The Crisis at the Small Company (1)
Kim Chirok found himself wondering whether the company they were about to found would actually get off the ground. With two hundred million won in capital, a leased factory, and four injection molding machines, it seemed like they could at least keep the lights on. But that was only possible if Mitsutech didn't come down hard demanding the molds back — and only if Mitsutech actually continued to take the parts they produced.
The company they were trying to launch wouldn't be selling to the general public. They already had a dedicated buyer, and that, at least, was one thing in their favor.
Should I cash out my savings and give it a shot?
If he liquidated his savings, he figured he could scrape together about sixty million won. That would give him a thirty percent stake. Then again, if the Oh Ha-young case wrapped up cleanly, he might jump ship to another conglomerate or a financial firm. And if that happened, would he even be able to recover the money he'd put in? They were starting out of a leased factory, which meant there was nothing worth putting up as collateral. No matter how he looked at it, this was something he needed to think through carefully.
Even if his stake ended up being large, Kim Chirok wondered whether they would actually make him president. South Korea was a capitalist society, so the person who brought the most money becoming president was only natural. But the Production Department Head and the Production Manager had each spent more than twenty years on the rubber factory floor. The idea that a green young man like himself would be made president just because he'd brought in a bit of cash didn't sit right with him.
How much would the Production Department Head and the Production Manager each put in?
He figured they'd each come in with around fifty million won. The Production Manager was a credit delinquent, so that was a nonstarter, but the Department Head might invest a hundred million or more. The man was getting on in years — he almost certainly owned a home. If he took out a loan against the property, a hundred million won wouldn't be hard to raise. And if the rest of them each chipped in a few tens of millions, they could hit the two hundred million won in capital.
It was a given that the Production Department Head would become Representative Director. But could a man who'd spent his whole career on the production floor really handle government paperwork and vendor relations without a hitch?
The Production Department Head finished the last of his green tea and spoke.
"I'm not asking you for an answer right this minute. But if you really came on board, I think you'd be a real strength for us. That's why I'm making this offer."
"What kind of strength would I even be?"
"You know general affairs and accounting. The last fellow we had in general affairs was a complete joke. And the Managing Director says you know how to handle court documents, so it seems to me you've got some real ability."
Hmm. He's trying to reel me in.
"I, uh — I don't have any particular skills."
"And word is you know your Chinese characters well, and your Japanese too."
"That's nothing more than a rumor."
"And one day when you came down to the floor, you read the English labels and instruction sheets on the raw-material boxes right off. I thought to myself then, this young fellow's got some real talent."
"Ah, that was just because some words I happened to know came up."
"Plus, you've got a good face. I think you'd do well in sales, too."
"Heh. That's the first time anyone's told me I look good."
"Not at all. The married women on staff all said it was a real waste. Anyway, think it over carefully and get back to me."
"Understood."
Kim Chirok bowed deeply to the Production Department Head as the man turned to leave.
Once the Department Head was gone, Kim Chirok sat down at his desk and began drafting a brief to take to court — a preparatory brief for the Oh Ha-young case. He intended to file it before the next hearing. But a search online revealed that a preparatory brief applied to civil cases. For a criminal trial, he needed to write a statement of defense.
Kim Chirok wrote out his statement of defense on two sheets of A4 paper.
I was born into a poor family. My parents worked as apartment cleaners in Gangnam. Believing that study was the only way to lift my family up, I entered the Business School at Seoul National University, and upon graduation I joined H Group.
I was assigned to H Chemical, an H Group affiliate, where I met the complainant, then a staff member in the General Affairs Department. I set out below, in detail, how I came to meet the complainant afterward and what took place at Sindorim Station.
The complainant was heavily intoxicated. Fearing that the last train was about to stop running, I took her hand and helped her to her feet. I never dreamed, even in my sleep, that this would be construed as forcible molestation.
The following day, the complainant posted photographs of our meeting all over social media, which I found deeply unpleasant. I asked her to delete the photographs. She even told me she was doing it to protect me. Call records can be attached if the Court so requires.
A few months ago, for personal reasons, I left H Group and attempted to find new employment, but I gave up. Having been issued a summary order by the prosecution, I concluded that a position at a major corporation was out of reach. I am now employed at a small rubber factory in Hyangnam-eup, reduced to a low-wage worker earning 2.5 million won a month. My employment insurance contributions will confirm the amount of my wages.
I am truly aggrieved, and at times I feel as though I am going out of my mind. I trust, however, that this honorable Court will render a wise and just verdict.
When he finished, he read it through. Every line of it was steeped in a wretched, aching sense of injustice.
Hmm. The draft's done, at least. Now I just need to polish it. I can attach the Instagram screenshots and send it off.
The trial date was still a long way off, so he figured he wouldn't send it until the following week. He wouldn't even need to go all the way to the Seoul District Court in Seocho-dong — filing it by mail through the court's public services office would be enough.
He glanced at the clock. It was past eleven at night. There had been a time when late evenings filled him with dread that the last bus would stop running. Now he had a beat-up old car, and that particular worry, at least, was gone.
Saturday arrived. Kim Chirok bought some fruit and went to the house in Bongcheon-dong. His mother welcomed him in.
He stepped into his empty room. On the desk sat a piece of mail from the court. He opened it. Just as he'd expected, it was a notice of the trial date.
Courtroom: 404
The names of the presiding judge and the court clerk are as listed herein.
It was courtroom 404 again, the same as before.
His mother sliced the fruit he'd brought and spoke up.
"What's that thing from the court?"
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
She studied his face with anxious eyes. But she seemed to sense that if she kept pressing, he would get angry again, so she only watched him, reading his mood. Kim Chirok decided he would tell her everything once the case was over.
A new week began. That day, as on every other, Kim Chirok was hard at work at Hyangnam Tech calculating the employees' extra pay. Ayako, the Japanese woman on staff, would only verify the hours worked, the extra shifts, and the overtime, then pass the numbers along. Turning those hours into actual amounts was Kim Chirok's job.
Once the calculations were done, he notified each of the production workers individually, down to the last won. That was how they knew what they would take home that month. Pay varied from month to month depending on extra shifts, though the differences were never dramatic. The production workers were sensitive even to small gaps, which was why they wanted to know in advance.
A Korean-Chinese worker on the injection line stopped him.
"I think my extra pay is wrong?"
The same man had said the same thing last month, and here he was saying it again. Kim Chirok smiled and told him,
"Come up to the office later. I'll look it over for you."
He never, under any circumstances, let a displeased look cross his face in front of the production workers.
When he came back up from the floor, the Accounting Manager spoke to him.
"I hear the factory auction failed on the first round."
"I see. The first round usually fails, doesn't it."
Kim Chirok sat down at his desk and pulled up the court website.
Hyangnam Tech Factory
Balan-ri, Hyangnam-eup
Appraised Value: 4.8 billion won
First Auction: FAILED — NO BID
Next Starting Bid: 3.36 billion won
He turned to the Accounting Manager.
"The next starting bid is 3.36 billion won. If it sells at the next round, the company won't go under, right?"
"Well, the capital company would take their distribution, and some of the raw-material suppliers might get a share too."
"But if it fails again and goes to a third round, the raw-material suppliers won't see a single won."
"That's what would happen. And then buying raw materials would become impossible. Even if we moved to a leased factory, it'd be hard."
"That'd be a real problem."
"Hah. I guess I should start looking for a job somewhere else."
"You've got a 1st Class Computerized Accounting certification, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding a new position."
"But I'm getting on in years now..."
She smiled, weakly. Watching her, Kim Chirok thought that a company should never be allowed to go under. He felt he was learning, in the most visceral way, things a conglomerate had never taught him.
Saturday came around again. Kim Chirok did not go up to Seoul that day. He figured he ought to stay behind and finish the statement of defense he was going to send to the court.
He drove the rattling Santa Fe over to the Hyangnam Tech factory. On previous Saturdays there had always been people working overtime, but today the place was silent. Not a soul had come in. The only faces he saw belonged to the two Bangladeshi workers who lived in a shipping container in a corner of the factory grounds, and they weren't working either.
Kim Chirok went up to the second-floor office. He turned on the computer, polished the statement of defense he had drafted earlier, and printed it out. Then he read it through one more time.
Hmm. Written like this, if the judge has any conscience at all, he'll give me a proper trial.
Even to his own eye, the statement of defense looked like a well-crafted piece of writing. He resolved that first thing Monday, on his way to work, he would go to the post office and mail it to the public services office of the Seoul District Court. At the bottom of the last page, beside the submitter's name, he signed.
After signing, he found himself thinking of Oh Ha-young. That woman had put him through all of this — he wondered if she was still doing just fine at her job. He could almost hear her laugh, that strong-willed face of hers. It was as if she were saying, You'll come crawling back to me eventually.
If he ever married Oh Ha-young and lived with her, that would be hell without a doubt. He would be so cowed by her presence that he wouldn't be able to get a single thing done. But what if a woman as beautiful as Hirosue Yoshiko appeared? And what if she never looked down on him for coming from a poor family, and always sent him a warm smile? Then he thought he would be happy every single day.
But Hirosue Yoshiko was Japanese. She was someone with no possibility whatsoever of dating a Korean man. Yoshiko was the most beautiful woman in Kyoto right now. Japanese men from wealthy families were surely lined up for her.
His thoughts drifted, then, to Bang Mihee, who had become Jeong Chan-young's wife. He wondered what Bang Mihee's bare face looked like with the makeup wiped off. The student photograph Oh Ha-young had sent him was no beauty — just an ordinary face. And yet she loved luxury brands and went around in heavy makeup, which in his mind made her even cheaper than Oh Ha-young. Still, she had married a high-flying, openly recruited employee in a conglomerate's Strategic Planning Office, so she was a woman whose luck was filthy, disgustingly good.
When it came to luck, his was the worst there was. Being born into a poor family was one thing — but even now, his life was a mess. He'd come down to a provincial town to work at a company that was falling apart. What kind of sorry state was this?
He was sitting there with those thoughts, letting out a sigh, when one of the Bangladeshi workers opened the office door and came in. In clumsy Korean, the man said,
"We going to order jajangmyeon. You eat with us?"
"W-well, I suppose so?"
"Then I order three jajangmyeon and one plate fried dumplings."
"Sure. Whatever you like."
Kim Chirok had heard plenty through the news about the growing number of foreign workers in Korea. But he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would be hanging around with them, sharing a meal.
A while later, the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the factory yard reached him, and word came that the jajangmyeon had been delivered. In front of the shipping container there was a plastic table and some chairs. They were filthy enough that he suspected they'd been pulled out of someone's trash.
Kim Chirok ate jajangmyeon with the two Bangladeshi workers. He took just one fried dumpling and pushed the rest toward them. Sitting there in front of a shipping container, he found himself thinking that jajangmyeon eaten this way had a flavor all its own. It was a different taste entirely from the meals he'd eaten in the H Group headquarters cafeteria on Teheran-ro in Gangnam.
If he joined the Production Department Head in starting a company, Kim Chirok wondered, would this be how he spent his days — living alongside foreign workers like this?