Bus Must Go On
Along a wide Yeouido boulevard golden ginko tops sway gently greeting a breezy November night. The air smells of sweet dry leaves and winter promises. It’s around midnight, unusually peaceful, almost serene. I walk with a friend towards the nearest bus stop. A drunk shaggy-looking man, hair disheveled, cheeks purple and pudgy, black sagging pants covered in vomit, is fighting with the bus driver who is trying to kick him out. Other passengers, expressionless, are glued to their seats and cell phone screens. It doesn’t concern them. The bus driver manages to get the man off the bus. The man clings to him and pulls him out, as well. Together they land on the sidewalk. Within seconds, the drunk is punched and kicked several times by the enraged bus driver. The drunk falls to the ground. The driver, straightening his tie and smoothing his shirt, walks slowly back to the bus, starts the engine, and drives off.
I see my bus arriving and urge my friend to start walking towards her bus stop on the other side of the street. She walks off. I got on. It’s a long way home from here, and I am happy to find a seat. As I'm flopping down, I see in the front of the bus the drunk man boarding. He can barely stand upright. I want to warn the driver that he is a potential troublemaker, but decide that my language is not good enough for all of that.
Secretly, I observe the man who is now i the center of the bus. With both filthy hands he grabs onto the overhead handles and hovers above a young boy in school uniform who is snoring in his seat. A moment later, the boy is awakened by the stench of alcohol and stomach acid that escape from the man. Stubbornly, the boy remains in the seat, burying his offended nose in his jacket.
I can’t see the man’s face, only his shaggy hair. He seems to be sleeping while standing. By now the whole bus stinks like a cheap drinking hole in a bad part of town. No one shows any sign of disturbance. Stone faces everywhere. The man suddenly looks up. His mouth is open. It reveals what looks like a handful of broken French fries of uneven length. His teeth. They appear even more yellow in the middle of his unfortunately arranged purplish face. His eyes, unripe persimmons, swollen and yellowish, don’t have any light in them. With these half blind eyes he spots a seat at the very back of the bus and stumbles in that direction.
He hurls himself onto the seat. I half turn around and see that he’s next to a young girl on one side and a middle-aged man on the other. There are also two more people sitting next to the window on both sides of the bus. The only stir that the arrival of the man provokes among them are barely audible half-hearted sighs and smirks. A couple of hands fly to the noses.
We drive across a beautifully lit bridge. Underneath, the Han, like a long necklace studded with shimmering diamonds, flows peacefully disappearing in the night far away. The late night autumn sky is the color of deep blue pansies. Pretty.
“Aeeeshhh” – a hiss comes from the back. “Kibbun-ee jinja nappayo” [you are really spoiling my mood]. The drunk is upset with the girl next to him. He might have fallen asleep and put his smelly head on her shoulder or lap. Or, started fondling her. She might have objected. Somehow, she offended him. The young man sitting next to the window on the left and the girl switch seats. The girl is very young, short, stocky and warmly dressed. The drunken man repeats over and over, “ Kibbun-ee nappayo.” The girl retorts with apologies, “Chaessong-habmnida. Jal motthaesoyo” [ I am sorry. I am sorry]. Who did what to whom is not important. She is younger and must apologize to him. She’s a well-mannered girl. The raspy complaints from the man and the squeaky apologies from the girl continue as the bus speeds on.
A sound of punch followed by a scream. The man’s mood is so bad now that it had to find a relief in the fist landing on the girls face. The young man between the girl and the drunk, grabs the fist. There’s some commotion on the bus. The drunk frees his fist and punches the girl again. Some passengers ask the driver to stop. Others look out the window. The driver ignores the requests for a while.
As the punching and screaming continues, the bus finally stops. The driver, an apparent former king of village dances, broad-shouldered and big-headed, all stiff permed hair and oversized patent leather shoes, walks towards the back of the bus. By now the girl, imprisoned in the corner by the window, is hysterical. The only buffer zone between her and the enraged drunk is her lukewarm defender, the young man who’s unwillingly holding down the man’s fist..
Seeing the bus driver, the drunk loses it. He starts sending random punches and kicks in all directions. The middle-aged man on his right decides that at this point intervention cannot be any longer avoided. He grabs the fist closest to him and holds it pinned down to his chest. Two men from the front of the bus appear and grab the drunk man’s legs. The buffer zone is now in control of the other fist and the drunk’s neck. Quite bizarre, this scene. It looks as if though the drunk is about to be quartered.
Before long, the drunk is thrown onto the floor and held down by five man. A sixth man calls the police. We wait. The former king of village dances supervises the operation, chewing gum and loudly smacking. The girl is convulsing in sobs. The man is writhing on the floor. The five vigilantes are panting.
A middle-aged woman, an ajumma, with a seat right in front of the abused girl, is visibly annoyed by the wait. She casts nasty glances at the girl. She screams abuses, alternating between the girl and the bus driver. She shouldn’t wait. She will not wait. The girl’s sobbing stops for a second giving way to yet another series of respectful “Chaessonghabnida’s.” More and more people are siding with the ajumma who doesn’t want to wait. Soon there is a cacophony of complaints about the delay. I need to get home. Yobo waits. Children study. What’s the big deal? A drunk man, a punched girl?! Just another night in Seoul. Let's remain calm here.
The driver is a good public servant, only too happy to concede to the chorus. He asks the five men to let the man go. The man who called the police opposes. He wants to wait. He looks at the girl and asks: “Kwaenchan-kessoyo?” (are you o.k.?). The round checks, punched, flushed and wet nod in agreement. She doesn’t want the police. She is late in coming home. Parents are already angry. She doesn’t need any more trouble than she’s already in. The phone man is still reluctant. For such indecision, he gets an earful from the ajumma. She yells at the driver: “kaseyo, kaseyo, kaseyo” [go!, go!, go!]
The girl is now eager for the man to be let off the bus. Her wish is granted. His body is briefly flying through the air as he is thrown out by the force of four men. He lands with a thud onto the sidewalk but then rolls over to the black oily puddle below. He tries to get up, but falls back again, not moving anymore. The bus doors close and we drive off.
The bus flies along the streets of Jongno and Daehangno, finally reaching my stop. As I get off, a black cloud of ‘salary men’ shrouded in a light soju mist, their coat tails and ties flapping, bags swinging, boards the bus. Black creatures praying on blue buses.
At the same time, somewhere in the city, the bruised soaked drunk is waiting for another bus with another girl to punch. I walk home, safe, content even. It can't be me.
___________________________________________________________________
NOTE: This is a true story. The events related in it happened on a November Friday this year, on the bus 162, on my way home from Yeuido.
When I was asked to write a story that would somehow fit the theme “identity” I had lots of ideas but very little time. In the end I chose to include this one. You might ask: “what does all of this have to do with identity? “ Lots, I’d argue. It has to do with mentality and what is socially acceptable in some cultures. All of this is deeply connected with identity.
In Korea, you are not supposed to interfere with the affairs of people you don’t know. Four years ago, when my cousin was visiting, on her first outing in Seoul, she was hit by an older drunk man. He intended to punch her in the face, but she lunged so his fist landed heavily on her shoulder. A lot of people were around, but no one tried to help us. I screamed at the man in English. His friend finally pulled him away.
Of course, incidents like these happen everywhere. You probably know the infamous case of a New York woman killed on a street corner while many people residing in the nearby apartments watched from their windows, without running down to help.
However, in Korea this “I don’t know you so I don’t care and I am not obliged to help” attitude is more exaggerated than in Western countries. Not to mention the ‘balli, balli, we cannot wait” mentality.
It’s difficult to change people’s mentality, but what about the bus driver? Shouldn’t it be his duty to call the police and have the dangerous drunken man put away for the night.
I saw this man stir trouble on two buses, the trouble being progressively worse. God only knows what he did on the third bus, or what was done to him.
I see my bus arriving and urge my friend to start walking towards her bus stop on the other side of the street. She walks off. I got on. It’s a long way home from here, and I am happy to find a seat. As I'm flopping down, I see in the front of the bus the drunk man boarding. He can barely stand upright. I want to warn the driver that he is a potential troublemaker, but decide that my language is not good enough for all of that.
Secretly, I observe the man who is now i the center of the bus. With both filthy hands he grabs onto the overhead handles and hovers above a young boy in school uniform who is snoring in his seat. A moment later, the boy is awakened by the stench of alcohol and stomach acid that escape from the man. Stubbornly, the boy remains in the seat, burying his offended nose in his jacket.
I can’t see the man’s face, only his shaggy hair. He seems to be sleeping while standing. By now the whole bus stinks like a cheap drinking hole in a bad part of town. No one shows any sign of disturbance. Stone faces everywhere. The man suddenly looks up. His mouth is open. It reveals what looks like a handful of broken French fries of uneven length. His teeth. They appear even more yellow in the middle of his unfortunately arranged purplish face. His eyes, unripe persimmons, swollen and yellowish, don’t have any light in them. With these half blind eyes he spots a seat at the very back of the bus and stumbles in that direction.
He hurls himself onto the seat. I half turn around and see that he’s next to a young girl on one side and a middle-aged man on the other. There are also two more people sitting next to the window on both sides of the bus. The only stir that the arrival of the man provokes among them are barely audible half-hearted sighs and smirks. A couple of hands fly to the noses.
We drive across a beautifully lit bridge. Underneath, the Han, like a long necklace studded with shimmering diamonds, flows peacefully disappearing in the night far away. The late night autumn sky is the color of deep blue pansies. Pretty.
“Aeeeshhh” – a hiss comes from the back. “Kibbun-ee jinja nappayo” [you are really spoiling my mood]. The drunk is upset with the girl next to him. He might have fallen asleep and put his smelly head on her shoulder or lap. Or, started fondling her. She might have objected. Somehow, she offended him. The young man sitting next to the window on the left and the girl switch seats. The girl is very young, short, stocky and warmly dressed. The drunken man repeats over and over, “ Kibbun-ee nappayo.” The girl retorts with apologies, “Chaessong-habmnida. Jal motthaesoyo” [ I am sorry. I am sorry]. Who did what to whom is not important. She is younger and must apologize to him. She’s a well-mannered girl. The raspy complaints from the man and the squeaky apologies from the girl continue as the bus speeds on.
A sound of punch followed by a scream. The man’s mood is so bad now that it had to find a relief in the fist landing on the girls face. The young man between the girl and the drunk, grabs the fist. There’s some commotion on the bus. The drunk frees his fist and punches the girl again. Some passengers ask the driver to stop. Others look out the window. The driver ignores the requests for a while.
As the punching and screaming continues, the bus finally stops. The driver, an apparent former king of village dances, broad-shouldered and big-headed, all stiff permed hair and oversized patent leather shoes, walks towards the back of the bus. By now the girl, imprisoned in the corner by the window, is hysterical. The only buffer zone between her and the enraged drunk is her lukewarm defender, the young man who’s unwillingly holding down the man’s fist..
Seeing the bus driver, the drunk loses it. He starts sending random punches and kicks in all directions. The middle-aged man on his right decides that at this point intervention cannot be any longer avoided. He grabs the fist closest to him and holds it pinned down to his chest. Two men from the front of the bus appear and grab the drunk man’s legs. The buffer zone is now in control of the other fist and the drunk’s neck. Quite bizarre, this scene. It looks as if though the drunk is about to be quartered.
Before long, the drunk is thrown onto the floor and held down by five man. A sixth man calls the police. We wait. The former king of village dances supervises the operation, chewing gum and loudly smacking. The girl is convulsing in sobs. The man is writhing on the floor. The five vigilantes are panting.
A middle-aged woman, an ajumma, with a seat right in front of the abused girl, is visibly annoyed by the wait. She casts nasty glances at the girl. She screams abuses, alternating between the girl and the bus driver. She shouldn’t wait. She will not wait. The girl’s sobbing stops for a second giving way to yet another series of respectful “Chaessonghabnida’s.” More and more people are siding with the ajumma who doesn’t want to wait. Soon there is a cacophony of complaints about the delay. I need to get home. Yobo waits. Children study. What’s the big deal? A drunk man, a punched girl?! Just another night in Seoul. Let's remain calm here.
The driver is a good public servant, only too happy to concede to the chorus. He asks the five men to let the man go. The man who called the police opposes. He wants to wait. He looks at the girl and asks: “Kwaenchan-kessoyo?” (are you o.k.?). The round checks, punched, flushed and wet nod in agreement. She doesn’t want the police. She is late in coming home. Parents are already angry. She doesn’t need any more trouble than she’s already in. The phone man is still reluctant. For such indecision, he gets an earful from the ajumma. She yells at the driver: “kaseyo, kaseyo, kaseyo” [go!, go!, go!]
The girl is now eager for the man to be let off the bus. Her wish is granted. His body is briefly flying through the air as he is thrown out by the force of four men. He lands with a thud onto the sidewalk but then rolls over to the black oily puddle below. He tries to get up, but falls back again, not moving anymore. The bus doors close and we drive off.
The bus flies along the streets of Jongno and Daehangno, finally reaching my stop. As I get off, a black cloud of ‘salary men’ shrouded in a light soju mist, their coat tails and ties flapping, bags swinging, boards the bus. Black creatures praying on blue buses.
At the same time, somewhere in the city, the bruised soaked drunk is waiting for another bus with another girl to punch. I walk home, safe, content even. It can't be me.
___________________________________________________________________
NOTE: This is a true story. The events related in it happened on a November Friday this year, on the bus 162, on my way home from Yeuido.
When I was asked to write a story that would somehow fit the theme “identity” I had lots of ideas but very little time. In the end I chose to include this one. You might ask: “what does all of this have to do with identity? “ Lots, I’d argue. It has to do with mentality and what is socially acceptable in some cultures. All of this is deeply connected with identity.
In Korea, you are not supposed to interfere with the affairs of people you don’t know. Four years ago, when my cousin was visiting, on her first outing in Seoul, she was hit by an older drunk man. He intended to punch her in the face, but she lunged so his fist landed heavily on her shoulder. A lot of people were around, but no one tried to help us. I screamed at the man in English. His friend finally pulled him away.
Of course, incidents like these happen everywhere. You probably know the infamous case of a New York woman killed on a street corner while many people residing in the nearby apartments watched from their windows, without running down to help.
However, in Korea this “I don’t know you so I don’t care and I am not obliged to help” attitude is more exaggerated than in Western countries. Not to mention the ‘balli, balli, we cannot wait” mentality.
It’s difficult to change people’s mentality, but what about the bus driver? Shouldn’t it be his duty to call the police and have the dangerous drunken man put away for the night.
I saw this man stir trouble on two buses, the trouble being progressively worse. God only knows what he did on the third bus, or what was done to him.
