Chapter 2
Even today, when I'm dashing to a Midnight Frisbee Golf rendezvous, I run as fast as I can for as long as I can. The entrance to the Arb is less than a half-mile away so I can usually make it all the way at top speed. I try to stay conscious of my pace, taking long, leaping strides, visualizing each as a beat of my wings, progressively increasing their length to keep me at a constant pace as my legs weary. It is the beginning of a minor, fleeting, but accessible emancipation that will last until the next morning's alarm.
The Arb--officially Nichols Arboretum--is a vast University owned park, heavily wooded for the most part but with a few large clearings. Used as a combination ecological research center and student playground, it is criss-crossed with trails and footpaths. Some thoughtful soul attached sequentially numbered shiny red reflectors to trees and thereby created Frisbee Golf heaven. The Midnight part was our idea. There are no lights so, on a moonless night, simply navigating without cracking your skull on a low hanging branch is a challenge. Making par in the night is well nigh impossible. Plus, the place is closed at 10pm, so there's always the danger of a roving rent-a-cop to put the kibosh on the proceedings.
Never fear, K.J. and I were old hands at this. We knew the trails well enough to follow in the dark. We didn't always aim for the right tree, but as long as we agreed ahead of time on which tree we thought it was, there would be no problem. If we didn't agree, one of us would make up a rule on the spot to cover the situation. Whoever made one up first got his way. We also learned how to move silently and conceal ourselves when we detected the presence of others. When K.J. was going through his Bruce Lee phase he suggested we wear Ninja outfits so as to frighten off anyone who we happened to come across. I pointed out that as a red-haired ninja he would just look silly.
"Ninja's cover everything except the eyes. It enhances the karmic enigma of their being," he argued.
"No matter what you do," I replied, "you will never look Oriental."
It's true. K.J. is a fresh-faced Irish-looking chap. He's reasonably attractive, but a miserable failure with women.
When I said he was my real friend I didn't mean it in the sense that he was loyal and true whereas others are not. I meant that he's part of the real world--a normal sort of person, a non-propeller head. We met at the restaurant where I worked part-time waiting tables. Almost immediately, we got used to each other in a very nonchalant way and started hanging out. Our friendship was utterly casual. Anytime we discussed solemn issues it was only to make fun of them, thereby confirming that the small concerns of our lives were vastly more important than anything that may actually have significance. In that sense, it was also the deepest and most indispensable friendship I had. For three years, he was my one link to existence outside the dweeb-cum-good-Asian-boy persona I had adopted. Of course, I never discussed this with K.J., it being a significant topic. Sentimental things must be left unspoken between adult male friends, but still they are understood. And understood to be understood. Besides, he was usually too busy with some female crisis to care about any maudlin confessions of mine.
Back to the night in question.
I spotted K.J. in the isolated clearing where we traditionally begin. He had his official X-Files UFO Frisbee with little flashing lights around the outside and he was trying to toss it in the air and catch it spinning on his index finger behind his back. He hadn't heard me coming so he was toast.
I leapt out from behind a bush right next to him and let out a screech that they could hear in East Lansing. He stumbled over himself in shock and landed flat on his butt. It was a truly righteous hoot to see and I reacted accordingly. He responded by whipping the Frisbee at my chest.
"Jesus H.! I almost pissed my pants!"
"Oh, come on now. You haven't done that since you were, what, seventeen?"
"Psycho," he declared.
"How dare you force me to come out here and play when you know I should be studying?"
"Foolish Earthling. Your will is not your own. I control the vertical. I control the horizontal. Give me your wallet." He rose and dusted himself off. "Besides, you must be ready for your test. All the studying with your W friends."
"W?"
"Wimps, Weebles, Woosies."
"Actually, I'd call them Gs."
"Gs?"
"Geeks, Goons, Gomers."
"Oh, I see."
"Ws are more like social misfits. Gs are full-on freaks of nature."
"You're sure they're not Ds...Drips, Dweebs, Dorks."
"Yes, yes, you're right. There's a sense of hopelessness with Ds. I bow to your expertise in nerdology," I concluded.
"With friends like that you must be ready."
"Not even close. But that's the thing about tests; no matter how hard you bust your ass to do good, there's another one coming around."
Our game began, merely an extension of our conversation as always.
"How's Sarah?" he asked.
"OK."
That was a joke. Ha ha. My girlfriend Sarah's answer to virtually any question was "OK." K.J. maintained that made her the perfect woman. Not exactly true.
I turned the tables on him. "Seeing anyone this week?"
"My last date turned out fairly well, actually. I talked her out of the restraining order."
And that's how the whole night went. We smart-assed for a couple of hours while getting devoured by mosquitoes and shredding our limbs on the branches. When we heard other people, we became silent statues until they passed, then picked up mid-sarcasm exactly where we had left off. When I finally got to bed I stayed awake for as long as I could, energized by the knowledge that once I fell asleep, I would have no choice but to eventually wake up and return to my life.
Is that the curse of ease and leisure, or is it just me? I hear about people hitting the lottery and retiring from menial jobs only to return after a few months because they're going stir crazy. They can't live without some outside force, some conflict, to stimulate them to activity and industry. Are their dreams and desires so mundane and unimaginative as to bore them without the constant interruption of work? I can't think of anything more pleasant than not having work or school, to sleep in after lying awake the previous night with my thoughts, to have a light breakfast with the newspaper or the mail and make too much of what I read. No drive, no ambition, no stress. (See what I mean about not being Korean?) But how do you get to be frivolous when frivolity is the only thing you enjoy? That is the real curse of ease and leisure. The only life worth pursuing is the easy one. But the act of leisure prevents the pursuit--you'll run out of money real quick--and the pursuit prevents the leisure--if all you want is leisure, work seems counterproductive. It is an eternal vexation; another question to send me swirling down the metaphysical toilet bowl.
Or maybe I'm just lazy.