Tuesday, September 15, 2009

The Boys

"When are we meeting?" was the topic of conversation on the phone early Saturday morning.

"When do you two get moving?" was my return question.

Finally the Irish and I managed to agree that we would meet at 2:00, which gave me some time to finish work on a writing project I'd taken on that needed to be out ASAP. I wanted to not have too much work hanging over my head as I planned for a weekend of something that was as close to hedonistic success as possible, and there is simply no way to do that if you have work waiting for you on Sunday.

So at two o'clock I found myself in the park near my house waiting for the boys. The ajjumas glared at me as I sat on my bench in my dark sunglasses and mostly see-through black top. It was a hot day, I was hot, and I was wearing a camisole so I felt like they could deal with it. Which they mostly did with an odd mix of grumps and stares.

Finally at ten after two I called the boys. Irish answers his phone. "We'll be late."

"I'd gathered."

"I have to put money on my phone, I'm still on Phone Street." There is nothing more tedious than Phone Street and trying to get money on a pay phone so I returned to my book, which this particular afternoon happened to be Gorgias by Plato. As I pondered the nature of a rhetoritician the sky finally darkened and I looked up to see Irish and the Trainee. The Trainee was a long-time friend of the Irish, taken under his wing sometime around when the Irish first hit country. The two had worked in another city together, and much to our amusement and dismay the Trainee still works in the other city.

His particulars in training are mostly teaching how to live a life with as many or as little rules as one would allow, while balancing girlfriends, booze, Pakistani food, kink, and adventure. So far the Irish had been a rather phenomenally bad influence on him and the introduction of the Trainee to me had really and truly only accelerated his slow decent into complete and unfettered libertine-ism.

Upon looking into the shadow that loomed over my book I took in the Irish and the Trainee, who for some reason had a soft cast on his right hand.

"What did you do?" I asked him. "Overexert yourself masturbating?"

The Irish laughs.

"He asked the same damn thing," says the Trainee.

"Well?"

"No. If you must know it was a girl."

"If that was a girl you're not doing it right." To which the Irish laughs and we both get blistering looks while the Trainee explains that in his desire to impress some girl somewhere he had played a game of what some might call skill, and what I just call stupidity, in which one punches a machine bag as hard as one can to see if the highest score can be attained. In his defense Trainee did manage to score the highest score on the punching machine while managing only to sprain and not fracture his wrist.

With that we walked out of the park and toward the cab.

"By the way, do you know where we are going?" I asked the Irish.

"Uh, no, I thought you knew where we were going?"

"I have a vague idea of where we are going."

"Don't look at me, I'm following you two."

Irish pulls open a cab door and we pile in. I start to say over and over again the name of the park that I think is having the body painting festival. Between the three of us, I know the name of the park, the Trainee knows how to say park in Korean, and the Irish is mostly useless but quipping it up at our expense.

"It will be an adventure," He reminds us over and over again.

The cabbie acknowledges after several attempts that I have said something he recognizes and starts to drive.

"Indeed."

No comments: