THE COOL KID

                                              story

                                                by

                                      Patrick Breheny                                            pjbreheny@hotmail.com    (the line spacing does as it wants)

      Sochon is a medium sized town in South Chungchong Province in South Korea, and Kirby taught English there, but lived

in Hansan, a hamlet ten kilometers away, surrounded by rice fields, and famous for ramie, a fabric used to make traditional

garments. His job was to talk to Korean English teachers. Conversation classes  He was recruited to do that in Los Angeles, and he was the only native speaker in all of Sochon County, of which the town Sochon is the largest. He also was assigned by his employer, the provincial education office, to visit a different middle school or high school on Fridays. He couldn’t do any real teaching meeting classes at each school only one time, just introduced himself as an American from L.A., and answered their questions.

     He traveled back and forth, twixt Hansan  and Sochon, by bus, waiting for his Number 2 at Sochon’s surprisingly large and busy terminal that serviced travel to all the surrounding little towns. One late afternoon, as he stood outside in the still-warm- autumn day in anticipation of the #2’s promised arrival, a kid about 17, a boy, approached him. The kid had an American 1950’s look, wearing a thick cream colored turtleneck sweater, possibly cashmere, under a tan sports jacket, his hair swept back in a D.A.. No matter it was a U.S. style of half a century earlier---cool is cool, is cool forever, and the kid was cool.

     His English was pretty good, and he smiled as he introduced himself and asked Kirby’s name. He had a cute girlfriend with him, maybe a year younger, who stood off a bit, either spoke no English, or was too shy to try talking to an American.

     Kirby saw him several more times at the station, and usually he approached and said hello. Usually, but not always. Sometimes he hid behind parked busses with the girl. He thought they’d probably be smooching back there, but was certain no more than that on a street in a small Korean town. If Kirby were to think anything consciously about the kid’s life prospects, he’d realize he’d made certain assumptions. This was a kid with life waiting for him, top of his class, self confident, had a good looking girlfriend, a prestigious university ahead, and a career after that.

     On the Friday mornings when he visited schools, there was always a ritual performed on his

arrival. He’d be accompanied by a teacher from the school, and brought to the principal’s hospitality

room, where there were long low traditional dining tables, cushions on the floor beside them, and

coffee and tea were served. It was during this introduction to the school that the principal bragged

about it. He pointed to the academic plaques on the wall, the sports trophies on pedestals, cited the

percentage of his students who went on to universities. The principal was a proud man, so it was

incumbent on Kirby to be impressed. Afterwards, he’d go into the various classes and meet these

mightily achieving students.

     On the last Friday of the semester, however, the morning ritual turned out to be a little different. He was at a vocational school. Yes, he was invited to the inner sanctum, but here the principal was not given to boasting. He was apologetic.

     He said, “Our students won’t be going to university. We teach them skills so they can make a living when they leave high school. They don’t care about English, but they’ll be curious about you. We’ll have an interpreter so you can answer their questions.”

     The first class he went to, sitting a few front rows back, yet immediately noticeable by a familiar silhouette with the unmistakable D.A. sweep, was his bus station pal holding a notebook in front of his face.

     Kirby went with the ruse, didn’t acknowledge him, avoided eye contact, but the next time he saw him at the terminal, he didn’t visit. Kirby had to walk over to him. The girl seemed to be backing even farther away from Kirby. There was no further point in pretending he hadn’t seen him in the classroom.

     He asked, “What are you taking at the school?”

     He hoped he wouldn’t say welding. If he did, he could say a welder can be a sculptor, but that was a stretch.

     He said “Auto mechanics.”

     Kirby had his consolation speech ready for that one, short as it was, and he believed it

    “A good mechanic, given the opportunity, can be an engineer.”

    The kid’s instant agreement surprised him. Also that the girl moved closer now and smiled.

    He said, “I know. I’m enrolled at Seoul Open University. Mechanical Engineering program. Distance

learning and weekend classes while I work here and make money. My family is poor. They can’t

afford tuition, so I have to earn it.”  

    The kid was cool. So cool he learned to do something people in the real world would pay him for

while he was studying. Kirby’s early assumptions about him were correct, just too modest.

       His job in Sochon was over, no more schools to visit on Fridays, but he knew before he left he’d

have to go see the principal at the vocational school one more time. He called for an appointment,

something to discuss, and the principal cordially invited him to return another morning to the

meeting room, maybe thinking Kirby would ask for a job.

       Once more traditionally and politely, if uncomfortably, seated on a floor cushion with his back hurting, Kirby asked, “Your students get high school diplomas?”

      “Oh yes. They take requirements,, History and Biology and all of that””      

      “Graded on a lower curve?”

      “Of course, but what university would seriously consider grades from a vocational school. They’re here because they did poorly in elementary school.”

      “What if they deserve good grades?”

      “They’d be the A’s. We have a few, but there are competitive standards at the colleges. Higher education would wonder what they were doing learning a trade.”

       “Why do you think they would?  The ones who can get good grades?”

       “I don’t know..”

       “I know about one.”

        It was then he told him about his acquaintance from the bus terminal.

       “Oh yes, that would be…But not most…”

       Probably not most, but Kirby hoped he’d leave him with something to boast of about his students, to the next guest lecturer or  native speaking ENGLISH CONVERSATION teacher, if ever one fell into Sochon County again out or a tree or something. And with with some admiration for his young apprentices, an appreciation that the next time he needed a carpenter or a pipe fitter, an MBA  might not fix his walls or install his pipes the way he’d like.