Ya!

The title hopefully got your attention. That’s what I learned in writing class back in high school. An interesting title. Well, this blog entry is about this Italian guy who is now living in my apartment.

I've been told I am "mellow" by more than a few people in my life. When that many people say that, you can believe them, right? My mood is generally the same; I am even-keeled about most things. On the rare occasion, however, when I get angry this big Italian mafia guy from Sicily appears, like my second shredded skin, with a stiletto in one hand and a 9mm gun in the other. The last month or two I am finding that Italian guy visiting often. It's like a 1950s Bogart film: the dark figure is sitting in my chair, the lights are out but the light from the outside casts a shadow, he's smoking a Camel and flipping a coin waiting for me to get home! The conversation goes like this:

"We got a job to do," Guido says in his horse accented voice.

"Oh, yeah?" I respond sounding like a tough guy. Guido stands up and walks over to me, pointing his finger.

"That Korean cab driver...let him have it!"

So I did! Guido let loose on that old "ajasi" asshole cab driver who was aggravated with me because I wasn't fast enough giving him his cab fare.

"Wait I minute!," I yelled. He muttered something.

"I am counting the fucking money from five people," I continued. He gestured wildly.

"What the fuck? Just fucking wait! Why is everyone in a fucking hurry in this country?!" but he didn't understand. By this time my co-workers have vacated the taxi. I don't know if they were scared. One of them asked, "Hey, Matt. Who was that Italian guy?"

The other day I am riding my Lespo 21 speed bike, a staple here in Korea; no one steals them because everyone has one. They're heavy, steel framed bikes with some dude named Sam Chully name on every seat. Every time I sit down, Sam gets some ass. Anyway, some mother f!#$er cuts in front of me. I hear Guido yell "Ya!" The driver ignored it. At least once a week this happens. You get cut off, Guido yells, and I feel better! Ya!

Koreans yell "ya" which means "hey!" It could be a toned down-between-friends "ya" which is "hey" or the elaborate, lung-busting-you-piece-of-shit"Ya!" which means "Hey!" It reminds me of Gary Larson's Far Side comic panel where a scientist discovers what dogs really say when they bark. The scientist's instrument panel translates dogs barking into the word "hey." Everything they say is "hey, hey, hey." Ya! YA! YA!!

I'm at the local grocery store, recently renovated, enlarged and re-stocked with the much needed and added PA system which the owner or manager uses by wireless mic to make announcements. I am shopping and all of a sudden, that mother F-er starts his ear-piercing 15 minute sales pitch! He won't shut the F-up! He's loud. He's obnoxious. He uses "ya" a lot. He talks to people shopping in the vegetable and fruit aisle. All of sudden, Guido's coin hits the floor and I hear: "No one is buying your crap! Go to the dry goods aisle, that's where your real margins are!" It's like that yelping dog next door that barks "hey" all the time, at inconvenient intervals, it drives me mad! Guido yells "Ya" at the man but he is too busy selling stuff to no one who is listening.

The other day me, Bernard and Lisa are eating at Miso-Ya (there's that word again) and four middle school girls, in their light blue blouses and navy blue skirts come in and sit down at the adjacent table.

"Oh, boy" I mumble to myself. "They're going to yap and talk loudly, giggle, argue the way any middle school girl or boy do..." and I black out. The next thing I know, Guido is telling them loudly: "Can you guys sit over there?!" They look scared. The next twenty minutes is peaceful: no loud middle school talk just me and my coworkers talking among ourselves. Later, my coworkers ask, "Matt, who was that Italian guy who just left?" Ya.

I know my patience will be back to normal in the States. This country drives you to the edge; people are sometimes more rude, busy and stoic about things then back home. You develop a hair trigger response. And when you do respond, people give you space. It's the polite thing to do.