The Cabinet

by Un-su Kim

  Ginkgo trees have been around for 350 million years. They outlived the dinosaurs and survived the last ice age. Ginkgo trees can live anywhere from several hundred years to as many as several thousand years. I have confidence the ginkgo tree will take good care of him.

  On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if he hasn’t himself become a ginkgo tree. Perhaps his body has slowly elongated; his toes turning into roots; his arms turning into branches; fingers to leaves. Perhaps he’s hanging from the tip of a tall branch somewhere, swaying in the wind, watching from afar the trifling, chaotic life down below.

  “Mr Ginkgo Tree, how is the view from up there on your tall branch? It must be wonderful, is it not? This city is so wearisome.”

  “I’ll have you know, it is not all good. Woodpeckers pecking at me all day. The bugs tickle me. And the ants form lines as they eat my skin no end.”

  PICK UP THE PHONE

  Monday mornings are always busy. They’re busy because I have to wrestle with the endless calls that come in through the two phones on my desk. Each time I get a call, I’m required to record the call, write down the time and name of the caller, and quickly schedule the next appointment before they hang up the phone. And as soon as I finish one phone call, like magic, another one comes in. Then I repeat the above routine to a T. On some days I get so many calls that I don’t even have the time to get a cup of coffee. There can be so many a day that I must hold my bladder until lunch because I don’t have enough time to even go to the bathroom. Because of all this, I often think about strange things on Monday mornings – like what is the max volume to which a human bladder can stretch?

  Most of my callers are symptomers. And as a result, there are never any normal conversations with normal problems or normal solutions. I mean, how could one ever have a normal conversation with a man who calls saying that he came out of the shower to find that his penis was missing? All you could say to someone like this is something stupidly obvious, like “Did you check inside the shower? Maybe it fell off while you were washing.” Every time I have to say something like this, I feel an indescribable sense of misery rising up from deep inside my heart somewhere. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. This is what I do, and I know that complaining won’t make my situation any better. It is what it is.

  It’s 9:25 on a Monday morning. The first call comes in. It’s from Reporter Kang. It’s never a good sign when I have to start a Monday off with a call from Reporter Kang. Not only is she eccentric and irritable, she’s also smarter and more eloquent than I am. Once she begins haranguing me, there’s no stopping her. After a phone call with her, I always feel like someone has beaten me over the head with a hammer.

  Reporter Kang experiences the unusual phenomenon of time loss. We call such people time skippers. Time skippers are usually unnerved and irritable right after an episode.

  “Why haven’t you been answering my calls, Mr Kong?”

  “Sorry. I got into the office late today.”

  “I know you were ignoring my calls on purpose. It must be a drag having to deal with a woman like me.”

  “No, not at all, Ms Kang.”

  “You can admit it. I don’t care either way. But I wish you people would try to see things from my perspective, as someone who is in pain. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I understand. So, how can I help you today, Ms Kang?”

  “I’ve lost time again.”

  “Did you notice anything different from before?”

  “They’re becoming more frequent and longer. And now it always happens just when I’m about to do something important, something with which I can’t afford to lose time.”

  “Would you mind explaining exactly what happened?”

  “Several days ago, I was on my way to work to give a presentation to the company executives. Naturally, I left for the subway a bit earlier than usual and boarded the train at Ahyeon Station at 7:40 am. But when I got off at City Hall, it was 11:30 am. Can you believe that? It was only a five-minute ride, but it took me four hours! I swear I didn’t do anything else. I just boarded the train, took a deep breath, glanced at the subway map, then got off at City Hall. But by then, four hours had passed. By the time I got into work, it was already lunchtime. Obviously, the meeting was a disaster. My project manager looked at me like I was some kind of hippopotamus at the zoo.

  “And then yesterday the same thing happened just two hours before an article was due on my boss’s desk. I laid out all my materials in front of me, turned on my laptop, and was nervously staring at the flashing cursor preparing myself to type the first words when it happened. In the blink of an eye, two hours had gone by. Literally, I blinked once, and two hours were gone! Well, one hour and fifty minutes to be exact… but still! Am I going crazy? Now I’d be lucky just to have the boss look my way, hippopotamus or not.”

  “Are you sure your watch is accurate?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. In fact, I carry around two just to be safe. What, are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I do. Of course I believe you Ms Kang. We don’t doubt anything our clients tell us. And to be quite honest, it’s been a long time since I lost the ability to differentiate between things I should believe and things I can’t believe.”

  “Well, my condition is getting much worse. It used to be manageable, but now I’m so worried and scared. I don’t know how I can go on living like this. So that’s why I’m asking this of you: I want to meet the other time skippers. I want to ask them how they cope with time loss.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms Kang. But, as you know, the contact info of other time skippers is confidential. The others don’t want their existence to become known to the world. I’m sorry. But we can still make the appropriate arrangements for you.”

  “Appropriate arrangements? What the hell are ‘appropriate arrangements’? I don’t need your worthless counseling anymore! You’re never of any help. There’s no way you can understand what it feels like to have time taken from you. I don’t want counseling. I want to talk with other people who have felt my pain. In person! Not through you idiots, but one-on-one.”

  “Please calm down.”

  “If you can’t even do that, why do you even run a research institute? Am I your test subject? I’ve explained all of my episodes in excruciating detail, yet you have done nothing for me. Do you even know how hard my life is?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll look for some other way.”

  “I can’t talk with you. I want to talk with Professor Kwon.”

  “The professor isn’t feeling well these days.”

  “Then I’ll call again tomorrow. In the meantime, figure something out.”

  9:37 am. The phone rings for a second time. It’s Kang Shinae. Age 26. Kang Shinae has a doppelganger. That is, from time to time she is visited by a person who looks just like her. And when it’s time, the doppelganger disappears. But unlike what you might think, this doppelganger isn’t something from a horror movie. To put it in everyday terms, her doppelganger is more like an annoying younger sibling.

  “She’s a troublemaker.”

  “What has she done exactly?”

  “Before, she would just hang around for a while before silently disappearing. There were a few minor episodes, but nothing serious. It was almost surprising how benign she was. But now she’s always making trouble. She’s bought whole wardrobes of expensive clothes with the credit card I keep in my drawer as well as a bunch of useless things from those TV infomercials. I mean, honestly! Who thinks that a buffalo hide sofa set is becoming of a 284 square-foot one-room apartment? Recently she even went to my boyfriend’s work. And in front of everyone, she slapped my boyfriend and broke up with him. I can’t believe her!”

  “Were you thinking about breaking up with your boyfriend?”

  “No. In fact, we were thinking about getting married. Even if I wasn’t sure he was ‘the one,’ he was still decent husband material. And besides, I liked his personality.”


  “So why do you think she did it?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Did you try talking to her?”

  “She just shuts her mouth and says nothing.”

  “And when does your doppelganger usually disappear?”

  “It’s different each time. It can take anywhere from five minutes to two weeks. This last time she stayed for quite a while. She’s got me so anxious I can’t function at all.”

  “I’ll consult with Professor Kwon. For now, try to lock her inside your apartment for a few days. Maybe she’ll be ready to talk with you when you return from work. For now, that’s all we can do.”

  “I’ve tried that. But when I lock my doppelganger inside my apartment, strangely enough it’s me who ends up getting locked inside.”

  “You must be joking, right? You mean you don’t check to see which side of the door you’re on before locking it? Oh! It looks like I’m getting another call. I’m sorry, Ms Kang. Let’s talk more next time. Until then–”

  9:45 am. Sometimes I also get calls from people who aren’t symptomers. And, to be honest, these people are even more insufferable than the symptomers. Hwang Bong-gon. He’s been calling me non-stop for the last two weeks.

  “I want to turn into a cat.”

  “You have the wrong number, sir. We don’t do anything like that here.”

  “Mister, please help me. My life depends on it. I’ll be good, I promise.”

  “Please, Mr Hwang! What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m alive, but I don’t feel alive. Nothing’s right: sleep, my work, the food I eat; even masturbating doesn’t feel right anymore. My life feels like a giant ditch. Mister, my life is such a mess.”

  “Mr Hwang, can you hear me? Because of you my life is a mess. And because of you, I don’t feel alive. Eating, pooping, peeing – nothing feels right. I’m begging you. Please, just stop calling.”

  “Mister, I will be able to find my life’s purpose if I turn into a cat. And I heard there is someone who knows the way to do that.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you before you get it? I don’t know where you heard that from, but we don’t do that here. And people can’t turn into cats. If you keep bothering me like this, I’m going to report you to the police.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll call you again later.”

  “No, don’t call again later. Don’t call again, ever.”

  I’m looking at goldfish in a fish tank. Life underwater looks so simple. The air bubbles fizz up to the top and the waterwheel goes round and round, slapping against the surface of the water. The best part is that none of the goldfish call the aquarium manager demanding to be changed into cats. Quietly, and without demanding anything of anyone, they open and close their mouths. Blub-blub. That’s not how someone would demand something. Blub-blub. That’s them eating. I bet they don’t even have phones or counseling underwater. Sounds like paradise.

  The reason telephone counseling is so difficult for me is because I’m too normal. I’m not messed up enough mentally to understand why on Earth a human would want to change into a cat.

  10:05 am. I get my fourth phone call of the day. It’s Ahn Saecheol. Ahn Sae-cheol barely eats any food. He’s 5’11’’ and only 92 lbs. What’s more, he’s still losing weight. I sometimes wonder if he’s trying to become a living mummy, like the Zen Buddhists of Japan who used to prepare their bodies for death by excessive fasting.

  “Have you eaten today, Mr Ahn?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, people don’t have to be hungry to eat. We eat because it’s lunchtime. When the lunchtime bell rings, we eat. It’s simple, really. Nothing much to it. You simply open your mouth, stick the food in, chew on the food for a bit by moving your jaw, and finally push it down the back of your throat.”

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  “What you suffer from, Mr Ahn, is anorexia. Instead of calling us, you should see your doctor.”

  “It’s not anorexia. Anorexia is when you can’t eat or won’t eat. But I simply never get hungry. Must I say it again? I never get hungry. I don’t hate food. It’s just that I don’t feel the need to eat.”

  “That’s what anorexia is.”

  “It’s not anorexia!” Ahn Sae-cheol shouts from the other end of the phone, losing his temper.

  “Fine. Let’s just assume for the moment it’s not anorexia. You say you haven’t been eating lately?”

  “Actually, I have eaten a little bit. Sometimes I can’t help but eat a little, and sometimes I eat just because I’m bored.”

  “Well, that sounds promising. So how much do you eat a day, roughly, be it for fun or out of necessity.”

  “It’s different each day. Sometimes I can last the whole week on a single carrot. But even then, it’s just something I eat for fun. Sometimes I get curious about things, you know. Like, ‘Do carrots taste different from erasers?’”

  “So, which one tastes better?”

  “Erasers, of course.”

  “Aside from erasers and carrots, is there anything else you’ve tried for fun?”

  “Oh, sometimes I eat things like flower petals or paper fliers or pieces of toothpicks.”

  “But Mr Ahn, why in the world would you eat such strange things?”

  “Is it much different from eating chicken legs or hamburgers?”

  “You must be joking… You’re telling me you think eating chicken legs and hamburgers is equivalent to eating erasers…?”

  Every time I talk with Mr Ahn, my blood pressure rises and I get a piercing pain in the back of my head.

  “Never mind,” I continue without giving him a chance to answer my question, “Let’s just say that makes sense. Let’s assume it’s a fair comparison. Are there any other kinds of foods you eat?”

  “Recently I’ve been eating moonlight.”

  “Moon… light?”

  “Bingo. Light from a full moon might be plentiful, but it’s not very tasty. No, if you want to know the taste of moonlight, there’s nothing better than light from a new moon. There’s not a lot of it, but even one bite of it is enough to… how should I put it… enough to know the true taste of moonlight.”

  “OK. Well, when you eat moonlight, Mr Ahn, do you sprinkle a bit of salt or pepper on it, too?”

  “What a great idea! I must try that tonight. Oh, but wait a minute… Today’s a full moon…”

  “That’s enough for today, Mr Ahn.”

  “But what about my next appointment?”

  “Mr Ahn. Until you eat some ramen, dumplings, or bulgogi – you know, things that have carbs and protein – until you eat something like that, please don’t call again. I’m terribly busy and you’re wasting my time with your stupid pranks.”

  This is what my Monday mornings are like. And Tuesday mornings aren’t much better.

  Inside this cabinet are 375 individual files: 375 examples of magic, 375 grievances, 375 bizarre, stubborn people. Of course, this number is a lower bound. What would be the true number of times I’ve had to listen to the grievances and complaints of those 375 bizarre people who call day after day after day? It’s a figure I don’t even want to try enumerating.

  I’ve spent seven years rummaging through the files in this cabinet. And during that time, I’ve given counsel to each of these ridiculous people three to four times a week. Sometimes I even get drinks with them. How much is my monthly paycheck, you ask? I do get paid a little, but it’s barely a smidgen. Most of my income actually comes from a different source. You might not believe me, but I’m actually a normal office worker at a publicly owned company. So, why do I do this? Is it an odd hobby or some form of volunteer work? No, I’m not lucky enough to do that. Then why? Is it because I derive some sense of meaning from helping others? I’d rather jump off a cliff.

  Then why? Well, it just sort of happened. One percent of it was the fault of my foolish curiosity, and the other ninety-nine percent was the fault of my wretched bad luck. You might say I was c
aught in a sort of boobytrap. But the backstory is so involved, so unlucky, that I’ll have to tell you about it in the next chapter.

  O, SING IN ME, HMS PRINCE WILLIAM, OF THAT AFTERNOON’S BOREDOM

  It was boredom that brought me together with Cabinet 13. In fact, I was so desperately bored that I even gave my boredom a nickname. I called it an I-would-rather-eat-dog-treats-than-suffer-this-boredom boredom. Indeed, it was a truly impressive boredom, one to which any creature, from dogs and cats to cows and horses, would throw up their hands (or front legs, I guess) in surrender.

  Back then, all I did was sit quietly in the corner of my office, staring out the window like an ornamental plant. For six long months, that was all I did. If someone had actually given me a dog treat, I really would have eaten it. I was bored. Bored beyond words. So mind-numbingly bored.

  I work at a research center affiliated with a publicly owned company (we’ll call it Y). Whenever I say this, people tend to ask with a slightly surprised expression, “Oh, are you a researcher or a professor?” When this happens, I quickly and honestly answer, “No, I organize documents and files at the lab. It’s essentially administrative work.” Quickly and honestly. That’s critical. If I don’t correct them quickly and honestly, by the time the conversation is done, things become uncomfortable and awkward. It’s hard to describe, but it’s almost like they feel they’ve been lied to and I feel like I’ve been insulted.

  Of course, this is the unavoidable inferiority complex that comes with working at a research center as a non-researcher. Still, I think people must understand that not everyone at the hospital is a doctor and not everyone in the air force is a fighter pilot. In order for fighter jets to fly straight and not end up in a random field with a farmer laughing at them, someone has to properly replace those big wheels, wipe down the jet, tighten the bolts, and top off the fuel. There also needs to be someone down on the tarmac furiously waving two flags. That jets need more than just a pilot to fly; that there needs to be someone doing the dirty work behind the scenes for everything to go smoothly; that this is the world we live in – these are the things I wish people would understand. That is, when dealing with others, we should treat people as individuals and not rely on common stereotypes. In my opinion, this is the first step toward mature and meaningful human relations. Take for example the following conversation between two people who respect each other: