Chapter 37
In front of Gohyangmi.
Jamal sat in the driver’s seat with the window down, one elbow resting on the door.
The evening air of Koreatown drifted into the car.
The smell of soybean paste stew came from somewhere, and as it passed beneath his nose, his stomach growled.
“...”
He ignored it.
He took out a notebook and organized Shotgun’s schedule.
Tomorrow, producing Lil D’s album. And next week is the BET awards ceremony...
A manager should at least keep track of this much...
Growl—
“...”
Jamal knew why he had stayed in the car.
Dustin might not understand.
The world was a little simpler for that refrigerator.
Jamal rubbed a finger beneath his eye.
The teardrop.
Shotgun’s parents were good people.
According to Dustin, he had never met people that warm before.
But if Jamal went inside, that atmosphere would be ruined.
That was why he had not gone.
That was all.
Creeeak—
The restaurant door opened.
Shotgun came outside.
He had a plastic bag in one hand.
Behind him, Dustin emerged while patting his stomach and awkwardly exchanging some kind of farewell with Yul.
“Jamal.”
Shotgun approached the driver’s side window and held out the plastic bag.
“...Here.”
“Bro, what’s this?”
“The braised short ribs Dustin said he dreamed about.”
Jamal stared blankly at the plastic bag for a long time.
Then—
“...Yo.”
He held out his fist.
Shotgun bumped it, then turned away, saying he was heading home first.
“Yo, Jamal! Look forward to it! You’ll probably lose your damn mind!”
Dustin shouted as he climbed into the passenger seat.
Jamal started the engine without saying anything.
The car pulled out of the Koreatown alley.
“Ah, today was insane again. I mixed rice into the braised short rib sauce, and Bro, that stuff is a legal drug.”
“...”
“And Yul gave us rolled omelet on the house too...”
A burp followed instead of more words.
“Don’t burp in the car. It smells like shit.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
The car headed toward South LA.
Jamal stopped in front of Dustin’s house.
Outside the window, Dustin’s younger siblings were waving.
“Hyung, hurry up!”
“Aight, just wait! I’ll play with you until you pass out!”
“Waaaaah!”
Jamal stared blankly at the scene.
Before closing the door, Dustin said,
“Eat those braised short ribs before they get cold. They lose half their flavor once they cool down.”
“I got it, so hurry up and go. And don’t slam the—”
Bang!
Dustin ran up the steps.
“...”
The car became quiet.
Jamal looked at the plastic bag on the back seat.
...He said to eat it before it gets cold.
It would take another hour to get back to where he lived.
He reached into the back seat, brought the bag forward, and opened the lid.
The aroma immediately rose.
Soy sauce, garlic, sesame oil, and the sweet scent of meat juices from the ribs.
Did Shotgun’s father make this?
Chunks of short rib sat in the thick sauce, braised together with carrots and chestnuts.
The surface of the sauce gleamed with oil.
He split apart a pair of wooden chopsticks.
Then he picked up one rib.
It had been cooked until the meat was so tender it nearly slid off the bone.
He put it into his mouth.
Shit.
...It was fucking delicious.
I was on my way home from work.
I was trudging along, but DJ Cabin’s proposal would not leave my mind.
He had asked what I thought about unveiling When I Wake Up for the first time onstage and playing the piano myself.
The proposal itself was an honor.
I would be playing my role model DJ Cabin’s piano loop live with my own fingers.
But there was a problem.
Shotgun is anonymous.
It would not be a small stage.
There would be dozens of cameras, and it would be broadcast across the United States.
Sunglasses would not be enough.
I would need a helmet.
But if I wear a helmet while playing piano...
I remembered Soundwave.
The narrow field of vision through the visor slit.
That was why I had pressed the wrong button on the CDJ.
But a piano had eighty-eight keys.
And since it would be live, there would be no retakes.
If I made a mistake on the piano while performing Little K’s posthumous work...
Big Joe will put me inside the piano and close the lid.
While I was thinking about that, I arrived home.
I opened the front door.
“You’re home?”
My parents, sitting side by side on the living room sofa, turned their heads.
“You worked hard again today, Geon.”
Park Yul came downstairs and asked,
“But what’s with your face? You look weighed down by worries. Is work hard?”
That’s not what I’m worried about...
The work itself was not difficult.
Actually, today had been ridiculously easy.
Because the rancher had outsourced the tedious work a trainee lawyer would normally handle for the sake of me, his producer who also happened to be a trainee lawyer.
But—
How am I supposed to wear a helmet while playing piano?
That was still bothering me.
“You haven’t eaten dinner, right? I made kimchi stew.”
My mother placed a plate on the table.
Steam rose from it.
“Don’t overwork yourself. Your health comes first.”
My father massaged my shoulders.
“Oppa.”
Yul put down a bowl of rice and lightly punched my upper arm.
“If someone’s making things hard for you, tell me.”
“Why?”
“I’ll smash them.”
“Pfft...”
“You’re laughing?”
My father clapped as if he had suddenly remembered something.
“Oh, right. The BET awards ceremony is coming up soon. Lil D got nominated for Best Track.”
He bobbed his head as he spoke.
Since he listened to Lil D’s songs every time he cooked in the kitchen, he somehow knew these things perfectly.
Just how much of a Lil D fan are you?
“Drive on the—”
“Dad, stop it already.”
“Tsk, tsk...”
After being scolded by both his wife and daughter, my father immediately became dejected.
Then my mother picked out tofu and meat from the kimchi stew and placed them in my bowl.
Only the biggest pieces.
“Anyway, you must be having a hard time, right?”
“...”
“You’re working so hard.”
As I ate, I thought,
But right now, I don’t want sympathy. I want congratulations.
I had been nominated for the BET awards.
People were even saying it was unusual to be nominated in two categories with only one released work.
I had heard congratulations endlessly at work.
But not from my own family.
Because my family did not know I was Shotgun.
Just like during Lil D’s Instagram Live, another wave of emptiness washed over me.
In the end, I made up my mind.
I need to visit Professor Marshall sometime this week.
Three days later, over the weekend.
I entered the UCLA Westwood Campus.
Since it was the weekend, there were few people around, and a bicycle rolled slowly beneath the shade of the palm trees.
It felt strange all over again.
HOOVER SOUND was only a little over ten minutes away by car, but even the air here felt like another world.
If that side was 808 kicks and sirens, this side was the sound of fountains and lawn mowers.
On the way to the law building—
Two undergraduates were sitting on a bench, looking at the same phone and talking.
“Did you see this? That producer with the helmet.”
“Ah, Shotgun? I heard he’s Asian. Apparently he got nominated in two BET categories.”
“I think I might use this for my next presentation. ‘Subculture and the Visibility of Racial Identity.’ What do you think? Professor will probably love it.”
My steps unconsciously slowed.
“...”
The subject of that visibility was currently walking four meters away with a backpack on.
But neither of them even turned their heads.
Right. This is normal.
It was actually a relief.
Being recognized even here would be much worse.
I quietly walked past them.
Just as I reached the front of the main building—
“Huh? Park Geon?”
It was Sophia.
My classmate who had faced me in the mock-trial finals and competed for the top ranking in our year.
She was carrying a stack of casebooks in one arm.
“You came to see a professor, right?”
“...”
It apparently never even occurred to her that I might have come to meet a friend.
But she was right.
“When you come back to school, contact me. The case-law seminar is completely boring without you in the discussions.”
Sophia waved once and disappeared in the opposite direction.
...Does she think I’m her debate sparring partner or something?
It was absurd, but not particularly surprising.
Anyway, I went up the stairs and knocked on Professor Marshall’s office door.
“Come in.”
When I opened the door, Professor Marshall pushed up his glasses and looked at me.
“Oh, Park. Sit down. I’ve been expecting you.”
Every time I came here, I felt it.
This really was another world.
It was less than three miles from South LA, but there were no guns here and no smell of cigar smoke.
“I heard about you, actually.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard you turned Morrison & Reed upside down. Laura can’t stop praising you.”
Professor Marshall smiled with satisfaction.
“So, what did you want to see me about today?”
“You know I’m Shotgun.”
“I do.”
“Professor, I’ll be honest with you.”
I took a breath.
“I’m worried that my activities as Shotgun could affect my legal career.”
“Specifically?”
“If my connection to a gang becomes known, it could cause problems during the moral character review.”
Professor Marshall raised an eyebrow.
“A gang?”
“The Crips.”
“Oh.”
Just like before, he seemed unfamiliar with Shotgun, so I explained further.
“Shotgun is a producer working with a Crips-affiliated label. But of course, I am not a member of the Crips.”
I took out my phone and swiped to a picture.
The photo from The Vault, showing a silhouette in sunglasses standing in the haze.
Professor Marshall stared at the screen for a while.
Then he looked back and forth between the screen and me.
“You look like a completely different person.”
So I decided to show him.
I took the sunglasses from my pocket and put them on.
Then I lowered the corners of my mouth.
Expressionless.
“Wow. With those sunglasses and that expression, you really do look like a different person.”
“Come on, it can’t be that different...”
Then—
Creeeak—
The office door opened.
“Professor, I came to check on the recommendation letter you mentioned...”
It was Brian, who had studied with me before.
He stepped inside, then his eyes met mine.
“...?”
He tilted his head.
Then looked toward the professor.
“I see you have a guest. I’ll come back later.”
He closed the door and left.
He had not recognized me.
“See? Even Brian didn’t recognize you just now.”
“...Uh, apparently not.”
“Park, your eyes are so gentle, almost like a deer’s, that sunglasses and a blank expression make you look like an entirely different person.”
That was news to me too.
Of course my family would recognize me.
But put another way, did that mean people who were not family would not?
Brian, who had known me for over two years, was proof of that.
“Anyway, Park, this is what I can tell you. The law judges conduct, not identity. Have you committed crimes with a gang?”
“No.”
“Is the music you make illegal?”
“No.”
“Then that’s enough.”
Professor Marshall tapped the desk with one finger.
“The moral character review examines criminal history and ethical disqualifications. It does not disqualify people based on their job history. Working as a music producer is obviously not grounds for rejection.”
“But my connection to a gang...”
“Connection in the criminal sense means participating in joint criminal conduct. Legally producing music for a label is not criminal involvement. It’s work.”
The professor leaned forward.
“And one more thing. All of us live in multiple worlds. In my case, I live in the world of a professor right now. But after work, I live in the world of a father.”
“...”
“In your case, I suppose one world will be standing in court during the day, and the other will be standing onstage at night.”
“...”
“Just because those two worlds are different doesn’t mean one of them is false.”
He paused briefly, then continued.
“Park Geon is Park Geon, and Shotgun is Shotgun.”
“...”
“Just as Brian failed to recognize you, think of the sunglasses as the boundary separating those two worlds.”
Professor Marshall stood.
He walked to the window and looked down at the campus.
“I envy you, Park.”
“...?”
“The chance to live in two worlds at once is something only talented people are given.”
My chest nearly tightened with emotion.
Then the professor turned around and added one final sentence.
“Oh, and don’t fuck up my career.”
“...!”
The lyrics from the diss track I had written flashed through my mind.
—I’ll fuck up your career and piss all over everything you built.
“Y-You knew about that?”
“Hahahahaha!”
I closed the office door and stepped into the hallway.
I let out a deep sigh, but my chest felt somewhat lighter.
I sat on a campus bench.
Sunlight stretched across the lawn.
According to the professor, there was no legal problem.
Then...
Obviously, I could not wear a helmet if I was going to play piano.
Because of the limited field of vision.
So, if I won at BET this time—
Then... I’ll take off the helmet.
I would show my face wearing sunglasses.
So, if.
I stood up from the bench.
If I win.