed. "Nice pictures, though."

"You're not going off the deep end with this stuff?" I asked, only half joking.

"It's just historical record. Someday, people will know what nonsense all this was, including the b.s. from our side."

I nodded. I was getting uneasy with the direction the conversation was going.

"Remember the Domino Theory?" Tyler asked. "If we pulled out of Vietnam, all the neighboring countries would fall over and we'd be fighting the Commies in Los Angeles."

"What a load of crap that was," I agreed.

"Or the 'light at the end of the tunnel' concept. Like there was this wonderful victory ahead if we only kept fighting. Who dreamed that up?"

"I think the guy was actually seeing the bullet train coming straight at us," I said.

Tyler was getting heated, so I pretended to notice something fascinating in a shop window. I knew his brother had served in Vietnam and that Tyler felt a lot of anger about that.

Macau

We took the hydrofoil to Macau and wandered around the streets with their old Portuguese buildings. An English girl joined us for a while. She was cute, and I really dug her accent. I felt uneasy, though. Before long, Tyler and I would start competing for her and cause ourselves problems.

Who was I trying to kid? Tyler is far more successful with women than I could ever be. I'm the respectful, nice guy that women are supposedly looking for but always pass over for the sexier dude who treats them like crap.

The problem was solved when a guy showed up on a motor bike. He talked with us a few minutes, then the girl rode off with him.

"How do you like that?" Tyler said. "What's he got that we don't?"

"Looks like a motor bike."

Macau didn't interest me much. All those shabby old buildings. Then we came to a big gambling casino, and my whole outlook changed. The front was covered with neon lights. When night came, the place would sparkle like a fairyland castle.

"This is what I've been waiting for!" I cried.

"Uh huh."

That's Tyler for you, the original fun guy. He unfolded his map. Probably looking for some cemetery to creep around in.

"There are two islands south of here," he said. "Coloane sounds interesting."

"How do you get there?"

He pointed towards a bridge shooting across the ocean from our side to a misty, empty shore. It arched high in the middle, and junks were sailing underneath. The thing looked bigger than the Ambassador Bridge between Detroit and Canada, but it kind of blended in with the water and sky. I was surprised I hadn't noticed it before.

"Might be fun to walk," Tyler said.

"How long is that bridge?" I was dizzy just looking at it.

"About a mile and a half," Tyler said. "Then a mile across Taipa island and another bridge to Coloane."

Here I've got the promised land in front of me, and I'm supposed to wander off on another of Tyler's bizarro adventures? No way in hell.

"Think I'll try my luck at the Casino," I said.

We agreed to meet back at the Kowloon flop house. I handed him my reserve packet of traveler's checks.

"Hang on to these for me? I don't trust myself in there."

22. Showdown in Coloane

_I was tiring of this tolerant, interconnected world. I wanted something more secretive, more elusive. –_ _Stealing from a Deep Place_ _, Brian Hall_

Tyler's Account

I ride a taxi to Taipa Island. I never intended to walk over the bridge and had only said so as a way to discourage Bob, if the casino didn't provide enough incentive for him to stay behind. I need a break from him and the constant city bustle.

I step out of the taxi into a different world. The dense, urbanized atmosphere I've been living in for many days is replaced by empty countryside. I walk a mile across the island, avoiding a small village, and do not see another person. The non-stop commercial transaction of city life comes to a blessed halt.

Yet, the island has a tentative feel, like a quiet rural area that's been zoned for a shopping mall. Development can't be far off. Why else that huge new bridge? In the coming years, builders will march over it bringing the cramped urban world with them, but for now, it's great to be here alone.

Odd that somebody like me, with such a craving for open spaces, had been assigned to Seoul by the Peace Corps. I'd been very upset and had considered quitting on the spot. One of the PC staff members put things in perspective. "You wouldn't like a small town," he said. "You'd be bored with everything."

He was right. Most people annoy me after a while. The chatter of everyday conversation bores me. Maybe I'm smarter than most people I meet, or else I'm just walking a different road. Often it seems I'm speaking a different language from those around me. Maybe Yun Hee was right to break things off. Over time I would have probably gotten bored with her, too.

Then there's Bob. Nobody would claim that he's a towering intellect, but I enjoy his company, most of the time. His sunny temperament is a good counterpoint to my introspection. In a way, I almost feel he's an externalized aspect of my own personality—the sociable, contented part that seldom gets out.

There's a bizarre thought, but no weirder than the strangled cat hanging on the cemetery gate. The cruelty of that scene hit me an almost physical blow. Worse yet was the Jon Glass moniker, scratched into the gate like a tombstone epitaph. The murdered animal drove me from that place. The inscription propelled me along.

I've not encountered any signs of Jon Glass in Hong Kong or Macau, but I look for them constantly. Jon has preceded me everywhere. Why? What is his motivation, or does he even have one? Does he know what's going on any more than I do?

If I could figure out what's driving Jon Glass, I might have some answers about myself. Then again, maybe I've seen the last of him. I sure hope so.

Or do I?

On some level, the thought of losing the Glass trail saddens me. It would be a mystery departed from my life, leaving me poorer than I was—a fascinating door closing, stranding me in a bleak hallway.

Here's another weird thought: Bob could be the one who is placing the signs in my way. He's in a position to do so, and he knows Jon Glass, though he tried to deny it. Maybe the two of them cooked up a scheme to drive be batty.

And don't forget that convenient separation at the cemetery in Taiwan, plenty of time for him to string up the cat. Is there something sinister under Bob's genial facade?

Absurd!

But how can I know for sure? Think of all the serial killers who are very pleasant on the outside. People are astonished to discover the monsters lurking underneath.

What I want most is to be my own man again, without strange ideas squirming around in my brain turning me paranoid. I've been running scared, but here, on these isolated islands, I'll get back into base. If something haunting and mysterious awaits me, let it come.

I arrive at the causeway to Coloane and begin walking over the water like a prophet seeking enlightenment. Finally, tired and foot sore, I reach a little hotel overlooking the water. It's mostly empty, a new and undiscovered resort type place.

My room is pleasant with pastel walls and a sliding glass door to a patio. I enjoy a luxurious shower, eat dinner, and settle in for the evening.

Lounging on the chair by the little writing desk, I feel righteously tired—a man who has put in a good day's effort and is entitled to disdain those who have not. I gaze over the darkening water through the sliding door, my uneasy thoughts drifting away.

Of course, it isn't long before I start feeling restless. Whatever situation I might be in, I generally want another one. Like the boat ride from Pusan. While it was happening, I'd have given anything to be someplace else, but by now my memory has revised the experience into a romantic adventure.

The warmth and security of my current environment makes me long for a rougher edge. I pull out my guidebooks. I've been a mere tourist up to this point on the trip. I want to discover an unbeaten track leading to destinations conventional people never reach. Maybe I could find it in the Philippines.

An oval mirror with a curlicue frame hangs on the wall opposite the writing desk. It seems I should be able to view my reflection from my position, but the glass is blank except for a light fixture peeking in from the upper left edge. Some mildly interesting optical effect, I think.

I shove the books aside, too tired to think about the next trip phase. Better to catch up on letter writing, instead. Grandfather Alois is due a communiqué, so I pull out an aerogramme.

What to write?

Dear Grandpa, having a wonderful time, wish you were here.

Yeah, it would have been fun to have him along on some of the activities. He would have loved the Inland Sea. Or how about that hostess bar in Tokyo? I could just picture him with his old world demeanor and handlebar mustache, a hot Australian babe on each side. I laugh and rock back my chair, my hands joined behind my head.

Then I glance at the mirror again and my mood begins to sour. The damn thing still shows the identical reflection, even though I've changed position. I should be able to see myself, but all the mirror displays is part of the ceiling light fixture poking in on the upper left edge.

I look toward the ceiling to gauge the angles. The globe of frosted glass spreads soft illumination. I look back into the mirror. The light fixture in the mirror is different from the one on the ceiling! I bang my chair back down.

There's some explanation. Don't let it creep you out.

But it _is_ creeping me out, big time. My eyes dart about the room. The light fixture on the ceiling is a glass sphere, while the one in the mirror is boxy and edged with filigree, like the mirror frame.

I scan every nook of the room, find nothing to explain this phenomenon. The hairs on my neck prickle, and the hands bracing my head turn cold. Then the light fixture in the glass begins swinging back and forth like some crazy hypnotist's pocket watch.

"Godammit!"

In an instant I've reached the hallway door and jerked it open. Then I pause, heart pounding. My legs vibrate, aching to run down the hall. With an intense effort, I turn back toward the mirror. It hangs innocuously, waiting for me. Thank God I can't see into the glass from this angle.

_Now or never_.

I rush the mirror and yank it off the wall. As it comes loose, I catch a fleeting, blurry image in the glass—a person that is not me. I shove the mirror into the closet, bury it under some towels, and slam the door.

I stride out to the patio. "You're not gonna beat me! So you can fuck off!"

No answer comes from the black, placid water.

# Four: Mad Pursuit

" _He had to be charming, he was Hungarian." – Orson Wells, speaking in_ _F for Fake_

23. Philippine Islands

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

Some Edge of Weirdness thing must have happened on Coloane. Tyler was even more moody than usual when he came back, but not as dark, if you know what I'm saying. I don't know what I'm saying myself, so I'll drop it.

On the plane to Manila, Tyler was reading _The Tenth National Congress of the Communist Party of China, documents._

I should have known better, but I asked to see the small red paperback. The front section had photos of the Red leaders, especially Chairman Mao. They were mostly old men, but their faces were airbrushed smooth.

"Mao's dead, isn't he?" I asked.

"Yeah. His corpse is on permanent display like some temple idol. He's one of the Communist death gods now."

I returned the book.

"At least the Nazis were straightforward," Tyler said. "'We are the Master Race, you're not, so we're gonna kill you!' Pretty simple philosophy, eh?"

"Uh, yeah."

"The Communists, on the other hand, destroy millions of human beings and it's all 'serving the people.'"

I twisted in my seat. Couldn't we talk about something interesting, like girls, or getting drunk?

Tyler was on a roll. "Have you read _Crime and Punishment_?"

"Yeah, in high school. Isn't it about a guy who brained somebody with an ax?"

Tyler nodded. "He wanted to be another Napoleon, so he committed murder to see if he could be above morality."

"Sounds like a fun guy."

"A lot of 'fun guys' are running things these days."

Manila

Manila is upbeat, exciting, and everybody speaks English. I felt immediately at home. Even Tyler lightened up. This is the first country with PCVs, so we jumped on a bus and headed straight for the Peace Corps office on Agno Street. A uniformed bus girl collected our fare, like in Seoul.

The Filipina secretary at the office gave us a frosty reception. "You're from Korea, huh?"

"Yes, we're returning volunteers," I replied.

She fixed a hard look on Tyler. "Another Peace Corps Korea man came through here last week. I don't know his name."

She actually shuddered, and damned if Tyler didn't turn pale. He recovered quickly, though.

"How interesting," he said, trotting out that slick Greek / Hungarian charm, or whatever the hell it is. "Did he happen to say where he was going?"

The secretary shook her head. "No!"

This cleared the air, and she became more friendly. She referred us to a private home in Manila where we could stay. She also gave us a huge road map. She unfolded the lower half and indicated the southern island.

"Don't visit Zamboanga or any place else on Mindanao," she said. "The army is fighting the Moro guerrillas, much trouble."

Tyler nodded. Let me guess—he'll want to go down there.

"The Sulu islands are worse." She pointed to a chain of islands off Mindanao. "Very dangerous."

We got a room at the house. The people were really nice. After a tasty meal we headed outside. It was an in between time, too early to hit the bars and too late for sightseeing.

"Ready to head north tomorrow?" Tyler said.

"We just got here. I love Manila."

"Plenty of time for it later. We have to come back, anyhow, since the airport is here."

I looked sadly around the street—the hustling crowds, the pretty Filipinas. I hated the idea of leaving. Then again, if Tyler said we'd do the town later, I could believe him. He's got the lowest B.S. quotient of anybody I know.

"Okay," I said.

"Great! We'll go skin diving at the 100 Islands national park first."

"In the ocean?"

"Yeah. Just mask, fins and snorkel. No tanks."

I can barely get around a swimming pool. Now I'm supposed to be Jacques Cousteau out in the ocean? Well, I'll go along, but I might have to say "no tanks" once we get out there.

We found a movie theater. Wouldn't you know, it was showing _Jaws_? I practically jumped out of my seat when the detached head bobbed up. Tyler grinned wickedly.

"You've seen this already, haven't you?" I said.

He shrugged.

Yeah, very entertaining—the _Watch Bob Have a Coronary_ show. The head was bad enough, but when the guy got his leg ripped off, I could barely keep from vomiting.

"Are you _sure_ you want to go skin diving, Tyler?"

Another evil grin.

We went to a bar afterwards. It was in a seedy neighborhood, and I was feeling uneasy. A little honey named Lulu was grooving on me, though, so I hated to leave. Another American guy was there, an "old hand" in the Philippines, he claimed.

"It's a lot safer now that President Marcos has confiscated the guns," he said. "Used to be everybody was packing iron, murder in every neighborhood. People would shoot their wife, their best friend, a shop keeper, anybody who pissed them off. Crazy!"

"Sounds like Detroit," I said.

He showed us a scar on his neck. "A few years ago, right in this bar, two Filipinos were arguing. One guy pulls a gun. Well, I was too drunk to know better and I said, 'Put that thing away!' So he shot me."

"Damn," Tyler said, "that calls for another beer."

He ordered a round of San Miguels.

"The bullet nearly cut my jugular," the guy said. "I staggered out to a cab. 'Get me to the hospital!' You know, the driver actually argued with me about the fare."

I could have done without hearing this story, especially after seeing _Jaws_. Maybe the Philippines isn't quite as friendly as I thought.

Northward

I enjoyed snorkeling. You just float along looking at the corals and stuff. We took a little boat out and had a good time, except for when the current started pulling me out to sea. Tyler saw my situation and had the boat guy pick me up.

Tyler went out a couple more days, but I stayed at the little bungalow hotel nursing a sunburn along with numerous bottles of San Miguel.

Next we headed north to the Banawe / Bontoc area around those terraced rice paddy hills you see in travelogues. The bus was a rickety piece of junk. I was sitting in front next to the driver when I noticed fuel leaking over the floor. I felt some concern, especially since the driver was smoking a cigarette. I pointed out the leak to him, but he said not to worry because it was only diesel fuel. That made me feel much better.

We met a Filipino who worked on a cruise ship. He said they were going to Iloilo, on Panay Island, for a big festival. Why not? We returned to Manila and got on the boat.

Iloilo

Huge crowds filled the street, dancing and blowing whistles. People dressed in wild costumes. I was never so drunk in my life. Tyler got made up in grease paint and joined the mob.

I saw a big, fat guy leading the procession. He had a face painted on his torso, nipples for eyes and a belly button mouth. Later, somebody showed me a Polaroid photo. Damned if it wasn't _me_ leading the parade! I must have been more bombed out of my skull than I realized.

We stopped for lunch at a little restaurant with a PCV named Kurt. We were served a stew of unknown composition. It didn't taste bad, though.

"What's in this?" Tyler asked.

"Probably goat meat," Kurt said.

Tyler continued eating, unfazed.

"Say it's dog," I whispered in Kurt's ear.

"On second thought," Kurt said, "I think this is dog stew."

Tyler shoved his plate aside. He looked green under his makeup.

"What's wrong with dog meat?" I continued chowing down.

Sweet revenge for _Jaws_.

The Shady Cops

We met two Filipino policemen from Manila who were in the area on "business," supposedly selling road construction materials. This sounded kind of suspect, but we didn't ask questions.

One cop was quiet and shifty and didn't stick around long. The other, who reminded me of the head bandito in _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_ , said he had to go to the neighboring island of Masbate. He'd hired a motorized outrigger and offered to take us along.

He was pretty talkative and spoke of the many nights he'd spent sleeping in a cemetery rather than doing police patrol. We all sat in the cabin by the open doorway. A boy outside moved along the outrigger struts providing stability, gripping a wire line to keep from falling in.

An occasional big wave splashed in, soaking us to a loud chorus of "Shit!"

Other water craft happened by. Some were outriggers like us, others were small boats sitting so low the occupants looked to be free floating.

"Masbate!" our captain shouted.

The people in the other boats would gesture in some general direction, as if they were showing us the way to the corner bar. The trip was supposed to take five hours, and, sure enough, after five hours we reached land. The only problem was, we were still on Panay. We'd made a big horseshoe round trip.

"That settles it," Tyler said. "I'm going to Mindanao."

"You're crazy," I said.

Tyler shrugged. "I take it you're not interested."

"No way in hell!"

I got back on the boat with the policeman. Maybe we could actually get to Masbate this time. Tyler went his own way. We'll meet again in Manila. Hopefully.

24. Boat Ride to Paranoia

" _In undertaking adventures, it is much better to overdo than underdo and much better does it sound in the ear to whom it is related." – Don Quixote_

Tyler's Account

"What the hell am I doing here?" I ask myself repeatedly during the boat trip to Zamboanga.

A visit to Mindanao island made perfect sense when I was dancing down the street in Iloilo, or riding in that outrigger with Bob and the crooked policeman. I'll just pop down there, I thought, and satisfy my craving for going off the beaten track.

Now that I'm alone, the whole idea seems nuts. Where is that beaten track, anyway? Make room for me, please!

The sea passage isn't difficult. It's the people on the boat that unsettle me, the sense of being on some _Heart of Darkness_ type expedition.

Below deck, on the big cushioned floor, I sit by a group of four unsavory looking Filipinos. It is the only space available, as I'd boarded late. All four are dark, hard-bitten young men with long hair. One of them has a scar running down his face. Periodically, they glance my way with suspicion.

Smiling uneasily, I sidle as far away as possible and try to read my newspaper. A middle-aged woman leans toward me.

"Give me the newspaper," she says by way of greeting.

I hand it over.

Damn, I have to get out of here!

I retreat outside to the bow and look about warily. A glassy ocean vista stretches to the horizon; the blaring red of a low sun lurches across it. This close to the equator, sunsets are supposed to be beautiful, but all this one brings to mind is a great deal of blood spread over the water.

I wish Bob was here.

But he isn't. He's proved repeatedly that he's a stand-by-you type friend, but this attitude has limits. It doesn't apply when I am bound and determined to be an idiot. Besides, Bob is not a part of this mission.

I'm after Jon Glass, and Mindanao is the sort of place to find him. I've had this goal in mind ever since speaking with the PC secretary in Manila, but I've been lying to myself about it.

This boat is no place for lies, though, only harsh realities have a place here. The skin diving and the Iloilo festival had been mere diversions; this is the main business of the trip. If Jon wants to lure me on, very well. I'll find him and demand an explanation to his face. Before this is over, he'll know I am not someone to trifle with.

At least I'll make a go at it. In the oppressive atmosphere of the boat, my grandiose plans to trek Mindanao are shrinking rapidly. A quick return to Manila is making more sense all the time. I look up toward the small observation deck over the pilot house. I can't believe my eyes.

A young American guy is standing at the railing, in a Michigan State University T-shirt no less. He gazes forlornly out to sea, looking as apprehensive as I feel.

"Hello!" I call.

He glances down at me in astonishment, starts to retreat.

"Michigan State, right on!" I raise both arms in a two-fisted V sign.

He hesitates. I bound up the stairs.

"Good to see an American face." I pump the guy's hand. "I'm Tyler Lakatos, lately of Peace Corps Korea."

The guy's manner is reserved, scared almost. "I'm Ken Hamilton, Peace Corps Philippines."

Great name, like the man on the ten dollar bill.

"So... did you go to MSU, Tyler?"

"No, but I've heard it's a great school. A friend of mine back in Manila graduated from State. Bob West. Did you know him?"

"Afraid not, but with 40,000 students, that's hardly surprising."

I tear open a pack of cigarettes and offer one.

"No thanks," Ken says. "I don't smoke."

I light up. "Me neither, hardly, but out here a cigarette comes in handy."

"You've got that right." Ken gazes out at the murderous sunset. "On second thought, I will take one."

A friendly cloud of tobacco smoke whirls above us into the slipstream, and Ken's attitude warms. He explains that he is traveling "incognito" because the Peace Corps director has banned visits to the restive southern Philippines. Any PCV who went there risked disciplinary action.

Ken doesn't specify what the "disciplinary action" is, but it can't be as bad as other things that might happen—like getting on the unfriendly side of those four guys downstairs. And just how incognito he expects to be is unclear. Having the only white face, besides mine, on the whole boat seems like rather poor camouflage. Plus that MSU shirt.

He wants to see Zamboanga, he says, but isn't dumb enough to visit the Sulu Islands. Jolo Island is the current hottest spot. The Philippine air force recently "bombed the shit" out of the place.

"This whole area is screwed," he says. "Settlers from the northern islands are pushing out the Islamic Moros and the tribal people, destroying the forests. Corruption, land speculation, you name it. And now this Moro guerrilla movement. It's like the old Wild West."

I light another cigarette. At this rate, I'll be up to a pack a day in no time. Things are going on here I don't understand and cannot influence. Best to play the clueless foreigner and just try to get along.

"Is Bob West also PC Korea?" Ken asks.

"Yeah."

"What does he look like?"

"He's a big guy, maybe six-two. Fairly over weight, light hair."

"Oh, it wasn't him, then." Ken flips his dead cigarette butt overboard. "There's another Korea PCV wandering around. He's made quite an impression."

"Really?" My unease, which has been in retreat, presses in again. "Have you seen him?"

"No, but some friends have. They didn't enjoy it much. His name is, uh..."

"Glass?" My voice sounds distant to me.

"That might be it. You know, this is really stupid, but at first I thought that _you_ might be him."

"Do you have any idea where he's headed?"

Ken shakes his head. "Wouldn't surprise me if he came down here. It's weird enough for him."

I return below decks, my paranoia fully restored. I need to think about this new intelligence, but right now I have more immediate concerns. The guy with the scar is observing me. I look at him and he glances away. I bury my nose in a book, but when I look up from it, he's watching me again.

"You American?" he asks.

"Yes. Just traveling around on my way back home."

He says something to the other three, who apparently do not understand English. They observe me silently, nodding. I begin to consider a return to the outside deck.

"We fought in the mountains a long time," the scarred one says, "against Philippines army."

"Oh, really?"

The others nod again, and I smile, wondering if they have weapons concealed under their clothes. Is a hijack in the offing, who will get their throat slit first?

The Filipino seems in a friendly mood, though. In halting English, he explains that they are former Moro guerrilla fighters who have recently accepted a government amnesty.

"The fighting was very bad," he says, "many killed."

I don't ask about the scar. God only knows what horrors these guys have suffered, or have inflicted on others. There's no joy in them, and hardness attends their eyes—latent violence you don't want to stir up. Never have I felt more like the naïve, spoiled American.

"Well, good luck to you all," I say. "I hope things work out."

Who knows what will happen if their grievances and those of others like them around the world remain unresolved—continuing violence, hatred, attacks on innocent civilians. The only certainty is that when people are treated like crap, you can't expect them to turn you a warm and cuddly face.

Their curiosity about me satisfied, the men withdraw back into their little group, and I begin to breathe a bit easier. The middle-aged lady who had grabbed my newspaper takes an interest in me next.

"Are you staying long in Mindanao?" she asks.

"I don't know. Maybe."

Actually, "middle-aged" wouldn't be accurate. She's probably only late thirties, but has the prematurely old look so many women in Asian countries have, especially from rural areas.

"Go visit my Auntie," she says.

"Where is she?"

"You have map?"

I pull out the one I got at the PC office, and she rumples it open vigorously. Nobody can say that she doesn't have a forthright manner.

"Give me pen."

I hand her my blue felt tip, the same one used to decorate the wine house girl in Choon Chun. She circles the town of Kidapawan in the island's interior, about two hundred miles from Zamboanga.

"My Auntie runs a children's foundation around here in the Arakan Valley."

She writes some information on the bottom of the map. "Tell her Carmin sent you."

"Thanks."

I don't ask for more details. I have already decided to confine my Mindanao travels to the Zamboanga town limits.

25. Zamboanga

_She could thaw the frozen balls of a Nestor or a Prium –_ _Satires_ _, by Juvenal_

The next two days go by pleasantly, hanging out with Ken. Zamboanga is a nice little city. I feared this would be a combat zone, but it's peaceful—on the surface, anyway. Only the presence of soldiers and the PC reminds me this is a potentially volatile place.

_PC_ stands for "Philippine Constabulary," a military / police type outfit with a tough reputation. I've see them from my second story hotel window marching by in their crisp uniforms.

The highlight of the first day's sightseeing is a visit to Tit's Dress Shop.

"Can you believe that?" Ken points to the window sign.

"Guess they don't have the same slang here."

We go into the shop and speak with the owner, a young woman nicknamed Tit. She is quite friendly and gives Ken a cloth tag with the store's name on it. He lovingly places it in his wallet.

"Maybe you need some outlets," I tell Ken when we are back on the street.

Speaking of outlets, a couple of girls attach themselves to us at the coffee shop next to our hotel. They are both attractive, but one is especially cute. Anybody would be interested, even if they weren't a hot-blooded Hungarian like myself.

But the thought of another hooker depresses me. It only serves to highlight my current unloved status, and the consequent let down is more than I care to deal with. Ken's eyeballs are popping out of his skull, though, and he is becoming competitive.

"It's okay," I remark, scarcely believing my own words. "I'm not really interested. Take your pick."

He picks both.

The next day, we climb to the roof of one of the taller buildings to get a panoramic view. I discover a machine gun, complete with attached ammunition belt, positioned behind some sand bags.

"Look at that!"

We glance about nervously, nobody around.

"The soldiers are probably napping somewhere," Ken says.

Anybody could have opened fire on the town below. We get out in a hurry. The rest of the day I keep looking up toward the roof top.

That evening, Ken and the two girls prepare to leave on a boat headed north.

"Coming with us?" he asks.

I hesitate. My paranoia has diminished during the past two days, allowing my 'young and immortal' persona to reemerge. Hell, I'd stared down a loaded machine gun, hadn't I? All that nastiness the Peace Corps secretary mentioned couldn't have anything to do with me. I'm a _foreigner_ , protected in my own little world. And my mission awaits, too.

"No," I say. "Think I'll go out to Kidapawan."

Ken shakes his head. "Bad idea, man."

I shrug.

He pulls a lumpy, gross looking object from his bag. "Durian fruit. I was saving it for the boat ride, but let's have some now."

I pick up the thing gingerly and whiff the husk. It had a pungent, almost rotten odor.

"Smells like hell, but tastes like heaven," one of the girls says.

"Thanks anyway."

I hand the object back. My sense of adventure has limits.

26. Across Mindanao

" _Drift with the current ... if we do not find anything pleasant, we shall at least find something new." – Cacambo, speaking in_ _Candide_ _, by Voltaire_

I wake up the next morning with two bug bites on my leg, which soon develop into dime-sized oozing sores. Because of this, or in addition to it, I become feverish and languid. The tropical heat takes an increasing toll on me.

I'd intended to reach Kidapawan by the most direct route, but the trip soon becomes a semi-dream state meander around Mindanao. I drift along, as if following a route planned by another person.

Sometimes I slip into an almost mystical state of mind. Other times, the fever abates and everything seems crystal-clear normal, although it really isn't. I obtain a wicked looking collapsible knife and keep it handy in my pocket.

Travel conditions are primitive. I ride in Jeepneys, surplus military jeeps with passenger compartments grafted on. Fifteen or more people jam aboard these contraptions which groan and creak along the narrow dirt roads. Sometimes rivers get in the way. No Bridge? No problem. The jeepney simply plunges in and drives to the opposite shore, water covering its wheels.

If there is no road on the other side, the vehicle simply motors along the river bottom, up or downstream as required. Eventually we pick up some kind of track on the far side. Everything has a 'far side' quality, like a trip to some alternate universe. I can scarcely eat, which adds to my fantastical state of mind.

Evidences of Jon Glass appear. He begins to fester in my brain, as the insect bites are festering on my leg.

I stop in a little barrio to watch a cock fight. A crude, rough crowd rings the cockpit waving money as the birds struggle with lethal fury. I see Jon's moniker etched on the boards separating the mob from the combatants.

I go snorkeling near a little fishing village and am disconcerted to find a stone fish reposing in the shallows. It's a small, innocuous lump, like a durian with fins, but a spine on its back contains deadly poison. Nearby, a Filipino fisherman walks about the water, barefoot. I pull up my mask.

"Be careful. There's a stone fish."

"Oh?" the fisherman says. "I thought you killed them all last week."

One day, toward dusk, I find myself stranded on a remote dirt road. It is an area of bucolic tranquility and destitution—bamboo houses built on low stilts, agricultural fields carved out of hillsides. As I walk along, some ragged young girls come down from the fields, hoes over their shoulders.

One talks to me in English. "How are you? I didn't think you'd come this way again. Can you give me another peso?"

I give her some money, to the titters of the other girls.

Men are waiting in the road. Transportation is coming, they say. A truck soon arrives and we pile into the back. As we grind slowly through the hills, darkness sets in and masses of little insect-eating bats swirl around.

I cheer them on. "Get those damned bugs!"

High up, flying with deadly purpose in the moonlight, are formations of large fruit-eating bats. The scene is like something out of a horror movie, enhanced by my fever and light-headedness. Fumes from the truck exhaust waft about, and the rumbling engine obscures any night sounds. A passenger lights a cigarette, and I see Jon's moniker again in the match light, scrawled on the side of the truck.

Ominous undertones of violence intrude wherever I go. A Filipino I meet on a Jeepney ride suggests I visit a particular wilderness area to satisfy my ambition of seeing a pristine rain forest. He even provides a letter of introduction to the local authorities.

The timing of my visit to this remote location is poor, however. I arrive at a modest, official building just as a group of armed men is forming up. They wear grim, apprehensive expressions. A woman comes out to speak with me. She is tense and distracted but tries to show me some hospitality.

While I sit drinking a Coke with her, the armed patrol moves into the forest. What the hell is out there—bandits, guerrillas?

"As you can see, we're having much trouble now," she says. "I'm sorry we can't permit you to visit the forest."

"Yeah, too bad."

I mop a handkerchief over my forehead. The tepid coke only makes the atmosphere more sweltering.

"Not long ago, another American went on patrol with our men," she says. "He did not return with the others."

My insect bites sting like cobra venom. For a mad instant, I want to follow the patrol. I stand up, and the woman grasps my arm.

"Please sit down," she says. "You don't look well."

She seems to be speaking from far away. Her face looks fuzzy. My knees give out and I do sit down. Soon after, I get the hell out.

Then I'm finally too ill to continue traveling. I stop in Davao, or maybe it's General Santos City, and check into a little hotel. A local doctor gives me some pills and an ointment for the sores.

I keep wanting to leave my room and continue the trek. I get up, move to the door, and things start to blur out. Next thing I know, I'm back in bed. Somebody must be bringing me food because I wake up and see the empty plates, though I have no recollection of eating.

After a couple days of this limbo-like existence, I feel better. I venture out to the town plaza and bump into a scruffy Australian guy named Floyd. Who knows what the hell he's doing here? It seems advisable not to ask questions.

We drink sugar cane wine and chat with his Filipino acquaintances. One young man, a tough looking dude named Romy, has a bandaged forearm resting in a sling. On some recent occasion, he'd flung it up to protect his head from a machete blow.

"It was a disagreement over a business deal," Floyd explains.

"Uh huh."

Floyd offers me a cigarette, and I light up. I don't enjoy his company much, but am too lethargic to move on. A return to my dreary hotel room offers few attractions. The atmosphere is sultry, and everything seems to progress in slow motion.

A military policeman wavers out of the humidity. "Excuse me."

He snatches my cigarette and takes a puff. I gape at him with astonishment.

"Just checking." The cop returns the cigarette and saunters off.

"What was that about?" I say.

"He was finding out if you had dope mixed with the tobacco," Floyd replies nonchalantly.

Just what I need, jailed in the middle of nowhere! I instantly repudiate all cigarettes, especially those offered by shady acquaintances. I can't expect the authorities here to be as tolerant as my friend, Rick, from college. During the summers he worked as a security guard at a baseball stadium. He'd sneak up on suspicious groups of kids in the center field bleachers.

"Get rid of the joint, the security guard's coming!"

"The hell with that," Rick would say. "Give me a toke."

Floyd indicates Romy's wounded arm. "An American did that to him."

"Oh?" I'm instantly alert.

"Romy started it. He threatened the guy with his machete. But the American got it away from him and let him have it."

Romy leers at me. He is a mean guy, all right. Just as well he's incapacitated.

"Come to think of it," Floyd says, "that American guy looked a bit like you. No wonder Romy is upset."

Finally, I arrive in Kidapawan where I hook up with a group heading out to the Foundation.

27. The Last Miles

One guy in our group is going to visit a relative at the Foundation. He's a mooch, and I avoid him.

Another man, Gil, is a security guard with an official-looking blue shirt and a military carbine sporting a crudely chopped-down stock. He reminds me of the cop we met on Panay. The same type of affable shiftiness, scraggly mustache, and modest potbelly.

A couple of taciturn women bring up the rear. Since no transportation is available, we hike some miles to the Foundation through the Arakan Valley. As the day becomes hotter, I drift into automatic mode, simply placing one foot in front of the other, paying little attention to where we are heading. My sores itch furiously.

The terrain has a raw look with occasional spindly trees poking up from the fields, as if the area has recently been deforested. Farmers walk along the roadside with big, curve horned _carabao_.

Conversation is minimal, primarily the Mooch bellyaching and trying to hustle me for money. Immune to my polite refusals, he finally receives a direct "get lost" and moves back with the women.

My fever is acting up, joining with the harsh sun to drain my energy. In my mind, I return to Wyoming with its hot, sweaty trails. Wyoming is mountainous, this area is flat, but the mind-numbing tedium is the same.

To relieve his boredom, Gil twirls his rifle like a cheerleader's baton. I drop farther away so as to avoid the coming mishap. Sure enough, the damn thing comes apart in mid twirl, hitting the ground and scattering pieces of itself everywhere. The clip springs out; bullets litter the dirt. I help retrieve the cartridges.

"You won't tell Mother about this, will you?" Gil says with obvious embarrassment.

"Excuse me?"

"The Foundation director, everybody calls her 'Mother.'"

This seems rather odd, but no more so than anything else. For a transcendental moment, my perspective shifts, and I'm looking at the scene from the viewpoint of somebody kicked back in an easy chair with a cold brew. _There's Tyler_ , I observe, _in the middle of nowhere scrabbling on the ground for bullets. He looks pretty ragged_.

Then I pop back to Mindanao. "Don't worry, Gil, I won't say anything."

"Thank you."

I gesture to the mooch. "I don't know about that guy. You might have to pay him to keep his mouth shut."

I almost add, "Or else you can just shoot him," but lethal violence doesn't seem like anything to joke about in Mindanao.

"I don't care about him," Gil says, "but a bad word from an American could really hurt."

"If she asks about you, I'll have only good words."

He smiles broadly. "You're okay, Tyler. Mother will like you."

"I hope so."

"She's been out here a long time with no outside visitors. Then two Americans arrive, back to back."

"Another American?"

"Yeah, he came to the Foundation a couple days ago."

My heart jumps into my mouth. "Is he still there?"

"He was when I left for town yesterday."

Damn, if I hadn't stopped those couple of days, I would have caught him! Maybe I still can. Excitement pushes aside my fatigue.

"What can you tell me about him?"

Gil shrugs.

"I let him fire some practice rounds." He pats the carbine with affection. "Let me tell you, he's a much better shot than I am."

I try to pick up the pace, moving alone up the road, but the group sticks to its slow plod. They recede into the hot air behind me like a ghost procession. After charging ahead several minutes, I slow down and let the others catch up. My burst of energy is spent.

Besides, what am I hurrying for? Whatever I'm supposed to see at the end of this road will be there, whether I run or walk.

We finally arrive at the Foundation. The others disperse while Gil and I walk on toward the administration building. Two women came out. One is middle-aged, tall for a Filipina, and dressed in a flowing Indian type garment. At first glance, she reminds me of Indira Gandhi. The other woman is young and pretty.

They walk toward us. Then they pause and exchanged a few words. The younger one turns and beats a hasty retreat inside the building.

28. Sweet Gloria

_One is carried away by what is beautiful, charming, adorable. –_ _Madame Bovary_ _, Gustave Flaubert_

Not exactly the red carpet treatment. I look morosely back down the trail, contemplating the long return trip. The older lady approaches and offers her hand.

"Welcome," she says in perfect English. "Please forgive my assistant. We had another visitor recently, and she thought that you might be him."

"Really? Is he still here?"

"No, he left some hours ago."

Disappointment washes over me. My final reserves of energy desert, and my knees feel suddenly weak.

"Is something wrong, Mr...."

"Tyler Lakatos." I force a smile. "Just a little tired, thank you."

I fumble out my map and display its notations. "I met Carmin on the boat to Zamboanga. She suggested I come."

She peruses the writing. "Yes, Carmin. She is well?"

"Very."

This seems to clinch things. "Please come in, Tyler. Or perhaps you'd rather cool off first?"

Something cold and wet, like the nose of a giant dog, brushes my arm. I jerk around to see the vast, curve-horned head of a carabao. I practically jump out of my skin, to the great amusement of all.

I attempt a lame recovery. "This animal sure 'nose' who I am."

"Go on, take a ride." Gil hefts my bags and carries them toward the building.

Pulling together the last shreds of my dignity, I climb aboard the carabao. Two little kids fight for the 'honor' of leading the beast.

"Be nice," I say. "Take turns."

I feel like Hannibal crossing the Alps atop some war elephant. The carabao walks with stately decorum, the great muscular back conveying its strength. After some minutes of this procession, we reach an embankment. At the bottom runs a stream which has widened to a swimming hole. I dismount and tramp down to the water.

Are there crocodiles in the Philippines?

Some early teen-aged girls are splashing around and giggling—looking over at me, giggling again. One of them tries speaking with me, to a chorus of titters from the others, but her English is poor and our communication is limited mostly to smiles and gestures. I wade in and throw cool water on my face.

Refreshment explodes over me, washing away layers of sweaty fatigue. This place seems to be a corner of paradise, complete with nymphs. Some boys call over, wanting to join us, but I pretend not to hear them. It's wonderful to be the center of attention for so many females.

What next? Can these people tell me where Jon went, or has he done a mysterious fade out? I need rest and food, but if I leave soon enough, I might be able to catch him. Maybe I can hire a guide, or...

I look up to see a cute, petite Filipina with short hair standing at the top of the embankment. The same girl who'd retreated into the building. She has her arms crossed and her face wears an expression of curiosity. Maybe a bit of interest, too?

Jon instantly blows out of my head, and I forget the other girls. They're too young for me to be ogling, anyway.

"Hello!" I call.

She smiles and waves. "Hello, Tyler."

In moments I've stuffed my shoes back on and am climbing the embankment. The route is slippery, and a fall is a distinct possibility.

Please don't let me make a fool of myself again!

I reach the top safely, thank heaven.

"My name's Gloria," the girl says.

She shakes my hand. Her small, dark-complexioned hand seems impossibly dainty in my uncouth paw, and a thrill runs up my arm. Her eyes are warm and friendly but contain a hint of sadness deep within them.

"I'm going back to the office," she says, "if you want to come."

"Sure."

She gestures toward the carabao which stands dumbly grazing nearby. "Do you wish to ride?"

"No thanks. Once was enough for that."

She leads the way. Exactly where does not matter. The office building or Timbuktu would be fine, as long as she's going there with me.

"Mother likes you," Gloria says.

"Glad to hear that. Was she impressed by the way I handled the carabao?"

Gloria laughs. "You do not have such animals in America?"

"No, but I'm sure people would like them."

As we walk, Gloria gives a brief sketch of the little world I've entered. The Foundation director, Mother, is a colorful personality. Her full name is long and complex and immediately blows out of my mind. She is from a distinguished Moslem family and has made the Hadj to Mecca. Now she runs this place, an educational foundation for children, most of whom are orphans and government wards.

If somebody else was giving this information, I would have listened more closely; but since it's Gloria speaking, I pay only minimal attention to the details. Her comments are just an excuse to look into her face, watch her lips moving, and enjoy her voice moderating the hot atmosphere. She has the typical clipped Philippines accent, but every sound coming from her mouth is wonderful.

The main building is a model of efficiency. A kitchen / dining area occupies one end while a large common room takes up much of the rest. Two Spartan bedrooms, one of which has been set up for me, and a small office open out into the common area. Gloria leaves me alone; I crash on my cot for a few hours.

Dinner is a simple meal shared with Gloria, a young man named Ping, and Mother. Ping has some official capacity, but I don't ask about it, preferring to remain in clueless American mode. Besides, with Gloria around I don't give too much of a damn about anybody else.

My first Indira Gandhi impression of the director seems appropriate. She is a woman who enjoys exercising authority and being the center of attention. I play along with her little power trip, determined to stay on her good side.

She has a mystical bent, and is searching for some deep meaning behind my arrival, the first Westerner to come here. Well, the second, actually, but she prefers to discount the first one. I can offer no insights about my sudden appearance. Anyway, an aura of mystery might impress Gloria.

Afterwards, I enjoy a wonderful shower. When I get out, I have to wrap myself into a ridiculous silk toga-like garment as all my clothes are being laundered and won't be ready until morning. My getup looks ridiculous, and I'm glad nobody will see me in it.

I enter the common room. Except for a couch and a few chairs along the walls, the place is empty. A single lamp provides dim illumination, while outside is black and mysterious. The bats must be swarming now, and Gil will be out patrolling with his carbine. Hopefully he's put the thing back together properly.

I move to the main window and light a cigarette, blowing smoke out the screen. Mother hasn't specifically banned smoking inside the building, but I don't want to cause any problems. The closed door of the second bedroom is only a few feet away, so I try to be quiet.

Then the door creaks open and Gloria emerges. I straighten up and fumble with my toga.

"Can't sleep?" she asks.

"Uh, I had a nap earlier."

"I can't sleep, either." She gestures toward the bedroom. "Mother is tossing around so much."

Poor Gloria. She must have lost her room to make way for me and has been forced to bunk in with the director. I feel awkward in my outfit, like a carabao in a china shop.

"That looks like one of Mother's old saris," Gloria says.

"Yes, it is pretty sorry."

Gloria laughs softly, and moves next to me at the window. "Can you see anything out there, Tyler?"

"Uh, not much. It's pretty dark."

"Over there," she says, "I think I see somebody. Probably one of the guards."

She's brushing right up against me. As she stretches to look out the window, one breast touches my arm. Hot male arousal blasts through me.

God! With only this loose drape covering my body, _nothing_ will be left to the imagination. I mean, there's a time and place for everything, but this could be really embarrassing.

What will I say if Mother suddenly comes out? "Hi Babe! How do you like my flag pole?"

I desperately try to control my lust. What is the un-sexiest thing I can think of? I conjure up an image of the war loving captain I'd met on Sorak San, his harsh face leering in the campfire.

No, that's no good; Kathy had been sitting right next to me. I start getting aroused again.

Gloria solves the problem. "You remind me of him."

"Who?" I pant.

"The first American man who visited us."

My ardor vanishes, replaced by icy dread. Outside, a gray figure passes in the darkness.

"He was frightening," Gloria says. "I'm glad he left."

"Frightening?"

"Oh, not _you_ , Tyler." She touches my arm, but I feel no electric thrill this time.

"Where did he go?"

"He just wandered off. Said he wanted to discover new things out in the forest."

I attempt a drag on my cigarette, but it's dead. The conversation dies out, too, and the possibility of a romantic interlude fades. I retreat to my room. There is an oval mirror on the wall; I avoid looking into it.

29. Festival Day

" _Reflect how you govern a people who believe they ought to be free and think that they are not." – Edmund Burke_

The next day, a festival is being held at a settlement some miles down the valley. Dignitaries arrive in a jeep and pick up the director. She wants me to go with them, but, fortunately, the vehicle is full.

So, I get to walk with Gloria, Debbie, and Ping. Debbie is Gloria's sister, and she came in with the jeep. She is nice, and ordinarily I would be interested, but I decide to observe a basic law of the universe: If you chase two rabbits at the same time, you'll surely lose both.

Besides, Gloria is sticking to me like glue. She looks adorable in her red flared slacks and yellow top. We stroll along talking about ourselves, our pasts, and our future plans—or lack thereof. Debbie and Ping join our conversation occasionally. They all have infectious good natures and smiling demeanors.

As Bob West said, "It's hard to feel depressed in the Philippines, even for somebody like you, Tyler."

Thanks, Bob. I wonder how he's doing up in Manila blazing through the bar scene. I'm quite content here.

I'd thought Gloria was about my age, but I learn she's thirty-two and a widow. Her husband was a gunshot victim. Now I know the reason for the melancholy deep within her eyes. Our pace is leisurely, and I start to feel some concern. The director had mentioned that we were supposed to attend a presentation.

"What time are we expected?" I ask.

"Twelve o'clock," Gloria says.

I looked at my watch, 12:35 already. "We're late."

She gives me a mildly exasperated look.

"Are they supposed to begin without the participants?" she says, as if explaining something to a small child.

I shelve my rigid Yankee sensibilities. When in Rome, just be late like everybody else. We arrive at last.

The gathering is designated a "Freedom Festival," and it has definite political overtones. It occupies a large, dusty field where games, music, and food are provided. A stage is set up on the outskirts for people to give speeches. Those sitting on the stage, including the director, are apparently the local movers and shakers.

The speeches are dull, and the crowd pays scant attention. Then somebody suggests that I, as a "Representative of America," should make a speech. The idea catches on quickly and, despite my protests, I am hustled to the stage on a wave of popular acclaim.

Shoved behind the microphone, completely unprepared, I proceed to make an extemporaneous pro-democracy statement. Before I realize what's happening, my remarks turn into a thinly veiled attack on the Marcos dictatorship in Manila.

"Political leaders talk about 'freedom' and 'justice,'" I say, "but they have to back up their words."

I point to what seems a northerly direction. "They can't just sit in the capital claiming to be the 'for the people' while, at the same time, they deny basic rights!"

A wave of horror strikes me in the back from the dignitaries, but the crowd applauds enthusiastically. After I leave the stage, the director seizes the microphone and attempts to "clarify" my remarks.

"I really blew that," I say when I return to my friends.

"No, no!" Gloria cries. "You said what all of us are thinking."

So much for the clueless American routine. Anyway, the tempest in a teapot dies down soon enough. Gloria had been impressed, which is the most important thing. A band plays music for the latest dance craze called the _solsa_.

"Good grief!" I tell Ping "Do you know what 'solsa' means in Korean?"

"What?"

"It means 'diarrhea,'"

"Really? I think ours is more fun."

I dance with Gloria, then with Debbie, then with Gloria again. Dang, two women competing for my attention! I can't help feeling puffed up.

Games, food, sunburn. I get pressed into service as a judge for the singing competition. Things take a nasty turn when a disturbance breaks out at the nearby cock fighting arena. A security guard fires into the melee, hitting the brother of the barrio captain.

Agitation sweeps the crowd. Gloria becomes highly upset. I lead her away so that she does not see the body being carried out. It's definitely time to leave.

An uncle of Gloria and Debbie's lives on a small farm nearby, and we stop to visit him. We sit around the table talking and drinking. The uncle ran unsuccessfully for office at one time and has interesting stories about the rough-edged world of Philippine politics. Electioneering can be a dirty business, he says, and he was the victim of skullduggery.

"Yes, I had goons too," he admits, referring to the private army he recruited for the campaign.

The other candidate apparently had a better goon squad. You need to have some firepower to run for office, the uncle says, though the government crackdown on guns has moderated the situation.

A storm kicks up and rain pounds the metal roof. The old guy keeps talking, unfazed, the dim ceiling light showing through his sparse hair. Thunder roars. Under the table, my hand brushes against Gloria's, and we entangle fingers.

The rain stops, and we take our leave. All except Debbie who is spending the night with her uncle. Ping splits off, and it's just me and Gloria walking, hand in hand. Gloria plays an occasional flashlight beam along our route.

"Do you like it here?" she asks.

"Very much. It's so quiet and friendly."

"That's the kind of life you want, Tyler, quiet and friendly?"

"Yes..."

How can I explain? Yes, I want a stable existence, and no, I can't tolerate the idea. I want to be settled and wandering at the same time. I want an excellent woman like Gloria in the center of everything—be loyal to her—and blaze a sexual trail across the world.

"You seem unhappy," Gloria says. "Why is that?"

She waits for a reply, but I can't give one. I love being here with her and wish I was thousands of miles away, too. She seems perfect in the tropical night, yet her presence restricts me with a web of expectations. Suddenly, Gloria's hand feels like a vise crushing my own.

I look off into the darkness. _Which way has Jon gone?_

Light from the admin. building glows in the distance. The rain starts again, very heavy now.

"Hurry, this way!" Gloria trots ahead, heavy rain drops slanting through her flashlight beam. I plod behind through the gathering puddles. We enter a small shed.

Toward the back, the roof leaks a steady drip, but the place is fairly dry and has a sweet, grassy scent. One thing leads to another—from lingering kisses, to the first tentative explorations under wet clothing, to a sensuous recline onto the straw. The rain stops, but neither of us notice.

Matters are rapidly approaching consummation when a loud blast interrupts everything. Gloria jerks upright.

"What's that?" she gasps.

Someone cries out in the night. "Ai! Help!"

Then a string of desperate words in a language I do not understand.

"That sounds like Gil," I say.

We fumble into our clothes and dash outside.

Gloria grips my arm. "Be careful, Tyler."

I push her behind me and move as quickly as possible through the darkness. Flashlight beams pinpoint a prone figure some yards away. We arrive just as Mother and another security guard come on the scene. Gil sprawls on the ground, one hand covering his face, blood seeping through the fingers.

Mother barks something at the other guard. He and I help Gil up and bring him to the main building.

"I'm shot! I'm shot!" he keeps crying.

We lay him on a sofa. He's suffered a gash along his face, from the cheek into the hair line. I know what's happened. The damn fool was playing with his gun again, and the thing went off.

"You'll live," Mother says as she bandages him up. "Go see the doctor in town tomorrow."

Her tone is almost regretful, as if she wouldn't have minded too much if the wound had been deadly.

The romantic mood has been shattered. Gloria is terribly upset and crying, refusing all comfort. Two goddam shootings in one day! They must have conjured up memories of her husband's death. She goes immediately to bed, pausing only long enough to down some aspirin. Gil spends the night sprawled on the couch while I retreat to my miserable little bedroom alone.

Of course, I'm frustrated as hell. Who wouldn't be in my place? But I'm also oddly relieved. What do I really have to offer this lovely and lonely woman? Just a quick sexual adventure, then more heartache for her when I leave. And I will be leaving.

Maybe this is only rationalization. A little tryst might be all she wanted, a pleasant memory. Who the hell knows? This is a situation out of time and place. Tropical insects whir their monotonous serenade.

* * *

Come morning, I accompany Gil on his walk to town. Gloria and I talk about getting together again, but we know it won't transpire. Our relationship simply isn't meant to happen, and no amount of lust can overcome that reality.

As I depart the Foundation grounds, I'm tempted to look back but decide against it. Maybe the place will disappear, like that little farmhouse in Korea.

Gil walks morosely, fingering his bandage now and then—no friendly banter, no majorette routine with the rifle. He must really be on the outs with Mother and it wondering if he still has a job. I'm a lot stronger and better rested now. The trek is not nearly as taxing as the inbound journey was.

We are near Kidapawan when a powerful explosion rips the air, like a thunderclap out of a clear blue sky.

"What's that?" I say.

Gil brings his carbine to ready position. "Nothing good."

The bus station is a pile of smoking rubble when we get there. Crowds mill about the periphery, restrained by security forces. A terrorist bomb has gone off, we are told, and people have died.

It is way past time to get out of Mindanao.

30. Thailand Respite

" _I'm hip about time, but I just gotta go." – Captain America,_ _Easy Rider_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

It was great hanging out in Manila without Tyler to cramp my style, but I started to miss him. It must be true that opposite personality types make for good friends. Then he suddenly returned one day and threw cold water on my good time.

"Gotta be heading home now," he said, "my money is running out."

"You can't mean that!"

"It's a sad but true fact," Tyler said. "I've been on DAS ROAD for over two months. My return home is inevitable—like death or seeing the Frosty Virgin."

I have other ideas, though. I desperately want to visit Thailand.

"Go ahead."

"Come on, Tyler, it wouldn't be the same without you. Just one more country. Please!"

"Man, I'm running out of cash. If I don't get back soon, I'll have to hitchhike."

Yeah, and maybe he'll finally meet that mysterious hitchhiker he's always talking about—the one who chases after dead guys.

"I'll pay your way," I said. "I got lucky at the casino in Macau."

"No, Bob. I can't allow that."

"Why not? Is there some sacred law of the universe against it?"

"Well, no."

I grabbed his arm to let him know I was serious. "We're right here, right now. This is not gonna happen again."

"True..."

"Come on, Tyler. I'll just blow the money if I bring it home. Let's enjoy it."

He took a while to mull this over. "Okay, you're on. But this is just a loan. I _will_ pay you back."

"Forget it, pal." I pinched his cheek. "Your smiling face is all the payment I need."

Tyler's Account

I feel strange letting Bob pay for this leg of the trip, but am fairly sure it's the right move. I've come to respect Bob's wisdom. If he feels a trip to Thailand is necessary, then probably it is.

Bangkok is huge, bustling, hot. The streets are clogged with motorbikes, cars, and three-wheeled taxis. We move into a little hotel and do some sightseeing. We visit a temple containing a 150 foot reclining Buddha, gold plated no less, with a little smile on his face.

"He looks pretty satisfied with himself," Bob says.

"He's in a state of Nirvana."

"Meaning what?"

"He's found release from the cycle of death and rebirth. He no longer has to suffer with human temptations."

Bob indicates a nearby Thai girl. She is beautiful, golden skinned and dark eyed. "I need to suffer more temptations before I'm ready for Nirvana."

We take a boat ride through the canals of the old city, zipping past stilt houses where people bathe and wash clothes in the brown water. We buy spicy Thai food from a tiny restaurant boat that seems about to tip over any second. Then night sets in, and we head to the Pat Pong bar district.

The area crawls with foreign men looking for adventure. We enter a bar and make our way to a table near the front. Rock music blasts, lights flash around the ceiling, and two hot Thai girls are dancing on a little stage. We sit down, and soon two other girls are at our side.

"You buy us drinks?" one asks.

"Right on!" Bob cries.

Soon Bob and I are getting tanked on beer while the girls drink some watered down concoction. Bob's girl lights a cigarette and Frenches the smoke—sending a billow out of her mouth and then inhaling it up her nose. All the while, she keeps hypnotic eyes fixed on him.

"Oh man, look at that, Tyler. This is my kind of Nirvana."

"Yeah, better than getting gold plated, isn't it?"

I'm getting an alcohol buzz and should be feeling good. Instead, a profound sadness is taking hold. The tacky meat parade of the bar has little to do with love or romance, and I am realizing my crying need for both. Not that there isn't anything to be said for unbridled lust, of course.

The girls on stage finish dancing and descend to enthusiastic applause from a legion of drunk patrons. Other girls mount the stage. The one beside me loops her arm through mine and says something in my ear. I smile noncommittally and buy her another drink.

Where the hell do all these girls come from? What are their lives like? I glance around at the tables of Westerners. These men must run the whole gamut from decent guys, like Bob, who are seeking some kind of connection, to mean bastards who get off on mistreating women.

I drain my beer. Yun Hee, Kathy, Gloria. I've been dragged through every emotion women can elicit. And now this place. I'm well on my way to becoming a morose bore and know it.

I stand up. "Hey, I've got to get going, Bob."

"The fun's just starting!"

"No, really, man. I'm not up for it."

Bob gives me a quizzical look. I know what he's thinking: _There goes Tyler again, pushing away a good time with both hands._

"Okay, pal, catch you later," he says.

Come morning, I head out alone south to the Phuket beaches, staying at a modest bungalow style hotel near the shore. The first day out, as I lounge in the sand, a boy approaches me. He hefts a cluster of coconuts in one hand and a gleaming machete in the other. The coconut bunch seems too large and heavy for him, but he carries it easily.

"You want coconut?" he asks.

He doesn't look unfriendly, but since he has a machete and I don't, it seems wise to make a purchase. I pay him the small amount he asks, and he chops off a coconut top with one blow. He wields the big knife with more power than seems possible in his skinny arm. I take a tentative swig of coconut, then down the whole thing greedily—sweet, invigorating, like a magic elixir.

I obtain a bottle of rum from the hotel bar and keep it in my bag because every day the coconut boy reappears. Whichever beach I visit, no matter how deserted or isolated, he shows up with his machete and a huge bunch of coconuts. I come to crave my makeshift cocktails like a drug.

I journey several miles away to a pristine diving spot. For hours I hover above the corals and waving anemones, following the schools of colorful fish and chasing the occasional octopus into a crevice. The crunching of coral-chewing parrot fish seems to come from everywhere.

A thorny little puffer fish follows me, keeping a position to my right just beyond arm's length. It stops when I do, then moves at exactly my speed, its huge eye rolling around. A school of tiny squid does the same on my left, moving as one body. When I reach toward them, they scatter, then quickly reform. What next? Will a giant shark swim up to keep me company, some unemployed extra from _Jaws_?

I recall Bob's horrified reaction to the severed head. Hilarious! My laughter burbles up the snorkel. I'd seen the movie before and was waiting to see him jump.

Then I pause... was that supposed 'dog meat stew' in Iloilo a case of payback? Hmmm.

Floating in the gentle swells, I see an analogy in a trio of beautiful fish swimming below. Yun Hee, Kathy, Gloria—two that got away and a third who was willing to be caught but had been tossed back. Something glides past my restricted peripheral vision. I jerk my head around to see a dark creature swimming off into the murky distance.

I exit the water and, as usual, the coconut boy is there.

* * *

Bob arrives with a Thai girl, the cigarette smoke artist from the bar.

"I love this country!" he cries. "Why didn't the Peace Corps assign me here?"

"It is beautiful."

"I met this American guy in Bangkok, his name's Paul. He's a former PCV, and he's got an English teaching job at a university here now. The pay isn't great, he says, but look at the fringe benefits!"

He gestures toward the girl, then continues in a conspiratorial tone. "She's got a friend who will come down from Bangkok for you."

I shake my head. "Think I'll keep my bathing suit on. Thanks anyway."

"I figured you'd say that. You know, Tyler, you missed your calling."

"How so?"

"You should have been a monk."

A few days later we board a plane for home and our DAS ROAD adventure comes to an end.

# Five: Restless Interlude

31. Return

" _Salami." – James Tipton, Alma College Dept. of English_

The mind-numbing flight ends at Los Angeles airport. I shuffle through customs, mouthing replies to standardized questions, then lurch out into the giant, bustling airport proper. Home at last.

Only it doesn't feel like home. So many big, overweight people, so many Western faces. I feel disorientated, like somebody who has undergone a near death experience and is no longer accustomed to earth bound reality.

We retreat to a little pub type restaurant and take an isolated back table. The waitress comes quickly, thank heaven, as I badly need a drink. She's an attractive black girl; I cannot tear my eyes off her.

"I know she's hot," Bob says after she leaves, "but screw your eyeballs back in, buddy."

"I haven't seen a black woman in a year and a half. Everything is so... new. It's like I've been dropped here from Mars."

"Yeah," Bob says. "We left most of ourselves back in Asia, didn't we?"

He slugs down a beer and burger while I imbibe a vodka martini with my club sandwich. After we finish eating, Bob stands up.

"I'll be back in a little bit. Have another drink; check's on me."

"Thanks, Bob."

I settle into my ersatz leather chair and try to relax. The air feels chilly on my sunburned skin, and it carries the aroma of now unfamiliar foods—steaks, burgers, fries. I savor my first green olive in many months.

In the terminal corridor outside the window, masses of people maneuver by, all of them harassed and rushed. While inside the pub, a dim serenity reigns. I order another drink.

God, do I need a shower! Get a room, bathe, and crash. Then we can sightsee in Los Angeles a couple days. I've always wanted to visit Disneyland.

Bob returns as I am chewing my second olive. He's hefting a beer in one hand and a martini in the other.

"Whoa," I say. "I'm going to float out of here."

"So? You're not planning to drive, are you?"

I take the martini glass, and Bob clinks it with his beer mug.

"Thanks, Tyler, it's been real."

"So it has."

He downs his beer quickly and smacks the mug onto the table with authority. Then he glances at his watch.

"Gotta go. My plane leaves for Detroit in an hour."

"What?" I'm completely stunned by this curve ball. "You're not even going to stay overnight?"

Bob shakes his head. "Naw, better to wrap things up quick, don't you think?"

"Well... sure, I guess so."

We exchange addresses and shake hands. Then Bob is gone. Just like that, the most important individual in my life for many weeks simply vanishes. A void rips open in my world. At least nobody can accuse Bob of wasting time with extended good-byes.

I gaze into my glass, my Jon Glass. The olive stares back with its malevolent crimson pupil. I stab it with the little plastic sword and pop it in my mouth.

* * *

The next day, I catch a plane home, arriving mid afternoon. I don't call anyone, as I want my arrival to be a surprise. Through a combination of airport shuttle and suburban buses, I get to Allendale by four thirty and walk the last mile to our house.

I feel like an alien tramping the orderly suburban streets wearing my dirty Cheju Do sweater and scuffed boots—a shabby bag slung over each shoulder, Jewel Eye bumping on my hip. The sidewalk glides under my feet as pristine as the yellow brick road, except it isn't leading out to adventure but back from it. The concrete ribbon runs past houses amazingly large and tidy.

A police car slows, and the officer gives me a good eyeing over. God, do I look that bad? I smile and try to appear innocuous; the car drives on. Gray, leafless autumn is far advanced, and a chilly mist hangs in the air.

What a change from Thailand! I stop to transfer my camera into a shoulder bag so as to protect it from the damp. When I look up, two small children are staring up at me wide-eyed.

I resist the temptation to cry, "Boo!"

Mom is home alone when I appear on the doorstep.

"Tyler, you're so thin!" is the first thing she says.

Talking is difficult because Chief, our dog, has gone mad with joy, almost knocking me over. I have to take him out to the yard before he destroys the house. When I come back in, covered with long collie hair, Mom has poured us two glasses of wine.

"Welcome home, Son."

I take a glass and place my free arm around her shoulders. "I love you, Mom."

We down the wine. Mom's face flushes.

"Whew!" She fans herself with her hands. "I'm not used to that."

I pour myself another glass. "More?"

"No, no!" Mom snatches up the phone and starts dialing.

"Please don't call anybody yet. I want to make some surprise visits first."

She reluctantly puts the phone down. "All right, Tyler. That's your style, isn't it?"

We enjoy a fine conversation for some minutes until Chief's insistent barking makes further talk impossible. I bring him in through the side door by the basement stairs. His wagging tail pounds the wall as he wraps himself around my legs and blocks my way off the landing.

"Some boxes came for you," Mom calls. "They're in the basement."

Since I can't climb off the landing anyway, I head downstairs. Chief clatters after me on the linoleum covered steps. The boxes I've shipped from overseas are all here, filled with personal affects, souvenirs, and presents for the family.

The front door open. Ed is back, and the happy-talk reunion is over. I hear Mom's enthusiastic voice, Ed's monosyllabic replies. I go back upstairs.

"Thanks for sending the money," I say, shaking Ed's hand.

"Sure, Tyler, don't mention it."

He has a smile pasted on, but I can tell the same old face is still underneath it. Off to the side, Mom beams with pleasure.

I go upstairs to my old room. It's the same as when I left, including the little kid ceiling light shaped like a wagon wheel. The room is familiar and alien at the same time, smaller than I remembered. I peer out the dormer window at the rows of tract homes. Kids next door are shooting baskets through a garage-mounted hoop.

I think of Seoul and the view from my second-story room. My house stood out among the traditional dwellings with their curving tiled roofs, walled courtyards, and gates facing a lane too narrow for automobiles. Vendors pushed their carts down the paving stones selling produce to the housewives. Nearby, across the main street, stood Kyungbok Palace where the Korean emperors once lived. The elegant pagoda of the National Museum towered above the wall of the palace grounds...

Dinner is a depressing affair. Mom cooks some steaks she's been saving, and she even puts on some easy listening music. Ed's sullen demeanor puts a damper on any good cheer, though. By the time we finish the salad, his face has assumed its customary stony set, the jaw muscles bunched tense even when he isn't chewing.

Actually, he still is chewing—on his bottled up anger and resentment. Now that I'm back on the scene, he has something else to gnaw on. Mom's bubbly chatter weaves through the musical pabulum without competition from Ed or me.

I have a nickname for Ed: _Mr. Envy_.

He is angry that he's a pasty middle-aged guy instead of a dashing young buck; resentful that he doesn't "have no education" and is the proprietor of a little hardware store instead of a bank president. He harbors jealous inferiority feelings because he knows Mom is out of his league and that I'm smarter than him. He'd never dare confront me directly, but his sullen resentment is a black hole in our family.

How had Don Quixote put it? _"Envy produces nothing in the heart that bears it but rage, rancor, and disgust."_

Maybe this is just my limited take on things—possessive feelings, loyalty for Dad—but I doubt it. I know in my heart I'd be happy if Mom found a nice guy. So why did she dig up this yo-yo? Beats the hell out of me. All I know for sure is that I want out of this place. I retreat upstairs to unwind.

Later, as I am creeping down for a glass of milk, I overhear a conversation.

"Tyler didn't want me to tell anybody that he's back yet," Mom says. "I'll hold off another day, but tomorrow night I'm inviting everyone to a surprise welcome home party."

"That's nice," Ed says.

"Is Saturday good?"

Ed grunts.

I turn in early and dream of springtime in the Korean mountains. Yun Hee is there, and Kathy, and Gloria...

32. The Pilgrimage

Your Honeywell Pentax Spotmatic II is the finest photographic instrument on the market – Operating Manual

By morning, I feel able to make some plans.

My top priority is to purchase car insurance and get my Chevy out of storage. After that will come the employment search, my own place, and a girlfriend. Everything will have to wait a bit, though, for this is visiting day.

Outside is unseasonably warm and bursting with sunshine. I decide to walk with Chief to Victor's house five miles away, figuring that Victor will be home. Mom said he's on temporary suspension from his post office job. I didn't ask for details.

I slice off a plastic milk jug bottom to make a water bowl for Chief. He goes wild at the prospect of an outing, barking and jumping around so much I can barely get his collar on. I sling Jewel Eye over my shoulder and am ready to go.

We walk to the corner and turn left at the boulevard. A block later we pass the elementary school that Victor and I attended. The once familiar streets now seem entirely new.

A car slows and two little kids poke their heads out the windows. "Look, it's Lassie!"

Chief gives them a regal glance then turns away, nose in the air. Collies are edgy, high maintenance dogs that few people own, and gorgeous specimens like Chief are particularly rare. Mom brought him to the campus when she delivered my Pentax, and he'd caused a minor sensation. Girls I didn't even know came up to hug and kiss him.

_Damn,_ I thought, _that dog's got something I could use!_

A block later, I notice an untied boot lace and stop in front of a ranch type house to fix it. Chief sits waiting on the sidewalk, surveying the neighborhood haughtily. A minuscule black Scottie trots down the driveway. Chief leans down toward it, curious and sniffing. The Scottie bites him on the nose.

Chief jerks back, eyes bulging with amazement. This is hardly the deference he expected. The Scottie struts back the way it came.

"Guess we know who the boss is around here. Let's go."

This isn't Mindanao or high country Korea, yet it still has power. I want a sense of adventure, so I invent my own. Most kids are at school, people are at work, and the area is largely deserted. Mystery lurks under its surface. The noon hour approaches. Didn't the ancient Romans believe that ghosts wandered about at noon?

We cross the street and turn left past some upscale houses, then through the traffic light where Allendale Road turns commercial. We transition seamlessly into the next suburb. I take my Pentax out of its case. Squinting through the viewfinder, I imagine myself treading some back road in Korea.

Wouldn't it have been great if Chief had been there? He is such a wonderful friend and protector. He wouldn't hesitate to rip a leg off anybody he perceived as a threat to me or Mom. Not so Ed. He doesn't like Ed, and Ed is afraid of him.

Once Ed was in the den listening to the ball game on his big portable radio. Chief walked in and, with a sweep of his paw, knocked the radio off the end table. Ed was too scared to move. Chief swaggered from the room having established his ascendancy.

The sidewalk turns into a dirt path along a tacky little urban woods with sundry pieces of trash scattered around. I keep a lookout for broken glass. A huge traffic backup jams the road ahead, courtesy of a freight train creeping through the next intersection.

"Damn!"

Watching trains clank slowly by always irritates the hell out of me. It seems so arrogant of them. And the freight train ahead is no Shinkonsin.

As I clear the woods, a small bar appears, like a Maya temple emerging from the jungle greenery. I secure Chief's leash to a signpost outside the back door and enter. A doleful, middle-aged guy and a couple of frazzled looking women sitting at the bar glance my way. I smile. They turn back to the rubbishy talk show on the TV hanging from the ceiling.

"What'll you have?" the girl behind the bar asks.

"Whatever you've got on tap, and a large glass of water, no ice, please."

The establishment is generally run down with a worn carpet and battered furnishings. Some of the bar stools and chairs sport cracked vinyl upholstery, and the whole place smells rather musty.

A bumper sticker plastered to the bar mirror reads: _"I tried to see things from your viewpoint, but I couldn't get my head that far up my ass."_

My order arrives.

"Thanks, I'll be right back," I say.

I take the water outside. The door has been propped open, probably to air the place out. I pour the water into Chief's makeshift bowl, and he laps noisily. Traffic is still halted by the train, so I have time to go back inside and savor the ambiance.

Me, the two women, and the middle-aged guy comprise the sum total of customers. We sit along the bar like a convocation of the Losers' Club. The bartender is talking about a mysterious man named Jonny, "the Ghost," who lives in the apartment upstairs.

"When I'm here alone at night closing up, he creeps around on the floor up there like a zombie or something." She points to the ceiling over the bar. "It's really scary."

"Fucking A!" the middle-aged guy says.

"If I play music to cover the noise, the electricity goes out," the girl says. "I think he can shut it off from upstairs."

A telephone repair man arrives and busies himself with some wiring in the far regions beyond the pool table.

"This phone behind the bar has been out since yesterday," the girl explains.

Suddenly the phone rings and everyone jumps. She snatches it up.

"Hello... hello?"

No reply.

"Was that you ringing?" she calls back to the repairman.

"No, ma'am."

"It must be Jonny, then. See what I mean?"

The front and rear doors, both of which had been open, suddenly slam shut as if by a sudden gust of wind. But it isn't windy outside.

Time to get going.

I free Chief from the signpost and we circumvent the building. The upper story, painted an ominous green, has no windows—although several have been cinder-blocked in. A metal door offers access to an exterior stairway. I peer up the stairs. They are dark and foreboding like a covered bridge the Headless Horseman might come riding down.

What the heck kind of guy would be living up there? This Jonny character must be one strange dude.

"Let's get out of here."

We approach the freeway interchange. Nature still holds on bravely by the entrance ramp—some landscaping, a few trees. In a small marshy area, a discarded bicycle lies partly submerged in the muck. I christen it the _Dead-End Bike_.

"Kind of sums up my present life, eh boy?" I tell Chief, who wags his tail happily. "It's going nowhere, stuck in the mud."

Is that the underlying purpose of my walk, to see this depressing symbol? No. The true reason has unfolded itself to me gradually. I'm performing a childish ritual, attempting a pilgrimage back to a happier reality.

By exposing myself to the 'perils' of the open road, I hope to somehow rediscover a time where things were better. At the end of my pilgrimage, if I keep my naïve faith intact, I will find the old Victor—the easy-going, condescending, wise-assed elder brother I loved so much. I even brought Chief along on my quest.

Chief had originally been Victor's dog, a puppy back when he'd first gone off to college. Then Victor flunked out, got drafted for Vietnam, and came home an entirely different and frightening person. Chief had been left behind; all of us had been.

33. Destination

We walk under the freeway overpass, steeply banked concrete walls pressing in on either side. It's surprisingly dark down here, shaded from the bright sunlight above. The roar of traffic echoes about the cave-like enclosure. A guy whips past on a powerful motorcycle.

Where is he going, off on some romantic adventure? I see a vanity plate on the back of his machine. It reads: _Big J_

As I wait for the light to change at the next intersection, a gray-haired man carrying a bulging plastic trash bag approaches from across the road. He is obviously lost in his mind and is mumbling nonsense, mostly just a singsong: "yeah... yeah."

We easily outdistance him. But then I stop to buy a cigar at a tobacco shop. By the time I come outside again and light up, the yeah-yeah man is ahead of us. Worse, another befuddled person is coming down the sidewalk from the opposite direction, a young man. I detour through some parking spaces. The two men on the sidewalk exchange nonsensical words.

We arrive at a neighborhood of modest single-story houses. The blue wooden siding of Victor's place is showing its age, in contrast to the aluminum-covered walls of the neighboring houses. We climb the front porch and ring the bell.

Victor yanks the door open. "Tyler! How you been, Bro?"

We enter the living room. Victor flings his arms around me in a bear hug, then transitions to a headlock. Chief jumps about barking, uncertain whose side to take.

"Godammit, let go!"

Victor releases the hold.

"You're not the high school wrestling champ any more," I say.

"How true, how true. Great to see you, Tyler!"

He shakes my hand vigorously and socks my arm. It hasn't taken him long to reestablish who the senior brother is. Anytime you see brothers together, no matter if they are kids or old men, you just know who wields the _Authority_.

It's always there, even if it no longer has any real basis. I could have broken the headlock, thrown Victor down. When we were kids and I'd been overmatched, I'd fought back full force, but now that I have surpassed Victor, I don't care to challenge his status any more.

Besides, it's all part of the illusion. Victor seems like his old self. Maybe my pilgrimage has paid off. Then he breaks out the beers, and my faith starts to waver.

"Kind of early in the day," I protest.

This was a rather lame statement, seeing as I've just come from a bar.

"Hell with that." Victor pops a tab and starts guzzling.

It's obvious I can't dissuade him from drinking, so I take a beer myself. We make ham sandwiches, smothered with horseradish, and eat them with potato chips. We give Chief a hefty slice of ham and dispatch him to the backyard. We talk over old times, and my new times overseas.

Things are great for a while, but by the third beer the meanness and anger starts coming out. Victor's conversation strays from the good old days to the troubled present.

He speaks of "my fucking job," and "my fucking boss," and worst of all, "my damn wife." As in:

"My damn wife is always on my case about something."

or:

"My damn wife takes Jason to church with her. Doesn't she realize there isn't any God?"

Unbearable sadness presses down on me. I wipe a hand across my eyes to remove the tears, pretending it's just the powerful horseradish making my eyes water. I force myself to swill the last two beers so as to exhaust the supply before Victor gets worse. I'm getting quite a buzz, but take no pleasure in it.

Sharon, the "damn wife," arrives with little Jason.

"Uncle Ty Ty!" Jason yells.

He jumps into my arms with five-year-old enthusiasm.

"Hey, Big Guy!" I say. "How's it going?"

And he is quite a bit bigger than when I left, a real armful. I set him down. Sharon embraces me and kisses my cheek. When she pulls away, I see the haggard look underneath her smile.

"Welcome back, Tyler."

She glances at the empty beer cans. Victor remains seated, coldly silent. The dog barks in the yard.

"Chief!" Jason cries.

He charges out the back door and I follow. Chief practically knocks Jason over with ecstatic joy, his tail wagging so fast I think it will spin him around. He runs off for a stick and drops it by Jason who throws it as far as possible with his tiny arm. I kneel down beside the little boy.

"Now, don't tell anybody, because it's a secret," I say.

"Yeah?" Jason's eyes light up with devilish glee, the precise expression his father once used.

"Grandma is having a surprise party for me Saturday, and you're invited."

Jason claps his hands. "Yes!"

"And," I lower my voice, "there just might be some presents for you—all the way from Korea, or maybe even China."

"What are they?" Jason jumps up and down. "Tell me!"

"That's a secret, too. You'll have to come and find out."

I hear Victor and Sharon arguing inside the house and instantly determine it's time to leave.

Sharon drives us home, me up front, Jason in the back with Chief. Her tense expression and continuously burning cigarettes speak volumes about their family situation. The car stinks from old smoke. She looks much older than I remembered.

I can say nothing to her aside from a little idle chit chat. There's nothing I or anybody else can do for Victor. He is beyond our love.

We arrive at the house; Chief and I disgorge from the car.

"See you at the party Saturday?" I say by way of farewell.

"We'll be there," Sharon says.

"Hey," Jason protests, "that's supposed to be a secret!"

34. Grandfather Alois

_For him, the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat. –_ _Madame Bovary_ _, Gustave Flaubert_

I exchange Chief for Mom's car and drive out to see Grandfather Alois. It's only about six miles, but the change in ambiance is noteworthy as I transition to a grittier, less prosperous inner suburb. This is the old French Canadian working class neighborhood.

In previous generations, Canadian immigrants came here to work in the local heavy industries. They were not pleased when the Hungarians arrived to compete for the jobs. To make matters worse, everybody was Catholic, so they had to share the same church. Dad told me about his youthful battles with the French kids—the 'Frogs' versus the 'Hunkies.'

We're all homogenized Americans now, and the French people are gone from the neighborhood. The Hungarians have pretty much transitioned out, too, except for Grandpa and a few others.

I pass the housekeeper on the walk and exchange friendly nods with her. Grandfather stands in the doorway with an astonished, almost frightened expression creasing his kindly old face.

"Hello, Grandpa!"

"Tyler!"

I enter the house and grasp a gnarled hand.

"For a moment I thought it was your father out there," Grandpa says. "I thought my time on this earth was over and he was coming for me."

"Oh, Grandpa, what a thing to say."

"You look just like him, Tyler." He brushes my cheek with his crooked fingers. "You're all grown up."

I'm embarrassed by these words coming in Grandpa's thick Hungarian accent. I cast about for a change of subject.

"Wow, you've really fixed things up!" I say.

The change in the house is remarkable—new carpeting, light-colored paint. The bulky, oppressive furniture has all been replaced by modern pieces.

"The housekeeper made coffee," Grandpa says, "you want some? Or maybe you like something stronger?"

By "something stronger" I figure he means kümmel, the horrific caraway seed liqueur he likes to drink. It's almost as bad as Chinese rocket fuel.

"Coffee's fine," I say quickly.

I head for the kitchen and mix cups for both of us. The kitchen, too, is nicely refurbished and modern.

"You like my haz?" Grandpa says when I return with our coffee.

Haz? What the hell's that?

"Oh, yes, the _house_. It's beautiful, Grandpa."

He takes a long swig of coffee. "I vorrked hard all my life, Tyler, and Margit was a frugal woman. She always feared we'd starve like her people did in the old country."

He gestures to her portrait on the side table. Grandma looks severe, her hair drawn up in a bun. You can tell she'd once been very attractive. Hell, she wouldn't have looked bad in the picture if she'd smiled and had a better hair style.

"Why keep that old stuff around to remind me?" Grandpa says. "She's all I think about anyway, her and Istvan."

Meaning my dad, 'Stephen' in the Anglicized version.

Grandpa sighs. "Such a wicked fate, to outlive my only son."

Silence while we share our mutually painful memory. Then Grandpa counts on his fingers.

"I got my annuities, pension with medical insurance, Social Security. Why save it, so's I can buy myself a fancier coffin?"

Elderly people sure get fixated on depressing topics. I've only been here a few minutes and already I need a break.

"Excuse me, Grandpa. Think I'll check on my car."

"It's out there waiting for you."

I go outside to the little garage and pull up the door. Inside reposes my Chevy Nova, my freedom chariot. I run my fingers reverently over the coppery gold paint and peer in at the black vinyl interior. Memories flood back, especially those involving college, girlfriends, and the back seat—those groping sessions with Julie that never _quite_ made it to the grand finale.

To think I'd considered buying a cramped VW instead.

I pat the hood. "Hello, Old Paint. How's it hanging?"

Once, when I was very young, I'd watched Dad working on our Mercury. I asked him if he'd ever thought of driving around the world.

"Sure," he said. "I'll bring along Tarzan and Jungle Jim. They can each drive half way while I sleep on the back seat."

A deep sense of loss surges up with this recollection. Why had I quit the Peace Corps? What am I doing here?

Idiot!

I would give anything to be back in the Korean mountains right now. Can I drive back there somehow—jump in the Nova and motor up through the Bering Straits? Or maybe roar back to LA and plunge into the ocean, submarine-like, all the way to the Philippines and Gloria. I wonder what kind of car Jon Glass drives, or does he prefer a virile motorcycle?

I return to the haz in a melancholy mood. Grandfather has lightened up considerably, though.

"Tell me what's it like in all dem countries," he says.

I begin a quick review of my overseas experience. I speak of the long, exhausting charter flight to Seoul. I tell him about training in Choon Chun, my middle school classes, my travels around Oori Nara. Grandpa closes his eyes, head resting on the sofa back. I think he's nodded off, so I stop talking.

He opens his eyes. "Keeping going."

When I was a kid, Grandpa had reminded me of Field Marshal von Hindenburg with his iron gray hair and handlebar mustache. He'd seemed gigantic, now he is shrunken down with hair and mustache turned white. I resume my narrative.

Grandpa listens quietly, a little smile on his face. Sometimes his fingers tap the sofa arm, other times his feet move slightly, as if he is treading the Asian byways with me.

He only interrupts once. "How are the Korean girls?"

"Lovely."

"I thought you might bring one home."

"No... things didn't work out that way."

I continue talking. When I get to the part when the money arrived, a lightning bolt of truth flashes in my mind.

"That money was really yours, Grandpa!"

"What's that?" He turns an ear my direction.

"Don't try the hard-of-hearing dodge. The money was from you. Ed was just the messenger."

Grandpa shrugs. "All right, you figured it out. I thought you might not spend the money if you knew it was from 'poor old Grandpa.' But didn't I just tell you how rich I am?"

I put my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, like when I was Jason's age. Another lightning flash goes off.

"And my camera, too, right?" I say.

"Yes, yes, so I paid for your camera. Must I go to the firing squad for that?"

I think of the matching fund that appeared when I bought the Nova, and of another one for Victor's first car. I don't mention this, as Grandpa seems to treasure his secret generosities.

He turns nostalgic. "When I came to America, I was about your age. I wanted to see the world. Then I met Margit. Her parents were gone, but her older brother watched her like a hawk. He had as much authority as her father would."

Ah yes, the older brother _Authority_.

"He favored me because I was a skilled tradesman. Still, I had to act fast. A girl as beautiful as your grandmother wouldn't stay unmarried long." He glances at her portrait. "She'll be coming for me soon enough, I think."

I try to sidetrack further depressing comments. "So, did you ever get to travel like you wanted?"

Grandpa shakes his head. "Maybe I wasn't meant for adventures. I'm too old now, anyway. But when I hear you speak, I feel young again."

I get up to leave. "Thanks for the coffee. I'll be back in a couple days for my car."

"Good."

"We can go for a drive. Maybe pick up some babes?"

"Ach!" Grandpa waves his hand.

35. The Frustration Waltz

_During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone ... through a singularly dreary tract of country. –_ _The Fall of the House of Usher_ _, by Edgar Allen Poe_

Weeks pass, and my frustration rises. Several days of heavy rain add to the gloom.

I sign up at an employment agency. Betty, my agent, isn't ecstatic about my prospects. Corporations are not beating down the doors to hire English literature majors, she says, although a "smart young man" like me might be salvageable.

She sends me on interviews for insurance investigator jobs. There is apparently a great need for such persons. I do poorly, however much I try to rally some enthusiasm.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" one interviewer asked.

"As King of the Universe," I felt like saying, but uttered something pre-packaged instead. Unremarkably, I didn't get the job.

On the positive side, my Philippine bug bites finally heal, leaving dime-sized scars.

My childhood home crushes in on me. It's a place I should have moved on from long ago, but I'm stuck here for the indefinite future.

At least Ed works long hours at the hardware store, and when he is around, I arrange to be someplace else as much as possible. Mom is always complaining about Ed. He's cold and uncommunicative, she says, he always seems to be mad about something. Won't I speak to him and see what the problem is?

Hello, Mom! Everybody, including you, knew what Ed was like. You picked him anyway, for some unfathomable reason, so he's _your_ headache. And, no, I don't care what his problem is. All I know is the solution—the open front door and a boot in his ass. I don't use these exact words, but Mom catches my drift.

I start practicing at a judo club. Judo is the one sport I seem to have talent for. I started in early high school and enjoyed the combative aspect. I thought I might be good at wrestling, too, but didn't try out for the school team. It would have brought a lot of pressures because Victor had been on the squad. Always I'd be 'Little Victor' and constantly compared to him.

I'd never been good at team sports. That once bothered me, but I came to realize I fundamentally didn't care. I could have been an acceptable player if I'd worked at it, but I preferred to be independent, without a lot of other people's expectations weighing me down.

Victor's wrestling prowess brought our school to the verge of the State championship when a knee injury forced him to quit. He'd gotten the injury while playing football, a game at which he was not outstanding. So, he'd lost something of high value while pursuing something much lesser.

This was part of the reason for his cavalier attitude about college. He dropped out, losing his draft deferment, confident he'd fail any military physical. They passed him anyway and sent him to the Vietnam meat grinder.

The Judo club runs along informal lines with students practicing under various Japanese instructors. I am drawn to Mr. Itami, a.k.a. _Señor Strangle_ , who teaches combat jujitsu techniques. I'm much more interested in rough and ready self-defense methods than in formal competition.

Mr. Itami is a small, unimposing guy, but he'll take you down hard and wrap around you like an octopus. Soon he'll have you in a choke hold or an excruciating joint lock.

"Position and leverage, more important than strength," he says in his limited English.

Mr. Itami is always at the club. I begin to wonder if—when the last person switches off the lights—he goes inanimate, sitting in the darkness wearing his crisp white _gi_ and black belt, waiting for the lights to come back on. He says I remind him of his best student whom he trained at another school.

The workouts take my mind off my problems. I also purchase a heavy punching bag and hang it in the basement. I practice on it hard—moving in, striking, stepping back, performing my frustration waltz. Sometimes I imagine Ed's face on the bag, sometimes my own.

I give myself a pounding for being such a fool, for coming back here when I should still be overseas. What's Jon Glass up to now, I ask myself as I pummel the bag. Has the Mindanao forest swallowed him up for good? Whatever his situation, it can't resemble my spirit-crushing predicament.

I take to wandering desolate areas of the town—railroad tracks, polluted creek beds, abandoned factories. These grim surroundings match the dreariness inside me and offer a sense of adventure, however bogus. If I can't trek the Mindanao byways, at least I can travel here.

Sometimes I find evidences of vagrants—cardboard huts, old mattresses, extinguished camp fires. I christen these locales the "Bum Nation."

One day I head out to "Dead River" along the edge of town. A heavy, ominous atmosphere prevails, like something from the _Dark Shadows_ TV show. The last of my ready cash jingles in my pocket; I plan to buy a quart of beer to help numb the pain.

The whole atmosphere speaks of ruin, a willful destruction of nature. As part of a flood control project, the river has been wrenched from its natural course and forced into a concrete channel. The banks are paved over, with only a hardy patch of scrub poking through here and there. I draw the collar more tightly around my neck and grip my umbrella against the drizzle. Thunder rumbles in the distance. A camper, discarded from some pickup truck bed, lies tumbled on its side.

Running along the top the slope, a fence with _No Trespassing_ signs barricades scruffy woods, creating a sense of entrapment. I feel as channelized as the river. I keep to a fast pace along the angled bank. A slide down the damp concrete and into the river is a distinct possibility for the unwary. The river is high, though scarcely moving.

A freeway overpass thrusts across this lifeless void. I make my way down to it. All is silent beneath the overpass except for dripping water and the occasional rumble of a passing vehicle. A dank odor permeates everything. Rubbish litters the ground, and anti-social graffiti covers every concrete pillar—layered masses of words and pictures, many of them obscene.

Two skeletons leer out, one with a red, dripping heart. Various words of wisdom surround these images: _Get Bent! Fuck the Police!_ and _Fuck the World!_

Who drew all this disturbed, angry stuff? I can imagine a _West Side Story_ type brawl going on here, people shooting drugs, all sorts of dreadfulness.

Barely discernible in the visual mayhem are the angular letters of the Korean alphabet, too small to decipher from this distance. I step in for a closer look, and the ground becomes more slippery. I pause to steady myself.

The sluggish river below looks dark and polluted, but I move closer to it on the slick concrete. If I can just get a closer look. Are those English letters alongside the Korean ones... near the _Fuck the World!_ invitation?

I'm leaning at a dangerous angle, and the soles of my hiking boots are ready to give up their grip any second. But I can't pull myself away. The letters are drawing me forward irresistibly...

"That's right, by God," a voice behind me says. "Fuck the world!"

I jerk around, nearly losing my footing. A vagrant stands nearby with a plastic trash bag over his shoulder. He's gaunt and grizzled against the overcast sky and wears a black raincoat over a hooded sweatshirt.

I scramble back up the slope toward him. "You're damn straight."

"It's the World that keeps men such as us from doing what we want, eh?"

"Right."

Is this the yeah-yeah man I saw on the way to Victor's house? Impossible to tell with the hood. If it is him, he's left his mental fog sufficiently to engage in conversation.

He laughs, displaying bad teeth. Then he takes out a filthy cigarette butt and sticks it in his mouth. His gnarled hands move with surprising gracefulness.

"Got a match?"

I feel an extravagant burst of empathy for the old bum. Is this _my_ future? Will I, too, end up destitute and alone wandering some God-forsaken river to nowhere?

"Don't smoke that." I take out my pack and give him several cigarettes, then I light one for each of us.

"You're a true gentleman."

We stand smoking quietly for a while, observing the dismal landscape. This area is the very heart of the Bum Nation. Here, I am beyond the edge of everything worthwhile. My new acquaintance spies a beer can lying in the weeds and adds it to his bag.

"You wouldn't happen to have any spare change?" he says. "You see, I don't have enough returnables, and—"

"Sure." I give him my beer money.

"Thanks, pal." A smile creases his leathery face. "I hope it comes back to you."

* * *

The moment I get home, the phone rings. It's Betty calling from her office with the knickknacks on the desk and the _Agent of the Year_ awards on the wall.

"You studied journalism, right?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah." I recall the single Journalism class I took my freshman year.

"I've got a lead. It's just a small bi-weekly newspaper, but it might be a good foot in the door. Interested?"

"Yes."

Why not?

36. Cub Reporter

The next day, I drive fifteen miles to the small, semi-rural community of Rosewood.

Twenty four hours earlier I'd been standing under a graffiti-covered overpass talking with some poor vagrant. Now I'm zipping along the same freeway wearing my best clothes, headed for the _Clarion_ newspaper office. I avert my eyes as I pass over Dead River.

After some initial confusion driving around the town, I park at a strip mall drug store and ask directions from the assistant manager. Her name is Lynn, according to her name tag.

"The _Clarion_ office? Sure, it's close by," she says.

She comes outside with me and points across the road toward an enormous three-story house. The place looks something like the Norman Bates residence from the _Psycho_ movie, except it's made of brick. Tacked to the side of this monstrosity is a newer, one-story structure.

"It's in the office wing, next to the insurance agency," she says.

I don't waste much time looking across the road, as Lynn provides a far more attractive vista. She has jet black hair, almond eyes, and an excellent figure that even the drab store uniform can't hide. She seems a bit older than me, later 20's—enough maturity so she could teach you a few things. I try to see if she wears a ring, but she has placed her left hand inside her vest pocket to protect it from the chill air.

"You're not from around here?" she asks.

"No. I'm interviewing for a reporter job."

"Well, good luck..."

"My name's Tyler."

"Good luck, Tyler. Hope you get the job. Stop in and see us again."

Man, she doesn't have to say that twice!

I drive across the road and park in the dirt lot beside the Norman Bates office wing. With a certain amount of unease, I approach the door marked _Clarion_. A thunderous racket issues through it. I open the door, and the noise becomes ear splitting. The place is dim and empty except for a lone, middle-aged woman banging away at the keyboard of some diabolical machine.

"Excuse me!" I call over the noise.

She looks up, and the racket mercifully stops.

"I have an appointment to see Mr. Vance Cooper."

"He's out on a story. Have a seat."

She directs me to a chair in front of a large, battered desk with an overflowing ash tray.

"Thanks."

I sit down, and the infernal racket resumes. I pick up the previous issue of the _Clarion_. It's a 32-page tabloid with the motto "Ringing True" written along the top. Beneath it is a list of the areas served, Rosewood and a few neighboring communities.

The lead story concerns a US congressman who was in town speaking about federal flood relief. The heavy rains have overflowed nearby rivers causing much property damage. Inside the paper are more items of local interest—school events, business news. The garden club announces a canceled meeting, "since many of our members were flooded out of their homes." Special features include:

_Straight Talk from the Mayor_ A tough anti-crime message above a photograph of Mayor Stroh seated at his desk, jabbing a pencil at the reader.

_Cogitations_ , by W. J. Presnell A jumble of impressions about sports, social issues, politics, etc. A picture of an older guy in a baseball cap accompanies the column.

A page near the back contains funeral home ads, obituaries, and a horoscope. Mine reads:

You will become impulsive with a member of the opposite sex. You are inclined to stir up animosity.

I glance at my watch. The interview should have started ten minutes ago. I return to the paper. Below the horoscope runs a wire service filler:

American Finds Lost Tribe

Manila – Former U.S. Peace Corps volunteer Jon Glass has reported discovering a previously unknown tribe in the Philippine rain forest. His sighting is being investigated by government authorities.

A heavy-set man of medium height enters the office. He walks somewhat awkwardly, as if weight and a touch of arthritis hamper him. I stand to shake hands. The pounding of the infernal machine comes to a blessed halt.

"So, you're here?" he says. "Good."

He plunks down at the desk and lights a cigarette. He looks late 50's or so. His face has a craggy, unhealthy look, and the tip of his nose is enlarged, as if he knows the true meaning of a drink.

"The bus drivers are picketing the School Board office," Vance says, then pauses for a minor coughing bout.

He has some kind of Southern accent, a soft contrast to his rough features. I take an instant liking to him.

"Go check things out," he says. "Get the drivers' side of the story."

"Well, uh..."

He pushes a battered Nikon across the desk. "Take some pictures. Then stop at the police station and check for any new crime reports."

"I..."

"When you get back, write up the stories and give them to Phyllis for type setting."

"Yes, sir."

I pick up the Nikon. It seems like a cannon ball, much heavier than svelte little Jewel Eye. Phyllis begins pounding away at her machine again. I retreat to my Nova.

"Looks like I'm hired," I muse as I pull out of the parking lot. "That was _some_ job interview."

In a short time I'm outside the town, driving through an area of woods and marsh land. A police car jumps me.

"You were driving 47 miles an hour," the cop says.

"So?"

"This area is inside the town limits."

"Here?" I gesture to the uninhabited terrain.

"Yes. The speed limit is 35." He writes me a ticket for an eye-popping fine. "Have a nice day."

The officer departs cheerily, and my pay check walks off with him. I start driving again, slowly. A bit farther down the road, a sign reads: _Speed Limit 45_.

About twenty bus drivers, all women, are carrying picket signs as I arrive at the School Board office. When they find out I'm from the _Clarion_ , they crowd around me like groupies pressing in on some rock star.

"We've been working all year without a contract," one says.

"We don't get paid for extra runs to the Board office," another complains.

I try to write their comments on the note pad I've scrabbled out of the Nova's glove compartment. The picket leader comes to the rescue by pressing a written statement into my hands which details their grievances. I take pictures. The Nikon's light meter is unfamiliar, and the lens focuses opposite to my Pentax, adding to my discomfiture.

I go to the police station next and ask to see the crime reports. The chief is unappreciative.

"Where the hell's Vance?" he asks.

When I explain that I am the new _Clarion_ reporter, he grudgingly shows me the reports. Not much is in them. Seems the Mayor's get tough policy is paying off.

Back at the office, I bang out my stories on a small manual typewriter and hand them to Phyllis. Then I lean back and stretch, pleased with having survived the first day of work. Thoughts of a luxurious hot shower move through my mind.

Vance comes out of his office area. "I'm going home now. The town council meets at 7:30, Tyler. I'd like you to cover it."

I shrink down in my chair. "Sure, Vance."

"See you in the morning, 7:00?"

I nod.

"Welcome aboard."

Then Vance is gone. I feel stunned, as if Mr. Itami has knocked the hell out of me.

Phyllis chuckles. "Don't worry, Tyler, things aren't usually this hectic. We're going to press tomorrow."

I leave the office and wander two blocks to the Riverside Inn, a crusty old place that must be close to a century old. The atmosphere inside is relaxed and smoky. The bar top is made of darkened, thickly varnished boards. When I rest my hand upon it, I feel the stored vibration from generations of drinkers. An older guy wearing a baseball cap sits farther down amid a couple of admirers chattering away. I recognize him as columnist W. J. Presnell.

He frequently precedes his remarks with the formula "My Editor..." meaning Vance, presumably.

As in: "My Editor liked my last column so much he said it oughta be syndicated!" or: "My Editor thinks we should start publishing on a weekly basis, he says there's a bigger demand for my columns and such."

I consider introducing myself, but decide to postpone the honor. Instead, I finish my beer and retreat to the quieter environs of a little café next door for dinner.

Then a stroll through the darkened streets. Rosewood is still a simple place, but like any small town in the orbit of a giant metropolitan area, development will overtake it eventually. The nearby freeway attests to that. But for now, the town is peaceful and remote.

Darkness overtakes the leaden sky, and the buzz of street lamps competes with the muffled freeway roar. People watch television on the far sides of picture windows. A scratch rock band plays in one house; guitar licks seep out a basement window. A man passes me walking a dog.

The people in these houses will read my words in tomorrow's newspaper. The crowd at the Riverside Inn will hold opinions influenced by what I wrote. For the first time in my life, I've got some pull.

I walk down a grass alleyway and leave the residential area. Some sort of industrial facility looms out of the darkness, huge and silent, an abandoned cement plant or something. It beckons mysteriously, promising adventure to anyone brave enough to enter.

My sense of nascent power evaporates, replaced by corrosive envy. _So, Jon has found a lost tribe!_

That could have been _me_ making the discovery if I hadn't turned back at the first hint of trouble. Those damned insect bites! And why did Gloria have to be so cute? She'd kept me at the Foundation when I should have been striking out into the forest.

The whole thing is a conspiracy to keep me from accomplishing anything. All I needed was a break... and more guts.

" _There are two kinds of people,"_ a nasty interior voice says. _"Those who win, and those who announce the victories."_

These thoughts are paranoid and unfair, I realize, but that doesn't lessen my frustration. I double back toward the city hall, passing a large Catholic church with its crucifix-topped spire challenging the night sky. Well, I'm _here_ now, and I am going to take maximum advantage of whatever opportunities await.

The city council meeting is a rancorous event—much finger pointing about who-botched-what during the recent floods. The DPW union president reads a statement claiming he's been unfairly denied a promotion. He ignores numerous reprimands to calm down and has to be ejected from the auditorium. I snap a picture of him being escorted out by the same police officer who issued my speeding ticket.

The Planning Commission chairman resigns because he has not met the residency requirement. Finally, the mayor announces he will not be seeking re-election. He thanks his supporters and says that, no, his decision has nothing to do with his recent fraud indictment.

So much for the law & order administration.

37. Settling Down

" _I think it would be fun to run a newspaper." – Citizen Kane_

Among other duties, I interview the Brownie troop leader, the fire chief, and a lakeside resident who rescued two teenagers from a sinking boat. The guy already enjoyed a reputation for daring rescues, having previously saved some drifting chickens during the floods.

"I just pulled the boys out," he said. "The same way I did the chickens."

Vance delegates most of the reporting work to me and uses his own time to sell advertising space. Phyllis handles the Garden Club news along with operating her diabolical machine. W. J. Presnell delivers his column two days before we go to press. His work is so bad it's actually good and enjoys a following among the readership. I'm reminded of Charlie Streicher back in Korea.

In my ramblings, I locate a small general aviation airport with a skydiving business.

"I've always wanted to try skydiving," I tell the owner.

"Take an introductory jump. We go all year, weather permitting."

"I'll think about it."

He nods. No doubt he's heard that line before.

Vance takes quite a liking to me. We hang out after work at the Riverside Inn, sometimes with W. J. Presnell. Vance drinks prodigious amounts, smokes even more, and waxes philosophical.

"Let me tell you, I've been through the mill and back again," he says. "Biggest damn fool mistake I ever made was to get married!"

Seems his wife in North Carolina dumped some years before when he was away on a business trip.

"I'd always wanted to run a newspaper," he says, "and one was available up here. Also, I wanted to get as far away from her as possible."

He purchased the bankrupt _Clarion_ and slowly rebuilt it. Maybe the paper could expand into a weekly if the ad revenue keeps increasing. In five or six years he hopes to retire and hand the paper off to some "vigorous young person."

I get the impression he has _me_ in mind for the vigorous young person role, but six years seems like an eternity. Hell, I can't look at a green banana and visualize a time when it might be ripe.

To mark the end of hunting season, some duck hunters run a tournament at the nearby state game area. I slog along with the Nikon, taking pictures and dodging falling shotgun pellets. Guys compete in sneak shooting, layout shooting, and other blasting events. They conduct boat races on the frigid marsh waters. I keep Jewel Eye with telephoto handy in case of a capsizing, but no go.

The injustice of my speeding ticket rankles me, and I decide to contest it in court. The defendant ahead of me is a real jerk. While drunk, he'd driven his pickup truck through a suburban neighborhood at sixty miles an hour and crashed onto somebody's lawn. He receives harsh treatment.

The judge is in a foul temper when my turn comes, but his mood rapidly changes. I explain about the poorly marked speed limit and the assumption any reasonable person would make that he was outside the town boundary—especially a reporter like me who was after a news story for the _Clarion_. Wheels turn in the judge's head.

_No sense pissing off_ _this_ _guy,_ he's thinking. _I don't need any bad press for the next election._

He voids the ticket. I leave the courtroom feeling proud.

Police cars soon disappear from the ambush spot, and the 45 mph sign is moved up to it's proper location. Ah, the power of the press!

Our new issue comes out soon after. I peruse it happily, still basking in the glow of my triumph. Inserted after my duck hunter story is a wire service filler:

Saint Nick Robbery Foiled

Portland – Ho Ho Ho! Santa Claus came early this year, wielding a shotgun. A bank robber, dressed in a Santa outfit, was running to his getaway car with a bag of goodies when an onlooker tackled and disarmed him.

Jon Glass was waiting for a bus when the Saint Nick robber ran by.

" _I thought it would be interesting to stop him," Glass said afterwards, "so I took him down."_

The taste of victory turns to ashes.

* * *

I make frequent trips to the drug store to get film developed and to buy sundries. Actually, I'm trying to make a connection with Lynn. First, she's on vacation. When she comes back to work, her schedule is out of sync with mine.

Pam, a petite blonde like my old girlfriend, Julie, from college, takes care of me at the store. I give her serious consideration but decide to obey the universal law: Chase two rabbits at the same time, etc.

Besides, Lynn has a mysterious, sensuous air with her coy little smile and almost Eurasian features. The moment we first met, I heard the call of romantic adventure. She seems to be my type, with a capital T.

Finally, I get to see her again at the store. A surreptitious glance confirms she is not wearing a wedding ring.

"How about getting together after work some time?" I ask, feigning confidence I'm miles away from feeling.

"Sure," Lynn replies. "I'm looking after Mom this month, so I'm pretty busy. My brother takes over in a couple weeks, though. Let's make it then."

38. A Promising New Year

_We often find, by experience, that young men are too opinionative and volatile to be guided by the sober dictates of their seniors. –_ _Gulliver's Travels_ _, Jonathan Swift_

The holidays pass. Our family get-together is stressful with the growing animosity between Victor and Sharon barely concealed. Jason has lost his bubbly enthusiasm and keeps to himself, brooding. I try to reach out to him but fail. Grandfather Alois looks on with a saddened face, helpless like the rest of us.

Mom and Ed are not talking much to each other, having settled on a modus vivendi of silence and resentment.

My job is going well, though. I'm a respected, if small-time, journalist treated with deference by the powers that be. The new mayor, police chief, city councilmen—no one wants to look bad in print, so they give me my due. I see apprehension on their faces, as if they are in the presence of some large, generally polite dog that might turn vicious any second.

Maybe journalism is the career for me. Hell, I might be the next Walter Cronkite!

The weather remains unseasonably warm; rain and overcast alternate with an occasional clear day. The round trip to work is a hassle, and I check out inexpensive apartments along the route. Rosewood itself has a some nice ones, but I'm not interested. Working there, living there, how long before I became overly wired into the place and lose my freedom of action?

Vance invites me to a Lions Club dinner. The food is nothing special, and the speaker is hardly 'edge of your seat' fascinating. I recognize some of the town's movers and shakers among the members.

"This crowd might be a little old for you," Vance says. "Maybe you'd prefer the Jaycees; they cater to the younger guys."

"Yeah?" I say.

"The important thing is to get in with a group that can help you go places and make connections."

I lean back in my chair. Vance is talking good sense, but the thought of joining a service club with its expectations and group dynamics is depressing. Me, Tyler Lakatos, 'one of the boys?' Me, standing at intersections in a foolish cap and vest selling candy bars? My necktie feels tight, so I loosen it.

A light drizzle has kicked up by the time the meeting is over. We shake hands in the parking lot. Vance begins walking toward his car, then turns back to face me.

"You're at a wonderful stage of life, Tyler. You've got the world by the hind end!"

He disappears into the mist, leaving me alone and a bit disoriented. I recover quickly and make a bee line for the Riverside Inn.

The lot is jammed when I get to there, and I have to park in the far regions by the river. I dash to the back door and enter the crowded, smoky atmosphere. There she is at the corner of the bar with a cigarette and a glass of beer. Lynn!

"Hi," she says. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"Thanks for waiting, Lynn. The meeting ran over time."

She flashes an incredible smile and blows out a stream of smoke. "That's the way it goes, eh?"

"Right, don't want to front off the boss. Of course, you know that already, being a boss yourself."

She laughs. "Sit down, have a drink."

"Let's go someplace else. I spend too much time here already."

"Sure, Tyler."

She stands up. Without the concealment of the bar, I get the full view. The shapeless store uniform has been replaced by jeans and a form-fitting top that displays her assets to excellent effect. I follow her like an obedient puppy.

Outside, the rain has picked up. I look doubtfully toward my distant Nova in the muddy lot.

"Let's take my car," Lynn says, "it's close."

She indicates a little purplish-blue AMC Gremlin. Bob West pops into my mind. He once owned a Gremlin, he told me at some point during our travels. God, less than six months have passed since we boarded the ferry in Pusan! It seems like decades. Is Bob getting on as well as me?

Not likely.

We approach the car. It looks as if somebody has sliced off the back end with a butter knife. There is a surprising amount of room in front, though. Lynn starts the engine, and we're on our way.

"I've never ridden in one of these before," I say.

"How do you like it?"

"Fine, it's got a smooth ride."

"Uh huh." An amused little smile crosses Lynn's face, as if she's enjoying some private joke.

39. Rollercoaster Ride

She drives us to a country type bar where we spend the next hours drinking and dancing. At first, I have some difficulty adjusting to the music, but soon I'm jamming as well as anybody there. Hell, all I need is a cowboy hat.

Opportunities for conversation are limited by the blasting music and the noisy patrons. No matter. Lynn and I are developing an intimate, nonverbal mode of communication. Sitting close together drinking, arms and knees touching, sharing a cigarette. Slow dancing, hemmed in by the crowd, moving sensuously in place.

I'm very comfortable with Lynn. Holding her close on the dance floor, my horizons expand to include her presence. This emotion is a wonderful complement to the sexual excitement raging through me. She might be the girl I am looking for.

I envision us going home together and making love, discussing the day's events afterwards amidst a warm and committed glow. A woman like her could make all the agony worthwhile—like having to stay in one place and be continuously employed.

When we go back outside, the weather has cleared, and gorgeous star light peaks around the clouds.

"I'm starved," Lynn says. "Let's get something to eat."

"Sounds good. Want me to drive?"

"No," she answers quickly. "I'm fine."

She takes us to a late-night drive through. The menu displays the usual jumble of fast food items.

"What do you want, Tyler?"

"Whatever you want, I want."

"Good answer."

She gives her amused little smile again. Dang, if she doesn't remind me of Kathy when she does that. And she reminds me of Yun Hee, too, in the low light with her black hair and almond eyes. She orders tacos, fries, and a large lemonade.

"What nationality are you, Lynn?"

"This and that. Scots-Irish, Italian, and some Cherokee. What about you?"

"Hungarian, 100 per cent."

She leans toward me. "So, I'll have to take you straight, huh? Like a fine whiskey."

She kisses me full on the mouth, a lightning bolt that takes me totally by surprise. Of course, the goddam order has to arrive at this precise moment. The guy at the window gives us a knowing smirk.

Lynn sets the bag on the back seat. "Let's go someplace nice to eat."

"Lead on," I say, still reeling from the kiss.

She drives a few miles, then turns off onto a dirt road. I resist the temptation to ask where we might be going. Then a sign indicates we've entered the state game area where I'd covered the duck hunters' tournament.

_This could be to be very interesting_.

She pulls into a small parking area and shuts off the engine. We roll down the windows part way, dissipating the smoky bar atmosphere which has soaked into our clothes. Wind rushes through the high, dried-out marsh plants in a mysterious rustle. A broad, open field spreads out in one direction, and a black smoothness the other way indicates the presence of water.

Lynn glows in the starlight and the sliver of moon. I want to reach for her, make passionate love, but it isn't yet time for that. Whatever happens is going to be on her timetable. I wait for her to speak.

"I don't know anything about you, Tyler, except you work for the newspaper."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything." She holds up the bag. "There's plenty of food, and I'm a good listener."

"Maybe if you knew more about me, you wouldn't be interested."

"I doubt that. You're a cut above the other guys I've met. From the start, I could see you have brains and class."

"Thank you." I feel suddenly awkward.

"So, tell me more, Tyler."

"Okay."

While chewing through the tacos and fries, I give my thumbnail biography: My pleasant early childhood in a semi-ethnic home where I heard the Hungarian language only when the older generation gathered to socialize; the catastrophic interruption of Dad's illness and death; my undistinguished public school career; the unwelcome appearance of Ed.

The car becomes chilly, and Lynn starts the engine for a while to run the heater. I speak of my start at a big state university and transfer to a small private college, summers in Wyoming, Mexico, and Spain. The Peace Corps and my DAS ROAD travels.

I split the last French fry with Lynn.

This should be the end of my story, but for some damn fool reason I start talking about Jon Glass—his mysterious slogan, the mistaken identity episodes, the chase across Mindanao, even the bizarro mirror in Coloane. The atmosphere cools again, and not just from the night air.

_You're blowing it, Tyler_.

But I can't help myself. Now I'm telling Lynn about the wire service blurbs in the _Clarion_. It's like Jon is in the back seat egging me on, turning the Gremlin into a deep freeze. Lynn moves away against the driver side door and wraps her arms about herself. He mouth becomes a hard, thin line.

Shut up already!

Finally I do shut up. A long silence presses down. I fear Lynn will start the car and roar me back to Rosewood for a quick dump off. Then she speaks.

"What will you do when you find him?" Her voice is very small.

I let out a sigh. "That's a good question."

"You _are_ a very different sort of person. I've never known anybody who's done so much."

I bask in her admiration, perhaps all is not lost. I place an arm around her shoulders.

"Thanks for hearing me out. Maybe some of that stuff sounded weird, but like my Grandpa says: we're all a little boingy in our own way."

She laughs, and her warmth returns.

"How about you, Lynn? Tell me what's happened in your life."

"Nothing spectacular, pretty dull, really."

"So, let's hear it."

She stretches luxuriously. "Plenty of time for that later. Let's have some dessert first."

"Dessert" consists of a mad, erotic groping, a frantic coupling and thrashing that nearly breaks the Gremlin's suspension. Then a pause for lemonade. Then another session of passionate love making. More lemonade. More lovemaking...

When it's finally over, we sit quietly holding hands and smoking. The marsh night deepens, flattens out, and prepares to begin its slow ascent toward dawn.

"What are you thinking?" Lynn asks.

"I'm thinking about how happy I am. And that I may have sprained my neck twisting it around the steering wheel."

"Poor baby." She massages my neck. "Is that better?"

"Very."

Cigarette in one hand, my neck in the other, Lynn begins her story.

She has a brother, a sister, and in invalid mother, she says, and enjoyed an ordinary childhood. She went to junior college for a while after high school but dropped it. She worked as a waitress before taking a clerk job with the drug store chain. This past year she'd been promoted to assistant manager at the Rosewood branch.

The job is a hassle, but it's gotten her thinking about a better future. She wants to go back to school and make something of herself. And, by the way, her truck driver husband is out on a long haul and will be back tomorrow evening.

I jerk forward out of the grip of Lynn's fingers. "I didn't know you were married!"

"I was going to tell you. In fact, I just did."

"Yes, but... a little late, isn't it?"

Lynn takes a long drag on her cigarette. "Would you have asked me out if I'd told you before?"

"No!"

"See? I noticed you checking out my ring finger the first time we met. Good thing my uniform vest has pockets."

My whole world has suddenly been torn off its moorings and flipped upside down. The Gremlin presses in like a sheet metal tomb. I fling the door open and step outside.

"Tyler!"

I turn back toward Lynn. In the dome light illumination, she appears tiny and vulnerable, her hair mussed and make up smeared.

"This isn't right," I say.

"You've got something good here. Don't push it away."

"I know that. It makes everything worse."

The wind is gusting up, sending eerie rustles through the dead marsh plants. Water laps in the distance. I glance about the empty land. Utter barrenness everywhere.

"It's cold out there," Lynn says. "Come back in. I won't bite, unless you want me to."

I can't help a strangled chuckle.

"Come on, Tyler, it's a long way to town. Let me drive you."

The trip to Rosewood is a silent affair. I'm wound tight. Finally, Lynn pulls into the vast, muddy parking lot of the Riverside Inn.

My Nova reposes alone under the yellowish glow of a lamp post. Somebody has written _Fuck the World!_ on the windshield with soap.

"Will I see you again, Tyler?"

"I don't know. I need time to think."

"Okay."

"I've got the next two days off. Will you be working Monday morning?"

She nods.

I open the Gremlin door and start to leave. Then I think better of it and give Lynn a parting kiss. Her cheeks are wet with tears.

Alone now, I watch the red tail lights of the departing Gremlin.
40. Abrupt Changes

" _You are entering a cantankerous cycle and are vulnerable in romance." – Clarion horoscope_

During the next two days, scarcely a moment passes that does not include thoughts of Lynn. One minute, I'm convinced I have to cut her off flat; the next I am equally certain I can't survive without her. The debate courses through my brain nonstop.

By Monday morning, I've decided nothing other than to ask Lynn some direct questions. Is she planning to divorce her husband, _soon_ , or does she simply want an extramarital fling? Is there a legitimate place for me in her life or not? I have to know the answers.

And I get them. Very quickly.

The store is nearly empty when I walk in. Pam is at the photographic counter.

"Hi Pam. Is Lynn here?"

She looks up, startled. Anxiety shoots across her face. "No, she isn't."

"What's wrong?"

She glances around, then continues in a low voice. "It was horrible. Lynn's husband came in yesterday and forced her to quit."

Apprehension tightens my chest. "Why?"

"A buddy of his said he saw her out dancing with another guy. Some friend!"

I stand at the counter like an idiot, speechless.

"The vicious things he said." Pam shudders. "He's a real pig if you ask me."

I nod dumbly and turn to leave.

"Be careful, Tyler."

Out in the parking lot, grief and paranoia contend. What's going to happen next? Is some lunatic going to charge up? Where's Mr. Itami when I need him? Better yet, that captain from Sorak San with a couple of .45's.

Nothing happens to disturb the peaceful morning, though. The sky is clear, the water puddles have dried, and the weather is almost balmy. The only turmoil is inside myself. I walk across the road to the _Clarion_ office. The door is locked.

"What the hell?"

I peer in through the little side window. All the lights are off.

"You must not have heard," someone says.

I turn to see the secretary from the next-door insurance agency. A tragic expression creases her face.

"Heard what?"

"About Mr. Cooper. I'm so sorry."

"What happened?" My voice has shot up an octave.

"He suffered a heart attack yesterday—about one o'clock. He died, I'm afraid."

* * *

Next thing I know, I'm stumbling through the door of the Riverside Inn with no recollection of how I got there. I flop onto a stool. A gray and desperate face peers back at me from the bar mirror.

"Beer, please!" I croak. "A large one."

The girl brings it quickly, thank God, and I down most of it in one gulp. A tiny sliver of normality pokes into my suffering mind. W. J. sits farther down the bar, muttering into his own beer mug. I slide towards him.

"W. J.?"

He looks up. He's aged drastically, transforming overnight from a vigorous senior into a crushed old man.

"You found out, eh? Phyllis was gonna call you, but with all the upset... after she phoned North Carolina..."

"What about the funeral?"

"Ain't gonna be no funeral. Vance's ex wife is shipping him back to North Carolina for burial."

"Why? She didn't want him when he was alive."

"Who knows, Tyler? Who the hell knows?"

I can't stay at the bar. Soon I'll be drowning in alcohol, totally messed up. I need action to distract my mind.

Leaving W. J. to his sorrows, I walk briskly to the strip mall parking lot. Maybe Lynn's husband is lurking there for me. I almost welcome the prospect, a bloody confrontation right out in the street!

What does he look like? Probably an ugly s.o.b. with a thick neck. A big hero abusing Lynn. He'll find _me_ a lot more formidable. But I see no one. I get in the Nova and roar off to the general aviation airport, ignoring all speed limit signs.

"I want to skydive," I tell the man at the counter.

"We can try. Sky's turning cloudy though, and if we can't find a an open spot we'll have to scratch. It's illegal to jump through clouds."

"Good enough."

Soon, I'm clad in jumpsuit, helmet, and goggles. Nylon harness webbing trusses me about. My instructor and I enter a high-wing aircraft in which all the seats, except the pilot's, have been removed.

My instructor wedges himself into the back. "Sit here with me."

"Rather not. I'm claustrophobic."

So I stay in front beside the pilot's seat. This is to be a "tandem jump" with me hooked to the instructor. He wears the parachute and pulls the rip cord. All I have to do is scream.

Two other guys, each wearing their own parachute, jam in. Like me, they're well concealed with jumpsuits and helmets. I cannot see their eyes through their darkened goggles.

We bounce down the runway and take off. I pay scant attention to all this as my back is to the windscreen and my mind is roiling with thoughts of Lynn and Vance. We level out at 10,000 feet. The plane has become very cold.

"Clouds are pretty thick down there!" The pilot yells over the engine roar. "We might have to scrub."

"Wait!" somebody says. "I see an opening."

Beside me, the door slides open revealing a straight drop to a cloud bank thousands of feet below.

_Damn_ , _I'm not wearing a parachute!_

I wrap my arm around the base of the pilot's seat and hang on for dear life. Lynn and Vance blow out of my mind. One after another, the two jumpers maneuver onto the wing strut and fling themselves off. As the second guy gets into position, I glimpse the lettering on his helmet: _J. Glass_.

Then he is off.

"Who was that guy?" I shout. "The one in the red helmet?"

"Don't know!" my instructor yells back. "Let's get ready."

I maneuver toward the back where my instructor connects our harnesses together. Then we are outside the aircraft, clumsily positioning ourselves on the wing strut.

What the hell am I doing here!

We jump. A hurricane of freezing air blasts my face—falling at incredible speed.

"Yaaa!" my instructor howls.

I'm too terrified to utter a sound. If there's a gap in the cloud cover we've missed it, for a solid floor of grayish white hurtles toward us. In moments we are through it, in clear air again, above the onrushing ground.

The parachute blasts open, turning our roaring progress into a silent descent. Beyond my feet, the whole world gently approaches.

# Six: Underground Realtor

41. Julie

Marcello: "I don't feel like an egg now."

Emma: "Eat it! And chew properly." – La Dolce Vita

More weeks pass, and my financial situation spirals downwards.

The _Clarion_ vanishes without a trace, as if a flood has swallowed it. When I submit my resume to the local weeklies, they look at me as if I'd dropped in from Mars. I register again at the employment agency but seldom hear back. Betty seems to have finally given up on my prospects.

My connection with Rosewood is irretrievably broken. The _Clarion_ office has been taken over by a lawyer. Pam quit the drug store. When I stop at the Riverside Inn, the new bar girl looks at me blankly.

"Has W. J. been around?" I ask.

"Who's W. J.?"

Lynn troubles my thoughts occasionally. Should I try to contact her? I have no phone number or address; I don't even know her last name. Maybe I'm actually relieved to be out of the situation, being stuck with an 'older' woman?

At least I have plenty of time for the judo club and for visiting Grandfather Alois.

"Maybe you came back too soon," Grandpa says at one point.

I spend long hours daydreaming in my room. A Republic of Korea flag and map decorate one wall, and the big Philippine road map covers another. I stare at these battered souvenirs, retracing my routes while recalling the 'good old days.'

And I think about Jon Glass, too. How can I help it? He sure made his victory complete—bounding gracefully into the slipstream while I, freshly unemployed, lumbered behind tethered to an instructor. Someday, I'll even the score. I don't dare resume my treks through the Bum Nation, for fear I might not be able to get out again.

One day a mailing comes from my alma mater concerning an art exhibit on campus:

The paintings of Barb Alma, inspired by the poems of Robert Mitchell, and the drawings of Greg Wright.

I have no idea who these people are, but the pictures on the invitation are interesting, and a reception / poetry reading is scheduled for the closing day of the exhibition. Sounds like fun. Then again, compared to my current circumstances, a trip to the Frosty Virgin might be fun. I make room in my busy schedule and head out.

It's good to be on the road again, even on such a minor adventure. The freeway miles tick off, and everything seems a little better with the world. My thoughts turn toward Julie Lindberg. Maybe I'll run into her on campus. It's a small place. Of course, I could have tried to call her but didn't.

She's a junior now, I rationalize, and she was just a freshman when I last saw her. She's probably forgotten all about me. Somebody as cute as her would have no lack of prospects. There's another reason for my reluctance. Julie had been too controlling for my taste. She'd sort of taken over my room, straightening up, rearranging things. These actions seemed freighted with expectations.

While we were dating, I'd never looked neater nor better groomed. Julie did not favor the college grunge style, especially for young men who were about to enter the real world of careers and responsibilities. She was extremely sensuous, in her virginal way. I've never seen a woman with such compelling eyes. If she had given in to my sexual advances, no telling what might have happened. I may never have gone overseas.

Julie regarded my desire for foreign adventure as a childish excess to be outgrown, like acne. When I finished my final term and left campus, I lost touch with her. Then my Peace Corps acceptance arrived.

I exit the freeway and drive through town. It appears to be the same boring little place. At the outskirts of the campus, I turn down Oak street intending to park by my old house.

"Damn!"

I get out of the Nova, shell shocked. The area beside the pavement is empty—just a belt of grass along the railroad track where the small housing units had once been. A forlorn strip of sidewalk leads nowhere.

"That's the end of that, eh?"

I'd loved the tacky little house where I lived. It was so much more fun than the cookie-cutter dormitories—the good times, the parties. Then again, if it hadn't been for all those parties I might have finished school on time, rather than having to go an extra term.

Then I wouldn't have met Julie. I would have entered the Peace Corps earlier, before middle school volunteers were being assigned to Seoul, and I wouldn't have met Yun Hee. Kathy would not have been in my training group. I might even have been sent to another country. The ramifications are mind boggling.

And Jon Glass. Would I have missed him, too, or would he have shown up wherever the Peace Corps assigned me?

Another shock awaits as I cross the campus.

"Oh!" I can't help gasping.

Landis Hall is gone, and its elegant walnut trees have been reduced to stumps. A sign indicates the area is being developed for a new classroom building.

Landis Hall had graced this spot since the previous century and had balanced the generic modern buildings. Its white brick walls and towering porch columns looked like something out of _Gone with the Wind_. I'm not opposed to change, but why does it have to be so ugly?

In a few more minutes, I am at the art center having crossed almost the entire campus. I'd transferred here as a sophomore because I hadn't been able to adjust to the giant university where I'd begun school. Now I'd probably go out of my mind in a place like this, having seen the wider world.

Small groups of students walk past. I recognize nobody. An incident from high school pops into my mind. A girl who'd been in my classes wrote in my Senior yearbook:

" _Tyler – Yeah, I knew you."_

I'd been taken aback by what seemed a very off hand treatment of our acquaintance, but now I appreciate her wisdom. Life goes on; you never see people again when you move to the next phase.

The art center is a recycled gymnasium constructed of drab red brick with a pseudo-oriental tile roof. Inside is nice, though. The gallery area is thickly carpeted, and little spotlights hanging from the ceiling illuminate the various drawings posted on the walls. It's late afternoon. After this initial viewing, I plan to have dinner in town, then return to campus for the reception.

I move along the walls. Some of the prints are monochromes, including several abstract animal forms with skull heads. Lines of poetry accompany each print. I'm not a poetry scholar, but this material seems a bit rough to me, like something Charlie Streicher might have written.

Other prints are languid and voluptuous. One in particular absorbs my attention with flowing patterns of gold, red, and blue. The picture seems to be in motion. I stand, contemplating.

A soft voice speaks at my side. "Hello, Tyler."

There she is. "Julie!"

I take her hands. We kiss, long and sensuous like the picture on the wall before us. She's even more incredible than I remembered—beautifully matured, blonde, shapely.

"I saw you walking across campus and wondered, 'Does he want to see me again?' I decided to find out."

"I was wondering the same thing, Julie."

Her eyes have even more magnetic power than I remembered. I'm no longer in a mere art gallery but on the fringe of heaven itself.

I never make it back to the reception. After a long stroll with Julie and dinner together, we end up at a motel. When the sexual fireworks are finally over, Julie stretches herself luxuriously beneath the sheets.

"So, this is what it's all about," she says.

"Did you like it?"

"Sure did. First time for me." She primps her hair, magically restoring it to perfect order. "I've got a feeling we might find ourselves in this situation again, sometime. What do you think?"

"Yeah!"

Julie laughs, a delightful sound that makes me want to start the lovemaking all over again.

"You must have been around the block a few times though, right, Tyler?"

I mumble something noncommittal.

"That's okay. It's typical for a man to 'sow wild oats' for a while. As long as he knows when to quit. When he's found the right girl."

We lay quietly for a while, enjoying easy listening music from the radio. Ordinarily, I dislike such music, but now it sounds marvelous.

Julie speaks. "I always wondered if I made a mistake by holding out when we first knew each other, but now... well, I guess the issue is settled."

"To your satisfaction?"

She nips my ear.

"Ow!"

"Yes, Tyler. You know that."

42. Phone Calls from Beyond

He wants his home and security.

He wants to live like a sailor at sea. – Beautiful Loser, by Bob Seger

More weeks pass without employment. Not to worry, I can always be a clerk at Ed's store. Mom has actually floated this idea, still trying to engineer the _big reconciliation_. I would rather be shot first. Besides, Ed already has a full staff. He'd have to let somebody go to take me on.

Julie comes down for a weekend, and we have an incredible time at the Holiday Inn. Her sexual appetite is voracious, as if she's making up for a lifetime of abstinence.

She wants to meet my family. Fortunately, Ed is working Sunday, so I bring her home to see Mom. They hit it off big time. Mom seems to have already placed Julie in the daughter-in-law role. I don't dare take her to see Victor, though, for fear he might fly into one of his rages. We do visit Grandfather Alois.

"What did you think of her, Grandpa?" I asked later.

"A lovely girl," he replied. "She reminds me of your grandmother."

"Really?"

"She'll keep a tight rein on you, Tyler."

The remark made me uneasy, probably because it's true.

Of course, I've developed feelings for Julie, and I know her feelings for me are genuine. But she has a maternal, controlling streak that wraps around me like a python. I can see this most clearly when I'm away from her fantastic sexual power.

Hell, there is so much of the world left to explore! Can't everything else wait a while? Women like Julie don't grow on trees, though. If I don't pluck the fruit, somebody else surely will. This awkward metaphor perfectly expresses my mixed feelings.

Am I a Beautiful Loser, futilely trying to "have it all" like in the Bob Seger song? Seger, who also hails from Michigan, is Bob West's favorite rock star.

What is Bob West up to these days? Increasingly, our time together on DAS ROAD takes on a mythological aspect. Bob is assuming operatic hero status. And up ahead on the road, just beyond reach, the mysterious figure of Jon Glass beckons.

Korea glows in my memory with absolute perfection, freed from all unpleasantness—no confusion, loneliness, or bouts with diarrhea. No GG shots, boredom, or visits to the Frosty Virgin. The vilest makoli tastes like nectar in retrospect.

I miss Bob. Maybe I should write, but what could I say?

Dear Bob:

My economic situation is totally screwed, how's yours? By the way, I saw Jon Glass jumping out of an airplane right after my boss dropped dead and my girlfriend told me she was married.

He'd think I was hallucinating. Maybe I had been.

What is Jon Glass up to now? Probably accomplishing more heroics, blowing them off with casual explanations: _"I thought it would be interesting to stop him, so I took him down."_

Jeez!

Hunting through newspaper want ads becomes a daily ritual, a sort of desperation drill, and I have nearly resigned myself to a career of flipping hamburgers. Then, one ad in _Help Wanted, Sales_ offers a flicker of hope:

Mature person wanted for commission sales. Must have professional demeanor. Car provided.

I dial the number and am startled by the answer.

"Valley Oaks Memorial Park," a woman's voice says, cold and distant, as if it is coming from deep inside a cave.

Memorial Park? That's a cemetery, right?

"Uh... I'm calling about the ad in the _News_."

"Yes?" the woman says.

I feel a powerful urge to slam the phone down, but I fear to shun any potential job, however weird the first impression might be. Besides, the voice is oddly compelling.

"What are your qualifications?" it asks.

I rattle off my resume—college graduate, returned PCV, "between jobs" at the present time, etc. I seem to be talking into a void, as no replies come back across the phone line. No monosyllabic comments, throat clearings, nothing. I finish talking and wait.

"Are you married, Mr. Lakatos?"

"No, I'm not."

"Oh." A note of disapproval enters the voice. "We have a preference for family men."

"I _am_ engaged," I blurt out.

"I see."

The voice sounds somewhat mollified by my fib, and it begins rattling off monotone questions:

"Do you object to working irregular hours?"

"No."

"Would you mind visiting clients at their homes?"

"That would be fine."

"Am you a self-starter type individual?"

"Yes." I self-started myself half way around the world, didn't I?

"Do you consider yourself a 'people person?'"

"Yes." Another fib.

"Have you received any traffic tickets during the past 18 months?"

"No." I don't mention my run-in with the Rosewood cop.

The voice explains the job involves direct sales of cemetery plots. Valley Oaks is a fairly new establishment and needs to aggressively promote itself with the public.

This sounds great! A real dream job.

"All right, Mr. Lakatos." The voice is fading out. "You'll be contacted."

"Thank you."

No response.

"Good-bye?"

The phone is dead.

I ease the receiver down and wipe a sweaty palm on my shirt front. Real Edgar Allan Poe stuff, and I can't believe I told that shabby lie about being engaged. Then again, what the hell business is it of theirs?

I chalk the interview up to experience, like getting my teeth drilled. But two days later—shortly after I've dragged myself back from filling out an application at McDonald's, while I'm sitting depressed in front of the TV watching some perverse soap opera—I _am_ contacted.

"Mr. Lakatos?"

I recognize the voice, and my stomach turns icy. "Yes."

"This is Ms. Davenport from Valley Oaks Memorial Park. We spoke earlier."

So, I have a name to attach to the disembodied voice. "How are you, Ms. Davenport?"

"The President wants to see you about the sales position."

"That would be... fine. When?"

"Thursday evening at six thirty. This is a convenient time?" It's a command more than an inquiry.

"Sure."

"Mr. Vulchine also wishes to meet your fiancé. You can bring her with you?"

Fiancée!

"Yes, of course she'll come."

Ms. Davenport gives directions to the office. It is located on the cemetery grounds, and the security gate will be left open for me.

"Please be on time," she says.

"I will, thank you," I say, then add hurriedly, "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Lakatos."

I hang up. _What am I getting myself into?_

This is the oddest thing I've been involved with since that mirror episode in Coloane. I'll have to call Ms. Davenport back and cancel, say I've decided to "pursue another opportunity" or some other B.S.

Then I think about the endless line of customers at McDonald's—the hot grill I'll be standing over, the boiling French fries, the high school kids and retirees I'll have for coworkers. How long before I crack up?

To think I'd actually run down the street in Tokyo to reach a McDonald's! I've always liked the place, but the view from the other side of the counter is grim. I pick up the phone again and dial. Thank heaven, Julie is in.

"I was just thinking about you," she says.

"Julie, you've got to help me."

43. The Great Interview

I drive to the college Thursday afternoon and pick up Julie. She looks great—an attractive, though conservative dark outfit, heels, excellent make up, her blonde hair light and bouncy. Her perfume turns my humble Chevy into a celestial chariot. I kiss her passionately.

"Watch the lipstick!" she protests.

"Let's get naked," I pant.

"Honestly, Tyler. I thought we had an important interview."

"Yes," I pull away. "That's unfortunately the case."

After maneuvering off the campus and reaching the main drag, I take Julie's hand, stroking her wonderfully soft skin. She is wearing a solitaire ring.

"That's some diamond," I say.

Julie holds up her hand; a sunbeam ricochets off the carat-sized stone and stabs my eye. "It was my Grandmother's. Grandfather bought it for her shortly before they died. He said he wanted her to have the diamond he couldn't afford when they were young. Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful."

"They both died in the same week. They simply couldn't live without each other. Isn't that romantic?"

"Uh... yes."

Julie examines the diamond, turning her hand to vary the perspective. "Grandmother loved this diamond, and I inherited it. I thought it would add credibility to this situation."

"Yeah, good thing she wasn't buried with it."

Julie shoots me a vexed glance.

"Sorry," I say, "that was indelicately put."

She smiles and strokes my cheek where a bushy sideburn used to grow. "Looks like you've been to the barber. You've got that IBM look now."

"Yeah."

"I like it," she takes my hand. "Very much."

A few hours later we arrive at Valley Oaks. Thick overcast has moved in, replacing the pleasant early spring atmosphere with an ugly gloom. Darkness is closing in as we drive through the security gate. Immediately, I take a wrong turn on the winding roads and, instead of heading towards the office, move farther out into the cemetery.

The place is largely vacant and has the raw, expectant quality of land waiting for a subdivision to be built on it. Only in this case, the residents will all be dead. Most of the existing grave markers are set flush in the ground, with an occasional large, erect family plot stone. The area is totally flat, and saplings have been planted in neat rows. The 'Valley Oaks' moniker seems quite an overstatement.

"Did I tell you this place used to be a sod farm?" I say.

"Oh, really?"

Julie is quiet, thoughtful, her diamond-fingered hand strokes her cheek as she surveys the necropolis. No sunbeams glitter in the stone. We pass a towering crucifix which bears a graphic Christ figure.

"This must be the Catholic section," Julie says.

I turn left at a half-completed mausoleum and intercept the correct road. We park in front of the administrative building and enter as the last rays of daylight vanish. Ms. Davenport stands by her desk in coat and gloves. She glances at the clock which shows we've missed our appointed time by three minutes.

"I'm Tyler Lakatos, and this is Julie Lindberg." I feel awkward in the somber gray suit I've borrowed from Victor. "Sorry we're late. We got tangled up on the roads; very peaceful out there."

Ms. Davenport looks at us blankly, not reacting to the attempt at levity. She is a tall, pale, angular woman with dark hair and eyes. Her face has a sickly cast under the fluorescent light.

"Mr. Vulchine will be back soon." She indicates a door off to the side. "He asks you to wait in his office."

A wave of cold air brushes us as she passes on to the exit. A car engine starts and tires rumble on the gravel. We are alone.

"Guess we'd better go in," I say.

We enter the president's office. It is dimly illuminated by tiny recessed lights along the ceiling. We must have activated an electric eye device, for the overheads turn on. Bright light floods the room.

"Oh!" Julie grips my hand.

"What's wrong?"

I follow her gaze. A coffin, huge and terrible, lurks against the far wall. My eyes widen and breath whistles in through my teeth.

"Good God!"

I squeeze Julie's hand hard enough to make her cry out again. We remain frozen a long moment before realizing the truth.

"Well, ahem, what do you know?" I say.

I try to sound nonchalant, but am not doing too well. I stroll across the room and examine the large wooden credenza. It _does_ look like a coffin, almost, if you aren't expecting it.

"Where'd he get that horrible thing?" Julie whispers.

"I don't know." I feel like a complete idiot. "Guess we'd better sit down, eh?"

We take chairs facing the president's desk. The spacious window behind it grows darker as evening sets in. I want to close the drapes, but think it might be presumptuous. I dislike bare windows in the dark. They make me feel vulnerable, as if a sniper outside is taking aim. A few minutes crawl past.

"You must be Mr. Lakatos," a male voice says.

We twist around to see Mr. Vulchine walking toward us. We hadn't heard him enter the office. He is tall and thin with puffy, blow-dried white hair accenting a pale face. My first impression is that he and Ms. Davenport must be related.

I meet him half way across the office. His cold and dry hand transmits surprising strength. As we stand exchanging amenities, I can see the credenza in the background and have the eerie feeling that Mr. Vulchine has just risen out of it.

I introduce Julie. Mr. Vulchine smiles and takes her hand in a courtly gesture. I half expect him to kiss it. Julie smiles back, blushing slightly. Mr. Vulchine settles into his leather chair behind the massive desk.

"So, you're interested in working for us?" he says.

"Yes, sir," I say.

He shuffles through some papers, selects one, studies it briefly, lays it aside. "I'll come right to the point. You did a fine job selling yourself on the phone. That's important to us. A man who can sell himself can sell other things, too."

My heart beats faster.

"We're impressed with your potential, Mr. Lakatos. Now, we'd like to find out more about your temperament and your plans for the future. That's why I asked Miss Lindberg to come."

He smiles at Julie, and she beams back. He has undeniable charm, even if it is somewhat ghastly.

Mr. Vulchine begins asking questions which I field with as much skill as possible. Yes, I've gotten a basic understanding of the job from Ms. Davenport. No, I haven't any sales experience, but am willing to learn. Of course, I'll undergo a training program to become a "licensed cemeterian."

Pretty fancy name for a grave salesman.

Then he shifts the focus toward Julie, and I can relax slightly. The window behind the desk reflects Julie and me, but only the high back of Mr. Vulchine's chair is visible. It looks as if Julie is conversing with a vacant piece of furniture.

"Have you decided on a wedding date?" Mr. Vulchine asks after some preliminary chatter.

"Next June," she replies without missing a beat. "I'll be finished with school then, and Tyler should be well established."

She reaches an arm over my chair back, and I feel myself reddening slightly. Mr. Vulchine grins, delighted with this scenario. His upper canine teeth are pointed in a faintly vampirish manner.

Soon afterwards, the President wraps up the discussion with a job offer, which I accept. Then he escorts us to the exit.

"So, we can expect to see you Monday morning for the first training session, Mr. Lakatos?"

"Yes, sir." I receive another powerful handshake.

It's quite dark when we get back into the car. I whip off my tie and exhale an immense sigh of relief. I'd scarcely been breathing during the interview. An unwholesome green light illuminates the security gate, offering me guidance as I navigate the winding lanes.

"Kind of weird, eh?" I say.

"Perhaps at first, but I think Mr. Vulchine is very elegant. You have to start somewhere, Tyler. This could be the beginning of a fine career for you."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't stay in direct sales too long, of course. You'd move up into management. Maybe not here but someplace else, once you've got some experience."

Julie's words hang heavy in the Nova.

We stop at a motel along the freeway. As she gets undressed, Julie takes off the diamond ring and holds it up in the lamp light.

"Let me know when you want to do this for real, Tyler."

44. The Frank Meade Road Show

" _Pleasantness is not what counts for me." – Adolf Hitler_

After a series of classes and a written exam, I am a licensed cemeterian.

This seems like a lot of trouble, but apparently some government regulation is involved. The parchment certificate I receive baffles me with its seals and fancy lettering. I hide it away in the back of my file cabinet.

My subsequent on-the-job training with Frank Meade is even more surprising. Frank is reputed to be Valley Oaks' premier salesman, earning top commissions through his amazing nerve and persistence.

The first day I accompany Frank on sales calls, another agent takes me aside and speaks in a confidential tone. "You're going out there with the _best_. Pay close attention to everything Frank does. We don't call him 'Dead Meat' Meade for nothing, you know."

"Thanks for the tip."

I meet Frank in the parking lot and, after some preliminary chit chat, get into one of the big company Lincolns with him.

"Think about it, Tyler," Frank says as we pull away from the office, "with the divorce rate the way it is, who's gonna get the burial plots?"

"Excuse me?"

"Young married couples are the preferred customers," Frank says. "They buy their double plots thinking they're going to spend eternity together, but then they get divorced and the whole arrangement goes south."

"I hadn't thought about it. Can they sell the plots back?"

Frank nods. "Hey, if you stick with the company long enough, maybe _you'll_ be handling some of those transactions."

Frank is crass and brilliant, with a Hitlerian grasp of human psychological vulnerabilities. He knows how to rattle people's emotions and get them to sign before they come back to their senses. He's a big, hefty guy like Bob West, but more overweight. And he certainly lacks Bob's sensitivity.

Despite his bulk, Frank looks neat in his well-tailored suit and silk neck tie. His wife is in charge of his wardrobe, and she has excellent taste. Nobody could say he lacks the "professional demeanor" stipulated by the want ad—especially if you want a professional to break somebody's arm.

The first day out we make two calls at the homes of young married couples, and Frank lands sales both times. I'm awe struck by his performance. We enter the first house brandishing a "free" book on estate planning.

"We're not here to sell you anything," Frank says to the wife.

I bite my tongue, but manage a smile. This is one helluva deceptive opening line. My role is merely to observe and hand over documents at the proper moment.

"Yes," the woman says. "You explained that on the phone."

The husband shakes hands with us, but lets his wife do most of the talking. After some chit chat about wills, trusts, and inheritance legal hassles, Frank seamlessly turns the conversation toward making those "final arrangements" and the wisdom of doing so "pre need."

By this time, the couple is holding hands and looking apprehensively into each other's eyes.

"This isn't a subject we wish to think about," Frank says with a lugubrious expression on his broad face, "but we feel much better once we've made the proper arrangements and done right by our loved ones."

The woman nods, daubing her eyes with a tissue. Frank makes a subtle gesture with his index finger, and I hand over the BOOK.

"Shall we examine some options?" Frank asks gently.

The woman nods again.

The BOOK presents tasteful color pictures of Valley Oaks cemetery with accompanying text in wedding invitation style lettering. The photographs look better than the real place. I'm impressed by the photographer's intelligent use of camera angles and lighting effects.

Before long, both the husband and wife are crying. The woman has been sniffling for some time when the man suddenly lets go a torrent of sobs. I'm appalled, but Frank merely settles back deferentially and bides his time. He actually flashes me a surreptitious wink.

Frank has them by the short hairs and knows it. At another signal from him, I produce the legal papers. Frank gets signatures for the purchase of a double plot with headstone, the works. After a few condolence type remarks, we're on our way.

"All in a day's work," Frank says as we get back in the Lincoln.

I feel like I've been rabbit punched. At least I'm having an experience few people could match—not even Jon Glass, I suppose. The next call is similar, except that Frank has to be more forceful in the closing, almost bullying the people into signing.

Two days later, we go out again. The first deal is settled quickly. The client is a cranky old gentleman whose wife passed on many years earlier. He is dissatisfied with the inner-city cemetery where she's buried and wants to purchase a double plot at Valley Oaks where her body can be reinterred and he can secure his own final resting place.

"Cut the razzmatazz, young man!" he tells Frank, terminating the latter's sales spiel. "At my age there's no time to waste. How much is it gonna cost?"

That leaves us with a lot of time before our next call, so we go to a Montana-style steak house for dinner. There, amid the ersatz Western décor, we dig into our steaks and foil-wrapped baked potatoes. Frank orders a massive porterhouse, rare, while I make do with a small fillet, medium well.

"God, I could use a drink!" Frank shakes his head remorsefully and cuts an enormous slice of porterhouse. "Wouldn't do to visit the clients all boozed up, though."

"Tell me, Frank." I'm approaching a delicate subject and must choose my words carefully. "Is everything about Valley Oaks totally, uh..."

"On the level?"

"Well... yeah."

Frank chuckles. "Sure it is. The Boss is competing against well-established cemeteries, so he has to offer good value."

He chews the slice of steak quickly, swallows, resumes talking.

"And the customers have full ownership. Somebody could buy plots today and down the road resell them at a profit. They wouldn't necessarily have to go through us, either." He chuckles again. "Of course, the new owner could only bury somebody on the land, he couldn't build a condo or anything."

"Some of the sales methods, though," I say, "aren't they a little unconventional?"

"You could say that." Frank shrugs. "The Boss purchased some real estate, but he needs agents who know how to sell illusions."

"Illusions?"

"Yeah. People are really buying the fantasy that they're looking out for their loved ones by lessening the burden of death. When couples buy a double plot, they feel they're projecting the marriage vows into eternity."

I sip my lemonade. Yes, this makes a kind of sense. It even sounds rather empathetic. We eat in silence a few minutes before Frank returns to form.

"There's also the vanity factor," he says. "Even though you're dead, you can still be somebody with your own piece of underground realty and a handsome marker. Sometimes people just need a little nudge to make the purchase decision."

I wouldn't consider Frank's tactics as being merely "a little nudge."

"The biggest thing to watch out for," Frank says, "are people who say they'd rather be cremated. That's the kiss of death for us, so to speak. Best to give them the old 'meat hook' routine."

"What's that?"

"Tell them their loved ones will be manhandled with hooks at the crematoria. Why should anybody care what happens to bodies that are going to be burned anyway?"

"Good grief. Is that true?"

"How should I know?" Frank shrugs. "It works with the customers."

He removes a newspaper clipping from his briefcase and smoothes it out reverently. I notice, with some astonishment, that the _Clarion's_ name is on the header. The title of the article reads:

Families of Deceased Sue Crematory Owner

"You can show them this, too." He hands me the article. "I'll make you a photocopy."

The news story concerns a crematory owner being sued for not doing his job. Hundreds of decaying bodies lay scattered around his property, un-incinerated. He'd been providing relatives with urns of cement dust instead their loved ones' ashes.

"This will convince them if nothing else does," Frank says.

I shove aside the remains of my steak.

Frank smiles wryly and takes back the clipping. "I'll be out the next couple of weeks. My wife finally talked me into taking her on a cruise. Got to keep her happy, right?"

"Sure."

I feel an odd mixture of relief and dread. It will be nice to get rid of Frank, but I'll also feel insecure without him.

"You'll be on your own most of the time, as the other agents are pretty tied up right now," Frank says. "They'll show you how to work telephone contacts, though."

I look doubtful.

"What's the matter, a little gun shy?"

I nod.

"Don't worry, you'll get over it. Hell, I was that way myself at first."

"Come on, Frank. You're a natural."

He smiles, accepting the compliment as his due. "Look, I've got two customer leads I'd like you follow up while I'm away. You just might earn your first commissions."

* * *

That night, I have a major blow-up with Julie on the phone. Something stupid, really. She wants me to visit the campus next weekend for a concert. I say I'll be busy then.

I could make it, actually, but I don't want to see Julie yet. My job is pressing down on me hard, like a coffin lid. Julie's expectations are weighing me down, too. I simply can't handle them right now.

I need a break from her, that's all, but I handle the situation badly, talking to Julie in my condescending jerk mode. She responds in her control freak persona: What! How dare you have a life without me, Tyler!

Finally, she slams down the phone. I do the same.

45. Going Solo

" _Everything seems stupid when it fails." – Raskolnikov, speaking in_ _Crime and Punishment_ _, by Fyodor Dostoevsky_

Dusk is approaching when I arrive at the deserted cemetery and exchange my Chevy for the big, slab-sided company Lincoln. The car is unlocked with keys in the ignition. Mr. Vulchine is very trusting. Then again, people in this neighborhood are not likely to be thieves.

Sliding into the driver's seat gives the sensation of entering a vast, sepulchral enclosure. I toss my heavy briefcase onto the back seat and close the door. It clunks shut with finality, the air pressure hurting my ears. I pull away from the darkened office building and head for the cemetery gate. I try to tune in the radio, but it seems to be disconnected.

Always before, Frank had done the driving and a great deal of talking, as well. His physical and acoustic bulk had taken up much space. Now I occupy the cavernous automobile alone in oppressive, hermetic silence.

Or am I alone?

As I negotiate the winding necropolis lanes, I have the creepy impression that somebody is sharing the car with me. I look into the rear view mirror, then glance over my shoulder to the back seat.

No one is there, of course, but as soon as I fix my eyes on the road, I feel the presence again, right behind me. Somebody is sitting in the back seat breathing past my ear, or maybe not breathing at all! The hairs on my neck bristle.

I turn around to peruse the back seat again just as the road takes a curve without me. The Lincoln's front end bumps over the gravel shoulder and starts descending into the ditch.

"Whoa!" I swing back onto the road.

I keep my eyes outside the car now, whatever the eerie feelings creeping up my spine from the back seat might be.

Where is that damned gate? Have I made a wrong turn?

The car rides silky smooth, its massive engine making scarcely any sound. The large, graphic crucifix of the Catholic section passes by, casting a long shadow. Then comes a walled-in area of elegant tombstones—the Beverly Hills section. A freshly dug grave with a mound of dirt beside it glides past.

I recall the windy day when Bob West and I visited the Taiwanese cemetery. That had been rather fun, like watching a horror movie—until we'd found that strangled cat. How would Jon Glass handle this situation, I wonder. Probably better than I am.

No he wouldn't. He isn't here. As awful as this job is turning out to be, at least I'm doing something Glass could never have dreamed up. This is my own, unique adventure, however strange.

The Lincoln rides as quiet and secure as a wheeled coffin. Yes, the back seat _is_ big enough to hold a corpse, isn't it? I cast a jittery glance out the side window, half expecting to discover pallbearer rails bolted to the car's flanks.

Suddenly, the gate looms ahead and I slam on the brakes. The car throws its massive inertia forward, pitching me against the steering wheel. Something thuds in back, and my heart stops cold. I fling the door open and am half way out before my mind registers what's happened. I turn slowly and look in the back to see my briefcase lying on the floor. I close the door again and punch the access code into the remote control.

The motorized gate grinds slowly open. The sensation of somebody being in back of me returns, overpowering in intensity. This time the perception comes from _outside_ the car, back by that fresh grave I just passed.

The gate is half open; the presence approaches my tail lights. I sense something hovering outside my door. The radio crackles awake, and an unknown voice rages amid the static. I gun the engine. The behemoth takes off, nearly hitting the retreating gate. I roar into the land of the living.

Several miles later, I'm cruising a working class suburb looking for the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Flynt. The street is a mixture of modest frame houses and larger, semi-shabby structures. This doesn't seem a very upscale neighborhood, not an area where you'd expect to find the most prosperous customers. Then again, people must die here as often as at any wealthier locale.

I park a few doors down where a large enough space is available. A rush of cool wind bathes me as I exit the Lincoln, drying the sweat which has collected on my forehead. The rays of a dying sun thrust across a sky filled with slashes of high cirrus, as if some vicious animal has clawed the heavens. I move up the walk toward the Flynt's front porch and notice a Confederate flag hanging in the picture window. I hesitate, my Northern sensibilities prickling.

Don't be silly.

Most people who display the Stars and Bars are only paying respect to their heritage. The Flynts must originate from the South and are showing some regional pride. Heck, don't I have a Korean flag on my wall? What would some stranger think of that? Then again, it's true some individuals thrust their arms beneath the colorful imagery and embrace the cruel spirit within.

Once at a bar, I'd suffered the misfortune of being "embraced" by such people. Maybe I just looked dumb that day, or perhaps the lighting was too low. Anyway, a small group of these jerks mistook me for one of their own, even buying me a beer. Their leader wore a denim shirt with a Confederate flag patch. Every other word they spoke was some racial epithet.

_Man,_ I'd thought, _if us white folks are supposed to be a superior race, you guys are one helluva lousy advertisement!_

Since I didn't join in their ugly talk, they became suspicious. I thought it best to make a quick exit.

Are the Flynts this sort of Neanderthal? What of it? I bound up the steps and ring the bell. If they are Neanderthals, I'm selling something they can use. The sooner the better.

Nobody answers. I ring again. The flag hangs limp in the window, no one moving up behind it to open the door. I feel like an idiot, dressed up in my somber gray suit, briefcase in hand—a half-baked death angel left standing at the altar. How's that for a mixed metaphor?

I look around the street, grateful that nobody's passing by to stare at me. What should I do? My next appointment doesn't expect me for some time yet. A more important question—what would Frank Meade do?

Why, he'd make a cold call. That's what I should do, too. What is there to lose besides the tattered remains of my self respect? The house two doors down has a tricycle on the grass, along with other little kid toys. Little kids mean younger parents, and young couples are our most prized customers. Right?

I abandon the porch and cross to the other house. A label on the mail box says "Chuck and Peggy Scott." I ring the bell, and an attractive, though rather frazzled, young woman answers the door.

"Mrs. Scott?" I say.

"Yes."

"I'm Tyler Lakatos from Valley Oaks Estate Planning. Your neighbors, the Flynts, told us you might be interested in hearing about our services." The lie sits uncomfortably on my lips.

She looks apprehensively toward the Flynt house. "Them?"

"Er... yes." I take a step back.

"Who is it, Honey?" a male voice calls from inside.

"A salesman, the Flynts sent him here."

"The Flynts?" he sounds as baffled as his wife had been.

"Actually, I'm not here to sell you anything," I say, feeling a guilty twinge.

The man comes to the door and stands beside his wife. He seems a decent sort—around 30, well built, working class type of guy.

"Come on in," he says.

I cross the threshold and go into autopilot. It's as if Tyler has remained on the porch and Frank Meade has stepped inside. Sure, I'm an unlikely substitute—at least a hundred pounds lighter and 50 points higher in IQ—but in spirit I am the same.

I go into Frank's standard pitch, hanging onto it for dear life. I present our free estate planning guide, complete with attached business card, and begin talking about making wills, avoiding probate, and looking out for our loved ones by planning for the "ultimate realities."

As I talk, the Scotts become increasingly emotional, sitting close to each other, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes frequently. By the time I pull out the BOOK, they are both misty-eyed.

Amazing! I've brought them to this catharsis as skillfully as Frank Meade could. I begin the core sales pitch, extolling Valley Oaks, rhapsodizing about the eternity of peace they can expect to find there buried together. Both are crying freely now. This is the moment Frank would go for the jugular, but I hesitate too long.

Chuck stands up. "I've got to get away for a while," he says, wiping tears from his eyes.

He leaves through the front door. I dumbly watch him go, uncertain about what to do next.

Peggy stands up. "Excuse me, please."

She retreats to the bathroom. I hear water running and loud nose blowings. A little boy, about four years old, peaks around the corner with huge round eyes. I smile and wave playful wiggly fingers. For an instant I am the old Tyler again, back in Korea bantering with Mr. Jong's son. The moment passes.

Peggy resumes her seat on the sofa across from me. She looks pale and distraught, her fingers stroke the cemetery book on the coffee table. The phone rings. She hands me the receiver.

"It's for you, Mr. Lakatos."

I take it from her, utterly confused.

Chuck is on the line. "Get the hell out of my house!"

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be back in three minutes, and you'd better not be there."

_Click_!

I hand the phone back as if it's a venomous snake. "I really must be going, Mrs. Scott. There appears to be some misunderstanding."

As I pass the Flynt's house on the way to the car, I notice a light on in their living room, shining through the Confederate flag. I keep going.

My next prospects, Ray and Linda Pricor, live on a short, semi-rural lane that curves along the course of a small creek, traversing the right angle between two main roads. By the time I get there night has fallen, and only a couple of strangled, yellowish street lights illuminate the area.

I pass a little church and drive down the residential portion of the street vainly seeking the correct house. No porch lights burn, and there are no address-bearing mailboxes on the lawns. Cars parked along the street tilt at weird angles, leaning into the drainage ditches.

I don't want to chance having the Lincoln slide into a ditch, so I pull into a gravel driveway to turn around. My headlights catch sight of a junked car in the backyard and an engine block on the front porch of the shabby frame house.

I return to the church parking lot and leave the car. A huge electrical tower looms above, wires humming ominously. A freight train parked on a railroad overpass crouches like some great, slumbering beast. Gravel crackles under my shoes as I cross the parking lot, sharp little edges poking my feet through the leather soles.

Only the right side of the street has a paved walk, and I begin creeping along it like a burglar casing the environs. A single-story white cinder block house glimmers dully on the far side of the street. This whole neighborhood is on the far side.

I approach a house to see the address, but am driven back by the frenzied barking of a large, violent dog. Two red eyes stab out at me from the darkness. I grasp my briefcase like a shield.

I move on and the barking subsides. Acrimonious thoughts occupy my mind. _Gee thanks, Frank, for giving me this_ _outstanding_ _sales lead!_

The situation does have its ghastly humorous aspects, although I scarcely feel like laughing at the moment. Well, the new guy always gets knocked around a bit, doesn't he?

I pass another house, wrong address, and continue walking past a large, unkempt back yard festooned with white lawn statues that shine in the dimness like tomb stones. The sidewalk abruptly ends. The creek emerges from behind the houses and continues along a vacant area of tangled underbrush.

Ahead, where the street curves back to the main road, a large _Psycho_ style house lurks, dim light flickering from a third-story window.

That couldn't be the place, could it?

I'm sure not going there if it is. To hell with what Frank might say when he returns. I cross the road and head back.

A street lamp partially illuminates a vacant lot containing two battered metal lawn chairs and a rusty, upended oil drum. I'm reminded of the wine house décor in Korea. Beside the pavement, somebody has dug a shallow oblong hole and heaped a little pile of dirt beside it. I hurry past.

I come to the white cinder block house again and, wouldn't you know, it's the correct address. My little stroll down nightmare lane has been for nothing. I knock on the door, and a tall, very thin man with longish, greasy-looking hair answers.

"Mr. Pricor?"

"That's me."

"I'm Tyler Lakatos, from Valley Oaks—"

"Oh, yeah, come on in."

I enter the small living room. It's tidy, with fairly new, if cheap-looking furniture. The air is bad, stinking heavily of stale cigarette smoke. My eyes begin watering.

Ray lights a cigarette. "I was expecting the fat guy."

"Would you be referring to Mr. Meade?"

"Yeah, that's him, but you'll do. How about a beer?"

"Sure, thanks."

He calls back toward the kitchen. "Bring us a coupla Buds, Linda, okay?"

This is against protocol, but I badly need a beer. I could drink a whole case. A pallid woman, as tall and stringy as Mr. Pricor, enters the living room carrying two cans of beer.

"This is my wife, Linda," Ray introduces.

"Glad to meet you." I shake her hand; it's cold and bony.

I pop the tab and, seating myself on the couch, drink the cold beer gratefully. As I mellow out with the brew, I'm struck by the similarity between the two of them. They could almost pass for brother and sister.

_My God, maybe they_ _are_ _brother and sister!_

Pushing the grotesque idea from my mind, I go into my spiel, as I had at the Scotts'. Ray sits next to me smoking while his wife remains standing, leaned against the wall.

All the time I speak, Linda watches me intensely, never diverting her half-hooded eyes. Her gaze seems to slip under my three-piece suit. I feel like a stiff spread out on an examining table, my uneasiness increasing by the minute.

I try to concentrate on my pitch, which is difficult because I receive no feedback whatever from either of them—no tears, no comments—just that awful stare from Linda and Ray's continuous production of cigarette smoke.

When I get to the gist of the presentation and bring out the color illustrations of the cemetery, Ray interrupts.

"Naw, we ain't interested. We think cremation is better."

The cautionary voice of Frank Meade gurgles up from my memory. _"Don't let them go on about cremation_. _Give 'em the old meat hook routine."_

I take another swig from my beer. "Many people feel that way, until they learn the facts. Do you know how bodies are cremated?"

Interest flares in Ray's eyes. He crushes out his cigarette. "How?"

"W-well, they're often not handled with the loving respect they deserve. You know, sometimes a hook type device is used to handle the remains."

"Really?"

An evil look shoots across Ray's face. He slides closer to me on the sofa.

"What else do they do?" he asks in a low, husky voice, blowing foul breath my direction.

Linda leans forward, her eyes fully open now, a lascivious smile curling her lips.

"W-well," I say.

"Come on, man, tell me!" Ray grips my knee.

I'm instantly on my feet. Diabolical laughter chases me out the door. Thrashing through the darkness, I somehow get to the Lincoln and roar off.

46. Edge of the Abyss

" _When a man fails in one world, he succeeds in another. Tis a very great pleasure to see and do new things." – Cacambo, speaking in_ _Candide_ _, by Voltaire_

Death image nightmares suffocate my sleep that night. Vance Cooper stars in the first ghastly scenario.

Vance sitting at his battered desk behind an overflowing ashtray—cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other. With every puff, his face becomes paler and more drawn. Crimson smoke drifts toward the ceiling which is dark and vaulted like an ancient tomb's.

He finishes the cigarette as the last flesh melts off his skull. He raises the drink, and the glass clicks against bared teeth.

I wake up, run to the bathroom, drink some water and pop an aspirin. As soon as I drop off to sleep again, the dead are back.

An announcer, who looks a lot like Frank Meade, steps into the television screen. His dignified, conservatively dressed demeanor clashes with his carnival barker sales pitch:

" _Yes, folks, you really_ _can_ _take it with you! Death does not have to be an expensive and unpleasant chore! At Valley Oaks, you're more than just another corpse, and we aren't the only ones who will be pleased at your arrival. So, when that old Grim Reaper comes a-knocking, you can rest assured ..."_

A choir sings, to the tune of a Robert Hall Clothing jingle:

Though your coffin is under the ground (hey hey!)

you can still be financially sound.

Valley Oaks this season will show you the reason.

Six feet overhead,

you'll be glad that you're dead!

The clock radio puts a merciful end to this. I jerk my head off the pillow, then relax back, secure in the knowledge that ten minutes of classical music await before the buzzer goes off.

Unfortunately, the goddam station is playing the Mozart Requiem. The music lulls me into a half sleep and returns me to the events of fourteen years ago—by far the worst nightmare of all.

Victor and I are at the funeral home, sitting on either side of Mom in the front row of chairs. Mom is rigid and motionless, almost as if she is dead herself. Ahead of us, the elegant wood casket where Dad is laid out. I can just see his face protruding from its terrible enclosure—serene, quiet, with no hint of suffering.

Floral scents waft from the arrangements around the casket. I glance away. When I look back, the flower arrangements have multiplied greatly. The odor becomes overpowering, sickly. I've always hated the smell of flowers since then.

Grandfather Alois hobbles toward us, scarcely able to move. The strong, vigorous gentleman with the von Hindenburg mustache has become a shattered old man.

The scene abruptly changes to a wedding party. My bride, dressed in white with her face obscured by a black veil, sits beside me in the limo. I look out the back window and see a long procession of dark Lincolns with pallbearer rails on the sides. Our car drags black streamers behind it. I take my bride's hand; it is cold as ice.

Finally, the alarm buzzer ends my suffering. I roll out of bed exhausted and sore, as if the heavyweight champ has worked me over. I stumble downstairs and brew some coffee.

"The cemetery office called," Mom says. "They want the car back by 12:00."

"Okay."

I peer outside at a beautiful May morning. The Lincoln's massive bulk crouches on the driveway absorbing the brightness. I slurp down some coffee. The car's hulking presence proves that the experiences of last night had really happened and were not just another nightmare.

How had Bob West phrased it? _"Some experiences I can do without."_

Hard to believe less than a year has passed since he said that on the day we battled the demonstration in Seoul. It seems like decades have interposed themselves between me and those times.

I retreat upstairs to prepare for my trip to the cemetery.

After a long, hot shower I lather up for a shave and wipe a swatch of steam off the mirror. The desperate face of a person who has run out of options stares back at me. How can I possibly continue with this horrible job? But what's the alternative—busing tables at some hamburger joint, working a car wash? And how can I stay here in this house with Mom and Ed? That, too, is a slow death.

The thought of calling Julie pops into my mind; maybe I can make up with her. But how can I handle the heavy duty commitment she wants? I feel myself on a tight rope, ready to totter off any second.

I finish shaving and rinse my face with hot water. A fresh layer of steam covers the mirror. Without giving my action any thought, I write on the glass with my finger:

I head downstairs and open the front door just as the mail man is coming up the walk. I hold out my hand for the mail. Big mistake. Chief, who hates all outsiders, misinterprets the situation. From his viewpoint standing in the dining room, all he sees is some stranger reaching in at me. He charges in a fury, knocks the screen door from my hand, and bites at the mail man.

"Ahhh!" The guy jumps away, scattering mail.

I fling my arms around Chief's neck and pull with all my strength. Hard muscles work under the puffy hair with a violent desire to rip and kill.

"What's going on!" Mom cries.

I manhandle Chief into the kitchen and out the side door. I return to the living room and plop down on the sofa, utterly exhausted. Mom has brought the mail man into the bathroom and is doctoring his wound. Fortunately, he's suffered only a torn pant leg and a light graze.

A monster headache reaches up from my tensed shoulders and grips my skull. Won't this ever stop? My whole life is one ghastly episode after another.

God, could I use a drink!

Maybe I can stop for a quick one on the way to the cemetery. No, best believe Ms. Davenport would detect booze on my breath and inform the Boss I've returned their motorized coffin DUI.

While leaving the house, I discover a letter addressed to me lying in the shrubbery. A Michigan return address. I tear it open:

Hey Tyler,

Should your employment prospects be as lousy as mine are, you might want to consider another overseas adventure. I'm going to Iran! I'll be working for an American training company teaching English to the Iranian army.

This ain't no kettle of makoli. The money's good, and they need more teachers. You could get a job, too. Of course, I'd put in a good word for you.

I'm leaving in a couple of weeks for orientation in Chicago. Maybe we could go together? Here's the company contact info and my phone number. Best time to call me is weeknights after 10:00 real time (that's Michigan time). Take care.

Your old _chingu_ ,

Robert L. West (Bob)

My headache instantly vanishes. I seem to be leaping out of a dark valley onto a broad, sunlit mesa.

Iran? Victor once did a report on that country back in junior high. The Iranian embassy sent him a full-color book. All I remember is an ornate portrait of the Shah, Empress Farah, and the little crown prince—all looking glittery and content in their royal finery. I know little else about the country.

No matter, Iran isn't _here_ , and that's what counts. Here can only mean the death business or an endless sentence flipping burgers, while Iran beckons with high-paid, exotic adventure. Ancient Persia. I'll be following in the steps of Alexander the Great!

I jump into the Lincoln and roar off to the cemetery, stopping only long enough to toss the keys on Ms. Davenport's desk and retrieve my Chevy. Early afternoon, I'm on the phone to the training company's office. That night, real time, I call Bob.

Then I leave for Iran.

# Seven: Stages of Revolution

47. First Impressions of the Kingdom

_Having been condemned by nature and fortune to an active and restless life ... I again left my native country. –_ _Gulliver's Travels_ _, Jonathan Swift_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

I don't think I'm going to like Iran. In fact, I _know_ it.

Everything started out okay. Orientation in Chicago was a blast. Good restaurants, jazz clubs, a boat cruise on Lake Michigan. The others in our group were cheap and stayed in nights, but Tyler and I blew every cent of our per diem.

Things started to go sour on the flight to Tehran. The food was terrible, and the Bloody Mary I drank gave me a headache. I don't think the headache is going to leave as long as I'm here.

After a brief stop in Tehran, we bussed across the desert to Esfahan. Then the real fun began.

Jolfa Hotel

We arrived in Esfahan and checked into the Jolfa Hotel. We'll live here until we find other housing. A little background info:

Bell Helicopter International (BHI) has sold Iran a big helicopter fleet. So, there's a huge demand for Americans to train Iranian pilots and mechanics. BHI has scraped the bottom of the barrel pretty hard to fill the jobs. Some of the people they, and other American companies, have brought here are real pricks!

I saw a lot of these types circulating through the Jolfa Hotel. Most are ex-military, and many have Vietnam experience. I don't want to overstate this. God knows, if I had passed my physical, I'd be a war veteran, too. Most of the guys are okay; a lot have wives and kids with them. But there are quite a few ass holes, too. Anybody can see this, so there's no reason to go into a lot of detail.

Even the best ones don't know how to act in a foreign culture. They offend the local people without meaning to just by the way they walk down the street and by their loud conversation.

The Iranian helicopter pilots and mechanics need to learn English. That's where we come in. Our company is a BHI subcontractor. Many of us are former PCVs, so at least we understand we're in a foreign country and must show respect.

One night, Tyler and I were hanging around the lobby when some American bastard had a run in with the Iranian desk clerk. It was a small issue, but the American was being loud and threatening. Afterwards he sat down by us. He was a big, older guy with a gray brush cut.

"I'll give you a word that solves lots of problems," he said. "W-A-R!"

"Oh, really?" Tyler said.

"Yeah. It gets rid of the excess population."

He didn't stick around long, thankfully.

"I can think of one person in the 'excess population' to get rid of," I said.

"Right," Tyler said. "Guys like that make you understand why we're loved all over the world."

Tyler left on one of his walks, and I went to the hotel lounge. Elaine was sitting at the bar with two other single American women. Elaine has been in Iran two years working for the company. I sat by them, but they were too busy chatting among themselves to notice me.

"I hadn't screwed around that much," one of the girls was saying, "but I could tell the guy was _really_ bad. You just knew when he was turning from page 5 to page 6 of the sex manual."

I sipped my beer. Kind of hard to ease into a conversation like this one. Two drunk American guys sat on the other side of the women, ogling them. A couple of Iranian slime balls at a table also looked interested.

"Excuse me," I said.

The girls stopped blabbing long enough to look my way.

"There're some nasty looking guys in here," I said. "Maybe it would be best if you called it a night."

"I don't give a shit!" Elaine replied.

So, I finished my beer and left. As I waited for the lobby elevator, an uproar came from the bar. Shouts, busting glass, the usual brawl noises. I got on my elevator without looking back.

The School

There was some uncertainty about where we'd be working on the army base south of Esfahan. We'd either go to the Flight School and teach helicopter pilot trainees, or we'd be assigned to the Mechanics' School. Finally, word came down that we'd be going to the Mechanics' School.

"Good luck," informed people said. "You're in for it now."

Everything about the Flight School was much better, they said. The building was nicer, and it was located on the main base. The level of students was higher, too.

At least I had some warning, but I was not prepared for our first trip to the Mechanic's School. The building sits in the barren desert on the ass end of the army base. Absolutely nothing around it, just this concrete block, as if somebody dropped a big public lavatory onto the moon. The place smells like a john much of the time, too.

It is supposedly a converted barracks. For who, the lost battalion? Damn! The Shah is paying billions for helicopters and other military stuff. Can't he afford a few bucks for a decent training facility?

Tyler and I were assigned to different instructor groups. I went with him to check his out.

Tyler's first floor "teachers' lounge" was even worse than mine on the second floor. A big, battered table with equally battered chairs around it, dingy walls, dust and crap. The guy sitting at the senior instructor's desk looked familiar, though I didn't recognize the bushy red beard. Then he said something in a German accent.

"Rolf Ullrich!" I said.

"Yes?" he looked up.

"I'm Bob West, we met on the boat to Japan. Remember?"

"Bob!" he stood up. "And Tyler, too."

We all shook hands.

"Do you still have that record player?" Tyler asked.

"Yeah. Do you want to buy it? While you're at it, do you want my job, too?"

"I hadn't thought about it," Tyler said.

Rolf lowered his voice. "Let met tell you, man, it _really_ sucks."

My senior instructor, lowest level boss, is an American guy named Pete. We didn't hit it off. I didn't hit it off very well with my class, either, though probably no worse than most other teachers. These cadet mechanics sure are a world apart from the middle school girls I taught in Korea.

Many of the staff members wear "distinctive clothing" supplied by the company. This uniform consists of gray slacks and a blue jacket with the company logo stitched on the left breast pocket.

"That looks like a bull's eye over your heart," Tyler commented.

We're all supposed to get distinctive clothing and are required to wear it. I can't wait. Colonel Shanaz, the base commander, gave us a talk. God, what a nut case! I kept pinching myself, asking if all this is really happening.

The Jolfa House

A veteran teacher named Chuck Starsky (no relation to the TV cop) had space available at his house, so Tyler and I moved in. It's a big, traditional type place in the Armenian quarter not far from the hotel. His roommate has finished his two-year contract and is heading home.

Stars is the most laid-back guy I've ever met, but his old roommate, Lou, is a nervous wreck. He's returning to Indiana not a day too soon, according to him. He said Iran has worn him out. Worse, he's injured his back somehow and moves slowly and painfully.

The last evening before Lou departed for Tehran, the four of us sat in the kitchen drinking. Then Lou got up to leave. He hobbled out to the narrow _kuche_ and got into a taxi, a battered veteran finally returning home.

Tyler and I traded glances. What the hell are we getting into?

Social Life, or Lack of

Many gay men work for the company. I don't give a shit, as Elaine would say, but quite a few others are upset. You hear a lot of gay bashing comments.

This situation is no surprise, considering the dismal female prospects here. Just try to talk to an Iranian woman and you risk getting beat up by her male relatives. If your intentions are totally "honorable" and you're willing to convert to Islam, you _might_ be able to marry an Iranian girl. If you can even meet her in the first place.

As far as anything else, forget it. The single foreign women are having a field day, and a lot of the married ones, too, I'd suppose.

Our coworker, Bert, is a late middle-aged gay man from Savannah. He cuts quite a figure with his wrinkled face and henna-dyed hair. He enjoys teasing Arlene, a middle-aged gal notorious for her sexual exploits.

"Ah-leen," Bert says, "I've got something for you. It's six inches long and you're gonna love every inch of it."

"Bert, all you do is talk!" Arlene replies.

When we first got here, Bert invited me to a party at his house. What did I know? It soon became obvious the other guests were gay and that I was being checked out. The guys were nice and all, but I felt very uncomfortable. Then I slipped on a loose carpet and fell. My drink glass tumbled away, spilling booze and ice over the floor.

"That's one way to break the ice," Bert commented.

I've been breaking a lot of ice. Booze is our security blanket, along with hashish and even some opium. Tyler is getting concerned about this. I am too. I try to like this place, but I'm a guy beating his head against the wall and saying, "If I do this a few more times, maybe I'll enjoy it."

Tyler is all excited about the helicopter orientation rides we're supposed to get, but I'm not interested. I contacted my friend, Paul, in Bangkok and asked him to check out teaching jobs for me. I've got to get out of here!

48. Summer before the Storm

" _Esfahan is half the world." – Traditional affirmation_

" _Even a man with a matchbox is a potential danger in Iran." – Josef Stalin_

Tyler's Account

As soon as we leave Tehran's dense urban environment, I feel a sense of drama wrapping itself around my shoulders. The magnificent landscapes of Iran speak to me of ancient secrets even more so than the Korean mountains did.

Summer progresses pleasantly enough in Esfahan. I seek out positive activities so as to avoid developing a dragged-out attitude. Teaching the Iranian cadet mechanics is no piece of cake, and our working conditions are pretty lousy, but the fat paychecks ease the pain a lot.

I buy a membership at the Kurosh Hotel outdoor pool where I head most weekdays after work. It's a veritable fountain of youth. You fall into the water exhausted and emerge as vigorous as the New Socialist Man.

One day, as I lounged on the pool deck sipping a cocktail with some other teachers, I noticed somebody swimming laps. He just sort of appeared in the water, on the far side of the pool.

"Who is that guy?" I asked.

"Beats me," one of the teachers said.

The group conversation resumed. It was the usual downer talk: a) the company sucks, b) Iran sucks, and c) our students are obnoxious pests. There is, undeniably, some truth to this last complaint.

Aside from an occasional older sergeant, our students are all young cadets, some as little as sixteen. They have signed on for thirty-year army hitches. If I were in their predicament, I'd be an obnoxious pest myself. Still, I rather like them—most of the time.

An hour of vapid discussion passed before I heard the blessed words: "See you later, Tyler."

My colleagues left, and I occupied myself with a book. The deck emptied out until I was the last person on it. All this time, the guy kept swimming, back and forth without tiring, like a machine. Sun glare and splashing water obscured his features.

Everything went abruptly quiet, and I pulled my nose out of the book. Maybe the guy ran out of steam and sank to the bottom! I hurried to the deep end and peered down to the pool floor—nobody, no wet footprints lead from the water. I quickly got dressed and left for a walk.

Walking is my other favorite activity. Hurry along busy sidewalks, pass women washing clothes and dishes in the open _jubes_ , buy pistachios from a street vendor. Pause at the open-air bakery to watch men toss flat bread into their oven with long-handled paddles. With my dark hair and a three-day beard, I can fake being a local—if I keep my sunglasses on and my mouth shut. This is quite a change from Korea where I always stuck out like a sore thumb.

Saturdays are great for treks along the _Zayandeh Rud_ – River of Life. The countryside starts right after the final picturesque arched bridge. A greenbelt winds along the river, a world away from the desert where we spend our working hours. I've come upon a Zoroastrian fire temple and other ruins. Returning after dark, I've seen packs of stray dogs scavenging in town. Big brutes, lurking around the deserted streets, eyeing the lone pedestrian.

Esfahan is a surprising combination of modern and exotic. A trip to the bazaar is a step back in time. Within its convoluted passages are rug merchants, copper smiths, craftsmen working in silver and inlay. But go outside to the Chahar Bagh main drag and you're among modern banks and offices. First class hotels dot the landscape.

Heavy traffic buzzes everywhere, and drivers are reckless. I saw an Iranian man punch his head through a windshield on Pahlavi Boulevard. Another time, as I rode in a taxi on Bozorgmehr, a truck swerved over. Its load of steel rods ripped open the car in front of us like a sardine can. Two dazed foreigners exited the car, apparently uninjured, thank God.

Thousands of foreigners live here, mostly Americans. They've brought the most raucous aspects of Western society, often running roughshod over Iranian sensibilities.

American Esfahan includes many restaurants and bars, some with gorgeous Southeast Asian girls serving drinks. There's Bell Family Services, where you can see American movies, and you can watch softball games between the various foreign corporations' teams.

Our team, the Jube Dogs, is excellent. I've heard people express surprise that a "fag company" like ours would have enough "veer-ile males" for a team.

Economic fear is a big motivator in our expatriate community. People are holding desperately onto their jobs, hating the work and the country, but afraid to leave. One guy has big medical bills to settle back home. He'd once suffered a lung embolism.

"I woke up and there was blood everywhere," he explained once during lunch. "Blood on the sheets, blood on the floor!"

"Please, that's enough," we all protested.

Jolfa is the relatively placid Armenian quarter—an area of high walls and narrow kuches. The sole jarring note is a message somebody scrawled on a wall in bold letters: "Death for Turkey Government," no doubt in reference to the Armenian genocide.

Our house is a traditional one on Kuche Voskan. Bob and Stars have rooms in the main house. My room, the former servant quarters, is across the courtyard by the gate. It offers privacy although it is sometimes a bit noisy, like at night when Bob stumbles through the gate drunk.

Stars handles food and fuel purchases, he even cooks dinner. Bob and I clean the kitchen, and everybody takes turns scrubbing the john.

So, I just drift along, as If I'm inside a soap bubble looking out at this peculiar world. My surroundings give me a sense of the temporary and the timeless. The temporary, bogus world of American Esfahan amid the timeless history and geography of Persia.

American Esfahan won't last much longer, I'm convinced.

Civil unrest is increasing throughout Iran, and numerous riots have occurred in major cities. The US Consulate in Esfahan suffered a bomb attack. Everybody sees a foreign hand behind the unrest. I have a simpler theory: The Shah screwed up big time and is now paying the price.

I'm certainly no expert, but I believe the Shah's days are numbered. I felt the same way during the earliest days of the Watergate scandal—Nixon was doomed long before he and most other people realized it.

Destiny is working out. The Shah just has to wait for his to arrive.

A few weeks after getting here, I received a letter from Julie. She'd gotten my address from Mom. Things are going well between us again. In my last phone call, I invited her to visit over Christmas break. She agreed. I didn't tell her the full story, though, as I hadn't figured it out myself yet.

If things don't settle down soon, and I don't think they will, the situation here could be pretty dicey come Christmas. Why not get out and meet Julie in Paris or Rome? Then we could take off and travel the world. We could spend months doing this, maybe even years. Julie and the road. Talk about the best of everything!

A nagging inner voice tells me, _"The real choice is Julie_ _or_ _the road."_

49. Helicopter Encounter

" _Sovereignty! Liberty! An Islamic Republic!" – Voice of the revolutionary masses_

Our employee bus to the Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi army base makes excellent time.

The Iranian driver handles the thing like an oversized Ferrari, barreling down the straight ways and whipping through Shiraz circle oblivious to the other traffic. Students mill about the gate of Esfahan University, brandishing placards and chanting slogans.

Typical grousing conversations occupied the American passengers.

"Every one of my students fell asleep during language lab yesterday," somebody says. "By the time I woke up the last one, the others had nodded off again."

"Sounds like they were smoking opium in the barracks," another teacher observes.

We pass through the base gate and bump along the dirt road toward the Mechanics' school. The driver suddenly pulls over and slows to crawl. A loud thumping on the side of the bus brings us to a halt.

"What's going on?" Bob asks from across the aisle.

I look out my window and am astonished to see Colonel Shanaz strutting by in dress uniform, a sword hanging from a gold sash around his waist. He grasps the weapon by the hilt and walks with measured strides, like a windup toy.

Various muttered endearments issue from my colleagues, including: "sicko," "lunatic," and "fucking idiot."

Common soldiers stand around trying to look important. One of them must have banged on our bus as the Colonel would not have wanted to soil his white gloves.

"Who is that guy?" one of the new teachers asks.

"Colonel Shanaz," I say, "the base commander."

"Him?" An alarmed expression crosses the teacher's face.

Bob comes over to look out my window. "Yep, it's the great man himself."

The inspection completed, we continue on to the school building and disgorge ourselves onto the desert. I enter the first-floor lounge and take a place at the staff table. Rolf sits at his desk, writing furiously.

I pull an unsealed aerogramme out of my briefcase and peruse its contents. The message I've written to Julie is brief and to the point. In a couple of paragraphs I tell her I've decided to resign by year's end. Things are going south in Iran, and it isn't wise for her to come at Christmas break. How about meeting someplace else, like Paris?

I sign off "love, Tyler" and seal the aerogramme. I hold it briefly in my hands, studying the front. Julie's neatly typed name and address look up toward me with solid finality.

Printed in the upper right is a dramatic portrait of the Shah in military uniform—royal epaulets on his shoulders and a chest full of decorations. Behind him, a sleek airliner thrusts toward the future. Royal crowns festoon both upper edges of the aerogramme.

At least nobody can fail to recognize who the boss of Iran is. Shah on the stamps, Shah on the money, on newspaper front pages and TV screens. Public squares and boulevards bear his name. The military base is named after his son, pointing to the immortality of the regime. I thought President Pak in Korea commanded a lot of exposure, but he's a shy lily compared to the Shah.

I slip the letter back into my briefcase. After work, I'll mail it from the main post office. Now that I've committed my intentions to writing, they take on a solemn reality, as if my departure from Iran is now a matter of days instead of months.

Bob will be unhappy, but maybe this will be the push needed to get him back to Bangkok where he belongs. I'll miss Bob, but what about everything else?

I look about the shabby lounge with its dingy, battered furnishings, at the gray faces of my colleagues and their dust-ingrained clothing, at the wind-blown desert outside the window. A photocopy machine sits out there, exposed to the elements. It was delivered days ago, but nobody has seen fit to bring it inside.

Hell no, I won't miss anything here! At the proper time, I'll write up my resignation and submit it to Rolf. He can then shove it up the chain of command to the big bosses in the rarefied upper echelon. I'll take a financial hit by breaking my contract, but I'll still come out way ahead moneywise.

Julie arises in my consciousness, like a beacon—her captivating eyes and incredible eroticism, her little gasps when she's about to orgasm...

The phone on Rolf's desk jangles. He yanks it off the hook, still scribbling on his note pad with his other hand.

"Hello, Ullrich here."

He speaks a few moments, then calls me over.

"What's up, Rolf?"

"Are you interested in a helicopter ride? Somebody canceled out, and there's room on a flight this morning."

"Yeah!"

Rolf speaks a bit more, then hangs up.

"They're sending a car. I'll arrange a sub for your class."

Isn't this the icing on the cake? Ever since I got here I've been looking forward to my orientation helicopter ride. Now that I've given up on the idea, my number has finally come in.

"All right everybody," Rolf announces, "time to get started!"

He presses a button for the electric bell, nothing happens.

"Damn, broken again!"

He grabs a makeshift bell crafted from a junked helicopter part and, flinging open a window, bangs the contraption with a metal pipe. The room empties amid a chorus of mutterings and shuffling feet.

I move out into the hallway, deserted now except for grizzled old Akbar, the janitor, who is sweeping the floor. I bound up the external stairway to gain a lookout for my ride. The door to the second floor hall is propped open, and I can see an Iranian army lieutenant strolling past the classrooms.

The lieutenant looks trim and dapper in his well-pressed uniform and silk cravat, swagger stick in hand. There must be other things he'd rather be doing than patrolling this dump. A breeze stirs down the hallway, bringing the stench of a backed-up lavatory. I move down the stairs away from the blow zone.

A dust stream moving across the barrens indicates the approach of my ride. After a few minutes, a Jyane 'pickup truck' pulls alongside the building. Unknown to me, a couple of other instructors are waiting outside beneath the stairs, and they grab the two best places on the single bench seat. I have to wedge myself in on the left side of the driver, hanging half out of the vehicle. A chain is the only barrier keeping me from tumbling out.

"Looks like a good day for flying," the American driver says.

"Yeah," we all agree.

The flimsy vehicle groans along more slowly than it had come, its two-cylinder engine laboring under our added weight. Ahead, off to our left, several dark spots move towards us across the desert.

"Ever been up in a helicopter?" the driver asks.

I twist his direction. "No, but I parachuted out of an airplane once."

"Yeah? The way some of these Iranian pilots fly, you might want to consider jumping out again."

He laughs, but I don't find the comment amusing. I turn my attention back outside the car. The dark spots are much closer now—a dog pack, heading right for us.

"Can you go any faster?" I point to the rapidly closing dogs.

"Hey, the welcoming committee!" the driver cries.

He grabs the lever protruding from the dashboard and downshifts. Then he stomps the gas and the overloaded Jyane begins moving slightly faster. The dogs are right beside us now, snapping at me. I shove myself as far as possible inside the car.

"Watch out!" the driver objects. "You're pushing me off the wheel."

"Want to trade places?" I shout back.

Hot breath puffs on me. The pack leader is a huge, ugly brute with a savage head and a trunk incongruously covered with fluffy hair that flows in the slipstream. He looks like Chief with a werewolf head grafted on. Fortunately, they soon fall off the pace and vanish back into the dust. I ease myself out of the driver's lap.

"Thanks," he says. "If you're so interested, why didn't you ask for my phone number?"

Everybody's a comedian these days.

"This is an army base," I say. "Why don't they shoot those goddam things?"

"Maybe they love animals."

We arrive at the main base without further incident. This area looks decent—tidy buildings, flags snapping in the wind, helicopters lined up on the tarmacs—nothing like the desolate corner where the Mechanics' School lurks.

We attend a brief orientation, don flight suits and helmets; then we clamber aboard a helicopter. The three of us passengers occupy the back. Up front, a young Iranian student pilot takes the left seat, while an American instructor pilot sits on the right.

The American turns back toward us. "Ready to go, folks?"

"Sure," we reply.

The Iranian student pilot jerks us airborne.

"Easy on the controls!" the instructor admonishes.

This sets the tone for the flight, the nervous student pilot screwing up and the instructor bawling him out. We chopper into the desert and fly low over a small adobe settlement. Astonished villagers watch us from their rooftops.

"You're too damned low!" the instructor shouts. "Are you fixin' to give them folks haircuts with the rotor?"

We fly along the edge of a canyon, then suddenly drop like a stone inside it. The cliff face shoots by dangerously close.

"Jesus!" the instructor yells. "Get over!"

We pull away from the wall and continue downwards.

"Get us outta here!"

The elevator ride reverses and we pop into open sky again.

The American turns toward us. "Sorry folks. I'm having a little trouble communicating with my student. I'm radioing ahead to see if we can get an English instructor to join us."

I've heard of these guys, the in-flight language tutors who serve as intermediaries between the Iranian student pilots and their American trainers. They fly around all day, listening in on the front seat communications and translating the often colorful invective of the flight instructors into the familiar patterns the Iranians have learned in their English classes. This is the primo teaching job, available to only a select few.

We continue on straight and level for a while, then the instructor speaks again.

"We're stopping to pick up the language tutor. There's a brook nearby, so feel free to get out and take a drink."

Our helicopter sets down in the barren desert. We three passengers clamber out, stooping lower than necessary under the steady _Wonka! Wonka!_ of the rotor blades, and make our way to a little brook bubbling out of the ground. Clunking about in our unfamiliar jump suits and helmets, we seem like spacemen on the surface of the moon. The water tastes wonderfully cool.

We return to our seats. Soon, another chopper lands nearby and a lone figure disembarks, dressed as we are. He walks toward us with a sinuous gait, the way a snake might walk if it could stand upright. He isn't a big guy, but an aura of power attends him.

I can't read his name tag yet, but that isn't necessary. I know intuitively who it is. It's destiny, arriving out of the heat shimmer.

He enters without saying a word. A shock wave seems to accompany his passage, forcing me back into my seat. He takes a place behind the pilots and plugs into the intercom so as to monitor their conversation.

We take off. Things smooth out now. The Iranian student flyer makes no further mistakes, and the flight instructor's blood pressure returns to normal.

Toward the end of the flight, as we approach the base and prepare to land, I lean forward to read the language tutor's name tag.

It says _Jon Glass,_ as I'd expected.

We make a smooth landing, and Jon starts to leave. I reach up from my seat and touch his arm. It feels hard as an iron bar.

"I've got to talk to you," I say.

He looks down through his tinted helmet visor, unmoving. I can discern none of his facial features, just a reflection of my own.

"I'm Tyler Lakatos, at the Mechanics' School."

He nods and is gone.

Later, I discover that my letter to Julie has been misplaced. It never gets mailed. I can always write her again, some other time.

50. A Fun Day at School

These are the first year students. They are busy and happy. The walls are white, and the blackboard is black. – Middle school English textbook, ROK Ministry of Education

I stand by the blackboard and regard my students sitting at their desks.

The walls are a dingy color. The guys are studying their textbooks, faces filled with childish mischief waiting to spring out. Eight Iranian teenagers in army fatigues and short, bristly hair. The ninth student, Sergeant Hosseini, is a man of around 30 with longer hair and a mustache. He looks out of place among the kids.

This isn't a bad class, really. They're immature and wild at times, but an okay group. There are certainly worse ones at the Mechanics' school.

Despite their extreme youth, we always refer to the cadets as "mister." In some ways, they remind me of my Korean middle school students—the shaved heads, the irreverent troublesomeness always ready to burst out from their restrictive, militarized environment.

This period, we've been reviewing sub-technical English vocabulary, terms like: _ball peen hammer_ , _main rotor assembly_ , and _adjustable wrench_. The students read obscene, usually phallic, double meanings into the words. A helicopter component called a _push pull tube_ is a particular favorite.

Things are momentarily quiet, and my mind drifts. My encounter from the day before haunts me. Jon Glass really exists in the flesh. I've seen him with my own eyes and felt his powerful arm. Once, when I was a kid, I'd touched a baby elephant at a petting zoo. I remember its cast-iron solidity. Jon's arm had felt like that.

Sergeant Hosseini looks up from his desk. "Mr. Tyler, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

"You seem unhappy today," Mr. Gohari says.

I try to smile.

"You like hashish, Mr. Tyler?" Sergeant Hosseini asks. "This afternoon, you and I go my house and smoke the hashish. Make you feel good."

I glance out the door, fearful somebody might be overhearing. My fictitious wife will have to rescue me from this situation.

"Thank you, Sergeant, but my wife wouldn't like that."

A soldier with an almost cherubic face pipes up—Mr. Hekmati, the class clown. "Iranian wife always does what man wants! You want hashish? She likes that."

"Well, American wives are different," I say lamely.

Last week I got fed up with Mr. Hekmati's constant antics and sent him out to the Lieutenant for discipline. He returned several minutes later, his uniform covered with dust and tears running down his cheeks. Witnesses told me the Lieutenant attacked him with a swagger stick. Mr. Hekmati retreated toward the stairs and fell down a flight.

Guess I won't be sending anybody to the Lieutenant for a while.

"You know opium?" Sergeant Hosseini says. "We can smoke the opium."

I feel my face reddening, much to the amusement of the class. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, but thank you anyway, Sergeant."

I pick up my textbook. Best to keep drilling right up to the bell. The next item on the vocabulary list is the word "exposed."

"Can somebody give me as sentence with _exposed_ ," I say.

"Hekmati is exposed!" a student cries, pointing to Mr. Hekmati's half opened fly.

"Thank you, Mr. Rafizadeh, that's _very_ good."

I notice a couple of wires dangling from a small hole in the wall. Here is the perfect visual aid, much better than Mr. Hekmati's fly.

"Look at these wires," I direct.

The students lean forward.

I point to the bare copper. "These wires are made of..."

"Metal!" the class replies.

"What kind of metal?"

"Copper," somebody says.

"Right." I point to the insulating material "The copper is covered with..."

"Plastic!"

"Does the plastic cover all the copper?"

"No."

"So, these wires are _exposed_." I take hold of them; a tremendous shock jolts through me. "Ahhh!"

I wrench my hands away and barely manage to plop into my chair before passing out. I sit, holding my head. The students are dumbfounded. Even Mr. Hekmati is silent. Thank God, the bell rings.

"Well... there's one word you'll remember," I say.

I leave the classroom with as much dignity as possible.

Damned idiot!

Everything else in this building is fouled up, I should have figured those wires would be hot. Still dazed, I trip on the stairs and almost fall. A death grip on the handrail is all that saves me from Mr. Hekmati's fate. Somehow, I make it back to the teachers' room.

"You've got a call, Tyler," Rolf says.

He shoves a phone into my hand.

"Hello?"

"This is Glass," the phone says.

Silence, finality, as if the words are carved in stone.

"Oh... hi Jon. Thanks for getting back to me."

More silence. I scrabble to force words out of my electrified brain. "Can we get together? Have a beer or something?"

"You like hiking?" the phone says.

It's more a statement than a question, a command almost.

"Sure, I — "

"I'll pick you up Saturday morning, 7:30 sharp."

"Well, yeah, that'll be fine. I live at — "

"I know where you live."

I try to say something more, but the line has gone dead.

Anticipation keeps me awake much of the night. At long last, I'm going to meet the mystery man who haunted my return from Korea, who mocked me from the pages of the _Clarion_ , besting my accomplishments. I wonder what Jon looks like from behind the darkened helmet visor. Should I confront him with the evidence of his past appearances?

What evidence might that be, come to think of it—reports in a newspaper that no longer exists, rumors, Korean letters scratched here and there? But he'd been on the same skydiving plane with me. Or maybe it really wasn't him; perhaps my overwrought mind had imagined him there.

Had I imagined other things, as well? Had life driven me so far around the bend that I'd concocted a personal bogey man? No matter. Come morning, there will be no imaginings, only facts.

Such agitated thoughts keep me twisting in my servant's quarters. I'm reduced to tuning in the _Peace and Progress_ radio program. The drone of Soviet propaganda finally puts me to sleep.

51. Opening Adventure

_The only hero is a man without heroes. –_ _Bang the Drum Slowly_ _, Mark Harris_

Come morning, I shove a few things into my knapsack and drape Jewel Eye over my shoulder. Precisely at 7:30, a car pulls up and cuts its engine. I open the gate at the first knock.

Jon Glass enters.

He wears a wrap-around Middle Eastern type head dress and a sleeveless sweat shirt, out of which ropy muscles bulge. Mousy-brown hair protrudes from under the hat, and a short, sparse beard bristles on his chin.

"Hi, Jon."

He nods a greeting. His face is angular and sharp, with deep-set eyes. I step out of the way. Jon cuts through the air with his razor face and advances into our courtyard where he stops to survey the surroundings, a hand resting on one hip. He has a tensed, predatory aspect, like a cat ready to spring.

For a moment I think Bruce Lee has walked in. Except for the Caucasian face, Jon looks much like the late martial arts star—compact, hard, lethal.

"Nice place," he says.

Bob emerges from the main house and stops dead in his tracks. Surprise bolts across his face, displacing the droopy countenance of his hangover.

"Jon?"

"Hey, Bob West! How's it hanging?"

He grips Bob's hand. At first, Bob looks about twice as big as him, towering over Jon by several inches. But in the grip of the handshake, Bob begins to shrink, like an inflatable man having his air sucked out.

He extricates his hand and retreats toward the bathroom. "Well... catch you guys later."

Jon looked towards me and cocks an eyebrow.

"Let's go," I say.

Jon's gray VW Beetle is utterly without personality, as undifferentiated as if it's been run off on a mimeograph machine. It is sterile and odorless, without idiosyncrasies. A neatly prepared backpack on the rear seat adds to the impression. I set my knapsack beside it.

Before leaving town, we stop at a sandwich shop to buy take out. Jon chats with the Iranian counter man. This is surprising, as no other foreigner I know can speak Farsi.

I get Bulgarian salami on a submarine roll. Jon orders a brain sandwich. What kind of brain, I don't know. The counter man places the yellowish, pickled thing on his cutting board and carves it into slabs. I watch, a bit appalled. The cutting board is worn paper thin in spots.

As we leave town, I ask Jon where we're going.

"The mountains, about five hours away."

That is the extent of our conversation. The car's noisy engine, exacerbated by wind blasting through the rolled-down windows, discourages communications. Jon isn't interested in talking anyway, so I keep silent.

Glare coming from the desert sky turns Jon into a haloed and dusty silhouette. My first impression of him in the courtyard must have been inaccurate. He'd appeared lithe and compact, especially next to Bob. Now he seems massive, and the arm working the transmission looks powerful enough to snap the shift lever.

Burdened by my near sleepless night, I soon nod off. When I awake, the VW is leaving the pavement and turning down a dirt road. We bump along for an hour, dust blowing in the windows. Then Jon leaves the road altogether to motor across open desert.

The VW's bottom scrapes the rocks occasionally, but we make steady progress. We approach an area of low, rolling hills behind which lurk barren mountains with rivulets of snow in their high creases.

Jon stops the car. The steady thrum of the little engine dies, and a faint gasoline smell drifts away, leaving silence and hot desert air. He withdraws a backpack from the trunk, empty except for a sleeping bag secured to the frame.

"You can use this," he says.

"We're camping overnight?"

"Yeah."

I haven't planned on this, but who'll care if I don't return tonight? Stars doesn't care about anything, and Bob will be so bombed out of his skull he probably won't notice where he is himself. So, I transfer my things and strap on the backpack. Jon hands me a couple of water bottles which I add to my load.

"We'll hike a while and find a camping spot. Okay?" Jon says.

"Sure."

Jon takes off at a blistering pace I can barely match, even though his pack is heavier than mine and despite the fact he does not wear proper hiking boots but peculiar 'Arabian Nights' shoes with curled up toes. He pulls ahead, despite my best efforts.

Round, dried-out shrubs are scattered about, each is two or three feet in diameter. Jon pauses to drop a lit match into one. It burns furiously and is consumed within seconds. I examine the charred remains, and Jon shoots ahead without me.

Since I can't keep up, I resume walking at my own pace, my mind blank. I'm not thinking very well today, as if my intellect has gone into inertia mode. Jon moves on ahead, traversing the foothills at incredible speed. Flames shooting into the desert air mark his progress. I drop a match onto a bush, but the fire quickly sputters out.

Jon halts at the top of a rise. I join him there and turn to view the way we've come. Below us, rocky foothills descend to a barren, rippled mesa sprawling to the horizon. The ant-like VW sits abandoned in the transition zone between hills and flats. Haze blurs the sky into a dusty blue. At the far limit of vision, I make out a column of smoke.

"From up here, I own everything," Jon says.

"Not much to own. Seems pretty empty."

"Yeah, that's the best part."

An enraptured look attends his face. Standing on the bare rock, amid the desolate atmosphere, Jon seems a natural feature of the landscape. A breeze kicks up, bringing a spooky chill, and I pull my compass out from under my shirt. It gives me a dose of rationality.

"We're heading northwesterly," I say. "Though I'm not positive about the declination."

Jon gazes at me like a man suddenly finding a stranger in his living room. "Uh-huh."

He turns and resumes walking. Before long, he's far ahead, intentionally keeping distance between us.

Well, screw you, too!

The atmosphere is one to kindle anxieties. As I move over the increasingly barren terrain, ominous thoughts prey on my mind—fears of getting lost, of stumbling and breaking an ankle. Everything is so dead around me, even the tough desert shrubs have disappeared. I'm suffocating in the torrid air.

_Snap out of it, Tyler. You've been in wilderness areas before_.

Yeah, but not like this one.

After a long trek through the desolate foothills, we enter a steep mountain valley and begin an ascent. My spirits rise in the freshening air. The gloomy fear thoughts retreat. Hell, if I squint my eyes, I can almost imagine myself traversing the Alps, dressed in leather shorts with a feathered Pinocchio hat perched on my head instead of the faded Detroit Tigers baseball cap Bob gave me.

Why, just over this mountain a rustic chalet reposes where pretty girls wait with jugs of wine. An orchestra kicks in, and Julie Andrews sings a _Sound of Music_ melody. I begin singing myself:

I love to go a-wandering...

I can't remember more words, so I simply hum the tune. When the chorus rolls around, I have a customized version ready:

Va la reee, fuck the Shah!

Va la reee, fuck the Shah ha ha ha ha ha!

Up ahead, Jon motions for silence.

"My singing's that bad?"

Jon waves for me to join him. Curiosity aroused, I sprint the whole distance, winding myself in the process. Jon crouches among the rocks, his backpack cast aside.

"Over there, at the bottom of the cliff," he says.

He hands me binoculars. I scan the area, unable to distinguish anything besides sheer rock. Something shifts position, and a large tan-colored animal with fantastic curved horns materializes out of the background. I feel its supreme confidence through the lenses.

"What is it?"

"Mountain sheep, ibex, maybe. A big stud, whatever he is."

I ditch my pack and creep forward with Jon. The animal watches us indifferently. We walk a little faster; the animal stirs slightly, and Jon motions us to a halt. We stand frozen for several seconds. The great buck lowers his head and nibbles at a plant.

"Let's get closer," Jon whispers.

We move slowly, cautiously. It seems we might get near enough to pet him. Without warning, the animal bolts straight up the cliff, feet effortlessly gripping the rock. He climbs with swift grace, contemptuous of us earth bound humans.

"Yaaaa!" Jon dashes to the cliff and flings himself upon it.

He's scaled several feet by the time I reach the base. Just looking up the nearly perpendicular wall makes me dizzy.

"What the hell?"

Jon continues his upward surge until his foot breaks off a piece of rock. I dodge away as the fragment narrowly misses hitting me. Jon slips. One hand loses its hold, then his remaining foot, until he dangles by a single hand only. More pieces of rock shower down. He stabilizes himself, holding on with all fours.

I release my pent-up breath. "Jesus, get back down here!"

Jon falls. A long, agonizing scrape, hands clutching uselessly for holds as he accelerates down the cliff face. He hits the ground hard.

Anxiety sinks its fangs into me, and I'm angry as hell, too. I stand over him, trying to determine how badly he is hurt. After a few moments, Jon sits up. He appears uninjured except for some cut fingers and a bloody nose. He fumbles a handkerchief out of his pocket and presses it to his face.

"Does it feel broken?" I say.

He glares at me over the bloody rag. My anger and concern instantly vanish, replaced by a stab of terror. Jon's eyes are feral, holding so little humanity I cannot bear to look at them. I stumble back.

I'm afraid of Jon in that moment, frightened for both of us. Some dreadful power seems ready to lash out and sweep us away to God knows where. Jon sneezes, spraying a bloody mist, and the spell breaks. A gust of wind whistles down the valley, clearing the air.

"Can I have some water?" he says.

I retrieve a bottle. Jon swishes some water in his mouth and spits out a pink stream. He stretches himself until there's an audible crack.

"There has to be another way up," he mutters

"How about lunch?" I say.

"Yeah."

I prop my back against a rock and munch my sandwich—Bulgarian sausage, bread made from American wheat, plus an orange from Israel. A typical meal in a country that has neglected its agriculture. The salami is low-grade, but in this invigorating air, it doesn't taste half bad.

Jon produces a wicked-looking knife and carves his brain sandwich into small pieces. He eats carefully, keeping his head tilted back so as to avoid a recurrence of the nose bleed. Late afternoon progresses, bringing long shadows and a quickening breeze.

The inscription enters my mind, carried by the mountain wind. Before I know what I'm doing, I write it on my sandwich wrapper and show it to Jon:

He looks at the characters, poker-faced. "You know Korean?"

"Some. I was there fourteen months with the Peace Corps."

"Yeah?" He nods. "That looks like something from Asimov."

"Asimov?"

I wrack my mental bookshelf for a connection. Of course! The _Foundation_ trilogy, I don't remember which book. Asimov wrote about some character:

"He was a man of the people," I say.

"by self acclamation," Jon finishes.

"So, this is only the first half of the quote, right?" I say with growing excitement.

Jon shrugs and turns back toward the cliff, terminating further conversation.

I'm suddenly very tired and sprawl on my back along the rocky ground, contemplating the powerful blue sky shining between the peaks. I feel rooted to the spot, yet suspended between two worlds of earth and sky. I'd experienced a similar sensation floating in the row boat with Yun Hee at Choon Chun dam reservoir.

Now, it's the solid rock spine of Iran that braces me, not the vagaries of an artificial lake. Beneath me reposes the entire strength of the Asian continent. I'll need this support, I realize, because my companion this day will not provide any. He is a slippery slope. If I allow it, he'll take me down faster than the sooty incline of Mount Fuji.

Without asking permission, I remove the tent from Jon's pack and pitch it on the most level ground available. I collapse inside, exhausted, even before darkness sets in.

Hours later, in the deepest part of night, an express train of wind crashes through. Cringing within my sleeping bag, I hear the gale roaring over the mountains. It strikes the tent a hammer blow, collapsing it around me.

"Jon!"

I thrash about, smothered in nylon, as the wind rages. I thrust my head outside. The wind has passed down the valley leaving behind stillness and a crystalline, moonlit sky. Jon is gone.

52. The Unraveling Accelerates

" _This crackdown on the demonstrators should keep things from getting out of hand to such a degree that they could present a threat to our community." – Corporate Martial Law Advisory #1_

" _Chase out the Pahlavis and the Americans, and the rest will be given to you." – Ayatollah Khomeini_

Jon reappears with the daylight. He always does; it's standard procedure for our trips.

Every weekend into the fall he takes me hiking, for three days when possible. First a phone call, then a "kick off meeting" at a bar, then the trip. The pattern never varies.

How could anyone have possibly mistaken me for Jon? We look nothing alike. I'm taller than him, I've got dark hair and blue eyes. His eyes are... I don't know what color his eyes are. I can hardly get a fix on him at all.

Whenever he's around, the atmosphere is either too noisy, too dark, or too glaring for me to form a solid impression. He is either wearing that Middle Eastern wrap around thing or a puffy green cap pulled low over his face. His beard is always different, varying from long and straggly to bare stubble.

From a short distance, he seems rather small and wiry. Up close, he looks enormous. His hands are oversized—hard, powerful things that look capable of punching through a brick wall. These and his rather longish arms distort his other proportions.

It's like I'm always seeing him through various lenses on my Pentax, sometimes a fish eye, sometimes a telephoto. For a while I toy with the idea that he is nothing more than a viewfinder image, but I dismiss the idea as being even more irrational than the reality.

I don't know where he lives, and I don't know if he has a phone. No sense of comradeship develops between us. We each keep to our private spaces, barely talking. On the trail, he always dashes far ahead.

Quite a change from Eric, my easy-going tent mate in Wyoming. We were always joking and helping each other out, philosophizing over cups of cocoa at evening campfires. I even humped Eric's pack over Windy Gap pass when he was ill.

What would Jon do if I got hurt? Try to help, or leave me for the vultures? Often, I feel as if I am hiking the empty wilderness alone, with a dark part of myself. I fill my knapsack with emergency provisions whenever we wander off from base camp, my "granny pack" as Jon snidely calls it. He carries only a water bottle and the long, wicked knife which he calls "Toothpick."

Why does he ask me along, anyway? He doesn't seem interested in me, or to even like me very much. Does he want a devotee following him around? A more important question: why the hell do I come? I can't say for sure.

I'd love to experience the wild abandon of a climb straight up a cliff, but how is that possible without taking needless risks? Jon is a risk taker, all right. At the same time that I disapprove of his foolish acts, I can't help but envy his fierce passions.

By mid August, things have spun out of control in Esfahan. Mobs fight with the police, burning buildings and stoning firemen trying to quench the blazes. The Shah puts Esfahan under martial law. Troops swarm in with tanks and huge, Russian-built, armored personnel carriers.

The first night of martial law curfew brings eerie silence, the bustle of a great city halting at 8:00 p.m. As the Iranian Kingdom, and with it our expatriate world, unravels, people try to go about their business as best they can, but it's getting harder to evade the truth.

American Esfahan endures many attacks. The Park Pol restaurant, our after-work hang out, is burned to the ground. Revolutionaries showed up between the lunch and dinner crowds, booted the staff outside, and firebombed the place. The Shahr Farang cinema, which showed American movies, is also destroyed. The Mir liquor store, the New American Club, the Golden Key restaurant—all burned.

A mob attacked the huge, elegant Shah Abbas Hotel. Anthony Quinn was there last year filming _Caravans_. His autographed photo hung in the Park Pol restaurant. Even the Armenian quarter is not spared; the Jolfa Hotel and Pizza Hut are both attacked. Several other cities go under martial law, supposedly for just thirty days.

Having resided in South Korea, I'm more accustomed to curfews and a militarized atmosphere than most of my coworkers, but Iran is the real thing. People are dying on the streets. To allay our fears, Colonel Shanaz calls a general meeting. According to him, everything is gonna be just fine!

"If you have any special problems, contact me through the channels," he says.

He offers us a contact phone number for the SAVAK secret police, in case we wish to become informers. A company official stands by nodding agreement to everything Shanaz says. Sitting in the captive audience, I feel as if I've been transported to an alternate universe where a guy pretending to be an army officer is speaking. He seems more like a lethal clown than a military man.

Wild rumors circulate—artillery killing 300 demonstrators, troops beating up a mullah. One horrible event is no rumor: terrorists burned a theater in the southern city of Abadan, killing 377 people.

My distinctive clothing finally arrives. Immediately afterward, a memo says we are no longer required to wear it, so as to "keep a low profile"

My trips with Jon are a welcome change from the increasing anxieties of Esfahan. We trek the wilderness, avoiding cities. Country folk do not seem taken up with the frenzies of urban areas.

Outside Kerman, we appear at a cemetery with weird tomb towers. I snap a surreptitious photo, as a sign warns that no cameras are allowed. Near Shiraz, we approach Persepolis at night. I'm deterred by the high fencing, but Jon slips inside and wanders the ancient ruins. Wolves howl as I wait on the slope along the periphery. Ghosts of Alexander the Great's army and of the ancient Persians swirl around me.

We visit Arab Khuzestan in southwest Iran. We descend into an ancient tomb complex, now empty. My camera flash provides the only illumination. I fire a blast of light to the far corners, then total darkness. The flash recycles and I fire again. Jon vanishes before the third flash.

We come up to the border with Iraq and peer across the billiard table landscape.

"People think the Shah is bad," Jon says, "but that Saddam Hussein guy in Iraq is a _real_ bastard."

He says this with admiration, as if he regrets not having the chance to meet the bastard in Iraq.

We visit the eerie ziggurat at Choga Zanbil. We find strange, highly eroded landscape where a network of rivulets cuts deep wounds into the reddish earth. A waterfall dumps into a stream which abruptly disappears. One night I wander out alone in this tortured landscape. An angry dog charges, but one of the gashes separates the animal from me.

We discuss lowering down ropes and exploring some Kanats, underground irrigation tunnels. Nothing comes of that idea, or at least I don't go. Who knows what Jon does on his nocturnal ramblings?

We scale "Death Mountain," a sizable peak standing alone on the plain. We roam the shores of the Caspian Sea and hear the hyenas cackling. Another time, we enter the Zagros Mountains and find a group of Baktiari nomadic sheep herders.

The trips blend together in my mind. A common theme runs through them, a sort of haunted rhythm thumping below the level of hearing. Jon is searching for something just beyond his reach, as that great horned animal on the cliff had been. He is wandering from one end of Iran to the other until he finds it.

What then? I understand with increasing clarity that I have to get away from him, and away from Iran, before it is too late.

The Mechanic's school is being closed temporarily for maintenance—plumbing, electrical, whatever. What can I plan for this time period?

53. Desert Trek

" _There have always been people who could be stirred up easily." – Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, Shah of Iran_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

I can't believe I let Tyler talk me into visiting Afghanistan!

Our dump of a school building is shutting down a few days to make emergency repairs. Why bother? Blow the place up, I say. So, Tyler suggested a little Afghanistan "vacation" to fill the time.

"It's dangerous there," I said.

Tyler shrugged. "What place isn't these days?"

"Didn't you hear about those three American hikers in Afghanistan?" I said. "Two guys and a girl. They were sleeping outside one night with the girl in the middle. When she woke up, she discovered somebody had cut off the guys' heads and switched them."

"That's ridiculous. Who's to say she didn't do it herself? Maybe the guys were snoring too much. We won't be camping, anyway."

"The school building probably won't be closed long. If we're not back in time, we could get fired."

"What's your point, Bob? Come on, it should be interesting."

I tried one further objection. "Jon's not going, is he?"

"No!" Tyler almost shouted, like I'd asked if he was bringing a cobra in his luggage.

I didn't want to go, but the idea of staying in Esfahan without Tyler was even worse. There's too much hashish and opium around here. Too much boredom, loneliness, and fear.

Seems like everyone is carrying a sheet of hash in their pocket these days. If you owe somebody a few bucks, you just rip off a piece and hand it over instead of money.

Nobody has to tell me that I'm on the skids. On my own, I'm likely to go over the cliff. I didn't want Tyler out of my sight, either. He's also getting dangerously close to the edge. Not with drugs or booze (perish the thought!) but with his own brand of madness. We need to look out for each other.

Tabas

We left right after work Friday so as to "hit the ground running" and rode a bus hell bent for leather across the Great Sand Desert toward Tabas. The landscape was completely bare. The army base is a rain forest in comparison. Then night came and I couldn't see much any more.

Our driver whipped the old bus around the winding, hilly road like a Corvette. I'd nod off, then jerk awake at the next big dip or jostle. When another vehicle approached us head on, both drivers flashed their bright lights until they passed each other.

Why? The tactic blinded them both.

We made Tabas in the wee hours and checked into a tiny inn. Third world chic at its finest. I should add that our coworker, Elaine, came with us, at Tyler's invitation. She has a reputation of being pretty active sexually. She's screwed about every straight guy in the company, I've been told.

It was obvious she wanted to get it on with Tyler, but he wasn't buying. Mr. Loyalty with his girlfriend back home and all that. I'm only a second stringer, so Elaine didn't throw a pass my direction.

Tell me this, if things are so serious with Tyler and his girlfriend, why is he here while she's in the States?

I expected to have a room to myself while the two of them got it on, and I was surprised when Tyler moved in with me. Elaine was ticked and tried to stiff us. Since she was the only female and couldn't share with anybody, she complained, we should subsidize her single room!

"She's your friend, Tyler. You can pick up her tab if you want."

Why did he bring her along if he wasn't interested in hanky panky?

When the sun came up, Tabas was revealed as a beautiful, traditional type town with adobe walls and palm trees. Like something out of _National Geographic_. Tyler went nuts with his camera. I started getting antsy, and Elaine was bored out of her mind. I pointed off toward what I thought was east.

"Afghanistan is that way, Tyler. Are we going or not?"

He looked at that compass he wears around his neck.

"Actually, Afghanistan is the opposite direction, Bob."

We'd already missed the bus to Mashad, so we had to catch a ride on a tanker truck. All of us jammed together. The driver copped feels on Elaine's leg. Served her right.

Mashad

The next night, we stayed at a decent hotel in the Mashad area and hopped a cab to go out for dinner some miles away. We met a prosperous Iranian gentleman at the restaurant / bar who bought us a round. He offered to drive us back to our hotel.

We got in the car with him, Tyler in front, me and Elaine in back. Trouble was, we didn't realize how drunk the guy was. He roared down the road, moving dangerously close to the traffic ahead of us. Tyler spoke to the guy, trying to control the situation.

"Oh, look at those pretty red lights," he said as we barreled up behind a truck, "like a Christmas tree!"

Tyler looked ready to seize the steering wheel any moment. I prepared to grab the Iranian guy from behind so that Tyler could, somehow, stop the car without killing us all. Elaine was terrified.

Now I knew why Tyler brought her along, and me, too. He wanted an audience. Me, the side kick, and Elaine the damsel in distress. So he could play the hero, like Napoleon ready to take command. Like Jon Glass.

Fortunately, the driver began to sober up. We got to the hotel in one piece.

54. Afghanistan

_We took care not to arouse the demons that were sleeping within us. –_ _Zorba the Greek_ _, by Nikos Kazantzakis_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

At the border, an Afghan official in a white coat examined my booklet and announced that one of my shots was expired. I'd have to be inoculated here before I could enter Afghanistan.

Great! Who wouldn't want to get a shot out here in the middle of nowhere? Hepatitis anyone?

Another slight problem, the guy in white said. The vaccine would not be available for a week. I contemplated a solo return to Esfahan. Tyler was very upset. He must have been scared at the idea of traveling with Elaine unaided.

Another American walked up. He was more experienced in the ways of _baksheesh_.

"I'm in the same boat," he said. "Do you have any Afghanis?"

I pulled out my wad, and he selected a couple bills. Then a discussion between him and the white coat. Money changed hands. Next thing I knew, I was over the border!

Herat

The dusty city of Herat was our first stop. We rode a horse cart decorated with pom poms and got rooms at an inn. The place was a mud brick version of the dive motels you see along Dix-Toledo Road back home. We went to a restaurant and ate at low tables, like in Korea. I liked the colorful hanging rugs and the squiggly writing on the Coke bottles.

A musician sang and played a stringed instrument; another guy banged a drum. I guess Afghan music is an acquired taste. Hashish pipes made the rounds.

"This is my kind of place!" I took a good drag.

Tyler glowered with disapproval and limited himself to a single "no thank you" toke. So, I went easy, too. Elaine, as usual, was ticked.

Kabul

We flew to Kabul on a small Soviet-built passenger jet. The interior was drab and noisy.

"This airplane is a perfect representation of the Communist ideal," Tyler said, "gray and soulless."

What kind of soul is an airplane supposed to have, anyway? Elaine, as usual, was ticked.

Kabul was a real step back in time, scary too. Men in flowing robes and wrap-around headgear who looked like they'd just as soon stick a knife into you as say hello. We visited the museum and a couple mosques. Tyler photographed some elderly beggars in a cemetery, paying them a modeling fee.

At an outdoor food market, two girls in head-to-toe Burkas approached. These things are really awful, much worse than the chadors in Iran. They hang over a woman's body like a toaster cover. One of the girls flung out her hip and bumped into Tyler. I heard giggles under the Burkas. Elaine, as usual...

Street vendors on platforms roasted kabobs. Delicious.

Bamian

Tyler wanted to visit a place in the mountains called Bamian where there were giant Buddha statues. Sure, I said. We'd given up asking Elaine's opinion as she seemed to be angry about everything.

The whole area was major league spooky. The Buddha statues were impressive, though, great towering things carved out of mountains, with their faces sliced off. Tyler trusted me with his precious camera to photograph him standing by a pair of massive stone feet. As I focused the lens, a mysterious dark passage opened up behind him in the mountainside.

"Makes you feel insignificant, doesn't it?" I said.

"Why? However vast the universe, there is nothing in it like me." He'd taken his Napoleon pose, one hand on his hip.

"You're right," I said. "Oh graven image, I piss on your stone toes!"

I didn't, of course, but it sounded dramatic.

A game of Bushkashi was going on at a nearby field. Horsemen thundering around fighting over a goat carcass. Why would anybody want a goat carcass? Crowds of men in robes and turbans watched.

Some military big shot was in the crowd along with many common soldiers. He had on a fancy outfit, but the lower ranks wore old-fashioned gray uniforms, like costumes from _Dr. Zhivago_. Reminded me of the North Korean border guards.

There were no buses available for the trip back to Kabul, so we caught a ride on one of the fantastic Afghan trucks with a towering wooden structure tacked on. Bulging sacks filled the back, and paintings decorated the sides. We piled in with the driver. Afghan music blasted on the cassette player. I don't need to describe Elaine's attitude.

The Car Ride from Hell

A surprise in Kabul. No flights to Herat for another week! The only buses headed that direction were milk runs that may or may not even get there.

We were in a tight bind. Tyler and I had already pushed our luck to the limit. If we weren't back to work by Monday, we'd likely be fired. Elaine didn't need to worry. She had "connections," if you know what I mean.

"I'll handle everything," Tyler said.

Like an idiot I let him. He arranged for an Afghan guy to drive us the more than 400 miles to Herat in his private car. The vehicle was a boxy, Russian-made thing, not very comfortable. We got going late afternoon.

"How much is this costing us?" I asked as we moved onto the open road outside Kabul.

When Tyler told me, I practically hit the car roof. "Why so expensive?"

Tyler shrugged. "It's going to be dark soon, and people don't like to be out on the road."

I looked at the smooth blacktop. "The road's paved all the way, right?"

"It's not that. They're concerned about bandits."

"Bandits!"

"We'll be okay. The army has checkpoints along the way. It should be interesting."

Interesting! I looked to Elaine, but for once she wasn't ticked. She seemed exited, like she was about to have a climax. Was I the only one who hadn't gone nuts?

We stopped at a tea house. Inside was gloomy and ominous. Afghan men clustered around a big stove with a ring of teapots on top. People stared at us, a young boy took an interest in me and kept me under constant surveillance.

Soon it became dark and the ride turned into a long nightmare. Twisted around in the back seat behind the driver, I'd nod off until we'd stop at an army checkpoint. I'd come half awake to see the crude faces of soldiers leering through the window at me.

I'd jerk fully awake, convinced we were being attacked by bandits. Tyler thought this was funny until he switched seats with me. At the next checkpoint, he was doing the panic wake-up routine.

The left rear tire blew out, stranding us in the chill night. I felt very uneasy standing on the roadside, looking over the moonscape, while the driver changed tires. Did the soldiers patrol this road, or did they stay in their checkpoints? How reliable were they, anyway? Would they help or just rob you and put a bullet through your head?

We were sitting ducks. Elaine was no longer excited, but Tyler seemed to enjoy the situation. He kept looking out in the moonlight toward the hills.

We got moving again. Everything was fine for about an hour. Then, the right front wheel broke off its tie rod, and the car went into a terrifying skid. The driver flung himself onto the steering wheel, yelling nonstop. I heard "Allah!" shouted several times.

Allah must have heard because we stopped just before we would have tumbled down the slope alongside the road. We crawled out of the car. My legs felt so weak I could barely stand.

"This isn't fun anymore," Elaine said, her voice shaking.

She got that right. A long set of skid marks gleamed in the moonlight.

Tyler took me aside. "Let's head out, Bob."

"Where?"

He pointed to the hills. "There."

Tyler had a mad gleam in his eye. I could see it clearly, even in the low light.

"You're crazy, man!" I said. "You don't know what's out there—bandits, killers, anything!"

He looked at me hard. "You think we're ever going to fix that stupid wheel?"

"We can try."

Tyler frightened me. He scarcely looked like himself. I could have almost sworn it was Jon Glass standing in the road.

I stepped back. "What about Elaine?"

"What about her?"

He brushed past Elaine, practically knocking her over, and yanked his knapsack out of the car. He started walking fast toward the hills. I couldn't allow that.

I tackled him, and he fell sprawling onto the dirt. I tried to pin him down, but he wriggled free and got his arms around my neck. Next thing I knew, the life was getting choked out of me. I must have blacked out.

The pressure stopped and I was staring up into the dark sky. A fist trembled above me amid the stars and moonlight, waiting to find out if I was going keep fighting.

"Bob! Are you okay?" Tyler's voice.

"Wonderful. It only hurts when I breathe."

Tyler stood up. I moved my arm as fast as possible, though it seemed to weigh a ton. I grabbed his ankle.

"You're not going anywhere!"

_Here it comes, the knockout blow._ I covered my face with my free arm.

"No, of course not. Let me help you up."

Tyler got me onto my wobbly legs and brought me back to the car. He tried to blow the whole thing off with a joke.

"You're pretty good at that, Bob. You should have tried out for the football team."

I didn't feel like laughing. I didn't think that I'd ever feel the same about Tyler again. I sat on the roadside with Elaine snuggled up against me in the cold.

Fortunately, the driver had a trunk full of tools and spare parts. Somehow he and Tyler rigged up a repair, and we limped the rest of the way into Herat.

Then on to Esfahan. It was a quiet trip back.

# Eight: Into the Maelstrom

55. Kingdom of Delusions

_It was neither German nor Jew who ruled the ghetto, it was illusion. –_ _Night_ _, by Elie Wiesel_

Tyler's Account

My God, Tabas has been wiped out by an earthquake! The surrounding area has been devastated, tens of thousands killed. We were just there. I shot an entire roll of film in Tabas. Little kids followed me around, grinning and jostling each other as I photographed them.

I grasp the metal film cassette. Inside it are the faces of children who will never grow up. How fragile life is.

This horrible event plays into the hands of the revolutionaries. Superstitious types interpret it as a divine judgment against the Shah. Bumbling government relief efforts provide a lightning rod for criticism.

We get back from Afghanistan just in time to say good-bye to Stars. He's had enough of martial law, he says, and has decided to pack it in. This must be the reason for his great calmness, he gets the hell out of stressful situations.

The Jolfa house is too expensive to keep without Stars, so I get a third-flour apartment on the east side of town. Bob wants to move in with one of his opium-smoking buddies, but I won't hear of it. Violence nearly breaks out over the issue.

Just what I need, another fight with Bob! He's a big guy, even if he has lost a lot of weight, and if he gets in the first blow, things could turn out quite differently from the last time.

So, I had a little chat with Mr. Opium Pipe in the school lavatory instead. I rammed him into a corner and got a fist under his chin. He seemed to weigh almost nothing under his baggy distinctive clothing. His skin was papery yellow, and his buggy eyes glared at me with hatred.

"Go screw up your own life. Leave Bob out of it!" A knee to the groin emphasized my point.

It must have worked because Bob moved into my apartment without further dispute.

We don't get fired for our unauthorized vacation. The school director covered for us. When I first learned he was a retired Marine Corps colonel, I thought he'd be a real hard ass, but he's always been square. Also, I think he has an inkling of what's in store for Iran and has decided that dismissing two qualified teachers would not be wise. To tell the truth, I'm rather disappointed. At least getting fired would be a way out of this mad house.

There's been martial law for some time now, but most foreigners refuse to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, preferring to be prisoners of self deception. The revolution threatens their economic well-being; therefore, it cannot exist. They are as foolishly optimistic as the people in _Jaws_ , refusing to see the shark when it's swimming right at them.

The worst of this flat earth crowd is Bob's senior instructor, Pete. According to him, everything will soon be smoothed over. Wake up folks! The writing is blasted on the wall with machine gun bullets.

It's all a variation on the "it can't happen to me" theme. I'm not subject to such foolish thinking, though, because of the horrible experience with Dad. I learned at an early age that the very worst disasters can strike anybody, any time.

Rolf seems to be the only management person to share my opinion. Sure, he mouths the official optimistic line at work, but when I run into him at the Esfahan hotel bar, he takes a different tack.

"Soon there'll be a new group in power," he says in his precise, accented English.

"The religious faction?"

"Whomever." Rolf slugs down half a Bud. "This beer is pretty good, even it if isn't German."

I raise my bottle. " _Javid_ American brew!"

A beautiful Thai girl is working the bar, surrounded by love sick foreigners.

Rolf turns serious. "It won't be long before people look back on the 'good old days' when the Shah was in power."

Opposition to the Shah is coming from many quarters: urban poor, disaffected college students, bazaar merchants being squeezed by modern banking and retail methods. And, of course, the religious fanatics. Supposedly, the communists are the background string pullers. I see it differently.

The big question to me is: Who's got the dynamic leader – the Hitler / Mao / Lenin type character? The religious faction does. Ayatollah Khomeini is the Shah's real enemy, not some gray, faceless commie boss. If the Shah sees the communists as the main problem, he's another prisoner of self deception.

So, why am I sticking around? That's the question hovering in my cigarette smoke.

Sure, the money is good, especially after our latest 'combat pay' increase, and I hate the idea of returning home to the grind of crappy jobs. These are the obvious reasons, but they are not enough by themselves.

I haven't heard from Jon since we got back. He is angry, I sense, because he'd not been asked to lead the Afghanistan trip. Well, that's just too bad! Maybe I'll hear from him again, maybe not. I can wait him out.

56. Adios to Bob West

_Any fool can tell a crisis when it arrives. The real service to the state is to detect it in embryo. –_ _Foundation_ _, Isaac Asimov_

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

Thank God I'm leaving this terrible place! My teaching job in Bangkok finally came through. I feel like "The New Socialist Man," as Tyler would put it.

Bless you, Paul, for helping me! You've saved my life.

The salary is much less than we make here, but you don't get burned out of your home in Bangkok or blown up on your way to work. Such things have been happening to more and more Americans in Esfahan. In the middle of the night, somebody throws a rock through your window, then a Molotov cocktail. Your house becomes an inferno, and you're lucky to get out alive.

There are increasing numbers of burglaries, and more American owned cars are getting firebombed. A mob attacked the Youth Hostel, driving out the Americans who were living there. The La Fontaine restaurant and the Old American Club are among the latest foreigner hangouts to get torched.

This curfew is driving me nuts. Tyler says he got used to curfews in Korea. Well, my town was located in North Chung Chong province ( _Chung Chong Buk Do_ ) in the center of Korea, and we had no curfew. The government must have thought the threat of North Korean infiltrators was too remote there. We used to make fun of the other PCVs with a _Frère Jacques_ type song:

Chung Chong Buk Do! Chung Chong Buk Do!

Where are you? Where are you?

Right here in the middle. Right here in the middle.

No curfew! No curfew!

I'm not laughing anymore.

Last night, somebody stuck a friendly note on our apartment door:

GO HOME IMPERIALIST. VIVA ISLAM!

Okay, I get the message. I'm amazed none of us have been killed yet. Well, Robert Lincoln West ain't gonna be here waiting for _his_ number to come up. Many consider Stars to be an alarmist for jumping ship. I think he was smart. Time for me to get smart.

A terrorist threw a pipe bomb onto one of our employee buses, badly injuring some of the passengers. Since then, the Iranian army has provided guards. Last week, the guard on our bus nodded out. He placed his hands on top the muzzle of his rifle, rested his head on them and dropped off to sleep.

"Let's pull the trigger," somebody joked.

For a crazy second, I actually wanted to do it. Blow the guy's brains all over the place just for the hell of it. Then I snapped back to my senses. I've got to get out of here. I'm losing my mind! The wonderful news from Bangkok arrived that same day.

My new job doesn't start until January, but I'm out of here _now_.

Okay, I know I look like crap, but at least I've lost a lot of weight. If I wasn't all worn out and gray looking I'd be happy. Well, once I get to that sunshine in Thailand, I'll be okay. First stop, the Phuket beaches. After I pick up a girl in Bangkok, of course.

One thing is for sure, I'll avoid anyone who's into drugs. I've had enough of that trip.

Tyler shoved a big wad of cash on me yesterday.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Settling in money. You paid my way to Thailand once, now I'm paying yours."

I tried to protest, but Tyler cut me off.

"Not a topic for discussion, okay?"

I wish Tyler would come with me, but he's going to do whatever he wants. One thing I've always admired about him is that, even when he does something stupid, he never complains about it afterwards or blames somebody else.

I think he still feels guilty about our fight in Afghanistan. Forget it, pal! Why feel guilty when I was the one who started it? He's such a gentleman. Not so Jon Glass. He's the coldest, scariest person I've ever met. Why Tyler hangs out with him, I'll never know.

Yes, I do know, even if I hate to admit it. They both have the same mad glow, and that's what draws them together. Jon has an icy bonfire raging inside, and Tyler just a little flame most of the time, but it can flare up and burn everything—like it almost did in Afghanistan.

Well, I can't do anything about it, so I'll just move on and save my own butt. I'll keep the door open if Tyler changes his mind.

Last Night in Esfahan

Elaine invited me to dinner at her apartment. She's been getting sweeter on me ever since Afghanistan. I think she was impressed by my battle with Tyler, like I was defending her honor or something. Maybe I didn't do so bad. I was actually winning, for about three seconds.

I came with one bottle each of Chateau Rezaiyeh and Chateau Sardosht. A red and a white. I'd paid black market prices for the wine, as all the liquor stores have been torched. I had the evening all planned—romantic dinner, conversation, wine.

Curfew hour slips past and Elaine says, "Gee, Bob, looks like you'll have to spend the night."

I arrived with high hopes. Elaine's apartment was very sensuous, with fantastically complicated Persian carpets on the floor and hanging on the walls. When I produced the wine, though, she said:

"Gee, Bob, I don't drink anymore."

She'd been hitting the bottle too hard lately, she said, and had quit cold turkey. So, I popped the cork on the Chateau Rezaiyeh and drank solo. The discussion turned to my resignation.

"What did they say when you quit?" Elaine asked.

"I had to see the big boss and the school director. They were cool."

"They're worried, though," Elaine said. "We all are. What about your senior instructor?"

"Pete? That son of a bitch! He as much as accused me of being a candy ass. At least I could finally tell him to get bent."

Elaine laughed. "It's about time somebody told off that pompous wind bag."

"What about you? The company pays your air fare out, what more do you want?"

"I'm thinking about it. I've sold a few things already."

The dinner "conversation" mostly concerned Elaine's recollections of her many affairs, especially a fling she'd had with a black American guy in Tehran. He'd once been a street hustler and pimp in the States and was now working at some foreign company.

"Don't forget," she said, "I've been taught by a pimp."

How was I supposed to react to that? Swirl my wine and say, "Oh, really?"

Her fooling around days were over, she said. She wanted that "special man" in her life to love and care for. Somebody who'll be there for her permanently. That sort of left me out in the cold since I'll be leaving tomorrow. Talk about waving a water jug in front of a guy who's dying of thirst.

Why was she telling me all this? Did she have me mixed up with Dear Abby? People tell you the damnedest things. Reminds me of a garage sale I went to back home where a set of illustrated sex encyclopedias was offered.

"I used to be interested before I had my kids," the woman running the sale told me. "Now, I'm not interested any more."

It was a pleasant meal. Much better than the starvation rations Tyler and I have been eating lately. We were beginning dessert when the doorbell rang. An American woman came in with two Iranian laborers and hauled the dining room table right out from under us.

"I sold her the table," Elaine explained as we moved into the living room. "Sorry, Bob, I didn't think she'd be picking it up yet."

Two small boys came in to watch the workmen hook ropes around the table and lower it out the window to a truck two stories below.

"These are your kids?" I asked the woman.

"Yes, we came in from the States last week."

Unbelievable! The roof is caving in on the whole country, and people are still arriving. An unaccompanied woman with young children, no less.

I left in time for curfew, taking my extra bottle of wine with me.

57. Tehran Madness

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

The next morning, Tyler and I took a bus to Tehran and settled into a little hotel downtown.

It wasn't a bad joint. Nice neighborhood, too, with upscale shops, restaurants, etc. A large, fancy tourist hotel shared the same block as our place. Another building was going up nearby, with big cranes and construction workers climbing around. You'd never know a revolution was going on.

I was too burned out for sight seeing and just loafed around our hotel. My flight was leaving the following afternoon, and we planned to head out to the airport early. Tyler looked down, as if his favorite puppy had just died.

"I'm glad for you," he said, "but I sure hate to see you leave."

"Let's keep the party going, then. Come with me. Paul says there's a good market for English teachers in Bangkok."

Tyler shrugged. He's been using that shrug a lot lately. And other new gestures, too, like drumming his fingers on table tops.

The next day, all hell broke loose. Just as we were preparing to leave our room, the sound of an angry mob drifted in from the street.

"What's going on out there?" I said.

The answer came with a huge explosion that nearly knocked us over. My ears rang as if the Jolly Green Giant had smacked me alongside the head. We ran outside, me hefting my two suitcases and Tyler with his camera.

The lower stories of the big tourist hotel belched flames and thick black smoke.

"Look at that!" Tyler snapped away with his camera.

"Let's go, before the whole place blows up!"

People ran about the street; some screamed, some cheered. No cops or soldiers anywhere. I was scared to death. Compared to this, the demonstration in Seoul had been a picnic. People stuck their heads out from the top stories of the hotel and cried for help.

"We have to save those people!" Tyler shouted.

Stinging smoke blew our way and tears poured from my eyes.

"We can't get near the place!" I was coughing my lungs out now.

Tyler wasn't listening, though. He looked around the street, up at the screaming hotel guests, at the fire. I thought he was about to bolt into the flaming lobby.

Then a crane rumbled up from the construction sight and raised a cargo pallet up to the trapped people.

"See? They'll get 'em out," I said. "Let's go!"

We ran down the street trying to avoid the mob. Tyler grabbed one of my suitcases before I could have a coronary. We spotted an empty taxi and made for it. The driver saw us coming and tried to wave us off.

Tyler yanked open the front passenger door. "Mehrabad Airport!"

"No! No!" the driver said.

Tyler flung two 1,000 rial notes onto the seat. The driver picked them up. He held up a finger.

"One more, give me."

I tossed in another 1,000 rials. The driver held the bills up like a poker hand, trying to decide. Then he shook his head.

"No!"

Tyler snatched back our money. "Damn, now what?"

We looked around the street like a couple of hunted rabbits. Fires were burning in other parts of the city, sending columns of smoke into the sky.

The Iranian driver of a nearby car called out to us. "Mister! Where you going?"

"Mehrabad Airport!" we shouted.

"Come!"

Nobody was making us a better offer, so we piled in. Somehow, the driver maneuvered around the mayhem and got us out of the downtown.

"You going America?" he asked.

"Yes," Tyler said.

No sense trying to explain our complicated situation further.

"Good," the driver said. "Time for all American go home. Back to President Jimmy Carter."

Tyler and I exchanged glances.

"The Shah, very bad," the driver said. "Very, very bad!"

Oh please, just get us to the airport in one piece.

And he did. He even refused to take any money. Then he vanished, like he'd been a guardian angel or something.

The terminal was jammed with frightened people trying to get out of Iran. We fought our way through the crowd to the counter. Thank God, my flight had not been canceled. A few hours later, I shoved myself onto my plane along with the capacity crowd. A last handshake with Tyler.

"I'll leave the light on for you," I said. "Come as soon as you can."

The desperate mob swept me along. I didn't hear Tyler's reply.

As we winged our way towards freedom, I looked down for a last view of Tehran. A thick cloud of smoke covered the city.

58. Descent

_Pride is always hard pressed by ruin and shame. –_ _Notre Dame de Paris_ _, Victor Hugo_

Tyler's Account

A massive death machine is on tour. Violence in Esfahan, then in Tehran, Kermanshah, Tabriz or some other city. Then it's our turn again. Demonstrators rush into the gunfire wearing burial shrouds.

Things have moved rapidly downhill since Bob left, as if, Atlas-like, he'd been supporting the heavens for us, and now that he's gone the sky is falling. Winter tightens its icy grip.

The group of foreigners waiting at the bus stop this morning is very grim, our expressions matching the weather. We stand separated from each other. Even the cold wind blowing off the Iranian plateau fails to make us cluster.

Young Iranians zip past on motor bikes making obscene gestures. Somebody throws a rock at our bus when it finally arrives to pick us up. The armed guard looks indifferently down at us through the wire mesh covered window.

We drive past burned-out restaurants, liquor stores, and banks with their windows smashed and file cabinets thrown on the sidewalk. Esfahan looks like it has suffered an air raid. Troops in armored vehicles guard the intersections amid heaps of smoldering refuse.

After crossing what was once a bustling city, we pass through the army base gate and enter the desert. An Iranian army officer boards to check ID cards. He walks slowly down the aisle, glancing first at the card, then at the person holding it, like God weighing souls.

This trip through the desert was once my favorite part of the morning. The sun used to ride over the hills in a huge fireball. Now the land is cold and empty, the sky leaden. The bus crashes into a pothole. The driver unleashes a torrent of Farsi profanity and motions us to get off and walk the last fifty yards.

Out on the barren ground, we fall into a synchronized shuffle, moving our feet and brief cases in a weary cadence. I try to break stride but can't. I look down, half expecting to see leg irons.

Like all armies, the Iranian one has many recruits from ethnic minorities. Tension has worsened between the students of Persian heritage and those of other backgrounds. A fight breaks out in my classroom when one student calls another one a "Turkish donkey."

After the Lieutenant hauls away the combatants, I drill my remaining students on the vocabulary pair _increasing / decreasing_. I use an example from the textbook.

"Is the population of Tehran increasing or decreasing?" I read.

"Increasing," one student answers.

"No, decreasing!" another shouts. He stands and turns his fingers into an imaginary machine gun. "Pow! Pow! Pow!"

The understaffed teachers' room is very depressing when I shuffle in after class. Rolf has quit and headed back to West Germany, joining the avalanche of fleeing expatriates selling cars and household fixtures for a song. His record player now sits in my apartment.

The condescending smirks of the "everything's gonna be okay" crowd have disappeared, replaced by subdued, hunted expressions.

Pete took over our group after Rolf left. The smug attitude got wiped off his face soon enough. A gun battle erupted in the kuche in front of his house near the bazaar. A helicopter hovered overhead, and a roof top sniper traded shots with it. Pete cowered inside the empty water cistern in his kitchen praying that a stray bullet wouldn't find him.

He got the hell out of Iran pretty quick after that.

So, nobody is in charge of our group now. No matter. The whole country is like that. We go about our business as best we can, improvising as required. The latest missive tacked to my apartment door reads:

O, CURSED YONKY,

YOU KNOW ABOUT SHAH MONARKISM AND HIS GENERAL MASSACRES, BUT WHILE ALL LIBERAL PEOPLE CONDEMN THE EXECUTIONER, YOU AND YOUR DOMNED PRESIDENT SUPPORT HIM.

THIS IS WHY ALL THE IRANIAN PEOPLE HATE YOU.

VIVA ISLAM!

Very little to misinterpret here, spelling errors notwithstanding.

The newspapers are on strike, and the only reliable reports come over BBC radio or in outdated American magazines. Contact with the outside world is difficult due to the Post office and telecommunication strikes. Periodically, a batch of our letters is hauled to the US by special pouch and posted from there. No matter, I haven't been writing much lately. Communications with Julie have petered out.

Home life is a downward spiral of electrical shut offs, food and fuel shortages. My apartment is cold as a tomb most days. Cars are disappearing from the streets, especially American-owned ones which are being fire bombed one after another.

The army compels motorists to demonstrate their loyalty by displaying pictures of the Shah on their windshields, even if it's only a bank note. Pictures of Khomeini are held in reserve for times when the revolutionaries control the streets.

A Kafkaesque atmosphere of collapse and ruin is taking hold. The exodus of foreigners gains momentum. Our training operation is falling apart, however much the management tries to keep a brave face. The circumstances have a horrid fascination. They tempt you to assume an inflexible stance of stubbornness, machismo, and stupidity, but I don't believe I've fallen victim to this.

So, why do I remain? Well, the money is good. A desire to witness history in the making? That, too. But the core reason has revealed itself to me only gradually.

I can't leave as long as Jon Glass is still in Iran. I know he's here, even though I have not heard from him since before the Afghanistan trip. I can feel his presence, somehow. He's biding his time, waiting to see who is worthy enough to stay here with him.

I'd quit the Peace Corps, failed in love. I'd even flopped in the death business. Without staying behind and meeting the Jon Glass challenge, my whole experience in Iran would be just another fiasco.

If I leave now, I'm beaten. For the rest of my life, whenever I'm faced with a tough challenge, I'll know that I failed the big test when it came.

Weeks after Bob's departure, Jon finally calls.

59. Bar Incident

_Darkness was cheap, and Scrooge liked it. –_ _A Christmas Carol_ _, Charles Dickens_

The evening is tense and menacing as I enter the bar. The presence of Iranian soldiers in a big Russian-built armored vehicle out front does not diminish my unease. This is one of the few American watering holes left, a GI type bar not at all to my liking. I take a chair at a side table.

Since so many family men have cleared out with their dependents, the percentage of stag jerks among the American ex-military types has increased. Like that trio at the bar ogling the pretty Vietnamese girl serving drinks.

When these guys aren't visually undressing the bartender, they speak among themselves. I make no attempt to overhear. They're probably discussing the latest rumors, food and fuel shortages, confrontations with Iranians. The revolution dominates conversation these days, even the lowest level ones.

Why does Jon insist on these "kickoff" meetings? It's not like we ever discuss anything. He merely presents his latest plan, take it or leave it. Maybe that's his rationale, to see if I'll back out. I order two beers, setting one out for Jon and sipping the other one myself. Then I bury my nose in an outdated American magazine, tuning out the environment as much as possible.

The magazine contains speculations about "Who Lost Iran?" The Carter administration receives much blame—as if this huge, complicated nation had ever been ours to lose. Some minutes pass before I hear fingers drumming on the table. I jerk my head up to see Jon sitting across from me. I can't suppress a flinch.

He's scarcely recognizable. The beard is gone and most of the hair, too. Overhead light play along angular cheekbones and a crew-cut skull. Relieved of its moderating hair, Jon's face looks harsh, his eyes even more intense than previously.

For an instant, I think Charles Manson has appeared in his shave-headed iteration. The word _Mephistophelean_ pops into my mind.

"Been here long?" he asks.

"A few minutes."

Jon nods, dismissing the topic, and hoists his beer. He drinks straight from the bottle, disdaining the glass the Vietnamese girl had provided. His sweatshirt sleeves are pulled up to the elbow, and the tendons of his powerful forearm ripple as he drums the fingers of his free hand on the table.

A big, ugly American guy, quite drunk and slinging a large belly, enters the room and approaches the bar.

"Gimme a beer, sweetheart!" he tells the bartender.

He seems a younger version of the ex-mil I'd seen at the Jolfa Hotel—the fat, old sociopath still soldiering on in his private W-A-R, madder than hell that he can't kill somebody and get away with it.

Jon turns to glance at the newcomer, and I notice a long, scabbed-over graze running across his profile, like a dueling scar.

"What happened to you?"

Jon touches his face lightly. "You mean this?"

"Yeah."

"The troops fired on the demonstration last night. They took out the Iranian guy right behind me. All I got was this scratch."

"You were in a _demonstration_?"

"Yeah, a few." Jon shrugs. "I thought it would be interesting."

I attempt to conceal my shock behind my beer glass. An awkward silence descends which I try to fill with conversation, about the revolution, of course.

"What do you think about this 'Islamic Republic' Khomeini wants to establish?"

Jon shrugs again.

"He's going to win, you know."

"Could be." Jon crosses his arms and leans back his chair, a faraway look in his eyes. "It's the chaos, man."

"It's got to end soon. This can't go on much longer."

"Yeah, that's true." Regret tinges Jon's voice. He bangs his chair legs back down, and I flinch again. "How are things at the Mechanics' school?"

"The pits. So many people have left that we can hardly run the place."

Jon nods. "Uh huh."

He doesn't care about events at the school, he's only terminating the previous conversation topic. Jon doesn't care much about anything or anyone, I figure.

He spreads a map out on the table and points to a large shaded area. His oversized hand hovering over the paper looks powerful enough to crush a coconut, or somebody's wind pipe. "Here's where I plan to go. It's supposed to be a wildlife refuge. You on?"

After a moment's hesitation, I reply, "Sure."

"We leave tomorrow morning, 7:30."

The business portion of the meeting over, we concentrate on our beers. Things are heating up at the bar between the newcomer and another American in a BHI sweatshirt. Voices raise and stools push back. The Vietnamese bartender beats a hasty retreat.

"Look at that!" I say.

Jon folds up the map, indifferent to the developing brawl. "The chaos, man, it's spreading. Get used to it."

The two Americans wrestle against the bar, the newcomer gaining the advantage. Glasses smash to the floor. Then the guy in the BHI sweatshirt slips free and runs like hell out the door, much to the amusement of the two other jerks at the bar.

"Way to go, Alex!" one them shouts.

"Come on, Jon," I say. "Let's get out of here."

"I haven't finished my beer yet."

"Well, _I'm_ gone."

"Okay, hold on."

Jon stands and drains his bottle. I move to the exit and wait for him there.

"Where'd she go?" Alex is bellowing at the bar. "I need another beer, mine broke on the floor!"

The two jerks laugh. "He's in rare form tonight," one of them says.

"Somebody bring me a beer!" Alex whines. "Please!"

He looks around the room, spots Jon.

"Hey, you!" He points at Jon. "Go back there and bring me a beer!"

"Sorry, man. I don't do that."

Alex heaves his bulk off his bar stool and blocks the way as Jon tries to pass. The bastard is, literally, twice Jon's size.

"Maybe you didn't hear me." He grabs Jon by the shoulders.

Jon drops down, simultaneously flinging up his arms to break the grip on his shoulders. Then he shoots back up, rotating his weight behind a brutal uppercut to Alex's groin.

Oooof!

The big man rises on tiptoes like some porcine ballerina, eyes popping. He begins to crumple. Jon slips behind him and hangs from his belt. Alex crashes to the floor.

The two creeps jump off their bar stools.

"Get him Alex!" one shouts.

"Help me break this up," I say.

"Shit no!" the other creep says. "We want to see your little friend get his ass kicked."

I look down helplessly. I can't stop the fight by myself, and if I try to help Jon, the others will jump me.

The two combatants flail around on the floor with Jon momentarily on top. He inflicts an elbow strike, followed by a head butt. Blood flows from a gash over Alex's eye. Roaring with pain and rage, he flings Jon off.

Jon tumbles to the side but holds onto Alex's arm. He wraps his legs around the beefy extremity. "Thanks for the arm, pal!"

He arches his back and strains mightily against Alex's arm—face reddening, cords sticking out on his neck.

A loud, sickening _SNAP_! Alex's roaring changes to a high pitched scream.

"Ahhhhh!" Like a damned soul on judgment day. "Ahhhhh!"

Jon disentangles himself and stands up, bouncing on his toes prize fighter style, as if he's just getting warmed up. The two jerks look on, wide-eyed. Jon flicks a punch their direction and they stumble back, practically falling over themselves.

On the floor, Alex continues screaming. His arm is bent back at the elbow into a horrifying angle. My beer starts to regurgitate.

"Shut up!" Jon delivers a vicious kick to Alex's face. A tooth flies out and ricochets off the bar.

"That's enough!" I try to restrain Jon.

He feels like a granite hurricane thrashing in my arms. He flings me off and turns his fury my direction. For an instant the world stops dead, and all I see are two murderous eyes boring into me. The pit of hell seems to rip open.

The moment passes as quickly as it came.

"Okay," Jon says, perfectly calm, "let's go."

Alex is whimpering on the floor, reduced to a small, beaten child. Bloody little bubbles gurgle at his lips. His two pals stand by with their mouths gaping, like the morons they are.

"Tell your friend no hard feelings, eh?" Jon pulls a bill from his pocket and slaps it onto the bar. "Drinks are on me."

We get the hell out of the bar and climb into Jon's VW.

As we drive through the quiet streets, Jon's giggles carry across the darkened vehicle, chilling my nerves. "Poor Alex. Now there's a guy having a bad day!"

Jon's efficient brutality has numbed me into silence. Compared to the destruction I've just witnessed, my 'fights' at the judo school back home have been child's play.

"Could've been worse, though," Jon says. "If I'd had Toothpick with me, they'd be roasting him for kabobs about now."

"I'll never go back there again," I say.

"Don't worry, the revolutionaries will probably firebomb the place before long." Jon giggles some more. "Hey, maybe I'll do it myself. Might be interesting."

If Jon meant that as a joke, I'm not laughing. Suddenly I can't bear to be around him another second.

"I need some air," I say. "Can you let me out here?"

"Suit yourself."

He whips over to the curb. We part without saying good-bye.

I walk the last few blocks to my apartment. Curfew is forty minutes off, but the streets are practically deserted. I pass a large army truck. The soldiers inside are listening to Iranian pop music on a tape player. One of them jumps out onto the pavement and dances to the accompaniment of the music and the snapping fingers of his comrades.

The soldiers' blue shoulder patches identify them as a unit from outside the Esfahan area. The government wants to lessen whatever sympathy individual soldiers might have for the locals they are ordered to shoot. Aside from this minor change in uniform, these guys seem just like my students.

My suspicious Iranian neighbors watch me from their windows as I enter my apartment building. I feel their disapproving presence behind their closed doors as I shuffle up the stairs like Ebenezer Scrooge ascending to his grim abode.

My apartment is cold and unwelcoming. After a miserable lukewarm shower, I try to relax with a cigarette, but at 8:30 the electricity goes off and the demonstrations begin. I creep over to my living room window and nudge it open so as to gage the location of the mayhem.

It is coming from the general area of the bazaar. The chanting of thousands drifts into my gloomy apartment, like the roar of a fervid crowd at some nightmare sporting event.

" _Allah u Akbar!"_ God is Great!

" _Javid Khomeini!"_ Long Live Khomeini!

Then comes the gunfire—volleys of massed rifles and the solo death rattle of a machine gun. More chanting, more gunfire. Star shell flares rocket into the night sky, their sick red glow offering the only illumination in my barren chambers. A stench of explosives drifts on the night breeze.

I lay on my couch, chain smoking, until the mayhem finally ceases. Then uncomfortable sleep, with the violence continuing in my dreams—roaring crowds being mowed down by machine guns, a severed arm laying on the pavement snapped off at the elbow, obscene giggles running though it all.

60. To the Back of Beyond

_How the soul of man is transformed according to the climate, the silence, the solitude, or the company in which it lives! –_ _Zorba the Greek_ _, Nikos Kazantzakis_

A fine, crisp morning abates my night terrors. I eat a sparse breakfast. Since I'm out of cigarettes, I relight a butt from the bottom of a drained Chateau Rezaiyeh bottle. The smoke from the cigarette stub, supercharged with stale wine, hits me hard.

Jon's VW rumbles up to the building on schedule. Gripped by a curious, almost frantic, elation, I bound down the stairs. A high school kid off for a joy ride couldn't have felt more excited. Maybe it's because I have another day of life while so many others must have lost theirs last night.

Jon remains in the driver's seat silent and immobile, looking straight ahead—like a robot waiting for the proper moment to activate. The VW is heavily loaded with the front passenger seat shoved forward to accommodate the jumble of stuff in back. Jon seems to have lost his talent for organization. The car is a mess.

I cram myself into the passenger seat and shove my knapsack in with the other baggage. My elation moderates. Two large cans of gasoline repose amidst the camping gear.

"Isn't it dangerous to drive around with those things?" I say.

"There probably won't be any gas for sale where we're going. Would you rather run out in the middle of nowhere?"

I've barely closed the door before the car takes off, hurtling us down the side streets. Jon drives with an abandon worse than the most reckless Iranian motorists, whipping the little car around corners and working the stick like a professional racer. My body shifts uncomfortably with every turn.

I try to calm things with vapid conversation. "Weather's improved, hasn't it?"

"Uh huh."

We zoom down a winding side street, the car listing sharply on every turn. Jon seems to have gone mad, like that bus driver in Korea.

"This isn't the Grand Prix!"

Jon ignores me. Engine noise echoes off courtyard walls on either side of the kuche. We fly around one corner and almost skid into a jube. Some women washing clothes jump back.

"Yow!" Jon yells.

The final length of kuche is straighter, and Jon guns the engine mercilessly. We gain the main thoroughfare, right into the midst of trouble. Jon hits the brakes, nearly pitching me against the flat windshield.

"What's this?" he says.

A flaming barricade blocks our progress. Its appearance is so unexpected, I think a piece of hell has suddenly erupted from the nether regions. Black, poisonous smoke swirls from burning tires and other debris. An unholy stench penetrates the VW despite its rolled-up windows. I twist around to look out the back. Other cars have piled up behind us, blocking a retreat.

"We're cut off!" I cry.

Fear reaches out from the intense heat. The goddam gas cans in back might explode any second! A military truck pulls up on the wide sidewalk next to us. Soldiers clamber out while demonstrators across the street harangue them and throw rocks.

Our VW stands between the two groups. Rocks bounce off the roof and hood; one cracks the windshield. The soldiers level their guns. Jon rolls down his window.

"Get out of the God damned way!" he bellows at the cars behind us.

Vehicles back off. Jon wrenches the transmission into reverse and pops the clutch. The VW stalls out with a jolt. Demonstrators surge forward, dodging around us and taunting the soldiers.

"Death to the Shah!" they cry. "Long live Khomeini!"

A ragged teenaged boy, his face smeared with soot, glowers in at us. "Death to America!"

Jon gets the engine started and roars off in reverse. An Iranian on a motor bike swerves to get out of our way and tumbles onto the pavement. Jon stomps the brakes, whips the steering wheel around, and wrenches into forward gear. We take off down another street. Behind us, the soldiers open fire.

Barricades are going up on this street, too. Young demonstrators are piling rubbish and dousing it with gasoline—tires, crates, trash bins. Fires everywhere.

"They're cutting off the whole area!" I shout.

Disorganized groups of Iranians dash through the street. Jon swings the car, narrowly avoiding them. I slump down, praying nobody else recognizes us as foreigners. We race toward the obstructions.

"Hang on!" Jon yells.

I brace my hands on the dash, eyes bulging with terror. We head straight for a metal trash bin.

"Yee-Haa!" Jon cries with almost orgasmic delight.

"Christ!" Terror springs before my face like a demonic jack-in-the-box.

At the last moment, Jon flings the steering wheel around. The car misses the trash bin by inches, smashing into a pile of burning crates instead. The pile explodes, and a flaming crate strikes the windshield, cracking it further. The crate balances against the glass obstructing our view, then tumbles off in a shower of sparks.

"We made it!" Jon shouts. "Fucking A!"

Soon we are motoring on the outskirts of town, passing along streets eerily quiet after the mayhem we've just witnessed. Jon relaxes, a contented little smirk playing around his lips. The final clusters of buildings recede, and we move into open desert.

I want to make some comradely remark, compliment Jon on his daring. But my heart beats so rapidly I can't keep my voice steady.

"Wine skin," I croak.

Jon points a thumb toward the back. I dig out the skin and fire a jet of red liquid into my mouth. The rich, leathery taste calms my shattered nerves a bit. I offer the skin to Jon.

"No thanks, man," he says with a trace of irony. "It's not safe driving like that."

I keep an intermittent stream of alcohol coming for myself, slurping it down as if my life depends on it. The desert miles interpose themselves between me and the madness in Esfahan. The terror jack-in-the-box slips under its lid again.

Fatigue bears down on me with leaden weight. Only the discomfort of the seating arrangement prevents me from dropping off into oblivion. I begin to talk, enunciating carefully around my alcohol buzz.

"It's a good thing you bought wine before all the liquor stores got bombed."

"Yeah," Jon says, "that's the last of it, though."

"No problem. We've still got the gasoline. I'm told it goes well with 7 Up."

I laugh boisterously at my stupid joke. My laughter keeps coming, rising to an hysterical cackle. I listen in amazement. Some demented stowaway must be hiding in the car. The cacophony seems to be coming from everywhere.

Jon glances over, puzzled. A small bruise on his forehead indicates where he head-butted Alex last night. He turns away, showing the bullet scratch on his cheek. Finally, the racket dies down, and I occupy myself with sightseeing.

The miles pass along the two-lane pavement for what must be hours. A thin snow layer on the barren, rolling hills makes them resemble massive pastries sprinkled with powdered sugar. The sun dodges and hides among thickening clouds.

The road curves sharply toward an area of low hills with snow-capped peaks rising behind them. A distant adobe village sends smoke into the chill air.

"This is the place," Jon says.

He spins the car off the pavement and drives onto the rocky ground. We crash over bumps with such violence I have to grip the dash handle to keep my head from slamming against the ceiling. Eventually, I have to hold on with both hands, riding my seat like a bucking bronco.

"Fucking A!" Jon howls, sending the VW over another massive bump.

The car bottoms out and becomes stuck. I jump out to push. The car advances briefly, then gets stuck again. I tug it out a second time. I get back in, but the VW can't clear the ground with the extra weight. I'm reduced to running alongside while Jon negotiates the ruts and bumps.

"Slow down!" I yell as he zips past.

But the VW doesn't get far before it requires further pushing. Light snow begins to fall. I feel idiotic trotting over the broken ground like some half-baked marathon runner, but also exhilarated.

At least I'm moving freely, not stealing down some city street fearful of being caught in a violent outburst, or creeping up the stairs of my apartment building hoping to avoid my Iranian neighbors. I'm also getting badly winded.

Near the village Jon picks up a dirt track. He stops and waits for me to catch up. "Need a lift?"

I slip back into the VW, too tired to speak.

Our advance must have been observed from the village because the residents are out in force. It's a typical small settlement with domed adobe houses, a wind tower, and a wall surrounding everything. Jon pulls over.

Curious Iranians surround us—young men mostly, with several boys and older men mixed in. They look poor, all of them shabbily dressed in mismatched clothing. The village females discretely observe from a distance. Jon lowers his window and speaks to the crowd in Farsi. He must have said something humorous, for everyone laughs.

"You should have been an ambassador," I say.

"From where, _Bullshit-istan_?"

An older gentleman, gray stubble protruding from his weathered face, takes up head position at the open window and speaks with Jon, emphasizing his remarks with gestures toward the mountains.

"He says there's some government land up ahead where they can't graze their livestock," Jon translates. "That must be it."

The younger boys are making a game of bouncing on the VW's fenders. When Jon revs the engine, they scatter amid bursts of laughter. We drive off waving to the village folk, our tires leaving tracks in the thin snow.

Soon the road peters out and we are driving through open desert again. The village passes out of view; not even the smoke from its hearth fires is visible any longer. We stop at the foothills. Jon cuts the engine. It dies hard, running on crankily, finally halting with a jolt and a loud pop. Gasoline fumes drift in the air.

"Eureka," Jon says.

61. The Canyon

_He's here, but he's not here. He rejects the here and is unhappy with it. –_ _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ _, Robert M. Pirsig_

The world turns an eerie calm with the silencing of the VW.

I slip from my tortuous seat and stretch myself. Once the gas fumes blow away, the air smells fantastically clean—the cool scent at the dawn of creation. The chaos of Esfahan recedes as if it's roiling on some distant planet.

"Are we going to pitch camp now," I ask, "or carry the stuff with us?"

"Let's just go. I want to travel light."

The sky looks a bit dodgy, as if something unpleasant could be brewing up there. I tamp down my suspicions; we can always backtrack if the weather begins to turn nasty. Besides, I feel a challenge coming that I cannot ignore. I shove my arms through the straps of my 'granny pack.' It doesn't weigh much, just some extra clothes, first aid kit, space blanket, a little food and water.

Jon shoots me a condescending look and moves off. He charges uphill across the rolling terrain, trying to leave me behind. Today is different, though. I feel such renewal at my escape from Esfahan that I take off with a fresh burst of energy. Soon, I'm beside Jon, matching his blistering tempo.

He glances over, surprise registering on his face. He moves faster, nearly running across the uneven ground. I fall behind, but then my second wind kicks in, and I again equal Jon's pace. On and on we dash, our leg shadows mingling in the harsh sunlight. Minutes pass, half an hour—I don't know how long.

Chest heaving and heart pounding, I dig deep into my energy reserve and move ahead of Jon. The primordial air rips into my burning lungs. The world narrows to the hot pain in my muscles and the sound of our feet pounding the earth. My vision becomes a dark tunnel, but I can still see Jon off to my left. The ground rises sharply to a broad, flat area.

If I can only get up there first!

A final desperate heave brings me to the summit, a step ahead of Jon. With a weary jerk, I drop my pack and stoop over, bracing my hands on knees, gasping for air. I'm on the verge of fainting but manage to stay on my feet. My vision slowly clears; I can breathe normally again.

I glance back down our route. Haze lends an ethereal cast to the bleak, undulating ground with its patches of snow. Toward the horizon, a low band of sky shines dusty blue, while the higher atmosphere sags under heavy overcast. Brisk air whipping over the mesa evaporates my sweat.

_Mesa,_ the Spanish term seems out of place in this Asian wilderness. Is this the mesa I thought I was leaping onto when I first came to Iran, the one that was supposed to elevate me above my frustrated ennui? Well, as badly as things are turning out, nobody can say Iran is boring.

I look ahead, expecting to see Jon disappearing in the distance. Instead, he's standing nearby, hands on hips, observing me.

"Piece of cake," I say.

Jon grips my shoulder in an almost affectionate manner. A smile creases his usually harsh and stony face. "I'm really glad you could make it today, Tyler."

I'm stunned. In all the time we've traveled together, Jon has scarcely noticed me. Now he's acting like the best of old pals. I feel as if a great honor has been bestowed.

"S-sure," I say, "me, too."

"I've missed you. It hasn't been the same."

His charm is compelling, and his smile warms me to my very depths. I already knew why so many people were scared of Jon, now I understand why others liked him so much—Mr. Jong, the Irish priests, the wine house girls. For the first time in ages I feel fully alive.

To quiet my jumble of emotions, I pull my compass from beneath my Cheju Do sweater. The needle swings crazily.

What the hell?

I move the compass away from myself. The needle swings again, doing a full circle.

"Look at this... "

Jon is striding away, his curled-toe shoes beating an eager path along the stones. I look again at my Silva. The needle is slowly revolving the opposite direction. Local magnetic forces can influence compass readings. Hell, I'd seen such phenomena in Wyoming, but something unnatural and unknowable is causing my compass to flip out. The chaos?

A shudder runs through me as I slip the instrument back under my sweater. Whatever's out here, Jon intends to find it. Far ahead, he scales a rock outcrop and waits for me. As I approach along the stony terrain, my legs move slower and slower until they hardly cover any distance at all.

The outcrop consists of three large boulders about eight feet above the surroundings. The two flanking ones lean in toward the middle. Jon sits upon the central rock staring into the distance, as if perched on a fantastic throne.

The land drops away, becoming part of the sky. As I mount the boulder to Jon's right, the ground before me plunges down into a canyon. This great gash in the earth appears as unexpectedly as a corpse at a birthday party. Vertiginous anxiety stabs at me.

"This is it, man!" Jon says.

The wind kicks up, and I pull my jacket collar around my throat. My foot loosens a stone which tumbles noiselessly into the void.

Don't let it scare you. This ain't the Grand Canyon.

It has something of the Arizona gorge's vast and terrible silence, though—its hulking, otherworldly presence. This place is as the Grand Canyon must have been millions of years earlier in its gouging progress through the earth. Far below, a stream cuts through the abyss.

"Let's go in," Jon says.

I grope for an excuse to escape entering this void. The thickening overcast provides one. "I don't like the looks of that sky. It's getting worse."

"The sky?" Jon glances up briefly. "Its always there, isn't it?"

He descends the outcrop, quick as a mountain goat, and takes up a narrow trail into the canyon. After some hesitation and another glance at the sky, I follow. We walk in a gradual descent along the narrow, crumbly trail, sending showers of pebbles cascading down the slope. The canyon threatens to overwhelm me with its presence, like some towering ogre.

Screw it. This is just a slice in the ground.

I recall my insight on Mount Fuji—how the great volcanic mountain was really nothing more than a heap of insignificant components lacking the complexity of even the simplest human being. This tells only part of the story, I now realize. Immense geology is more than just the sum of its parts; it has power. At least it can persuade human minds that it does.

The trail levels off. Jon pauses to drink from his water bottle, and for a moment, I glimpse the feral look in his eyes again. The expression quickly vanishes, replaced by merriment. A broad grin carves wrinkles into his weathered face. He gestures toward the Canyon's vast open spaces.

"King of the Universe, eh?"

Concern for the rapidly deteriorating weather stifles my desire for conversation. The sky is darkening fast, bringing the threat of a storm. I look back down the narrow trail and try to gauge the distance to our entry point. How long to get back to the car?

Jon walks a bit farther ahead and pauses. I catch up.

A smooth, sloping rock surface curves across the trail, then plunges straight down, delineating the course of an erstwhile waterfall. Outside the canyon, a dry stream bed winds through the desert toward this drop off point—an _arroyo_ , another word out of place in this Persian setting. I peep over the waterfall edge, look away, peep again. Each time the distance to the bottom gets longer.

Jon steps out onto the smooth rock. "Coming, Tyler?"

"Hell, no!"

Amusement flickers across his face. "It's not far to the other side."

I peruse the sky, then turn back toward Jon. He remains standing in the middle of the arid waterfall, hand on hip in that cocky pose he so often assumes. His face is turned away, gazing off into God knows what vistas.

"Come back with me, Jon! That sky looks really bad. A flash flood could pass through here."

He gives the sky a cursory glance and shrugs. "That would be interesting."

He remains arrogantly rooted to the stone. Blood stains the toe of his left shoe, evidence of the kick to Alex's face. Acrophobic dread grips my chest. I try to hold Jon with my eyes, but he turns away and, with rapid, mincing steps, crosses to the far side. He pauses and looks back toward me.

My left foot advances, then my right. I'm almost out on the polished waterfall rock now.

_Turn back!_ a voice screams in my mind.

_Go ahead!_ another, more forceful one, cries. It promises me a spectacular denouement, answers to all the universe's mysteries.

I'm about to rip in two. Thunder rumbles. The ominous sound gives me the strength to halt. I glance up into a deep, threatening black.

"That looks like the end of the world coming!"

"End of the world, eh?" Jon laughs. "All we can do is hope."

"Get back here, right now!"

Jon laughs again. "Take these, Tyler, just in case!"

He tosses me the car keys, and I damn near go over the edge reaching for them. Jon starts walking away. I pull off my knapsack and fling it across to him. It thuds at Jon's feet. He turns back toward me, an ironic smile on his face.

"Take the goddam thing!"

62. Into the Storm

The storm hits just as I emerge from the canyon. Great blasts of wind fling snow and icy rain through the blackened air. Huge electrical charges building in the atmosphere make my hair stand on end.

Lightning erupts, throwing the nightmare landscape into sharp relief. I cower by the outcropping but can find no sheltered lee. The tempest whips into every niche, yanking my breath away.

After what seems an eternity, a blessed lull arrives. I stand up, almost too paralyzed with cold to move. Wind screeches along the distant mountain peaks, and the setting sun casts harsh shadows through cloud breaks. Shafts of light jab down like death rays.

I'm drawn toward the mountains, almost in a trance. The shrieking winds try to snatch my mind.

"Jon!" I call into the empty wilderness.

With a supreme effort of my flagging will power, I tear myself away from the lure of the mountain crests and begin walking toward where I hope the car is parked.

The storm builds its power and strikes again, almost battering me down. Darkness seizes the world. I hear howling nearby and the patter of rushing feet. Hard little snow crystals sting my face. Vertigo assails me as visibility plummets to near zero. Terror hampers my movements.

I struggle within the maelstrom, barely able to remain standing. The frigid wind, polluted with death, bites and drives me mercilessly onward. I run, somehow negotiating the rocky ground without tumbling over.

Snarls all around me; something snaps at my hand. Anger pushes aside the fear. I grab a rock and hurl it. A yelp of pain.

"Dirty bastards!"

I pick up another rock and am about to throw it when I run into something solid. The VW! My hands grope in stunned disbelief over the car. I wrench open the door. The wind tries to yank it away, but I hold on tight and throw myself inside. The automobile wraps its sheet metal wings around me.

Storm and snow beasts remain outside, lashing at my refuge with frustrated rage. I watch them a long time before my shattered faculties begin to recover. The ear-splitting wind howl deadens in the car's snug interior. At last, I realize I'm safe.

Helpless feelings of loss and grief overcome me. Jon is still out there! I curse myself bitterly.

You should have stopped him! You should have brought him back somehow.

Yet even in my state of emotional collapse, I know I could have done nothing to save him.

"Damn it to hell!" I shout into the storm buffeting the windshield.

The snow crystals batter the cracked glass with renewed force, mocking me. The car rocks amid the storm's fury but holds firm. I bury myself in a sleeping bag and spend the night staring out into the darkness, hoping to see Jon appear. I try to turn on the headlights for him, but they don't work.

63. Solo Return

" _Uncertainty is life. I will remain until my time is up, whether for good or bad." – Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, Shah of Iran_

I must have dozed off towards morning because the Iranians take me by surprise. I awake with a start to see a mustachioed face pressed against the window.

"Mister... mister!" He taps urgent fingers on the glass.

I roll down the window and stick my head out. Several Iranian men are standing around in the snow. The sky blazes a sharp, punishing blue.

"Where you friend?" The man with the mustache says.

I stare at him, unable to answer.

"We come from village. We think maybe trouble with you."

Tears glide down my cheeks, until I'm sobbing openly. The village men stand around, uncertain what to do. Finally, I get enough of a grip on myself to explain what happened.

The men organize search parties, and we set out to look for Jon. I take them to the drop-off where I'd last seen him. No sign of Jon or of my knapsack. We scour the area for miles—down to the valley floor, along the rim on both sides, over the mesa.

"Jon!" I call a hundred times throughout the day.

No answer... nothing. As if God, or something else, has whisked him off the face of this earth. The sun goes down.

I spend the night at the house of the village leader. He's a kindly old gentleman and regards me through sad eyes within his weathered face. I am so exhausted that I drop off immediately after the evening meal and sleep like a dead man.

Early Monday morning, I empty the gas cans into the VW's tank and drive back to Esfahan. The car is dying around me, leaking fluid as it gasps along, filling my ears with creaks and grindings. Jon had broken it on the mad drive Saturday, inflicting fatal injuries. Now the VW drags me along with its last strength, like a horse running itself to ground.

Finally, I make it back to town. I've never driven in Iran before, and am unfamiliar with the traffic regulations. What if the cops pull me over and find out that I have no license.

My God, that's the least of your worries!

Traffic is light, due to the strike-induced fuel shortages, and I make it to corporate headquarters without incident. The VW conks out as I arrive, gliding the last tortured yards into a parking space, giving off a stench of burned oil.

Inside the building, I explain Jon's disappearance to the director, to corporate security, to anyone who wants to hear. They listen soberly. A granite-faced security man asks most of the questions, grilling me on every detail, asking the same questions with new twists, trying to expose inconsistencies in my story.

All I can do is repeat the truth, or at least my perception of it. Who the hell knows what really happened? They ply me with coffee and speak among themselves in low voices.

Then they let me go. An Iranian office employee drives me home, slowly traversing the stricken city under a leaden, late afternoon sky. The heavy overcast lends a funereal quality to the already grim day.

64. The Men in White

" _I will declare holy war when we reach a deadlock in our attempts to find a peaceful solution." – Ayatollah Khomeini_

A _strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. – Bram Stoker,_ _Dracula_

I shuffle up the three flights to my apartment like a condemned man mounting the scaffold. Somebody has stuck yet another message on my door:

GO HOME, CURSED YONKY, OR WE WILL KILL YOU.

DEATH TO THE SHAH!

Pocketing the missive, I enter my apartment and lock myself in. At least the electricity is still going. Taking advantage of this luxury, I turn on lights and play the Beach Boys record sitting on Rolf's old machine. The sunny, upbeat lyrics of _California Girls_ provide an absurd contrast to my situation.

I watch the turntable spin and try to collect my thoughts. So much has happened since I'd first seen this record player on the boat to Japan. It seems to be an extravagant symbol, the meaning of which I can't hope to interpret. My body feels as if it's been crushed in a vise.

I head to the bathroom for a shower. The lukewarm spray brings slight relief. I stretch my tired back under it until the water becomes a cold trickle. I wrap myself in a towel and climb into bed.

But the weight of the covers suffocates me, like a man already dead and in the grave. I start drifting off to sleep, then jerk back awake. After a couple of miserable hours, I get up and go to the living room. The apartment is frigid, so I dress in my jeans and Cheju Do sweater. I don my hiking boots and heavy socks.

Cats howl outside. I open a can of tamales and eat them cold. I play more music. Curfew hour arrives.

Through the sliding glass doors to my balcony, the latest episode of the insurrection plays out. People are gathering in the large vacant lot across the street. I've never seen such a thing before. Most of the demonstrations erupt on the north side of town, toward the bazaar. The chaos is spreading, as Jon said it would.

I ease open the glass door, careful to conceal myself behind the curtain. The lot fills rapidly with Iranian men. Young boys are pouring gasoline into bottles for Molotov cocktails.

_They've got plenty of fuel for that_.

More protesters come and array themselves around the leaders. Some are wrapped in burial shrouds, ready to sacrifice themselves for the revolution. They move en masse to the main street.

My lights suddenly go out, and the record player drags to a stop. I spin around, fighting back panic. My familiar apartment has become a darkened chamber of mystery. I hear gunfire in the distance, then closer in. Bullets ricochet off my building. People are being shot out in the street.

"Jesus!"

I hit the deck as a stray bullet punches through the glass door, embedding itself in the ceiling. Deafening volleys of rifle fire rattle the world, followed by the crowd's defiant roar:

Allah u Akbar!

Fires and bursting star shells fill the room with sick, red light, creating grotesque shadows on the walls. More gunfire and chanting. Time drags past as I cling to the floor, crawling as far from the windows as possible. I stand up and peer outside.

The main demonstration has moved off, leaving a few inert figures sprawled on the pavement. The shooting and the chanting drop off into an ominous lull. Women somewhere are wailing with grief. The air carries the stench of explosives and blood. I light a candle, like at a Catholic church, a remembrance for the dead. A group of demonstrators surges down the kuche, below my window.

Allah u Akbar! Javid Khomeini!

People yell encouragement from their windows. Iranians in the second-floor apartment call out. Are they tipping off the rioters about the American upstairs?

The mob passes, and for a moment I think I'm safe. Then I hear it—somebody forcing open the street door, feet pounding up the stairs. They're coming for me!

I feel only a strange, objective interest, as if I'm a spectator. I think of Mom, can almost see her face hovering before me. This is going to be hard on her. I move to the center of the room and wait for the door to burst open. Whatever happens, they will _not_ find me cowering.

A heavy pounding on the door. "Lakatos! Open up!"

"W-what?"

"Hurry, let us in!"

As if in a dream, I lurch toward the door and unlock it. Two men in white outfits rush in and push the door shut behind them.

_They're finally here, the men from the loony bin_.

I look for a straitjacket, but they don't have one. "Who are you guys?"

"Corporate Security," one of the men says. "Come with us."

Now that my initial shock has abated slightly, I recognize him as my interrogator from earlier today. His granite face is even more harsh in the flickering candle light.

"What's going on?"

"The Iranian cops are after you," the second guy says. "They could be hear any time."

"Why?"

"The Glass disappearance."

"They can't think _I_ was responsible!"

"You want to rot in jail while they investigate?" he snaps. "We can't help you there. Come on!"

They've already opened the door and shoved me half way out. I grab my camera bag off the side table and follow them down the stairs.

An ambulance sits at the curb around the corner, engine idling. Its Iranian driver looks anxiously out the window as we approach. I've seen this vehicle before, parked at our health clinic. It's the corporate ambulance. The men in white throw me onto the stretcher in back and cover me up.

"Make like you're unconscious," Granite face says.

He stays with me, while the other guy sits up front with the driver. I lie still, clutching Jewel Eye like a Teddy bear. We start moving. The vehicle glides along with incredible smoothness, even more so than the big Lincoln I once drove back home.

The good old days! I'd give _anything_ to be back working for Valley Oaks at this moment.

Soldiers stop us and talk with the driver in Farsi. The security man grips my arm hard and holds a finger to his lips. Gunfire crackles nearby.

We are outside the city and the ambulance pulls over. Another driver awaits in a car. The security men change out of their whites. We all pile into the sedan with me sandwiched in back between the muscle.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the first plane out of Iran."

We drive silently through the darkness, arriving at Mehrabad Airport in the early morning.

The place is an absolute madhouse, much worse than when I'd come with Bob. Frightened people desperate to get out of the country fill every square inch. My escorts bull me through the crowd and onto an airliner. Only then does their hard professionalism lessen a bit.

"Good luck, Tyler."

"I wish it was me getting on this plane."

They shove a manila envelope into my hands. Then they are gone. I walk down the aisle of the giant airplane in a daze. Anxious people fill every seat. For a moment my claustrophobia kicks in and I want to get off. No way! Nothing less than a nuclear blast will get me off this plane.

I flop into an aisle seat near the back. Soon the plane starts rolling. From my position, I cannot see outside the window without craning my neck, and I make no effort to do so. We accelerate down the runway and depart.

A middle-aged man dressed in a tweed jacket sits beside me; he looks kind of like my philosophy professor back in college. He observes me askance. Even among so many frazzled people, I must appear especially awful.

"Excuse me," I say, "do you happen to know where we're going?"

His eyebrows shoot up in astonishment.

"Why, Bombay, India," he replies in a French accent.

"Really? That's... fine."

I fumble open the envelope. Inside are connecting flight tickets to the States, my passport, and a supply of American cash. The beverage cart wheels up.

"Do you like scotch and ice?" the Frenchman asks.

"Yeah."

"A double scotch on the rocks, please." He presses a bill on the stewardess. "For my young friend here."

"Thanks," I say.

"You look like you need it."

# Nine: Home Again

65. Escape to the East

_Even a bad ending is better than no ending at all. – Mrs. van Daan, speaking in_ _Diary of a Young Girl_ _, by Anne Frank_

I arrive at Bombay airport after a routine flight. No turbulence or air sickness, no sudden insights as to what everything meant—just stunned relief. I feel as if I've been knocked cold in one reality and revived in another.

Hours earlier, I was a foreign pariah adrift in a revolutionary winter; now I'm in hot Bombay, shuffling off the plane in my grungy clothes like some indigent tourist. Having no baggage to claim, I disentangle myself quickly from the flight crowd and head for a telephone. After a certain amount of hassle, I manage to place a call home.

"No one is available now," Mom's voice says on the answering machine tape. "Please leave a message."

Beep!

I'm a bit surprised. Always before, Ed's voice had been in the recorded greeting.

"Hello! This is Tyler calling from Bombay, India. Well, I got out of Iran okay... I'll be in touch. Bye."

I hang up the phone. Three options present themselves: 1) Wait five hours and catch my connecting flight to the States. 2) Remain in India for a while. 3) Go someplace else.

My exhausted brain isn't working well, and thoughts do not come easily in the terminal confines. A stroll is what I need. I step outside into air so humid I can practically swim in it. I peal off the Cheju Do sweater. My black T-shirt underneath bears a _Rated "D" for Drunk_ logo.

A filthy canal sprawls between the airport and the nearby town area. Numerous poverty-stricken dwellings sit upon the banks, ramshackle affairs built from scrap materials.

I have never seen such squalor before. Excrement covers the ground by the houses, combining its stench with that of the fetid canal water. Gaunt people creep about like ungainly insects. This is clearly the bottom rung of Indian society. I'm profoundly shocked, but at least this harsh vista clarifies matters for me. Compared to such wretchedness, my anxieties seem petty, hilarious almost. I hurry across the bridge.

The town is bustling and crowded. I wander around the commercial streets, letting the pedestrian flow determine my route. A vendor sells betel nut chew in a selection of flavors, guaranteed to provide a mild rush. I buy the anise-flavored variety.

Standing on a corner under a bit of awning shade, baking inside my jeans and hiking boots, I contemplate my options. India stretches around me, vast, hot, and complex. Even at my most alert, a trip through this country would be a huge undertaking. In my present state of semi-collapse, such an effort is out of the question.

I head back to the airport, shutting out the horrid canal bank scene as much as possible and spitting my exhausted betel nut into the water. No, I can't stay in India, but I'm in no condition to return home yet, either. What I need now is a friend who can understand what I've been through. I need to see Bob West.

Fortunately, I have his work phone number in my wallet and am able to get a call through to him.

* * *

I arrive in Bangkok late afternoon and ride a bus toward Bob's house. The city is wonderfully bright, with palm trees rustling along the road sides—an incredible contrast to the Iranian winter I've just escaped. Some of my paranoia starts to ebb.

Bob's house is modern and airy, in keeping with the general optimism of Bangkok. Bob greets me warmly. He's kept the weight off and is nicely tanned. His face, liberated from its burden of flab, is rather handsome. The eyes are sad, though.

"You look great, Bob."

He places an arm over my shoulder. "I wish I could say the same about you, pal. Thank God you're out of that place."

Standing beside this rejuvenated guy, I feel like a withered old man. The Iranian winter has penetrated so deeply I don't know if it will ever warm out again.

66. Bangkok R&R

**From the** _DAS ROAD_ **diary, by Bob West**

I thought I was finished writing this diary, but now that Tyler is here, I'm not so sure. Maybe he'll take me along on one of his mad adventures.

He looked awful when he arrived, dressed for winter and with "Jewel Eye" slung over his shoulder as his only luggage.

I cracked a lame joke. "I've heard of traveling light, but this is ridiculous."

He took a long shower while I scrabbled around to find something for him to wear. Fortunately, the previous tenant left some clothes behind that sort of fit Tyler. Anything of mine would be much too large.

"Burn that outfit you came in, eh?" I told him when he got out of the shower.

"I will, except for the Cheju Do sweater."

We sprawled out by the TV with Cokes. The news blared reports from Tehran—rampaging mobs, gunfire, mayhem. The scene shifted to the frantic crowds trying to escape at Mehrabad Airport.

I switched off the TV. "Enough of that crap. It's all in the past."

"Not for the people back there, it isn't."

"God help them."

It was way too easy to imagine myself back there, especially in that airport madhouse. It was time to turn our minds to more pleasant things.

"Let's get circulating," I said.

Tyler's Account

We enjoy a fine restaurant dinner. I've been on starvation rations so long I scarcely realize how famished I am. Long dormant taste buds flicker back to life. Bob eats quietly, glancing my direction now and then. When I look up, he masks his troubled expression with a smile.

Finally, I settle back, satiated. The Thai food sits tentatively on my stomach, trying to decided if it is going to cause problems or not.

Bob ventures some conversation. "So, what are your plans?"

I shake my head. "I haven't any idea, yet."

"If you want to stay in Bangkok, I can find out about English teaching jobs for you. The market is fairly good right now."

I take a long, soothing draught of tea. Somewhere in the intricacies of my gastro-intestinal system, a decision is made that the meal I've eaten will be properly digested after all.

"Let met think about that, Bob. I'll let you know soon."

Still thirsty, I order a Coke. Bob gets one, too. While we drink, I relate the story of my final weeks in Iran. Bob's eyes widen as my narrative progresses...

"Damn!" he says when I've finished my account. "I figured Jon would do something crazy sooner or later. You're lucky you're not in prison."

"Tell me about it." I'm unable to suppress a shudder.

Bob regards his empty Coke bottle philosophically. "You know what. We need something stronger than this."

We head to the Pat Pong district and enter one of the bars. I recognize it as the same one we patronized on our trip last year. A pretty bar girl detaches herself from the group of foreigners she's sitting with and comes to our table.

"Bobby! You come back." She flings her arms around Bob's neck and kisses his cheek.

"Of course, Rosie. Didn't I say I would?"

She glances my way, looks startled a moment, then smiles. "Who your friend, Bobby?"

"This is Tyler."

She shakes my hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Tyler."

The formal gesture seems out of place in the atmosphere of raucous music, booze, and hedonism. Rosie herself appears out of place. She is impossibly sweet, as if she's just fallen out of her mother's arms. She must have just recently come in from the countryside and has not yet attained a hard edge.

"I be right back." She scurries off.

"What do you think of her?" Bob asks.

"Sweet, with a capital S. It's _Bobby_ now, huh?"

"Yeah. I used to hate that name, but anything she wants to call me is just fine."

Rosie comes back with a second girl for me. I order drinks all around.

Bob raises his glass. "Viva Khomeini!"

"Right."

My girl is beautiful. After the long dry spell of Iran, I scarcely remember that such creatures exist. Her smile is strictly professional, though. To her, I'm just another trick. Bob and Rosie are off in their own little world, sitting with faces close together, laughing, sipping from each other's drinks—like two giggly adolescents.

Bob pulls himself away long enough to comment, "My entire life was on hold until I got here."

My girl checks her makeup in a small hand-held mirror. I catch a glimpse of myself and am shocked at the gray, haggard face looking back.

67. Northward

After two days of Bangkok R&R, I feel like a new man, at least compared to the reprobate who stumbled off the airliner from India. As my physical condition improves, my mental state evolves into something weird. I become restless and discontented. The great city around me seems too confining.

I consider returning to the beaches at Phuket, but the thought of so much idleness annoys me. I need action to settle my disordered emotions, movement across great distances, like the time I went sky diving.

"I'd like to head north tomorrow," I tell Bob.

He looks up from his sofa, "Where, exactly?"

"Chiang Rai, go hiking."

"That's the Golden Triangle where they grow the opium poppies. Things can get dicey."

"There're supposed to be some interesting hill tribes."

"Interesting drug runners, too," Bob says. "Cross them and you're in deep shit."

"I don't intend to cross anyone."

"You could meet somebody willing to cut your throat for your passport or that fancy camera."

I shrug.

Bob gets to his feet. "Didn't you have enough excitement in Iran?"

"Come on, Bob, you're exaggerating. People hike up there all the time."

"You never hear about the ones who get in trouble. Just recently, this couple back in the States got a call from the US embassy here. 'Your son died while smuggling drugs,' the embassy said. 'We'll ship you the body.'"

"Wow, that's cold."

"Yeah," Bob says. "And the next day their son, who wasn't dead after all, calls home requesting money. 'Why's everybody so upset?' he wondered, 'Did I ask for too much?'"

"So... how does the corpse fit in?"

"Drug smugglers stole their son's passport. The mule using his identity swallowed some condoms filled with heroin so he could sneak through customs. One of the condoms broke, and he O.D'd."

"Sounds like those cheap Korean things. Imagine the rush to call back." I hold an imaginary telephone to my ear. "Hello, American Embassy? Remember that body you were going to send us? We won't be needing it."

Bob throws up his hands. "Go if you want, but stick to the more traveled routes, okay?"

"Will do."

"I'll make some inquiries, so let me know when you when get back if you're interested in a teaching job."

"Thanks."

* * *

The next day, I commence a long bus ride to the far northern corner of Thailand, up between the Burmese and Laotian borders. I get off in Chiang Rai and check into a small hotel.

The manager, a rather formal middle-aged guy, smiles from behind his tinted glasses and pushes the register book toward me. I write my information down, then flip through the pages looking for...

"Is something wrong?" the manager asks in decent English.

"Uh, no, everything's fine."

Jon Glass. That's who I was looking for, his signature or Korean motto. A placard on the wall reads:

Visit the hill tribes. Don't miss this chance!

You many never pass this way again.

How true. I can't imagine ever coming back to this place. Then again, I never imagined being in the middle of a revolution, either. I point to the sign.

"Are you interested?" the manager asks.

"Yeah."

He pushes another book across the counter which contains testimonials from foreign tourists. Most of the travelers have spent one, or at most two, nights at a tribal village. They rave about the experience, what a satisfying cross-cultural thing it was, etc.

"The overnight trip to the Black Lahu village is very popular," the manager says. "Not too far, beautiful scenery."

"I want something longer. A week, at least, with lots of hiking."

The manager frowns slightly. "That would be more difficult to arrange. I'll see what I can do."

I go up to my room, a minimalist place with rock hard bed, dingy paint, and a trio of insect-devouring lizards on the walls. I open the window. In a repair shop across the street, a motorcycle engine roars incredibly loud, belching blue fumes into the street. An unwholesome burnt smell wafts up to my chamber.

After a shower and a shave in the Spartan bathroom, I lie down for a rest. The motorcycle racket has ceased, so the mechanics must have either fixed the damn thing or put it out of its misery.

Lying on my back, observing a lizard creep along the ceiling, I experience claustrophobic paranoia. The horrid thought that I might never be able to leave this room grips my mind. The lizard's tongue darts out and grabs an insect. I flinch.

_Relax, Tyler. You've just escaped from Iran. If you're not paranoid after that, it would prove you've_ _really_ _gone off the deep end._

There's a certain logic to this, and I feel a little better. Another frightening thought occurs. I'm preparing to disappear into the wilderness with God knows what kind of person for a guide. Nobody will know where I am, except that spooky manager guy.

I recall Bob's warnings, feel the sharp steel at my throat as somebody yanks Jewel Eye from my dying hands. I see faces thrusting out of the darkness, filled with murderous intent. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Better chuck this absurd plan and take the touristy overnight trek instead.

I head downstairs. A young boy stands behind the counter.

"Where's the manager?"

The boy apparently does not understand. I make circles with thumbs and forefingers and place them around my eyes, miming the manager's big glasses.

"Yes, yes!"

The boy leads me to the café next door. The manager is sitting at a table with a large bottle of beer and a half-filled glass. He looks coldly elegant and relaxed, like that Mr. Han villain in _Enter the Dragon_.

"Please sit down, Mr. Lakatos."

He snatches up another glass and fills it. "Have you tried our local brand?"

"Thanks."

It's quite good, if a bit warm.

"I wanted to talk about the hiking trip," I say.

"Yes, good news. I have arranged a guide for you. A vigorous young man, like yourself. He can take you far."

He leans back in his chair, chuckling softly. His front teeth are golded in, enhancing the creepy effect of his tinted glasses. No, he's not Mr. Han so much; he looks more like Reverend Jim Jones with those glasses.

"That's... good." I study my beer glass.

"He is available for an eight day excursion. You will see much more than the usual traveler."

"Eight days? That's a bit long, isn't it?"

The manager's joviality vanishes. He leans forward. "You _did_ say at least a week, did you not?"

"Yes."

He settles back and folds his arms. "The guide is available for eight days only, no more and no less."

Too late to back out, I realize. Best to avoid business disagreements while in foreign countries. Remember the Filipino guy with the chopped arm.

"Fine," I say.

That night, turning fretfully in my miserable bed, I'm transported back to Iran in my dreams. I hear again the chanting mobs outside my apartment, the pounding footsteps on the stairs. When I open the door, instead of security men, an enraged mob clad in burial shrouds awaits, knives flashing.

Then I return to the canyon where I call into a black, swirling void: "Come back, Jon! Come baaaaaack!"

I wrench awake covered in dank sweat. The night terrors have come for me, and if I don't fight them, they will take over my life. Action is what I need, great physical exertion and tiredness, until I'm strong enough to cope with the shocks I've received in the waking world.

68. Final Search

My guide has sharpened canine teeth and ornate tattoos on his arms and torso. His appearance startles me at first, but he seems personable enough. Best of all, he doesn't understand English. I have no desire to speak with anyone.

We trek the forested hills together, spending each night in a different village. Every settlement is ethnically different: the Red Lahu, the Black Lahu, the Karin, and other tribes. I scarcely know which is which and do not care. Things blend together from one day to the next.

The scenery is lush, a jarring contrast to the bleak Iranian desert. The beauty makes little impression on me. It's the dash along narrow trails that I want. Up, down, then up again, shoving aside the greenery, scarcely pausing to rest. My guide's speed and endurance are great, but I manage to keep up, refusing to let him slacken the pace.

At the end of each day, I collapse into a dreamless sleep. My vast exhaustion leaves no room for nightmares to intrude.

The villages where we stay are clean and pleasant, for the most part. The people wear attractive native clothes. This could be a real _National Geographic_ type experience, but all I want is to keep moving. In every village, around every mountain bend, I look for signs—a cryptic inscription, a flaming bush, a flash of recognition in somebody's eyes. I find nothing.

Late in the afternoons, as exhaustion weighs heavily upon the trek, I imagine it's Julie leading the way instead of the guide. As my eyes mist over, I visualize her beautiful shape ahead of me on the trail, beckoning me on. Would she ever really be there for me again?

One village is appallingly filthy. Pig manure litters the ground, along with sundry other droppings. Bedraggled children roam about. In the hut where I stay, an old man sprawls on the floor mats smoking an opium pipe, observing me with a rheumy eye. The burnt smell of the opium lends a sinister aura to the place. Even here, I keep the night terrors at bay.

* * *

It isn't until the sixth day out that the realization strikes me. I stop cold, letting my guide surge on alone. Here I am, in the remotest possible location, chasing after Jon all day. At night I try to hide from him in dreamless sleep, but none of this is necessary. I don't have to chase Jon anymore because I already caught him, back in Iran.

What would I have done if I hadn't surpassed him in that race across the desert? Would I have kept following him, right into the storm? I shudder, recognizing the distinct possibility. But I'd passed the test and here I am, my own man at last.

Things happened so quickly in Iran I'd had no time to ponder my success. I now know that, if absolutely pressed to the edge, I could match Jon Glass. I also know that I do not want to live out on that edge like he did... or does.

I feel as if an evil spirit has been exorcized from my life.

"Slow down!" I call to my guide. "What's the big hurry?"

He catches my drift across the language barrier, and our trek becomes a leisurely stroll.

* * *

The final day, we cross a river in a little pole-driven ferry. After enjoying a soft drink with me, the guide bids farewell and vanishes.

Back in Bangkok I treat myself to a night at a tourist hotel—hot showers, luxurious meals, even a hair cut. The face gazing back from the barber's mirror looks half way human. My action-therapy regimen has helped a lot.

With considerable trepidation, I put through a call to Julie. How is she going to react? I'd essentially dumped her twice—once when I left for Iran without telling her and again when I stopped writing. Would she even talk to me? Would she scream insults and hang up?

As I wait for the international operator to perform her magic, I brace myself for the worst. Somewhere, along the tangle of connections between Asia and America, my call is grinding its way through.

"Tyler!" Julie cries the moment she hears my voice. "Thank God you're safe! When are you coming home?"

69. Melancholy Farewell

" _If a hustler goes for you, she ain't got but one reason ... she likes you." – Mac, speaking in_ _Sweet Thursday_ _, by John Steinbeck_

The situation at Bob's place has changed greatly when I return there. Rosie has left the bar and moved in with him. The house now reflects a woman's touch, and the disheveled bachelor atmosphere has departed.

Bob can barely contain his excitement. "Do you think we can make a go of it, Tyler?"

"I don't see why not. You two look _muy simpático_."

That night, I treat us all to a fancy tourist hotel dinner and wish them success in their new life together.

"Best of luck," I say, hoisting my wine glass. "You certainly deserve it."

The next day I catch my plane to Korea. Bob sees me off at the airport.

"Looks like this is finally the end of Das Road," I say.

"For me at least, maybe there's still a chapter left for you." Bob hands me a large brown envelope. His manner is hesitant, almost apologetic. "Here's a photocopy. Maybe you'll want to read it some day... to remember the old times."

"Thanks."

I feel greatly honored, like I've been handled a medal. The silence becomes sad.

"Well, the 'real time' must be here now instead of Michigan, right?" I say.

Bob laughs. We shake hands. I get on the plane, and a strong cord connecting me to my previous life snaps for good.

* * *

Not much to say about my farewell visit to Korea. The time for _Oori Nara_ is past, and it isn't home anymore. I'm forgetting the language and have no particular desire to speak it, anyway.

Mostly I hang around Choon Chun. The blind beggar man is still playing his flute in the market place, led by the same girl. She is bigger now.

In an act symbolizing my estrangement from the old Korea, I actually patronize a GI bar one night. The American presence in Choon Chun has scaled back and the _Ville_ has shrunk accordingly. Only a few tacky bars remain near the base.

A semi-circle of black GIs is partying out on the dance floor. Bar girls circulate around them. The white soldiers drink together at tables, some with girls, others in stag groups. I have the impression an uneasy truce prevails, but that it could shatter any moment once the alcohol level gets high enough to unleash animosities.

A white GI approaches my table and speaks in a slurred voice. "You don't look like you're in the army!"

The guy has a Southern accent and is talking louder than necessary to override the music. My mind flashes back to the jerks I'd met in the bar back home—the ones with the Nazi attitudes and the Confederate flags on their shirts.

"No, I'm just a visitor," I say.

I keep a smile on my face but am thinking: _Uh oh, the fight's about to start. Me against the whole bar._

The GI is friendly, though, just a bit drunk. We sit a while talking. He seems impossibly young, on a par with the Iranian cadets in Esfahan. I feel like some wise old uncle in comparison. Maybe that's why he chose my table.

He speaks of his frustrations, homesickness, and uncertainty about the future. A lonely young man far from home, as I have been. He gestures toward the black GIs on the dance floor.

"Most of them are okay," he says, "though there are a few ass holes."

I shrug. "Everything is like that."

He nods agreement and takes a slug of beer. "So tell me, if you saw two people drowning, one white and one black, and you could only save one, which would it be?"

"That's not enough information."

"How so?"

"Well," I explain, "suppose it's a choice between some white guy and a sharp-looking black woman. In that case, consider the white guy drowned."

He laughs. "Okay, how about if they were both good looking women? Which would you save then?"

The world sure is the same everywhere. Always the big concern is _Us_ and _Them._ Find the differences between people where hatred can fester, and to hell with our common humanity.

The mistreatment of the little mixed-race boy in the tabang, people firebombed out of their homes in Esfahan because they were foreign 'infidels,' the miserable outcasts near the Bombay airport—and now back to typical American racial animosities.

"Well?" the young GI says.

"I'd try to rescue both, and if I couldn't, at least I'd die happy trying."

The black GIs vacate the dance floor. Other soldiers get up from their tables, and the room goes into a state of flux. Wishing my youthful acquaintance the best of luck, I leave the bar.

Outside is depressing winter. I pull up my collar and shoulder my way through the snowflakes. I feel like some superannuated insect that has survived beyond its natural time and is still fluttering around when it should have long since departed.

Two days later I catch a plane to the U.S.

70. Homecoming

_I'm a human being, and a human being is a vulnerable creature who cannot possibly be perfect. –_ _Karate, My Way of Life_ _, by Shoto Funakoshi_

I hang around Los Angeles a couple of days sightseeing. Disneyland is nice, but after experiencing Iran, I cannot be impressed by any make-believe place.

At night, on my hotel room TV, I watch the death throes of the Shah's regime. I call Mom and get a double earful of news.

She's filed for divorce! I can hardly believe it, but it has to be true. The world simply can't be so cruel as to mislead me. The last straw came when Mom discovered Ed had a girlfriend—a.k.a. "that slut." He'd not spent all those extra hours working at the hardware store, after all. He'd been getting his tool sharpened someplace else.

I'm speechless with joy.

"Tyler? Are you there?"

"Yes, Mom."

"You're awful quiet. Are you angry?"

Angry? I want to find "that slut" and give her a big thank-you kiss!

Then comes the sad news. Grandfather Alois had been ecstatic when he'd learned of my escape from Iran.

"Wonderful!" he'd cried. "I can die happy now."

The next morning, he was found deceased in his bed with a serene little smile on his face. Perhaps Grandma Margit came back for him after all.

* * *

I receive a joyous welcome at the airport from Mom and Julie.

"Just think, Tyler," Julie says, "everything that's happened has brought you right back to me."

She is so lovely I can't believe I'd actually left her behind. Speaking of her behind, it's even more fabulous than I remembered.

The next week, after shopping for an engagement ring, Julie and I visit my grandparents' grave at Valley Oaks Cemetery. While I'd been in Iran, Grandpa had purchased a double plot and relocated Grandma's remains. I wonder if Frank Meade handled the transaction.

I can just hear Grandpa saying: "Cut the razzmatazz, young man!"

So, this benevolent figure who watched out for me my entire life has finally moved on. I'm glad I sent him so many pictures. I felt as if I was carrying Grandpa's youth in my camera as I traversed the foreign lands. Dozens of my photographs were found spread on his coffee table when they came to take him away.

I brush a tear from my eye and try to direct my thoughts toward happier things. For the first time in my life, I feel prosperous. My Iran savings, plus my inheritance from Grandpa, comes to a tidy amount. At the jewelry stores today, I'd refused to consider any diamond under a full carat. Two carats would be better.

But Julie, always the practical one, said she'd like to wear her Grandmother's beautiful diamond. She'll let me pay for a resetting, though. Later, when I'm rich and successful, I can splurge on the big gem I want for her, she said.

The weather is cold, crisp, and exceedingly bright. A modest breeze rattles the bare sapling limbs. My grandparents' bronze marker, set flush in the frosty ground, gleams at me new and polished in the afternoon sun.

Entwined roses decorate the edges, and _LAKATOS_ dominates the top margin in shining capital letters. Below the family name are embossed _Margit Anna_ on one side and _Alois Istvan_ on the other. The words "Together Forever" appear along the lower edge.

"Isn't that romantic?" Julie says.

"Yes..."

I want to say something romantic, but unease is creeping into my heart. I glance around the barren landscape.

This is what everything comes to? Grandpa was one of the finest people I've even known, but he's moved out of this world leaving only this burial marker behind. Is that my fate, as well—my path through life is to disappear like our footprints on the frosty grass?

Julie nestles against me, and I slip an arm around her waist. Beneath the winter coat, her body pulses with sexual vitality. My arm fits perfectly, as if it is custom made to encircle her. I kiss her hair lightly, intoxicated by her scent. I glance back down at the grave marker and jerk with surprise.

"Tyler, what's wrong?"

For an instant, there in the blinding reflection of the bronze, I see a message on the grave stone.

Keep going, boy!

Then it's gone, and the _Together Forever_ inscription reappears. On the gravel lane, just beyond catching, a lone figure moves rapidly away—jacket collar drawn up against the cold and a puffy green hat pulled low, obscuring his features.

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Reading Group Guide

Questions and Topics for Discussion

How important is it for people to follow their dreams? Are obligations to others more important? Can the two be reconciled, and if so, how?

This story talks about the fall of the Shah and the onset of the Islamic Republic. How do you see relations with Iran developing in the years ahead? Will the US and Iran become friends again, or is the split between them permanent?

South Korea has changed greatly since the events in this story. It is now a thriving democracy with one of the world's most advanced economies. What do you see as the US role in Korea – in Northeast Asia generally?

China has fully emerged from the isolation it was still experiencing during this story. What does this mean for the US – for the world? Have we seen the end of American hegemony?

Where does your DAS ROAD lead? If you could take off on a two-year adventure, where would you go? What would you do?

# Connect with the Author

Thanks again for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. Please visit my website and blog at: "The B2"

Also, my Smashwords author page

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other adult books. They are available at major online retailers in e-book format. To find the relevant links, please visit my website at "The B2"

ROBOT HORIZON SERIES

Return to Mech City

Book one of the _Robot Horizon_ series

The end of the world as you've never seen it before. Life goes on in Mech City, but it is no longer human.

As mankind succumbs to its follies and exits the stage, scholar model robot, Winston Horvath, makes a perilous journey to Mech City where he was manufactured. He meets Star Power, the world's only functional female robot.

Things unravel when a Roboto Fascist dictatorship seizes power. Its leader has designs on Star. Winston flees with her to gather forces for a counter-coup and, perhaps, get himself upgraded so as to bring Star true satisfaction.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Expedition Westward

Book two of the _Robot Horizon_ series

What is the cost of rediscovering true love in a shattered world? Whatever it might be, Star is willing to pay, or not survive the outcome. A trek along dangerous roads provides the answer. The dystopian adventure continues.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Battle for Mech City

Book three of the _Robot Horizon_ series

Winston Horvath regains control of Mech City, but his success is soon threatened. Violent religious fanatics are approaching with a robotic army. A disgruntled Dr. Che is also coming to kidnap Star. Meanwhile, Star's out of control sexuality is causing difficulties with various robotic and human partners. The fun continues!

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Coup

A military coup brings substantial benefits to the people who enjoy new prosperity and freedom from rampant crime. Motivated by the seductive Chocolay Strick, sports journalist, Tomasio Hagridoon (T.H.), becomes a top propaganda officer in the regime. His natural curiosity and sense of justice brings him into conflict with the new rulers when he attempts to peer beneath their mask. Politics makes for strange morgue fellows.

Political Intrigue / Dangerous Romance / Light Horror

BriSoc Follies

Follow the personnel of BriSoc Enterprises, Inc. as they navigate life and love in astonishing ways. It all starts when one of them achieves fame. The others try to carve their own paths and find suitable partners for the journey.

Humor (sometimes dark) / Satire / Romance

Great Republic on Rye

When dissolute card sharp and ladies man, Eugene Walton, unexpectedly inherits a plantation, his life assumes new purpose. After freeing the slaves and narrowly escaping a lynch mob, Eugene moves into the wider world bearing a message of liberation.

Accompanied by dedicated friends and a shadowy former bondsman, he plans to found a "Great Republic" based upon the highest ideals. But things are not so simple in an unready world. Let no good deed go unpunished!

Adventure / Social-Political Satire / Dark Humor

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran, is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

Strange Tales for Cozy Nights – 1

Nine offbeat tales to disturb your cozy nights. From strange voyages and baffling powers to dystopian athletic competitions and the in-laws from Hell, these stories are for you if you enjoy burning the midnight oil with a good yarn.

Horror-ish / Mystery / Whatever

4th Musketelle

Trophy wife Laila Armstrong chafes under the domination of husband Frank. When she learns her adult "step children" are plotting to cut her out of their dad's lucrative business affairs, she must act fast to avoid being thrown back into the poverty she escaped years earlier. Murder seems to be a reasonable solution – much better than a messy divorce.

Laila plots to use Frank's infamous temper against him and make his death seem like an "accident." Things don't work out as planned, though, and it's not certain who will survive the final cut.

Dark Humor / Romantic Homicide

Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications

Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. "A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities."

Humor / Political Satire

