Power & Sex, and... 18

Room 307 in the Assembly Members' Office Building hummed along peacefully yet busily. Most of the staff were holdovers from Assemblyman Hwang's days, with only two new hires added, but strangely enough, the office atmosphere had shifted dramatically from back then. Of course, it was a welcome change for me.

When I arrived at the office that morning, a few staffers were still wearing the same shirts from yesterday—buttons undone, sleeves rolled up—as if they'd pulled an all-nighter. It made sense. Starting today, we'd agreed to come in an hour early for seminars prepping the standing committee meetings and government question sessions. Heading home at dawn just to drag themselves back in would have been a waste of time and energy; better to crash at the office.

The discussion kicked off in the conference room. Despite the lack of sleep, their eyes burned sharp, and the debate grew heated. They'd photocopied stacks of their research materials to share, reviewed them from their own angles, and tossed out opinions. Us defense newbies were steadily deepening our knowledge that way.

"Assemblyman, mind if we schedule a meeting for today?"

"What's it about?"

"An intern from Assemblyman Park Seong-hwan's office—the one who posted on the party forum the other day—asked for a quick chat."

"Of course we should meet. Check my schedule before I head to Busan and carve out some time."

I readily agreed to Chief Kim's suggestion. Whether it was on Park Seong-hwan's orders or the intern's own initiative, I'd benefited from the man, and someone sympathetic to me? No reason to turn that away. Politics meant squeezing in time to persuade even your enemies if you had it to spare.

"Yes. Park Maru speaking."

"Park, this is Seo Joo-sik, professor of political science and international relations. Remember me?"

"Ah! Professor, of course I do. How have you been?"

"Thanks for remembering. Any plans to come down to Busan soon?"

"I head back most weekends. What's up?"

I hadn't majored in political science, but I'd met the professor back in my university days while working as a campus radio reporter. He was calling to ask if, next time I was in Busan, I—an alum—could give a special lecture to his students. It'd help them grasp real-world politics better and spark more interest in their studies.

Truth be told, no reason to refuse, but as a first-term assemblyman, what did I know about politics to strut in front of students like some expert? I politely explained several times why I couldn't stand at the podium, then promised that if he really needed someone like me, I'd visit the school anytime, sit in on his class as a student, absorb the lecture, join the discussions, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠offer that perspective. With that, we wrapped up.

Chatting with Professor Seo got me thinking: if I headed to Busan that afternoon, I'd push everything ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠aside come Monday—swing by the district office in the morning, then definitely visit my alma mater in the afternoon to pay my respects to my old mentor.

"Assemblyman, I hope I'm not imposing on your busy schedule."

"Nonsense. Thanks to you, 'TrapShut,' my head's still on my shoulders."

After lunch and coffee, the intern from Park Seong-hwan's office showed up. The guy used the rather blunt party forum handle "ShutYourTrap!" online, so we'd shortened it to "TrapShut" for convenience.

"Assemblyman, what do you think of our party?"

"Same as you and most of the diehard members think, I'd bet. Hell, I was just an ordinary member myself not long ago."

"Yes, that's why I came. So, I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"You know about 'Power of Ordinary Party Members'?"

"Of course. I was even a member of 'Ordinary Power'."

"Now that you're an assemblyman, you can't be an active member, but could you join as an advisor for 'Ordinary Power'?"

"Aw, do I really qualify? I'm just a first-termer."

"First-term or multi-term doesn't matter. You know most of the veterans are stuck in a rut, dragging their feet on party reform."

"True enough."

"So, given the current state, do you think our party's candidate can win the presidency next time and take power?"

"Sorry to the party leader and potential candidates, but I see the odds as very low."

"Why's that?"

"Most of the names floated have idol-star appeal, sure, but lack real political capital. More importantly, our party's approval rating lags way behind theirs—not just for presidential hopefuls, but assembly and local candidates too. Basic voter support is tilted against us from the start. No amount of star power overcomes that easily."

"So how do we fix it?"

"Simple: become the party the people and voters want. No other way."

The conclusion was obvious. Even in the last presidential election, our top candidates had massive popularity edges over the opponents'. Sure, there were some sour notes in the unification process, but that didn't swing the board. More likely, their focus on popularity stunts planted doubts in voters' minds: Can we really trust this guy with Korea?

Truth was, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠elections post the Three Kims era—YS, DJ, JP—saw Democrat Roh Moo-hyun overcome his short political resume against YS and DJ by maxing out media savvy. He leaned into 'showmanship' over deep political substance and won. But that was him reading the era's winds and riding them wisely—not a universal blueprint. Clinging to it as gospel after one win would've been foolish. Roh's style worked for his one shot, which is why a mere 1.5-term assemblyman like him earned such high political marks.

Anyway, for our party to survive the next presidential race—or Korean politics at all—the answer was clear: reform the party's makeup from within. Without that, power was impossible. Boost party approval first, then candidates could build on it to win. With rock-bottom ratings, no nominee stands a chance, and seizing the presidency stays a pipe dream.

In the end, I promised TrapShut I'd join 'Power of Ordinary Party Members' as an advisor. Selfishly, it was like that old saying: "Even a clear stream needs a frog's croak." Dreaming big in politics meant needing a shield for my moves—especially against rivals in the opposition or our own party. If it came from rank-and-file members instead of senior colleagues, the impact would dwarf any assemblyman's backing.

"Assemblyman, your train's almost here."

Our chat ran long, and Chief Kim alerted me it was time to head to Busan. I shook hands with TrapShut, said goodbye, grabbed my bag in a rush, bid the office farewell, and bolted for a taxi to Seoul Station.

"Honey!"

Ara waved from the exit gate, beaming. I spotted her, ran over, and grabbed her hand. Flash! A camera went off.

"?"

Alone, I wouldn't have cared, but snapping pics of us without asking pissed me off. Still, no way to yell without knowing who. I glanced toward the flash: a man and woman bowed apologetically my way. I nodded back.

"Assemblyman, sorry about that."

"Ah, sure. Who might you be?"

"Jeong A-ram from Women's Era magazine. This is our photographer."

"Pleased to meet you. Park Maru. What's this about?"

"We're prepping a feature on you and needed some natural shots, so I apologize for the rudeness—no prior notice. This must be your wife? Really sorry."

The women's mag reporter apologized politely with a smile. Hard to spit in a smiling face, and though I felt bad for Ara, politically, this was gold. Ara, seasoned from election shutterbugs, took it in stride without flinching.

"Jeong, care for coffee?"

"Mind if I see your place instead, Assemblyman Park?"

I looked at Ara. She hesitated, then nodded. I agreed to the reporter's request.

"You know where we live?"

"Yes, got the address. Could I hitch a ride on the way?"

We ended up taking Jeong and her photog to the parking lot.

"Is this your wife's car?"

"Yeah."

"An assemblyman's wife driving a Morning?"

"No direct bus from home to her work, so she bought it."

"Still working at the library?"

"How'd you know? What else would she do, sit home all day?"

Jeong blinked at Ara's red Morning, then looked puzzled at the library gig. Ara slid into the driver's seat; the photographer snapped away. Jeong claimed shotgun.

"This seat okay?"

She was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠already buckled in—why ask? We pulled out onto the city streets, and Jeong unleashed a barrage of questions on Ara. Journalists and their curiosity. From how we met, skipping the wedding for registry first, to life post-assemblyman hubby—the onslaught was relentless.

"Honey, we should greet Mom first—now what?"

"After Jeong leaves."

"Just head to your family home? I'm curious about your upbringing too, Assemblyman."

Jeong jumped on Ara's words before I finished. The girl was all reporter, through and through. Half-coerced, we detoured to my Yeonsan-dong family home first. I'd meant to call ahead to tidy up, but no—in for a penny, I'd show my honest roots.