“The Incense Brassiere of Pusan”
 by John Gotheborg

 After waving goodbye to Kevin, who stood watching me from the bay window, I put my foot on the gas and didn’t let up until 30 minutes later when I hit the curb in front of the departing passengers’ entrance. It was a real headache getting to the airport with that garage door dragging behind me, but damnit I had no time.

Luckily the security lackey gave me no problems--probably because he could see the youth ministry insignia clearly displayed on the side of my vehicle. I just ran right past him towards the ticket counter.

Then it hit me--I can’t just leave that behind. It was too much trouble getting that insignia made. You’d be amazed how many prying questions sign makers ask. I think they must be government informants, like those damn bank tellers and postal workers. I’d had to give the sign maker a fake name, and repaint it myself in red.

Well, I rushed back to the entrance only to find that there were some half-dozen police officers traipsing around my vehicle with their flashlights out. It was the middle of the afternoon. You don’t need flashlights in broad daylight! I don’t know what those devices were, but they were clearly not flashlights; more likely some bizarre government-issued weaponry. The situation had clearly escalated. I had to think on my feet--where I do my best thinking, I might add.

I turned my back to them and nuzzled up close to a large potted plant. I think it was supposed to look like a palm tree, but it was made of plastic. Anyway, I got tangled up in it a little as I attempted to conceal myself. I must have looked like a fool. Damn those potted plants.

Well, I removed my jacket and put it back on inside-out. Instantly I was transformed from the corduroy coat wearing John Gotheborg, to a new and mysterious figure in a coat made of white rabbit fur with a brown corduroy collar. Glancing at the mirror, I determined the change in appearance was quite striking; but I decided to quickly make a bandana out of some palm leaves to be safe.

I was just in time, too. One of the “police officers” was just about to pry off my youth ministry insignia as I exited the airport. He was struggling to read my name. “Johan... Goat...head?” It’s a shame even government employees are illiterate in this backwards country.

“Don’t touch that sign,” I shouted.

I yelled so loud, the man shook. He was speechless at the sight of me.

“Military Intelligence,” I said. “Undercover on the South American Narco Trafficking beat, but I couldn’t help notice you fellas are after this Johan Goathead character. Well, trust me; you don’t want to run into the likes of him. Every agency of the U.S. government has their eyes on him. He’s a lunatic -- a deranged Vietnam veteran with a hair trigger.” I continued my practiced official-sounding speech as I placed rubber gloves on my hands and pretended to examine the sign.

“What’s with the gloves?”

“The man’s a chronic masturbator,” I barked as I placed the sign in my carry-on. “Besides -- damnit -- this sign is evidence! I’m taking this with me. I can’t have you amateurs screwing it up.”

#

As the tiny cargo plane taxied onto the runway, I glanced out the window and laughed with amusement as I saw those fools run out to try and stop me; but they were too late. I suppose they’d never before run into one as cunning as the likes of me. I’m sure my travel arrangements stupefied them, as it must stupefy the skeptics reading this now. Well, that’s how skeptics are; they can’t think creatively. It would never occur to them that it’s much cheaper and less suspicious to register oneself as cargo on a Korean Express Cargo Airlines flight to Seoul and then take a cab to Pusan.

No, those poor fools will never catch me, because I always think outside the box. My mind is like one of those children’s toys with the steel eyes you have to get inside the holes in the picture -- I’ll have to get one of those made for my fans when this is published on the Best Seller List -- only the toy is inside a labyrinth, you see; and that labyrinth is inside a... Well, you know what I’m trying to say.

I felt the familiar lurch as the plane left solid ground, and it seemed like mere moments before I was drawing red lines over my map of the Pacific. Seeing this was a cargo plane, I had to rely on instinct; because the pilot did not call out landmarks as we flew over them, you see, and I wasn’t about to look out the window again now that I was airborne.

Many of you, I’m sure, recall the famous Twilight Zone horror drama starring William Shatner, in which a terrified man saw a creature on the wing of the plane. You probably thought it was amusing. Well, I can assure you, it is not funny when you really see a creature on the wing of your plane. If there is something out there, I don’t want to know about it.

I chewed my lower lip and thought carefully for a moment before deciding if I had yet passed over the various UFO crash sites, but I estimate I was somewhere north of the Phoenix Islands, south of Hawaii when I drew my final red “X” and got some shuteye.

Well, either we hit some serious turbulence or they don’t keep that freight tied down properly, because I had two big shiners and a fat lip when I awoke buried in crates several hours later. There was a goose flapping its wings like mad, and I had feathers all over my hair. Apparently, I didn’t get them all out, because there was an embarrassing incident later.

#

Everything went quite well since I left the U.S. It always does, I thought to myself as I recalled the last time I’d disembarked in Seoul; back in 1975, two years after Nam, when I finally got burned out from my job at the box factory and kept having those awful nightmares. I thank God that job didn’t really drive me crazy. I was in the Quality Assurance Department, you see. Just imagine folding boxes all day, only to unfold them again and rate the quality of the experience on a complicated system of inane company standards. I couldn’t stand to be cooped up in there much longer.

As I climbed out from that pile of crates and packing foam, it felt like I was once again freeing myself from the boxes of that stale factory. The air is so fresh in Asia -- all over the Near and Far East -- but particularly in Korea. Korea is just like Montana except wetter, much hotter, and more jungle-like. I felt how that goose must have felt as it flew from the cargo bay -- I was in a place where I can feel peace and be well.

Luckily, none of the spooks seemed to realize yet that I had arrived in-country. I was able to obtain a personal cab and guide with little hassle. They came running towards me, wailing in Korean, the moment I stepped out of the airport. Korea is a truly magnificent country. I have always been treated like a king by the noble Koreans. They are a pure freedom-loving people, many times superior to us Americans.

One particularly lively Korean who ran like a little yellow monkey caught my eye. I waved him over and said in Korean, “HEY BOY, I AM WAVING AT YOU.” (Whatever Korean follows will be denoted as such by the use of UPPER-CASE LETTERS. I don’t expect many readers have attained mastery of the language such as I.)

The boy suspiciously sauntered over, eying me up and down. It suddenly dawned on me -- he must be questioning my unusual appearance. I dropped the carry-on and struggled with my inside-out jacket, the palm leaf bandana and several goose feathers falling from my head. “I WILL TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF,” I said to reassure him. “SOON MY CLOTHES WILL BE OFF AND YOU WILL WANT ME IN YOUR CAB.”

His eyes popped wide open and he waved his arms frenetically in front of himself, shaking his hands and head. He stuttered so much, I couldn’t understand one damn word he was saying. The only words I could make out were, “NO, NO, NO, NO!”

“Do you speak English?”

“NO, YOU DRESS LIKE A LADY.”

“OH! IT IS THE DISGUISE! DO NOT WORRY.” I righted the coat and put it on, then smiled broadly as I lifted the youth ministry insignia from my carry-on and said, “SEE? THIS SAY MAN OF GOD.”

“YOU ARE NOT A TRANSVESTITE?”

“YES. I AM IN DISGUISE. I AM HERE ON SECRET.” I nodded and smiled more, giving the boy a universal “thumbs up” to reassure him.

After some confusion over the boy’s name -- some of those Korean names are damn near unpronounceable -- I finally decided to just call him “Frog Face.” I know, that’s not very descriptive, but they all look the same to me. I don’t mean anything racist by that -- I’m no racialist -- I just don’t differentiate between male faces. It was a beautiful Korean woman’s face I was looking for, and I would let nothing stand in my way until I found her sweet, lovely lips pressed against my own once again.

#

The road from Seoul to Pusan was relatively smooth. I did have to get out and push a few times, but you can’t blame the driver for that. Foreign cars just aren’t very reliable. This cab was no Ford Pinto; they’d even put the steering wheel in on the wrong side. Well, maybe I should have let Frog Face drive. I just didn’t think it was safe, because he was so short that he could barely see without sitting on a booster seat, and I didn’t think those tin cans tied to his feet were safe.

Where it really got hairy was when we hit the packed streets of Pusan’s market district. My guide insisted that we get out and walk. He’d been wailing in terror most of the way there, so I humored him as best I could.

I spat at him, “IT IS NOT MY FAULT -- IT IS ALL THESE PEOPLE BLOCKING THE ROAD!”

Finally, I could bear no more and had to stop the car before I really did run someone over. Frog Face looked on in bewilderment as I dug through my bag for the youth ministry insignia.

“I PUT THIS ON THE SIDE OF CAR,” I said.

“I CAN’T READ THIS. WHAT DOES IT SAY?”

“Hmm... Frog Face has a good point there.” I knew they would recognize the cross and the picture of Jesus, but even that idiot on my trail back in the States couldn’t read the gothic script of the text. I called out to my guide, “BE RIGHT BACK. STAY HERE.”

I quickly perused the nearby stalls. Most westerners would be lost in this chaotic situation, but I felt right at home. The sweet perfume of Korean delicacies and incense compelled me through the market on a cloud of pure delight. I marveled at the live fish in huge plastic tubs, the exotic animal products, and bright paper ornaments.

As I passed each shop, I showed people the bleached color Polaroid photograph of Suu Ni that I’ve carried in my wallet since 1975. She was such a beautiful girl. The photo depicts her in a rice paddy, splashing water and smiling. Unfortunately, no one recognized her; but I didn’t expect this would be easy. One seedy looking man got the wrong idea entirely.

“YOU ARE LOOKING FOR A YOUNG GIRL?”

“SHE NOT YOUNG NOW. JUST YOUNG IN PICTURE!”

“I CAN GET YOU A YOUNG GIRL FOR TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS.”

“NOT YOUNG GIRL -- JUST YOUNG IN PICTURE. IN PICTURE!”

Then I looked over the man’s shoulder and saw exactly what I was looking for. Among the goods an old shopkeeper had stacked on the shelves of his stall was a jar of thick white liquid with a picture of a happy tiger on it. To this day I do not know the Korean word for “condensed milk,” but I presume the term must be universal because the old man smiled and nodded immediately after I said it.

“YES. LUCKY TIGER MAKE YOU STRONG,” he said.

I obtained a jar of the LUCKY TIGER condensed milk, a lump of charcoal the old man kindly offered free of charge, and a paintbrush. Within moments I was back with my guide.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT TIGER SEMEN AND COW SHIT?” he shouted.

“WATCH YOUR TONGUE,” I screamed at him. The uninformed often mock my use of improvised materials, but you’d better believe condensed milk is an excellent substitute for liquid paper. I wish I had a jar of that fine Korean product now, because it was especially effective. I later obtained some powdered milk that worked as extremely effective glue, I might add, but I won’t get into that. There are all kinds of useful methods I’ve learned in my survivalist training and adventures.

I scrutinized my handiwork for a moment. The condensed milk wasn’t drying as quickly as I’d hoped; it was dripping down the side of the cab, and I had to wipe some off with my coat lest the rest of my sign be whited-out.

Then I crushed the charcoal with my bare hands, mixed it with more of the condensed milk, and deftly painted a Korean phrase where my name had been moments before: PATRIOT OF THE TRUE GOD.

“NOW NO DEVIL WILL STAND IN OUR WAY!”

It is amazing how skilled I am in the Asian arts of calligraphy. My own natural handwriting looks so similar to Korean characters, I sometimes wonder if I was born in the wrong country.

I howled as the pedestrians turned away in fear at the site of my holy insignia. Some were so terrified they covered their faces with cloth and screamed as the vehicle drew near. The crowded street emptied before my very eyes, as if it were the Red Sea and I had parted it like Moses. One food stand proprietor even shooed customers away and drew down the tarp over his stall.

By the time we finished canvassing the market, it was as though the crowds knew we were coming. Word passes fast in Pusan. It was with great shock, however, that I realized word had stretched as far as the Secret Police. They ambushed us just as we were leaving to canvas downtown.

#

Well, that’s how I found myself once again locked in a tiny concrete room. This cell was different, though. It was damp, and completely silent apart from the sound of dripping water. I wondered if other Americans might be kept here. I’d heard tell of POW camps still in operation, and I was a Vietnam veteran. It may seem silly to think they are still capturing soldiers today, but the fear was very real back in 1984.

After several hours of that maddening rhythm, my persecutor finally appeared. He was a Korean, but very tall and oddly reminiscent of an American military officer. A guard walking several paces behind him rushed forward to swing open the gate of my cell and stood at attention as the man entered.

I felt paralyzed with fear as everything seemed to go into slow motion and the drops of water reverberated into loud crashing cymbals. I didn’t recognize this man, but I clearly recalled the image of an American military officer holding a manila envelope in one hand as he waltzed into my cell 14 years ago. My vision blurred as he leaned forward and said, “YOU ARE HERE FOR MEDICAL PSYCHIATRIC EXPERIMENTS. WE CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO LIVE.”

I cried like a woman in agony and scrambled for the water puddle in the back of the cell -- desperately hoping it might lead to a cave through which I might escape these evil, hideous, insane bastards.

“YOU’RE TORTURING ME,” I cried. “I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING!”

The man merely smirked and knelt to one knee, as though I were a child.

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? PLEASE TALK TO ME IN ENGLISH, YOU SICK BASTARD!”

“I am speaking English now, Mister Gotheborg. I have been speaking English since you first arrived. Now, I need you to pay close attention because I have a lot of questions to ask, and I do not have a lot of time.”

“What heinous drugs have you injected me with?!”

“Please, Mister Gotheborg. I assure you we have injected you with no truth serum, no hallucinogenic drugs, and most assuredly no puffer fish venom. Just drop this charade and you will be released shortly.” It seemed from his eyes that he was honest, but I’ve been through this before. I tried to pull myself together, to act as though everything were normal. “Now, are you CIA?”

“No, but I can see why you might think that. People make that mistake all the time, but I’m not with that pack of amateurs. They’re all conspiracy theorists, you know. It often amuses me how far off the mark they really are.”

“It says in your file here, ’12 OCTOBER, 1975. SUBJECT STATED IS MEMBER OF CIA. CONTINUED QUESTIONING REVEALS PLOT TO POISON KOREAN WATER.’” My interrogator raised an inquisitive eyebrow and sat silent for some five minutes.

“Well,” I said, “That can easily be explained. You see, I was merely pretending to be CIA for purposes of getting the police officers to believe me.”

“’9 OCTOBER, 1975. SUBJECT STATED RECEIVED NOTE WITH SEOUL TELEPHONE NUMBER AND OFFER OF WORK. WORK WAS WITH CIA.”

“That’s all a misunderstanding...”

“Please. I know you feel you have a professional obligation to keep quiet, but your guide has already told us everything. You came into Seoul on a cargo flight under an assumed identity, and stated directly that you are here in disguise, on a secret mission.”

“Look, look... I know how this looks. I only worked for them once. I didn’t even realize it was really the CIA until much later, when I noticed the surveillance. I thought it was a legitimate job at first...”

“ARE YOU CIA!” the interrogator roared in Korean as he brought his fist down on the floor in front of me, cracking the cement into dozens of ominous spider webs that reached out for my feet. It was only seconds later that I realized he’d held a revolver in his hand this whole time.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk, all right! I’m here looking for Suu Ni... The Korean girl. The Korean girl I met in 1975. It should all be in your files. I’m not really CIA. I only worked for them six weeks before they turned on me like they did fucking Lee Harvey Oswald. I’m not here for the CIA. I’m here for Suu Ni... Please, I love her!”

The man cocked his head and looked at me for several minutes as I sat there sobbing. I don’t know what happened in that Korean heart of his, but I think my words must have touched him on an emotional level. He looked into the folder again and held a photograph in front of my eyes. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot of Suu Ni and me embracing in front of Bogeun Temple in Seoul. God what a touching scene that was; Suu Ni only 14 and I in my 20s, younger than Kevin is now, though not by much.

I was transported back to my time with her in 1975 as I recalled endless afternoons in the Building of Scriptures, and nights enjoying Korean spicy hot pots and kimchi with my lovely Suu Ni. She was so full of life and innocence, and I longed more than anything to be with her again; all the more ten years later, knowing that she was of age and our love was no longer forbidden.

I was snapped from my reverie by the voice of the interrogator. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Suu Ni is someone who can take care of you, and she lives in Pusan?”

“Yes. She’s going to be my wife. She can take care of me better than any woman in this world.”

The man patted me on my shoulder and frowned, nodding compassionately.

#

Several hours later, I was again face-to-face with my lovely Suu Ni. She was much older, but had aged well. Barely aged at all, I should say. She was still every bit the sprightly nymph I’d met that day in the rice paddies outside Seoul. The only thing missing was that look of pure affection she’d always given me, which I prayed would return when she realized who I am.

“Suu Ni?”

“YOU CRAZY AMERICAN, I HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“IT’S ME. IT’S JOHN GOTHEBORG. PLEASE SAY YOU REMEMBER.” I reached through the bars, placing my hands on her tiny round shoulders, and squeezed the soft flesh just covering her perfect bones. As I rubbed her body, I could faintly smell the incense of Bogeun Temple in her clothing, and I knew with absolute certainty that I had once again found the greatest treasure of all Asia. If I could be with her, perhaps my life of adventure might end at last in pure bliss.

“JOHN...GOTHEBORG?”

“GUARD! GUARD, PLEASE!”

I felt like I was losing her all over again, and the guards would not come. If only I could show her the photograph. Then I remembered, and blindly, frantically dug through my wallet -- family photographs, bowling league membership card, discount program cards for many delicious homestyle cafeterias -- all ruined as I tossed them to the floor of the cell in my desperate search for Suu Ni’s picture. Then, at last, I found it. It is a bleached Polaroid, 14-years old at that time and worn from constant carrying, but it was my only hope. If Suu Ni didn’t remember me, I might have been trapped in that damp tomb forever.

“TRUE PATRIOT OF GOD?”

“Yes! Yes, Suu Ni! I HAVE COME BACK FOR YOU!” She flinched as I pulled her chest into the bars and embraced her, but gradually her lithe arm slipped through the bars to rest atop my shoulder and her fingers clutched my neck. Tears fell from her cheeks, reminding me that I have been so selfish, that she must have been even lonelier than me for all these years.

“I SO WANTED TO WAIT FOR YOU,” she said, “BUT MY FAMILY FORCED ME TO MARRY. THEY MADE ME STOP WRITING TO YOU -- AND THEN IT SEEMED TOO LATE.”

“NO! PLEASE DON’T SAY THAT’S TRUE!”

“IT IS TRUE, JOHN. HE’S GONE -- KILLED BY WILD ANIMALS ON KUM-JUNG MOUNTAIN -- BUT I HAVE A 12-YEAR OLD DAUGHTER NOW. HOW CAN YOU ACCEPT ME?”

It took a moment for that to set in. I had always envisioned Suu Ni as a perfect, untarnished virgin; and now she was a mother and widow. My love for her was so strong at that moment, though; as strong as it’s been since the day we first met, and almost as strong as it is now after 14 years of marriage.

“WHAT IS YOUR DAUGHTER’S NAME?”

“PARK CHOY,” she meekly responded.

“SUU NI,” I said, “I SWEAR THAT I WILL LOVE PARK CHOY EVERY BIT AS MUCH AS I LOVE YOU, WHICH IS TO SAY -- MORE DEARLY THAN ANYTHING ON THIS EARTH. PLEASE, BAIL ME OUT OF THIS DUMP AND COME BACK TO AMERICA WITH ME.”