October 19, 2008 Novel Portion One

I wrote this a long time ago, and it needs a lot of work, but I think it has promise.  I'm working on a different novel now, but I will someday come back and work on this some more. 


Paperback 
A Novel By Sara Allsop
“Guns and Hooch!” The shout of a young man cut through the winding of the conveyor belt and the shuffle of packages en route from Lincoln, Nebraska to River Falls, Wisconsin. An idling semi cut its engine just as Joyce looked up to see her co-worker, James, proudly holding up a package. “Guns and Hooch!” he shouted again as he walked the ten yards separating them. Clint appeared after James, ducking out of his truck, as he followed curiously. 
James plopped the evidence on the conveyor and stepped back. The box was made of dull brown cardboard and taped shut with clear packing tape, the corners were dented and scuffed, in fact the only unique thing about it was that it was addressed to a business which apparently sold alcohol to men and women with firearms. 
“Am I lost?” Joyce asked. “Did this FedEx building get moved to Louisiana last night?” 
“Louisiana isn’t the only place with hicks, we’ve got them here in our very own…” James paused and twisted the box, “Napp, Wisconsin.” He cradled his prize in his arms. 
"Hey that's a lot better than Kay's Kennel and Video Rental," Clint said. The three of them had a running contest going as to whose truck would deliver packages to the strangest businesses. Sometimes it was something as simple as a Horse Supply Store on Elmer Lane, or a box that stated on the outside of it, “Do not deliver if recipient is intoxicated.” Joyce had found one a few weeks ago that she thought would be a winner forever; it was the strange business that thought that two stops to kennel your dog and rent a video was one stop too many. 
“Next we'll find a business called Day Care and Poisonous Chemical Storage!” Joyce said. 
“You know what they need?” Clint asked, “an aspirin and arsenic factory!” 
“No, they need Monster Truck racing and lace doily supplies.” James added. 
“Watch out for my hypodermic needle and crackerjack factory!” Joyce shouted. 
The ideas continued as they went back to work, each trying to outdo each other in putting together the most outlandish business ideas they could. Joyce giggled to herself the rest of the day, even after everyone else had left the building by eight o’clock, thinking up other strange business combinations. The truck drivers arrived just after eight and pulled out with sagging shocks from their bulging trucks. Joyce heaved the heavy rusted warehouse doors shut behind them, nearly tripping when they caught on some uneven metal. She coughed out the diesel smoke and sat down in the small office to take her lunch, well breakfast, break. At noon she was finished with office work and began to clear her desk of papers, packing tape and mailing labels. 
It was strange. Every morning that Joyce woke up for work she swore that today was going to be the last day that she worked at this horrific job. She would push back the covers in the pitch black night, leave the heavy heat of her bed to pull on some jeans and a hooded sweatshirt so she could fall asleep on the toilet. Why had she gotten a job that started at 3:30 a.m.? Now though, like every day, when she clocked out she wasn’t the least bit tired, she was pleased that she had pulled herself out of bed one more time. 
Joyce grabbed her coat and tied it around her waist. She locked up the building as she left and started walking home. Joyce often took the 20 minutes it took to walk home to figure out exactly how much money she would have saved before she went back to school in five months. She was still paying off student loans from her Bachelors degree in English, but those payments were small and she could stop paying them as soon as she was re-enrolled in a Master’s Program. Joyce had been accepted to Madison University a month ago and classes started in September, meaning that she would only have to work this job a few more months full-time before she could cut back to part-time during school. That was still a long time to work at a dead-end job like this. Especially considering that she had a college degree. But she did like her co-workers, the pay was really good, and even though the hours were strange, she was sort of used to it by now. She still couldn't wait to go back to school. Then she wouldn’t have to just take a box from one place and put it in a different place for a living. She could actually do what she wanted to do, edit books. 
She strolled down the street, daydreaming about helping an author get a book published. Joyce imagined there wasn’t any greater thrill than walking into a bookstore and seeing a book you had helped to create sitting there on the shelf. Unless it was someone purchasing that book. And maybe seeing it get a really good review in the New York Times Book Review. Or maybe that book winning an award and selling a million copies. 
Joyce daydreamed about it, walking casually until she reached a house and couldn't help but notice the lawn. There were deep furrows in the grass, and mud tracked across the sidewalk and front walkway. It was as though a truck had backed right up against the front door. 
Joyce looked up and down the street. There wasn’t anyone else out on the street and the house across the way had its blinds drawn. She wondered if anyone was looking out their front windows. She peered at the suspicious house again and then walked up the walkway purposefully, listening for a dog bark, a radio playing, or other signs of occupancy. She changed direction at the last minute to sidle to the side and peek in the front windows. She now saw why a truck had felt the need to pull up on the lawn, there was a shiny new piano sitting in the middle of the room, out of place like a pregnant nun at a Halloween party that no one else dressed up for. The furniture surrounded it, having been pushed out of place for its entrance. She could imagine the other furniture eyeing the piano askance, refusing to invite it into conversation and glancing at it snobbishly. The piano seemed to curve downward slightly in the middle, its rich brown shoulders hunched. Joyce knew that if it was possible, it would slump over to the snack bar and stand there in the corner sipping punch and keeping a sharp eye out for a friendly face. 
Joyce imagined what she would do if she had a piano. She wouldn’t leave it out in the middle of the room, out of place like that. She would have a place made ready for it and the room would be built around it. It would have a nice lace runner to lie across the top of it and the bench would be filled with books full of sheet music from the likes of Chopin to Ben Folds Five. It would probably go where she had the television right now. Joyce mused over that for a while. No doubt that would create jealousy between them, and if anything, she wanted a happy piano and a happy T.V. Maybe they could be friends. 
Joyce had always wanted to play the piano. It began when she was in the musical, “Brigadoon,” in high school, playing the role of third vegetable cart worker and they had rehearsed their songs to the music of a piano. The teacher had sat down at the bench, glanced over the music and then began playing. He carelessly looked from the music back to the students, listening for notes sung off-key and watching for dance missteps. His casual fingers had moved up and down the keys effortlessly, creating such a full and rich sound that when the inexperienced and tiny pit band took over, the group of 11 musicians had been no match for the music the piano had put out. 
Joyce imagined herself sitting at a piano in front of a huge stage. She walked on with a backup band already set up and waiting for her. She sat down and adjusted the bench slightly, the crowd silent. She lifted her fingers to the keys and began to play, a simple tune, but one that the crowd recognized instantly. They began to roar in approval while the band joined, before long they were jamming together, she was pounding on the piano, effortlessly singing her heart out. So what if the song she imagined she had written in her head was actually an Elton John song? She could pretend she had written it all she wanted while-a car horn honked in her ear- knocking her over. She jumped up from the bushes, heart beating and stumbled quickly onto the front stoop trying to look innocent. She grabbed some leaves from out of her hair as she twisted around to see James sitting in his car in the driveway a few feet away smiling and raising one hand in a lazy wave. 
Joyce took a deep breath. It was amazing how much the brain could pack in the short second it took her ears to hear the car horn to the time it took her eyes to see and register James. Her brain had already seen an angry house owner on a cell phone to the police, getting out of a truck purposefully with a bat in hand. In her mind she was already running halfway down the sidewalk, when her brain registered the harmlessness of James. 
She shook her head at James and stalked towards his door as he laughed at her panic. 
“Get out of here!” She shooed him away. “What if the owners come out?” 
“Oh,” he said. He settled back casually and made no effort to put his car in reverse. “I thought it might be your house you were peeking in so sneakily.” 
“Back up!” Joyce could just imagine the same angry house owner coming out now, having been woken up from a hang-over by the blast of a car horn to find two strangers chatting it up in his driveway. 
“Get in, and I will.” 
Joyce ran around and hopped in the passenger seat, shutting the door quickly and looking behind her as James backed up. 
“What are you doing anyways?” Joyce asked. 
“I was at the store, and on my way home, and who should I see but Joycie-poo peering in people’s windows like a criminal.” James pulled out of the driveway and paused in the middle of the street. “Where to?” 
“My house is down that way,” Joyce pointed. 
“How long have you been walking home from work?” James asked. 
“I always walk to work.” 
“You weirdo, you should have told someone you needed a ride. Is your car in the shop?” 
“No, turn left here.” 
“How come you’re walking to work then?” 
“I don't have a car because I'm trying to save money.” 
James shook his head as he turned at the stop sign. “and what were you doing peering in some stranger’s window?” 
Joyce laughed. She had hoped that he had forgotten about that. 
“They had these huge ruts in the lawn and I wanted to see why. Then I saw that they had a piano inside and I’ve always wanted to play the piano.” 
“And you don’t?” 
“No. Sadly.” 
“Why not?” 
“A number of reasons, A, I’m not going to live in one place long enough to make it worthwhile to buy a piano, and you can’t very well take lessons if you don’t have a piano at home to practice on. And B, I hate keyboards, so I’m not about to play one of those things, ergo C, I don't play the piano.” 
“Why not a keyboard?” 
“One, the keys feel different; two, a really nice one is almost as expensive as a used-piano anyways; and three, they seem tacky, like, someone with real skill wouldn’t be caught dead using one.” 
“Yeah, I see that." James thought about it, "you don’t want to just suck it up and practice on one for a while…” James trailed off as Joyce shook her head menacingly at him. “Well, good luck with that then.” 
“Thanks.” 
After another offer to drive her to work in the morning was refused James drove off waving out the window with a yell to see her tomorrow. 
Joyce pulled out her keys and glanced in the upstairs windows as she walked up to “Joel’s Chicken Emporium.” The smell of fried chicken wafted out and people chatted on benches out front. The sign painted on the window proclaimed, “Drive-Through Soon to be 24 hours!” 
“Great,” she thought, “now the speaker box will be as loud as hell all night, instead of stopping at eleven o’clock.” She walked around the back of the restaurant and climbed up a set of stairs to her apartment. She wondered to herself if her roommates Megan or Cinnamon would be home. 
Cinnamon was in college, going to be a psychologist. Her parents had been hippies, which explained her unique name. She had 2 brothers separately named Sky and Freedom and a sister named Ingrid Sun Flower. Cinnamon had been dating a guy named Bryce for going on three years and they were probably going to get married pretty soon. Cinnamon speculated that it would happen after she graduated with her Masters this upcoming fall. 
Megan was the type of person who intimidated most people at first, she seemed vain and a little stand-offish, but was just confident in a world of insecure women. She especially intimidated men, or at least that was the only reason that Joyce could think of that she was currently and often single. She was tall, skinny, blond and often referred to as, “the hot friend.” She was in her second year of teaching third grade at the elementary school across town. 
Joyce pushed open the door of the apartment and gagged immediately. It was as though she had walked into a wall of stench. There was a haze of smoke drifting on the ceiling that flowed out lazily into the fresh air. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and stepped back. She glanced around looking for the source of the smell. Judging by the scent she should look for a woman who had permed her hair and set herself on fire. Joyce left the door wide open, held her breath and stepped back into the apartment and past the entry-way closet to see both Megan and Cinnamon. Megan was frantically bent over the vacuum waving at it with a notebook. Cinnamon struggled with the window in the kitchen, trying to pry it open. 
“What happened?” Joyce asked. 
“The vacuum started on fire and Megan didn’t turn it off!” Cinnamon shouted as though the smoke filled room had somehow interfered with her ability to hear. 
Joyce was surprised that the dinosaur vacuum they had gotten from the Salvation Army had lasted this long. It had been ancient when they bought it two years ago after moving in together. She smiled and laughed out loud. The window flew upwards with a bang and Cinnamon leapt back as she began giggling as well. Megan looked sheepishly around and took a shallow breath of air. She said to Cinnamon, “Mmmm, nothing like the smell of burnt rubber and frying chicken to create an atmosphere of romance for your date tonight.” 
“Are you kidding me? I’ll make Bryce take me out, I can’t eat here.” Cinnamon said. 
“Leaving Megan and I, yet again to eat alone, our only company this delightful smell.” Joyce said. “I walked in and my first thought was that someone had permed their hair and then set themselves on fire. But I think now that I’ve had a chance to fully appreciate the smell, it’s more like…no, I think that’s still a pretty good description of what it’s like.” 
Megan paused and smelled the air tentatively. “You know, it does kind of smell like that.” 
Joyce had an idea for something that might help. She ran back into the bathroom and began rummaging around the back of the drawers. She was looking for some perfume she had gotten as a present once. She didn’t like the smell enough to wear it, but it would do for now. She ran back out into the living room and sprayed it liberally on her finger, then wiped it underneath her nose. She took a tentative sniff with Megan and Cinnamon watching and then smiled. "You can still smell it a little bit, but it helps." Joyce passed the perfume to Cinnamon while Megan hefted up the sizable vacuum and carried it outside. 
“At least we can stink up the restaurant instead of them stinking us up all the time.” Megan seemed pleased at the role reversal and took her turn with the perfume, spraying it almost directly up her nose. 
They forced the rest of the windows open and Cinnamon switched on the ceiling fan. Even after everything they did, the smell was too overpowering. The perfume only lasted a few moments and then the burnt perm smell began to come back. In fact, after she had re-applied It three times, Joyce was beginning to wonder which was worse. Who had gotten her this designer imposter perfume anyways? It had to be someone who she didn’t know very well, and someone who was fairly cheap as well. A gift with the price printed right on it in permanent ink didn't exactly spell classy. Joyce tossed the spray can of $4.95 perfume back and forth in her hands. It had probably been one of those secret Santa presents at some place she had worked at a few years back. No one ever knew what to get each other so they got severely gender stereotyped gifts. Gifts like scented hand lotion or Terminator III on DVD. Joyce stopped thinking about it as she noticed Cinnamon pick up the cordless phone, then pause and look back towards Joyce and Megan. 
“Why don’t we all go out for dinner tonight?” Cinnamon suggested. Joyce nodded her head in agreement, the idea of eating any food while remaining in the apartment made her want to retch. 
As they gathered up their coats and purses Cinnamon asked, “Hey, I forgot to tell you, Bryce has a performance tonight, do you guys want to come? Otherwise I’ll have to sit alone.” 
“Oh, his comedy thing?” Joyce asked. 
“Yeah, you guys should really come and maybe we can find you some hot dates.” 
“I’d like to,” Megan sighed, “but I’ve got about fifty spelling tests to grade and I’m getting evaluated soon so I’ve got to get ready for that, I can’t do anything but dinner.” 
“It’s a Friday night!” Cinnamon protested. 
“I know, but I’m visiting my family tomorrow and I want to be able to have fun with them without worrying about tests or anything.” 
“Excuses,” sighed Cinnamon as she looked at Joyce accusingly. 
“If you promise not to try and set me up with any ‘really hot dates’ then I’ll go with you,” Joyce answered. Cinnamon was always trying to set her up on dates, and while she had been excited about it the first few times they always flopped. She was too nervous and stiff with people she didn’t know. When she did meet someone she was interested in she wooed him by ignoring him, stuttering, and avoiding him whenever he came close for fear of saying something stupid. It wasn’t the best strategy, she knew, but it was all she had. She had told Cinnamon a few weeks ago that she had given up on blind dates, and looking for a boyfriend in general and was focusing on other things right now. Her theory had been that as soon as she stopped looking, the perfect guy would come along. So far it hadn’t been working, but she wasn’t about to say anything out loud for fear of another blind date night. 
“Great!” Cinnamon dialed a few numbers on the phone and stepped a few feet away to call Bryce to come pick them all up. 
“You know she already has a guy in mind for you, don’t you?” Megan asked. They opened the door and began to walk down the stairs. 
“I know, but I need to get out of this house.” 
“I’m sorry about the smell!” 
“No, no it’s not that, I’ve just gotten into a rut lately. All I do is work.” Joyce and Megan had reached the bottom of the stairs and both took a deep breath of air. Joyce had never thought she would enjoy fried chicken air as much as she did right now. Joyce leaned against the building as they waited for Cinnamon to come down. “We need to start getting out more, meeting new people.” Joyce scuffed her foot against the ground, taking out her frustration on the dirt. 
“And if by 'meeting people,' you mean 'meeting men,' then you are correct.” Megan sighed and leaned against the wall. “I need to find a man. My standards are starting to go down more and more. All I require now is a guy who knows how to spell friend and doesn't pick his nose in public.” 
“You don’t mind the whole ‘chasing the girls around the playground and trying to kiss them’ game?” 
“Are you kidding? I nearly joined in myself.” 
“Gross, pedophile.” Joyce laughed. “Let’s hope the President of the PTA never walks past and hears us talking.” 
“Don’t worry, I know exactly what she looks like so I can avoid her.” 

August 17, 2009 Italian Food in Taiwan (Siezeria)

Jon and  took a few friends to an Italian restaurant the other day in Taipei, Taiwan. We had tried to go eat there a few days previous, but got there just as they were closing for the night. We were so disappointed! We traveled back to the restaurant a few days later, dragging a few friends, because it had looked soooooo good.  The restaurant was also packed full, so we knew it had to be tasty. We didn't want people to miss out on this chance to eat delicious Italian food. We had been in Taiwan for about two weeks at this point and rice wasn't really cutting it anymore.  We had been eating lunch up at the University we were teaching at, and cafeteria food isn't good anywhere, so we were really hungry for some good hearty food. Jon was going to get delicious pizza, and I was going to get delicious spaghetti with tomato sauce and tuna....we looked forward to it all day.

We got there and had a thirty minute wait.  That's fine, we went on the tallest Ferris Wheel in Asia, and came back and got a table after a short wait. We placed our orders and waited anxiously for our meals to arrive. Although it was pretty late by this point, the restaurant was still incredibly full. All the servers were running around frantically. At this point we were all ridiculously hungry. I about ate my menu. (In hindsight, I wish I had.)

Liv's and my soup arrived first. The minestrone pictured in the menu had beans, noodles, big chunks of tomatoes..., what you would expect out of a minestrone soup. The "minestrone" we received was red water with tiny pieces of cabbage floating in it. It was approximately a half of inch deep in the bowl. At this point Liv knew exactly how the evening would end. She pushed her bowl of red water away and sighed.  I was much more naive and hopeful.

My spaghetti with tuna arrived. People made fun of me for ordering this, but I love mixing a can of drained tuna in with my spaghetti sauce, just as people add browned hamburger to their sauce. (Tuna spaghetti is really good, trust me.) My spaghetti looked ok, if the sauce was a little sparse. I took a bite. They had poured the red water-soup over the noodles! The tuna was obviously the type of low-quality tuna that is made from the sweepings off the floor of the good tuna canning factory....then they mixed it with sawdust. They didn't drain the tuna either, the bottom of my plate had oil a fourth-inch deep. How did I know what the bottom of my plate looked like? Yes, I was THAT hungry. I scraped off the tuna, let the noodles drip as much as I could and ate about a cup of the pasta. Every single other person's meal was just as bad.

The pictures in the menu looked so good that Jon had ordered five different things- the same minestrone soup, a seafood salad, garlic bread, shrimp rice casserole, and a pizza. He said they all tasted the same- like old bread and socks.

Andrew told us that his baked rice casserole was pretty bland, so he mixed it with his also-bland soup and then his meal tasted just plain.

Ugh.

Never get excited about non-Asian food in Asia!

Update - This Sizeria Restaurant is a chain and there is one in our city in Japan.  No thanks. 

February 18, 2008 1st Dates

I am in a dating mode of mind, so I thought I would post below the two of the worst first dates I've ever been on. The first one was both a first and LAST date and the second one was the first date in a relationship.


I worked at a potato factory when was in college. It was one of the temp agencies placements and my first night there I was reveling in the excitement of making sure the hash brown machine didn't get clogged by poking it with a stick from time to time. I would break up my time with an occasional sweep around the machine while making sure I dodged the shooting streams of hot water that would burst out at boiling temperature from time to time. As if that job wasn't fun enough, a kind of awkward guy came up and asked me out. I didn't know how to say no, so I I said yes, then pretended to be busy and avoided him the rest of my shift. (As though that's somehow nicer.) I went home at 8:00 am, secure in the knowledge that he hadn't been able to get my number and knowing that the night at the hash brown machine was a one-time gig. . Surprise of surprises, he calls the next day, having gotten my number from somewhere, and I hesitantly say yes. He says he'll pick me up at six and we'll figure out what we're going to do then.

I realize that this date could be quite a waste of a delightful Friday night, so I decide to take charge. I get all my single roommates together and instruct them to get dates. Within fifteen minutes their little black books are tucked back away and they all have dates. Amazing. Then we plan together and come with the idea to go out and go night rock climbing. There is a great spot about 20 minutes away and we can bring firewood and s'mores and head lamps.  So, my date shows up on time and we ambush him with the idea. I think he liked the idea of not having to pay for anything, and not having to think up anything, but not really the idea of rock climbing. (He was on the heavier side.)

So we go and everyone is having this great time, we're eating roasted sweet potatoes from the fire, we're climbing at night and chatting and playing games, but (I don't even remember his name! We'll call him Jose.) but Jose keeps pulling me aside into the darkness to try and get some alone time. I'm not really up for that and so the night ends without him getting the chance to try for a kiss. He asks me as he drops me off back at my house if he can call me again, and like a doofus, I say, "Ummm, sure." (I'm no longer this stupid about interacting with people, I was only 19 at the time.)

The next day I get home and see a note for me, someone named Sandy Gomez has called me twice. Hmmmmm, I don't know a Sandy, so I ignore it. Then I get the dreaded call from Jose. But he doesn't want me to go on another date, no, he wants me to lie to his wife for him. He says she found my number in his car and wants to know what happened. He told her that he only had my number from work, and we never saw each other. I was pretty flabbergasted at his audacity.
So I hang up without making any promises and in the next few seconds Sandy calls me back. She sounded like a pretty with-it girl, so I don't know why she was so stupid. I told her the truth, that we had gone out, but i wasn't interested in seeing him again, and she told me this whole long story about how he has done this before and how they have a daughter together and then she started getting really mad, as though it was my fault that he had asked me out. As though I should have given him a background check before going out with him.  Anyhow, I hung up and and that was the last of Jose and my little attempt to break up the Gomez family.




This next date happened in Ecuador. I had met a Korean guy named Chan-He at the school I went to to learn Spanish. Since I had lived in Korea for a year, we had struck up a conversation and liked talking. So then he asked me on a date, and I was pretty pumped about it. We decide to go see "The Departed," which is playing at the movie theater just a ten minute walk from my house. So he picks me up and we start walking. We both know that Quito is not a safe city. But it is still dusk and we can walk and talk on the way there and take a taxi back home once it is properly dark. As we are walking I am talking about how two guys tried to mug me in the very park we are walking past, and he scoffs at me, "Yo llegue aqui hace ocho meses, y nunca he tuve problemas." (Or something like that, I don't remember exactly and his Spanish was better than mine is.) My Korean was pretty crappy, and his English was nothing to write home about, so we communicated in Spanish) Basically, he said, "I've been living here for eight months, and nothing has ever happened to me."
So, if you want to take a guess at what happens next. Yep, I turn around and see two big guys walking quickly towards us. I have enough time to grab Chan-He's arm and say his name before the guys are between us. The smaller guy takes me and tries to pull my bag out of my arms. This is something that I will NOT let happen. My passport is in this bag. But at first I am so stunned I don't do anything except clutch my bag tighter and back away. After a few seconds I come to my senses and start fighting back and screaming. The mugger is in the process of trying to rip my watch off my arm at this point, and I kick him pretty hard, (good old Tae Kwon Do lessons) and he backs off.  His pal joins him. It was pretty terrifying in every way. Especially because that day a friend of a friend had gotten stabbed for resisting a mugging. So, I was pretty shook up, and Chan-He wasn't exactly taking a nap himself.  We looked around ourselves and then kept walking to the theater and saw "The Departed."  And in only a few short days we were officially dating.

I Have a Friend Whose Dad Has Too Many Roosters

Standing outside the coop in Rigby Idaho, 

Mr. Gardner tells us how it’s done.
We wait outside stamping our feet
while he sharpens the blade, and I
watch the chickens. There must be over
thirty of them, scratching Mayan-like
calendars in the windswept, sandy earth,
laying Leonardo da Vincis and Dahmers
of their own (except by now they’re over easy),
discussing the ethics of poultry
politics and teaching the Cave of Plato,
while clucking free verse poetry.

We invade the hutch and I grab
one by his silky foot-long tail feathers.
The plumes are black, but glint
red and green in the squinting sunlight.
My hands keep trembling wings
against composed warm sides as
I stretch his neck over a dirty log.
he clucks a few questions trying to look up from the dirt,
but I don’t speak chicken and so don’t answer him.

With the falling blade
the philosophy stops. I wonder
if, the explanation that, “adjective clauses
always follow the nouns they modify,”
has been interrupted and postponed: indefinitely?
Chicken algebra and geography neurons
fire for the last time, wastefully,
to jerk this leg while flapping that wing frantically.
After leaping in the air the body falls,
stiffens and seizes as blood sprays
his last artwork in the sand.

The fried chicken that night is tough and dry.
My friend’s dad says it’s because they’re free-range.

Alien Attempt

 A good one-act play for high school students to put on.

There are tables with refreshments and decorations set up on the stage, a conservative orange and black. They are the only sign that this is very simple and classy Halloween party.

Alien 1 and Alien 2 have worked together for years and are comfortable with each other. They walk awkwardly, but try to appear confident. They can be either boys or girls.


Scene opens with a group of high-handed yuppies chatting with each other.

Yuppie 1
Hibernation? I thought you said habituation!

Everyone laughs and there is a bit more small talk and jokes. The group breaks off into two or three smaller groups. Off to the side, out of view of party, are two aliens. When they start talking to each other the party still goes on, but very quietly.
Alien 2
I don’t know if we can achieve our mission goal!

Alien 1
Shape up! We have to infiltrate the human culture and find out more about their habits and limitations. It’s the only way we will be able to effectively enslave them!

Alien 2
I know the mission. Here’s your human suit.

Alien 1
Inspecting it as he puts it on.
This suit isn’t the style we decided on.

Alien 2
These are just as good; we didn’t have enough money in the budget for the name-brand ones you chose last week. You should have run it past the treasurer first.

Alien 1
Well I didn’t expect to spend so much on luxury meals on the way here.

Alien 2
I have a delicate homeostasis! I can’t upset it, especially on a stressful mission like…

He trails off as Alien 1 steps confidently out of their hiding place and towards the group. Alien 1 walks towards two yuppies drinking punch.

Alien 1
Well, how about those Yankees? Am I right?

Yuppie 2
The Yankees? Who cares about baseball anymore? How about our Kentucky Derby winner? You’re probably new, aren’t you? Did you know that Paul over there owns “Unofficial Winner?” He won by seven lengths, and they’re expecting him to take the Preakness and the Belmont, which would be a feat as you know. There haven’t been many triple crown winners, have there? Around three?

Yuppie 3
I think there have been closer to ten; I was thinking there were around seven or so.

Alien walks backward nodding, horribly confused and slightly frightened. He huddles once more with Alien 2

Alien 1
Perhaps our investigation of their culture should have been more in-depth, He started talking about some sort of contest, and owning a winner…

Alien 2
Ridiculous, you just have to act confident, that’s the key.

He walks up to a group of yuppies standing by the punch bowl; they all have cups in their hands.

So, I understand you have a slave that runs in races for you? “Unofficial winner?”

Yuppie 4
Oh great, we’ve got another animal rights activist here, listen, my horse gets the best care around, and

Alien 2
Oh no, I didn’t mean to-

He stops short as his arm starts acting strangely, he attempts to continue talking while holding his arm down. He talks louder to cover it up.

I simply meant to congratulate you on your-

He can’t control his arm anymore and it flips up, knocking Yuppie 7’s glass into his face. He backs up hurriedly into another yuppie, spilling her drink as well.

I apologize…profusely. I was so excited at the prospect of getting liquid refreshment that I-

He steps to the table to fill a glass with punch and realizes that he cannot with his arm still acting strangely. He looks around, cornered, and takes a sip straight from the bowl. Straightening up he smiles brightly to the yuppies, bowing and nodding as he backs away.

Alien 1
Did it go well? You looked great.

Alien 2
I don’t know, my suit began malfunctioning.

He begins to hum loudly, causing several yuppies to glance his way. He first tries to silence the humming, but when that doesn’t work he pretends he is doing it on purpose. He starts dancing to the humming, an awkward, strange dance that is punctuated by his arm spasms. The yuppies look away and Alien 2 relaxes although he still hums and has an arm that flies about occasionally.

That was it again, my appendages don’t function correctly and I can’t stop making this odd noise.

Alien 1
You weren’t doing that on purpose? It looked terrific. I think the humans really enjoyed it.

Alien 2
You think so? I do have a knack for it. Why don’t you make one more attempt?

Alien 1
That female over there looks promising.

Alien 2
Go see what you can find out. I’ll watch from here.

Alien 1
I’ll try something I saw a young man say to a human female once to gain her trust.


Alien 2
Good, use it.

Alien 2 has forgotten to hold down his hand and it springs up hitting him in the face. He still feels supremely confident in his dancing and hums while he boogies a bit longer. Alien 1 saunters over towards the woman, he is very stiff and formal in everything he does. Halfway there his leg stops working. He almost falls, but catches himself and tries to inconspicuously drag his leg behind him.

Alien 1
Pardon me, but you enjoy water?

Yuppie 5
Excuse me?

Alien 1
Are you fond of water?

Yuppie 5
Well, yes, I guess so.

Alien 1
Then you are fond of 87% of me.

He laughs stiffly and awkwardly tries to put his arm around her. She is disgusted, and stomps off to join the group of yuppies that had the punch spilled on them. She begins whispering and pointing towards Alien 1, they follow by whispering back and pointing towards Alien 2. The aliens are terribly worried, and they huddle to reevaluate their situation.

Alien 1
This isn’t how I pictured humans acting at all. They don’t fit with our label of human behavior at all.

Alien 2
Me either. I think we must have hit upon some sort of mentally unbalanced fringe group.

Alien 1
How are we supposed to explain this to the committee? They are set for take-over in mere days! And we still have no idea as to human weaknesses.

The Aliens glance up at the yuppies worriedly and begin talking quietly so that we can hear the yuppies conversation.

Yuppie 1
Mr. Pyre must have invited those ridiculous people. I don’t know why he even comes to these functions. Does he think that he actually plays a role in the functioning of this company? I can’t wait until he retires and ownership of the company is passed onto his son.

Yuppie 5
I’m sure we all feel that way. At least he hasn’t arrived  yet.

Yuppie 3
Thank goodness for small favors. I can’t stand that man; his atrocious accent grates on my nerves.

Yuppie 2
He doesn’t seem to realize that he is a grown man and can’t go about playing at ridiculous games anymore.

Yuppie 3
Perhaps we will have gotten a spot of luck and he has forgotten about our end of October social.


Mr. Pyre
Enters dressed, acting, and speaking like a vampire.

Count Dracula has arrived! How is the punch tonight ladies? To die for?

The crowd groans in response to his entry and no one wants to speak with him or acknowledge his arrival. The Aliens have begun to leave, but at Mr. Pyre’s arrival they turn back in surprise. They are thrilled at this turn of events.

Alien 1
Count! That is a term of leadership, is it not?

Alien 2
I believe it is, and did you hear the respectful buzz of admiration as he entered the room?

Alien 1
Look how they all worship-fully avert their eyes!

Alien 2
What luck! Let’s see if we can connect somehow with this leader!

The Aliens walk up to Mr. Pyre as he drinks his punch alone.

Alien 1
Pardon me, good sir.

Mr. Pyre
Yes? How may I help you fine young men?

Alien 2
We, ummm, very highly admire you and were curious if we could have a few moments of your time to, ahhh, learn some of your…. secrets to success.

Mr. Pyre
Of course! Why don’t we exit the room for a moment to have a bit of privacy?

Alien 1
Wonderful.

Aliens are deliriously happy about this turn in events. They make small talk as they leave; Alien 1 furiously jotting notes on a notepad.

Alien 2
So the only thing that can hurt you is a silver spike through the heart? And you can’t stand garlic?
Aside to other alien.
Are you getting all of this?
Back to Mr. Pyre.
And you can’t go out in daylight? Fascinating… Now, what role does a coffin play, did you say?

Exit.

Cigarette Community

A quarter hour break from Hello Dolly practice leads
to the tunnel under the highway.
A dingy, dark and secluded garrison.
It’s almost dress rehearsal and costumes adorn the leads.

The sight of Dolly flirting with Cornelius
while Horace lights Minnie Fay’s cigarette might
be too much for the blue-haired women who live
across the street. The sanctuary for uncool high
schoolers, made slightly more popular due
to leading roles. Horace’s dreadlocks don’t look quite
as cool as he wants them to and Dolly knows
she looks awkward smoking, but
they do it anyways.

James Dean would feel at home.
Irene would light his cigarette.
If James didn’t have one, hands would come out offering
Marlboro 100’s, Camel Turkish Gold, Luckies.
Irene has stopped bothering to offer her Menthols.
Our Rebel Without a Cause star is the only one
who really looks the part. Funny;
the angst ridden high school kids look unrelated, fake and strange
beside the black and white image of a martyred movie star.
A cigarette dangling from his lip,
a drop of spit is the only thing holding the dry
rod from gravity’s tender pull.

Dolly stubs out her cigarette on the wall.
She writes a short word with the ash.
Why she wrote ‘we’ she doesn’t know.
Horace, Irene, Minnie Fay and Cornelius add
more letters with their finishes cigarettes.
“We’re Real.”

Dolly pushes up her ruffled sleeves,
looks at her Timex watch,
“It’s time to head back in.”
They follow and Dean stays behind.
He reads the note with petulance.
He gets in his fast car and drives away.

December 07, 2006 The problem with traveling

I hate that when I travel, I go back home to my best friends and my family, and no one has shared any of my experiences with me. I can´t reminisce about the time that we were on a bus for seven hours through the bumpiest road ever and how badly we had to pee starting at hour five. No one back home knows just how scary it was to go to sleep in the jungle and how you had to pick crickets the size of your hand out of your bed by candlelight. And they don´t get why it would be funny to mention casually that ¨Norwegian hearts aren't meant to be broken.¨ 

And you make all these friends that you will surely keep in touch with, thanks to myspace and e-mail, but that you´ll probably never see again. That kind of sucks.

Update: 9/22/2013  Hahahaha!   myspace...... 

October 30, 2006 Humor in Truth

I´ve always thought that people who are really funny are that way because they have had a rough life. People laugh to come to terms with whatever they are having a hard time with. The reason I thought about this was a joke that I have with a friend of mine. She works with street kids, abut five or so years old. I work with boys aged 12 to 18 who are in jail, and the joke is that in a few years I will be teaching her kids...which isn´t very PC.  I probably shouldn't joke about unkind things like that.  

The other day, I saw just how real humor can be.  The kids at the jail had a talent show and a group decided to perform a play that they had written themselves.

In short it was about a kid who was playing soccer and having a fun day until his drunk father needed cash for more alcohol. The kid went out begging for money and finally met up again with his father who wasn´t happy with the small amount of money his son had brought home. So the dad beat the son to death. The audience loved it. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen.

October 18, 2006 El Cárcel

I´ve started teaching English at a prison for kids. Well, youths, the kids there are aged 12 to 18, and most of them are there for robbery or drug use. It was pretty intimidating at first. You walk in the door and there is a soldier guarding the front door in full camo uniform. You give him your ID and walk in to see a bare dirt courtyard with rough-looking teenagers staring at you. 

Then one of the kids comes up and offers to take you on a tour of the place. He shows you the bakery, the kiln for ceramics, the cupboards they are building in another workshop, the metal working room, the classrooms, and the little hearts that the kids have made out of wire with initials in them. Finally he introduces you very politely to the directors, one of which he calls Mom. Then you notice that the guard, with his tall leather boots and camo uniform is the goalie for a soccer game.

I love working there. Most of the kids really want to learn English, and if at times they are too loud and boisterous, and basically too much like teenagers, you can't be irritated for long because the next words out of their mouth are, ¨Teacher, como se dice ojos en ingles?¨ And when I say eyes, they respond with, ¨You eyes beautiful.¨

After two hours of English, it´s time for snacks and either soccer or volleyball. The kids push and shove each other to be the first to give me or the other teacher, (My friend Liz from Michigan) pieces of their orange or to offer a banana. Then my friend and I hang around for another hour or so to talk with the kids or play sports with them. It´s really fun, and I can tell that my Spanish is getting better daily by speaking with them...but that´s the selfish part of the day because it´s just Spanish Practice for me.

One student has already decided that I am his Godmother. I can´t decide whether that´s better or worse than Liz. She´s his wife...no matter how much she denies it.

October 04, 2006 Typical rich tourist

It is amazing how fast people can become desensitized to the poverty that surrounds them...I mean...not other people necessarily, I mean me specifically. The reason I say this is because I was thinking today that one of the biggest problems in Quito is how hard it is to get change. 

I get money from the ATM, and it always comes in twenty dollar bill form. The main problem with this is that no store anywhere will take anything except nearly exact change. If you buy food from a huge grocery store for $21.71, and try to pay with two 20s, they will look a you like you tried to pay with Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket and a Faberge Egg.  It's nearly impossible to buy a lunch for $2.80 from a small corner restaurant when all you have is a pocket full of 20s.

Anyhow, this relates back to my first sentence. I was thinking today that one of the biggest problems in Quito is how hard it is to get change. I am such a stereotypical, rich, piece-of-shit, tourist. I moved here to volunteer and help people and after a few weeks,  I don´t see the people living and begging in the streets, the five year old kids juggling or doing cartwheels for cars at red lights to earn spare change during school hours, the teachers with no textbooks to offer their students, the violence, or any of the other problems. All I see is that I have two twenty dollar bills and no way to pay the 60 cents an hour the internet cafe charges.

November 21, 2005 Diamonds

Originally posted at http://saraallsop.blogspot.jp/2005/11/diamonds.html

Some people think that vegetarians don’t like Baby Back Ribs smothered in barbecue sauce and so tender you could shake the meat off the bone. Some people think that environmentalists wouldn't enjoy driving a Hummer with a full tank through an moss-covered stream bed. Some people think that Feminists don’t enjoy being gently fussed over by men and called “Princess.” Some people watch The Bachelor. “Some people” are stupid.

I love diamonds. I found the perfect ring the other day. Just the kind of ring I never knew existed, but as soon as I saw it I loved it and couldn’t live without it. It had a wide band with dozens of tiny sparkling diamonds creating a simple design across it. Very renaissance. I could see myself at 89 years old still gazing down and tilting my hand back and forth to let the gems catch and throw the light into dazzling colors. I love diamonds. I love how they sparkle, I love the variety of styles and rings, I love how clear and white and perfect a diamond is. I love how you can tell just by looking at a person’s left hand if they are married or not. I love that in a confusing world of changing styles and life-styles that wedding rings have stayed constant.

I was engaged for a short while when I was younger and when I showed off the ring that my fiancee and I had picked out together, everyone had a comment for it. His friends called him a cheap bastard, my parents were confused, “It’s not even a real engagement ring,” and everyone asked, “Oh, you didn't want a diamond?”

I hate diamonds. Everything about them disgusts me. I hate shallow people comparing carat size with each other, I hate admiring people’s rings, and I hate walking past ostentatious jewelry stores. I hate the fact that people fight and kill each other over control of diamond mines so that a guy can spend four months working in order to purchase something for a girl in order for her to show off. I hate the materialism and vanity that goes with diamonds. I hate fake salespeople and their slick ways of talking you into buying the latest tennis bracelet. I hate how infants are starving to death or people are dying of easily curable diseases while people spend thousands on a tiny ridiculous rock. I hate how I can’t bring myself to wholly hate diamonds. Sparkly, shimmery, beautiful diamonds.

I have to continually remind myself of why I abhor diamonds. As soon as I do I can walk away from the polished glass diamond counter, breathing a sigh of relief that I’m not the type of girl who likes things like that.

The biggest reason that I don’t get into the diamond market is that buying diamonds hurts people. Somewhere between 4 and 15 percent of diamonds traded are part of something called “conflict diamonds.” This means that people with guns and weapons take advantage of people without guns and weapons and make them mine diamonds in horrible conditions. These guns also keep those without guns from causing a fuss about anything illegal or atrocious that the mine operators do. In the last ten years 3 million people have been killed. Countless more have lost their hands or feet so that they could serve as examples to others. These people with guns also use the profits from diamonds to buy more guns to support other unwholesome activities.

But let’s say that a person really wants diamonds. Let’s say they are willing to go the extra mile and pay the extra dollar/pound/euro/yen/whatever to purchase a certified, non-conflict diamond. They can’t. There’s no way to be sure you’re not buying a conflict diamond. (Well…there is, there is a type of laser scanning technology, but it is not used, due to little demand for it.) There are also organizations and sanctions trying to keep the diamonds straight, but nothing works really well. In the process of mining, cutting, polishing, and setting, a diamond passes through many hands. And it takes just one person with their eye out for number one to scramble up the pot and ruin it for the rest of them.

Let's say that somehow, you have gotten a hold of a non-conflict diamond. You went to the mine yourself and saw well-paid, of-age, happy workers mining diamonds. They worked in safe conditions and could go home to their family with all four limbs intact. Can you dish out your hard-earned dough, feeling good about what you've done? Maybe you can, but the toddler who lost both hands to serve as a lesson to his parents working in the mines can’t.

Diamonds are not as valuable as most people believe. The price is kept unnaturally high by very powerful diamond lobbies. By paying that lofty price for your non-conflict diamond, you are keeping conflict diamond prices high, and making it very much worth their while in Congo to keep those mines open and keep on mutilating and killing for profit.

Stepping off that soapbox for a while I’ll jump onto another one. Another reason I don’t like diamonds is all the materialism, greed, and vanity that goes with them. It’s hard to even know where to start. From all these ads on television and billboards, I am almost starting to believe that diamonds are no longer just a symbol of love, they actually mean love. If I were to take them seriously I would believe that my significant other does not love me unless he spends the equivalent of four months of work on an engagement ring, and then periodically throughout our life together, he purchases other precious stones. I have to have a bigger ring than other girls so that they will admire me and be my friend. I need to have bling or I am not a worthwhile person. Any problems my relationship or my life has, a new piece of jewelry will fix it.

A husband should feel like a crappy husband if he doesn't buy his significant other a large enough stone. His love doesn’t mean anything unless it comes paired with a full carat stone affixed atop a platinum band. His partner doesn’t need quality time or support or a back rub at the end of a hard day at work, just a new pair of diamond earrings come Valentines day.

I hope that isn’t how real people think. Oh man, I really hope that is not how people think, but I’m pretty sure some people do. Isn’t love how you treat each other, not the size of a ring? Isn’t love is letting your girlfriend put her cold hands on your stomach when she comes in from walking the dog? Isn’t love ordering out pizza when you really want sushi and kissing someone (on the lips) when they smell bad from being sick?

And why else do people buy bling, if not to express their love for another person? To impress people? To feel better about themselves? I hope both of those reasons are empty enough that I can leave it at that.

Diamonds are a huge waste of time and resources. We’ve already been over how their price is inflated, but besides that. Newly married people are generally not very well off. They are frequently young people fresh out of college or working their way up the ladder of success. They still have a lot to learn about managing finances, bringing together two incomes, and perhaps they are hoping to embark on the most expensive pastime around, having children. What better way to start that relationship than getting into debt over a ring with a clear stone? Wouldn’t the money be better spent towards a down payment on a house, paying off some student loans, or an investment in their future rather than an accessory? I’ve always wondered how people felt wearing such an expensive article of clothing on their left hand day in and day out. Doesn’t it make them nervous?

I don’t condemn anyone who has a diamond ring; I don’t look down on anyone that buys diamonds. But just in case some people didn’t know the inside scoop on conflict diamonds, or in case anyone was hovering between spending hundreds or even thousands on a ring or not, I thought I would throw this out there for your perusal.

So go out there you vegetarians, and eat your tofu while imagining juicy crisp bacon. Drive to work in your Geo Metros, you environmentalists. Feminists, split the dinner bill right down the middle. I will continue to walk past jewelry stores like a recovering alcoholic walks past taverns with my head held high without even sneaking a peak at the light catchers inside.

March 22, 2006 Electronic Dictionaries

Merriam - Webster (Korean Version) needs to straighten out their electronic dictionary system. The following are three true-life examples of the translations that students have come up with this week. No wonder they have such a hard time learning English if these are the translations their dictionaries are giving them.

Teacher: What did you do today?
Student: I go to school, I go to the home, I...(frantic typing into their dictionary)..."negative interaction with Mother."

Teacher: What will you do this weekend?
Student: I will study.
Teacher: Will you go out with friends?
Student: No, I'm afraid it would be...(typing)..."The Royal Seal."

Teacher: You and your friend fought?
Student: Yes, I am, no, I WAS angry, but then I sad. She feel...(typing)..."the liability of the accused."

January 10, 2006 Poetry in Translation

I was searching for something do one class period and so, on a whim, I had a class of mine translate a poem for me. It was the hallmark variety and was on a card I had gotten. Their translation had a sweet ring to it and I had another, more advanced class do the same thing. I liked the result.

Here is an example...

(The younger student's translation)

Sometimes
Where do you go from me?
Closed eyes and mine question
My truth and windy
Where do you and I go?


(The older student's translation)

Sometimes I do it.
I don't know where I go to.
Then close your eyes and question your heart.
In heart, truth and hope.
The hope in your heart will take you somewhere.

January 04, 2006 Phrases I've heard in the past 72 hours (In Korea).

I swear I've hear every single one of these phrases uttered in the past 72 hours, either to myself or to my co-workers.


-"My favorite book I read in the year 2005 was, "I Love You and I Do Love You," it's not a love story. It's about a husband and wife and she had a disease, but he loves her anyways."

-"Do you have any plans to starve yourself for your New Year's Resolution?"

-"That dog is not for eating. Pet."

-"If you could change any three things about Korea, what three things would you change?" *hostile silence* "I wouldn't change anything. Korea is perfect."

-"Your hair is very messy today. Do you ever wash your hair?"

-"You look awful today. What's wrong with you?"

-"My neighbor's rice cake is always larger than mine."

September 26, 2005 A few thoughts on Korea

The rallying cry behind many foods in Korea is "why not?" Why not a ham and cheese sandwich with apple slices and ketchup on it? Why not a pizza with potato and kimchi? (kimchi is fermented cabbage) Why not mix pineapple with yellow radish? You honestly never know what you're going to get. And I have learned the hard way that no matter how good something looks, only buy a small portion until you have tasted it. Never be surprised when you order your pork cultlet and rice and get on the side one tiny container with three baked beans in it. Never be surprised.

I love the whole culture of bowing to each other. It is so polite and convenient. Words need not be said. As of right now it is my favorite thing about this culture.

It's hard to be American in a secluded town in Korea. Especially an American woman who isn't super thin in a Korean town full of people who have never seen a foreigner. I am very grateful that I am so confident in myself and I don't care too much about my body shape. Otherwise I'd be crying every day. 

Today I went swimming and didn't think anything of weighing myself as I finished. (I have gotten a touch chubbier than I like this past year or two, so I am trying to slim down) The second my feet touched the scale a dozen grandmas surrounded me. They couldn't believe how much I weighed! (71 KG!! What an elephant! I can't believe the scale didn't break!) They all pointed at it and talked quickly in Korean towards me. As I said, "Hangookmal, mo tambida" (I don't speak Korean) they showed me what they were saying.

They pointed at the scale and then poked me in the stomach and thighs to show me where the weight was. Then they all giggled at how chubby I was. I was then pushed off the scale and the skinniest grandma got on to show me how much I SHOULD weigh. (47 KG) She was about 4 feet 3 inches tall. The worst part is that in the changing room everyone is naked as they shower and change and so forth. Everyone. Foreigners included, and if you try and wear a swimming suit, goodness, the grandmas tell you off.

So here I am standing on a scale, obviously trying to loose some weight, otherwise I wouldn't be swimming every day, surrounded by grandmas laughing at me and poking me in my chubby naked stomach. Kamsamneda adjumas, (thank you grandmas) Kamsa - me - freaking- da. Like I said, I'm glad I'm such a confident young woman.

My boss is the kindest, most terrific guy in the entire world, but he succumbs to it as well. The other day 6 of us had to go somewhere in a car that sat 5. I jumped in the back thinking someone could sit on my lap, but my boss motioned for me to sit up front, explaining, "because you are fat."  I sat up front.

I made my first kid cry the other day. He was a new student and when he came in to my class he was completely silent. He wouldn't speak a single word, even when I had the other kids ask him in Korean what his name was. He wouldn't even touch the pencil I held out as I asked him in Korean to at least write his name. I gave him a moment to himself as my boss came back in and kneeled down to talk to him. The poor kid started sniffling and my boss, Kim Young Sik, put his arm around him and gently led him from the room, explaining as he left, "He's never seen a foreigner before." I didn't even bat an eye.

I'm a weekend writer who's been blogging for a while now.  My old blog was a mix of journal writings  daily rantings about things that annoyed me, polished articles, political opinions, and life events--it was pretty scattered and disorganized.  I'm going to separate the "Baby's Getting Big! photos" and "Random Journaling" from the "Tips on Having a Baby in Japan"  and the travel journals from the travel tips.   So, if you've ever visited my old blog, saraallsop.blogspot.com, feel free to check back often for personal stories about my life or family.  It will be focused on things that I want to remember or I think my family and friends would be interested in reading    This new blog will be things that a more general public would be interested in reading informative articles on traveling, funny stories and lists, and first chapters of novels that may someday be published.  

August 1st 2005 WWMD?

WWMD?  

I wonder what MacGyver would have done had he been in my situation?
I live in a small apartment with an even smaller bathroom. It's pretty nice by Korean standards...and to be quite frank, not too bad considering the places I've lived in. It is four feet long by two and one half feet wide. The bathroom holds both a toilet and a shower.You have to straddle the toilet bowl and keep your knee wedged against the faucet to shut the bathroom door.
The knob doesn't work very well as it's rusty and so it won't open from the inside of the bathroom. When I shower I am very careful to slide the door almost shut, but I don't let the bolt click.
If I had any brains I would know that I couldn't do that forever. If I had any brains I would have taken four minutes and gotten a Korean friend to call maintenance and had them fix it. (As I don't speak Korean and they don't speak English.) If I had any brains I would have known that one morning, exhausted after a late night of karaoke I would stumble into the bathroom to shower and shut the door firmly behind me.
No fire alarm has ever made my heart drop as quickly as the quiet click of that door latch. It was a %@#* moment when your heart literally stops. A solid five minutes of twisting and turning the knob produced no results so I accessed my situation. It was as follows...
-Due to the shower, nothing is kept in the room except shampoo, face wash and a bar of soap.
-The roof has panels, none of which lift more than an inch up when I push on them standing on the toilet.
-As I was planning to shower I am naked, and have not even a bobby pin in my hair to help me out.
-The soap dish is loosely screwed to the wall. If I kick it I could probably knock it loose. As I can't see how this would be of any use I lodge the information away and fuss with the doorknob again.

I turn it gently, twisting it up and down, left to right, searching for weakness. I turn it as quickly as I can, jerking it with dangerous speed. I grip it with both hands and try to turn it as hard as both hands will twist. It doesn't budge. Again, I survey my surroundings.

-The shower head is detachable. Perhaps I could use it to break off the hinges? The hinges are solid metal the the shower head is plastic. Improbable.

I kick the door as hard as I can. No result, but it feels good. I kick it ten more times justifying this expense of energy thinking that it might jiggle something loose in the doorknob.
Again I fuss with the doorknob, thinking, "when would people notice me missing?" In about 25 or 26 hours, I guess. I have friends who would call in 12 hours, but wouldn't think it weird that I wasn't answering my phone, and I wouldn't be missed until church the next day when I have to lead the music. Would they come to my apartment though? Or just be peeved that I had skipped out?
The idea of even two more hours in my tile prison is disheartening. I should have decorated a bit in here. A colorful mat with pictures of tropical fish wouldn't have killed me. And the corner is starting to get some soap scum.

-Panicked I start to beat out "help" in Morse code against the wall.?That's an international language, isn't it? I pound on the wall, 3 long, 3 short, 3 long, 3 short, 3 long, over and over again. SOS. Nothing. Perhaps they don't understand the romanized letters here. I translate SOS to Korean, 섯, but I don't know how to convert that to Morse, so I sit on the toilet and continue to fiddle with the knob.

My pride will still not allow me to call out for help, but I'm getting close. My ankle hurts from kicking and my hands from pounding. Even worse, I'm bored. Why didn't I bring a Mitchner novel and a banana sandwich to the shower with me?
I don't allow myself to think of what will happen if I don't get out and minutes later the doorknob shifts a fraction of an inch farther than it has in minutes past and I give one last Herculean effort with both hands and the door slides open.
The first thing I do is look at a clock. I've been in the bathroom for 37 minutes. I feel no pride at conquering the door.No sense of personification towards my jailer. Relief yes, but probably not enough.
I shower with the door completely open. The floor of my apartment is soaked with water. Don't care. I notice two large blisters on my right hand when I dry off and flip the fan on towards the spreading puddle.
Seriously though, what would MacGyver have done?