Y O O N A

I was riding the subway that afternoon, absentmindedly staring at the blank wall in front of me. Work had been tiring that day. There was this one customer – a large, mustached man to be exact – who demanded a brand new, plastic-wrapped cover of How to Make Friends (which I think he desperately needs, seeing the very unfriendly look on his face). He said he did not like the copy on the shelf, said it was below standards. I mean, come on? How obsessive could you get with books?

Oh, and he insulted me too.  

Said I was not prompt enough when it came to attending to customer needs. Was it because I stared at him for a full five seconds because I didn’t know if he was serious or not? If only he knew who he was talking to.

You see, I was already in the bad mood to begin with when my phone started to ring.

I took it out and with great difficulty, tried to contain a violent outburst that was dying to get out when I saw what was on the screen:

“Basketball-head calling”

I sighed heavily and began to regret the moment I gave him my number. I wanted to slap myself in the face for doing that and I was about to when I heard my father’s voice in my head.

Don’t regret. You did what you thought was the right thing at that time.

At that time.

Dad’s a genius. Of course. I gave a poor, helpless, lost foreigner my number, hoping I could help him. I gave him my number because I wanted him to go back to whatever country he came from and say, “The people in Dokbayo are the most helpful kind you’ll ever meet.”

I wish I didn’t have to love Dokbayo so much.  

Clearing my throat, I pressed the “receive call” button.

“Hello?” I spoke into the handset.

“Hi! Can you meet me now?” Nasal accent with adolescent like voice. It was definitely him.

“Now?” I almost screamed into the phone. Was he in some kind of emergency to demand my presence now?

“Yes,” he answered. “I am in front of The Grand Hotel. Can you come here?”

I glanced up.

We were approaching Balkiri station.

The Grand Hotel is only a couple of minutes away from here. Why do I have to be at the right place?

Should I go?  I didn’t have time to think about it. The train skidded to a stop and those who were standing swayed a bit.

I stood up. “Yes, I’m on my way.”

Dokbayo, I’m doing this for you.

~~~

I easily spotted the foreigner. From fifty feet away, even a blind man can see that fiery orange bush growing atop his head. Of course, he was standing so casually in front of the most expensive hotel in the country. A pair of shades covered his eyes and he was wearing a black blazer.

Think thatwould get you attention?

I smirked. Here in Dokbayo, people don’t care if you lived in a mansion or if you drove the most expensive car or if your clothes were plated with gold.

The Dokbayonese could care less how much money you have. What matters to us is how you earned the money.

And in this guy’s case, I cared for neither. I didn’t even want to know what kind of job he has. All I wanted was all of this to be over with and for him to return to the country that spat him out.

“You came!” he exclaimed jubilantly when he saw me approaching.

Of course I came.  Duh!

“Where do you plan to go?” I asked immediately, assuming that since he was dressed so formally, he probably needed to go a government building to take care of business affairs. Or maybe he has to go one of our tourist attractions like the Floating Carnival or the Oceanside Gardens.

He took off his sunglasses and pocketed them. (It was five in the afternoon and the sun was long gone. Why is he wearing shades at this hour anyway? Does he think he’s some kind of superstar?)

Then he smiled at me again and said, “I want to go to the mall.”