by Young-Ha Kim
“Let’s go,” he said.
He took me to a fried chicken joint where two boys he knew ate and slept. “These two’ll help you out,” he said.
When he knocked on the door, the two boys rushed out. He explained my situation to them, pushed me into the room, then got on the Kawasaki with Mokran and zoomed off.
As soon as I entered the room, a piercing smell hit me. I recognized it immediately—it was the stench from the waiters’ lodgings in Mama Pig’s hostess club. The floor was cluttered with a netbook and a TV, and a small fridge lay on a nylon blanket riddled with cigarette holes.
“How do you know Jae?” I asked.
A small kid pointed at the back of his head. “The asshole got me right here with a beer bottle. My hair’s long so it covers it, but if you look close you’ll see the stitches. So, what are you good for?”
When I hesitated, he asked again. “How are you on a bike? You have a driver’s license?”
“No.”
“You have any money?”
“Not really.”
“You go around chewing uncooked rice too?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell were you thinking when you left home?”
I didn’t answer.
“Since Jae asked, we’ll let you stay here for now. We’ll work it out with the owner. He’s not rich enough to use another part-timer, but you can run some errands and if there’s some fried chicken being tossed out, you can have it.”
Early that morning while lying beside the two boys, I was suddenly disturbed by the thought that Jae and I could never be one again. We were becoming complete strangers to each other.
Days later, after my father had my text messages tracked, I was dragged home. But less than a month went by before I ran away again. I was caught once more and sent home, and then I ran away again.
My father said, “Policemen hate repeaters. Meaning, they really detest people who repeat the same crime. Repeat criminals sometimes get stiffer sentences than murderers. The law is stubborn and cruel. My job’s to enforce it, but I don’t want to do that at home. It’s impossible, anyway. In this day and age, the only thing possible for the head of a family is to give up. Don’t make your father give up on you.”
“I wish you would give up on me,” I said.
Meanwhile I got my motorcycle license. I began delivering pizza and earning a little money. It didn’t happen as often as before, but after the final delivery on any given night, I would meet up with Jae and Mokran. I bought a prepaid cell phone, and was convinced I was giving my father the slip. More likely, though, my father had given up and was no longer pursuing me. In any case, after months of repeatedly running away and being forced home by my father, I was finally completely free of him.
22
In the spring, the motorcycle gangs gather under Wonhyo Bridge or around the Yeoido riverfront. On one of those spring days Mokran picked up Jae and headed for the bridge.
“What’s around there?” he asked.
“The biker gangs,” she replied.
“Why do they hang out there?”
“Some volunteers give them free advice.”
“So the crews go there to get help?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what?”
“They give them instant noodles,” she said. “At first they started to go for the noodles, and after a while, it became a kind of meeting point for them. You know people like going where the crowds are.”
It was nearly midnight when kids started showing up. The motorcycles that gathered under the bridge were a diverse group. Beyond the pricey Harley-Davidsons and BMWs, there were ramped-up cheaper models, and even bikes with pizza-chain logos and delivery boxes attached to them.
I joined them on my delivery bike. Jae was wearing a black wool coat that hung loosely from him, so I commented, “You shooting The Matrix?”
Jae just grinned. Mokran was in skinny jeans and a flimsy cardigan.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked.
Mokran pouted. “You’re always talking about the cold, like an old man.”
Some kids approached her, said hello, and left. Jae, who was standing beside her, also got their attention. The riders were smoking in teams, like soldiers about to go to war. Girls hoping for a ride were wandering around in groups of four or five. When the girls saw Mokran, they tried to stay out of her way.
Jae said, “I’ll take a quick look around and come back.”
He kept a safe distance as he roamed around the groups, which kept up their guard by giving him fierce glances. The motorcycles were huddled together, making guttural growls like wounded animals. Sometimes rock music or hip-hop blasted from a woofer at high volume. There were even kids who spat generous globs at Jae as he approached.
Much later, Jae recalled, “I felt like the kids had been waiting for me. They were snarling like a pack of dogs, but it was as if they were about to lower their tails and accept me if only I came closer. I also heard a voice. It told me: Join them and become one. Lead them and take them somewhere greater. Something like that.”
He knew that the hundreds of two-cylinder combustion engines assembled under the bridge were just as excited as their young drivers. Like cavalry horses mounted for war, they heaved as if eager to gallop ahead. Most of all, Jae fervently desired to communicate with these impulsive machines. If only he could drive on one of them, he would be more intimate with them and his body would become a machine, and the machine, his body. He felt as if he had been transformed again into the burning scooter when the dogs had run free.
After midnight the mood around Wonhyo Bridge became wilder. One group made deafening noises as they headed downtown, and other groups followed. Kids killing time by filling out a local government survey also returned to their motorcycles, and one by one, revved up their engines.
The volunteers saw them off, yelling, “Be careful.”
The kids waved goodbye with the light wands in their hands.
Three or four groups headed for the city center first. The girls shrieked and egged on the boys gripping the bike’s handles. Other groups who had taken in the situation texted each other and began lining up. No one wore helmets. As excitement continued to build, yet another group, one with over thirty members, descended and settled under Wonhyo Bridge. The rest of the first group about to leave halted and faced the new group, as if receiving guests. There were no streetlights around them, so it was much darker than the park with the volunteers, and only their high-beam lights revealed their faces. Like bees buzzing around a beehive, dozens of motorcycles circled around the parked ones.
Jae stepped out and gazed out at the bikes. The loitering girls clambered onto any bike with an empty backseat. Jae paid special attention to the flashiest bike in the middle of the group.
Mokran said, “That’s Taeju’s group.”
Jae asked, “Who’s Taeju?”
“He’s the leader of the coolest biker gang. Also my ex-boyfriend.”
As if submitting to a military inspection, Taeju’s group made a large circle beneath the bridge. As soon as Taeju spotted Mokran, he stopped his bike.
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
“Not bad.”
“Who’s the homeless guy beside you?”
Taeju looked hard at Jae. Jae didn’t look away.
She said, “Siddhartha.”
“Who’s Siddhartha?”
“Just someone.”
Taeju turned toward the ramp. After absorbing the rest of the remaining bikes, the enormous procession began heading toward the Gangbyeon Expressway. The roaring engines and flashy lights suddenly disappeared and Wonhyo Bridge became more desolate. Some volunteers packed up. Others said they would stay until sunrise and keep watch. As for me, I was looking at Jae. His soul was seeking another tower made of crates of whiskey, a lonely tower that he could climb up to gaze out at the world that had abandoned him. In the end that tower would collapse, and again, I would witness the fall.
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23
That April, in the full bloom of cherry blossoms, we raced over the scattered petals under the streetlights. At the time, it was just the three of us, Jae, me, and Mokran.
While eating ice cream under a cherry blossom tree, I said to Jae, “That smell, I can smell it on you.”
“What smell?”
“You know, Mama Pig’s hostess club. The waiters’ lounge.”
In other words, the smell of poverty—the stink of fish coming from young men sharing a room.
“As if you don’t smell,” said Mokran. She started the engine. “Let’s hit the road.”
Jae and Mokran sped across the bank of the Han River, falling back then moving ahead of each other. They rode gently then forcefully, like a veteran ice-dancing couple gliding across the rink. I wedged myself between them, but they quickly became one again.
Though Jae had started riding later than we had, he was the fastest. Mokran didn’t like motorcycles for what they were; for her, they were merely a way to socialize. Since Taeju, her ex, had essentially lived on one, she learned to ride to be with him. I wasn’t skilled, but I thrived on pure speed. According to Jae, I had an aggressive driving style. But Jae, he literally became one with his motorcycle. At a certain point while racing ahead of us, he’d forget our very existence.
When Mokran mentioned this, Jae nodded. “You’re right. That’s exactly it. It’s hard to explain. But the bike and I becoming one—well—it’s not really that. My mind begins permeating the bike. Inside it, I think, look out at the world, and keep moving.”
Jae told us about mysterious experiences he’d started having while in solitary confinement, but we didn’t really believe him. We just assumed they were moments when he’d gone a bit mad. This was a little before Jae displayed the kind of masterful driving skills that he would soon show us. He was beginning to develop a driving style of his own, which was bold and elegant, and the biker groups had started to notice.
He asked us, “Have you ever been to the beach?”
I knew for sure that Jae had never been to the beach. The word “vacation” didn’t exist in Mama Pig’s vocabulary.
“What about you?” Mokran asked.
“Jeongeun said we should come over,” he said.
Jeongeun used to hang out with Jae until he broke his leg while delivering pizza on a rainy day. With the “thirty-minute promise of delivery” or whatever they call it, pizza delivery had turned into a life-or-death race against time. Only some time after his accident did Jeongeun finally tell everyone that he was staying in a village near the West Sea. He could no longer support himself, so he had returned to the seaside where his grandmother lived.
Mokran settled onto the bike seat. “Why not take off and go now?”
“This late at night?” I asked.
Mokran insisted. “Why not? We can drive up again in the morning. Only two hours and we’ll be there.”
The three of us took a local road. Freight trucks, steered by drivers on stimulants to stay awake, stumbled over the centerline. We ignored traffic lights and raced southwest, and only when we reached the bridge connecting the mainland to the island did we turn off our ignition switches and cool the engines. The black sea was glossy and gleamed under the streetlights, and Mokran’s long hair fluttered in the wind. I liked looking at her; it was as if she had been created from all the good things of the world. Our eyes kept meeting; she knew that I was watching her.
Jae said, “It’s the ocean!” He began running toward it and threw himself into the water. Mokran followed.
“Oh, my shoes, my shoes!” he said. His slipper had come off while he was wading.
The water was cold and the ocean at night was inky black, desolation itself, but we laughed and shoved each other. We hunted for Jae’s slipper while splashing and having water fights. Finally Mokran raised the slipper high above her head, like a trophy, and said, “I found it!”
Jae swung an arm over Mokran’s shoulder and suddenly kissed her on the cheek. I walked along the dark beach. Jae, now out of the water, lit a cigarette as I watched Mokran.
I heard an engine approaching from the distance. It was Jeongeun’s younger brother, who was only fourteen and already riding a 500cc scooter. “It’s common in the country,” he told us.
We followed him down a rural road. A chill I hadn’t felt before when at the beach tightened around me. Jeongeun’s grandmother, an early riser, was already up. She looked indifferently at us as if we were local mutts passing through. She seemed like a person who had long ago quit making judgments about the world. Jeongeun then emerged sleepily on crutches. After he’d affectionately greeted and cursed Jae, he welcomed Mokran and me. We had warm water a few minutes after the boiler was turned on, so we took turns showering, starting with Mokran.
Early the next morning, we had the breakfast that Jeongeun’s grandmother prepared and headed out to the sea again. We went down a road cut into a hill until we were suddenly faced with the vast ocean. Jae was briefly reduced to silence. Mokran and Jeongeun, and me seated behind Jae, stayed quiet. We turned the engines off and stopped talking, and forgot about one another.
Finally Jae spoke. “There’s nothing here.”
Mokran, who every summer had visited several beaches within the country and beyond, said, “What else is there in the ocean except the ocean?”
As if defending the ocean, Jeongeun replied, “Well, it’s not high season yet. And there’s a ton of stuff in the ocean. The clams alone . . .”
But Jae had immediately perceived the ocean’s strangeness. The ocean was the vastness of nothing. He thought of a past when he had not existed and the future when he wouldn’t exist, and felt something close to terror. It was as if cosmic time, without beginning or end, had been transformed into the ocean and appeared in front of him.
24
Motorcycle rallies took place every weekend, and our idyllic night drives quickly came to an end. If Jae showed up, the numbers jumped. There were many nights when close to a hundred bikes snaked through the city, and dozens of kids who stayed after the drives stuck close to Jae. My position within the circle was uncertain. His new followers were tough and clearly looked down on me, so I was overwhelmed with gratitude whenever Jae paid me any attention, and at the same time I despised myself. The kids noticed me when Jae addressed me, and then would forget about me again.
Every weekend Jae lived like a king: a king in shorts and cheap slippers. But that was the style in this crowd. You had to wear shorts until your knees were scarred up, and you had to go without a helmet until you busted your head in. Young cocks puffed out their chests and paraded their courage—all a show that scoffed at the possibility of dying. But the kids weren’t old enough to know the difference between show and insanity. That was why they crowned mad Jae their king.
The higher Jae rose, the lower I fell. I felt as if I’d been the king’s eunuch all my life. Even though I knew a lot about the king, I couldn’t freely divulge information about him. Even if the kids spread completely ridiculous rumors about Jae, I kept my mouth shut. Of course I wanted to set the facts straight, but it was obvious that it would be seen as trying to climb the ranks by parading my friendship with Jae. Besides, Jae seemed to enjoy the rumors.
Was it like the just-hatched sea turtle that finally reaches the ocean? For Jae’s true character began to slowly emerge and reveal itself. I quickly realized that popularity is power, and power the ability to achieve what violence seeks to achieve, but without violence. He was cruel to those who challenged him and gentle to those who followed. He executed orders with one glance. Those who challenged him were either kicked out or found themselves in real trouble. It ultimately led to Jae’s crew being more organized than any other. Loyalty to Jae wasn’t necessarily fostered by resorting to violence, for his way of confronting the police was unique. Though groups before him had scattered and fled at the sight of a patrol car and regrouped later, Jae would block the advance of patrol cars or breach their defen
se altogether.
The police weren’t prepared for motorcycle gangs that openly attacked them. Those Jae led felt thrilled and proud; it made them think they were different from the others, which led them to adore their leader. Sometimes he’d have several patrol cars chasing him while he was alone and he’d still elude them, or he’d hide in an alley and suddenly speed ahead and ambush them. Thanks to Jae, the kids realized that the patrol cops didn’t have the nerve to ram into their bikes and were only intent on preventing accidents. Teenagers in slippers who lacked helmets and knee guards endlessly played with the cops, who were equipped with all sorts of gear. In the daytime the police force was king; the sight of a cop alone made the delivery boys cower. The cops grinned while slapping them with fines for trivial violations like riding without a helmet and running traffic lights, and some cops even cuffed them affectionately on the head or pulled at their ears. But at night the cops were sitting ducks. The kids who docilely accepted traffic tickets during the day stormed the cops at night, like zombies hungry for blood.
Jae once said, “They think we speed to relieve stress? It’s not stress. Are you stressed when a storeowner hits you over the head with a metal tray? Are you stressed when you make a delivery to a wrong address, then spot some assholes who’ve played with you, looking down from a window and laughing? Are you stressed when cops catch you as easy prey to fill their quota, talking down to you while writing you a ticket? No, you’re stressed when you’ve got an exam tomorrow and haven’t studied, or you’re late meeting someone and the roads are jam-packed. That’s when you feel stressed. So what is it we’re feeling?