Sometimes, as you welcome someone in, you get a feeling you’ll be glad they came. Regulars, of course. But also people who bring something intriguing with them from the moment they step through the door. People with a dry sense of humor. People having a conversation so interesting you can’t help wanting to listen in.
It was a quiet Monday evening in early July. Gosu, Baekmi, and Jjangmo were working on their own projects at the bar, leaving me as the only keeper serving customers—our finders. A familiar face came in: a woman who looked to be in her thirties. We’d never spoken, so I couldn’t place her last visit, but I was pleased to see her. She was with a man who appeared to be from overseas. They brought such cheerful energy through the door. They seemed like old friends.
She ordered a coffee for herself and a Ssukdan Latte for her friend, and asked for no ice. We get that request from time to time. I just needed to check that she didn’t mind the drink looking less full without it. Perhaps that sounded like a refusal, because she explained that her friend needed a feeding tube.
I was a little taken aback. I didn’t immediately understand what she meant. A feeding tube? I thought of people recovering from surgery and naively assumed he’d been ill at some point. I said we could leave out the ice, without much further reaction, and poured a little extra into his cup.
The two of them began filling FiKee’s small note cards with writing. People often use these “finders keepers” cards to write letters, jot down conversations, or make up little acrostic poems. Usually, they leave them on the wall as a record of their visit. Watching the pair, I thought the cards were just the thing for old friends catching up.
After a while, the woman came over with several books covered in handwritten cards. “My friend wrote these,” she said. “I left a book here last time, but I brought a few more because I don’t know if he’ll be able to come again. Could we leave them here?” Her eyes reddened as she said he might not be able to return.
Even then, I didn’t quite grasp the situation. People sometimes offer us books they’ve written, and we have a usual response: “We can’t promise we’ll be able to display them, but thank you so much. We’ll be glad to keep them here.” So that’s what I said. I could tell this was different, though, and tried to speak as gently and respectfully as I could. She handed me the books and went back to her seat.
I washed some cups and finished the remaining orders. Only then did I look properly at the covers. One note began: “From Kyle’s friend Eunbi. Imagine being told you’d no longer be able to eat whatever you wanted. That you’d need a feeding tube for the rest of your life. This is my story. I…” (The original note is at FiKee; I still need to check the exact wording.)
The books were about life, death, love, and religion, written by a man receiving treatment for cancer. His friend had translated their descriptions into Korean and attached them to the covers. Finally, I understood: the hour they’d spent so intently writing those notes, the feeding tube, and what she meant when she said he might not be able to come back.
I felt I’d got it wrong. These books deserved more care than I’d given them. I asked the keepers at the bar whether we had any Book Boxes left and if I could put one together for them. Then I picked up a fresh Adventure Card and went over to the two friends, who were browsing the shelves.
I told them I’d finally had a proper look at the books, and thanked them for such a precious gift—and for the courage behind it. I said I’d like to make a Book Box for Kyle. If he filled out an Adventure Card, I could put it together.
Eunbi helped us talk, and before long I was speaking with Kyle too. He was so cheerful and warm. He was Singaporean, queer, and had been friends with Eunbi for twelve years. He joked that Singapore was far too set in its ways for him to recommend it. Eunbi told me he’d been a wonderful designer. Kyle said she was a kind friend who was always there for him. And that she’d recently become a mother.