Let’s start with the couch . . .

When I moved into my new place there was this couch and matching chair that were less than desirable. They were both out of green vinyl and the couch had a big tear down the center of it. I could really care less about it for the most part but my boss kept on insisting that she would replace it. I would nod and that that this was “fine” and basically file this thought away deep in the recesses of my brain pan among the cobwebs and other non-events. I mean, if I can make it in Squalortown, a torn couch isn’t going to kill me.

So all last week she kept calling me and telling me that the couch was on its way and that I should be ready for it when it arrives and I nodded and politely thought that if it happens it happens. As my door is at the top end of a very narrow stair case, I was told that they would have to get a truck with a lift on it and bring the couch, or any type of furniture, through the window. This alone sounded expensive and I figured that this meant the couch was basically a pipedream at best.

Well, Saturday evening, about 4 o’clock Lydia calls with this frantic story about how the couch is on its way and how I mustn’t leave my house and that in thirty minutes I need to go downstairs and let the movers in . . . So I do what I’m told and go down stairs and there is a small, flat bed truck with a couch on it and a guy who looks confused and this older looking woman trying to give him directions. I scurry over there and try to tell them to follow me and that my house is up the alley. I have no idea how this job will be completed as I only see the one guy. As I have seen the trucks with the lifts on them I figure that he simply pulls the truck up next to the house and lifts the couch up to my living room window and slides it in. This seems to make sense and I can now see how it could be a one person job.

But for some reason the middle aged woman is following him as he drives down the alley. I figure that she is from the neighborhood and that a new couch is something to “watch” being delivered. So as he pulls up near the place I gesture towards the top floor. The man shakes his head as if he is doubting the success of this entire production. The woman starts to climb the stairs and pointing out things that may impede the process. It is now that I realize that she works with the guy and that the truck doesn’t have a lift of any sort and the idea is now to get the couch up three flights of narrow stairs without killing anyone or tearing up the couch in the process.

I have no idea what my role in this will be.

So they hand me some cushions and I take them upstairs and then she follows me and I point to the old couch and we dump the cushions on the chair and then head back down. It is at this point that I really want to help the guy lift the couch but the woman will have none of this and I am soon regulated to holding back phone and electric lines that crowd the area and this woman and her helper (the roles were clarified quickly) started to hump this sofa up the stairs. The fact that there was no way could have been five feet tall didn’t help matters at all. I am not going to say that what there were moving was akin to moving a Lazy Boy with a sleeper bed but it was still hard work and she was making it quite clear that I was simply in the way. Ok, I am not going to argue (as if I know what to say) but I was trying to help.

Then, after the trek to the top, the first thing they do is kick off their shoes before entering my apartment, as if that is easy to do while holding onto a couch. The cushions are put into place and I sort of point to the old sofa in the hopes that this gesture will illustrate that one couch can come up but the other must go down. Here I simply grab the damned thing and start to drag it down the stairs with the intent that the woman can rest and her pal and I can do the heavy lifting. It works out that way and at the bottom of the staircase is Lydia, all smiles. She and the woman talk for awhile and it turns out that the woman is the mother of one of my students and that she owns a large furniture showroom downtown. I smile and nod and then Lydia insists on coming upstairs to see the new sofa.

She is pleased and walks around the apartment to make certain that things are OK (I am sure that she wanted to look into the fridge to see if their was any food – there was not) and then she asks if the hot water is working and whether or not I have enough gas for the stove (one takes oil and the other gas). I finally decide that since it is rather dark I should get the headlight off of my bicycle to help guide her down the stairs. She seems pleased at this action and then she stops, looks back and utters those words that I fear like the plague:

“Scott, will you go to church with me in the morning?”

What was I going to say? Piss off, I’d rather sleep in! I’m sorry, I’m not that kind of boy . . . So I say yes and agree to be outside at 10 minutes to 11 AM and she is even more smiles than usual.

Now what?

I set the alarm and go to bed as I am broke and there really isn’t anything that I really can’t live without. Sleep simply sounds like a solid idea. I also spend some time trying out the couch. It was a little short but other than that is was a nice piece of furnature.

In the morning I hit the snooze button a few times and drag myself into the bathroom, shower and shave and then find some kind of snack before I walk down to the end of the alley and wait for Lydia. The only thing that I know about this church is that she and her husband spend a great deal of time there that David is some kind of quasi-minister.

I am waiting and waiting and have noticed that for the most part Koreans are rather serious about the concept of time and when they say that it starts at “X” is starts right at “X.” This is, of course, highly offensive to someone like myself who views time simply as a nuisance, something that can be taken up by others. How many years of my adult life was I able to live without wearing a watch? Several. So I am sort of wondering why she is running late, I mean, I was at the end of the alley right when I was supposed to be. . . then it dawns on me that I probably missed her phone call and when I didn’t answer she simply assumed that I had overslept. At this point my spirits began to lift as I decided that I had dodged a bullet. Further, if I didn’t go once that could be seen as a massive hint that I wasn’t going at all and that I said I would go only to be nice. We can call it a “face saving gesture.”

Then she pulled up.

She was happy and said that she was running late because of the bus strike and that we could be at the church at no time. I go on to tell her that I was raised as a Catholic and that I really didn’t practice much of a religion, preferring literature to do the work for me. We chat and I begin to recognize the roads that we are rolling on and it comes to my attention that we are going into one of the areas of town that is newly built up. After a few turns she points out a little sign and says that it points the way to her church.

Here I almost faint.

Since I have been here every structure I have seen has been made out of brick, mortar and tile. The structures are built to last and some of them have obviously made it through several conflicts. The church before me looked as if it could have been made by Dura-Builders and located in suburban Indianapolis or on the mid western plains. It was made of wood, two floors, had vinyl siding and a cross on top that appeared to be made of 6 x 6 treated lumber. Once inside the floors were all hard wood and the walls were lined with knotty pine paneling. I was most confused and Lydia explained that all of the materials came from Canada and that it seemed that the members of the church put the structure together themselves with the help of some pros. It was sort of “Church in a Box.” I was impressed and took off my shoes and made my way upstairs.

They had already started the sermon and it was naturally in Korean. They did have a power-point presentation for all of the music, a pianist and a minister who seemed to like what he was saying. All of the men wore suits and the women were nicely dressed as well. The younger people all wore jeans and tee-shirts and off to the side was small room with a large window that looked onto the main room. This area was filled with screaming children who watched TV and bounced off of the walls. Lydia was kind enough to show me what they were reading/singing and I followed along in English. She told me that the congregation was about sixty members strong and that many of them were at this service.

I guess that is one thing that I do respect about Protestants is that they actually use the bible during their services. The Catholics let those in higher places pick and choose what is before them and publish it in their missalette, but these folks leave the thing out in the open so if you have the inkling, you can read away. As I really had no clue what he was saying I read the parable of the seed (the day’s topic) and then flipped around. It was funny that I would find the story of Salome and John the Baptist and could not help but wonder what the woman looked like, a woman who was so attractive that someone would could off another’s head simply to see her drop her vales. I guess this is why the Catholics leave the bible out of the church. Then again, whenever I read that book I always end up feeling like “little Alex” in A Clockwork Orange. When he read the bible while he was in prison he seemed to place himself in the roles that the friendly neighborhood priest found deviant to say the least. But I digress.

Throughout the service Lydia would point to the book, show me the correct song and then she would quickly move to the front of the church where she would sing in the choir. I was amazed as she had this wonderful, powerful voice that seemed to move all over the place. She had this huge range and sang without fear. She was amazing and this made me respect her all the more.

After the service (it was a little over 1 ¼ hours long and I was not getting the salvation that I had hoped for) we all went down into the little coffee shop on the first floor where we were to be served a lunch of Korean noodles. I was excited about this as I love noodles and I also saw a coffee pot on the counter and this meant that there was a distinct possibility I may be afforded my second cup of real coffee in the span of a month. Yes, I find that sentence difficult to fathom as well.

So Lydia puts on an apron and brings out steaming bowls of delicious noodles and I am sitting at a table with four men, one of whom is Lydia’s husband David. The men ask me various questions (where am I from, why I am not married, why did I come to Korea) and I am really sick of the marriage question as my answer of “I know better” requires too much explanation and the other questions I answer as best as I can and for the most part I simply want to eat the noodles before they grow cold.

During all of this (the conversation is between me, some kind of business man and another fellow who I have no idea what he does to make money, with David being an exquisite host and translator) there is a man who is sitting across from me and not really saying a word. He eyes me carefully and nods occasionally but he is silent for the most part. I had notice him earlier when the choir was singing as he was one of the tallest Koreans I had seen so far, but other than that and his rather thick framed glasses (most people wear glasses with very light, almost invisible frames here) he was not that noticeable.

Just about the time that they were bringing out the coffee, an almost clear colored liquid with a slight brownish haze that clearly missed the point of the activity, David mentioned that the man was a Doctor. Well, how fortunate for me!! A doctor is just what I am looking for as I take Effexor and was coming very close to running out. So he says that he is an internist and I basically say that I don’t give a shit if he delivers babies I need these drugs and I need them quickly.

By now the business man and the other man have left so it is simply David trying his best to translate my needs to the doctor. At this point I could really care less who knows what disease I have or whether or not I am mentally sound or any of the other bullshit stigmas that are attached to my affliction: I JUST WANT MY FUCKING DRUGS!!!

So I tell him that I need to see a psychiatrist and that the drugs I need are sort of special because, when I think about it, I guess I really don’t want people to know what is wrong with me, especially people whom I just meet in a do-it-yourself church from the Great White North. It is nobody’s business and the further the questions go and the more the hand movements flail about the only way I am going to get over the hump is to tell this cat, straight out, what the problem is and hope that he gets it.

When I was a kid I used to smoke a great deal of pot. I know, shocking. And the people who first turned me on to pot also turned me on to Zappa and Hendrix and other wonderful late sixties and early seventies icons of rock music. As with most things, you start out liking the big hits and then move onward towards your own special niche, the music which really speaks to your soul, your inner being. For me, for some odd reason it was the following song:

Manic depression is touching my soul
I know what I want but I just don’t know
How to, go about gettin’ it
Feeling sweet feeling,
Drops from my fingers, fingers
Manic depression is catchin’ my soul

Woman so weary, the sweet cause in vain
You make love, you break love
It’s all the same
When it’s, when it’s over, mama
Music, sweet music
I wish I could caress, caress, caress
Manic depression is a frustrating mess

Well, I think I’ll go turn myself off,
And go on down
All the way down
Really ain’t no use in me hanging around
In your kinda scene

Music, sweet music
I wish I could caress, caress, caress
Manic depression is a frustrating mess

I don’t know how it reads as poetry but as piece of Rock and Roll it pretty much kicks ass. And I have loved the song for a variety of reasons but the thing that got me was this idea that music was something that could be caressed. Naturally, after I had the diagnosis, the lines “frustrating mess” gained increased relevance. So I pick a song and it speaks to me, just not in the way that I thought.

Well, I don’t know what the deal is with the doctor across from me but I am trying to tell him that I don’t have headaches and that what I need the drugs for involves (here I use hand gestures with the hope that making a wave will convey my untreated emotional situation) something a tad more complicated than just a few aspirin and this brings only raised eyebrows. Finally I say “manic depression” and that doesn’t do what I think I want it to and for a moment I am feeling hopeless.

Then out pops “Bi-polar Disorder” and his eyes perk up, he leans back in his chair, as if the table isn’t enough distance between us already, and repeats, in perfect English: “You have bi-polar disorder?” YES YOU FUCK NUT!! CAN’T YOU FUCKIN” HEAR ME??? NOW GET ME MY GODDAMNED DRUGS BEFORE I IMPALE YOU WITH THIS CHOPSTICK!! He then starts to look me over and it is as if every word that had been spoken over the last several hours was crystal clear to him and that I was now something to be examined, like a piece of pottery or a painting and he was nodding as if he understood everything and all I kept wondering is whether or not he could help me out. Hand him the diagnosis of Bi-polar Disorder and he can use that as a Rosetta Stone to figure this lad out. He is simply looking and nodding and I feel like I have just gave away my hand.

“Do you want a clinic or a hospital?”

“I don’t care. I just need the ‘script filled as I am down to my last eight pills and I don’t want to run out.”

Now David is curious: “What will happen if you run out?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. I know that they are available in Korea, I just need to have a psych write out the script.”

He and David share some more Korean and I squirm in my seat as now I know damned well that Dr. Feelgood has just spilled my secret and that no one will be able to look at me with those “wow, what a nice guy” eyes that I had been getting my entire first month. Now I am some seriously damaged goods (Yes, I know I am kidding myself if I think I was going to keep that under wraps forever) and must be watched with extreme vigilance. I am beginning to panic and this weak-assed coffee is only pissing me off.

The good Dr. says that he will call around and that on Wednesday or Thursday he can get me set up with an appointment. I feel a sense of inner calm that I haven’t felt since I have been here. I have a serious chance of scoring the drugs I need.

I tell David that it is probably time for me to leave and as we are walking out to the car Lydia follows us. She runs to her car and then she returns with a bag that probably contained a box of shoes. Inside was a bright red Braun Coffee maker and I was so pleased. She started to tell me how to use it but I told her that I had the coffee thing down pat. I thanked her for an interesting day out and thanked David for all of his help with the Dr. and his undying patience in his dealings with me. The man is a saint.

The sun was shining and I had the afternoon free. Now all I need are drugs and coffee and everything will be A-OK.

Peace,

sh