Fiction: Manspreading

Maybe on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, CNN replaces “Terror in Israel” with “Crisis Korea”. It’s surely not where it all started, but it’s where it starts for you…

Maybe on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, CNN replaces "Terror in Israel" with "Crisis Korea". It's surely not where it all started, but it's where it starts for you.

You receive a call from your mom. She watched CNN and the “overweight raspy guy” said "everything is different this time". She tells you that North Korea is preparing for war and you need to leave Seoul immediately and return home.

You tell her not to worry. You explain that it's just the lead up to the U.S. election. The fat fellow up North wants to have a strong negotiating position with the next president.

"It's cyclical, ma. It happens every four or so years."

"But Donnie," she pleads, "CNN said South Korea will get nuclear weapons soon, and may even have them”. That's why it's more serious, she says.

You try to reassure her. Some time ago, the North said Seoul's actions would "herald its final destruction", declared a "state of war", and promised to turn Seoul into a “sea of fire". Nothing happened. She tells you to "just be ready".

So you get ready. You packed an emergency bag five years ago. It now sits next to a deflated basketball in the shoe cupboard by the front door. Inside are fiber-energy bars, baked beans, and Vaseline. You leave it in place. In an emergency, you'll be regular and won't have sweat rash. You need more information so you turn to CNN.

You look out the window. The neighbors’ girls are in a skipping, laughter-filled tussle over some pink cotton candy on a stick. Their grandma chases them holding another cotton candy. She cackles and laughs like she's eighty years younger.

Eighty-five years. She was around twelve years old when the Korean War ended. You wonder whether she remembers anything about the war.

On Wednesday or maybe Thursday, around two days later, the United States issues a "stern warning". The alliance is ironclad, they say. The U.S. will protect Korea. Would they accept an inter-continental ballistic missile hitting San Francisco to save Seoul? This conundrum is known as “nuclear blackmail”, and it's in all the newspapers.

You receive an email from the embassy reminding you to update your details on their website. The last time you did it, you weren't married, had no children, and lived alone. You add one wife, two sons, and a new address. You still wonder about Ralph? Are beagles allowed to evacuate?

The Australian, Canadian and U.K. governments tell people to reconsider the need to travel. The State Department adds a warning to its website. There are people traveling but they're all journalists. You see them at landmarks in central Seoul, at impromptu demonstrations, and on the university campus. You’ve already turned down six interview requests - the resident foreign professor angle. There’s nothing new or revealing to say, it’s all been said before, and saying that it's just media bait for the incoming president won’t make great prime time viewing.

You start watching CNN as you work, and tune into Armed Forces Korea Network (AFKN) radio while you commute. The folks at AFKN are taking it in their stride. They maintain an incredibly calm demeanor and seem more focused on reminding personnel to wear helmets when riding bicycles, be respectful to locals, and to exercise operational security. “Sharing is caring, but not when it comes to passwords” they say.

Ralph barks to announce the kids are home. The door opens and two school bags slide down the corridor. They yell to anyone in the house.

“We’re playing with Jinni and Hannah and next door grandma!”

You realize how long you’ve been in Korea when you hear the boys speak English mixed with Korean phrasing.

You look out the window to see that they’re okay. They’re laughing and running. You wonder how this inordinate serenity sits amidst the threat of war but remember your friends back home pity you living near North Korea while they face drugs, gangs, knife crime, racism, sectarianism, and poverty. There's nuclear missiles across the border but no knives on the buses.

It's Friday and you have no class. You could write, but instead you're glued to CNN. U.S. naval assets are on the move. A carrier battle group has left port in Japan, and another is on the way from the Indian Ocean. Leave for troops has been canceled. The U.S. and South Korea conduct live fire exercises. The North responds with missile exercises. The U.S. flies some large ugly planes in drab khaki all the way from North Dakota to South Korea, and the North shows videos of a picturesque beach where multiple rocket launchers fire into the air and angry khaki-clad, bare-chested men headbutt bricks.

You look through the paper. There's lots on current events but you're caught on the story that's pulled out of the archives every four or five years: "What to do in a CBN attack." You remember reading the same article around five years ago and thinking the acronym for chemical, biological, nuclear (CBN) sounded like that old public broadcaster that played re-runs of Canadian comedy-dramas about guys salvaging timber somewhere on the coast of British Columbia. That was a peaceful place.

You keep reading to prepare yourself. If it's chemical you don't go into the basement because some substances are heavier than air and were designed to settle in places you run to when you hear explosions. If it's biological, you have six seconds to put on a gas mask and protective clothing that completely covers your skin. If it's nuclear, you can go to the basement - or you must go to the basement - and stay there for two weeks.

There's 17,000 bomb shelters nationwide and just over 3000 in Seoul. You have to know where your nearest shelter is. A subway station is alright if it's just artillery, but not if it's nuclear. Indiana Jones survived a nuclear blast by climbing into a lead-lined refrigerator. You look at your fridge and can't help but feel disappointed. You feel no more prepared than scared.

Your mom calls again to tell you it's irresponsible to keep the kids in Seoul and to send them and their mom back home, and that your cousin was stabbed three times in the city but will be okay. He was on the bus. She asks whether you know the professor talking about the next Korean War on CNN. You say "no" without knowing who she's talking about, but also knowing that every two-bit grifter is currently doing exactly that.

You look out the window. After three days of pleasant Spring weather, there are storm clouds gathering in the distance. It seems darker.

It's probably Saturday and no doubt there are civil defense drills. They were held sometime last year after not being held for a decade or so. When you hear the sirens, you're meant to head for the nearest shelter. Last year, nobody cared to leave the coffee shops or leave the mid-autumn sunshine. When out walking Ralph, you see there are more police and nervous looking conscript troops on the streets. They stand around subway station entrances and traffic intersections. You start walking faster to get Ralph back before the siren so you don't have to go to a shelter.

Your mother-in-law visits. She unloads a trolley of packages in the bathroom. You later look over them as you take a crap: three containers of cabbage kimchi, two containers of spring onion kimchi, two bags of rice, some dried fish tied with string, and a pot of soybean paste. She also filled the tub with radishes. As you're washing your hands she comes into the bathroom. She frowns and you know it's not from the smell of the kimchi. You try to ask in Korean whether they're emergency supplies. She tells you they’re lunch.

In the afternoon, you meet your writing group. Everyone's nervous. As is the habit with expatriates, you share complaints and talk about how things are better back home. Some drink more than usual. You don't drink. You know the last time you fell off the wagon, you battled your own personal nuclear apocalypse. There was no CNN report and no calls from back home but you felt the impact. A debate starts about the best bomb shelter. There's one at a Buddhist temple that looks like the set of a kung-fu film. There's one in Seoul at a Starbucks. It promises two weeks of wired, caffeinated mania as around 200 people wait until the fallout settles. Others say they'll leave before the bomb hits.

Getting out will be hard. The roads will be clogged. Getting to the airport will be impossible. Albert the Greek, who's not actually Greek but Albanian from Chicago, says people will turn on each other.

"Civilization's wafer thin. Your neighbor will just as likely tie you up and sell you to the North Koreans as they are to offer a lift to the airport."

Albert's an English teacher who writes Chapter Books for 10 to 12 year-olds. He looks around as if you're part of an underground conspiracy, then continues.

"You know, it's easy to steal a moped. You need a hammer, a screwdriver, and a good pair of pliers. THAT is how to get to the airport."

He again looks around, then turns to face each individual in the group. "Also, remember, the first sign that it's starting is when old mobile phones stop working." He holds up his shiny new iPhone and continues. "You need an iPhone with satellite connectivity."

You don't know whether your phone has satellite connectivity. As you walk home, you look at the mopeds parked along the street. You don't know where your hammer is.

On Sunday a soft rain breaks the stillness of the puddles on the street. It'd be a soft rain unless it's late-June. Then it's monsoon season and it'd be a hard rain.

You think of your first day in Korea. It rained and everyone was wet on the subway. Two men were in a terse, quiet conversation. One wore a suit and had dyed black hair. The other wore what looked like pajamas. You thought they knew each other. Maybe they were brothers because they looked so similar. The argument got louder and louder. They were screaming at each other and slamming their thighs against each other. You turned to your wife.

"Why are they fighting?"

"They're fighting over who should spread their legs the most."

"Manspreading?"

She laughed then repeated the word and committed it to memory.

"Manspreading, manspreading, manspreading... yes."

You again turn on CNN. The fat guy from up North and the South Korean president compete for space in a split screen as the ticker lists their latest threats. Their fat, overfed complexions give reason to purchasing a smaller television.

You start to worry. Your phone isn't working. The screen is a jumbled mess of pixels. Is this how war starts? A jumbled mess of pixels? You have lots of kimchi, rice, and a bathtub of radish. You wonder whether you should've stolen a moped by now.

Ralph barks a warning. For an instant you fear that beagles sense nuclear blasts before humans, just like they do earthquakes. CNN is again running the "Crisis in Korea" reel. There's now a countdown to a Presidential Address to the Nation to be streamed exclusively on Twitter or whatever it's now called. CNN again says war is imminent.

You look out the window. The sun has come out amidst the rain. Next door grandma is cackling as she makes an 85-year old attempt to do hopscotch over puddles of water. Your sons and the neighbor’s girls join in and follow her.

She sees you watching the spectacle and calls out.

“Iri wah - kajji nolja! She cackles in Korean telling you to come and play together.

You turn off CNN. You go outside.

…

Fiction can be speculative but more often reflects reality from a different perspective. Either way, sorting fact with fiction builds creativity in strategic analysis.