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The weekend and the early days of the following week were whirlwinds. Her agency called frequently with possibilities for future dates in New York as well as Toronto. I was put to work taking publicity pictures that might be used as part of a web page, and she slaved over a biography that might appeal to a young, hip audience. And, yes, there was a concert scheduled for that Saturday evening at Mechanics Hall in Worcester, Massachusetts, a great venue for music. On Wednesday, however, the world turned upside down. Early that morning I got a call from my editor, Walt Stelzer, a man resembling a storm door with limbs. “What’s up with that cellist you’re in charge of?”
“How so?”
“She’s big news on the Internet.”
“I know. Her barefoot concert knocked their socks off.”
“I don’t think it’s lack of footwear that’s creating the buzz. Check her out on You Tube when you get a chance and get back to me. There’s a story lurking.”
I no sooner hung up when Soon Rae came running out of the bedroom holding her phone. “You too, you too!”
I could not grasp why a naked Korean woman leaping over the couch to get to the TV set would be yelling “you too” with the gravity of one screaming “fire.”
She began punching the remote. I took it from her. “What channel do you want?”
“You too!”
It took more questions before I figured out she wanted You Tube, so I marched her over to my laptop.
“What’s the subject you want?”
“Gone Commando.”
~~~
It was my understanding that all camera and recording devices are strictly forbidden during a theatrical performance. Evidently, that dictum was violated at the Palace Theater in Manchester. The “Commando” site featured celebrities, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Teri Hatcher and a Bollywood luminary, Yana Gupta, who’ve appeared in public sans panties, with ample photographic evidence to support that contention. Add Soon Rae Suks to the list. There were several still shots of her displaying, unconsciously of course, plenty of inner thigh and a money shot where the eyes travelled tunnel-like down fleshy white walls before viewing a fresco of ample pubic hair. There was a video montage of her taking a bow and the scoop neck of her black dress billowing to reveal her breasts ABN. Translated, that means “all but nipple.”
As she looked at the sequence of over fifty pictures and then a short video, she grabbed the afghan from the couch and covered her body as if the whole world was watching.
“How happen?”
“Evidently there were people in the front row, possibly two, given the different angles, waiting for the right moment. When you shifted position to get comfortable or were too caught up in the music and forgot that you weren’t wearing anything, they snapped away.”
“You make me do!”
“I thought I was being helpful. You were in tears. You couldn’t play. I made an executive decision.”
“Boji.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Boji.” She lifted the afghan and pointed downward. “American call pussy. Korean ‘boji’ is USA pussy. Whole world now see. No nice for me.”
I was about to incur further wrath, but her phone chirped and kept it up most of the day. The upshot of the You Tube pictures was an enormous number of hits, “went viral” is the phrase. Her agency immediately instituted damage control. They represented a conservative audience. I explained that it was an accident, totally my fault — Soon Rae wasn’t a publicity hound — but they wouldn’t budge. Her contract had a behavior clause, probably for drugs, but they used it to cancel Mechanics Hall. They’d hire a Boston-based cellist to take her place. She’d receive some money for the performance (their severance package) plus a plane ticket back to San Francisco if she wanted. That was it.
On the flip side, there were some calls from outrageous radio talk shows and a few cable TV stations that thought she might be good for a spike in the ratings, but she refused everything. She got dressed, slammed the bedroom door and stayed there for the rest of the day. I was watching the ten o’clock news when she emerged to use the bathroom and, before going back into the bedroom, paused to say, “You bad man!”
~~~
Before the sun rose the next morning she was packed, perched by the door ready to leave. Pride dictated calling a taxi for the airport, but she was now unemployed.
I’d rehearsed several speeches but decided she was in no mood to hear anything. Looking at her was like peeking into a volcano that was ready to blow anyway. She needed a scapegoat, and I was it. Given our relationship, I thought a peck on the cheek or hug wouldn’t be out of order, but she turned me down completely, even saying no to me helping her with her bags.
I returned to the apartment after dropping her off at the airport and sank into a deep depression which no amount of baseball could relieve. My gloom was being absorbed by the apartment like a sponge. Soon the ceiling and walls would become sodden with it, and then an infectious slime-green mold of despair would set in.
~~~
About D.E. Fredd
