Finding Kim Again

I returned to college after laying out several years because of a shortage of funds and no shortage of lousy grades. I was twenty-one when I went back for a second try, still a second quarter freshman, and as yet unencumbered by spouse and family. My high school friend—we'll call him Bill for purpose of this story—was in a similar situation, but he'd returned the previous year and by now was an early junior. We always got along well in high school, so why not cut expenses by splitting the 2-bedroom apartment he'd shared the previous year with a graduating senior?

Bill's girlfriend took it upon herself to find me a girlfriend, which suited me fine because the girl I'd dated while working to save college money decided she couldn't compete with college girls, broke up with me, and took up with one of the local guys I had no use for. Mostly, I think, she wanted to get married and gave up waiting for me, figuring I'd be at least another four years before I followed her into some hotel's honeymoon suite somewhere.

Also, the guy she took up with had already graduated and taken a job in his family's doing-very-well business. Money, status, looks, fancy car, time and place. He had it all; I didn't.

I'd barely moved into Bill's apartment when Julie called one of the few evenings they weren't out together.

"Here," Bill said, handing our only phone toward me.

I looked up with

who?

on my face.

"Julie. You want a blind date with her friend?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I said with a shrug. I had to get come out of my shell around here sometime, so why not now?

"We can double, and if you want, we'll take my car."

That sounded good, since I was trying to get along without a car as well as with no cell phone for short money reasons.

"What's she like?"

"Like a girl, of course!"

Well, that told me next to nothing!

"She's a new freshman, I think. You okay with that?"

"Sure." Three years younger sounded promising because I wasn't exactly highly accomplished in the Don Juan department. Bill handed me the phone.

"Hi?" I said at it.

"Hi yourself. This is Julie. My dorm-mate needs a date for this weekend. Friday or Saturday evening. Art show at the gallery in Johnson Hall. She and I are both assigned to see it for our

Art Appreciation

class. Interested?"

Sounded better than hanging out hoping to find companionship at the Student Union lounge.

"What's she like?"

"Oh, medium height, slim, dark hair."

"No, I mean what's she really like? Like, what's she majoring in, what's she like doing, what else?"

"Well, she's real nice. All the other girls like her."

Yeah, I'd heard that before. Usually meant the girl was a real bow-wow. Oh well, it was just one date, not like I was consenting to marry her or something like that. "When

is

this big deal, anyway? What is it?"

"A traveling art exhibition in the campus main art gallery. It's free to students. Seven to ten-thirty PM, either night. You choose. Kim and I can go whenever you and Bill want."

I'd never suspected Bill was an art lover. Mostly he worked on his car, rode his Jap motorcycle, and for his artistic side, played his guitar—which he played pretty well. In fact, he met Julie as a result of playing an amateur folk jam at one of the local bars.

"I'll ask Bill. We need his car?"

"Depends on you guys." The way she said that left a lot to my limited imagination. "I'll have Bill call you back."

"Good. But please don't wait too long. We gotta make solid plans 'cause this is a command attendance."

"Okay, we'll decide and he'll call you back yet tonight."

"Thanks. Kim will appreciate this."

Kim? That left lots of possibilities: Kim Novak? Kim Basininger? Kim Chinese, Kim Vietnamese, or Kim something else? Maybe Kim short for Kimberly?

***

I found out four days later. Julie and this rather ordinary looking Asian girl met us in their dormitory's reception lounge. Kim was, as Bill had said: Medium height, black hair, and a bit on the lanky side. He hadn't mentioned her skin was light, likely North Asian. I put her to be northern Chinese, Manchurian, Korean, Japanese, or perhaps a mix as a result of the WWII atrocities in those areas. Her smile was nice, although somewhat timid. I wondered if that withdrawnness was for real. Or was it that mannerism that sucked so many GIs into bringing war brides home with them?

Didn't matter to me. I just needed company to an event I had no great interest in. At least she wasn't

American stout

, like Bill's girl. But Kim wasn't really skinny, either. I wondered how she would look when she put on the old Asian flirt I'd seen so many wear, like that Filipino wife my high school buddy, Brady, brought home from the Army Reserves when he mustered out. No wonder he married her; she knew how to look hot with a capital

H

, and usually did. At our 3-year high school reunion all us guys stood around with our tongues hanging out.

My first evening with Kim I learned more about art than I ever expected to know. Along with it, I learned more than I expected about South Korea, too, and how a woman makes a man feel like the epitome of studliness. Aches for my ex-girlfriend quickly faded into obscurity, although Kim and I never got close to a bedroom. Without a clue, I was a goner before we left the gallery.

Julie and Bill were just the opposite. They walked into the gallery as a pair, not lovers. I walked in with Kim on my arm, not realizing the difference until halfway around the gallery I felt a gentle nudge against my elbow. I looked down to see her face as she looked straight ahead.

She looked up, and her expression said

I sure like being with you.

What could I do but smile?

As if she'd said enough, she pushed my elbow toward the closest painting. I soon learned it was a charcoal, not a painting, which should have been obvious had I been on the ball. For my educative advance I got another of her

I sure like it here with you

smiles. My response was to pull my elbow and her hand against my ribs as an appreciative press.

From the refreshment table I got a punch and carried it back to where she stood, her eyes practically dissembling a three foot, polished chrome sculpture on a floor-center stand.

"Here," I said. "Hope you like this."

She took it with the grace of aristocracy, then looked into my eyes again and put on a coy smirk that made me wonder if I'd committed some sort of faux pas without realizing it. But her hundredth squeeze on my elbow said no.

"You sure are a gentleman," she said, then stood on her toes and pecked me on the cheek. "Hope it's all right to do that here," she said. "I still don't know all your American customs."

"If it isn't, it should be."

"Oh, such a man!" she whispered and squeezed my elbow again.

The whole evening went like that. I swear it took conscious effort to keep myself from strutting! In the back seat of Bill's car, she continued. We watched the backs of our driver and his girl, and every time she did something we could see, Kim did something similar to me. But it was more than that. When Julie didn't do something, still Kim did something to me. No, these weren't blatant hand-play-with-my-lap sort of things. These had class, and although she petted me up pretty heavy, still, I would not have been embarrassed to have someone see us. She'd caress my neck from my shoulder, and when I kissed her to show her I liked it, she'd stretch up, kiss me, and whisper,

Real man,

or

big man

, or

he-man

, or

super-man

, or something like that.

And her kisses. Wow! That woman knew how to light your fire, yet not so blatantly you felt uncomfortable. My briefs were all jizzed up by the time we returned to the dorm, yet Kim had done nothing more than this. Yes, she knew how, and I could only guess what she would do to me if Bill went home for a weekend and left me alone in the apartment.

But he didn't. The first time he went home, so did I, with him and Julie, the remainder of his car filled with my stuff from the apartment. While I'd discovered how much I wanted a future with Kim, I'd also discovered how poor a student I could be. Still immature. Yes, I left school again—withdrew before I flunked out a second time. Work a few years and grow up a lot, that was what I still needed.

I made several trips to Kim's hometown the rest of the year and into the next, when I knew she'd be home for vacation or quarter break, met her family, and caught up as much as you can in a situation like that. But whatever we had soon dwindled to nothing more than several dance photos, which I kept in my desk drawer over the following ten years just for old time's sake. I'll tell you, though, I always smiled when I looked at them, and each time wondered what she'd gone on to become. I did return to

The U

several years later, got my ass in gear, finally graduated in engineering, and found a good-paying job in Kim's parents' home city. Sometimes I'd drive by her family's old sub-sub-urban neighborhood, but by now developers had turned it into a

light industrial

area for medium-size businesses. No longer anything there for me but memories.

***

Funny how things work out.

Mostly by accident, I found a website through which you could track down just about anybody you might choose. Just for kicks, one cold winter evening, I tried a few: Old college friends, two old girlfriends, high school friends, friends from work, friends with and against whom I'd raced jalopies at the local track, and remote neighbors I knew from high school. Found a few, but mainly the site just wanted you to pay them to tell you how many times your friend had married and divorced, or been thrown in jail. I could have cared less. I figured I found nothing about Kim because she likely finished her nursing degree, got married to some guy better, more mature, and luckier than me, then dived out of sight.

In the course of this extended pontificating and time wasting about long lost friends and acquaintances, I tried regular Google searches, too. Again, a few results popped up, but nothing really interesting. I went back to engineering research, racing, fast cars, and by now I'd taken up flying, so I easily wasted lots of time checking that pastime, too.

Being a guy with no permanent connections to wife and immediate family, I occasionally thumbed through the more polished adult websites like

Literotica

and a few others similar. Several I found seemed to be more-or-less non-commercial photographic collections of wannabe porn stars, many apparently women who wanted to show off what they had, just for kicks. So? Why not thumb through them and enjoy the sights?

I started a photo collection of my own—had it up to over a thousand women—some with whole portfolios of shots, maybe thirty-five hundred photos all together. Lots of Asian women, not because I looked for them particularly, but because apparently I wasn't the only man—and from the amount of lesbo scenes on those sites, women, too—who found them attractive. You know how they used to say all Asians look alike? Well, they don't, not if you give them half a chance. But there was this one woman who looked somehow familiar and showed up on a lot of the more

hard sell

sites, you know, the ones selling those crappy videos with no plot, no acting and no class whatever.

Well, what the hell? One evening I dug out my college dance picture folder that held my two photographs of me with Kim, laid them on the desk and thumbed through one website with lots of that woman's photos. Her familiarity nagged at me. The bottom of several showed a name: Micki Ying. So? Stage name? Or different woman?

I Googled-up Micki Ying's website, and sure enough, there was a well taken picture of a woman who could easily have been a ten year older Kim. Like many personal sites, her biography told more than she probably realized: Grew up in the part of the country where I knew Kim had, was about the right age, began college intending to study nursing, left college to marry, but decided adult entertainment sounded like more fun, moved to California, began a highly successful acting and professional career, and eventually moved to New York.

Weren't all actors and actresses successful? At least according to what they told their public?

Well, hidden at the very bottom of the second page, a

Contact Me

button offered at least some hope of connection, so I clicked it and wrote the following:

Dear Miss Ying:

Hope this isn't too big an imposition; I suppose you get all sorts of crazies emailing you, so I'll understand if you just trash this. Anyway, here goes.

Ten years ago I briefly attended

The U

. While there, I met a freshman Korean girl (Kim) who intended to become a nurse. I flunked out of school second quarter, leaving Kim behind. I still have two photos of her, which I cherish to this day, ten years later. Your photos look so much like her, you two could be twins. So, I had to write and see if you are related, and perhaps learn what became of her. I'd rest easier if I knew. Thanks for your time.

David Drake

I sent it off right then, still taunting myself for expecting so much from chance or coincidence. Surely, this Miss Ying would think I was just another crazy and deep-six my e-mail without a thought.

When I checked my e-mail the following day, my mailbox held a

received and read

verification. Well, at least that much of my plan had worked.

Two weeks later I found a reply:

Dear Mr. Drake:

Yes, a person in my profession gets lots of mail from crazies, but that's not the reason I've taken so long to reply. Personal complications have nearly driven me to the wall these past few months. Receiving your letter provided a welcome break from lawyers and the business people I must deal with.

I, too, have a cherished photo from my college days, which I scanned and am attaching. I've misplaced my notes for it, and for a long time I've wished I could remember where it was taken. Maybe you can identify it?

Micki Ying

I nearly fell off my chair when I scrolled down and saw what she'd sent. I immediately hit the

Reply

button below her e-mail.

Dear Miss Ying:

Unless I am grossly mistaken, that photo was taken in the Student Union building at

The U

. Since the woman with me is Kim, my date for the Harvest Ball that fall, I'm sure we can date that photo from a Student annual for that year. Is that what you need to know? Is she you? Or your sister? Or some relative?

David Drake

I had no sooner clicked the send key, than it hit me! My former Harvest Ball date was either now a porn star, or closely related to one! Wow! Try swallowing that shock out of the blue!

What I got back three days later was—after the

I'm the girl who you called Kim

part—one of those folksie emails; you know the kind:

What you been up to since we last saw each other, where do you live now, did you ever graduate from college, in what, where do you work now? You still follow the same hobbies?

Things like that. Wasn't much about her, though.

I suppose someone in her position had to take it easy, even when you thought you likely had a friend on the other end of your mails. I settled for one liners:

Dear Kim:

Yes, I went back and graduated, in mechanical engineering like I intended before.

I now work for Detent Industries in Commerceton, straight across town from the area of your parents' home.

I got my pilot's license and fly a little when I can afford it.

I've raced circle-track jalopies for several seasons, now. Won a few, but not a hot contender.

Not married and never have been. No fiance.'

Now, the big question: Have we anywhere to go from here? If not, I do wish you the best.

Dave

I heard nothing from her for a good month. God, had I screwed up big time with her? Well, what did I expect? She probably lived in some huge, fancy, New York apartment complex and needed nothing from me; after all, she hadn't said anything about companions. I probably put her off being so forward as to say I was unencumbered. No, we probably had nowhere to go together anyway.

I returned home one Thursday evening from the just-before-season-start, Commerceton Jalopy Racers Club meeting, paying little attention to the car sitting just down the street from my lot's property line. Probably just company visiting my neighbors. From parking inside my attached garage next to my jalopy, I went directly into my house that way, flipping on lights as I went. I had barely set my emergency groceries on the counter when my doorbell rang. Who's going to come visit me at ten-thirty on a work evening? Probably a gutter or aluminum siding sales guy making his last sales pitch of the evening.

Beyond the door stood a ten year older Kim than I remembered. At least hers was the face in those porn pictures. Below her face bulged photo-op breasts, the sort I always figured were mostly the product of

Photo Shop

. I suppose my jaw dropped as my brain fumbled to shift gears.

"Hello, David," she said in that come-hither tone I still remembered from ten years before.

"Huh—hello, ah, Kim!"

"I'm sorry to come here so late. If you'd been one minute later, I'd have gone home. I can come back tomorrow if that's better."

"No, no! This is fine. Come in. Come in!" I know I sounded like I'd never spoken to a beautiful woman before. I aimed her into my living room and toward my well-worn, St .Vincent sofa. She sat on the end closest to the door, I took the other.

"So, this is a great surprise. You out visiting your family?"

She shook her head. "They're in California. Just me here now, and I'm trying to decide if I should move down there, too. Or should I stay here? I—we, my husband and I—bought a house here five years ago, just before ..."

Her voice cracked, so I knew there was lots keeping her from saying the rest. Keep your mouth shut, Dave, I told myself. Let her tell you—if and when she can.

She stiffened, though, and after a moment went on.

"Dennis and I ... we intended to live and retire here, but now ... that can never be"

I only nodded. Maybe a diversion at this point? Fatigue pulled at her face.

"Can I get you something to drink? Cola, maybe? Ice water? Sorry, I still don't drink coffee."

She nodded. "Just ice water. I still don't drink coffee, either."

I stood, and headed toward the kitchen. No coffee for her, either: Another confirming factoid clicked into place. In my kitchen I fumbled with the ice trays longer than you'd expect, but finally found two cubes, put them in a glass with water, and went back to the living room to find Kim had dozed off right where she sat. Damn, she looked good, at what was it now? Twenty-eight?

I set her ice water atop a paperback novel coaster on the coffee table and sat down, wondering if she'd come to again. Hell, sleep was catching up with me, too. Up at 5:30, to get to work by seven.

I waited ten minutes, keeping an eye on my whirly-gig pendulum mantle clock. What to do about Kim? She showed no signs of rejoining the living. She looked okay, breathed evenly and calmly, so no worry there. I returned to the kitchen, stowed my week's ice cream in the fridge, but when I stuck my head in to see if she'd stirred, she had not.

Well, shower in preparation for tomorrow and then see what, I guess.

Still, she had not stirred when with a towel tucked around my hips I peered in for another look. What to do? Well, cover her with a blanket and let her sleep where she was. She only mumbled a little as I removed her heels, tipped her calves, knees and feet unto the sofa and spread the biggest spare blanket I owned over the lot. Although not stretched out, her obviously female shape held my gaze a whole lot longer than my nurse's duties required.