There's No Place for Me in This World
I stepped into the commercial alley around eleven in the morning. The sun hadn't yet reached its zenith, but the street was already buzzing with energy. Women pushing hand carts loaded with goods, women with thick forearms stacking boxes in truck beds, women in hard hats hauling rebar beyond construction fences. These were jobs men did in the world I knew. And amid them all, I was a fragile nineteen-year-old boy trudging from place to place in search of part-time work.
Just charge ahead. Gotta keep moving.
I steeled myself and headed to the first place that caught my eye.
"Excuse me, you hiring any part-timers?"
The female manager behind the convenience store counter scanned me up and down, then smirked.
"A guy? We only hire women for nights. Too risky leaving a man alone after dark."
"What about days?"
"Days are full up."
The door was already closing behind me.
Next was a parcel consolidation center in a dense officetel district. I figured heavy lifting would play to my soldier days' strength, forgetting this body wasn't from back then.
"Hiring a man doubles our industrial accident insurance. You know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"If there's injury risk, men are priority protected class, so employer liability doubles. That's why bosses avoid guys. Sorry, same here."
As I turned away, the woman's voice followed.
"Kid, with a pretty face like that, try a café. You'll do better there."
The moving company flat-out rejected me. A short-haired manager in the office waved me off without a second glance.
"A man doing moves? You know how many kilos we haul a day? If you get hurt, it's on us. No."
"I've got some strength."
"Not about strength—it's the rules."
I shut my mouth instead of arguing. The military taught me that. Regulations trump logic every time.
Defeat started sinking in after the fifth rejection. Construction sites, warehouses, cleaning services. They either looked awkward or cited rules and sent me packing. The few places actually seeking men felt off.
That's when I spotted a small shop deeper in the alley. No sign, foggy glass windows. A handwritten note on the door read:
Male Staff Wanted
Preference for neat appearance. Inquire inside.
Something shady about it, but options were slim. I pushed the door open.
Dim inside. Low red lighting, thick perfume assaulting my nose. A heavily made-up woman in her thirties sat at the narrow counter.
"Oh, a student? New face."
She rose and approached, eyes raking me like the women on the street—only far more blatant.
"What brings such a pretty boy here? Wanna work?"
"Saw your ad. Mind telling me what the job is?"
"Yeah, pour drinks, chat up customers. Not hard."
"What kind of customers?"
"Women-only private lounge. They have types they like. You look perfect."
She brushed my arm, smiling. I stepped back quietly.
"Sorry, not what I had in mind."
"I haven't even explained. Pay's good. You look broke—hear me out."
"No thanks."
I shoved the door open. Her voice trailed after.
"Tch, picky. Living off that face, huh."
Cool air hit my face. I kept walking.
Two more like that. One boasted "room and board, owner direct hire"—I bolted. Another called it "image consultant assistant," but the description reeked.
In this world, men's jobs boiled down to two: doors slammed shut, or open in all the wrong ways.
"This is insane."
I squatted in an alley corner, catching my breath. My skinny legs throbbed. This body hit limits fast.
Phone screen: balance still 8,000 won. Min Chae-ah's deadline: two and a half days left.
Going back empty-handed changes nothing.
I forced myself up. Spotting the Chinese place was pure luck. Off the main strip, first floor of a rundown building. Faded red sign: Hongbok Chinese Restaurant. Grimy windows, weathered menu out front.
Jajangmyeon 6,000 won
Jjamppong 7,000 won
"Prices like this still exist?"
I stared blankly, then pushed inside.
Worn but clean. Three tables, old wooden chairs. Heavy, oily smell—deep-fried into the walls over years.
"Yes?"
A round middle-aged woman poked her head from the kitchen. Apron splattered with grease, short hair stuck to her forehead.
"Sorry, you hiring?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Part-timer? No plans for a boy server."
"Kitchen work. I want that."
She eyed me.
"Student in the kitchen?"
"I can handle prep."
"You know how much we go through daily?"
"Can I show you?"
She rubbed her forehead, sighing.
"Ha..."
Silence. I stood still. Backing off meant empty hands today.
"Come in."
Narrow, hot kitchen. Two old stoves, layered grease on the hood, ancient fridge. Corner piled with unprocessed ingredients: onions, green onions, potatoes, pork shoulder.
The owner crossed her arms, watching.
"You handle a knife?"
"Yes."
I grabbed one from the counter. The cook's instincts flooded back. Up at four a.m. prepping for a hundred. Days slicing five sacks of onions solo. Fingers numb from peeling potatoes.
Onion in hand. One slice—halved. Two—roots trimmed. Three—even slices.
Hands remembered. Moved before my brain caught up.
"..."
She went quiet. I grabbed green onions: trim roots, clean, bias-slice, stack.
Potatoes: peel, uniform dice, ice water. No wasted motion. Cook's hands honed for efficiency.
She approached slowly, inspecting my onions. Gauging thickness with her eyes. Finally:
"Where'd you learn? Cooking school?"
"Just... picked it up."
She pondered, sighed.
"Saw our sign?"
"Yes."
"Truth? We don't pay much. Once or twice a week. Hourly wage's meh—way less than serving."
"That's fine."
She scanned me again.
"Name?"
"Han Gyeowol."
"Gyeowol. I'm Wang Hong, owner."
She wiped her apron.
"Tomorrow, ten a.m. I'll decide after two shifts."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Screw up, you're out."
Blunt as ever, she turned back to the stove. I slipped out quietly.
Steps lighter leaving the alley. No money yet, Min Chae-ah unsolved. Just one step forward, but breathing easier.
Once or twice a week. Even crap pay beats zero.
Sun dipping as I neared the semi-basement. Shops I'd passed replayed in my head. Convenience store snark. Moving regs. Red-lit gaze.
This world denied men hard labor. Wouldn't hire us for it. Pushed us to smile softly at someone's side instead. Sell faces for cash. That was the real deal for men's jobs here.
"Fucking twisted."
The mutter slipped out. No energy for rage. Acceptance felt drier, easier.
What can you do? Them's the rules.
At the semi-basement's iron door, heavy footsteps from above. Descending my way. I looked up.
Min Chae-ah. Sloppy tracksuit, halfway down the stairs, eyes met mine.
"Oh, you went out?"
Casual tone. Morning's menace gone like a lie.
"Yeah."
"Job hunting?"
I nodded curtly.
She leaned on the railing, scanning me.
"Find anything?"
"Checking tomorrow."
"That Chinese joint? The rundown one?"
Wondered how she knew, but landlords know their turf.
"Hongbok Chinese Restaurant."
She squinted, smirked.
"Wang Hong's place. Won't pay shit."
"I know."
"That cover my rent?"
No answer. None to give.
She stared a beat, then climbed back.
"Three days. Don't forget."
Footsteps faded, door slammed upstairs. I unlocked the iron door, entered the semi-basement. Damp air clung to my ankles. I flopped on the floor.
Fluorescent buzzed, steadied. Day's hustle etched into my bones. This frail body hit walls too quick.
But today felt different. Six rejections. Three creepy escapes. Still, one door opened.
Wang Hong's eyes on my knife work: suspicion melting to quiet acceptance.
Just don't get cut tomorrow.
No rent fix yet. But to make this hole a foothold, days like this were the fight.
I closed my eyes. Mold scent lingered. But familiar now. The smell, the world, my place in it.
Tomorrow, ten a.m. Hongbok kitchen. Knife in hand again.
That was enough. For now.