Land of the Morning Calm

By Jared C. Wood

Galen has lived every day trying to live up to non-existant standards. He is rarely successful and retreats into his quiet life. But when things come to a head, Galen escapes to South Korea. He lands in Pohang, a small town in the southeast corner of the country. He takes charge of his life but a move to Seoul forces him to reckon with his past and what he might want for his future.

 

Passionate, subtly comic, and heavy with searching, Jared C Wood's Land of the Morning Calm is a novel about friendship, journey to self, and living a full life. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jared Wood
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223111498

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE LEGEND WAS THAT nine old men led long, joyous lives in this part of Seoul. Gu, meaning nine. Ro, meaning old man. Guro-gu, the other gu meaning district. Named in that literal, Korean way, Guro-gu was tucked on the southwest side of the metropolis, pressed against Bucheon, another dense city famous for its lush parks and forests.

Guro-gu housed one of Seoul’s two Chinatowns and was a district ignored by patriotic Koreans. The name may have been fortuitous, but the reality was not as kind. Galen lived in Guro-dong, one of fifteen wards in Guro-gu, which made it easy for him to remember his address, a complex mash of symbols and numbers: 1134-2 Guro-dong, Guro-gu. Guro-dong was a neighborhood like all the other Korean neighborhoods Galen knew: tiny kimbap restaurants, the menus un-changed since the Seoul Olympics; several bakeries that stocked not-quite-there-yet croissants and milk bread; a sprinkle of gyms; and dentist/plastic surgery/traditional medicine offices stacked on top of English hagwons stacked on top of convenience stores.

Galen was housed in Majestic Office-tel, a fairly new building spaced a few meters apart from Lovely Office-tel. Offices on the main floor and cozy rooms on the other floors. Housing was provided by the owner of whatever English academy one worked for, so beggars indeed could not be choosers.

Initially, Galen was unfamiliar with Guro-gu, Guro-dong, or any section west of Yeongdeung-po. The Korean magazines and websites did not mention any boutiques or hidden cafes in Guro, so Galen felt no need to venture into the wilderness. Still, he considered himself to be savvy and in-the-know. He had made the trip to Seoul many times over his three years living in Pohang, an insignificant city that even natives struggled to identify on the map. Then, when he grew tired of the neighboring port city of Busan (everyone knew of Busan!), Galen would make the four-hour journey to Seoul on early Saturday mornings. A posh hotel in Sinsa-dong, stops in upscale Cheongdam, Apgujeong, or Hannam, conversations with friends in cafes, and an easy Sunday night ride back to Pohang. Money was spent. Debts went unpaid, leaving credit card companies flustered. Where was Galen, they asked themselves. Those were good times.

One spring day —it might have been April— Galen received the first bill. A credit card with a meager limit, too silly to even worry about. Galen paid it off immediately, foregoing his monthly facial at the Four Seasons Busan and a few meals at his favorite BBQ spot. Galen was responsible, you see.

__________________________________________________

Galen dipped the cotton ball in the orange juice and ate it.  Remnants of tangy fuzz clung to his throat. He turned on the ceiling lamp, the only source of light in his room. One of the bulbs was burnt out. To change it required him to place a spindly chair on top of his floor mattress and stretch his arms until he got a cramp. And he still couldn’t reach the bulb. He stepped up into the bathroom and turned on the shower, a snaky, silver extension of his sink faucet; a five-minute shower transformed the floor into a soapy pond, long black hair from long ago trapped in the drain. Using his fingertips in the precise method taught by a frustrated Shinsegae sales lady, Galen applied toner, a serum, then another serum, thick and the color of a pearl, a You speak English so well gift, and sealed it with a moisturizer that purportedly produced glass skin. He put on one of his three Oxford shirts, sky-blue, too tight, two of the buttons across his chest hanging on for dear life. His khaki pants had a nascent hole forming in the thigh area. He was nearly strangled by the tie.

The walk from Galen’s room to the bus station took four minutes, a highlight trumpeted by his real estate agent whose business was on the ground floor of the building. Office-tels, an odd portmanteau of office and hotel, contain not only people but businesses as well. If one was lucky, you would be living next door to a notary or a shipping company— after five p.m., you would be guaranteed a semblance of peace. For most tenants like Galen, though, nights consisted of a symphony of moans, groans, sobs, and wails.

The 5613 bus was crowded. Galen braced himself as he stepped aboard. Eyes akimbo, stealthily avoiding the standing businessmen nodding off against the handrail. He spied an empty seat towards the back, but it was a two-seater. No. If he sat there, the atmosphere on the bus would shift. The Koreans, coming on the bus, would glare, silently daring each other to sit next to the black man. Who would be the unfortunate one, Galen thought. There would be uncomfortable jostling, bottlenecks forming in the front and rear, until one brave soul, with a heavy sigh, became his bus buddy. Standing, he placed his tote in between his firmly planted feet, held onto the seat back of an oblivious passenger, and swayed along with the jerky stop-and-start of 5613. Day was breaking and the clouds transformed from dark gray to silver, the sun trying to peek through but failing. The rainy season ended last month, but thick clouds remained, blocking cool air and leaving the city wet and sticky.

It was 7:15am, and the coffee shop was not yet open. The cotton ball, having fully dissipated, left Galen ravenous, but he was trying to remain liquid-only until his lunch break. With this meal plan, he would not only lose weight, but also have the funds to visit Pohang next month. He raced past the convenience store and entered the office building. Nine stories, yet squat compared to the surrounding behemoths, YoungYoung housed only four businesses: Kinko’s and a cafe on the ground level, Kim and Kim Legal encompassing floors two through seven, and Accent English: Yeouido. He walked past security, his ID tag swinging around his neck. He nodded to the desk clerk, still wondering if she recognized him after three months. The staff at YoungYoung were not fond of Accent English; the constant flow of foreigners, their odd names and thick waists, confused the front desk team and eventually they stopped checking their IDs. Teachers rarely lasted longer than two years, anyway. Galen was determined to finish his year. There was no other option.

Galen was awoken by light rapping on his office door. He was not yet accustomed to the early start and, absent any clients, would take a brief nap upon arrival. Esther, the client service manager, had come to deliver his third pay stub. Using both hands, she delicately presented the paper. The pay stub, written in a dizzying mixture of Korean and English, enumerated thirty days of work plus a tiny stipend for attending a seminar at the Jongno branch. Minus his room rent, taxes, and pension, little money remained for the month. Esther inched from the wall into a seat next to Galen.

—Let's take a look, okay, she said. Her dark chocolate hair, spiced with honey highlights, was pulled into a severe bun. Heavy silver hoops yanked at her ear lobes. Her breasts, rumored to have been enhanced by the plastic surgeon husband of a wealthy client, pressed against a plum cardigan, cashmere maybe. She tugged at her mini-skirt, inappropriate for this environment, Galen thought, as she motioned to the stub, laid flat on his desk.

—So, this...process shouldn’t be new for you. At the top you see your base salary, and then we subtract your rent, and with insurance and pension and so forth. Esther then pointed to how many clients Galen had last month, her bejeweled talon circling around his overall rating.

— Why is my rating so low, Galen asked. And I know I had more clients than this last month. Galen’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk. The amount of jiggle was concerning, an issue to be handled later with some squats. He needed to remain calm and compliant.

—Well, some clients mentioned that you are...well, how can I put it? Frankly speaking, you are too friendly. Too casual. They want someone who is more professional. Like Leo. Your rating is still pretty high, though. You have a good number of ‘fives’, see? A click clack of a talon on paper.

—And what about my client numbers? They seem low. Relax, Galen. Modulate that tone, he thought. Another thought, fleeting: It was so much easier working in Pohang.

—As you know, you do not get paid when you do level interviews for potential clients. Because you had so much...space on your calendar, you were able to do those more than other teachers. But you did get some clients from those interviews, right? Esther looked away from Galen towards the door, a sign that she did not want to spend any more time in his office. Galen, listen. Why don’t you try to be more formal, both to clients and staff. Some of your colleagues think you don’t like them. Esther stood up and headed for the door. And, not to be mean, but how is your health? Are you eating well? Exercising?

Esther left before he could respond, traces of her perfume stuck to the chair. After doing quick calculations in his head, Galen discovered he would not be able to visit Pohang no matter how many cotton balls he gobbled.

TRYING TO REMAIN POSITIVE, Galen left his office and went to the lobby. Accent English was a prosperous-looking business. Out of the large windows, one could see the mighty buildings of Yeouido. Along the walls extended photographs of the more famous clientele: film actors (Gangnam branch), semi-working film actors (Jongno branch), television actors (Mapo branch) and government officials and executives of neighboring businesses (Yeouido branch). The lobby was lofty and the lights were set to optimum luminosity, several spotlights directed to placards of the Accent English: Yeouido Branch teachers: toothy, airbrushed Westerners whose American universities were highlighted in red ink. Accent did hire a few South Africans, but drew the line at Irish or Australian citizens. There were also two Asians spotlighted, hired to teach the increasingly popular Chinese and Japanese languages. To the right of the heavy glass doors hung an immense flatscreen television that blared BBC News, a further display of Accent’s cosmopolitan ethos. There were two lemon trees, fake, symmetrically placed alongside a table loaded with coffee and tea. The hallway leading to teacher offices was on the opposite side, the front desk facing the entry.

A young man in a pleasingly snug navy blue suit embellished with a small red flower on the lapel waited in the lobby, his legs crossing and uncrossing as he read a newspaper. Galen went to him. Though teachers could not see their specific ratings, Galen knew that Jacob had given him five stars. Jacob was his first client, born from a placement interview that quickly digressed from the scripted questions. They spoke in a pleasant amalgam of Korean and English, behavior that is frowned upon at Accent but necessary in many situations. Like Esther, he was born in Korea but left for America at an early age. However, due to financial malfeasance on his father’s part (something to do with shoddy, imported kimchi), he returned to Korea at six and, never having learned English properly, became a client of the most famous adult English education chain in the country.

—Let me guess. You are here for your Chinese class with Ms. Yu, Galen said. Galen must have snuck up on him because Jacob yelped and dropped some coffee on the floor. Feeling awful, Galen ran to the table and grabbed some napkins to wipe up the spill as the front desk staff looked on, bemused.

Laughing, Jacob gently pushed Galen’s arms away as he tried to wipe up a drop of coffee resting under the flower pin. You scared me, Galen. As they shook hands, Galen attempted to make eye contact but failed. Jacob was incredibly attractive, beyond the precise plasticity of most Korean men. The first thing you noticed was his nose, thick and powerful, an oddity amongst this surgically-enhanced population. Galen knew he worked out daily, but his muscles were sleek and proportioned, enticing both clothed and unclothed, he imagined. His chestnut hair was thick and artfully styled, with loose curls hanging to the left and the sides cropped. From their first meeting, three months ago, Galen wanted to fuck him, or to simply plant kisses on his neck, or to perhaps rub up against him. It had been years since Galen last had sex or any type of romantic relationship, his connection to his physical self unbalanced and inelegant, leading to self-doubt and eventual surrender to a life alone.

—Yeah, I am here for my Chinese class. I am not good at it yet, Jacob continued.

—I hoped you were here for Ms. Yu. You better not be cheating on me with another English teacher, Galen says, the joke not landing based on the look on Jacob’s face. Before he could translate into Korean—damn the rules!— Ms. Yu came out to the lobby to pick him up. A few head bows, and Galen was alone in the space, again.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN HE TURNED THIRTY, Galen left New York City and moved to South Korea. He was to become a teacher at Aspire, the largest English afterschool academy in the country. Aspire required all potential teachers to pass the training in Seoul, a week of teaching practice and evaluation, after which they would be given their placement. During the application process, he was asked about his location preference. Having no knowledge of Korea’s urban layout and not wanting to seem difficult, he chose the doesn’t matter option.

Orientation and training was provided at the Aspire: Cheongdam branch, the most desired branch; the students were academically advanced and the parents wealthy and Westernized. They never placed new teachers at the Cheongdam branch. The training was led by a handsome gyopo, Daniel, his extremely white teeth and bouncy demeanor evidence of his Illinois upbringing—his properly fitted clothing, all meant to blend in, showcasing his Korean ethnicity. At the start of the orientation, when his cohort all met in the lobby of Glorious Hotel: Gangnam, Galen overheard one of the white girls say she was going to fuck Daniel within the week. She was plump with long, unkempt hair and an unflattering flowery, pink dress. Perhaps if she stayed in whatever prairie town she undoubtedly came from, Galen thought, she might have a chance. But here, in Korea, in Gangnam, with fiercely thin, porcelain-skinned Korean women fluttering about, she may need to stick with her own kind.

Daniel was of average height and was darker than most Koreans; he could be mistaken for Thai or Vietnamese, with his jet-black hair and butterscotch skin. He had been nice to Galen, rubbing his back when he flubbed his first mock lesson and whispering that the majority of candidates pass the final mock lesson. There is no need to worry, Galen. I have only seen two teachers not make it through, and that was because they spent the week hungover.

David was correct, and the evaluators at Aspire gave in without a fight. On that Friday, Galen was on an intercity bus bound for his new position at Aspire: Pohang- Bukgu branch.

Weeks went by, and by the end of the summer, Galen was fully acclimated to Pohang, taken in by its seaside locale and proximity to the greater, more cultured Busan yet repulsed by its provincialism and over-abundance of seafood, a cuisine that caused him to break out in ghastly hives and eventually close his throat.

By dint of applying himself, he became head teacher after his first year, replacing a lanky, bespectacled man who decided to return to Chicago and become a drummer. His apartment, sunny and paid for by Aspire, was located right in the middle of the expanding Jangseong-dong neighborhood. It was a twenty-minute walk to Bukbu beach, and on steamy summer evenings, when the streets were full of drunken businessmen and besotted young couples, Galen would take the long way, going through Hwanho Park, hiking up the hill that overlooked the city and led down to the northern section of the beach. He would sit in the pagoda that rested at the top of the hill, winded and shirt tacky with sweat, surrounded by mosquitoes. He would stretch his thick thighs and lean arms, twisting and turning. He was never alone, and the halmonis, their permed hair and wrinkled skin, would whisper as they sat crossed-legged on the straw mats, nibbling on fried cow intestines.

Galen developed the habit of going to downtown Pohang on weekends. A foot stream ran through downtown, a sliver of commerce, a variety of businesses piled on top of one another. On the hottest days, he would take his shoes and socks off and dip his feet in the warm, clear water, ignoring those who, subsequent to his arrival, quickly laced up their shoes and trotted to the other end, glancing back at the strange foreigner. To spend his precious Saturdays sifting through gastronomic oddities at Jukdo Market —relying on color and smell and taste, wondering if the vendor would be kind enough to offer a sample, refusing to use an online translator, nodding and smiling, gripping the flimsy plastic bag filled with what he hoped were tomatoes and onions, or dropping by the lone bookstore, skimming the covers of popular new Korean novels, sounding out each symbol, recognizing every third word— seemed to him to be vital to his experience, a balm to his self-esteem. This city, once exotic, soon became part of his world, and he relished his time alone, whimsically entering and exiting society, never invisible, but often disregarded, which was an occasionally agreeable condition.

On account of his full immersion philosophy, Galen evaded the entreaties of his fellow expatriates, dodging their glances and waves on his early afternoon walks around Jangseong-dong, as he popped into Hanaro Mart or E-Mart or Home Plus to see which meats were on sale. He felt comfortable at Aspire, teasing out his emerging vocabulary and slang, bolstering his credentials as head teacher and garnering further