Daily Life (13)
"Where are you?"
It had been a long time since hyung contacted me. Ever since the last time we met, I'd sensed he was under a lot of stress. He looked like he'd lost a lot of weight back then. Of course, his usual aura and charisma were still intact.
"I'm at home. Have you been well?"
"GS in front of the library, 2 p.m."
"Got it."
I figured it was time for a rare trip into town. After showering, I even sprayed on some cologne for the first time in ages and got ready to head out. Then I layered up. We were obviously going to the reservoir, and it was cold out there.
When I caught the village bus and arrived in the city, the GS in front of the library greeted me just as it had a year ago—unchanged. It felt good to see it again. I almost bought a can of beer and some squid inside, but the memory of Ulleungdo made me switch to peanuts instead. I must be a timid introvert. My PTSD is pretty bad.
Like last time, I disguised myself as just another customer and waited about thirty minutes. Then the familiar Benz rolled up with a deep, heavy rumble.
"Get in."
"Yes, sir."
We seemed to be heading somewhere far. He turned toward Osan and merged onto the Gyeongbu Expressway.
"Hyung, where are we going?"
"..."
We drove for four hours without a single word. I thought I was going to lose my mind. Since he wasn't offering any explanation, I spent the time reading the books I'd downloaded on customer mining and e-books. Where on earth was he taking me? He glanced at me studying with a faintly proud look in his eyes. That felt oddly satisfying.
Today it was chemistry. Nitrogen is abundant in the atmosphere, but the kind humans and plants can actually use is different. It has to be chemically processed into a form that living things can absorb. In other words, the nitrogen that organisms can utilize is produced inside the human body and has been used as fertilizer since ancient times. A prime example is the urine we excrete every day.
Some scientist named Haber developed a way to produce it artificially and even won the Nobel Prize. Under the right pressure and temperature, nitrogen molecules separate and combine with hydrogen to form ammonia, which is then used to make synthetic fertilizer. This fertilizer supposedly disproves the limits of Malthus's population growth model. Quite the achievement. But they say the same scientist developed poison gas during the First or Second World War—truly a man with two faces.
While I was swimming through the world of chemistry, the car stopped. Splash— splash— Where were we? It was the Chosun Hotel overlooking Haeundae Beach. We were on the hotel rooftop, feeling the sea breeze. I wanted an explanation. This was driving me crazy!
"Japan is unique."
"Pardon?"
Why was Japan suddenly coming up?
"I'd like you to handle just one line."
From what he explained, the organization he belonged to had a Japanese route where they balanced supply and demand through trade. If Korea had stock, they exported; if not, they imported. But recently the organization had been targeted, and many of their lines had been wiped out. As he spoke, the Gwanggyo Station incident flashed through my mind.
He said the rest of the merchandise would be handled separately, so I only needed to manage the full shipments. I agreed. He must have asked because he knew I could do it.
After hearing my answer, hyung made a call somewhere and told me to wait a moment. About five minutes later, a man who looked exactly like a salaryman enjoying a solitary gourmet meal on a Shinjuku street—probably nursing an Asahi beer—came up to us. Hyung gestured for me to greet him.
"Hello?"
"Yes, pleased to meet you. I look forward to working with you."
He bowed ninety degrees and spoke fluent Korean. I bowed back as well. Somehow it felt necessary.
Then we parted. My mind was still spinning from the awkwardness and uncertainty about what came next when we drove another four hours back to Hwaseong. We returned to the same GS we'd left eight hours earlier and said goodbye.
The next day, while I was still imagining how to handle the sudden mission, a message arrived through the Sky app.
I was flustered. It was the first time I'd had such a formal, business-like conversation while using the Sky app.
We exchanged small talk for about five minutes before getting to the point.
I could sense hyung's earlier words—"Japan is unique"—carried an implicit "study up." Or maybe it was because I'd been too casual with transactions. I sent him samples of both the US military version and the candle version I had, then bought a book on Japanese business etiquette online.
Apparently, unlike us, the Japanese prefer flawless execution, especially when it comes to quality. They take time to make decisions, but once trust is built, the relationship lasts. They rarely say no outright, yet they have their own strict standards and stubbornly refuse to deviate from them.
A few days later, both products received approval. He wanted to handle the transaction on two tracks—importing under premium and standard categories. The candle version would be the premium line. I reported the progress to hyung.
"Sorry. I can't afford to pay attention to that."
He refused outright, as if he weren't Japanese at all. With surplus inventory already weighing on my mind, I waited restlessly for Nakamura's next message. But one month, then two passed with no word, even as Family Month approached.
From what he told me, before Admiral Yi Sun-sin had shut him down, he'd been working as a waiter and happily selling the merchandise he'd gotten from me. He'd built up regular customers and received good tips. Then one day his manager suddenly called him in and told him to stop. He pushed back without thinking, got beaten up, and took about a month off. Luckily, his friends sold his stock in the meantime, so he returned my principal and lived off the rest. After that, he tried finding work, but the beating had left him unable to do physical labor. He was scraping by with whatever simple part-time jobs he could find.
When I asked why he wanted to work with me instead of going back to his old job, he said the beating had made him notorious in that industry—no one would hire him anymore. His body was still in bad shape, and he had no other skills. He'd contacted me as a last resort. I felt guilty, as if I'd caused this.
Eureka! A brilliant idea struck me. Still, I wondered if I could trust him.
I decided to hand over my current delivery-runner duties—the Itaewon market job. If that market had been legal and open, I wouldn't have hesitated to hire part-timers or employees. But this market wasn't like that. It was like walking on thin ice; no matter how careful you were, you could still get caught and end up at the police station. So to avoid being identified, I varied the drop-off locations, people, and methods.
Of course, compared to my old pickpocketing days, this was still relatively safe. But with my business expanding, I couldn't keep handling deliveries myself forever. Besides, I had to manage the Japanese side too—even if there hadn't been any contact yet.
Still cautious, I subcontracted about one job per week. I trained him thoroughly, treating him like my avatar. I shared every precaution, behavioral tip, and—most importantly—the art of groveling without holding anything back.
They say open-source software like Linux grew because it was shared, right? I sent him to Busan, up to Seoul, even to Gangwon Province. He was diligent. Maybe a bit slow because of the aftereffects of the violence, but what I liked most were his three "manys": he talked a lot, asked a lot of questions, and was hungry for work. Had I hired a good employee?
A month later, I boldly sent him 100 grams, hoping he'd follow instructions and not skim anything.
At least his replies were prompt.