Daily Life (10)
Among the many factors that help plants grow well, water and nutrients stand out as the most essential. Nitrogen, phosphorus, calcium—if any one of them is supplied in excess, the plant suffers. In botanical terms, it’s called nutrient burn. After that come terms like potassium levels, minerals, and organic compounds, all of it flying over my head. I’m no expert; I only skimmed the surface. Still, I managed to extract one useful piece of information: even if original marijuana won’t sell, hashish apparently will. The moment I tried moving the original product, refunds would come flooding in. When I asked for hashish instead, I was told the ratio wouldn’t work. I pressed for numbers and got 50:1. The whole conversation took two hours. I had nothing left to say by the end, but I could picture the Vietnamese guy on the other end of the line, staring intently at his phone. He speaks English fine, yet his Korean is hopeless. Maybe God really is fair—He only gave the Vietnamese guy an English brain.
Afterward I contacted Candlelight.
“Hello? I figured out the cause.” —GB (37.0)
“What? What cause?” —Candlelight (35.3)
His temperature had dropped again. The reply came back instantly, like a wild boar that had just taken a bullet. It was probably the first time anyone outside his circle had messaged him like this.
“You gave the plants too much nutrient solution while growing them.” —GB (37.0)
I could almost see Candlelight gasping on the other side of the screen. When I asked why, he said he had been in a hurry. After ruining his previous crop and racking up debt, he’d been desperate to grow fast and sell. He’d installed LED lights, a CO₂ generator, everything that supposedly helped growth, so he figured the nutrients should be cranked up too.
Then I got to the point.
“How much stock do you have left?” —GB (37.0)
“About seven kilos… I’m finished.” —Candlelight (35.3)
Seven kilos. That was a lot. Once he explained the situation, it made sense. He usually grew once a year, taking it easy at around one kilo. After the failed harvest and the mounting debt, he’d tripled his output and stopped resting between cycles. Nothing sold, so the entire two-year supply had sat in storage. The plants themselves had grown fine; there was simply too much of them.
“Want me to help you clear it? I’ll take care of it for you.” —GB (37.0)
“Really? Then I’ll sell you everything I grow from now on at a discount.” —Candlelight (35.3)
Jackpot. Another SCV secured. Still, when people are broke, their judgment tends to crumble. Caution disappears; they can’t see past the next bill. I immediately contacted the Vietnamese guy, settled on thirty thousand won per gram for the seven kilos, and told Candlelight to ship it. Less than an hour later the package was on its way. Once this deal was done, I’d have to give him a serious lesson in operational security.
After that, the transaction went smoothly. It felt like I’d saved a man’s life. A rewarding day.
After Chuseok, business went quiet for a while. No product. I’d asked my contact for original marijuana instead of hashish, but he said supply was tight because I was selling too well. Compliment received. I casually mentioned meeting a grower and asked if it was safe to source from him. The usual warning came, followed by reluctant approval. As usual, notification was easier than permission.
While the reclusive me stayed indoors, studying like a civil-service exam candidate—translating, building patience and knowledge—the Vietnamese guy really did seem to lack any talent for Korean. He reported that the hashish had nearly sold out. I hadn’t expected hashish to be that popular in Korea; I’d assumed it only moved among foreigners. He said the timing had been perfect. When you turn regular weed into hashish, the yield isn’t as high as you’d think, and during Chuseok the Vietnamese workers had been meeting friends from home, driving demand. I didn’t understand, so I asked again. Chuseok demand? Apparently, when Vietnamese laborers come to Korea to earn money, they use their own communities to meet up during Korean holidays or factory shutdowns. In cities like Gimhae and Ansan where foreigners arrive, these networks are active. One gram of hashish, he said, could fuel an all-day party.
Around the time the weather turned chilly, Candlelight messaged me.
“GB, the product’s ready. Where should I send it?” —Candlelight (35.3)
“Where are you located?” —GB (37.0)
“Yeongcheon, Gyeongbuk.” —Candlelight (35.3)
“Still too far. Never give anyone enough information to pinpoint your exact area. And it’s countryside—there won’t be many people around.” —GB (37.0)
I’d asked the question, then scolded him for answering. Somehow I felt that was the only way he’d remember. He seemed perpetually dazed, as if under some spell.
“I’m sorry.” —Candlelight (35.3)
After another round of security training, we settled on Daegu, the nearest major city, as the meeting point. I wished I had a safe house like the glitter guy, but low-level operators like me had to do everything on foot. I couldn’t exactly have packages delivered to my own place.
The next day I took the KTX to Dongdaegu Station and sent a message asking for his location. Our educational efforts had clearly failed; Candlelight ignored every previous warning and sent a message that gave everything away.
“I’m in front of Exit 1 at Dongdaegu Station.” —Candlelight (35.3)
His learning curve was nonexistent. Annoyed but patient, I replied once more.
“Don’t make it specific.” —GB (37.0)
That had to be him. He looked wrecked—sunken cheeks, messy hair, and work boots that screamed farmer. Why was he even carrying a fist?
“Whoa, sorry.” —Candlelight (35.3)
Damn it.
“Go to the stairs between Exit 1 and Exit 2. There’s a payphone on the landing. Leave the package on top of it and walk away.” —GB (37.0)
Payphones still existed in public spaces, apparently installed for soldiers on leave. I wasn’t sure why, given that phones were allowed on base now, but whatever. Candlelight checked his phone, wandered around, spotted the payphone, waved at it, placed a black plastic bag on top, and then just stood there waiting.
“Aren’t you leaving?” —GB (37.0)
When he didn’t move, I texted again. He looked at his phone, scanned the area, clearly searching for me, then typed something back.
“I thought I should at least say hello before going.” —Candlelight (35.3)
I sighed. At least he had manners.
“I already explained this. If you keep doing things like this, we can’t do business.” —GB (37.0)
He looked startled, then turned and headed back toward Exit 1. From the second floor I watched him enter the parking lot, retrieved the package, confirmed delivery, and caught the next KTX home.
I wondered how the grower used to handle transactions in the old days.
Back at my place, I was shocked. When I tested the product, the quality matched what the Vietnamese guy usually supplied. I’d bought it for twenty thousand won per gram? Unbelievable. When I told the Vietnamese guy, he said the grower clearly had a talent for farming and told me to keep him close.
Yes, sir. I wasn’t about to lose a cannabis artisan.
There’s an old saying: forget past lessons and you stop being human. I believed it, so I kept interacting with the normal-temperature mobs under the sky. I still opened every conversation with “Hello?” and ended it with a block—once my temperature hit 37.0, the block function appeared. It felt like I was being treated as a mid-tier player.
I kept moving one or two grams at a time, searching for Automatic. But neither the blue-and-green guy nor Hamo showed up.
“Hey~ You doing all right?” —Flashmob (47.6)
My Saint Gabriel, the glitter guy who’d introduced me to my first police station visit, had messaged me.
“Hello? Did everything go well with that job?” —GB (37.0)
“You know how these things are. Got any product these days?” —Flashmob (47.6)
“I can get you the usual amount.” —GB (37.0)
“Nah, after last time I wanted to recommend a spot.” —Flashmob (47.6)
Flashmob’s proposal was this: remember the Itaewon incident three months ago? No one went to Itaewon anymore. When foot traffic dried up, everyone who lived off it suffered. Because the work was dangerous, most people in this line lived day to day. They’d all cleared out. Supply was slowly returning, but the local captain who controlled the area needed someone to move product while managing the clubs. He’d even reached out to Flashmob.
“Sounds promising. Why not handle it through your own people?” —GB (37.0)
I pushed back. Nothing in this world was free.
“We’re struggling too.” —Flashmob (47.6)