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Return to The Writer's Life or "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place".

    I was near my twenty-first birthday in the spring of 1975, standing in the rain on a muddy South Korean hillside when I grew old.
     The artillery battery had just finished a two-week field exercise. My crew, exhausted, wet and cold, was eager to return to the comforts of our base camp. From the back of our truck, from which we towed the massive 155mm howitzer, we surveyed what was left of the disassembled firebase.
     A few of the usual camp followers still milled around, picking through the debris left by the affluent Americans. They came from the local population; prostitutes, young thieves we called 'slickie boys', and like the old woman near our truck, small time vendors.
     She was a decrepit thing, barely five feet tall and bent even lower with the weight of the bundle slung from one shoulder. Sprigs of silver escaped a kerchief to streak her forehead and temples. Her gown, short-waisted and full length in the traditional Korean fashion, drug in the muck as she plodded from truck to truck trying to make one last sale before the soldiers and their money were gone.
     Of course we lacked nothing materially. Still she tried, holding out the local version of Pepsi-Cola and crying, "O-beck won, o-beck won!"
     A ridiculous price, I thought, five hundred won - about a buck and a quarter - for a warm, over-sweetened, under-carbonated cola. Nevertheless, there she was, arm outstretched, pleading, "O-beck won, o-beck won!"
     "Il-beck won," I countered, offering one hundred won for the drink I really didn't want.
     "O-beck won," she cried louder, making a face like I was torturing her. "O-beck won!"
     By then the first sergeant was pumping his fist in the air, signaling the battery to get ready to move out. The big diesel in our truck roared to life. Short of time and weary of the barter, I reached in my pocket and pulled out a roll of five hundred won notes. They were new bills, pristine and perfect. The roll probably amounted to a small fortune to the old woman while merely a pittance to me.
     As our driver throttled the engine again I called the old woman closer.
     "Here, you old thief," I yelled over the noise as I peeled a single note from the roll. "O-beck won!"
     She stepped to the tailgate between the truck and the howitzer and, in a motion that belied her age, deftly exchanged drink for won. Suddenly, the truck roared steady and started forward slowly.
     The old woman could have made it, I believe, had it not been for her dress. As she stepped back though, her heel caught the bottom of her full-length gown. Down she went, flat on her back, arms and tote flying over her head.
     Despite the noise from the trucks and the crew screaming at the driver, I heard nothing. I could only watch as eight tons of howitzer rolled quiet and slow, pinning her down in the mud. As the huge tire crossed her mid section, the blood rose up in her mouth, spilling in small crimson lines down either cheek.
     Then the sound came back and I knew it was over. The truck lurched another twenty yards before the driver finally stopped. By then I was standing where she fell.
     Her face was calm, eyes open, but her torso below the shoulders disappeared into the rut left by the howitzer tire. Coming out of the rut on the other side were her knees and lower legs and two feet, intact with dainty shoes. But there was more.
     Between her head and feet a small pool was filling quickly with muddy water and blood. And in the middle of it, floating face up, spinning in the small eddies, was the pristine note, that perfect o-beck won.

Copyright � 2001 by Kenneth Howell. All rights reserved. No part may be copied or transferred mechanically, electronically or by any other means, except for reviews, without the express written permission of the author.

The Perfect O-Beck Won

by
Kenneth Howell