Banana Man seeks out "the big picture."

For Robert (not his real name), missing the “big picture” led to a life many, including himself in retrospect, would consider severely squandered.

Banana Man and Robert came to meet at Robert’s favorite fishing hole. Needing a place to pull over and stretch the legs along a seemingly endless ribbon of rural, two-lane blacktop, Banana Man spied a small, battered sign indicating some sort of state park just a mile to the south.

Upon rounding the first bend, Banana Man found the smoothly paved road give way to hard-packed dirt. Needless to say, the thought of turning back and finding a more suitable (and motorcycle-friendly) rest area crossed His mind. But, this was about adventure, no? A journey into the unknown. So, Banana Man and his trusty steed gently forged on.

After what seemed to be an eternity of dodging boulders the size of a human head and ducking under the grabby fingers of overgrown deciduous flora, Banana Man arrived at a very large puddle of water. One would hesitate in referring to it as a pond, much less a lake or any other sizable body of water. Maybe it was larger, but one would be hard-pressed to tell for all the heavy overgrowth of vegetation surrounding and nearly choking off any access to the shoreline.

Standing at the edge of the water, it was eerily quiet, save for the insistent chirping of a cicada off in the distance. The sun was high above and the water was still with tiny tadpoles swirling beneath the surface of the water near the edge. Feeling warm and tranquil, Banana Man pondered the prospect of finding a nice shady spot and snoozing for a spell. This reflective moment was jarred by a familiar, yet unexpected sound.

Plop. Whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz, zzzt. Click, click. Wheeet.

Startled, I looked up to see a red and white fishing bobber flying by.

Plop. Whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz.

And then the bobber came gliding across the water from whence it came.

Whzzzz, zzzt. Click, click. Wheeet.

Banana Man was slightly disconcerted by the fact that His usually ultra-keen primal senses did not alert Him to the presence of another human in the vicinity. Regardless, Banana Man parted the thicket in the direction of the familiar sound of fishing tackle in action. Imagine His surprise when He saw a face not too dissimilar from His staring back at Him.

Another Asian in this neck of, literally, the woods? What a cowinkydink! Upon exchanging pleasantries, more surprised looks were to be had when it was discovered we were both Korean Americans, too. How crazy is that?

A lack of response usually caused the instigator to lose interest and leave. In this instance, the rejected customer lunged at Robert. What happened next would affect Robert’s life forever.

You have to understand the demographics of where we were. Here, everyone is white. A telltale sign of the area’s whiteness is when you go to one of those hardware and gardening superstores where day laborers hang out looking for work — and there’s not a single ethnic face amongst them! That’s where Robert lives, and I was passing through. And, thus, as probably the only KAs within a 500-mile radius, we immediately bonded.

Turns out that Robert is also a second-generation KA born and raised in the Midwest. But instead of heading to Los Angeles like Banana Man did after college, Robert set out for New York City and what appeared to be a dream job to your average 21-year-old.

Robert was going to be a DJ at some hot and happening club. Much to his parents’ chagrin, he hopped into his car with little more than high hopes and a phone number in his pocket.

The phone number in Robert’s pocket was that of a slick DJ he met at a party just before school ended. Robert expressed an interest in deejaying and New York. The DJ was congenial enough and told Robert to give him a call if he ever came to New York. He’d set Robert up with some of his club contacts. And that was all Robert needed. Unfortunately, Robert needed to call this DJ before making the long trek to NYC. Because, the DJ, for all his well-meant intent, fell on hard times and pretty much monopolized whatever work there was. Robert was out of luck.

Refusing to give up, Robert accepted a job as a bouncer at a club to make ends meet while looking for DJ work. For those of you wondering, Robert is not a small guy. And, actually, he cuts a rather imposing figure. So, being an Asian bouncer was not hard at all. Of course, the simpletons assumed he knew some form of martial arts, which he didn’t and always told others as such. But that didn’t stop some from testing him, or was it themselves on him. Robert managed to show great restraint when confronted with a belligerent challenger. Oft times, he would diffuse the situation with humor, sometimes with threats and on very rare occasions with his fists. One night, an altercation went too far.

A drunk patron attempting entry into Robert’s club became verbally abusive after Robert informed him that he was too inebriated to be allowed in. The usual epithets were hurled. Robert turned a deaf ear to them, which further infuriated the attacker. A lack of response usually caused the instigator to lose interest and leave. In this instance, the rejected customer lunged at Robert. What happened next would affect Robert’s life forever.

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw a rapidly approaching body. Reacting instinctively, Robert turned and threw an elbow up to protect himself. Call it timing. Call it fate. But Robert’s elbow met the assailant’s throat, snapping his neck and killing him instantly.

Eventually cleared of any wrongdoing, Robert nevertheless was deeply disturbed by this event. Neglecting to seek counseling, he lost control of his emotions, his resolve and, eventually, his life. Robert turned to drugs to ease the pain. And it landed him in jail. After serving several years for drug possession, Robert found it virtually impossible to find work. With the economy the way it was, competition was fierce for every job he applied for. His ex-con status, he is certain, kept him from many opportunities. So, to make ends meet, he took whatever jobs he could get. Usually menial. Often hazardous.

As time passed, Robert moved from meaningless job to meaningless job, small city to smaller city, until he ended up here in the middle of Whiteville working as a night bartender at a large restaurant chain. The pay is decent. The tips are good. And, save for the occasional “sushi bar-tender” crack, Robert has had no racially tinged experiences here. It is home … for now.

With his days free, Robert finds solace at this, his fishing hole — where he hasn’t caught a single fish in three years. But he has caught up with himself. He has forgiven himself for things he has done. And he has relieved himself of burdens he had no control over to begin with. Six hours a day, every day staring at a small body of water can really help you see the big picture.

So, now, Robert is at peace with himself. He speaks of perhaps writing down his story for others to learn from his mistakes. I mention it might make an interesting movie. He seems vaguely interested in the prospect.

I give him my number and tell him to call when he’s ready to tell his story. He readily agrees and gives me a warm smile.
It is time for me to move on. So, we shake hands and agree to stay in touch. As I walk away, I turn to say something. But when I notice that Robert is staring thoughtfully across the surface of his little fishing hole, I stop and wonder.

Any one of us could be Robert. One choice. One path. And we could just as easily find ourselves in the same predicament. I feel sad for Robert.
Slowly, Robert reaches into his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper I had written my name and number on. He looks at it and smiles. Then he carefully tears it up into many small pieces, placing them into a plastic bag he was using for trash.

I smiled. He really does see the big picture now.