Meaning of Club #1: A room to drink and dance without consequence.

I left Toronto an unhappy boy. I was in student debt, chubby, sleeping in Arthur’s living room, distant from my family, and painting parking lots overnight. Adding to this misery, all my conversations seemed to stream towards: “Congratulations on graduation. What are you doing now? What’s your plan?” I didn’t want to say, “I don’t know,” so I said, “I’m thinking about teaching abroad.” Alone, I never thought about teaching abroad. It was social pressure that made me contact a recruiter. A week later I got a job offer in Seoul, which I immediately accepted. Then I went to the Korean embassy, submitted papers, and got a working visa.

When I knew my departure date, I tried to set up last suppers with friends. Many said they were busy, and I pathetically accepted their non-availability, a sign of my low self-love level. On my third last night, I bussed downtown for dinner with Kyle. We met at his apartment. He told me he needed to reserve a study room in his building, so I accompanied him downstairs, passed the security desk, ping-pong room, gym, and then made a right into a rec room. “Surprise!” yelled around 40 familiar and loved faces.

At the surprise going-away-party, I hugged, danced, drank, and talked with everybody. Kyle and Tre put me on their shoulders, and we sang Frank Ocean’s “Self-Control”. Later, Yasmin got up on a leather footstool, said nice things, and then handed me a notebook with handwritten messages from the attendees. While hugging Tre, Isaac, and her, I cried because I forgot I was loved. Later, everyone asked, “Should we stay here all night or go to a club? It’s your night. You decide.” I said, “Let’s go to the club.”

Meaning of Club #2: A space to release anxiety. A space to celebrate: breathing in Korea, money on the debit, and friendship.

Two days later, I left the country. I felt numb for two weeks. I was a passive participant to the set up of my Asian life. I did everything– staring, listening, following, nodding—with blankness. I didn’t sleep well. I got sick. Somewhere in the fog, I met Eli, Richard, and Rob.

Eli and Rob were roommates in our orientation hotel and immediately hit it off. Eli was a calm, well-spoken Clevelander. He had a good sense of humor and we bonded over basketball even though he thought Kyrie Irving was better than Kyle Lowry. Rob was a passionate dude from Sacramento who also liked basketball. Rob and I went out for chicken together and intellectually sparred for two hours. He delivered long, well supported opinions on history and culture and wasn’t scared to disagree with any opinion I shared. This earned my respect, but his stubbornness paired with my pride later led to ridiculously lengthy and petty arguments. Half-jokingly, half-vindictively, I nicknamed him “Monologue Rob”. I met Richard in our hotel lobby. He was a handsome, half-Japanese Kiwi who everyone liked. We could talk for hours about anything, but, we usually geeked out about podcasts, documentaries, philosophy, and the manga, One Piece.

On our second weekend in Korea, all four of us met on a set of painted stairs in Itaewon, Seoul’s biggest nightlife district. At the top, there was a convenience store that sold soju. We sat in the middle of the stairs, joking, trading stories about home, revealing our “out of job” selves to each other. The talks and the rice wine thawed my nerves. On that night, with those dudes, I felt I had truly arrived in Seoul.

Eli, Richard, Rob, and I all worked for the same English franchise but at different campuses. Monday to Friday, we were apart, dealing with imposter syndrome, patronizing managers, weird co-workers, overly structured lesson plans, confused students, missed video calls from parents, lonely meals, and existential anxiety. The weekends were our exhale. We dumped everything on each other. We related to each other. We laughed. We spent our salary. We became brothers. We wrote “DNA- Kendrick Lamar” on our phones, showed it to the DJ, and then, on the third verse (“TELL ME SOMETHING”), we huddled and put our arms to the sky like we were starting a ritual. We sacrificed our livers, throats, calves, and Sundays to summon a circle of Western energy, which had gravity strong enough to separate a Korean from their shyness, hang their arms on our sweaty shoulders, and mosh–together. During the week, we were aliens in satellite neighborhoods. On Saturday night, we were stars. We were on fire; we were burning; we were the middle.

Since puberty, I desired this feeling: shedding my brain, prying open my ribs, and letting the universe’s energy flow straight to my chest until my heart was weightless. Leaving Canada was supposed to be a symbolic departure from this fantasy. I had expected post-university life to be a slog, but jumping around Seoul’s fluorescent basements made living refreshingly effortless.

Meaning of Club #3: A room to prove I could be loved.

The moshes didn’t last forever, obviously. Songs ended, dance floors dispersed, the magic evaporated. The universal energy tap twisted shut. My ribs curled back in and I reeled my brain back to my skull. My thoughts, which had been ignored, cried to me like a neglected baby. “Why was I here?” I asked. I looked around at the sea of strangers and the question became: “Who are you without your friends?”

I searched for the answer on the lips of females. I wandered off alone. I introduced myself. I presented my personality. Every time there was a gap in conversation or a sign of disinterest, I got scared that I wasn’t good enough. This fear energized me, pushing me to perform an ideal version of myself: interesting, charming, kind, and mature. I lied about my age. On the surface, this was to make older women feel more comfortable, but, more symbolically, it forced me act like the person I thought I’d be in 5, 6, 7 years. On these escapades, I didn’t want any “help”, any “wingmen” or “wingwomen”. I wanted to know that me, myself, and I was enough.

On Saturday night, I put my self-worth in the hands of strangers. I met so many intelligent, brave, and caring women. The more impressive they were the more I internalized their opinions. On good nights, we bought drinks for each other, shared cigarettes, and talked until the time surprised us. Any interruptions— friends or bladders—were annoying. I yearned for everything to fade away until there was only us. The portal to this desire was touch: a leg brush, a squeezed thigh, a dance, a cheek peck, intertwined hands, a tongue in mouth, a crotch grab, a bed, a naked body, sex, a sleepy head on chest, toothpaste kisses in the morning, long hugs in front of a subway turnstile. These physical moments were validating. They were evidence of that I wasn’t imagining connection.

Meaning of Club #4: A room that brought out my worst side and risked me losing friends.

One night we were in Fountain, a club near our meet-up: the stairs. Eli and I were by the bar rail, sipping on a drink. A woman came up to me and asked for a condom. “Why?” I asked. “Just give me a condom,” she replied. I laughed. “What is this? You’re beautiful enough to get any guy in this club. You don’t have to be this forward.” I continued laughing. She leaned to my ear, “Don’t tell my friends, but I’m in a bachelorette party and one of our competitions is who can get the most condoms.” I laughed. Then stopped. Dramatically, I leaned back and squinted at her eyes and then her lips. “I wanted to ask you if those are contacts or the real color of your eyes, but I’m too distracted by your smile. You have a beautiful smile. The most beautiful one in the city tonight.” She laughed. “Hey!” I said, gently touching her arm. “I’ll walk down to the 711 and buy you 100 condoms if it means you can talk to me and I can keep trying to make you smile.” “You’re cute. How old are you?” she said. “I’m 28,” I lied. “Let me find you a little later in the night,” she said. Then walked away. I turned to my left, raising my eyebrows at Eli.

“So that’s just what you do, huh?” Eli said. “You just lie.” “What do you mean? I thought she had a beautiful smile,” I said, feeling disarmed that he’d not been impressed by this Casanova act. He squinted at me. “C’mon man. That was bullshit. You didn’t mean any of it,” he said. “What’s your problem, man?” I said then let out a nervous laugh, hoping it would dissolve the bubbling conflict. “I don’t have a problem. You’re just blatantly lying,” he said and stared me straight in the face.

We stopped hanging out for over a month. Richard and I started going out in Suwon, or I went out with my co-worker John. Eli and Rob went to other parts of the city or played Settlers of Catan. From Richard, I heard that they didn’t enjoy going out with me anymore. I was too prideful to message any of them. Finally, we met up on a Sunday to play basketball. Post-game, we went for fried chicken. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out how many chicken were killed in Korea every day. At the end of the night, I mentioned that I missed hanging with them. They looked at each other then said they missed hanging with me—actually hanging out with me. We made plans to get dinner and drinks the next weekend.

By that point, our testosterone stubbornness had fizzled out. We sat on a sturdy bench inside an “alcohol house”, ordered some food and beer, and talked it out. Rob ranted about all the nights I ditched the group. He was tired of feeling like an accessory to my main goal: sleeping with women. I got defensive, indirectly telling them that they were jealous. Eli admitted a part of him was. He said he didn’t want to be someone who hated on his friend’s happiness, but I acted sleazy when I was around a girl I thought I could sleep with. I apologized. I admitted that moving away from home was harder than I thought. All this hooking up was due to fear of loneliness. I didn’t know what was going on with me, but I knew that I didn’t want to lose them as friends.

From then on, we started hanging out together again. We had a darts phase. We had a Settlers of Catan phase. We went on weekend trips around Korea. Then the year was over.

Eli and Rob moved to Vietnam. Richard went back to New Zealand. I moved to Busan.

Meaning of Club #5: A place of unproductivity that wasn’t as fun as it used to be.

Eli came to visit me in Busan three times. By his second visit, I’d built a fulfilling life. I had found a writing community. I was slaying performances. I finally believed I could be a writer. I had a nice apartment. I had a good job. Boxing had me in the best shape of my life. I had three awesome friends in Busan. I was objectively a better man than I’d been Seoul, and I felt a deep need to display this to Eli. After all, he’d been a correcting force that put me here.

One night during his visit, we went to play Avalon with Nina, Cheyne, and some other people. Nina, Cheyne, and I had been obsessed with this board game: a sophisticated version of Dracula where you try and figure out who’s a good or bad person based on a couple facts and a lot of armchair psychology. Eli enjoyed it, too, and we were having a wonderful time. After a game, Eli asked to go out clubbing. I said this was more fun. He said, “C’mon, let’s go out like the old times.” Reluctantly, I said, “OK.”

We went out. The energy just wasn’t there—probably because I didn’t want to be there. When we were dancing, a Korean girl kept hovering around and making eye contact with me. Eli started talking to her friends. When I offered to buy a round of cheap beers, she asked me “Are you serious?” Apparently she only drank beers that were 10 dollars and up. I didn’t buy her a beer, but we kept dancing. We faced each other, holding hands, twirling around, and slowly her friends and Eli retreated, leaving us alone. 10 minutes later, Eli found me. “I’m going home,” he said. “Sure,” I said. Five minutes later, I realized my mistake. I was just dancing, I had no desire for validation from this person, and yet, I “chose” her over my friend who was visiting from another country. Five minutes later, I went out to the street, hoping to find him, but he was gone.

I took a cab home. He arrived an hour later. We started arguing. I thought he was being an ungrateful asshole by ignoring all the good times we’d had on his trip, and, instead, deciding to fixate on a five minute “slip up”. I got angrier and angrier, and, when I was no longer thinking clearly, I said I didn’t want to talk anymore–we could talk in the morning. I walked to my bedroom and closed the door. “Don’t run away to your bedroom!” Eli yelled. I launched off my bed, swung open the door, and, at that moment, I was convinced that we were going to fight. I thought we were going to start punching each other and breaking stuff in my apartment. “You’re my brother, man! Come out here, sit the hell down, and let’s talk this out. Let’s figure this shit out,” he said.

I leaned on the armrest, curled in my knees, and stared ahead at the wall. I didn’t understand how I felt. I had no idea what to say. I was suddenly aware that 99.9% of my conversations were pre-meditated, and this one was going to be the 0.1%. I took a deep exhale, pulled open dark shelters in my mind, and let unsaid words climb up my tongue towards the light.

I simultaneously said and realized that I had a deep need to impress certain people. My throat started to tighten. My throat was scared to let the words go, like a mother embracing her kid outside of a dorm in early September. I pushed ahead. When I disappointed those people, I felt… crushed. Pressure pushed on my eyes. I stared down at my lap. All I wanted to do was make Eli, my closest friends, and my family proud. This probably came from a father who offered little positive reinforcement. I remembered all the times I awkwardly hid tears from him because I didn’t want to be a weak son. At this moment, I raised my head, lifted my chin, and stared at Eli so he could see my tears. “Sometimes I fuck up. But I’m trying, man. I’m really trying my best to be as good as I can be.” I continued to cry but didn’t look away. He looked at me, nodding with watery eyes. “I’m trying, I’m trying,” I repeated until I forgave my brain and trusted that my heart would never drown. My loved ones would never let that happen.

Meaning of Club #6: A room that reminded me of a past version of my self.

In the Saigon club, I sat on the leather couch. Instead of staying quiet, I tapped Eli and said, “Let’s get out of here, man.” He looked at me for a half-second longer than usual, and said, “OK.”

Some of Eli’s friends asked, “You’re leaving? Man, it’s so early.” I said, “Yeah, “I’m not really feeling it.”

Kevin wanted to leave, too. Jack and his British crush didn’t have any money, so the process of paying for the gin was frustrating and lengthy. Outside, Eli and I decided to get ramen. Jack and the British girl also wanted ramen. We reminded them that they had no money. Jack said he would pay Eli the next day. The British girl complained that it wasn’t her fault we went to such an expensive “lounge”. We told her she should’ve just decided not to drink. She didn’t understand us. We didn’t understand her. She got on her bike, and, Jack, as a last attempt, asker her if he could come back to her place– he would ride on the back of her bike. She said that she had to work in 5 hours, so, no. We went to a barbecue spot because all of the ramen places were closed. With a belly full of pork, beef, and sea snails, we got in a Grab then went to sleep.

We woke up at 9 A.M. Brandon, Eli’s Bostonian roommate, was in the living room, sipping on a gin and tonic. He was gearing up for playoff football. The New England Patriots against the Tennessee Titans. I sunk into their faded beige couch, excited to see an American watch meaningful football.

In the first half, I saw myself in Brandon. I knew what it was to be a fan. For the Toronto Raptors, I’d done what Brandon did: standing and sitting, yelling at the screen, slapping my chest, “coaching”, pacing around the room, nervously biting my nails, covering eyes with hands. Fanhood isn’t just about the game– it’s social glue. Following a team connects you to your friends, your childhood, your home, and, most common, your dad. So, it was no surprise that before the half, Brandon decided to call his old man. His dad answered, and his dad was also drunk. But, because we were streaming the game, his father was a minute ahead. His pops started yelling, “FUMBLE” over the phone. Brandon stared at the TV, confused, asking, “What happened? What happened?” A minute later the Titans fumbled the football, and the Patriots recover it. “Dad, I can’t call you anymore. You’re ahead in the game. I’ll call you after.”

Without paternal support, Brandon descended into insanity. He quickly dispensed of his gin and peeled open a cardboard box of canned beers. The more tense the game became the quicker he flicked at the aluminum tabs. The cans hissed then he dumped them down his throat. He kept saying, “I got to call my dad.” And we kept saying, “No!” In the fourth quarter, he turned to superstition. He peeled off his Edelman jersey, turned it inside out and backwards, and then put it back on. “I swear, man. We always win when I do this.” Then he inverted his hat and put it on Jack. “It’s the rally cap! Let’s go boys!” But the Patriots didn’t rally. They couldn’t stop Derrick Henry, the Titans’ running back. Tom Brady got picked on the Patriots’ last drive. Despair consumed Brandon. He took off his jersey, chugged two beers, slapped a wall, and then threw a couple cans. Slurring, he went from denial (“Sports don’t matter!”) to suicide (“I’m gonna jump of the balcony.”) After making sure he was OK, Eli and I went to a coffee shop.

We brought our laptops and searched for apartments. If Eli, Kyle, and I forked over 300 bucks a month, we could get a nice 3-bedroom crib with an indoor gym, swimming pool, and, maybe, a basketball court. I became obsessed with one listing because it had a bamboo wall in between the kitchen and living room. It was important to me that I was happy to return home at the end of a working day. I wanted some nice art. I wanted lots of plants. I told Eli I’d come back from my backpacking trip a week before I started work, so I could relax and we could go house hunting.

When we got back to his apartment, 20 scuffed-up shoes and slippers had spilled from the shoe rack past the entrance and into the living room. Apparently, Brandon’s rage had a second wind when we left because I found one of my basketball shoes in the kitchen and one near the balcony. I spotted a couple bills on the floor but couldn’t read them because they were dirty and ripped. On the small coffee table in the living room was an exhibit of college paraphernalia. There was a stack of beer cans, tobacco flakes and ashes, lighters, and stained Styrofoam food containers. One couch used to be beige leather but now looked like moldy bread. The other couch was broken. Despite the cleaning lady coming two days earlier, the place was already a dump. Eli sighed and gently kicked a beer can to the side.

He looked at me, and I looked at him for a second longer than usual. Then I nodded. We had spent the last 24 hours in our old life. We were both ready to move on.