The Melancholy Korean

“Tell me you saw the game on Friday.”

“Don’t you sleep?”

“Unbelievable, right?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“It’s crazy, but for a second there I thought you said you didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t.  I was otherwise engaged.”

“But your boy Wanger was pitching.”

“Nicky.  Stop.  First of all, it’s 5:00am.  Second, Chien-Ming Wang is not my boy.  Just because we both have Oriental Face does not make us boys, ok?  Wang is Chinese.  The Chinese are the most civilized people in the history of human civilization.  I’m Korean.  We descend from the Mongols.”

“Wanger’s from Taiwan.”

“You’re missing my point.”

“What’s a Mongol?”

(silence)

“You should have seen the faces at Fenway.  Wanger almost pitched a perfect game.  All the Pale Faces in the crowd were so sad.  They looked like they were at a funeral.  Hilarious.  Don’t they have any black people in Boston?”

“You sound like Ezra Pound.”

“Who?”

“Pound.  Ezra Pound.  The poet.”

“I don’t get you.”

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.”

(silence)

“But I said there weren’t any black people there.”

“Christ, Nicky.  Use your head for a second.  The branch is black.  The petals, the petals are white.  They’re on a black bough.”

(silence)

“So, how come you missed the game?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Something going on between you and the chick?”

“Nicky, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hey, buttercup, you know I love you.  I respect you.  Your life is your life.  But Bill already told me everything.”

“How did he find out?”

“That nit you live with said something.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah, that guy.”

“Christ, Nicky.  Are your lives so bereft of meaning and devoid of purpose that you can’t find anything better to do over the weekend than discuss the vagaries of my personal life?”

“I don’t know what vagaries means but yeah.  That sounds about right.”