Floored (1 of 2)

Four sour looking men sat sipping beers at a horseshoe bar. Smoke hazed over everything like dust frying over a rusty cooking pan. Off-key notes from a lazy Jazz band broke through what was otherwise a torpid silence.

“Fuck me man...” rattled Lee, the bulky, weight-lifter one of the four, crew-cut strikingly synchronous with his blunt words, “this place really sucks...”

Raymond, the scruffy, floppy-haired Englishman to the extreme left of them, wondered vaguely whether that was a Canadian or a U.S accent. Having never left the rugged old shores of Britain, he couldn't yet make the distinction with any confidence. It was all the same to him. And who, wondered Raymond, would have thought deciphering those Atlantic nuances would be the biggest lesson of the Far East? Not him, that's for sure. And, to be honest, at this particular moment, he wasn't particularly interested. Wasn't really listening at all, in fact.

What was it that pretty dolly waitress had said to him earlier, in all her colourfully-accessorized J-pop cuteness?

“Coffee very delicious, yes?”

Her English was really very basic, thought Raymond, but she had a bright white smile, earth brown eyes, an alluring bulge of breast and a petite bottom with just the right amount of jiggle. She caught his full attention.

“Very good, thanks.” he had replied simply, wondering what more could have been said.

“And me very delicious too.” she had giggled. One of those playful, girlish Asian giggles that Raymond was learning to deal with almost from day to day. They drove him wild; the hardest part was ignoring them.

“Hmm...” he wondered if she really liked him, or was just toying. Korean women baffled him like hard maths.

“You like me?” she had asked, after a heated silence. Then he had known, of course, but she was too in his face, too earnest. She caught him off guard. Anyway, whether good luck or bad, he wasn't yet sure, for at that precise moment she had been called over by another customer and Raymond, noticing a clock in that direction, had realised he had a class in fifteen minutes. Time to dash off.

Of course, that was all hours ago now, and over the course of an afternoon's teaching, his thoughts had returned to her again and again, magnetized. She really was very attractive; pouting lips, bright soft skin, a charming smile. In her early twenties, he guessed. But was she right for him? Koreans were nothing but an enigma so far. Was it worth pursuing? That was the question, and the only answer he'd come to so far was, maybe.

The band finished another tune, abandoning the bar to painful silence.

“Yeah, it's like a god-damn funeral parlour.” said another of his companions gruffly. It could have been Australian,or New Zealand accented English. Or even South African, Raymond supposed.

“Why did we come here?” The question rang alarm bells in Raymond's head. Raymond now turned to look at the owner of that rough voice. Bruce, his name was. An older guy, probably in his fifties, shaved and shiny all over, with a red red face that spoke of the decades of glorious fun he'd had romping round the world. Raymond hardly knew him really, just seen him striding along the corridors of “King's English” central Seoul headquarters a few times: a labyrinthine honey-pot of cubicles buried amongst the subterranean shopping complexes.

“It was my fault. Sorry guys.” Karl piped-up, coming to the rescue. Karl, a sallow, sharp nosed gangly fellow who was Raymond's closest friend of the four, glanced over at him across the bar through his spectacles. Raymond gave him a nod of thanks, feeling like a guilty child.

“Just one of those stupid websites, you know” explained Karl gallantly, “who can trust those amateur reviewers? They probably came here on a different night.”

“Fucking hell yeah...” said Lee. He must be U.S, decided Raymond, what with all that swearing. Although Canadians probably swear just as much as anyone...

“Let's just get out of here after this drink then.” offered Karl. He was U.S, from New Jersey, Raymond knew that for a fact, learning it during their occasionally shared coffee breaks. All my friends bloody Yanks, he thought. But that was just because there were no Brits in Korea. Or so it seemed, he hadn't met any yet.

Raymond looked around the place again, counting the cost of the terrible sin he'd committed in bringing them here. Despite the depressing dim light and fake Oak walls, it was the band that really “did it” for Raymond. They liked to label themselves “Jazz”, with portraits of Blue Note legends adorning the walls like gemstones, yet they did nothing but massacre classic tune after classic tune. Raymond knew every song they played intimately, and just how poor their renditions. They were jokers. It was a crime. A kind of human rights violation. “Musical genocide”, he mused, or “genocidal music”?

“Well, where to then?” asked Raymond, suddenly concerned.

“How about Itaewon?” suggested Bruce. “Always good for a laugh.”

And now Raymond had to act. Itaewon was miles away, a subway journey with at least one change, full of U.S. Servicemen and local whores in loud bars of drunken untidiness. Perhaps on another night, he might have been up for it, but, as ridiculous as it sounded, since he didn't even know her name, he wanted this night for her.

“Do we have to?” he pleaded. He thought his voice sounded far too whiny. God knows how he sounded to these guys; probably just like a stereotypical prudish Brit.

“I mean,” Raymond continued, trying to redeem himself “it's far. And there might be some other decent places in this building, it's certainly big enough, right? I have to teach tomorrow morning anyhow, and I'm new at the game. It's just a Wednesday night...”

His voice faded at their dejected faces. Perhaps he'd ruined their night. Raymond wondered again at his own idiocy in bringing them here at all. But then he remembered, it was Karl who'd invited them, not him. True, he'd invited Karl, thinking the two of them could enjoy a quiet couple of Wednesday night beers. That he might have had the chance to go off and find her.

“Right, this calls for desperate action.” Bruce eventually barked. “Waiter,” he flicked his fingers at the bored looking waiter, who ambled over slowly and carefully, wary of foreign dangers.

“Four tequilas.”

The waiter promptly delivered, and Raymond had a sinking feeling the night was slipping away from him.

“Wakey wakey...” intoned Bruce, before downing his glass. The others followed suit, wishing they had water to chase it with, but not wanting to look soft.

“Right boys, I think I've got an idea.” Bruce was smiling intently at them and raising his eyebrows. He had a look of danger and tricks. “It's an old game I've played whenever I've been in a big city like this. It's especially good in Asian cities, I don't know why. The last I played it was in Bangkok, I think, or maybe Manila.” He scratched his shiny head, trying to remember.

“Anyway, it's quite simple and not a bad laugh for a night like this. All we have to do is take it in turns choosing floors.”

At first it seemed that he hadn't said anything at all, yet he waited for their response.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Just go to them? Then what?” asked Raymond after an elongated wait. He knew it was probably a stupid question but it was also the only question as far as he could see.

“Whatever's there...” replied Bruce, looking around at them with his winners grin and his flashing eyes, rubbing his hands together.

“That's all...”

Then, seeing that everyone was rather slower than him,

“Look, it's simple. Whatever we find, we have to give it a go. At least go in and have a drink, if that's all we can do. You never know what you might find, believe me...”

The others made “oohs” and “ahs” of understanding. Clearly they'd believe anything this man said, thought Raymond. But it wasn't all that difficult to see why; his age and good looks spoke for success in matters of debauchery. Clearly, he'd had his share of adventure, so almost anything he said was tried, tested and stamped; a guaranteed laugh. Memorable, if nothing more.

Lee put some money on the table.

“I'm in.”

“Me too.” followed Karl.

“What about you?” asked Bruce, looking over at Raymond, waiting.

They all stared at him like footsoldiers.

“OK OK...” he said with defeated petulance, feeling rather ganged up on. His plans, to the extent that he'd had any, were in tatters, but they'd gone awry from the moment he'd walked in; seeing the two curious strangers sitting here waiting for him with Lee; hearing the awful music.

“Right then,” barked Bruce, “let's get out of here shall we?”

Lee cheered, and they all promptly unstuck themselves from the bar, marching happily off to choose random floors in some nondescript Korean skyscraper. Raymond wondered what would have happened if he'd had that idea. If he'd said it, they would have put him down. If he'd said it, he would have put himself down.

Striding out, Raymond took one last glance through the big window down at the wide boulevard. Traffic filled the many lanes like a river of flickering red fireflies. Brash tall buildings receded into the distance. This city is truly immense, he thought, and there she was down on the third floor of this very building.

In moments, they all hovered around Bruce in the lift. The panel of buttons was far too large, and Bruce's chubby digit moved from number to number like he was waiting for the dead to take command. For a second it landed on three, then moved off, teasing, eventually landing at eighteen.

As they jerked into motion, Raymond had a thought. What was to stop someone choosing the third floor? He calculated the odds. There were two hundred and fifty floors, so the chance was really infinitesimal. Plus he suspected it was more of an exciting plunge for most to choose a really high floor, rather than a low one. At least just for the views.

But what of himself, there was nothing to stop him. As he drank more, which he would, the possibility of bumping into her again would seem ever more attractive, despite the lecherous company that accompanied him, despite the state he would be in. And if such a bumping did occur, he couldn't say what might happen. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

The lift doors opened. They were greeted by the sound of running water and a reception area of stone and dim light. A smart receptionist stood serenely behind a large desk. She was very white and very pretty.

“What's this place, Bruce?” Karl asked.

“Not sure you guys are going to like all that water...” he grinned.

“A bath house?” Lee groaned. “Shit man... So now all I get is naked men?”

“Don't worry young fool, the night is still young...” Bruce punched Lee softly in the chest.

“Yeah,” Karl looked over at Raymond, “and it's an interesting start...”

Raymond grunted and nodded vaguely, hoping they'd have swimming trunks.

There were no swimming trunks, at least the receptionist had no idea what they were talking about, and so the younger of them ran from the changing rooms to the first hot tub they found, jumping in like frosted plucked chickens. The water was disarmingly hot, and Raymond grinned as he saw Bruce emerge calmly from the changing rooms, striding around confidently trying to blend in where no Western man ever really could. For one thing, he was covered in swirling lines, some kind of tribal tatooes, Raymond guessed.

“So...” coed Bruce as he slipped into their hot tub. “This is the real deal. Local living. Nothing quite like it is there boys?”

They all grunted.

Raymond wondered what role the bath house played in the make-up of Korean psyche. Pools of varying size were dotted around the room, and they were outnumbered twenty to one by naked Korean males. It was all very egalitarian; they came in all shapes, sizes and ages, ranging from the skinny to the obese, from small children to the extremely elderly. Endless rows of individual showers hugged the walls, some manned by very actively scrubbing men; far to vigorously really, noted Raymond, as if their lives depended on removing their skins. Most unsettling were the number of deck chairs occupied by snoozing wonders, their genitals flapping gallantly for all to see.

“I don't know, there's something funny about it.” pondered Lee. “Everybody just seems so darn relaxed, but I don't feel normal at all. Let's get out of here.”

“Give it twenty minutes,” reassured Bruce, “just take it easy and enjoy. Imagine you're at home or something. It's supposed to be relaxing.”

Raymond tried to relax, wondering what the scene was like in the women's hall. He'd seen a number of very attractive specimens arriving in the reception, but they had gone through another door and that was that. Then he thought of that waitress, did she visit these places? He worried he might get aroused. Balancing it off, he looked around at the hairless men, recalling their stern faces in the changing rooms, prowling around like proud lions.

Karl was the next on floor choosing duties, and they ended up at a karaoke place. When Raymond realised this, he found himself agreeing entirely with Lee that, first things first, they should order beers. But first they had to be shown to their own private booth by a joyless girl in pigtails. The room was complete with leather sofas, remote control song pad, and encyclopedias of available songs. Huge flat-screen TV's seemed to cover every available space, displaying spinning cartoon treble clefs, bouncing clouds, and rainbows. Raymond sat himself down heavily, waiting anxiously for the beer.

Eager Karl grabbed the microphone and a song instantly forced itself through the tens of speakers that occupied the walls. His untrained voice rang loudly through the computerised backing, hurting Raymond's ears. It didn't help that he'd selected a hip-hop track, and had no rhythm whatsoever.

There was more pain to come, Lee and Bruce taking their turns like old fashioned wrestlers, taking the ring with Guns and Roses and Billy Joel, yet before Karl had finished with Snoop Dogg, Raymond already felt wronged or inspired enough to slip on his headphones. Blasting on an old Miles Davis track from his grandest electronic jazz-fusion period, he sat back and tried to get through this. Even up to full volume, it couldn't really compete with the karaoke machine, but it made him feel a bit better.

Upon finishing his onslaught, Bruce pointed the mike at Raymond with a childish grin. Raymond shook his big head with clear negativity. Noticing the earphones, Bruces lips moved violently, a questioning, slightly hurt look in his eyes. Raymond had no chance of hearing, but he knew exactly what it meant. So he just shook his refusals again, smiled, and raised a can of beer to them all. It was as sociable as he was going to be, and they'd better appreciate it.

Raymond must have drank about five cans in the karaoke place. He certainly got through more than the others, compensating himself fairly, he thought.

“You go ahead man...” Lee had stood with his back to the metal wall of the lift, but Raymond waved him forward to the floor selection panel.

“I'll wait my turn...” said Raymond lazily with an unexpected burp, thinking of the waitress again. What would happen if he did go ahead and choose the third floor? He hadn't made up his mind yet, but daydreams pregnant with possibility were sometimes more enjoyable than the real thing, and it would be his turn soon enough.

“Floor 69,” smaned Lee, “Here's hoping...”, but Raymond knew his imaginings were more worthwhile.

She was a university student, he guessed, envisioning her on the morning subway in crispy white university blouse that seemed more appropriate for an expensive girls school in middle England. But that was how they did things here, Raymond told himself, perhaps with the fantasies of older men in mind, so he let go all compunction.

Having descended only a few floors, he'd already got to the part where she noticed him hanging there amongst the din of commuters, her dark eyes scrolling into his, the hint of a suggestive grin on the corner of her purple lips. Then her sighs echoed in his ears, and with a silent jump, she was squashed up next to him, stiff nipples rubbing though. Looking up at him with mock innocence, she tugged at her rosy bottom lip with a naughty finger.

Raymond knew the daydream was getting out of hand, so he was a little relieved when they reached their next mystery destination.

“This place is just fucking weird,” said Lee.

They'd just walked into a night club which occupied the 69th floor. Raymond searched his dimming memory. Perhaps it was the oddest place he'd ever visited.

“Perfect for you old man...” joked Karl, but Bruce was shaking his head in dismay.

It took a further minute for the four of them to close their gaping mouths, move out of the entrance way and get a grip. A rude waiter was hassling them to sit down and order drinks. Stubborn old Bruce slapped himself on the cheeks a few times, shaking his head. At the very least they should do that, he gasped. Then they could get the hell out.

So they drank their beers as fast as they could. With a chorus of unnatural coughs, vague scratches and mystified glances, they stared dumbly at the heaving mass of elderly.

At first it had looked rather ordinary, for Korea. A throned DJ weaving glaringly overdone tunes, ensconced snugly at one end in the jaws of a huge silver dragon. Fake candle lit tables surrounded the heaving dance floor. But soon enough, adjusting ones eyes to the light, they'd caught onto it, and it hit them all hard.

The dancing.

It was a kind of slow jive, their legs ever so still, yet their arms gyrating up and down awkwardly like rusting robots. Their shiny, vigorous smiles, and the way they groped each other. Raymond wondered if it was the music that fired them; was it techno? Old folks back home certainly didn't go for that kind of thing.

“Fancy a rave?” Karl offered Bruce, “I'll escort you...”

“Shut your mouth.” hissed Bruce.

And so they just sat there, staring at the dance floor blankly, occasionally looking at each other blankly. They had no point of reference, nothing to compare it to.

In the end, there was nothing else to do but laugh, yet despite the overpowering urge, they held back; it seemed strangely disrespectful to the aged to do it right there and then. They glanced at each other, eyes twinkling. It was their very own presence that was really funny. Paying the grumpy waiter and downing the remains of their beers, they stood up and left, practically running through the door.

Safely outside, Bruce broke the silence.

“Thank Christ I didn't get chatted up!”

“Oh, don't beat yourself up about it,” said Lee, “you could have had any one of them.”

Finally, they let out all the wicked laughter.

Back in the lift, Raymond was awarded beery cheers; Dutch courage for the final choice. Slapping him on the back as his finger hovered nervously over the third floor button, he had to admit they'd been somewhat welded together by the fires of experience.

“Come on man, just do it!” somebody encouraged.

“Nowhere can be as bad as that place.”

“Come on...”

“Yeah...” to hell with it, thought Raymond, suddenly and uncontrollably picturing her clearer than ever. Her coffee tanned legs crossed like silk lace on a bright white bed, smiling up at him in pink lingerie. Eyes bright as candles, she began slowly undoing her bra, a virgin priestess offering him first communion into the church of the Asian woman. He stroked her on the cheek. It could happen.

“Get on with it!”

Quite right, he said to himself. Once and for all his finger was moving down onto the third floor button. He was in control, and for the first time in ages, he had a clear intent.

But it didn't happen that way. Instead, one of them shoved him, pushing his hand elsewhere. It was an accident, they were just playing, and he ended up pushing for the thirteenth floor.