The Paperboy's Dawn
When dawn came I rose early and sat before the kerosene stove in a space that could barely be called a kitchen. In winter it doubled as a heater; the rest of the year it was our only real cooktop. Calling that stove the number-one item on our household inventory would not have been an exaggeration.
Of course the previous tenants had left behind a gas range when they moved out, so we cooked rice on that and used the kerosene stove for soup. Whatever was left over from Father’s street stall the night before—anything too far gone to set in front of a paying customer—went into that soup and became our meal. Thanks to that arrangement our family was dirt-poor, yet we had never really gone hungry. People say the food business is the one that always turns a profit; I suppose this is why.
Once the meal was ready and the lunchboxes packed, I got myself ready for school and stepped outside. Father worked through the night and only came home at dawn to sleep, so I simply bowed a silent greeting from the doorway and left.
In the still-dark early-morning air the sour reek of city-bus exhaust hung thick.
“Mm, Seo Rin? Little guy’s got it rough, doesn’t he?”
“Ah—good morning. Nah, it’s nothing.”
“Sure, sure. My own kid—I nearly killed myself putting him through college, and all he does after graduation is scrape the floorboards. You’re a real piece of work, kid. A real piece of work.”
After trading hellos with the sanitation workers, the last traces of sleep finally left my head. They say Napoleon slept only four hours a night; I slept even less. And since I was taller than Napoleon, better-looking, and probably smarter, maybe I was destined to become an even greater man. This hardship would definitely have to go into my autobiography someday.
“All right, then—let’s ease into it.”
After a light stretch and a little warm-up exercise I headed for the newspaper distribution center. Unlike the old days, the internet was everywhere now, so newspapers weren’t exactly popular.
Still, for wiping greasy meat trays, for spreading under your bedding, for a hundred other uses, there was nothing as cheap as newspaper. In winter the difference between sleeping under a layer of newsprint and not doing so was night and day. A newspaper’s real value was the paper itself, not the words printed on it!
At any rate, delivering papers was pure 3-D work—dirty, dangerous, difficult—so labor was scarce. Even if the number of households that still subscribed had dropped, a kid like me who could push out four hundred copies before breakfast was popular wherever he went.
“Ah, Seo Rin? Always right on the dot!”
Manager Kang at the depot already had my load ready. Inserting the advertising flyers was supposed to be my job, but these days the manager—well aware of how hard I had it—tucked the inserts into the papers for me himself.
Nearby, the full-time delivery men were working with grimy cotton gloves, licking their thumbs and sliding flyers between the pages with practiced speed.
“I’ll head out first, then.”
I hoisted the four hundred papers assigned to me and hung the address book around my neck. I had to cover the residential streets, the row houses, and the smaller apartment blocks until every last copy was gone—brutal work. On top of that I was still too young for a license and had no free time to get one, so a motorcycle was out of the question. Yet in all the time I had done this route, I had never once failed to finish those four hundred papers.
“All right—let’s go!”
I climbed onto the bicycle, loaded a hundred and fifty papers up front and two hundred and fifty in the rear, and pedaled hard toward the housing district.
“Hey! Rin! Fast as ever today!”
“Yes, good morning.”
First I dropped the dailies and the sports papers at the neighborhood police box, then got down to real work. The officers always treated me kindly, but privately I was a little sour about it. Taking free newspapers and not paying a single won… I couldn’t exactly report it as corruption, yet if you had to classify it, it felt like power-type graft.
“Hmm, let’s see… Whoa, this guy still hasn’t been caught?”
I pulled one paper from the front rack and scanned it. On the current-affairs page the article that jumped out first was still the huge spread about the legendary terrorist Han Se-gun.
The man who had blown up the headquarters of the multinational Flex Medical and then taken out a harbor warehouse for good measure—an absolute monster with bombs. Estimated age this year: twenty? Yet he possessed decisiveness, meticulousness, and cruelty far beyond his years—a criminal of genuine stature.
The sight of the massive Flex Medical headquarters sinking under his hand had been broadcast live nationwide. And that wasn’t all. He had aired a terror warning to the entire country and demanded nothing in return—a truly bizarre figure. How deep an impression such a person left on the public needed no explanation.
Anyway, the bounty on his head was five hundred billion won. Catch one guy like that and your whole life would change. But the man in the photograph looked extremely dangerous. Hair dyed a complete, solid green, dressed head to toe in black, and the hand he was raising toward the helicopter… that was the classic “fuck you” sign.
On the next page, though, was a trendy ad for a certain mobile-phone company. High-teen star Yoo Seok-jin, dressed almost exactly like Han Se-gun, held a phone to his ear. The commercial had aired on television and drawn furious protests from countless groups for allegedly glorifying a legendary terrorist.
Still, light-green dye jobs were catching on among ordinary people, and plenty of folks actually liked the bomber. Broadcast programs still replayed the explosion footage over and over, and unlike Shin Chang-won he showed not the slightest sign of being caught.
“All right—time to start.”
I spun the pedals hard and began folding papers, flinging them left and right. After enough practice you develop a knack; every toss landed dead-center. Watching the papers sail cleanly into each yard lightened my own mood.
“On a day without rain it really doesn’t take long.”
I checked the time and muttered to myself. Rainy days meant wrapping every single paper in plastic; the workload became eye-popping. But I hadn’t hit four hundred copies a day just for show. I had one little secret for that…
“Mm, nobody watching? Then let’s get serious.”
Confirming the street was empty, I kicked up the speed.
Once the papers were all out I swung by the depot, showered, and sprinted straight for school.
“Rin! At least grab some breakfast first!”
“No time—thanks anyway!”
I waved off the kindness and ran on. Most kids took the bus to school, but I had the two legs God gave me. As I tore through the alleys under the rising sun, shopkeepers opening their shutters called out in greeting.
“Whoa! Seo Rin! Running again?”
“Yep! Heading out!”
“Hey, Rin! Mr. Song wants you to check the vending machine!”
“After school!”
Trading hellos with the neighborhood like that, I charged the school’s front gate. The security guard sweeping the entrance spotted me and stuck out his hand.
“Here!”
I tossed him the leftover papers from the depot and bolted inside. The students on early duty were already there, snickering over a porn magazine they had somehow obtained; when I opened the classroom door they yelled,
“Heyyy! Odd-eye!”
“Heterochromia!”
Unable to contain my affection for my dear friends, I delivered a loving roundhouse kick. My friend went “Urgh!” and toppled over.
“Ow-ow-ow, that’s harsh. I was gonna lend you this for a little self-service, y’know.”
He actually held the magazine out to me. Well, well. Honestly, at my age and full of youthful vigor, there was no reason I wouldn’t enjoy that sort of thing. The problem was I simply had no free time for it!
“Our place is a one-room, okay? And pretty soon I’m gonna need money again. No spare energy for self-service with this stuff.”