Yak Guts

First Impressions

I see them everyday as I walk the twenty minutes to my place of work. They both work for one of the many restaurants in my neighborhood. Their main purpose is to act as an informal posse of traffic cops; when the restaurant gets busy, they direct the flow of traffic on our narrow little street. Past the butcher shop, across the street from the gargantuan Methodist church, and next to the greasy fried chicken kiosk, they stand guard. The older one is usually deposited between the traditional Korean restaurant and the chicken joint; he occasionally tries to hawk up business for the Korean restaurant during the slower times but can best be described as apathetic in his efforts. He also possesses the unique talent of being able to sleep standing up; as I am passing him one day, I cautiously peer under his broad sandal hat, and I discover that he is fast asleep. The younger one acts as an informal bouncer, but also runs out on food deliveries. I have seen him vrrrroooooom!ing about the neighborhood on one of the "scooter terrors" that roam Seoul's sidewalks in search of fresh pedestrian prey. I refer to the two men as simply “the restaurant guys.”

The younger restaurant guy speaks passable English, and always greets me or waves when he sees me; he asks me a new question each time I see him. I have noticed that he reads extensively during the restaurant’s downtime. He is frightfully skinny, but he has a very pleasant and good-natured face. He is not at all handsome, but his physical appearance reflects a certain joy in life that American men of a similar age appear to lack. He appears to be in his mid-to-late twenties. I decide that he was once a child with a sunny disposition. He is also rather bold for a sober Korean; most Korean men appear to be afraid of waegooks, especially the women, and will not even approach them…at least, not without being solidly fortified by soju. This young man makes eye contact and smiles when he sees me. He is not afraid of me, nor is he particularly flirtatious; he is likely simply curious about the random white girl who has suddenly appeared in the small villa apartments above the flooring company next door to his restaurant. The older man is more reserved; he does not make eye contact, but he does smile and wave on occasion. Later on, when it gets colder, he will offer me free hot coffee on frigid winter mornings.

But it is sweltering summer now, endlessly humid, and hopelessly hot. Korean women tend towards the more formal end of fashion; skirts and capped-sleeve cotton blouses are more often the choice for summer attire than shorts and a T-shirt. I have discovered that this is an absolute practicality as well as a cultural preference; I begin to wear cotton A-line skirts rather than khaki slacks to work and discover that skirts provide built-in air conditioning from the damp summer heat…

Yak Guts

I have a very bad summer cold. After two days of suffering with a mind-numbing fever and a deep racking cough, I emerge from my apartment, fully-armed with my Korean phrasebook. I am determined to find a pharmacy. I notice that the older restaurant guy is standing at attention by the entrance of the traditional Korean restaurant, and I purposefully stroll over to his post. I thumb madly through my translation dictionary, searching for the word for “pharmacy.” I find it, but it is written in Han-gul (Korean). I am still new at reading Korean script, but I am getting more proficient daily.

“Yak Guts?” I weakly quiery.

He looks at me as if I am speaking in Swahili.

“Eh?” He blinks his droopy eyes.

I consult my phrasebook again. Ah! “K” sound, not “T” sound.

“Ah! Yak Guks?” I try again.

He stares at me blankly.

“YAK GUK,” I state firmly.

“EH? Ahhh, yak GUK!” His face momentarily brightens.

He points to the left, then gestures a turn at the corner and a right cross at the next...street…I think. I carefully mimic his motions, and affirm, “Yak guk.”

He stops, shakes his head firmly, and says, “Wain-juk!”

I stare at him, confused.

He points to the left. I point to the left, and stare at him with a furrowed brow.

“Yak guk?”

“A-ni-o! WAIN-JUK.”

He again points very emphatically towards the left.

I stare at him stupidly. Are their two pharmacies on the same block? I wonder. Ah! Maybe he is telling me the pharmacy’s name: The Wain-juk Pharmacy!

“Yak guk?” I squeak out again, and point to the left.

“A-NI-O….WAIN-JUK, O-RAN-JUK!!!” he shouts impatiently, and wildly motions first towards the left side of the street, then towards the right side of the street. Close to tears from frustration, delirium, and general physical weakness, I shuffle off in the general direction that he has indicated. I am in no mood to deal with Grumpy Old Men.

“ORANJUK, ORANJUK!!!” he shouts after me, pantomiming that I need to cross the street. I turn the corner at the end of the block, and I immediately spot the pharmacy; I still have no idea as to what he is trying to tell me.

Mercifully, the pharmacist speaks English. I return home, and gulp down my hard-won cough medicine. It is faintly licorice-flavored, and not unpleasant at all. I also down an entire bottle of water for good measure.

Four hours later, I wake up, and I am ravenously hungry. I am also completely out of food, as I have stayed in bed all weekend and not done any grocery shopping. I reluctantly drag my aching body out of my air-conditioned apartment. McDonalds is only a short walk away…

The restaurant sentinels are both on guard tonight, and the older one waves at me. I am determined not to acknowledge the Old Yeller, but he speaks to me first.

“Yak-guk! Wain-juk! Oran-juk! Hahaha….!”

I still do not understand what the hell he is saying, but in the interest of international relations, I smile and nod politely. He points to the center of his head, taps it several times, and then points back to me.

I scowl at him, and begin to turn away. He touches my arm, and points to his head again, and makes a very alarming sound vaguely resembling the birth pangs of a constipated elephant.

“Apayo?”

Ah, “yo” is a verb ending. I know that. Suddenly, I understand.

I point to my nose and chest, and make coughing and gagging gestures. He understands.

I smile and continue on my journey.

When I return, he is still standing at his post, and the younger man has joined him. I wave cautiously, and as I cross the street, they both approach me. The younger man points at my greasy McDonalds bag and giggles like an adolescent schoolgirl. He snatches the bag from me, opens it, and pretends to swoon as the smell of stale French fried wafts through the steamy air.

The older man clicks his tongue at me, shakes his head, and points to his appointed restaurant.

“JOOK,” he states firmly.

Another ‘juk?’ Oh no...

He then inquires about my cold.

"Ho-su-pee-tal?"

Apparently he knows a few English words.

“No. Two…days… no….eat.” I show him “two” with my fingers, touch my lips, and cross my arms in front of my chest in a big “X.” I feel like a one-woman freak show.

He tsks again, then offers me a stool to sit on. I decline politely.

“What, is, your, name?” I ask, slowly and clearly.

He looks both alarmed and puzzled at the question, but the delivery boy saves the day. He says something rapid-fire in Korean to the older man, and they both laugh.

“Ah! Seo.” He ghostwrites the Korean characters of his name with his finger on his palm and shows it to me.

The younger man introduces himself as “Choi.”

“Miss? Missee?” Seo points to the third finger on his left hand.

“Miss.” I smile broadly, wave my naked ring finger, and patiently brace myself for the next question. Here it comes…

“Ay- gee?”

Koreans always ask marital status and age upon first meeting a stranger, so I am not completely unprepared for the bluntness of this question.

“Twenty-nine.” The demure maiden looks down in mock shame.

“I firty-seven,” says Choi. It takes a moment to register - he's thirty-seven. Up close now, I notice a few deep grooves around his mouth. I also notice he is not as emaciated as he first appears; he has a nice, pleasant, lean, and slightly muscular build, but the odor of stale cigarettes also lingers in his clothes. I later learn that he was once a competitive martial artist.

Seo points at Choi, makes a dismissive face, and then points to himself.

“Pretty!” he chortles.

"How old are you?" I ask, turning the tables.

"Pretty!" He repeats, and vamps for his close-up.

"Pretty?” I make a face.

“Fritty!” He carefully spits out his “F.”

“Fifty?” I inquire, starting to comprehend.

"FRITTY!" he barks, mildly annoyed.

I then realize that Seo is very like a Midwesterner encountering a foreigner with an accent for the first time - he just repeats his words louder and louder.

"Forty," Choi chimes in helpfully.

I stare Seo up and down critically, and shake my head sorrowfully, "Ah! Too bad! Too old!"

Choi roars at his friend's stunned expression and thwacks him on the back several times. Seo cracks a big, yellow grin, displaying uneven, ragged teeth. Quite a charming smile, when it came down to it.

Feeling vindicated, I chuckle, wave broadly, and scoot off to my apartment with my much-scorned McLooty.

Choi and Seo, Oct. 31, 2005