“…I work hard, do a lot of push-ups, a lot of sit-ups, get made fun of, sniff benzodiazepines–” He pushes one nostril closed with a finger.
“Hey, you asked. I wouldn’t tell just anybody this, you asked.” He’s pretty drunk. The overly-bent bill of his super-American baseball hat makes his thin horse-face look even thinner. I flick at the hat with my fingers.
“How often do you get your hair cut?”
“Every one-and-a-half-weeks,” he says, taking off the hat to show his ‘do.
“Wow.” The sides of his head are shaved, while the top is a bit longer. He’s got golden-brown hair under that hat, and a tattoo on his chest. And on his side. He shows me both after another beer.
“This is a wolf. And this is a quote from the bible.”
He asks me to dance with him, and I do, feeling it’s my duty as an American citizen. He is an Army man, after all.
He twirls me around a bit, and does some fancy twist with far too many moves for the amount of gin tonics I’ve had.
“Is this what you do, go out on the weekends and dance with girls?”
“I don’t know what a weekend is, anymore. I just have off days. And, no. Not really.”
He spins me again, and once I recover, I ask him more “meaningful” and “deep” questions about his life. About being in the Army. About how he likes Korea. About his hat.
At some point, later, after the dancing, I laugh to myself, thinking about how quickly I’ve become the English teacher who hangs out in the Westerner neighborhood, who drinks on Friday nights and dances with American Army dudes. Typical. Typical. Wonderful.
But it’s more than that. It’s the first moment we saw the group of “Army dudes” walk into the bar, forearm muscles out, baseball caps on. It’s how wrong we were, so quickly. It’s how all people, if you give them the chance, might just be good, interesting people in your life. Even if they wear sleeveless shirts.