The Island Run
I was reading an economics textbook when it started explaining elasticity. I was trying to study properly, so instead of struggling through the original English, I was using a Korean book on the same topic. Much easier. Translation apps are a godsend. Elasticity, in simple terms, is described as the effect that the X value has on the Y value. It seemed straightforward enough, but I’ll skip the rest of the content. Suddenly the equations for X and Y values started involving derivatives… Why did I even start this?
USarmy, huh? The username already looks flashy. Is he a U.S. soldier? 500 grams? $5? Does that mean the quality isn’t great?
I wasn’t sure what exactly was “good,” but the next day I went to Itaewon and picked up a sample in a 1g plastic bag. Following the lesson my hyung taught me, I tested it. It was ambiguous. Not the high quality my hyung used to give, nor the half-price stuff either—just somewhere in between.
Something about this reminded me of my own hyung. Then I received a list with twelve IDs, along with their names and addresses.
Over two weeks, I think I moved around 300 grams. No matter how I looked at it, it felt similar to the deal I had with the Hamo brothers. The margin per gram was decent, and whether it was delivered by courier or quick service to the store, as long as it arrived, it was fine. They weren’t picky either. Of course, I was the one traveling all over the country sending packages to Itaewon. Why? Because if everything came from one place, it might get traced. I contacted Flashmob to thank him as well.
I bit my fist like Candle Hyung. I was embarrassed. The guy who’d already been dragged to the police station once was getting careless again.
That’s what Flashmob Hyung said. That’s how the market price reaches 150,000 to 200,000 won per gram even at my level. Go up just one or two steps and it becomes a single-digit figure. Even guys with solid supply lines can get it down to 10,000–20,000 won per gram. Then all you need is someone to sell it to and you’re making money sitting down. And there’s something even more important. Weed doesn’t make money. So you do high-value work instead. This much is already enough for me. I still don’t understand the world my hyungs live in.
Another two weeks passed and I moved another 300 grams or so. Customers paid in cash, while my dealings with USarmy were on credit, so there was no reason for me to be short on funds—as long as I didn’t get hit by another typhoon like last time. I filled any shortages with what I got from Candle Hyung. I wondered if I should adjust the price out of courtesy. With margins three to four times what I paid, wasn’t this basically robbing people blind?
He just laughed. When I asked why, he said there was no one else to buy from. Ah, right. That hyung has hypothermia. Three months passed like that. It felt like I was swimming with the current, but every job eventually hits a snag. In other words, a problem arose. I hadn’t realized people’s tastes were this sensitive. The moment I switched the weed supplied to Itaewon customers from Candle Hyung’s to USarmy’s, they immediately praised it. But when I switched back to USarmy’s the next month, complaints exploded.
So I immediately switched it back. What could I do? The customer is king. I left a message for Candle Hyung saying I needed more volume. Like a cicada singing diligently, I traveled across the country delivering Candle Hyung’s weed toward Itaewon. At some point, there was nowhere in the country I hadn’t been. Then, as the Lunar New Year approached, I got a message from Nguyen Hyung.
This time I didn’t have any stock. Hyung was silent too. What I got from USarmy was only 1.5 kg. But who am I? The delivery king. I bought some time.
Flashmob Hyung was someone who bought from me. Should I ask USarmy? Since it was a minimum order, maybe he could give me more?
When I explained the situation, he said he could give me about 1 kg more. Still, I couldn’t make as much as last time. Even if the quality was good, I had to give up. While I was agonizing over it, USarmy contacted me again.
Where had I heard that line before? I was currently on Yeonpyeong Island. That Yeonpyeong Island. The place where naval battles happened in 1999 and 2002, where people watched North Korea while catching the beautiful creature called blue crab. One of the five West Sea islands where North Korean long-range artillery promised bullet delivery at the push of a button. But why was I here, someone who hated water and boats? Because USarmy Hyung ordered it. He told me to get on a boat. The mission was to bring back what the captain gave me and deliver it. This time I was afraid I might end up visiting the Incheon police station, but I couldn’t ignore Nguyen Hyung’s desperation, so I stepped up. And since it was USarmy Hyung’s order, I felt a little more at ease. He was more reliable than Sky Bank. Maybe because he’d come to trust me, he explained exactly what the target item was and what incentive I would receive. That’s when I understood why USarmy Hyung didn’t bother with weed. When I arrived at Yeonpyeong Island mixed in with the marines at Incheon Port, our patriotic youths wearing red name tags gave me looks that said, “Who’s that guy?” Why? Because I’d gotten seasick on the ferry. After getting off the boat looking completely drained, an older man waiting in front of the terminal spotted me and waved.
“Reporter, sir~~”
Me?
“Yes. Hello?”
“Haha, let’s go quickly. I’ve got something delicious prepared at home~”
A strange mix of North Korean accent and Gyeonggi-do dialect. An awkward regional speech and gestures, like half-and-half chicken. Something felt off, but I followed him, trusting only USarmy Hyung’s words. I also wanted to get out of the terminal as fast as possible. I was the only team without any other men. Except for the soldiers, I got into a 1-ton truck that reeked of fish in the parking lot in front of the terminal and left.
“Ever been on a boat before?”
I’d been on the Pohang–Ulleungdo ferry once. No, I’d been on it again coming to Yeonpyeong, so twice. This time I was a bit better, though I still got seasick on the ferry.
“About twice. It was pretty rough.”
“Still, it’s better these days. A little longer and we won’t even be able to set sail.”
This was bad. Urgh! Urgh! What was this? Déjà vu? It was worse than Pohang. The captain glanced at me pitifully from afar and kept steering. Even I, a complete outsider to boats, could tell this was a fishing vessel. The boat’s name was Pungo-ho. A name you’d find at any port. On deck there was equipment like a winch for hauling nets, and a couple of fishing rods—maybe the captain fished as well.
“We’re here. Sir, stop throwing up and look for the buoy.”
The captain cut the engine, came out onto the deck, and shouted.
“Yes?”
Then he pulled out his smartphone and started zooming in with the camera. Wouldn’t it be easier to just look with your eyes? I pulled myself together and looked around too. But everything was just blue. Wasn’t the West Sea supposed to be yellowish-brown from the silt? After looking around for about ten minutes, the captain shouted that he’d found it and went back into the wheelhouse. He seemed impressive. I still hadn’t fully recovered when he started hauling up the buoy—and another buoy came up attached beneath it. Double catch? Like a big fish eating a small fish and both getting caught?
“Let’s head back.”
Other than getting seasick on the boat, I hadn’t done anything when we arrived back at Yeonpyeong Port. The captain told me to help carry the buoy and a sky-blue ice box. We took them to the 1-ton truck in the parking lot. That’s when I understood why the 1-ton truck smelled so strongly of fish. We got in right after getting off the boat—there was no way it wouldn’t smell. The captain started singing “Lululala.” It was a magical song that could cross the Pacific and Indian Oceans for his sake. He parked in front of a small warehouse, then gathered the ice box and buoy. Inside the warehouse were a table and chairs that could seat about six people, various tools and knives, and boxes and tape printed with “Yeonpyeong Fisheries.” The captain took the buoy to the table, grabbed a knife, and cut it open. Inside was white powder wrapped in endless layers of plastic. It felt like opium. With practiced hands, he brought over a nearby box, put in what he called “bubble wrap” insect repellent, took ice from the ice box to make a first layer, placed ten wrapped powder bags on top, covered them with more ice, placed three blue crabs on top, poured more ice over everything, and finished by taping it shut.
“Carry it.”
If it was going to be like this, the captain could’ve done everything himself. Why did he need me?