Idol Blues

Emmy forgets her purse, of all things. The performance that had happened that evening had been so long ago. Only the sound of reverb, of her own voice in her in-ear, remains. She cannot sleep. She closes her eyes and sees neon lights in hues of pink and white flash across her eyelids. She rolls over.

“Minju,” Emmy shakes Minju awake, “Let’s go.”

“Hmm,” mumbles Minju, and she pulls Emmy in close, wrapping Emmy in sticky arms and legs, “I’m tired.”

“I left my purse.”

“Your purse?”

“In the green room.”

“Emmy,” Minju says, and sighs, and tries to nuzzle into Emmy’s collarbone, “Not now. Please. We had a big day.”

But Emmy is already up and wiggling a sweatshirt over her head. She puts on the warmest socks she owns. She turns on the lights. Minju groans, but, begrudgingly, she gets out of bed. The two of them slip out the door and into the parking garage. Minju’s car beeps as she presses the button.

Minju’s long black hair is wild and tangled. She yawns wide. They get into the car in silence. Emmy looks out the window as they come out of the parking garage and make their way into the empty street.

Minju turns off the main road into a side street. It is quiet in their upscale neighborhood, but loud downtown, Emmy knows, where there are bars and night markets. The Seoul that Emmy and Minju belong to is silent in the darkest hours of the night.

“Why am I doing this?” Minju asks.

“Because you love me.”

With her eyes still on the road, Minju taps on Emmy’s thigh. Minju’s hands are warm. She keeps her palm on Emmy’s leg for the rest of the drive.

The gate to the baseball stadium is closed, so they find street parking the next block over, in front of a fried chicken shop and an apartment building that towers over them. As they make their way through the shadows towards the back gate that they had left in earlier that day, they link elbows. When they get to the gate, they stop touching. Emmy sticks her hands in the pocket of her hoodie and keeps her head down as Minju talks to the security guard.

“We were just here,” Minju says, “Can you let us back in?”

She speaks in her succinct Seoulite dialect, and though she may not look an idol with her hair unbrushed and her pink slippers stained dirt brown, Minju still dazzles in the foggy night. The security guard looks them up and down. Emmy holds her chin up proudly to prove she’s worth something — like it was her, truly, who had sold out this same baseball stadium.

“We cannot let people in this late at night,” says the guard. He tucks his cap down tighter. His arms were crossed. He stands in front of the back door like it is a fortress. Just hours ago, Emmy and Minju, their other group members, and their team had shuffled out of these doors with hundreds of cameras in their faces. Emmy, Emmy, the fans had chanted. 

“I left my purse,” Emmy says, in her imperfect, American-born Korean, “I left my purse inside the green room.”

“Why were you in the greenroom?” snaps the man.

“We performed here earlier,” Minju says.

“Eh?” the guard looks at them, finally, really looks at them the way a man would. Emmy tugs on the strings of her hoodie. It’s tough out in the cold and the dark. Maybe it would have been better to stay inside, where there is a bed that the two of them keep warm.

“You are —” he says, and then clears his throat, “My daughter knows you.”

“Can you let us in?” says Minju.

The man sighs. He pulls out a crumpled napkin from one pocket of his security jacket. Then, he pulls out a pen from the other. 

“Quickly, go. But you must sign this first.”

Hands trembling in the cold, Minju signs first and then hands the pen to Emmy. The guard looks around, surveying the area quickly. Then he ushers them through the back door. The door hisses shut behind them. They are alone in the dark. Emmy finds Minju’s hand. Minju turns on her phone flashlight. 

They walk down the hallway by the white light of Minju’s phone; the light stretches their shadows across the barren white walls. Emmy clings to Minju’s arm. Somewhere not far off, a pipe is dripping steadily. 

When they get to the greenroom, Emmy sees her purse on one of the fold-out tables. She opens up her purse and looks inside of it. Nothing is missing.

“Thank God,” says Emmy.

Minju stands in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Can we go now?” she says. Emmy looks around the room. No security cameras. She shoulders her purse. She walks up to Minju.

“Not yet,” Emmy says, and slips her arms around Minju’s waist.

“Emmy,” Minju says. She slaps lightly at Emmy’s hands, but Emmy doesn’t budge. She pulls Minju in closer.

“Stop,” says Minju, and her cheeks are reddish pink.

“Let’s explore,” Emmy says. She turns on her heel. She finds Minju’s hand. Minju lets Emmy drag her back down the hall.

They sneak onto the baseball field, sticking to the shadows as they walk the stairs up to the stage that had been erected for their performance. Homeplate is gone, and the outfield is littered with fold-up chairs, and the confetti still clings to the cracks in the stage. The night sky is shrouded in fog and the moon is dull through the clouds. Beyond them is the skyline of Seoul.

“Take me out to the ballgame,” Emmy says, nodding her head in time to the tune, “Take me out to the crowd.”

“I don’t understand this American song,” says Minju.

“Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,” Emmy says, and in center stage she holds her imaginary bat and waits for the pitch, “I don’t care if I ever get back.”

She slams the ball out of the park, home-run.

“So let’s root, root, root for the home team, if they don’t win it’s a shame,” she starts to race in a circle around the stage, hands out like an airplane, and jumps onto Minju’s back, who yelps in surprise, “‘Cuz it’s one, two — three strikes you’re out in the old ball game.”

“You’re weird,” Minju says, but she holds on tight to Emmy and lets Emmy piggyback ride. She walks a while with Emmy on her back and then gently lets her down.

“My dad used to drag me to Dodgers games when I was a kid,” Emmy says, “Back in America. My sisters and I would spit sunflower seeds at each other.”

“Hmm,” says Minju, lacing her fingers between Emmy’s. They both stand at center stage, looking out at the stadium. They say nothing for a moment, lost in their own worlds.

“Do you want to dance?” says Minju, turning to Emmy. 

“Hmm?” says Emmy, “So suddenly.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“I know how to dance. We dance every day. I just danced this evening.”

“This is a waltz,” Minju tells Emmy, “It’s a different type of dance.”

 She curtsys low and extends a hand. Emmy takes it. They dance.

“One, two, three, one, two, three,” says Minju, and Emmy laughs into Minju’s chest as Minju admonishes her, “Emmy! You’re not doing it right.”

“Why do I have to be the boy?” Emmy says, “The boy part is harder.”

“It’s not,” Minju says.

“Can we switch, please?”

“Fine,” says Minju.

Minju puts her hand between Emmy’s shoulder blades and pulls her in close. Emmy raises her eyebrows.

“Count us off,” Minju whispers.

“One, two, three,” says Emmy.  Minju holds her hand out, and Emmy twirls. She brings in Emmy close to her and pecks her on the lips.

“That’s not part of the dance!” Emmy squeals.

When they are done dancing, they sit, shallow breaths coming out in clouds in the cold. Their feet dangle off the stage. They sit close with their shoulders touching. It smells of grass and dirt.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Emmy says, “And we didn’t have to wake up tomorrow and do conditioning.”

“Me, too,” says Minju.

“What do you think people would say if they saw us like this?”

“They’d say it’s illegal to sneak into private property,” says Minju. Emmy doesn’t laugh.

“We could say something,” says Emmy. She rests her head on Minju’s shoulder. Minju sighs. Softly, she cradles Emmy’s fingers in her open palm.

“It’s not even an option,” Minju says.

“I understand.”

Together, they look out at the field stretched out in front of them. The stadium is dark and silent. The city is far away from them, the sounds and the people in it as distant as a pleasant memory. They can just barely hear the cars rushing past on the street. 

“Americans may be more open-minded, but it’s not like that here.”

“I know, Minju,” Emmy says.

“Besides, I don’t feel alone,” says Minju.

“Yeah,” says Emmy, “Me neither.”