My2cents
11-13-2011, 08:56 AM
His first tentative steps outside the house one may liken to a fledgling hawk attempting flight and succeeding to great fanfare. The house at the time was a tile roofed cottage enclosed within a cement wall and barred entry to by metal doors from which Han was tempted to lick the frost off one day, a winter’s day powdered with snow, not unlike a day in June when vendors hawk their wares and a helium balloon set loose climbs higher and higher and the sky is as clear and pristine as a Viking’s crystal gaze.
That initial flight introduced him to soccer, a sport Han had simulated by kicking around a pair of socks rolled into a ball within the cozy confines of his house. The world outside his house was a non-auto zone, a network of narrow streets that ran a gauntlet of walls some of which were imposing as the hulls of ocean going vessels. Here goals came fast and furious what with the caroms off the walls and the indifference with which most tended goal. Han saw to it that that would not be the case were he at goal. Indeed he hurtled himself with zeal, lunging and diving to prevent a goal as opposed to sticking out an arm or leg noncommittally. His impact was such that tending goal became more fashionable than scoring them.
Duly impressed, Chae, the local grocer’s son—who was shod in cheap, rubber shoes and attired in virtual rags that only exacerbated his gaunt, wiry frame—challenged Han to a footrace.
Han accepted the challenge if only to put the rapscallion in his place.
“To the house where the Americans live and back,” Chae said. “Ready, set, go!”
It was just like him to resort to such a low down trick, but Han figured he’d overcome it and he did, surging ahead only to stumble badly at the halfway mark when, at his rapidly approaching footsteps, the guard dogs the Americans kept confined to their curtilage barked as if loosed out of hell. Snickering, as if he had counted on this, Chae surged ahead and never looked back.
“Well, that wasn’t very fair now, was it?” Han said, pulling up and peering at Chae through the narrow slit of his eyes.
“It wasn’t fair, but you have to admit, it was funny,” Chae said, his copper toned skin gleaming in the afternoon sun.
It was funny when Han thought about it, and subsequently they hung out as if they were the best of friends, never mind that Han was from a distinctly higher stratum of society, which was evident in his well-fed bulky frame, his milky complexion, and in his ensemble of imported attire (canvas sneakers, bell-bottom jeans, and raglan sleeved t-shirt). One day they raided a turnip field. The turnips they stole Chae pared with a glass shard and ate raw, and though Han himself was loathe to eat, he ate and accounted them not half bad. The episode ended with them making a run for it as the turnip farmer gave chase. On another day they scavenged a future construction site which had been razed and rendered a field of rubble. They found all sorts of neat metallic objects there, many of which resembled nail files of some sort only to discard them at the imperious command of two bald headed beggars whose ilk were in the habit of seeking alms under false pretenses (as Buddhist monks).
Then came the day when Han apprised Chae of his family’s imminent departure to the United States. Chae put on a brave face, pitying Han for the language barrier that would render him the village idiot and never once betraying the envy and sadness that must’ve lurked beneath. Han would miss Chae but not to the extent of ever considering a change of mind which might persuade his father to change his, after all “Shall we go to America, son?” “Are you kidding me, dad; let’s go” was the exchange that had pretty much settled it for them.
“So, when are you leaving?” Chae asked.
“In a month or two,” Han said.
Actually, close to a year passed before Han’s family got its affairs in order and boarded the jumbo jet bound for Los Angeles.
In the interim, Han and Chae tried in vain to dislodge a boulder that stood on a hill overlooking a newly erected L-shaped building which always had a number of shiny, new cars parked in its lot. It would’ve been something to cause the boulder to roll, pick up speed, and pancake a car or two before causing it to render a side of the building a crater. Then Han would’ve had a real story to tell his new American friends. Oh well.
That initial flight introduced him to soccer, a sport Han had simulated by kicking around a pair of socks rolled into a ball within the cozy confines of his house. The world outside his house was a non-auto zone, a network of narrow streets that ran a gauntlet of walls some of which were imposing as the hulls of ocean going vessels. Here goals came fast and furious what with the caroms off the walls and the indifference with which most tended goal. Han saw to it that that would not be the case were he at goal. Indeed he hurtled himself with zeal, lunging and diving to prevent a goal as opposed to sticking out an arm or leg noncommittally. His impact was such that tending goal became more fashionable than scoring them.
Duly impressed, Chae, the local grocer’s son—who was shod in cheap, rubber shoes and attired in virtual rags that only exacerbated his gaunt, wiry frame—challenged Han to a footrace.
Han accepted the challenge if only to put the rapscallion in his place.
“To the house where the Americans live and back,” Chae said. “Ready, set, go!”
It was just like him to resort to such a low down trick, but Han figured he’d overcome it and he did, surging ahead only to stumble badly at the halfway mark when, at his rapidly approaching footsteps, the guard dogs the Americans kept confined to their curtilage barked as if loosed out of hell. Snickering, as if he had counted on this, Chae surged ahead and never looked back.
“Well, that wasn’t very fair now, was it?” Han said, pulling up and peering at Chae through the narrow slit of his eyes.
“It wasn’t fair, but you have to admit, it was funny,” Chae said, his copper toned skin gleaming in the afternoon sun.
It was funny when Han thought about it, and subsequently they hung out as if they were the best of friends, never mind that Han was from a distinctly higher stratum of society, which was evident in his well-fed bulky frame, his milky complexion, and in his ensemble of imported attire (canvas sneakers, bell-bottom jeans, and raglan sleeved t-shirt). One day they raided a turnip field. The turnips they stole Chae pared with a glass shard and ate raw, and though Han himself was loathe to eat, he ate and accounted them not half bad. The episode ended with them making a run for it as the turnip farmer gave chase. On another day they scavenged a future construction site which had been razed and rendered a field of rubble. They found all sorts of neat metallic objects there, many of which resembled nail files of some sort only to discard them at the imperious command of two bald headed beggars whose ilk were in the habit of seeking alms under false pretenses (as Buddhist monks).
Then came the day when Han apprised Chae of his family’s imminent departure to the United States. Chae put on a brave face, pitying Han for the language barrier that would render him the village idiot and never once betraying the envy and sadness that must’ve lurked beneath. Han would miss Chae but not to the extent of ever considering a change of mind which might persuade his father to change his, after all “Shall we go to America, son?” “Are you kidding me, dad; let’s go” was the exchange that had pretty much settled it for them.
“So, when are you leaving?” Chae asked.
“In a month or two,” Han said.
Actually, close to a year passed before Han’s family got its affairs in order and boarded the jumbo jet bound for Los Angeles.
In the interim, Han and Chae tried in vain to dislodge a boulder that stood on a hill overlooking a newly erected L-shaped building which always had a number of shiny, new cars parked in its lot. It would’ve been something to cause the boulder to roll, pick up speed, and pancake a car or two before causing it to render a side of the building a crater. Then Han would’ve had a real story to tell his new American friends. Oh well.