I Can No Longer Overlook This

It was two in the morning. The convenience store fluorescent lights flickered like insects on the brink of death.

Kim Jeongsang had no intention of changing them. The supply list from headquarters did not include fluorescent lights, and the manager had said, "Hold out if you can." Hold out if you can. He thought it was like this country's unspoken motto.

He restocked the triangular gimbap on the shelf. Five tuna mayo. Three Jeonju bibim. His hands moved slowly as he turned the expiration stickers to the front. There was no hurry. Customers did not come to a convenience store at two in the morning. If any appeared at all, it was only one or two.

The door opened. Ding-dong.

"Welcome."

There was no soul behind the words. Still, his mouth moved on its own. It was the habit of five years.

It was the delivery driver, Mr. Park. The man who always came at the same hour to buy one bottle of Bacchus and one corn-silk tea. Today he stood in front of the counter, hesitating for a long time.

"Um, boss."

"I'm the part-timer."

"Ah, right, part-timer. Could you… give me one more bag? I'll pay for it."

"It's twenty won."

"…Just one is fine."

Kim Jeongsang pulled out a single bag and handed it over. He did not take the money. Mr. Park smiled awkwardly and picked up the Bacchus.

"They cut the rate again. Seven hundred won per delivery now. Seven hundred won. With gas prices what they are."

"…"

"Nothing ever happens to the people at the top. We're the only ones getting crushed."

Mr. Park emptied the Bacchus in one gulp. The empty bottle clacked onto the counter.

"Sorry for holding you up, part-timer. I'm heading out."

Ding-dong. The door closed.

Kim Jeongsang watched Mr. Park's back disappear into the darkness. The truck door opened, closed, and the engine turned over.

Mr. Park had one hundred and forty deliveries waiting for him today. At seven hundred won each, that came to ninety-eight thousand won. After gas and the vehicle installment, less than half would remain in his hands.

While that seven hundred won kept getting slashed, the delivery company CEO had pocketed forty billion won in dividends last year.

Kim Jeongsang knew exactly where that money had gone—through which paper company, to which island, and how it had become a building registered in the CEO's child's name without a single won in taxes.

He knew.

He picked up the empty bottle and dropped it into the recycling bin. Glass. Cans. PET. The compartments were clearly divided. People are divided the same way, he thought. An upper compartment and a lower one. Between them stood an unbreakable plastic wall.

A wall. He rolled the word once across his tongue.

The small TV behind the counter was playing the news. He had left it on mute, yet somehow the sound was on now. He must have turned it up. He could not remember.

A familiar face appeared on screen. The son of the Daeun Construction chairman. Last year he had driven drunk and struck two people. One had died. The other still lay in a hospital bed. And it had been ruled no charges.

Statements claimed another person had been driving. The black box had "malfunctioned," the CCTV "was at the wrong angle," and the witness had "retracted their testimony."

Kim Jeongsang knew the truth of the incident. He had been the one driving. Drunk. After the first person bounced off the hood, he had not stopped. He traveled another hundred meters. That was why he hit the second person. The first thing he did after getting out of the car was call his father.

"Dad, I got in an accident."

That was all. The next day, a company employee sat in the driver's seat. That employee was now paying off a debt. A debt the chairman had paid in his place. The price of a human life turned into a debt.

Kim Jeongsang even knew the recording of that phone call. The tremor in the voice, the relief hidden behind it. The relief that Dad would take care of everything.

He knew everything.

The real face behind nearly every event in this country. Who had buried what. Who had stepped on whom to climb higher. What kind of blade hid behind every smile. What that hand weeping in front of cameras was clutching behind the stage.

He saw it all. Even when he tried not to see, he saw.

That was why he had stayed in this convenience store for five years. To stop seeing. To simply fill triangular gimbap, hand over bags, and throw away empty Bacchus bottles. Living that way, he thought he could at least preserve one person's share of ordinary life.

Agreement. He knew exactly how much money had been laid on top of that word. He also knew how badly the mother's hand had trembled as she signed the document. It was the hand that turned a dead son into cash. Not because she wanted to, but because the rest of the family would collapse if she did not.

The compartments were divided. The upper compartment received no charges even after killing someone. The lower compartment had to reach an agreement even when someone was killed.

Suddenly he remembered something from five years ago. When he first came to this neighborhood, there had been a small snack shop at the end of the alley. One roll ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of gimbap for two thousand won, ramen for three thousand. The old woman who ran it always gave an extra plate of pickled radish.

One day the shop closed. The building owner had doubled the rent. A franchise café moved in, and the building owner turned out to be the brother-in-law of a city councilman.

The old woman was now in a nursing hospital. Kim Jeongsang knew who the true owner of that hospital was. He knew what kind of medicine was prescribed to the elderly there and what kind of bills were sent on to the public corporation.

He knew. He knew it all.

Yet instead of acting on that knowledge, he kept filling triangular gimbap. That was what he had done for five years.

Three in the morning. Kim Jeongsang opened a canned coffee and leaned against the counter. Sweetness spread across his tongue. He liked sweet things. He could no longer tell whether it was this body that liked them or himself. Wear anything long enough and it becomes your skin.

The anchor on TV moved to the next story. An assemblyman's real-estate suspicions had been revealed as "groundless." Kim Jeongsang knew they were not groundless. A certain professor's thesis had been concluded as "not plagiarism." He knew it was plagiarism.

He knew. He knew everything.

In this country, truth was the commodity with the lowest value. Take it to court and you received a verdict of insufficient evidence. Take it to a newsroom and it was killed at the desk. Carry it into the public square and it caused noise for one season before being forgotten.

What was expensive was lies. A single skillful lie could imprison people or set them free, make the poor even poorer and the rich even richer.

The only person who handled truth was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Kim Jeongsang. And he was a convenience store part-timer.

It was a ridiculous situation, he sometimes thought. Knowing changed nothing. That was the hardest part to bear.

God sees everything but does nothing. That is why people do not hate God. Because God is distant. Because God exists beyond reach.

But he could reach. If he chose to.

He could crush the chairman's son beneath the same weight as Mr. Park's delivery truck this very instant. He could spill the assemblyman's bank records across the street. He could sweep away every lie in this country with a single breath.

If he chose to.

He took another sip of canned coffee. For five years he had chosen not to. Once he put his hand in, there would be no end. Press down on one person and the next would appear. Press down on that one and yet another would surface. In the end he would hold the entire country in the palm of his hand.

That was not the ordinary life he wanted.

He simply wanted to be the man who handed out bags.

Ding-dong. The door opened again. This time it was a student in school uniform. At this hour.

After standing for a long time in front of the cup-ramen corner with his bag still on his shoulder, the boy picked up the cheapest one. The seven-hundred-won kind. His fingers counting coins from his pocket were careful. One hundred won. Two hundred. Three hundred.

"Short five hundred won?" Kim Jeongsang asked first.

The student looked up, startled. His ears turned red.

"Ah… no. I'll get something else."

"Take this one." He placed the cup ramen in a bag and held it out. When the student tried to set the coins on the counter, he stopped the boy's hand.

"Keep them. Hot water is over there."

The student seemed about to speak, then closed his mouth. He bowed politely and walked toward the water dispenser.

Kim Jeongsang watched the boy's back. If he wanted to know why the child was outside at this hour or what had happened at home, he could see it. He did not look. Some things were better left unknown. The right not to know was also part of ordinary life.

The student sat in the corner with his cup ramen. He blew on it, took a bite, and looked like someone eating his first meal of a very late night.

Kim Jeongsang turned back to the TV. The chairman's son's face appeared once more. The scene of him leaving the courthouse after receiving no charges. He was smiling. Toward the camera, as though he bore no guilt. No—as though guilt was something people like him had never been meant to carry.

Kim Jeongsang stared at that smile for a long time.

He thought of Mr. Park's seven hundred won. He thought of the student's seven hundred won. He thought of the mother's trembling hand signing the agreement. He thought of the manager's words to hold out if you can. He thought of the recycling bin with its divided compartments. And he thought of that smile.

The canned coffee was empty. He squeezed the empty can lightly in his palm. It crumpled. When he squeezed harder, it flattened like a sheet of paper. Just a little more pressure and the can would vanish as though it had never existed.

This country was the same. With just a little pressure.

He had tried not to think that thought for five years. He had tried again today.

But.

When the chairman's son's smile received one more close-up on the screen, something inside him rose very ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slowly, after a very long time, from the place where it had been sitting.

It was not anger. Anger was too small a word. It was something far older and far heavier. Something he had pressed down on for much longer than five years.

He dropped the flattened can into the recycling bin. The can compartment. He dusted off his hands.

He took out another canned coffee from beneath the counter. He did not open it. He simply held it in his palm. It was cold.

Five years. For five years he had never asked. Why only I can see. Why I possess something like this.

He had not asked not because he did not know the answer, but because he feared it. If this power had a purpose, that purpose could not possibly be the work he was doing now—filling triangular gimbap and handing out bags.

If it had been given to be used.

He did not know who had given it. He simply possessed it. Since birth. Or even before birth. For so long that he could not remember the beginning.

In the meantime the world had only thickened its compartments. The upper compartment rose higher, the lower sank farther. Mr. Park's rate was cut. The student counted out seven hundred won. The mother signed the agreement. The chairman's son laughed.

All while he watched. While he did nothing but watch.

In the corner the student was drinking the last drops of ramen broth. Mr. Park was probably heading toward his next delivery stop by now.

The mother who had signed the agreement was probably lying awake, staring at the ceiling. The chairman's son was probably celebrating today's non-indictment in some private room.

It was three in the morning in this country.

Kim Jeongsang looked up at the fluorescent light. The one flickering like a dying insect.

"…Even endurance," he said aloud. To no one in particular.

"Has its limits."

The words were quiet. A single sentence spoken as a monologue beneath the dying fluorescent light in a convenience store at three in the morning, heard by no one.

Yet that sentence carried five years. No, a time far longer than five years. The hand that handed over bags, the eyes that had closed to avoid seeing, the triangular gimbap that had been stacked, the crumpled can, and every truth he had ultimately refused to touch.

What has been endured for a long time does not burst in small ways.

The moment those words left his lips, the convenience store fluorescent light stopped. Not that the flickering ceased. It simply stopped. The light, the sound, the refrigerator motor, the noise of cars on the street. Every sound in the world halted as though a finger had been laid upon it.

The student in the corner dropped his chopsticks. The boy's eyes slowly widened. He was not looking at Kim Jeongsang. He was staring into empty air. No, he was looking inside his own mind.

Kim Jeongsang did not stop. He had no intention of stopping. In truth, he had already reached the point where stopping was no longer possible. Because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had finally laid his hand on the one thing he had avoided touching for five years.

He had once told himself that once he put his hand in, there would be no end.

Fine, he thought. Let's go all the way.

At the same moment.

Mr. Park in the driver's seat of the delivery truck let go of the steering wheel.

The mother holding the agreement while staring at the ceiling sat upright.

The chairman's son raising a glass in a private room dropped it.

The prosecutor working overtime, the assemblyman standing on the podium, the parents tucking in their sleeping child, the fifty million people of this country.

All at once.

They heard the same voice.

Not from outside their heads, but from within. Not through their ears, but from a far deeper place.