News flash: Sharing a one-bedroom apartment with a 40-year-old Korean man is not the most desirable living arrangement. Of course, it could be a lot worse. I could be sharing a bedroom with a cute, intelligent female who irresponsibly invites her cute, intelligent girlfriends over for dinner and subsequent festivities that run well past my bedtime. Then in their compromised states, they would force me to join them for a night of role-playing for which I would assume the identity of the Most Interesting Man in the World. Sends chills down my spine, really.
But in any case, I have only myself to blame for all this. Because even though my mom was the one who discovered the sublet listing - and presented a compelling vision of the ways this random encounter could blossom into a meaningful friendship whereby I become wiser in the ways of life - I could have very well continued looking for the bachelor pad of my dreams. And from Day 1 of the summer housing search, that was my plan all along. I wanted a simple, sparse abode that would thrive under the direction of my vigorously single lifestyle. I'm not talking about the stuff of sour milk and pizza boxes littering the kitchen or heinously large flat-screen TV lying amid a sea of stained carpet. Strangely enough, I had become enamored of the idea of painting a blank slate of a home with the vibrant colors of my personality, of spraying my creative juices all over it, so to speak. I wanted to create and design a space that could not only satisfy my complex utilitarian needs (I've always wanted to have a cup of noodle on a massage chair), but also reflect my artistic sensibilities and core values. And I wanted it for myself. It would be like my very own Wilson volleyball, except rather than talking to it, I would be living in it. But my voice of reason eventually deflated these grandiose ambitions. There was no point undertaking such a project for a two-month residence. My glow-in-the-dark galaxy kit from Hasbro had to wait.
So the alternative? Live with a 40-year-old Korean man. A pretty drastic alternative, I know. There was really one cogent reason I even considered this option at all. His apartment is practically right next to the lab where I do research. Less time spent commuting would mean more sleep time. I had to decide how this benefit weighed against reasons not to allow my life to intersect with his. And there were many. For one thing, safety was a question mark. If you have no reservations about going to live with a 40-year-old man you have never met before, you probably believe swallowing sodium metal once in a while can spice up your life. I mean, it was somewhat comforting to know he was married. But then again, the fact that his wife was leaving for Korea in the summer, and that I uh, would be replacing her, was not so comforting. The arrangement just didn't score that high on the heter-o-meter.
Then there was the realization that I would have to speak to him in Korean because he is not fluent in English. I hate to quote Richard Rodriguez on this but Korean really is my "language of intimacy." I speak Korean only to my parents if I can help it because the language has somewhat become a reminder of our lives prior to moving to the U.S. Perhaps my biggest concern, though, was that I, already an ancient being, would age even faster in mental capacity and outlook on life as a result of exposure to this man twice my age. Science has clearly proven this. When placed next to a ripening apple, a young apple ripens faster.
After several phone calls and e-mails with my prospective roommate (roommate is a word that, by convention, evokes youth, spirit, and vitality, but none of these should be associated with the man), I set out to test my concerns by asking for a tour of his apartment. He struck me as a quiet, good-natured guy with no sign of chronic crankiness - a huge relief. Grown-ups bitching about the misfortunes of their day is generally annoying, but even more so if the bitching is done in Korean. There is a tendency for older Korean folks to express their frustration in a series of protracted whines and sulky murmurs, rather than terse, punctuated curses of the American way. As the listener, I find the latter much more refreshing. There were also no probing questions about my personal life, career aspirations, or immigrant experience. He simply led me around as I had asked, shuffling along with small steps, his head slightly lowered like a diffident schoolboy. The best part was that he absolutely embraced the outpouring of silence from me. We were going to get along great.
And as for the apartment? Not too fancy but not too shabby either. A spacious living room with a desk, sofa, and cable TV. An equally spacious bedroom with large windows that look into the apartment pool where babes burn their melanocytes to a crisp. A balcony 11 floors up with panoramic view of Longwood. A bathroom and kitchen. One tiny and insignificant arrangement I needed to make before moving in was purchasing a bed. Because when he showed me the bedroom, there was one bed. Two pillows, but on one bed. So that meant two people currently shared that elevated space defined as the bed and barring a magical appearance of a new bed, this trend would continue. I believe I have heard of a practice in which two people who take a strong liking to each other decide to co-occupy a confined space like that, even if their bodies may touch. I needed to purchase a bed.
So far, our existence on common premises has gone largely as expected. We limit our verbal communication to the bare minimum, eking out polite greetings and platitudes about the crummy Boston weather. I never ask about his day or his past, and he never asks about mine. We eat our meals separately and at different intervals. He prepares his own meals from grocery shopping and I go to a hole-in-the-wall pizza place near the apartment. When home, he spends most of his time in the living room while I chill out in the bedroom. This is as solitary as one can be in the presence of another human being.
But despite our minimal interaction, my impression of him has considerably changed during these two months from the moment I met him. The stoic eyes and grimly set lips that dominate his face expressions belie what I must admit is a pretty intriguing character with surprising idiosyncrasies. For one, he has a decent sense of humor. He has cultivated the technique of presenting the audience with simple, acceptable premises and then going for the ambush with a quick punch line. This works very effectively for him because he is a quiet man with stoic eyes and grimly set lips. When he delivers the punch line, he always catches me off guard. For instance, he came into the room one day with a box of bottled water after returning from grocery shopping and said (roughly in English): "Getting water from the faucet and boiling it to make tea is really the best way to drink water around here. Buying bottled water is expensive and stupid. *Pause* I am too lazy so I bought bottled water." Ok, it's not that funny when I say it. But it's funny when you add those stoic eyes and grimly set lips. I can see now why a woman might think about sharing the same sleeping quarters with him.
Speaking of sleeping quarters, there are two interesting rituals he performs before going to bed, and I will share them with no moral compunction because they are too hilarious. First, he takes off his pants and drapes them over the bedside table. You see, during my long twenty years of existence on this planet, I have learned a very important truth about human relationships, specifically why they fail. They fail because two people can look at the same things, experience the same things, and yet reach entirely different conclusions about what they have seen and experienced. Reflecting on the times and hardships we have shared with our friends, we think to ourselves they must treasure the friendships as much as we do. Reflecting on the magic of a moment shared with people who made us feel magic like never before, we think to ourselves they must feel it too. But we are inevitably disappointed. And my roommate taking off his pants and draping them perilously close to my cell phone and wallet? When he is wearing panties? I could have never guessed that he felt comfortable enough about "us" to do it with such reckless abandon. But he has been comfortable enough from Day 1. Does he think we are locker room buddies?
His second ritual is even more bizarre, in my opinion. There are two teddy bears that always accompany him to sleep. One of them is significantly larger and more rotund than the other and wears a pink beanie. She has "Love" embroidered on her left paw. The smaller one is wearing a shirt that reads "Pfizer," the name of the famous pharmaceutical company of course. Interestingly enough, he always adjusts their position before going to bed so that Mama PawLove is perched on the unoccupied pillow next to him and Baby Pfizer sits on the middle ground between the two pillows. This, obviously, invites a lot of questions. Why does my pantless roommate insist on sleeping with Mama Pawlove and Baby Pfizer? Where is Papa Pawzer? Is my pantless roommate Papa Pawzer? Does he view his real wife as a cuddly baby-making machine? I will never know.
But I can safely guess that when he does this careful arrangement every night, he is thinking of his wife. Why? She must have something to do with their presence in the home. And because I have seen how much he loves and misses her. When the house phone rings, there is an extra bounce to his steps. His saturnine frown turns upward, and the hardness in his voice melts away. He readies for the punch line. And I can't help but absolutely envy the man.
