I'm going to attempt suicide by "fan death"...

That would involve me locking myself in a room and sleeping with the fan on overnight.

It seems here in Korea there's a very quirky fear (as in another one of those extremely ridiculous misconceptions that has infected the collective intellect and knowledge like a stubborn parasite) that sleeping in a closed room with a fan on will kill you. So, out of curiosity (as well as crippling boredom), I did some research, which was really just typing in "fan death" in the search bar in Wikipedia.com. Apparently, even some "educated" medical professionals believe in this, and some of the common reasons given can be found here.

If you're too lazy to read through that, I'll mention some of the crazier explanations for why a common electric fan can be lethal:

• The fan will create a vortex, which will suck all the air inside the room and create a vacuum inside.
• The fanblades will "chop up" the air molecules (you know, the more I think about this, the more ashamed I am of being Korean).
• The fan will cause hypothermia (and if you know anything about hypothermia, you should also know that this is obscenely, almost criminally, idiotic).

My mother once told me that I shouldn't believe everything I see on TV or read in the newspapers, and has implied on several occasions that everything I learned in school that was related to science is bullshit, yet the only reason she believes in this myth (along with most people, it seems) is because "it was on the news". The pretty lady on the shiny box said so! Therefore it must be true!

Freedom Point: Part V

I want to ask some questions to the people playing pool, but I can barely hear Chris when he asks me, “Who do you want to talk to first?” He's yelling at the top of his lungs, and I'm trying to listen while my cochlea feels like it's going to start evacuating fluids.

We walk back outside, where we run in to some of Chris's old friends from high school. They're Mexicans, and are speaking in Spanish. I ask them some questions that I prepared while walking to Freedom Point. I ask them why they come here.

“There's nothing to do around here,” one of them replies in Spanish. “We're just waiting till we turn twenty one, so we can buy drinks for ourselves.”

I start to think that maybe what Seymour needs is alcohol—and lots of it, legally—for the kids. It'll keep them busy, I think, instead of rotting away in boredom and ennui. Hell, after being in and around Freedom Point trying to ask questions to people that either I can't hear or tolerate, I need alcohol.

I finish with the questions, but all I've heard so far are the same things the first guy said, so I decide to head back inside. There, it's as loud as it was before, and the clerks I spoke to before aren't there. I go near the pool tables again and look around. It's the same sight as before. I begin to consider that the disco ball hanging over the dance floor must have committed suicide, because I can almost see it hanging by a noose, which makes me start to think that the strobe lights are making me delusional.

This place is also making me extremely depressed. I seriously regret ever deciding to write about this place. There's something very disconcerting about this place that makes me want to get the hell out. So I do.

I say to Chris, “Let's get the fuck out of here.” So we do.

***

As we head to Chris's house, I see that there is no point, no big revelation or epiphany after visiting Freedom point, except that Freedom Point is pointless. I thought there would be something interesting to observe there. Something that would help me understand small town life. But eople there are there just for the sake of being there—inspiring dismality and suicide—instead of being cooped up in their rooms every day. That is the extent of their freedom.

My only realization, rather, simply an idea that just began to solidify in my mind, which I verbalize to Chris, is that Seymour sucks. Small town life sucks. And he just nods and says, “I told you.”

Freedom Point: Part IV

More people arrive. They're in their pimped out Ford Escorts, Geos, and pick-ups, about six per car, slowly squeezing out one by one amidst the random assortment of the worst outdated rap songs blaring from speakers duct taped in the trunk. The ethnically impaired gatherers are taking a break from the night of “cruising”, circling the three or four blocks that make up the downtown area of Seymour. According to Chris, the local law states that passing any point three times in one night is a traffic violation that will get you a ticket if the police are watching. Apparently, it was only very recently instituted to cut down on “youth delinquency”.

There are also a bunch of ten year old looking kids running around. They mostly occupy themselves with the arcade games while the older kids hang around the pool tables. These older kids try to play and converse at the same time over the loud pop music playing on speakers of the dance floor, where some teenage kids dressed like pre-teen pop-stars just stand around, covered in mold-injected plastic earrings and bracelets.

I consider for a moment whether I should explain to them that a dance floor is for dancing, not standing around and staring off into space like a bunch of brain-damaged morons. It's like playing beer pong with juice instead of beer and still calling it beer pong. There's something not right about that. That's something that should never happen. That violates both social and linguistic conventions.

Freedom Point: Part III

There are other kinds of people there too, of course. Mostly what my friend likes to refer to as white trash, hicks, posers and wannabes, and weirdos in general. I know they're not the majority of the people here, but they're the unfortunate minority that stands out the most. And strangely enough, they're the ones that end up popular. In a small town, people think they can stand out more since there is less perceived competition, and so they act out. Then, they see other people, then they act out more, wanting more attention than the other guy. In the end, people end up acting outrageously, and others admire them for the balls to do so. They do things like yelling at people randomly out car windows or picking fights for frivolous reasons.

Most of these people are adolescents and people who never grow up. They want to be “hip” and “cool”. From what I can see, they want attention through which they can gain admiration. They act tough. They act black. They consider the word “wigger” a racial slur. It's not. It's just a word that refers to half-brained idiots who aren't capable of visually evaluating the general melanin content of their own skin.
And these are the people who frequent Freedom Point.

***

It's about nine, when Freedom Point, the arcade/pool hall/dance club starts to get “crowded”. There are about two dozen people scattered about, inside and outside this teenage hellhole. From the outside, with the garish lamps and the strobe lights on the display shelf of the window, the place looks like a gaudy novelty gift store. Inside, the place is divided into three sections. One is the area between the front counter (where they sell admission tickets for two dollars each) and the main entrance. Past that is the arcade/pool hall, where most people are. Further beyond that is a dimly lit dance floor with a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, separated from the pool tables and arcade games by a wall with a large entryway. The place isn't much to look at, and I realize that there is much less to this place than I originally thought, but I approach the counter and ask the guy behind some questions anyway.

“The hardest part of this job is dealing with all the kids.” He also mentions that he and his wife runs this place, while the latter's father rents the space for the business. They don't seem too glad to be there. They've only been working here for the six months that it's been open, during which this place became an institution in Seymour.

Freedom Point: Part II

Seymour, Indiana, is a city with a population of 18,101, though it feels like much smaller. It has churches on just about every other block and not a high rise to be seen anywhere. Not the image that pops into a person's mind when the hears the word “city”, unless he happens to be from a city of 18,101 or less.

I stayed in Seymour for three weeks after I arrived to the US to start college. I stayed with Chris, a half-Peruvian, half-Caucasian who was born and raised here and met me in Peru where he went to high school for two years, living with his aunts. He thinks Seymour sucks, which I can completely understand. After being here for three straight weeks and visiting a couple of times afterwards, I think this place sucks too. Even John Mellencamp, who was born and raised here and written songs about it probably thinks it sucks too. Maybe that's why he lives in Bloomington. It takes a lot to dislike a place that holds an annual parade in your honor, and Seymour, whatever it is, has lots and lots of it.

According to Chris, people here have high but superficial aspirations. Every now and then you run into someone who wants to start their own business or become a lawyer and things like that. Mostly practical stuff. Then you run into people who wear visors with the beak on the side, talk “ghetto” and ride around in their parents' cars in the middle of the night with rap music blaring from their speakers; skinny white guys who think that repeating the word “motherfucker” makes them “gangsta”. I think someone ought to shoot them in their faces. I would do it myself, but I'm too pretty for jail.

Freedom Point: Part I

I'm standing outside Freedom Point, a local hangout, asking questions to random people walking in and out, telling them I'm doing a survey for an article I'm writing, when this kid who looks about ten years old keeps screaming “Don't talk to him! He's one of them fucking cops! Fuck them cops” I fight the urge to dropkick him in the head because that would be illegal, and a student visa is a very fragile status. Instead, my friend, Chris, explains that I'm just writing an article on small town life for my school newspaper (I'm not, it's an essay for a creative writing class). When my presence there is explained, the kid starts to shout “Don't fucking talk to him, he's one of them fucking journalists! You can't trust them fucking journalists!”

I think back to the one time in my senior year of high school when my creative writing teacher commented on one of my short stories. There was a ten year old kid who started swearing non stop, and she said it wasn't believable. Too unbelievable, in fact, that it wouldn't even be appropriate for the dream sequence in which this character was swearing. My creative writing teacher's obviously never been to Seymour.