Did you ever see the Truman Show? I think that was the name of the movie. Where Jim Carrey was the star of a series, but he didn’t know it. His whole world was constructed for tv. Sometimes, just sometimes, I think my life is like that.

Friday night I had been invited to go to a Korean nightclub with 3 Koreans from work. I was very excited. One of my favorite things to do in San Francisco was to go dancing – clubs, live music, anywhere. On Friday afternoon, one of the girls called me to tell me that their boss (technically my boss, too) wanted to join us. Mr. Drunk Dialer in the middle of the night. Oh. She also told me that she thought he liked me, but to be very, very careful, because he was a “wolf.” Then she had to go. I was angry. Over a month ago Mr. Drunk Dialer and I had gone to dinner. He said and did some things that upset me. I told him I didn’t want to go out with him again. And told him not to call me anymore. Especially at 1 am. And now he had heard I was going out with his employees, so he invited himself along. What to do? Not go? Miss dancing? I chose to go ahead with my original plans.

I met the two girls at 7 to catch the bus to go downtown. On the bus we were chatting animatedly back and forth, discussing this and that. Girl #1 again told me, “Be careful. Mr. Drunk Dialer is, English word? Playboy? Many women?” I seeeeeee. We had a delicious dinner with boy #1 from work and his friend from university. Noodles, mandu, soup, so good. Conversation back and forth, some English, some Korean, some Konglish. And no Mr. Drunk Dialer. Maybe he decided not to come. Boy #1 suggested we go to a bar to have a drink before going to the nightclub.

I had just settled into my seat at the bar, and I felt someone hit me on the back very hard. Mr. Drunk Dialer had arrived. Why do guys think that by physically assaulting a girl it will endear him to her? I’ve never understood this. The mood at the table immediately changed. There was still conversation, but it was stilted. Careful. Not free flowing. After a couple of drinks we decided to head over to the nightclub. Mr. Drunk Dialer announced he had to meet other people. Yeah! So the remaining 5 of us crowded into a taxi and made our way to the nightclub.

The nightclub, was, well, large. Rows and row of tables surrounded by couches, almost Las Vegas lounge style. Then a stage at the front for dancing. We chose our couches, sat down, and platters of fruit and drinks magically appeared. The music was Korean techno. Not bad. Girl #1 grabbed my hand, “Ji-Su (my Korean name), let’s dance! Yes!” So we three girls trounced up to the stage. And danced and danced and danced. Laughing because I actually recognized some of the songs and sang along. And tried to avoid the stares. Once again, I was the only non-Korean. And no one told me about the dress code for the dance club. Basically, office dress. The girls were in turtleneck sweaters, knee length matching skirts, hose and pumps. With tiny gold chains circling their necks. Very prim and proper. Many of the men were in suits. I thought I had dressed somewhat conservatively, but in my stretchy black pants and v-neck, purple velour spandex top, again, I stood out. Again. The two guys came and joined us. Smiles and laughter. Music booming, switching partners, singing along.

Then Mr. Drunk Dialer arrived. He decided to come to the club after all. He immediately cornered me against the stage. “You know, I’m really hot, I’m going to rest for a moment,” and I left to sit at our table. A few moments later a slow song came on. Everyone joined me at the table. Mr. Drunk Dialer grabbed my arm. “You will dance with me.” First of all, don’t tell me what I will or won’t do. Second of all, I don’t want to dance. “No, you will dance with me. Now.” He pulled me to the dance floor. Everyone at the table stared, but no one said anything. On the dance floor he, in a drunken slur, mumbled, “I like you so much. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. Your smile. Your laugh. I want us to be very good friends.” Stop it. Now. This is completely inappropriate. I won’t go out with you. I can’t trust you. “You are so beautiful. It is fate that we are together.” We are *NOT* together. Stop. I left him on the dance floor and went back to the table.

The next song came on, another slow song. This time boy #1 from work said, “Would you like to dance?” Yes. Thank you. As we arrived to the dance area, he whispered, “Mr. Drunk Dialer cannot be trusted. Be very, very careful.” I feel like I’m in a Russian spy movie with everyone giving me secret messages. Back at our table, boy #1 and I were talking about sports. He was smoking. He dropped his cigarette on my hand. Ssssss . . . . My flesh was sizzling. Ow!ow!ow!ow!ow! I reached for an ice cube from a drink. He did, too. He pressed the ice cube to my hand as tears formed in the corners of my eyes. Just then girl #1 appeared in front of me and held up a handwritten note “I sorry. I must go. My mother angry.” Oh, okay. Let me get my coat. “No, no, you stay. I go.” No, really, it’s okay. The Girls Rule. Girls always leave together. We live next to each other; we can share a cab. With that I got my coat and purse, said goodbye and left.

In the cab, she almost started crying. “I so sorry. I so sorry.” What? What about? What are you talking about? “Boy #1. I so sorry. Please. He very drunk.” What are you talking about? “He, he, when talking, touched your arm.” Yes. Okay. “Please. He drunk.” What are you talking about? She covered her face with her hands. Sweetie, are you and boy #1 dating? Are you boyfriend and girlfriend? “NO. no. no. no. We friends. But what he did. Wrong.” Boy #1? Or Mr. Drunk Dialer? “Boy #1.” What did he do? She never would tell me.

Once home, I tried to process the night. What had happened? What had boy #1 done that was so out of line? I racked my brain, but couldn’t think of anything. The phone rang. I assumed it was girl #1, doing the “I’m home safely” call that girls do when they share a cab. “Lori, it’s Mr. Drunk Dialer.” Silence. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay.” I did. “ After you left boy #1 was so upset, I had to spend a lot of time calming him down.” What are you talking about? “Because he broadcast.” What? “Broadcast.” This conversation was going nowhere fast. Good bye. I hung up.

As if that weren’t enough, one of the teachers from the other school came over for dinner on Saturday night. He was describing how Mr. Drunk Dialer had taken his staff out for drinks, dinner, dancing, etc. on Thursday night. And that he got to meet his girlfriend. Girlfriend? “Yes, she’s really cool. But Mr. Drunk Dialer seems kind of sleazy.” Why do you say that? “Well, he took the guys aside and told them everything was on him for the night.” What’s sleazy about that – he sometimes does the same when he takes our staff out. “Does he offer to pay for the hotel rooms for you and Chanta?” What? “He told the guys he would pay for anything we wanted that night, cigarettes, alcohol, women, hotel rooms. Because he loves to f*ck, and wanted us to enjoy ourselves as well.”

This disgusts me. I wish it were only a movie plot.