[Kulturkampf]

J.-P. Sartre was actually dead when I was born, but last monday evening he was just outside of the Uijeongbu train station at Prowstar Cafe, he was smoking a cigarette and secretly putting vodka into his cocochino -- I did not think that a Marxist would drink a cocochino made by a company ripping off Starbucks in Korea, being that not only was it Capitalist, but that is the basest form of capitalism: drinking a capucino with a cute name.

But regardless, I remember being taken aback when I saw him. I had just finished his book Nausea while riding back on the subway. I was slightly annoyed to see him, being that I was supposed to meet up with my friends in an hour and I wanted to smoke a cigar by myself at Prowstar, but I knew that Sartre was going to drag me into a conversation as he interestingly and confusedly looked at me walking towards Prowstar. Oh brother, I thought, now I am going to have to engage this guy in conversation... I am even wearing my Rock Against Communism shirt and I am sure he is going to be a smart ass about it.

His eyes were very criticizing behind his glasses, and he stole the first word of the conversation: "That's an interesting shirt..." I needed to strike back with wit against him, yet be slightly immature.

"And those are interesting glasses, egg-head!" I said in a friendly way, and smiled... Sartre suddenly smiled and pushed his glasses back onto his face with his middle finger, letting it linger on the bridge of his nose so as to flip me off. I laughed a little and shook my head -- I went in and I also ordered a cocochino. As I waited for them to prepare the drink I stood there, rather dumbfounded on what to say next. I figured I would ask him why the hell he chose to come to Uijeongbu. As I walked out he was still smiling at me and nodded at the chair across from him, which I eagerly took.

"So, what the hell are you doing in Uijeongbu?" He asked. He stole the words out of my mouth. I chuckled and replied:

"I am a soldier..."

"Oh, US Army? Or Navy? Or Air Force?" Like all Marxist intellectuals, Sartre was feminine and displaying his rather homosexually ignorant view of the military, thinking 'soldier' applied to anyone as a member of the military. Even though his dad was a French naval officer, he still really didn't know much about it. I figured we could broach this subject later.

"Army... Now what the hell are you doing in Uijeongbu? Shouldn't you be dead?"

"Haha, well, I always wanted to travel to the East..."

"And you chose Uijeongbu?"

"Haha, no, I fell asleep on the subway and woke up at the top of Line 1. So I figured to get some coffee before I go back downtown." I now understood.

"I thought you had already traveled extensively -- i your 1938 novel Nausea your main character was very well traveled, and..."

"That's just the sort of bullshit I get sick of... Everyone thinks I have some sort of "profound connection" to my characters... It's a book, man, and I thought I should make an interesting character, not just some regular guy..." Sartre seemed angry. He responded like he had been asked the question 10,000 times and it was getting old. He went on: "Look, even if I was that extensively well traveled, it is irrelevent to the character... Characters are all independent of themselves, and even though parts of me do manifest themselves in characters it is certainly not all like that..."

"I see." Sartres accent was surprisingly good for being a Frenchman and a Communist. I suppose Sartre was already writing me off. He smoked a bit more and sipped some coffee as I did so. I bet he thought I was some barbarian by now.

"Look," this seemed to be SArtre's favorite phrase, he was very cold when he talked, in stark contract to his paternal smiles we had earlier, "I really enjoy writing but I do not enjoy it when people interrogate me... I thought I was not going to get interrogated in Korea but now ... Now you are all analyzing my characters. I don't need that. I am Sartre and I am not the guy from Nausea --I even forgot whatever I named that character, I am done writing, I just want to relax... But you know, character names are so trivial -- it was stupid for me to even give him a name. Who needs a name? People only need a simple name, one syllable, like Jean, or Claude, no last name, just simple names... I didn't bother to name half the characters." I agree'd.

"You are right... My name is 'Jacob Michael Verville,' but the only time I see this is on official documents and the concept that I would have this giant name is ridiculous."

"Exactly. What do people call you? Jacob?"

"No, I'm Verv."

"Aw, even easier. Verv..." He said it with a French accent, the pronunciation of the word 'green.' He got that giant, comical, warm smile on his face. "Verville... You are French but why do you say your name like that? Ver-Vill.... It sounds stupid and barbaric to say your name like un americain. You need to say it as the French... Ver-veeeel." He even put a phlegmy, nasal twist on the pronunciation to make it sound as arrogant and French as ever. I laughed. His smile was ridiculous, as was his demeanor.

"Haha, yes... I do like the French pronunciation but I am an American, or un Americain as you arrogantly say..." Sartre laughed and slapped his leg. Sartre was rather dorky.

"So maybe your parents are French?"

"Yes."

"Parlez-vous Francais?"

"Stop it. You remember that 'I do not connect myself with my characters all the way' type thing? You are treading on that now..."

"Haha, okay, okay, sorry... I just thought... Haha." Sartre suddenly got serious after a long puff on his cigar.

"So what about this shirt you are wearing? Rock Against Communism?"

"It is good music... And you are a Communist, and I am rocking out against you." Sartre nodded largely.

"Okay, but... Really... Don't you think Communism provides solutions and upward mobility to the poor countries, defeats colonialism? Men like Ho Chi Minh are the only hope for many countries..." Sartre was getting on my nerves, now.

"Not true. There are plenty of liberation movements that are rooted in just simple Nationalism. In fact, if you study Ho Chi Minh properly you will note that he was foremost a Nationalist and only became a Communist because of your stupid French education system that organized thousands and thousands of Siamese students into Communists, to include big names like Pol Pot, Ho Chi Minh, Thien Mumm, and that Laos guy. Really, you think most Vietnamese and Kampuchea peasants were well-versed in Marxism and national liberation? They were fighting because they were poor and angry. If you lived an agrarian lifestyle and have only owned a few pairs of clothes, farming tools, and maybe a pipe for smoking tobacco or opium, you really do not have much going for you in the intellectual dept."

Sartre grimaced slightly.

"I see your point, vaguely, but come on, do you really think continued colonialism and foreign businesses exploiting cheap labor and exporting national resources is the answer?"

"No, Nationalism is -- the countries merely could have moved to make simple, free states away from their colonial masters... And maybe even eventually did it with the help of the former colonists, as opposed to fighting them."

"That would have taken years, Verv, and I do not think colonists wer eready to give up power."

"Well, look at it this way: yes, a little pushing must be done, but eventually colonies get their freedom, and if it is done in a movement willing to modernize and cooperate..."

"Do you really call a class system riddled with socioeconomic inequities a modernized world?"

"Shit, son, do you call Pol Pot's abolishment of currency, schools, glasses, and basically-everything-good a modernized world?"

Sartre and I both sighed at each other. Both knew we were just bashing the appearance of each others ideals, and neither of us were really attacking the crux. We knew our conversation would become endless if we got into it so we both took a long puff. Sartre was the mature one to change the topics:

"So, what sort of things do you do in the Army?" Sartre smiled. "My dad used to go on boats..."

"Well, where do I begin? We do a lot... And it is a ship, not a boat." Sartre chuckled. I think he also read into my phrase as being 'really, I do not want to recite my daily routine for you,
and did not press it.

"Haha, you argue semantics... You know, my English isn't that good."

"Whatever, Sartre, you just do not know much about even your father's occupation."

"Well how much do you know about your dad's?" Sartre quickly retorted.

"A lot... I think you weren't close with your father." Sartre sighed painfully and looked away.

"Look, my dad was rather overbearing..."

"Like your writing can sometimes be in its shameless criticism of the bourgeoisie, acting as if their life is somehow more empty than anyone else's."

"Touche... But that is not the point... We all take pot-shots at each other. I happen to take them at bourgeoisie."

"Haha, Sartre, that is because you are like every other intellectual: you are the bourgeoisie!"

"Haha, got me! But this is unfair. I hardly know anything about you and you can strike at me... But anyways... Most people live day-to-day routines that are hardly flattering to themselves, and that is just how it is... I wanted to know your routine because honestly, I admired the routine of my father. It was very rigid, healthy, and respectable." I nodded at Sartre. "The military is one of the few institutes that enforces some sort of respectable standard in daily life... I am sure it is far from perfect, as my father used to complain of unwarranted promotions and unnecessary hardships, but other than being a monk... If I had less privileges, I would have joined the military..." Sartre sort of droned off, he was getting lost in thought. Maybe he was launching his next novel in his head -- surely something penetrating and arrogant about a sailor traveling the ports and reflecting on his past experiences while futilely pursuing love, something with a homosexually simple title like "Reflections." The guy always loved those simple, stupid titles.

"So why do we need a classless society if all people are going to do is live simple, boring, routine lives, and is money really all that important?" I incquired. Sartre's shoulders dropped and he put out his cigar.

"Why do you ask me these absurd questions? Look, go read books about it, you are asking me to recite books here..."

"Haha, understood... Well, I got to get going." Sartre looked disappointed I was leaving so fast.

"Well, well... " He had a 'what will I do?' look on his face, he was lost without me. He must be so bored, alone, and by himself on this penninsula.

"Look, if you get bored, call this number," I said while I was jotting my phone number on a gay prowstar napkin. Sartre looked over at the number and lighted another cigarette. "Do you like punk rock?"

I could tell Sartre didn't like it, being that he must have been 72 the first time he heard it, and I doubt he was ever a big Sex Pistols fan, but to be polite he kindly smiled and said: "Well... It's all right!"

"Haha, okay... Call me sometime... I am available most afternoons and on weekends..."

"You don't have to work during the day?"

"I work nights, dumbass."

"Haha! Oh, okay," Sartre was really a pleasant and warm guy for a Communist Frenchman, I shook his hand and turned and sighed in relief that that was over. It was kind of like walking on egg shells. I was afraid to offend him and he was clearly ornary and sensitive, didn't really want to broach any major topic, almost even evasive.

As I walked away I called Palmtree, Lucie, and Baby Giant one by one and noted that we would have to go to a different cafe for fear of running into Sartre and then us all having to sit down with the PMS'ing Frenchman, and they obliged me.

Now it is Friday, and I am wondering if he will call me up drunk and embarassingly show up at Skunk Hell with his Communist ideas and limp wrist, getting sloppy trashed and ranting about the worker's rights and the emptiness of the bourgeoisie; I know Jon would engage him in conversation but I could just see Paul with a disgusted look on his face at the ridiculous ranting of a drunk Sartre. I bet Amberoo and Lauren and Kort and Jillian would be very polite and interested, but frankly, I wasn't.

I wouldn't mind having afternoon coffees with Sartre from time to time, but really, it would get too much to do it all the time and to think of what would happen if he and Unity started talking is off the wall -- by the next morning they'd all have sex changes and Mao Tse-tung worker outfits and be throwing flower pots through windows.

I think I won't answer if he calls.