The Hobo and the Cheese-stick

As an interlude, here is an anecdote about one weekend when I came up to Seoul for rehearsal. Frederic, the Props Mistress, and I were all convening and staying with our pre-Gimpy Director, but I was the only one coming in at Seoul Station. The PGD was coming to pick me up, because I arrived after midnight, at which time the Seoul metro does not run. I had some time and was pretty hungry, as catching the KTX after work precludes dinner, so I picked up a lemonade and two cheese-sticks from the 24-hour fast food place.

Sitting on a bench (the others mostly being occupied by sleeping homeless dudes) while on the phone to Frederic, trying to coordinate meeting,* I became aware of someone shuffle-wobbling toward me. He was clearly not all there, speaking and gesticulating at people who were all not there, and shambling ever closer. I mentioned to Frederic that I was being approached and was not sure what to do, speaking as I do substandard Korean and distinctly accented Crazy. He reassured me that this was Korea, and Koreans are all very polite, even the mad ones. The hobo crept ever closer.

Cheese-stick One was in the air between the box and my mouth when he burst into motion, zipping the remaining 8 feet and snatching the cheese stick out of my airborne hand. He quickly shuffle-ran away while stuffing the cheese-stick into his mouth. Dear reader, I do not know about you, but my education did not prepare me for this moment. (Frederic's suggestion was that I should go and demand it back, but he quickly became aware of the inadvisability of this plan). I was, in a word, flummoxed.

In my startlement, I had jolted in such a way that my remaining cheese-stick had fallen to the floor, so I was left only my lemonade to sip as I waited, nonplused, for my ride. He arrived, I mentioned the cheese-stick incident, and he offered to go and get it back from me, or wreak bloody vengeance on my behalf. I did not want it back, thank you, and bloody vengeance seems a stiff price for deep-fried cheese (though I understand Wisconsin people take a different view where cheese is concerned). Respecting my wishes, the PGD went instead to buy sandwiches to disperse among the needy, and I was alone again on my bench, Cheese-Stick Man hovering again on the edges of my perception.

I sipped my lemonade nervously: a mouse in a clearing as the hawk circles in for the kill. I make that metaphor because THE DUDE CAME BACK AND STOLE MY LEMONADE. Again, out of my hand, in the air on its way to my mouth. (Do you get extra points for that? This dude is the champ).

I haven't had a cheese-stick since, out of the primal terror that a hobo will swoop out of nowhere and seize it.

*It turned out this was all in vain, because Frederic was arriving at a totally different train station. He did not figure this out until considerably later.