by Jang Eun-jin
Ten years later, when I was in college, my father said, “Your mother looked down on those toys, but they’re not something to be taken lightly.”
My father believed that a great life began with games. Just as his dream of becoming an inventor began with a trivial game, the future could begin with a game, he said. He thought that a toy on display at the shop could change someone’s destiny, like a game. When I heard that, I thought, a toy shop may be the greatest shop in the world. I answered the question my father had asked ten years before. In other words, I’d needed ten years to give that answer.
“Don’t worry. A long time from now, I’ll take charge of the shop for you,” I said.
My father seemed to feel that his remaining days would no longer be uncertain. And at the same time, the feelings of discomfort that had tormented me for ten years vanished without a trace from my heart.
79. When I finish speaking, the woman says, “That makes me want to learn more about toy shops, somehow.”
When I empty a can of beer, she offers another. I don’t decline.
“When do you plan to take over the shop?” she asks.
“I don’t know for sure, but it could be the day I end my journey and return home . . . There’s not much else for me to do, anyway.”
“What did you do before?”
“I was a government employee.”
“That must’ve been a boring job.”
“Not as boring as you’d think. It kept me quite busy.”
“All the government employees I knew always looked like they were so bored, they could die. It seemed that they had a lot of time on their hands, sitting at their desks and doing their nails or chatting online. They do nothing but sponge off tax money.”
“I wasn’t a desk employee, so I didn’t have the time to do my nails.”
“What kind of an employee were you, then?”
I take a gulp of my beer and say with a chuckle, “I was in technical post. A postman.”
She looks at me, a little surprised, and asks, “You were a postman?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“No, just a little unexpected.”
80. To be honest, it had been a little unexpected for me as well. I had never imagined that I’d become a postman. There probably aren’t that many people who imagine that their future job will be that of a postman. Most people imagine themselves as a doctor, a judge, or an astronaut—not a postman. I was the same.
It was my mother who bestowed upon me the job of a postman. My mother was always on edge because of me. My brother and Jiyun knew where they were headed so they didn’t present a problem, but I was different. For my mother, I was a child she had to take care of in every little way, because I was somewhat slow and insecure, and sickly as well.
It seems that in my mother’s eyes, I was someone who couldn’t even get a decent job. Until I graduated from college, my mother worried endlessly about my future job. Because she did all my worrying for me, so much so that it showed, I ended up entrusting my future into her hands. I was a problem child, even in my own opinion. In my mind, of course, a countless number of jobs I wanted danced around and around. On days with continuing newsflashes because of a big accident, such as an airplane crash, I wanted to be an announcer; when looking at the big chalkboard hanging in my mother’s study, I wanted to be a teacher; on days with a clear sky, I wanted to be a journalist; when the wind blew, I wanted to be a stage actor. But I could not talk to anyone about these jobs. No one would think such jobs were possible for me. Desire had a wicked habit of not knowing its place, and trying to go beyond that. Most of the jobs I wanted would be impossible for someone who stuttered.
One day, my mother called out my name in a tense voice, probably with a headache from worrying for too long over a problem that had no answer. “What are we going to do with you? Do you hear me? Come here, Jihun! What are you going to be? Come here, I said, you idiot! If there’s anything you want to be, why don’t you tell me, at least? Jihun! Jihun!” It seemed that she would go on nagging till the next morning. I locked the bathroom door and sat on the toilet, my ears covered up. I could still hear her shrill voice even with my ears covered up, so I began to sing.
By the time I’d sung about ten songs, my mother’s nagging had come to a stop. The silence, it seemed, would soon make my breathing come to a stop as well. I pushed the toilet lever and came out of the bathroom. My mother was sitting on the living room sofa, waiting for me. Everyone else was sitting on the sofa as well, looking grave. My mother gestured busily at me, telling me to hurry. Like a slug, I slowly made my way over to an empty seat and sat down, as though I didn’t care at all about how urgent she felt.
“Deliver letters,” my mother said abruptly.
She went on, saying, “Have you ever talked to the postman?”
“N-no,” I said.
“Me neither. None of us have. All they have to do is deliver letters promptly. Words aren’t necessary as long as they do their job, and they don’t need to talk much. You wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or nervous, either, since you won’t be coming into direct contact with people very often,” she said.
I raised my head and looked around at my family. Everyone seemed to agree with what my mother was saying.
“One of your father’s friends is a postmaster. He’ll write you a recommendation, if your father requests. I’m not saying that you need to become a postman right away. You can work part time during summer break. Then if you find that it doesn’t suit you or is too difficult, you can quit,” she said.
I already knew then that I couldn’t quit, even if it didn’t suit me or was too difficult; that if I ever did quit, my mother would be greatly disappointed in me.
When she finished speaking, my brother contributed, saying in a calm voice, “You’ll be bringing people news.”
His words seemed to encourage me a little. A job that allows you to bring people news. That could be worthwhile, I thought.
81. Following my brother’s advice that they’d be required for postal service, I obtained a driver’s license, a motorcycle license, and a computer certification before the break began. The licenses were very easy to obtain, since they didn’t require speaking. I started out as a delivery assistant with the recommendation of my father’s friend. My father had asserted to his friend that I’d be excellent in memorizing the delivery routes because I had an exceptional memory. He was right. The person who was teaching me how to do the job was so surprised that he nearly fainted. Usually, they followed you around for a week teaching you how to do the job, but I memorized the delivery routes all in a day. He stared at me, looking dazed, and said, “I’ve never seen anyone like you. You have a gift for making deliveries.” In that moment, I felt, for the first time, that nothing brings you so much joy in life as being approved of by someone. Out of a desire for further approval and praise, I worked even harder to become familiar with the task of delivering letters. My only problem was that I was out of shape, but since the job required a lot of moving around, I gradually became more fit.
After successfully passing through what were supposed to be the two most difficult months on the job, I kept at it even after graduation. It somehow worked out that way. There were things about the job that suited my disposition, but more than that, the thought of going in search of a new job made me feel hopeless, and the thought of making my body adjust to that new job made me feel even more hopeless. Some postmen said that they’d rather recommend being a street cleaner because being a postman meant low pay and hard work, but I was of the opinion that something so trivial as physical fatigue should be endured. Thus I endured, working for a year on fatigue duty, and six more months as a contract worker. I became qualified for an exam relatively soon, and applied for and passed the regular exam held by the Post Office in order to become an official postman. At last, I was an official government employee, not just a temporary worker.
It was my mother, of course, who rejoiced the most at the news of my succe
ss. She was proud that she had found me a job through which I could earn my living. She was pleased beyond measure that the job was that of a government employee, no less. They may say that a certain job brings in a lot of money, or looks respectable, but parents are bound to consider best a job that draws a government stipend. As I entered the stable world of government employees, my mother treated me in a stable way, and lived her life with a stable heart. When my problem was resolved, my mother looked at peace, like someone who no longer had any worries.
82. As for me, however, most of the days weren’t so peaceful. My belief that something as trivial as physical fatigue should be endured was beginning to deteriorate. They say that the development of e-mail has led to a reduction in the quantity of mail, but still, there was a mountain of work to be done. Contrary to what it seems, even just putting mail in the mailbox wasn’t an easy task, and my palms got chapped, and sometimes, my fingernails even fell out. On days when there was snow or rain, not to mention heat waves or bitter cold, I had to be on my guard so that the mail wouldn’t get wet. Sometimes, I got into accidents with my motorcycle, skidding on the slippery ground. Even if I got done with the mail delivery early, I had to go back to the post office and work on sorting out the mail. Getting off work on time was a rare event that occurred only a few times a year, and on holidays or during election seasons, I had to work past eleven o’clock at night. It wasn’t easy to get the weekends off, either. The biggest problem, though, was dealing with customers. My family had said that they’d never talked to a postman or struck up a conversation with one, but that was just in my family’s case. Immature kids called me “postie,” and customers often struck up conversations with me. In some cases, I couldn’t help getting into a scuffle, with customers talking down to me or picking a fight. When I was handling registered mail, in particular, I couldn’t help but talk to the recipients because I had to deliver the mail directly to them. I’d break out in a cold sweat and stutter in front of them, of course, and they’d get frustrated, and then annoyed. The only thing I could do to minimize conflict with customers was not to make a mistake in delivery.
But I couldn’t complain to my family about all the difficulties. I couldn’t, and didn’t, let on that I was having a hard time. There were bound to be difficulties in any job, I thought, and there probably wasn’t any easy way in the world to make money. Above all, I no longer wanted to be a disappointment to someone, and I was old enough that I shouldn’t be a disappointment. So I didn’t say anything to my family, acting as if the job were my calling in life, and after a long time, when I was efficient at my job, I did come to think of it as my calling in life. But I grew more and more quiet and reticent at home.
83. The download is finished. The monitor is small, so we have to sit close together. I hesitate going up next to the woman, afraid that she might smell. While I hang back, she comes up right next to me with her laptop. To my relief, she doesn’t smell. She clicks on the movie file on the screen, saying it won the youngest best actor award at the Cannes Film Festival. She has already seen the movie.
“Why are you watching it again?” I ask.
“Because it’s a good movie. And because it’s been a long time since I saw it, and I’ve forgotten,” she says.
The movie has a strong impact from the beginning. It starts with the director’s words that it’s based on a true story. It’s a quiet movie set in midsummer, about four siblings with different fathers. I’ve downed two cans of beer so I should be getting drowsy, but I’m wide awake. Which proves that the movie is good. I focus on the facial expressions of the young boy, who won the best actor award at Cannes. I wonder whether the boy felt honored to receive the title of the youngest best actor, or burdened by it. I also wonder if the premature success and attention didn’t actually hinder the boy’s growth. Watching the movie, I ask the woman about him. He must’ve grown a lot, since the movie came out four years ago. I wonder if he’s matured well. I’m curious as to his growth and development.
“I read an article that said he attempted suicide,” the woman says.
I’m a bit shocked. The spotlight wears people out, puts them in a slump. Those who speed up too much from the beginning, without a gradual process of growth and change, become unhappy in the end, and at times, collapse to the point where they can’t make a comeback. They may just use up their happiness in advance, like an advanced salary. If there’s a fixed amount of happiness allotted each person, and the happiness could be allocated according to one’s will, would it be better to place it early on in life, or later? If it were me, I’d place it later on in life.
Perhaps because I’ve learned about the boy’s future, a dark shadow seems to cast itself over the face of the character in the movie. But no one could know why the boy attempted suicide. As the title of the movie says, nobody knows.
84. The impact of the movie lingers on longer than I expected. There’s something about a movie based on a true story that doesn’t let you to think of it as just a movie. When a movie starts out by putting brakes on the notion that movies are fiction, we grow nervous. This happens because there’s a subtle but great gap between things that can happen and things that can’t, and things that did happen and things that didn’t. But at times, fiction becomes reality, and reality fiction. And at times, you just can’t bring yourself to believe something that took place in real life—something you experienced firsthand, even—because it’s so awful, it’s something that happens only in movies.
The woman, who has the bed to herself, turns to face the floor where I’m lying and asks, “Does a postman really ring twice?”
“Three times, even, if there’s no answer.”
“Haven’t you ever had doubts?”
“Huh?”
“About being a postman, I mean.”
I think for a long time. Of course I’ve had doubts.
A great delusion I had about the job was that I could bring people happy news, and that I was a happy person for having such a job. Only after I began delivering mail did I realize that my belief was beginning to crumble little by little. All the mail in the world was divided into two kinds: auspicious mail bringing good news, and ominous mail bringing bad news. Loan repayment reminders, phone bill reminders, petitions and bills of indictment, requests for court appearances, notices of rejection, medical examination results, and so on.
I kept thinking that if people receiving such mail became unhappy, it would be my fault. This person won’t be able to sleep tonight because of me; this person will have to put red stickers on his sofa in a few days, indicating that it was to be seized; this person will have to borrow money again from someone; this person will find out that a tumor is growing in his body; this person could hang himself or throw himself out the window because of me.
85. That was one of the reasons why I quit the job I’d worked at for nearly seven years. I said that the only thing I could do to minimize conflict with customers was not to make a delivery mistake, but in the end, I did make a mistake.
One day, with Chuseok approaching, there was a ton of mail to be delivered. There was a lot of registered mail, too. I had to keep walking up and down the stairs because I didn’t even have the time to wait for the elevator. My legs ached, my eyes were dry, and I had a migraine, so severe that it felt as though my head would crack. Both my body and my mind were completely exhausted, and I had the last of the registered mail in my hand. I raised my arm and just barely managed to ring the bell. It was nearly evening, but no one answered, even after three rings. I had no choice but to put up a mail delivery notice on the front door, indicating that I’d return the next day.
The next day came, but I had forgotten completely about the mail. Something important—important enough to make me forget—happened to me, and I could no longer go on delivering mail. I requested a month of special leave at work. That one month, however, was not a break for me, but rather one long nightmare. Because of the seizures that came over me whenever I was at home, I had to spend
the month going back and forth between my friend’s house and mine.
It was when the month’s leave was over and I was rushing to get ready for work that I remembered the registered mail. I felt something hard in my inner jacket pocket. I was so astonished that my forehead broke out into a cold sweat. Hastily, I drove over to the house on my motorcycle. There was no way that the notice would still be on the door, but I looked everywhere, in case it had fallen to the ground. The notice must’ve gotten lost, I thought, because if they’d seen it, they would’ve called, at least. I frantically rang the bell. There was no answer this time, either. I couldn’t just wait forever, so I rang the bell of the house next door. The door opened, and out came a middle aged woman with a cast around her neck.
According to the woman, the addressee of the mail had moved. There had been sounds of quarrel for several days, and then the addressee slashed her wrist in the bathroom. Luckily she survived, but she could no longer move one of her arms. When I heard that, I wondered if it hadn’t all started with the mail. The woman grew edgy because the mail didn’t come; she threw a sock, turned inside out, at her husband’s face; the husband broke the glass from which he was drinking; the question of the husband’s ability to earn a living rose to the surface; the woman’s past affairs shook up the night air; something in the house broke every night . . . and she slashed her wrist.
“You can’t be sure that it was because of the mail, though, can you?” the woman asks.
“No, but the butterfly wings didn’t stop flapping,” I say.
It’s difficult to unthink a thought you already had. Just as a hole is created the moment you drive a nail into the wall. I began to have doubts about my job, and submitted a letter of resignation as soon as I returned to the post office. Even if it weren’t for the incident, I was already exhausted from many things. In the end, the butterfly which I thought made the woman slit her wrist made me quit my job as a postman.