Everyday Life as Eunsu
My daily life had become Eunsu’s. The story of a man who had decided to become a GED student. South Korea’s qualification exam system is actually quite well designed. Since I dropped out in middle school, I have to start with the middle school equivalency test, and there are two exam sessions per year. The difficulty varies wildly, but after looking at past papers, it seems to be around first-year middle school level. Once I heard the reason, it made sense. Sure, things are different now, but who is the qualification exam really for? People who never got the chance to study. It’s a system for those who couldn’t attend school at the usual age. If the test were made too hard, the whole point of the system would disappear. I agree. But these days the trend has taken a strange turn. It’s become an elite fast-track. The academy I attend isn’t as bad, but some places help students graduate school early in one or two years. Attend first year, drop out, pass the middle school exam, then the high school exam, and rush straight into university. The teachers at my academy say they have to stop that kind of thing, but I left the policy decisions to the old folks and just studied. Still, isn’t this too easy? Of course the intersection of the X-axis and Y-axis determines the price. What a headache. There are two exams next year—should I take them back-to-back and finish it, or spread it over a year? One half of my head was listening to the teacher while the other half was busy designing Eunsu’s future.
Oh? Our banker was reaching out after a long time.
A year ago, Flashmob had mentioned something about recommending people. Sorry, but I need to keep my head down. I’ll have to turn this down.
I was honest. No point putting on airs. But this person seemed to think differently and came at me with something close to a threat.
So what choice did I have? I’d have to do it. I thought it over. The security team we’d discussed last time—there wasn’t a single person in our crew who could handle physical work. Lucky for me, I got turned down at the first meeting. At least I still got the travel fee. One million won, free money. Felt good. Why? When I told the bank guy I’d take the job, he said he’d be in touch.
Three days later, sitting in the back row of the Noryangjin academy, I received the message.
Well, that’s fancy. Once your temperature rises, you hold strategy meetings in hotel coffee shops. I showed up in everyday clothes, leather jacket, sunglasses, and loose-fitting clothes that hid my build—anything to avoid standing out. After shaking hands with the man who looked like the team leader, I sat down, only for him to apologize and walk out. He came back a moment later and said it was nice to meet me. What was that about? Then the meeting was called off. When I waited for contact, the bank guy thanked me for participating and said I’d been deemed unqualified.
Flashmob was living for the joy of teasing me.
By the way, getting rejected had raised my temperature by 0.1. From what I heard, it was the same urban combat scenario I’d trained for. Role assignment, right? They must have decided the role they had in mind didn’t suit me. Fair enough. But why did the team leader shake my hand and then make that call? I had a few calluses, but otherwise I looked normal.
The senior was right. But we had no people. I needed to find someone quickly if the chance came up. I lay on the sofa. It was so comfortable. I wished I could become one with this sofa for the rest of my life. Where was this? A one-room apartment behind the Noryangjin academy district. Five hundred thousand deposit, three hundred thousand monthly rent. How did I get it? It was hell. The moment I returned from Cancun, I took my passport and went to the bank that loves the people most. When I said I wanted to open an account, the teller asked for ID. I handed over Eunsu’s passport and got rejected.
“I’m sorry, but newly issued passports no longer count as ID.”
Since when? “If possible, please bring a driver’s license or resident registration card.” “Mobile verification is also available these days.” Another rejection. I was getting those a lot lately. That’s where the administrative network finally failed. I took the passport to the community center—formerly the district office—showed it, and they reissued my resident registration card. They told me to come back in a week. Great! When I went to the bank with it, they asked a mountain of questions and I felt completely exposed. Was this a proxy account? Was I really the owner? What was the purpose of opening the account? All the questions that made me sweat. Yes, it was a proxy account. No, I wasn’t the real owner. The purpose was money laundering. I deposited between three hundred and five hundred thousand won a week. If I put in five million at once, it would look suspicious. Just enough that someone doing manual labor or part-time work could earn in a week. What was the point of having hundreds of millions in the Skylight app if I couldn’t spend it? I felt like Kim Cheomji, whining to myself. I’d studied enough to know that anything under 135,000 won didn’t need to be reported to the tax office, so I deposited without worry. The government wasn’t interested in small fry like us anyway. The cost of chasing us down was higher than the money they’d recover. To catch someone like me, they’d have to send out expensive civil servants, and it wouldn’t be worth it. They were salarymen too—they only moved when there was money in it. Same principle for government or corporations. If it didn’t make money, they wouldn’t move. So I deposited cash like a clueless fresh graduate. Fifty thousand in, thirty thousand out. Three hundred fifty thousand in, seventy thousand out. I acted exactly like someone living day to day, laundering the money, transferring it, and finally renting the one-room apartment. I signed the contract, filed the move-in report, and even paid the agent fee. That one hurt a little.
While rolling around on the sofa, I turned on the TV. And I offered a silent prayer of thanks to God. Why? Because the moment I saw the news, I understood exactly what operation I’d been rejected from in Yongsan.