My boss started out as a director. I’d gone to the same school as he did. He graduated before me and put together a theatre group with me and some other classmates. After narrowly managing to squeeze some money out of his parents, who’d long since given up on him, and overcoming all of the other obstacles, he succeeded in opening a tiny basement theatre. But there are so many tiny theatres and look-alike theatre companies crammed along the street that audiences are stretched thin, and the rent just keeps getting higher by the day. Every time we open a new play, we have a full house for only the first day or two, and then the numbers quickly dwindle until, by the fifth day, we are lucky to fill even ten seats. After that, we play to an empty house. Though we get some funding from the Ministry of Culture, for the most part our expenses are covered by the venue rental fees, which really only benefit the landlord. Every week we make lists of potential supporters from anywhere we can think of and send out emails pleading for them to become regular members.
I know my boss expects me to be excited about the interviews, but I respond flatly.
Can I get an advance?
What?! An advance? He looks up at me in shock and laughs. What do you think this is? A regular workplace? You know we won’t know until after opening night whether we’ll have any money coming in. How much do you need anyway?
About 500,000 won.
I am thinking to myself that I need to pay off at least some of my back rent if I am to make it through the month. He takes out his wallet and opens it.
There’s a little bit left from the production funds … but you know we have to pinch every penny. I can give you 300,000.
I snatch the six 50,000-won bills from his reluctantly outstretched hand before he can change his mind. As I turn and walk out the door, he shouts.
Be here by one o’clock tomorrow! You have to give those interviews!
The rehearsal isn’t until seven. Dinner will be included.
I tell him, Then call the reporters back and have them come for the rehearsal.
It is my third time directing. I came close to quitting the last time.
My name is Jung Woohee, and I’m already twenty-nine years old. I went to art school and am now a beginner playwright and director. At one point I quit theatre entirely and got a regular job in order to make ends meet. I sent my resumé to a dozen places and failed interview after interview before finally managing to land a job at a tiny publishing house. I lasted about two years. All the big, hotshot publishing houses churn out bestsellers, put up new buildings, and shower their employees with bonuses, but the lousy publishing house where I worked seemed to have no capital at all, because they never once acquired a popular translation. Instead, they stuck to dusty old classics that they didn’t have to worry about paying royalties for, or else pieced together a few questionable essays and slapped a plausible-sounding title on the collection.
I did everything from editing — including rewriting, embellishing, and proofreading texts — to marketing and dealing with the authors. The only employees besides me were the boss, one of his younger colleagues, and a girl, still wet behind the ears, who’d just finished junior college. We were constantly understaffed but so eager not to miss a deadline that we never hesitated to stay late. Of course, there was no such thing as overtime pay, and I had to sate my hunger with meagre midnight snacks so as not to mess up the cozy family atmosphere we had going. I put up with it for two years because I had no better options. After paying rent and utilities, I only had enough left each month to feed myself, but just barely. And since I was like a pendulum, swinging back and forth, back and forth, between work and home, I had no time to spend money on anything else anyway. I took frequent breaks in the stairwell, driven away from my desk by the emptiness of knowing that I was wasting my youth staring at a computer monitor until my eyes were practically falling out of my head just to fix other people’s writing and make their work look better. On the landing, I would squat on my heels and smoke two cigarettes in a row until my insides felt like they’d calmed down a little.
One day, I was in Daehangno, the theatre district, to meet a writer, when I bumped into one of my old theatre buddies at a cafe. He said that, as luck would have it, he’d been trying to track me down, and he asked if I could write a play for him. I’d been looking for a good excuse to quit the publishing world, so I ended up throwing myself back into the quagmire of theatre. I’d already tried clawing my way up from the bottom right after graduating university, first as a lowly staff member for a theatre company, then as an extra, but with my prospects not looking all that great, I’d decided to stop. Nevertheless, I came back, dusted off a half-finished script that I’d given up on before, and just managed to spruce it up by the deadline. That fall, I entered it into a drama festival and surprised myself by winning the New Playwright Award. All of which meant that I’d come too far to quit now. No matter what happened, I would have to find my footing on the cramped stage of this tiny theatre.
I have a widowed mother and an older sister. When I was still in college, my dad, who worked as a teacher, passed away. My sister had already finished college by then, and I managed to squeak through my remaining semesters with financial help from an uncle. And actually, even before then, I’d been attending school solely due to my mother’s support: my father had stubbornly opposed my decision to major in theatre at an art college and had threatened to withhold tuition unless I chose a different major or a regional school closer to home. Even my uncle had only agreed to help pay for my last two semesters after I swore to him that I would look for a job after graduation and not pursue acting. So I realised early on that I would never get to do what I wanted as long as I was dependent on someone. My sister, as well, wasted years of her life trying to pass the teacher certification exam, and all she has to show for it is a teaching position at a middle school way out in the sticks, while our mother, who held all kinds of side jobs, including cleaning other people’s houses, now gets to live a quiet life in that small town right along with my sister. I avoid calling them no matter how tough things get for me, because that is the best way I have of helping them to maintain their peaceful lives.
Two 5,000-won t-shirts and a pair of 10,000-won blue jeans are enough to get me from spring to autumn, and other than food and transportation, I don’t really have any expenses. Housing costs are the biggest challenge when it comes to living in a major city. I lived in goshiwon — buildings packed with tiny rooms just big enough for a bed and a desk, with a shared bathroom at the end of the hall and a communal kitchen — until I got the job in publishing and was able to save up enough to afford the deposit and rent on a semi-basement studio in a small apartment building. While roaming from one marginal housing situation to another on the outskirts of Seoul, I met countless people my age who were just like me. They reminded me of the tiny mammals who cower among the beasts of prey deep in the jungle and must survive on their wits alone.
*
I leave the theatre and march myself straight past all the coffee shops, pubs, and restaurants that line the street. Rush hour has long since ended, so there are plenty of empty seats on the bus. As soon as I sit down, I lean my head against the window and doze off. A sound like a burbling stream keeps rising from my stomach to my chest, startling me awake, but then I drop right back into sleep. When traffic is heavy, it takes over an hour to get from downtown to the new apartment complex that marks the border of the city where I live; at this time of night, it only takes about forty minutes. But I am not headed home to rest just yet.
I wake automatically one stop before my destination, and get off the bus across the intersection from the 24-hour convenience store where I work part-time. I look at the neon store sign while waiting for the crosswalk light to change. The second the light turns green, I break into a sprint, and push open the glass door while still panting for air. I know I’m overplaying it, but the owner is glaring at me. I hurriedly pull on a uniform smock whil
e rattling off apologies.
I’m really, really sorry. I’ll stay an extra hour tomorrow morning.
You can’t keep missing shift change. What was it? Another play?
Tomorrow’s dress rehearsal, then we open the day after.
I don’t know why you’re wasting your time on something that doesn’t even put food on the table. As the owner gets ready to leave, he adds, A delivery arrived, so I left it for you to deal with. See you at 9:00 tomorrow.
He leaves. He will be back in the morning to relieve me, and then his wife will show up whenever she has time during the day so he can take one or two-hour breaks to eat and rest. The part-timers are there to stand vigil in the night while the owners sleep. It is a ten-hour graveyard shift, from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. There is one other employee, a guy in college, who only works weekends. For me, it’s a standard five-day workweek. Working part-time at a convenience store is a lousy way to make money. The hourly pay is the lowest of all the part-time jobs I’ve held, and for people who don’t know what to do with themselves when they are alone, it can be desperately boring. But depending on your situation, having those late-night hours to yourself, to study or read books, can make up for it.
Regardless of location, customers always peter out after midnight. I have actually found that working the graveyard shift suits my schedule best. Before this, I worked at cafés, restaurants, pizza places, hamburger shops, kimbap shops, and once as a parking lot attendant at a department store. Eventually, I discovered that the graveyard shift at a convenience store is perfect for someone like me, because I can do something else during the day in exchange for a little less sleep at night. Though I know that working in theatre is even more pointless than working part-time, it at least gives me the comfort of hope.
At 9 p.m., the dairy products, drinks, and snacks arrive. My first task right after shift change is to shelve the items that have just been delivered. That is also my chance to grab some dinner. After 8 p.m., the pre-packaged sandwiches and triangle kimbap all have to be thrown out. Likewise, the ready-made meals on display have to be pulled before the morning delivery arrives. I remove the rest of the triangle kimbap and ready-made meals that the owner hadn’t gotten to yet from the refrigerated display and stack them underneath the counter. Then I refill the shelves with new items. Milk, drinks, and cookies go to the bottom of the stack or to the very back of the row, while the older items are pulled forward. Expiration dates have to be strictly observed. Barcodes are scanned and compostables separated into city-approved trash bags, while expired dairy products, drinks, and snacks are set aside in the storeroom to be returned to the manufacturer.
What should I eat today? I start at the drinks fridge, where several drinks have been grouped with other items as part of a two-plus-one promotion. Customers sometimes leave the freebies behind and take only what they came in for. Banana milk, strawberry milk, chocolate milk, barley tea. I choose a bottle of cornsilk tea. And since I am extra hungry, I grab one of the bigger ready-made meals packed with seven different sides, including sausage, fried pork cutlet, and fishcake. I pop it in the microwave. It is my first proper meal of the day, and a very late dinner at that, since it’s already past 10 p.m. I also put four triangle kimbap stuffed with gochujang, tuna, and kimchi into a plastic bag and tuck it away in one of the fridges. That will be my breakfast tomorrow, after I get home. I know it isn’t good for me to eat this way, but there is no better method for saving on living expenses. It is also one of the other big advantages to working part-time at a convenience store, despite the low pay. I am so hungry that I wolf the food down and immediately feel sleepy.
I heard that there has been a rash of young people, as exhausted as and not so different from me, going into stores late at night armed with knives and robbing the employees. Ours is a medium-sized convenience store with no ATM and no security cameras. Instead, the owner installed a button under the counter that, when pushed, triggers a loud siren and flashes the lights on and off. He tested it out a few times. Said it was just like a car alarm.
This late at night, we get a few customers dropping by for a midnight snack of chips or noodle cups, or to buy cigarettes, booze, or sodas, but they too thin out around 2 a.m. The delivery trucks make their rounds between 2 and 3 a.m. The timing never varies; they show up at our store close to 3.
I check the order form for the morning delivery that the owner has typed into the computer. After that, there is nothing to do but wait behind the counter, dozing off and waking again over and over, until the delivery truck arrives and I can fill the shelves with new drinks and alcohol, snacks and ready-made meals. Then it is time to clean. I sweep and mop the floor and wash the metal picnic tables and chairs outside. I sort the trash and place it at the collection point on the curb. At 4 a.m., the garbage truck comes by. Afterward, I have another hour and a half to doze off. Sometimes I’m able to get some decent shut-eye that way, but there are still days when I find myself really wishing I could give my lower back a break and lie down flat somewhere. Today is one of those days. And that is how the time passes.
Whenever I look back on the past, everything is so fuzzy. Nothing in particular stands out. Fuck, how did I get so old already? Will things get better if I ever become a famous playwright or director? When I look at friends who are older than me, they don’t seem much better off. If anything, they look just as hopeless. As for marriage … I used to fantasise about that from time to time, but the idea of me becoming some man’s wife seems as difficult, as impossible even, as achieving my tiny hope of one day being able to have a pet. When I see how my friends are with their pets, when I really think about what it means to have to love something deeply, fuss over it, worry about it, take care of it, keep it close and always be considerate of it, until you grow sick of it and hate it and feel annoyed by it, only to end up fawning over it some more, and petting it and loving it again so much that you can never get rid of it, I feel like I can’t breathe. I’ll admit that I enjoyed looking after my friend’s little white Maltese for ten days while she was on vacation, but I was horrified by how much the dog fawned over whoever took care of it, the way it grovelled. I couldn’t deal with that. No way. Even men are too much work now.
Did I ever have any boyfriends worth remembering? There were a couple, though I don’t know if I’d say they were really all that memorable. The first was a college classmate, an art major. We were both pretty immature, but he was worse than me. He lived alone in a studio apartment near the school. During my senior year, I didn’t have anywhere to live, so I moved in with him. My father had just passed and my uncle was only able to help me with tuition and nothing more. It wasn’t long before my boyfriend started suggesting we get married. His parents lived in the countryside and seemed pretty middle-class, but definitely weren’t rich. For some reason he kept bugging me to go home with him to meet his parents. I put myself in my father’s shoes and imagined asking this boy what his intentions were towards my daughter. What do you plan to do with your life? Sir, I plan to surround myself with beautiful art. I look up at the sky and scoff, then say, What about work? Well, sir, I’m an artist so I guess you could say I’m self-employed. You think you can make a living off of art? In this society?! You deadbeat! Where’ll you live? I have a studio, sir. But if it’s too small for both of us, then we’ll move. I hear those converted rooftop storage sheds aren’t bad. You’re going to make my daughter and grandchild live in a shed? Get the hell away from my daughter! I dumped him immediately. After we graduated, I joined the theatre group while he went to grad school with help from his family. I bumped into him on the street recently. He said he had a job of some kind, curating maybe, at a small commercial art gallery. Art, theatre. Potato, potahto. It was all one big dead-end. I felt like our relationship was less about romance and more like a game or a passing amusement.
I dated the second guy while working at the publishing house. He was a reporter several years older than me. I figured he was eithe
r good with money or got a lot of help from his parents, because he owned his own apartment, around twenty pyeong in size. I wasn’t expecting him to be some aspiring investigative journalist, pursuing murder cases or corrupt politicians, the fires of justice burning inside of him, or anything like that. I just took him to be an ordinary salaryman who’d gone to a good college and put on a necktie every morning to go to his perfectly ordinary office. Then he showed up an hour-and-a-half late to one of our dates. He texted me every ten minutes until he got there, and when I finally asked where he’d been, he said he’d been staking out the house of an actress who was on the verge of a divorce. He told me all about the actress’s husband and her new lover. It turned out that was what he really did for work. And yet he tried to act like he knew everything about theatre, dropping names like Samuel Beckett and Bertolt Brecht. Later, he went sniffing around all the regular haunts of a pop singer who was embroiled in the middle of a gambling-related scandal, and landed several scoops that way. I got tired of him. I stood him up twice, and he called to swear at me and hung up. I deleted his number.
And then I met Black Shirt. His real name was Kim Minwoo. He was three years older than me and just as poor, but there was something different about him. For him, the worse things got, the fiercer his approach to life. He was like a soldier with his rifle cleaned and loaded, his eyes fixed on some distant spot, his body poised to race forward.
At Dusk Page 3