Skin Food Read online

  SKIN FOOD

  Type A

  ¶

  PRONOUN

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements and Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  About the Author

  © 2017 Type A. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DEDICATION

  MUCH LOVE AND GRATITUDE TO Heezy Yang, Tony Lumina, Markus Obrist, and my brothers—Diego, Rico, and Carlos—for spotting my blind spots.

  To Mamama María Antonieta Casanova Lenti, who made me believe that writing is in the blood.

  I

  “HERE WE ARE,” TYSON SAID with a sparkle in his eye, “the world’s best airport.”

  “According to who?” Lana asked, unconvinced.

  “According to the Internet. And just look around.” He motioned with his hands.

  “All airports are the same, really,” she said, staring out the slanted windows. “But it sure is nice out.”

  “Picture perfect,” he agreed.

  Tyson stroked Lana’s lower back as they strolled along the concourse. They felt at ease and grateful for this, their first trip together.

  He slid his fingers off her side and reached into his back pocket. He had an imaginary microphone.

  “Folks, we have some fantastic weather out there. Winds are coming out of the southwest with plenty of sunshine. Our expected high today is twenty-seven degrees with no rain. Evening plans are looking pretty good as the temperature should drop to twenty-two degrees.”

  Lana elbowed him on the side. “You’re such a goof.”

  “I didn’t even get to the fog,” he protested.

  “And Celsius, really?”

  “I did my homework.”

  Lana and Tyson followed the Arrivals signs through the moving walkways, taking in the mountain scenery and ignoring the poster advertisements along the way. After some people watching—standing in the Immigration line—they received their passport stamps.

  [REPUBLIC OF KOREA]

  Lana thanked the immigration officer, and she and Tyson took the down escalator.

  {buzz}{flash} A red siren went off, and the conveyor belt was set in motion. Tyson swung their bags off the carousel. His: Black polyester with a black bag tag. Hers: Polycarbonate and kaleidoscopic. Easy to spot.

  A restless crowd of people waited on the other side of customs, intermittently holding up signs, fanning themselves, and checking their smartphones. Tyson scanned the signs, some in English but most in Korean.

  “Where’s our welcome?” he asked.

  “I come bearing gifts,” a voice said from behind them. Tyson and Lana turned around to see Sam smiling, holding up three grenade-shaped bottles of banana milk. They gave him a group hug and touched his cheeks.

  “What?” Sam asked, trying not to blush.

  “In college, you only shaved on weekends,” Lana said. “It was kind of backwards.”

  “Today is Friday.” He laughed. “And I have a real job now. Priorities and responsibilities.”

  “You’ve changed a lot in two months,” Tyson teased.

  “C’mon,” Sam said, rolling his eyes and half-hiding a smile. “How was your flight?” He took Lana’s luggage.

  Sam seemed like a new man, happier. Maybe it was only natural. He’d left Korea when he was two and had finally made his triumphant return to the motherland. Tyson and Lana were his first visitors.

  “So how do we get to your place?” Lana asked when they walked through the automatic doors.

  “It’s a straight shot on the subway.”

  “Do you drive?” Tyson asked.

  “No need. Public transportation here is a godsend.”

  One hour, seven subway stops, and three banana milks later, they arrived at Sam’s officetel in Hongdae. The loft was clean, efficient, and—after the day’s travel—thoroughly inviting. They agreed to take a nap before going out.

  ______

  Steve had had dark days before. Days when he wanted to sit alone in silence. Days when he wanted to veg out in front of the TV. Days when he wanted—no, needed—to drink drink after drink. Today had been especially bad. His sweat was cold, and his heart was beating a kilometer a minute. He was already in a state of shock, so {guzzle}{guzzle} would an energy drink be any more of a shock to his system? He put down the can, closed his eyes, stroked his hair, and dizzily stood up. A shower was out of the question. His friends were lucky he was even going out. They were lucky that Korea had instilled in him a sense of social obligation. He tossed his work shirt on the floor and rummaged through the closet for his least wrinkled button-up. His pants from the night before didn’t smell too smoky. Recycling day, he decided. He was mid-pee in the kitchen sink when he heard his change rattling on the coffee table. {zip} He stumbled over to see “Sam” on caller ID.

  “Yo.”

  “Hey. You on your way?”

  “No, I just got home from work. One of my…”

  “Wha-why’d you work so late?”

  “This is Korea, and one of my co-workers died.” Steve didn’t mince words.

  “Uh, whoa.”

  “Yeah, I still can’t believe…” he trailed off with a lump in his throat.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay? You wanna talk about it? If you don’t feel like going out…”

  “I can use the distraction.”

  “Okay. I’m with Tyson and Lana. They’re excited to see you. You need anything? Coffee?”

  “I just had an energy drink.”

  “You’re ahead of the curve,” Sam said. “When do you wanna meet? 10:30?”

  “All right. See you at Exit 9.”

  Steve slid his phone into his left pant pocket and flinched. The cut on his wrist was infected and hurt like all hell. But the shot of pain made him feel awake again, alive.

  ______

  “One of Steve’s co-workers died,” Sam told Tyson and Lana.

  “Were they close?” Lana asked.

  “I’m not sure. But he seems a bit shaken up.”

  “Does he still wanna go out?” Tyson asked.

  “Yeah. He can use some fresh air.”

  “Attaboy, Steve!” Tyson said.

  Lana shook her head in disapproval. Tyson had a lot of growing up to do. He always did.

  When they first met, he wore a French Quarter t-shirt and shaggy, unkempt hair. He was pouring a glop of ranch dressing on a paper plate of microwaved pizza rolls, which he washed down with a dark beer and a multivitamin. It was 10:00 a.m. the Tuesday of exam week, and he was in his natural habitat. Tyson was roommates with Sam, and Sam was classmates with Lana. She was at their apartment to work on an economics project.

  Sam and Tyson met in the dorm their freshman year at the University of Miami. They played on the same intramural football team and became fast friends over a few satisfying but unspectacular meals at the dining hall. Their shared love of The Rat Pack solidified their friendship. So much so that when they rented an off-campus apartment the following year, they named it The Rat’s Nest.

  Steve was Sam and Tyson’s resident assistant (RA) their freshman year. He was hands-off, to say the least. After he gave a brief orientation speech to his floor (“If you feel homesick yada yada”), he was rarely around. He engineered his life around engineering, spending many an hour in the library stacks and getting hands-on experience in the lab.

  In early spring, Steve had a budget for an RA group activity. While other groups had a beach picnic at Crandon Park or attended a M
iami Hurricanes baseball game, he opted for a classic fifth grade-style pizza party in the dorm lounge. Most students ate a couple of slices and retreated to their rooms with a can of soda; Sam and Tyson split a pepperoni pizza and got to know Steve.

  Steve was a figure of intrigue to Tyson and Sam, like a summer camp counselor is to curious campers. Campers know that their counselor womanizes and gets wasted on weekends, but they can’t prove it and the counselor never drops his veil of authority. So Sam and Tyson asked a lot of questions, and Steve answered a few. Over time, the tiny bits of information they collected constituted a very real friendship.

  When Steve went to graduate school on a Korean government scholarship, Sam and Tyson vowed to visit him. Three years later, Sam arrived in Korea. Tyson and Lana touched down two months later.

  ______

  “Light of my life, come here!” Tyson greeted Steve outside Hongik University Station. He embraced him in a long hug, his heavy cologne filling Steve’s lungs. “I want you to meet Lana.”

  “Encantado,” Steve said in his suavest Spanish.

  “Sí, encantada.” Lana smiled. “We finally meet.”

  “This must be surreal for you,” Tyson said. “When you were our RA, did you ever think that one day we’d be hanging out in Korea?”

  “No. Never.” Steve smiled, charmed by the question. He shifted his gaze back and forth between Sam and Tyson. They were now his equals.

  “What’s it like living here?” Lana asked.

  “It’s all right,” Steve replied. “It’s comfortable and convenient. The–”

  “Do you two hang out a lot?” Tyson interrupted.

  “Almost every weekend,” Steve said. Sam nodded in agreement.

  “Where do you go?”

  “Here,” Sam said, “and sometimes Sinchon, Itaewon, and Gangnam. The areas with the best bars and clubs. Hongdae is tops. Sinchon has too many students, Itaewon too many expats, and Gangnam too many gold diggers and playboys.”

  “Will you listen to him?” Steve asked Lana and Tyson. “Sam was such a nice guy in undergrad. He was in the business fraternity. He volunteered. He played sports. He studied at the library. Now all he does is chase skirts.”

  Sam cocked his head and shrugged.

  “Shall we eat?” suggested Lana.

  ______

  Korean BBQ. Sam cooked; Steve wasn’t hungry. Sam poured beer; Steve was thirsty. This was normal behavior for Steve. He often vetoed anything and everything but alcohol.

  “Are you fasting again?” Tyson asked Steve.

  “I’ve never fasted,” Steve said matter-of-factly. “What good would that do?”

  “Maybe North and South Korea would reunite.”

  “Doubtful. I think that’ll be decided by a game of kai-bai-bo,” Steve said, tapping his fist to his palm. “Rock-paper-scissors. That’s how they do everything in this country.”

  “You know, you seem to have a knack for living near communist dictatorships. First Cuba and now—”

  “And you seem to have a knack for instigating,” Steve snapped, his face flushed with anger. He paused and lowered his eyes. “Sorry, I’ve had a hard day.”

  The table got tense, and Tyson felt terrible. How could he be so insensitive?

  Between bites of barbecue, Sam and Tyson looked at each other, each waiting for the other to ask Steve about his day. It was Sam that Steve told about his dead co-worker, so…

  “You wanna talk about it?” Sam asked.

  “What?”

  “What happened at work.”

  “No, not now.”

  A dead end.

  The friends sampled the side dishes and pecked away at the egg moat—a crispy mixture of beaten eggs, kimchi, bean sprouts, and green peppers—wrapped around the grill. They ordered more galmaegisal and marinated pig skin.

  Sam broke the silence. “Guys, get this! We went from pigskin to pig skin.” He made a throwing motion.

  “Psshh. It’s not like we don’t have pig skin in Miami,” Lana said. “Chicharónnes? Cracklings? Pork rinds?”

  “Yeah, but this skin is different. It’s more chewy than crunchy, and it’s better for you. In Korea, every food is good for a kid’s height, a woman’s skin, and a man’s stamina. Or so they say.” He chop-sticked a square of skin off the grill and dipped it in bean powder.

  Steve let a smile slip out, and Sam offered up a round of soju.

  “Geonbae!”

  “Cheers!”

  “Salud!”

  Lana and Tyson’s faces cringed, and Steve and Sam laughed. Soju was an acquired taste. One shot of the rice liquor was enough for Lana. But not for Tyson. A couple of little green bottles later, he asked, “Woo, where can we find this stuff in Miami?”

  “The bigger liquor stores,” Steve said. “But at a premium. Soju is cheaper than water here.”

  ______

  Loaded up on liquor, Sam, Tyson, Lana, and Steve hit the streets of Hongdae. Youthful exuberance. Countless bars and clubs. Street drinking. Fashion. Buskers and beatboxers. Even more countless coffee and cosmetic shops. Egg tart, popcorn chicken, and kebab stands. Makgeolli Man. A Siberian Husky next to a cotton candy machine.

  “We’re in college again!” Tyson declared.

  “This place has a good vibe,” Lana observed.

  “Zen?” Steve asked Sam.

  Steve led the group through the crowds and down a flight of dark and smoky stairs, the beat banging louder with every step they took.

  Tyson’s eyes doubled in size when they entered the bar. A packed dance floor. A killer DJ and sound system. A pole on a dance platform. Bartenders dancing in sync. Multi-colored, illuminated liquor bottles lined up like a kids chemistry kit. Thai buckets and cheap tequila shots. Red flashing beacons. Just the right amount of strobe lighting. A fog machine so thick they could taste it. A graffiti mural of a six-armed Hindu god of a DJ. Altogether average compared to the models and bottles of Miami that Tyson was used to. But these people were inviting. Girls smiled and guys high-fived him. Arms stretched out to pull him up on stage. Strangers squeezed on the dance floor. Tyson was ready to revel with this new crowd. Then he looked back at Lana and sensed her hesitation.

  Steve bought the first round of drinks, Jack and Coke. “What’s a weekend without whiskey?” he asked.

  Sam got the second round, gin and tonic. Lana ordered vodka shots and Tyson four buckets of Long Island Iced Tea. Soon, the friends lost track of the drink count and one another.

  For Sam, time became a blur, an afterthought. The music had him high and the liquor loose. He wasn’t caught in a whirlwind; he was the whirlwind, swinging around in circles. When he spotted Tyson standing by the bar, he spun over to him and asked, “How much am I paying you for babysitting?”

  “Huh?”

  He tapped Tyson’s glass with his fingernail. “How much am I paying you for babysitting your drink? The ice is melted.”

  “Oh.” Tyson laughed. “I’ll get another.”

  “You’re not yourself tonight.”

  “You mean I’m not much of a wingman?” Tyson asked.

  “Yup, you’re not mingling at all. Where’s Lana?”

  “She went to the restroom.”

  “So are you two together?”

  “Yeah, as of last week.”

  “You always did say she was like a sister, and we both know how that usually turns out.” They laughed.

  A couple of Sam’s dance partners waved at him in passing. They were unattractive and not just by Miami standards.

  Tyson asked Sam, “Why are you wasting your time with those girls? Are you getting community service hours for hanging out with them?”

  “Nope. I have yet to volunteer abroad,” Sam joked back.

  “Those girls are fours.”

  “Add them up and they’re an eight.”

  “I don’t think it works that way.” Tyson paused. “Nope. Definitely not. By that logic, if you have two fives, then you have a ten. There’s no such thing as a perfect ten
. And if you add up sixes, sevens, eights, nines… that’s more than perfect. An impossible goddess.”

  “All right, all right. Enough with the math.”

  Tyson pointed to a girl dancing on stage. “Look up. She’s been eyeing you all night.”

  Sam had been checking her out, too. She had a beauty mark beneath her right eye, and her waist-hugging white blouse accentuated her curves—or what Koreans call the s-line. She mouthed the words to the music and appeared to dance only for herself.

  Sam had had the opportunity to dance with several girls that night. Some pretty, some pretty unusual. But he always ignored their advances when she was in sight. He didn’t want to ruin any potential chance with her. Now was his moment. They made eye contact, and he jumped on stage.

  They danced a bit and Sam played it cool. He had soju to thank for that.

  “Ireumi mwoyeyo?” he asked in his American accent.

  “You can call me Mimi,” she responded in English.

  He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Like the Korean Barbie doll,” he said. “You can call me Sam, like the Korean… um… What do you drink?”

  He hopped off the stage and held out his hand for her.

  For the better part of the night, Sam and Mimi got to know each other at the bar and on the dance floor.

  He: a twenty-three-year-old college graduate working as an elementary school English teacher. His mother was Korean and his father American. They’d met when his father was stationed at Osan.

  She: a twenty-one-year-old biology major. She was born and raised in Ilsan, and she lived with her parents, as is typical in Korea.

  “Do you speak Korean?” she asked.

  “Not nearly enough. I’m working on it. How’d you get the name Mimi?”

  “My aunt called me that when I was little. My real name is Mikyung.”

  She liked that he danced like he didn’t care. They were hopping and grinding to Pitbull when Mimi’s friend tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Mimi, it’s two o’clock. You’re drunk. Let’s go home,” she spoke in grave Korean. Mimi brushed her off. Pitbull said not to stop the party.