Bloody Seoul Read online

  Strike rubs a hand over his itty bitty stubble. “So guys, what do you think?” he asks with a shrug, “Is it a go?”

  We still don’t answer him.

  Strike’s eyes land on me, and I drag my index finger horizontally across my throat.

  Strike gives a nervous chuckle. “Never mind. I’m a dumbass.” He knocks his skull, hard. “There,” he says.” Just knocked some sense into myself.” He looks at his crotch and wags his finger at it. “No, gochu. It’s not happening,” he loud whispers to it.

  Patch breaks into silent hysterics.

  Braid smiles. “Yeah. You and both your heads better stay up here.”

  Strike sulks, mumbles a couple of unintelligible words, and goes straight back to ogling the girl.

  “Good old horny Strike,” Braid says as he fills my glass with more soju.

  “Any new intel?” I ask him as I light up a Dunhill and take a couple of draws.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing, boss.”

  I release a curtain of smoke from one side of my mouth. “What about that new street stall? The one near Hongdae station?”

  Braid nods. “Oh yeah. That. Sorry. Shouldn’t be a problem, boss. Scrawny guy selling cell phone cases. Single. No kids. Raking in the dough. Especially busy from four to seven.”

  “Good,” I say. “We’ll hit him up tomorrow. Seven-thirty.” Long drag. Three smoke rings.

  “Ok,” Braid says. A satisfied smile stretches across his face. He lights a cig, then sits back to enjoy his smoke.

  I look at Strike and Patch.

  Strike makes some joke about sex.

  Patch lunges at him, puts him in a headlock, and goes on a noogie rampage.

  It’s business as usual up here, but, speaking of sex, it’s not just me that’s never had it. Neither have my boys. And it isn’t for lack of opportunity. First of all, there’s the popular girls at school. I know for a fact that they’d get with us in a heartbeat. Or we could go to one of the red-light districts that “don’t exist” according to some official city reports. Or I could ask my dad. It’s not like he hasn’t tried to hook my boys and me up before.

  I don’t know about my boys, but I have a specific reason why I’m not rushing to do the deed. It goes back to something my mom told me.

  It was late afternoon. The sun was finally shining after monstrous clouds had been covering it for a week. I crept quiet as a mouse into my parent’s bedroom. Dust particles floated in the sunbeams that licked Mom’s face as she lay in bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew I was there.

  “Rocky,” she said, “come here.”

  She looked so messy, her hair, her face—like she hadn’t slept in days, even though she was still in bed. What was she doing?

  “Please, Rocky, come here. I’m so tired…”

  I was afraid, but I made myself go to her.

  She stroked my head. “Oh, Rocky,” she said, her voice sad.

  I studied her face. There were big bluish-black bags under her eyes. Her lips were cracked, whitish…

  “My handsome boy,” she said.

  There were reddish bumps on her tongue like tiny pebbles when she spoke. Red scratch lines on her cheeks and neck.

  She patted my head and smiled.

  “One day you’re going to have a girlfriend, maybe someday a wife,” she said. “Be kind. Don’t hurt her…” She paused, touched her neck. “Listen to her. If she tells you she doesn’t like something, don’t do it. If she’s sad, help her. Don’t give her bad things like—” She didn’t finish that sentence. Instead, she laid her hand on a small plastic bag near her shoulder and slid it under her pillow before I could see what it was.

  “Get to know her so you can trust her and she can trust you,” she whispered. “So you can trust each other.”

  I was only six. I didn’t understand her, I guess, though I did get the part about not hurting my future girlfriend or wife.

  These days I don’t consider myself to be the nicest person. I mean I hurt people on the regular.

  My shoulders slump as I let out a quiet breath.

  So it just might be possible that if I have sex, I could hurt the girl. Her feelings, that is. I’m not a rapist. That’s why I made a vow to myself, to Mom, to wait until I’m in love before I have sex. Because when you love someone, you care about them enough not to hurt them.

  Right?

  I haven’t been in love yet, so I haven’t had sex yet. I sit tall, nodding inside, because it makes perfect sense to me.

  Braid gets up and strolls to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “So who’s this hottie?” he asks with a chin up.

  Strike jabs his finger into the window.

  Braid’s eyes widen. “Damn,” is all he says. He bites his knuckle.

  The three of them drool over three o’clock. Hungry wolves stalking a juicy lamb.

  I yawn and meditate on the Korean hip hop instead. The bass reverberates through my chest, my new heart beat. A loud boom boom.

  Out of the blue, Braid slams his palms into the window and yells, “Shit!”

  I jump a little.

  “Six o’clock!” he shouts, then mashes his forehead against the glass. “Boss,” he says, waving me over without looking back. “Check out this chronic. He’s tweaking…”

  I get up and walk over, slow, for a look. Directly below us there’s a guy writhing on the ground, scratching his skin like every centimeter of his body is covered in mosquito bites. I cringe inside. At the rate he’s going he’ll draw blood for sure. “So he is,” I say, then take an unhurried drag. I hold the cig against my chest. I’d never admit it to my boys, but I’ve never seen a tweaker before.

  “How the hell did he get into the club?” Braid mumbles.

  Strike tsk tsks. “Such a waste of a countryman,” he says, then pauses. He turns to me with his arms crossed. “Boss, how about only selling to the Japanese when you’re in charge. Let them suffer the way they made us suffer all those years.” He holds a finger up. “Oh and also the Americans.”

  Patch nods.

  I take my last drag and let my head fall back to exhale. Slow smoke puffs float like fluffy clouds in the dim room. “Money is money,” I say, crushing the stub in the ashtray. “Japanese. Americans. Koreans. White. Black. Brown. Yellow. As long as they pay, we’ll sell to them.” I once heard Dad say that to Older Uncle.

  Braid punches the thumb side of his fist into his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers. “That guy’s hating life even more right about now.”

  I look. Two thick TSP dudes in black suits drag the tweaker’s ass literally across the crowded dance floor. The sea of sweaty, drunk bodies parts to let them pass.

  I give a slow stroke to my sideburn. Wonder where the druggie got his stuff. TSP? If so, he’d have gotten the purest meth in Seoul. Too much will kill you. Something else I heard straight from the horse’s mouth.

  My hand settles on my knife handle, surreptitious trace of my stars, my name.

  The security haul the tweaker to the bar, kicking and squirming. Suddenly he’s still. One of TSP guys lets go to readjust his grip. The tweaker curls up quick like a millipede and starts picking. Slow at first. Then fast. Faster.

  A dull prodding sensation deep in my gut turns into a stab.

  My boys remain fixated on all the excitement.

  The tweaker is picking, picking, picking…

  I clench my jaw. It’s as if I’m so close to remembering something, but that something stays just out of reach.

  I squeeze my eyelids. Strain. Come on, come on. What is it?

  It’s right there. It’s…

  Damn.

  My eyes rip open because my brain hands the something to me on a platter. But not a platter piled high with delectable treats. An enormous mound of shit.

  I poke my head into the bedroom, careful to keep the rest of me hidden.

  Mom’s crouched in the corner, her stringy hair sticking to her sweaty face. Her red eyes are huge. She’s picking the skin of her bare legs
and arms. “Spiders!” Mom whispers.

  My little body tenses.

  “Get off me,” she growls.

  She rubs the back of her hand down one side of her face. Black streak. Maroon smudge.

  “So many spiders,” she mumbles.

  Is she in pain? Maybe she needs my help. I force myself to take a few steps into the room, though my heart’s ramming into my chest.

  She’s picking. Picking, picking, picking. “Spiders all over…

  I look. I don’t see any. “Mom?” I ask, in a faint, hesitant voice, “Are you ok?”

  She stops picking for a second and lifts her head. Our eyes meet, but she’s looking through me.

  “Mom?” I ask again, this time my voice quivering. It’s then I notice what’s strewn around her. An empty bottle of soju tipped over like a fallen bowling pin. A worn-out baggie of funny looking crystals. Something that looks like a tiny fish bowl attached to a glass straw. A lighter.

  I guess she drank the soju, but what’s all the other stuff for? I want to ask her, but she drops her head and frantic pick, pick, picks.

  Everything gets blurry. Then my eyes rain…

  Far off voice. “Boss?” Tap on my shoulder.

  I turn my head.

  Braid’s looking at me with huge eyes and a puckered forehead. “Boss, you ok?” he asks.

  I nod. Doesn’t feel like me nodding.

  “You don’t look so good,” he says.

  “I’m ok.”

  “I don’t know. Your face. It’s so pasty.” He looks at Patch. “Get the boss some water,” he says.

  Patch nods.

  I look past Braid, at the tweaker. It can’t be true. No. No. No! I tap my foot like there’s no tomorrow.

  Braid stares at my moving foot.

  I lift my foot and stomp to make it stop.

  “Boss…” Braid says, reaching for my shoulder.

  I pull back, but then the room starts to spin. I wobble, hold my arms out…

  “You better sit down, boss,” Braid says grabbing my arm.

  He eases me onto the sofa. I don’t feel better. My body is freezing outside even though there’s a fire raging inside.

  Patch hands me a bottle of water. I chug it. It doesn’t thaw my exterior. It doesn’t put out the inner fire.

  Braid sticks his hand in his pocket. “You’re dripping,” he says.

  I touch my forehead, the back of my neck. I’m drenched all right.

  He pulls out his handkerchief and hands it to me.

  I flip it over and over. Then I try to strangle it, but it doesn’t have a neck.

  “Your forehead, boss,” he says.

  I wipe it. “Thanks.”

  There’s an unopened bottle of soju on the table. I give it the evil eye. Alcohol. Drugs. It all makes me sick. My hands tingle from how hard I’m making fists. Then, without warning, I jump up and grab the bottle, fling it across the room. It shatters when it hits the concrete wall. Soju sprays and dribbles.

  I don’t count the shards, I can’t because all I see is red. “No more drinking!” I shout.

  Pinging of two voices and nods of agreement.

  Sure thing, boss.

  Ok, boss. No more drinking.

  One silent nod.

  Five eyes are on me.

  Tears pool in mine. I look away, shut, and squeeze. Can’t cry in front of my boys. I swore I’d never do that again. And I haven’t. In fact, I haven’t cried in front of anyone in ten years. Ever since that day in the school stairwell, one month after my mother left and two months after my father drifted further and further away into TSP.

  Tears poured. I buried my face in my hands. My body shook as I cried quietly.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that.

  When I lifted my head, three of my classmates were squatting in front of me. They didn’t say anything at first. I brushed my face with my palm and put on a blank expression. They introduced themselves. Jung Chul-soo. Kwan Han-bin. Cho Joon-ho.

  (Two years later: Braid, Strike, and Patch.)

  Patch used to speak back then. He put his chunky hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to the swings. Come with us.”

  I looked at Braid and Strike. They nodded.

  I stood up and held my hand out to Braid, the way I’d seen my dad hold out his hand to people after a business meeting. Braid slowly lifted his hand to meet mine. He shook it. Electric. Shook hands with Strike and Patch. The same. Handshakes like jumper cables to jump-start me.

  I open my eyes. My boys are huddled around me. Just like that day ten years ago. Patch puts his hand on my shoulder. He smiles a gentle smile. It says more to me than any amount of words.

  I stand up, at attention. Turn to Braid. He bows. I extend my hand. He gives it a firm and resolute shake. High voltage.

  “No drinking,” Braid says, bowing again.

  I nod.

  Strike and Patch bow. I hold out my hand to each of them in turn. We shake. High voltage, times two.

  Handshakes like jumper cables to jump-start me.

  Some things never change.

  10.

  This Hongdae alley is alive after dark—flashing neon restaurant signs, bright street lamps, hungry people swarming like bees in a brick-walled hive, buzzing with gossip and honeyed small talk.

  Dad taps my shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s where we’re going,” he says, pointing to a vertical yellow sign that has GRANDMA AHN’S BIBIMBAP written in red characters.

  It’s the last restaurant before the ivy-covered dead end.

  “The best dolsot bibimbap in Seoul,” he says. “Your older uncle’s favorite.”

  I don’t respond because I’m busy counting the delicate leaves on the creeping tendrils.

  Dad doesn’t notice. He slaps my back and laughs before he says, “Can you believe this place is my age? That’s old!”

  I turn to look at him. “You’re not that old,” I say, all serious.

  He pats my back. “Very kind of you, young man.”

  I like when Dad’s this way—not angry. It happens sometimes.

  We walk a little more and reach the tiny restaurant. I squat in front of a three-shelf display case near the entrance. My mouth waters at all the plastic replicas of meals. The dolsot nakji bibimbap on the bottom shelf catches my eye. “What was Older Uncle’s favorite?” I ask.

  “Traditional, of course,” Dad says.

  I lick my lips at top, center. Then I stand and follow Dad into the restaurant. I smell gimchi and sesame oil. I can almost taste the warm rice. The gochujang. The blend of meat and vegetables.

  It’s crowded and noisy inside, but of course we’ve got our own private table in the back corner waiting for us. Perks.

  The server brings water and asks what we’d like to order. He fasttaps his pad with the eraser end of his pencil as he waits.

  I count the taps. Don’t be nervous, server. The big boss is in a good mood today.

  Dad orders the traditional and a beer.

  I’m on twenty when the server turns to me.

  I decide the dolsot nakji bibimbap will have to wait until next time since we’re here for Older Uncle’s birthday. “Traditional,” I say. “And water.”

  The server scurries away.

  Dad looks at me with a wistful expression. “Your older uncle and I used to eat here all the time. He was—”

  His cell rings. He checks the screen and scowls. Shrugs, then says, “I gotta get this.”

  I nod.

  “Yes?” he answers with an irritated tone. He listens. “Gimpo?” He pushes his chair back and shoots up, catching my eye. He points to the front and mouths, “I’ll be right back.”

  I nod again.

  He hustles outside, grunting disapproval.

  Our drinks arrive. My dad’s beer glass is tall and frosty. I imagine taking a drink. Crisp. Refreshing.

  But I follow my rule. No beer. No alcohol at all. I gulp some water. Not the same, but it’ll have to d
o.

  I take another sip, wondering what’s going on in Gimpo. Dad’s got a TSP warehouse there so it must be gang business. He and Older Uncle purchased the Gimpo warehouse when I turned six. Dad took me there once. When he told Mom where we were going, she objected, like she always did about me and gang stuff.

  “There’s no way I want you taking Rocky to a gang hangout, of all places.” She frowned. “Why not a playground? Or the zoo?”

  Dad winked at me. Then he turned to Mom and started in on some magic. He embraced her. Whispered something in her ear. Kissed her cheek. Another whisper. Neck kiss.

  She pushed him away. “You’re such a charmer,” she said, still frowning but less.

  I got to go after all.

  Dad let me sit in the front seat of the black Genesis sedan he had then. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Such a classic ride, and I was dressed so fancy.

  “The suit looks good on you,” he said.

  I puffed my chest out a little and smoothed my suit—the same kind my dad was wearing. Then I looked out the window, grinning inside.

  As Dad drove us further away from Seoul, more and more trees sprung up from the earth. I peeked at him. He looked over at the same time and reached out to tousle my hair.

  We arrived at a huge empty warehouse with broken windows and rusty doors. Older Uncle greeted us. I tugged on his suit. He crouched down in front of me. I cupped his ear and whispered, “Where’s Younger Uncle?”

  Older Uncle shot my dad an uneasy glance.

  My mom had the same anxious look whenever Younger Uncle was mentioned. A week before, my parents got in a big fight over his name. My dad’s face was crimson when he screamed, “Who does he think he is? Some hotshot that can come into my home and take what’s mine?” He was glaring at Mom. “No one takes what’s mine. People take what I give them!”

  I stayed hidden under the end table. Watching. Listening. All I could think was Younger Uncle’s not a thief…

  Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief that was tied in a small bundle. Held it up. “I know you want this, huh? Anything to forget him, right? Well, here, take it,” he said throwing it to Mom.