Fish and Norebang (re. Nightmare)

My first week seemed just a countdown ‘til Thursday, like so many other weeks in my life. Thursday, Albert told me, was a work party day. Having experienced the welcome that I did, I assumed that it would be, well, a shit show. It was indeed.


Albert owns two schools: a high school and an elementary school (mine). This evening would be an occasion for both schools to unite and welcome me and say goodbye to the other girl. I feel like a jerk saying “the other girl” because she was really awesome and put up with me checking Facebook on her computer, but I do not remember her name.

My office consisted of myself, Han, Boram, the Oder Receptionist and the Younger Receptionist. The High school consisted of a good deal more.

I should have known that I was in for one hell of a night when the Young Receptionist showed up as the last kid was leaving with a bag of bottles she claimed would kill the next day’s hangover. The stuff was putrid and it was all I could do to swallow the brown stuff . I could not even pretend to like it. This gave everyone a laugh, but it was really very horrible stuff.

From here, the Young Receptionist drove us to a further part of town that was home to all of the hot discos in the area with such amazing names as Don’t Tell Momma. We arrived to the kick off meal already in progress.

We sat at a collection of tables on one side. At one end were the teachers of the high school, including a Korean-American whose husband had remained in California. Around her were several girls who obviously thought I was funny looking and kept staring at me. Next to me were Han and Boram, and further down was Albert and three Korean guys.

When asked if they were English teachers Albert spoke for them with a laugh.

“These boys, they are very bright in many things, but English? It is not one of them.”

All the same they tried the hardest of anybody to talk to me, asking me what teams I liked and so on and so forth.

Now, about the meal: I will try anything if only so that I can say that I have had something outlandish. I once made myself bone marrow and had to leave work because I had gone and gotten myself sick. Generally speaking I hate seafood. I used to like the standard fried clams but now I just don’t like any fish. That being said I was at a dinner that was being paid for by the boss and I had decided that I would not turn anything away for fear of looking rude or ungrateful. Han knew my aversion to seafood and turned to me when she heard what was coming our way.

“Tom, I am sorry!”

The first dish was soup, brought over and placed on top of three propane heaters. It looked tame enough. When the waiters brought over three decent sized, thick octopi I knew I was in trouble. After they hit their respective bowls and 24 arms shot up in panic, I too began to panic. After a short time the waiters picked up the recently departed and cut them into not so small pieces. The boss’s wife made sure that I had a couple of the purple arms in my dish.

Octopus arms are hard to eat. They are not soft for one thing, and another thing is that their suction cups add a bulbous and funky sticky factor to the whole meal. I choked down the smaller pieces but was left with the thicker base of the tentacle. Han, feeling sorry for me, tried to cut them down a bit but was promptly sprayed by a rupture that spewed black ink. I tried dousing the things in wasabi and soy but it wasn’t much more than a hotter and saltier monstrosity.

The next dish was sashimi. Being fairly popular at home I figured it would be easier for me to down than the octopus. I was wrong. I am a baby when it comes to texture and I could not get through more than one piece without gagging. I am serious; I gagged a bit twice and once more would have brought the octopus back to what was left of him on the table.

I was relieved when the final dish came. Chicken. Thank God! I smiled and finished my drink to have another poured by the Older Receptionist. I asked Han what this was and she smiled and told me to just go for it.

It looked like little hunks of pale grilled chicken. It didn’t taste like much and it certainly was not horrible, but it was tough! No matter how hard I chewed the piece would not break down. Here, Han looked at me and told me the bad news:

“Err, it is, I do not know the real name in English, but it is chicken ass?”

Then I remembered my Anthony Bourdain. The chicken was, in fact, chicken sphincter muscle. It was also the best thing I had eaten at that point of the night. Soon, there would be chafers of baby snakes and monkey brains in the skull and I would be off to free the slaves of the Temple of Doom.

At that point the food was done and the general drinking commenced. I was mostly left to my own devices as multiple Korean conversations popped up Albert came over to me and we smoked one of his very thin cigarettes and he seemed generally happy to talk to me.

Afterwards, we walked to my biggest fear: norebang. Karaoke. We took the stairs to the fourth floor of a neon-lit building and walked into a large room with a horseshoe couch surrounding a long table, all facing a huge television.

The singing began instantly. Asians seem to love this concept, but to me it was a nightmare. Han rocked the place like no tomorrow with rehearsed moves and crowd involvement. I was too soon to realize that I was not nearly drunk enough and I couldn’t get any courage from the whiskey fast enough: it was too soon my turn. I stood up and walked to my doom in front of virtually total strangers.

I had hoped I would feel better with the whine of the harmonica but I looked at my crowd and realized that there would be no way out of it, that I wouldn’t find myself suddenly and pleasantly hammered. Hell, vomiting or wetting my pants would have been an acceptable alternative. So, I sang.

The place was generous enough so that there was a fair amount of sustain added to my voice as I butchered “Piano Man.” At a certain point Albert, who was completely hammered, came up and sang with me all the while banging on a tambourine. Not so soon enough it was over. I received a few whistles and much applause, but my ego had already pulled the trigger.

The night becomes a fuzzy memory at this point. We made it back to the cars at 4am and I remember walking with Albert when he began to hold my hand. I am told that it was a mix of Korean culture and the fact that he was totally wasted, but it was an awkward walk. When we sat in the car he mumbled on about something and could not sit up straight and began leaning on me until finally he pulled it together enough to lean against the door.

We were driven home by some sort of chauffeur service for drunks. I was let off at my apartment to pass out at 5am. At work the next day I came to the conclusion that the anti-hangover potion did nothing. If I was doing horribly, my cohorts were not doing much better; kids learned nothing from us that day. Also, I suddenly remembered being told to dance with a big group in front of the television. It is something I wish I could get out of my mind’s eye.

At about 2pm, Han told me that I would be moved that day and that I had to give the keys to the Young Receptionist. I only wish I had been sober enough to pick up all of my underwear.