Solomon and the Fireplug

When were kids many of us took French and one the things that we could do is pick our own name in French. So Andrew Gauthier picked Andre and John Lutton picked François and I picked Leon, my father’s name. Madame Dauphin would call out our names and we would wrestle with verbs and articles, sing shitty Roger Whittaker songs and, for the most part, would be guaranteed to forget all of that useful stuff by the time we went to college. I have no idea who continued their French studies and the only time I really thought picking the name Leon was cool was when I saw the film The Professional. The only time I ever really used any French was when I was in Paris and it was enough to get me a nice bottle of wine and directions to the Moulin Rouge. I guess it is here that I should offer up some thanks.

So now I am in this world with kids who too get to choose their own names. Pick well and fifteen years from now some guy at Cal Tech will be announcing that name in connection with a diploma. Let’s hope that “Big Show” and “Stone Cold” either change their names or decide to study French.

All of my Korean co-workers also have English names. So I work with Esther, Anna, Beth, and Jennifer, the not so nice secretary. My boss is Lydia and her husband is David. The other day I was introduced to someone who spit out a bunch of Korean, paused and said: You can call me Tom. Well, I work with this guy whose name is Solomon and I can’t tell whether or not it was a name he chose or if his parents actually gave it to him.

He was born in Korea but at the age 14 his family moved to Argentina. So he speaks Korean, Spanish, English, Italian, French and a has a bunch of other words swimming in his head which often leaves him stuck like a CD with a scratch on it. His mind finally finds what it is looking for and then he moves on rather fluidly. He only teaches one day a week and it almost feels as though Lydia brought him back into the fold to help me find my way. From day one he has been there at every turn.

For some reason Lydia seems to think that I can’t take care of myself. She was horrified that I would be left alone in the city during the Chusok holiday and kept warning me that I needed to stock up of food because everything would be closed. Obviously I can’t tell her that I can live on coffee and nicotine and that I have spent most of my adult life on a diet of cold pizza and cheap beer. She is far too dignified to know the truth of my past bad behavior and I think it is best to keep it that way. If she knew about the days when I worked in a liquor store and Zeek delivered pizzas she would fire me in a second. So I do the right thing and stock up on food and smile and tell her “I’ll be fine” knowing full well that there is always a place where I can score a bag o’ chips and a diet Coke. The world may be a wonderful and diverse place but some shit is the same: if you live in a city of over 500K, people need to snack and there is someone who will sell it to them at all hours of the night. Holiday or not.

So every Tuesday Solomon is my new best friend. I really don’t mind as I can use all of the friends I can get. The only thing that is odd is that that he happens to be a Christian who wants to convert me. Anyone who knows me well knows that Solomon would have a better chance at teaching a squirrel to speak. But I had sort of guessed that this kind of thing was coming.

When I first talked about taking the job, Natalee had mentioned that it was a Christian school and one of the reasons that she had originally taken the job was that she had heard horror stories about people getting screwed out of money and that she had hoped that this school wouldn’t do that. I had a bit of a pause when she mentioned this fact but I figured that of all the things that I needed while I was here money issues weren’t one of them. I decided that I could deal with the religious issues as long as I got paid and I didn’t have to teach the bible. If I was going to teach the bible, we’ll thought I, we’ll use Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason as supplemental reading and that should keep most of them on their toes. Everyone loves the game where we throw darts of reason at the shield of faith. No one wins, feelings are hurt, and it goes on and on until we end up with a quagmire in some Middle Eastern desert.

After the initial “hellos” comes the big question: Are you a Christian? I could feel it before he even uttered the words. I guess it is like GAYDAR except I can do it with religious folk. So I pause, pull out the “not exactly” and go into the whole there are many paths to wisdom and who I am to discount any of them spiel which usually puts a flag solidly on a tall hill: This is the mount you shall not climb as all who have previously have fallen miserably to their deaths; broken, shattered, torn of both flesh and spirit – tread these slopes at your own peril – your ass has been well warned. It was real obvious that I had no time for this game. Usually all it takes is the “I have a degree in Philosophy” and that does the trick rather nicely. Then we can move on to interesting things like movies, books and sports. Not with this guy. He saw the flag and he went back to get his hiking gear.

Now it was the game of what he could find out about my religious beliefs in between each class session. I guess I find it sort of odd when anyone tells me that they quit a job as a commodities trader to follow some quasi-spiritual quest while teaching kids English one day a week. The way I figure it is that he SCREWED someone big time and this is some means to erase some serious guilt. Who am I to judge, but when terms such as “honest life,” “just life,” ”moral life,” and the liked are dropped in an introductory conversation, somebody done fucked up somewhere and they need to do everything that they can in order to rectify the situation.

On the upside: he buys me lunch. That is the kind of penance that I can easily deal with. I know: HAVE YOU NO SHAME? Well, the way I look at is that if you want to probe the inner workings of someone’s mind it basically follows the motto of: ass, cash or grass – nobody rides for free. Since none of those are coming my way, I’ll take the free lunch and chirp in when necessary.

I must add that he is a very moral and upstanding man and that I have never heard an ill word come out of his mouth (unlike yours truly) and I honestly do appreciate his company. It is not often that I meet people who are multi-lingual and try to make their points with such clarity. So his companionship is a good thing. I have also met few people who, when they speak about the fact that they have a child, do so with the sincerest conviction that such an event is indeed a miracle which is beyond comprehension. When he mentions his daughter his eyes beam and it even restores my decrepit faith in human potential.

So if he wants to convert me, I’ll give him my Tuesdays. It not like he’s a fuckin’ Jehovah ’s Witness sitting on my couch. I do have the power to simply smile and try to turn the conversation into a more palatable direction.

But the Fireplug is a different matter. This could actually be my downfall. This could actually lead me right into Solomon’s rhetoric as a means to salvation. This Fireplug may, in fact, drive me . . . Well, I am not sure where but it won’t be good.

The national sport of Korea is Tae Kwon Do. I think everyone studies it and there are little gyms all over the place where one can learn it. One of the Canadian teachers is working on her black belt and she loves it. It is simply a matter of fact that there is a high possibility that any one of my students could kick the living shit out of me without batting an eye. Reflecting upon this fact alarms me a great deal. I honestly don’t want to be the American Guy who got his assed kicked by a twelve year old.

And every Wednesday she sits in my classroom with eyes of fire watching my every move like a cat toying with a frightened mouse. She is tough, mean and hard as nails. She is about three feet tall of solid muscle, long black hair which she constantly toys with and she can’t be an hour over twelve.

SHE SCARES THE SHIT OUT OF ME!!!

She comes to class straight from Tae Kwon Do class, still wearing her little get up and I suppose to the untrained eye it looks sort of cute. It is upon closer inspection that the true meaning of the situation becomes crystal clear. Strapped around this sweet little thing’s waist is a black belt with two stripes on it: SHE IS A TRAINED KILLER!! And she is only three feet high. She barely comes up to my waist. If one placed her in any other outfit she would be simply a little girl, something to simply say “hi” and possibly pat on the head. Hand her a snack and politely try to explain that in English there is a solid distinction between the letters “L” and “R” and that perhaps she should work on her pronunciation with a bit more conviction. Would like to play with a Barbi little lass?

FAT CHANCE. On one of the first days I was there she basically body checked me out of the way while she was getting some water and it was at that moment I knew I was in some trouble. What could I do? Tell my boss that I am afraid of one of my students. “Which one?” Yeah, that would work. So then, when I find out that she is one of my students I know that I am done. Stick a fork in my ass. She sits across from me and just waits until I do something that she doesn’t like. BOOM. Out comes a shitload of Korean and then the others tell me what she wants done.

AND LIKE THE BIG PUSSY I AM I DO IT!!

She doesn’t like how I am reading the text, fine I go and get the goddamned tape recorder and if that doesn’t make her happy, by God, I’ll try my damnedest to figure out what will. It is fifty minutes of eggshells and I don’t care how cute she may look. She is a terror. She is the cat, I am the mouse.

Sure, all of the other teachers love her and hug her and smile when she enters the room. I know the truth. I’ve seen it in her eyes. She is a lioness. She is cheetah. She is the Fireplug that body checked my six foot frame into a water cooler as a simple shot across the bow. Warning shot my ass, I know when I’ve been beaten.

Like I said, I ain’t gonna be the guy who got his assed kicked by no twelve year old girl.

Sugar and spice my ass.

Take care,

sh