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And how real is your narrative voice? Ed: Are you asking if my stories are factual? Or, did the stories turn out the way I wanted them to? Or, on the foofy tip, are you asking me whether my stories physically exist, or are they just ones and zeros diffusing across cyberspace like a cloud of fart? Better men than I have driven their brains like rental cars to answer questions like this, and look where they've gotten us. I don't know how real any of my shit is. Reality has to be objective, and I don't know if a person can be truly objective. The best a person can do is learn their biases. Talk to any real journalist and they'll tell you the same. Voice, on the other hand, is exactly the same thing. B: In order to help the reading audience to sort through some of those biases, can you explain who Ed Casey is and what his beliefs and prejudices are? E: I don't know. Do you think people care about this kind of thing? I guess I'd rather someone learn about my attitudes and beliefs from reading my stories. But then you'd argue, "that's only what you want poeple to see," and to that I'd say you're right. I'm fairly private and don't have many friends. I like to go out, but rarely interact with other people because I don't like them. It's a choice made out of neccessity. Usually I can only talk to strangers after three or four drinks. Then I don't have to think about myself anymore, and all of my ugly attitudes and beliefs. B: Is it possible that hypocrisy is the best lubricant for social intercourse? (I read that on a bathroom wall at the Tap Room and I have wondered ever since.) E: Whoever wrote that was off. What he should have said was: "Everyone's a hypocrite and cocaine is the best social lubricant." One night in Korea I was drinking with Master Lee and he told me to never do anything alone that you wouldn't do in front of someone else. Except take a shit. I asked him about that and he said it was cool if you didn't want to take a shit in front of other people. But then he said in China most public washrooms don't have stalls so if you were shy and had to take a dump in China you were out of luck. The old bugger had a point. And it's tough advice to follow. But I'll get there someday. Someday I'll be able to jerk off in public with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Right now I've still got too much guilt left over from when my mom busted me "daydreaming" back in junior high. B: Was the man suggesting that you should make your private public, or that you should purge your private life of whatever elements you are wouldn't express publically? Would Master Lee suggest that one should cease to masturbate in private? E: Maybe I'll bust out some Bukowski for this one. He wrote a poem about how it takes a lot of guts to expose your ass on paper. You lose girlfriends, jobs, friends, etc. It's all fucked up. In life most people try to hide themselves from others. Impress the boss, fool the chick you're sticking it to and try to hang out with people more or less on your same plane. But writing is different. Most people tend to write the way they live, straight from the ego -- they write about an ideal. It's the true practicioners -- actual writers -- that are able to go beyond this and put down the way it is. Fools are incapable of seeing the ugliness in their souls. They deny its existence. Liars think they can make this ugliness go away. But it's there, it will always be there, and the trick is to find a way to vent that which is unpleasant without harming others. Self-abuse of a genital nature certainly fits the bill. It is desparate and wasteful and shoves our thinking firmly into the reptilian brain. Although jerking off in public, say in a shopping mall, may be seen as counterintuitive, it is also a way showing others that you are not afraid. Anybody can take up an extreme sport, get a tattoo or pierce their tongues or nipples or dicks or clits. B: Do you love yourself? E: That's some Dr. Phil shit. Master Lee broke it down this way: he said self is an illusion and all a person can do is balance their energies. If this happens, then you get love and everything you touch gets love. But I'm like the owner of a disobedient dog. Everything it touches gets pissed on. It snaps at little kids and humps the leg of pretty girls. I know all it needs is a little training and attention to change his ways, but sometimes the bugger is good for a laugh. B: What do you think Master Lee would have to say about "Have A Good Time"? E: He'd want to know what happens next. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Have A Good Time by Ed Casey _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Jenny got home at five. I heard the crash of the toilet seat, the snap of elastic, the gush of a woman taking a piss. Toilet paper tore, and the toilet flushed. Then came the uneven pad of drunken feet on smooth floor. She pulled off her clothes and crawled under the blanket. I closed my book and turned the light out for her. After she'd settled in, I rolled over and slid my hand under one of her boobs. "Why are you home so late?" I asked. "We were at Samsung Plaza." "Who's we?" "Me and Carissa and David." "Was Rich there?" "Yes." "Great." Her sigh was hot and smelled like booze. "Come on, Ed. All we did was go to a couple of bars. We had a beer on the street, saw some lame whiteys, got harassed by drunk businessmen. Then we caught a cab. You know. The usual." "So now it's the usual." "It's what we always do. You know that. Are you mad at me or something?" I pinched her nipple. "Ow! That fucking hurt!" She yanked my hand off her tit. "Sorry." "You are mad at me, aren't you?" "No," I mumbled into her hair. "Then why'd you do that?" "I didn't mean to." "Yeah you did." "It was involuntary." "You're turning this around!" "Fine, but." "What?" she said, rubbing it. "It's you own damn fault you don't come out with me." I lay in the dark and listened to the rush of the fan. Warm, heavy air swept across my bare legs and rattled the blind covering the sliding door next to the bed. "Hey," she said. "What?" "Are you feeling sorry for yourself?" "No. Just the opposite." I asked if she'd let me climb on. Jenny told me to fuck myself. She fell asleep right away. After a minute or so she began to snore. I lay in the dark on our damp sheets and the wash of heavy air from the fan. The blind rattled and let in a bit of light from the street. I watched the light play on the ceiling and listened to the fan and tried to convince myself not to get up and pour another drink. We'd stopped arguing over her nights out until Rich the Australian leech had started to call. Jen said he was a nice guy and really easy to talk to, but I answered the phone a couple of times and he didn't say much to me. I tried to tell Jen what he was up to, but she didn't believe me. How can you say that when you've never even met him, she said. It had to do with the mentality one developed over there. You got off the plane and everything was different and every month you were a millionaire. Your problems didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. People tended to forget how to act properly in that type of environment. I woke up to the loudspeaker of the fruit and vegetable truck passing by. It was two in the afternoon. Jenny had a soju hangover and couldn't move. I listened to her moan about how the wallpaper was melting until it hurt too much to hold my piss. Then I got up, and went to the bathroom. I made coffee, turned on the TV for Jen, started a movie in the VCR, then sat down at the kitchen table with my book. From my chair, Jen looked like a little kid in bed, just a mess of blonde hair and sheets. She smiled at the funny parts and re-arranged the covers every once in a while. The movie finished and Jen and I showered together. It wasn't about sex, it was to keep the humidity down in our apartment. While the water heated, I thought of some sick shit so I wouldn't get a boner. I remembered how gross it was when I was a kid and I walked in on my parents doing it, and then I imagined Carissa had a giant muff and that each night after a long, sweaty day, David like to get nose-deep in it and go to town. Jen and I traded spots under the water and we soaked ourselves down. The bathroom got nice and steamy and the spicy smell of Jen's shampoo filled the air. I kept my hands to myself when she washed the shampoo out of her hair and her tits were wobbling around like two wonderful palm-magnets, and I bit my tongue when she was scrubbing out her crotch and it looked like she was masturbating. But then she dropped the cap to her bottle of conditioner. She bent over to pick it up and the cap kept slipping away from her. Her ass was wiggling around right in my face so I figured what the hell. I reached in and grabbed her spoon. She shot straight up. "What the fuck did you do that for?" "It was there." "So my vagina is Mount fucking Everest?" "It isn't that big," I told her. Jenny picked up the cap to her conditioner and didn't speak to me for the rest of the shower, not even when I hung up her towel after it fell on the wet floor. Outside the bathroom Jen tensed her shoulders and wheeled around. "Why do you always have to be such... a fucking... asshole! She yelled." We were both still naked. "I apologized for the spoon-grab," I said. "Yeah, so why didn't you apologize when you bumped my towel off the hook?" My mind looped and rolled like a wounded snake. "But I didn't bump it." "Yes you did. After you used my body wash." She pinched the towel in front of her like it was a giant snot-rag. "I'm serious. It just slid off the hook. You're lucky I was there to pick it up before it got really wet." "Whatever," she said. "You're still an asshole." "Am not." "Are too." "Am not." "Are too." "Not." "Who cares!" she screamed. "What the hell difference does it make when all you do is sit around and get drunk by yourself? Here we are in fucking Korea and all you want to do is drink! Aren't you scared you'll be one of those people that goes home after their contract without doing anything?" She dropped her martyred towel on the floor. "This is supposed to be an adventure! I want to do things... I want to make good memories. I want to live!" "I do things," I said. "Well, you never say shit to me." "No point. You never listen." Jen became quiet, and her eyes burned black like I hadn't seen in a long time. She was right to be angry, and I cringed at what she might say. I'd given her so much ammunition over the years. Then it all drained away. She looked tired, so impossibly tired, but it wasn't like after a race or a long test because there was no hope or elation in her face at all. "You say some shitty things to me, Ed. You really do," she said, and went into the bathroom and closed the door. I sat in my chair for a minute and stared at the TV, which was turned off and had six or seven late movies piled on top of it. For once I was glad to be living in a country where most people didn't speak my language. Otherwise I'd feel sorry for our neighbors, the people who had to listen to all the shit Jenny and I said to each other sometimes. It was ridiculous to think that two people who loved each other could be so mean. Yet in a way it made sense. We knew all of the other's ugly parts, so when we attacked it was bound to become personal. One of us would get sore and attack the other, and so on. We became like fish trying to nip one another in the tail. We'd circle around and around so fast to protect ourselves that we'd whip up a storm in our shitty little bowl and make it impossible to see. Our most obvious problem was a lack of privacy. We worked together and we lived together. And the apartment given to us by our school was so small I could hear her shit splash into the toilet from my chair. It bred some serious familiarity. Jenny knew that all it took were a couple of hours apart to clear the water. I got dressed fast and left a note on the table. It was humid and the sun was hot. I began to sweat and in no time my legs were sticking together. I'd forgotten to baby powder my balls after Jenny and I had showered. That shit was essential. I walked around cars parked on the tiled sidewalk, past the round planters painted like soccer balls in honor of the World Cup and it felt like my groin was being ripped apart. I crossed the street bow-legged to the local PC bang, a loud, smoky room in the basement of a fried chicken place. It wasn't as clean or new as PC bangs in the neon canyons of Samsung Plaza, but it was cheap and sometimes the old guy who ran the place brought me instant coffee. At night you could sit for hours and smoke your brains out. In the afternoons, it was packed with screaming kids huddled around friends lucky enough to have money to buy time on one of the computers. I pulled up to my favorite stall in the corner furthest from the door. The screen was hidden to anyone walking by, which was ideal when cruising for porn. I checked my email and read the news, then typed the address of a dependable TGP. I needed to forget about Jen. Hours passed. As I clicked on link after link to pages of naked university sluts I began to feel better about things. I looked deep between each of their legs and discovered something simple, yet wise. All those pink folds spoke to the many layers of reality and each lead to the exact same place. I had to trust Jenny. I had to trust that she was still the same girl as when we came to Korea. It was a mad insight. Then I had to take a dump so I banked my time and headed back to the apartment. The sun had started to set. Jenny wasn't home. Instead, there was a note on the table. AT SAMSUNG W/ DAVID & CARISSA CALL THE PHONE I called the phone. "Where are you?" "Oh -- hey! At the Britney Bar," she said, sounding really happy, or drunk, or both. "How was the PC room?" "Same old," I said. "You're starting early." "Never mind." "Okay." "Do you want to come down for a beer?" "Maybe," I said. "But first I gotta take a dump." "I'll tell everyone at the table." "Awesome. Who's all there?" "Me, Carissa, David... and Rich." "Rich." "Yeah, Rich." Great. "Ed? Are you there?" "I'm here." "So you wanna come?" "Sure," I said. I grabbed an old Seoul Classified from beside my chair and almost couldn't stand up due to a massive shitcramp. I squeezed my ass really tight until it passed, then hobbled as fast as I could into the bathroom. No time to close the door. Barely enough time to spread my cheeks before my guts dropped all over the inside of the bowl. It was great. Tofu-softened fecal matter sprayed out of my ass in a high-pressure cone and again I became momentarily enlightened. Then, the smell rose from between my legs and I almost died. As I sat and waited for the stragglers, all I could think of was that phone call. Jen sure sounded happy. I imagined Rich casually refilling her beer while he blew all kinds of smoke up her ass to try and get in her pants. "Where's your boyfriend again?" he'd ask. "At the PC bang." "His loss our gain, wouldn't you say?" I farted and a little dribble came out. Then I re-wiped my ass, flushed the toilet, and got ready to leave. When a bus showed up, the sun was low behind the mountains and it was still muggy and hot. Despite all the trees, the air smelled like the street -- hot rubber and exhaust. Passengers stared straight ahead as the driver gunned the bus around a long, sweeping downhill turn like the road was his private racetrack. Then he hit a speed-lump too fast and a paper bag tipped over. A dozen big, red apples rolled towards the front of the bus. People gathered the apples for their owner, who bowed at least twenty times before she sat back down. A few blocks later, a woman in a white SUV pulled onto the street from an underground lot and side swiped our bus. Our driver slammed on the brakes and I slid out of my seat. Then the driver blasted the horn and waved his skinny arm out his window. He yelled at the woman, who was sobbing into her hands, a long, ugly bumblebee streak down the side of her new Kia. Finally, the bus swung into line at the stop. I got out last after being pushed aside by a group of old women wearing so much color they looked like little waddling flower shops. Halfway down the escalator I saw a row of tables in front of the stage piled high with boxed appliances and folded clothes. Cheezy Korean dance music pumped out of large speakers, and behind the tables the staff worked like mad to keep the mob back as at least a hundred people tried to snake the line. Hundreds more flowed around the stage not seeming to notice the scene. It was Saturday night and everyone had something to do. I turned right at the bottom of the escalator and fought my way through a pack of high school girls in their curve-hugging, white button-up shirts. They all wore their backpacks low and their Converse sneakers had the laces tucked in. A little kid on Heelys bumped into my leg and yelled, "hello!" I had to push my way outside. I lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of a granite planter beside the doors. People crowded around the nearby food carts in loose half-circles and ate squid legs, mandu, or odeng, a fish cake sold on sticks. A breeze carried over the smell of fried butter. More Korean dance music pounded from storefronts. Rivers of businessmen in grey suits passed by, all wearing the same cologne of soju and garlic, horking and throwing cigarettes into the rain grates. Sleek women carried shopping bags and talked on hand phones, their high-heels clopping on the grey stone tiles. Above me were the five stories of flashing neon and dark sky. As I sat and smoked all I could think of was Jen. Chances were, all she needed was a little attention. That was why she hadn't told Rich to back off. I only hoped she'd be smart about things. We were both very stubborn and the stakes were so high. We lived together, we worked together, and there were still five months left in our contracts. Things seemed much simpler in Saskatoon, but of course they weren't. There was always something, no matter where, no matter when. A person needed to remember that or else they could get caught up in some serious drama. The Britney Bar was on the third floor, and a tiny hostess wearing a rhinestone-covered hairclip knew to lead me to the table of foreigners. As I followed her under purple lights past rows of black metal-framed couches and tall potted palms, my mouth went dry. The reason I was at that bar was because I'd fucked up with Jenny and I needed to kiss her ass. I needed to swallow my pride in front of David and Carissa and show Rich that I was the bigger man. I needed to sit down at that table yet rise above it. They were in the back section tucked into a corner next to the windows. David and Carissa faced me. On the other couch sat Jenny and a guy I assumed to be Rich. He said something, and Jenny's head snapped in his direction. Her laughter was clear and strong and it echoed through me like shrapnel. He leaned toward her as he reached to fill her glass. I'd stopped walking. It was bad. He was better looking than me. The hostess turned and waited for me. Annyo, annyo, I wanted to tell her. Sorry, but I didn't know these whiteys. I didn't know any of them. I wanted to tell her this, but David spotted me before I could. His arm shot up, then Carissa looked. Jenny and the guy turned around. "Have a good time," the hostess said before she hurried off. David had grown a goatee and was again doing his best impression of a fashion spread. Carissa looked anal about something and her boobs were as big as ever. On the table were a three-liter pitcher of beer, the remains of a plate of nachos and the usual ashtrays and packages of cigarettes and hand phones. There was also a CD, burned, red in a translucent white case, in front of Jenny. The CD was unusual. Also unusual was that the guy didn't get up so I could sit next to Jenny. I gave him more than enough time, but he just played innocent and leaned back in my seat. I knew I should have let it go. Letting go of little things is important if you don't want your woman to leave. But I felt entitled. "Well look at this," I said. "Everyone's all settled in with their beers, you've got nachos in the stomach, and nobody wants to move. I wonder where I'll sit?" "Ed," said Jenny. "Meet Rich." "Ah," I said. "You're who's been calling my girlfriend." Jenny grabbed her purse. "Rich, would you let me up? I'm going to buy Ed a beer from the case." "The waitress should be here soon." "No, David. I'm going to buy Ed a beer from the cooler." Rich squeezed his legs together and slid to the back of the couch so that when Jenny got up her ass was right in his face. Things were not off to a good start. I followed Jenny to the cooler between the bar and the cashier's counter. She didn't stop or turn around until she stood in front of its' glass door and pretended to examine the bottles inside. The door was covered in condensation and reflected her face, which was quiet and calm. She delivered her words like boxes on an assembly line. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked. "What do you mean?" "Don't bullshit me," she said. "Just because you don't like the people I hang out with doesn't make you better than they are." "Forget David and Carissa. I want to know why fun-boy wouldn't get up so I could sit next to you." Koreans who walked by made their disapproval clear. We were being very rude foreigners by arguing in the middle of a nice bar like that. "Look Ed, maybe Rich should have gotten up," said Jen. "Who knows? Maybe it's an Australian thing. But please just forget it. I'm not mad a you anymore. Let's just go back to the table and try to have a good time. Can we do that?" "Sure." "I think it's important for us." "You're right, sorry. By the way- whose CD is that on the table in front of you?" Jenny froze. "Promise you won't get mad?" At this, my stomach tightened. I took a deep breath. "Promise," I said. "Rich gave it to me." Every rotten thought in my head danced a fucking jig. "It's official," I said. "I am the only sane person in Korea." "Ed, you promised to not get mad. I never asked him to and it means nothing I swear." "Bullshit it means nothing. Why else would you make me promise not to get mad? What the fuck is going on with that guy?" She moved close and put her arms around my waist. "Nothing, she said. "Nothing is going on with that guy. There's nothing for you to get mad about. We were talking about music last weekend and I said I liked Ben Harper so he made me a CD." "You're fucking kidding me," I said. All chicks love Ben Harper. He sings about meaningful spiritual shit. I played him for Jenny when I was first trying to get in her pants. "Rich was just trying to be nice." "Sure he was. Do I at least get my beer?" "Yes." She paused. "And if you want, I'll even buy you a Guinness." There was a double row of Guiness bottles in the cooler but I grabbed a Newcastle Brown instead. "A Newcastle? Why don't you want a Guiness? I'm buying." "It's okay," I said. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I don't want it." A waiter rushed towards us with a bottle opener. I waved him away. The waiter followed us to our table from a distance and marked the Newcastle on our bill. He bowed, and left us to ourselves. Rich had thankfully moved to the other couch. David seemed relaxed and he greeted our return with a smile. Carissa still looked like she had a stick up her ass, while Rich tried to hide his eyes. They jumped from point to point like bare feet on hot sand. "I poured you a beer," said David, pointing to a glass. "Thanks man," I said. Jenny took my hand under the table and squeezed hard. Carissa lit a cigarette and smiled. "You know, Rich," she said. "Now that I know you, I don't know why I thought you were British the first time we met." "Because you're stupid," said David. "Fuck you! I am not stupid." "Well, maybe I'm just used to the accent after hanging out with these Aussie backpackers in B.C. one summer." "Oh yeah?" said Jenny. "Yeah. Australians are just totally real, just super-mellow people," David said. I drank. I finished the Newcastle and pounded glass after glass of draft and didn't pay much attention to the conversation until I started to get a buzz. It was all the same shit. Carissa and David's Director was stupid. Their students loved them. One time David partied in Itaewon and got really drunk and passed out on Hooker Hill and the U.S. Army MPs woke him up and were going to arrest him because they thought he was Special Forces. Rich told us his school had the longest waiting list in Bundang. In Bundang, every school is the best at something or other. Two months ago, David and Carissa's school had the highest student retention of any in the chain. Last month, our school sold the most textbooks. "Rich works at JTL," Carissa told me. "He has to teach until ten-thirty- four two-hour classes per day. And he has to wear a tie. And the classes all have webcams so the parents can watch from home." Rich shrugged. "You get used to it," he said, smiling in spite of his shitty contract. Then he tried to catch Jen's eye. I was starting to get a picture of this guy. He wasn't so brave after all. "Gee, Rich. I'd hate getting off work at eleven," I said. "It's quite ideal, actually. I do all my best work at night," he said looking straight at Jenny. She looked up at one of the TVs and scratched the nape of her neck. Rich ploughed on. "But what really bugs me are all the antisocial foreigners too cool to say hello on the street," Rich continued. "Remember those people from last night, Jen? It's people like that I'm talking about. I don't know why teachers can't get along, especially when most are alone and so far from home." David and Rich went on to congratulate themselves for being so different than anyone else and told huge plans of how they'd spend the rest of their contracts. They promised to get their tongues pierced together in Sincheon, one of the university areas in Seoul. After that, they debated the most authentic way to eat fish and chips. Jenny took my hand under the table. She leaned against my shoulder and it felt like we hadn't fought in months, even years. Her perfume was the same stuff she wore on our first date. I trusted her, and I could handle hanging out like that. David's hand phone rang. He picked it up from the table, flipped it open and said hello. "You guys are at the one above the shoe store?" He listened. "Okay, we'll see you soon, or else I'll call," he said, then closed his phone and set it back on the table. "That was Erin. Her and Andrew and Brian are at a soju place a couple of buildings down and I guess they're all loaded. They said everybody from our school is going to be there right away and they invited us over. Is that cool or do you guys want to stay here?" "Let's go," said Jenny. It seemed we were going. I'd met Andrew and Brian, the Americans. Erin was okay. Her dad used to play in the CFL. The other teachers from their school I was less familiar with. In a couple of minutes we were ready. The pitcher of beer was almost finished and we agreed to leave what was left. David grabbed the bill and we all stood up and went to the cashier. The total was something like twenty-four thousand Won for six liters of beer. I threw in a five. Jenny and Carissa went for a piss and David, Rich and I went outside the door and stood in the entry between the elevator and the stairs. I lit a smoke and waited for the girls. Things were okay. We joked and made cheesy verbal jabs at each other the way regular guys do, and I laughed at Rich, who had turned out to be fairly boring and no real threat at all. I'd built him up in my mind with the help of Jenny, who knew all the tricks to get under my skin. Dave punched me on the shoulder. "So, Ed, what have you been up to besides hanging out at the PC bang?" "Same old," I said. "Just putting in the hours." "What's this I hear about you guys coming with us to Laos?" "Did Jen say that?" "Yeah, she said you guys might want to go." "Do you and Jenny spend much time apart?" asked Rich. "I know you don't show your face much." "How do you know that?" Rich smiled as if to comfort me. "You're never out with her." "Well, Rich, there are more things to do in Korea than teach English and try to wreck other people's relationships." "I'm sorry," he said. "Do you think I've wrecked your relationship?" "Rich," I said. "You're a funny guy." Problem was, sometimes chicks fell for that kind of soft-headed, lightweight bullshit. The girls showed up jabbering and laughing and ready to go. We decided to take the stairs since there was another group already waiting for the elevator. Jenny took my smoke, smiled and crossed her eyes at me. It was cute as hell. Then she put her arm around me. Fuck Rich. He and Dave were talking about the computer game Counter Strike and their favorite tricks for a certain level. They both played online and were apparently really into it. Rich moved toward the stairs while giving a sermon on the sniper rifle. Jen had a drag of my smoke. I kissed her on the cheek and we turned to follow Rich. I hadn't noticed that he'd paused at the top of the stairs. Like that, my foot was hovering over his heel. He put his arms out to save himself, but it was too late. Rich tripped. He bowled down those stairs like a gutter ball, careening from wall to handrail and back, each hit sounding so heavy and thick I could feel it through my shoes. Rich came to rest at the bottom in the turn-around. For a second I thought he was unconscious, and then he blinked his eyes and started to move. He winced and moaned then stopped moving. There was a decent cut behind one of his ears, and by the time the shrieking girls had pushed by and reached the bottom of the stairs, blood had run along his jaw and down into his shirt. David's eyes were as big as plates. Too stunned to move, I was the last to reach the bottom. "Careful -- his elbow is really sore. Might be a broken arm. Here, I've got some tissue. Shit, that's a bad cut. Rich? How does your head feel? Do you know where you are? How many fingers am I holding up?" The girls went on and on. Several Koreans had stopped. It turned into a crowd. One told us in good English that he'd called an ambulance. "I tripped," Rich slurred. "Someone tripped me." The ambulance came. Two paramedics in helmets and reflective vests came out of the elevator. They put a collar around Rich's neck, strapped him to an orange fiberglass stretcher and carried him the rest of the way downstairs. He never really woke up after the fall. We stood in the plaza and watched the ambulance drive away. David called Brian's phone to let them know what had happened. He wouldn't look at me. Neither would Jen. They all knew I'd tripped Rich, yet none said a word. It was awful. I became desperate. "Sorry to have ruined things," I said. Jen ran back into the building. I looked at Carissa, who was crying, and David, who was staring at his shoes, and chased after my girlfriend. I found Jen on the other side of the building hugging herself next to a dumpster that reeked of rotten kimchi and shit. Cars drove and people walked by. I touched her shoulder. Jen kept her back to me. "I wasn't mad," I said. "Come on, please believe me. It was an accident!" She started to cry. "You fucking asshole! You jealous piece of shit!" she screamed. "How can you be serious? You know I'd never do something like this on purpose!" "I don't know anything." Jen turned, her arms crossed under her boobs. "All I saw was you ready to kill some guy for getting a stupid little crush on your girlfriend. "Okay -- hold on. I know what he saw." "What -- that I'm more than just your girlfriend?" Jenny wiped her face. "My God! This is insanity!" "You son of a bitch." "I mean -- God! It was an accident!" "Tonight you put a guy in the hospital because you got jealous. Call it whatever you want." "You're changing the subject, okay? You are. But can I just say something?" "What?" "You gotta smarten up about this. You're a good-looking blonde with a tight ass. What the hell do you think Rich sees in you?" I tried to hug her, but she moved away. Again the tears came. Jen wouldn't look at me. "He was lying there really hurt and you didn't even try to help him. We all were, but you just stood there. You were the last one down the stairs." "Jen. Jenny. It was an accident." But at that point even I wasn't so sure. Jen's streaked face flashed pink and green under the neon lights. She might as well have stuck her hand in my mouth and ripped out my tongue. "Ed... please don't hate me." _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ This is the Afterword by Ed Casey _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " BMC was the first person to read these stories. I emailed them to him as they were finished, and midway through the third we started talking about a trilogy and putting all three on his site. Then, after the interview, I got good and drunk and gave him a call. There was a problem. After I'd finished the third story it was obvious what I had wasn't a trilogy. It was part of something much bigger. The night I called, I was already working on number four. BMC had wanted a trilogy, and I was worried that what I had for him wouldn't work. Who cares? he said. Write an afterword. An afterword? Yeah, you can explain that when you start a story, most of the time you don't know how it will end. Write something to let readers know that these stories aren't the whole thing. Call it a teaser. Say you're turning them into a novel. A novel? Yeah. I can't say that shit. Why not? he asked. Aren't you working on, like, number eight? Yeah, but I can't say that. Why not? It's what you're doing, isn't it? I know. But it's bad juju. Remember Flannery O'Connor, he said. She wrote a little every day, without hope and without expectation. And on Charles Bukowski's grave it says DON'T TRY. So what are you going to do? I don't know. Pour another drink and see what happens. That's a good idea. Get angry! Call Alex Garland a pussy and then say your shit will kill "The Beach" deader than an oil spill! Man -- this is totally different. Leonardo DiCaprio didn't even fuck that French chick and I've got Jenny doing anal. That's what I'm saying! Leonardo is a punk! You should write a story about how Ed sees him in Seoul one day and farts on his head! Really? Yeah, and then 'nardo starts crying right there on the street and a bunch of schoolgirls start pointing and laughing at him! Are you sure? It's gold, baby! I'll think about it. Don't think about it, do it! But in the meantime, write me an afterword! I told him I would, and then we hung up. Where does BMC get this shit? Farting on Leonardo DiCaprio's head and making him cry. For a vegetarian, BMC is quite angry. One time we were out drinking in Saskatoon and he accused some dude of giving him the stink-eye. BMC was kicking his ass until the bouncers got there. Then they broke his nose and several bones in his face. And you can see it to this day. Notice how his eyes are dark like a raccoon? That's why. Despite all his shortcomings, everybody needs a friend like BMC. He's like an alarm clock without a snooze button. And, despite his violent temper and shady past, I say he should be made a Member of the Order of Canada for his efforts to advance zine culture in this country. BMC is an innovator, an originator, a living legend. Even if all the biggies had lined up to print these stories -- Harper's, the New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, Penthouse Letters -- I would have told them to fuck off. That's how highly I regard BMC. To him, I say thanks on behalf of a grateful nation. And to everyone else who's made it this far, you all have my respect. The N-Com's readers are part of a select bunch who enjoy the sharing of work and thinking in different ways because we understand that open-mindedness is not necessarily something you're born with. It is something to strive for, a way of seeing the world that has to constantly be re-learned. Thanks for reading. .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' ___________________________________________________ | THE COMINTERN IS AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' copyright 2005 by #290-05/12/05 the neo-comintern ISSN 1710-5749 All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada. By Canadians. And a couple Others.