Drifting House by Krys Lee

hauled us to the police ­station—what was it, five in the morning?”
    “Or when we ran out of money and walked six kilometers back home?”
    “That was nothing compared with military service. They would keep us awake five days in a ­row—”
    “For me it was a week.”
    “They’d give us a tiny bowl of water in the middle of summer after we’d run fifteen miles, and tell us to wash with it.”
    “Everyone was so thirsty we’d fight to drink water from the toilets.”
    “Now they get real food and cry when their squadron leader hits them.”
    “Koreans need to be beat.”
    “If they don’t get beat, nothing gets done.”
    “They say the young kids these days get in taxis and run away without paying. Young people these days, they have no
ui–ri
. They’ve got no honor.”
    And yet they envied the young.
    Within another hour, as was the custom, they moved to a bar for
icha,
the second round. Duik, his hair a glacial white since he’d turned thirty, stood up and sang into an empty
soju
bottle. Minjun picked through all the vegetables and ate only the chunks of cod in the spicy fish egg stew until another whacked him across the head.
    When they talked about women, Gilho become quiet; when they’d had enough
soju,
they scrutinized their server’s breasts.
    Taeyeong said, “It’s like visiting a brothel without paying for it.”
    His voice was merry, but his face wore the cost of two years’ separation from his family.
    Gilho looked up, his face bleak.
    Taeyeong gripped his hand in mistaken sympathy. His wife and children had also left for America; he, too, understood what sacrifices it took to free your children from the sixteen hours of mindless daily cramming at school and ­after-school institutes that ran past midnight, the special Oriental medicines to keep them awake for college entrance exam studies, the temptation of suicide. But Gilho had been avoiding Soonah’s calls for the past week.
    The men kissed one another on the cheeks, their hands across one another’s shoulders and backs. Taeyeong said, “My
chingu,
” and kissed Gilho on the lips. They had attended boys’ schools, served in the military, and worked in corporations run like thearmy; they were more at ease around men. They were friends, they were men with
ui–ri,
loyal, steadfast men, and for their generation, that meant that they would underwrite one another’s debts if asked, they would die for one another if needed.
    Minjun, who had been sleeping with his head on the table for the last half hour, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stood up on his chair.
    “I love you. I love you all,” he said, striking a skiing pose though they all knew he could not afford the sport. “I want to love you guys, so you better let me get the bill,” he said.
    While they fought with one another to pay, the piece of paper snatched from hand to hand, Taeyeong, who was a lawyer, quietly stood up and paid for them all.
    That night, after the last round of drinks at a drinking tent, Gilho returned home after four with Taeyeong draped over him like an overcoat. He rested his friend on the couch, then slid to the floor. It was then that he saw Wuseong on the balcony. When their eyes met, the goose tucked its ­hammer-shaped head underneath Wuseong’s neck and made a rough, throaty sound.
    Gilho slid the balcony glass door open.
“Ah–yah,”
he said, “where were you?”
    Wuseong looked at him shyly; his body was tense and guarded, as if ready to bolt.
    “Were you worried?”
    “Of course!” Gilho’s voice shook. “You disappear with no note, no call…it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
    Wuseong stood up, his arms still crossed. A goose feather stuck up from his hair.
    Gilho’s head thundered with confusion. He wanted the boyto know that he was sorry, but he was too proud, too afraid to admit it.
    Wuseong’s eyes fastened on Taeyeong, absorbed by the Hugo ­Boss–clad, reclining misery, as if he were another species altogether. Wuseong smiled a