The Sad State of 21st Century Treasure Hunting

Every inch of Seoul’s streets are covered with something to put money into. Vending machines are everywhere, sell everything. People come to pay homage to the gods of Pepsi and Coca Cola, drop the equivalent of 30 cents into an instant, four ounce cup of coffee. Gourmet varieties of coffee machines exist, for fifty cents you can get a green tea latte, caramel macchiato, or ten shades of Americano.

Electronic skill games are everywhere, and they offer a galaxy of prizes. Boring things like stuffed animals are commonplace, stranger machines offer cans of Spam, beans, or tins of cookies. They’re leashed with zip-ties, and I’m certain that no one has ever fished one out. The games are cheap, bright, loud, and if you’re a masochist; fun.

Pusher-style games offer greater prizes for a steeper price of admission. You maneuver a rod right, then up, choosing each direction only once. When the time runs out the game pushes the rod forward, attempting to knock a prize off of a shelf.

At first the games are easy to resist, but Korea carpet bombs you with cheap, blinking fun. I held out longer than any reasonable person could be asked, but eventually I went for the pusher machine. This one had knockoff Bose earbuds, bottom-dollar mp3 players, handcuffs, sexy underwear, and lighters.

My money wasn’t even in the bill slot when an old-timer appeared out of thin-air behind me. He was short, hands clasped behind his back, and wearing a Fidel Castro Hat. Worse, he wanted to help. Korean advice usually falls between flagellation and public humiliation.

“So, what do I do here?” I ask him. He understood very little English. The game-clock was ticking in the background.

“Right, up, up, no no no no, no, right,” he cried. Grating, kuh-huh-huh laughter. I pushed the rod right, up, missed, and successfully wasted a dollar on nothing. He walked away cackling, cursing me under his breath.

Fire filled my lungs. I bit back a thousand ways to say “fuck you,” knowing they’d be lost on him. I dug around in my pocket, past my keys, and fished out a crinkled old bill. Slapped it onto the glass, smoothed it, fed it into the machine. This time I chose my target, a small cell-phone charm. Hardly worth the price of admission, I’m sure some poor Chinese person made them by the thousands every morning, but it looked like a willing victim. I started moving the rod, and once again the Korean man has teleported next to me. Now he’s cheering me on with an endless stream of Korean percolating with angry sounds. Right, right, ne, up-pa, ne ne ne, ani, ani, ahhhh, like a lawnmower ripcord.  The pusher-rod found purchase, and slowly, agonizingly slow, glacially slow, pushed the charm into the prize bin.

“Ha,” I shout. In my mind, I was the fury of a thousand storms, my ha!, thunder on a dark night. His five-foot figure looked unfazed.

 “Pretty cool, huh?” I asked him, dangling the phone charm into front of him. He shifted his teeth, leered at me, and angrily said “Thank you” before disappearing into some neon-lit back alley.