Affair With A Gangster
이: The Recognition

“Busan City High, class 2-4.”

I frowned, disturbed. How did Shin know that kind of information?

He only smiled patronizingly at my confusion. The punk…

With a hard tug, my hands were free to push him out of my personal space. He stepped back elegantly and, standing at the opposite end of the room, readjusted his hat and smoothed out the wrinkles on his suit. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve; the lingering sensation of those kisses was unsettling.

It was going to be difficult, but…I would eventually get the hang of it… And I was still waiting for that tidal wave of utter shame at my easy acceptance of such—such moral degeneration, for lack of a better phrase.

“The deal is done, my friend,” he said as he watched me neaten away the traces of our illicit exchange. “You’d better not be thinking of backing out.”

I gave him an irritated look. What did this ggangpae-saekki take me for? A damn weasel? “Just give me some more details about this—” I waved my hand around vaguely “—this whole thing.”

He smiled slightly. “What more is there to know?”

“Work hours, for one,” I started listing. “What my actual job will be. Salary from Seogupa. Whether I should give up this store—” I frowned a little, “—actually, no, I’m keeping it—and, if you’re willing to keep me away from trouble with the law.” That last point was important. A criminal record might throw a wrench into my plans to emigrate. But…well, maybe it didn’t have to be such an issue. After all, only the unluckiest idiots—and those who wanted to move up in the gang hierarchy—got caught by the largely ineffectual police. The country was still the gangs’ turf.

He paused, eyebrows raised, and I knew that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Most ggangpae were uneducated or middle-to-high-school dropouts, but curiously, Shin emanated a sort of…sophistication—though a bit rough around the edges, admittedly—that was very rare among his circle. Still, even his apparently learned background could fail him.

“You know what, Jihwan?” He grinned. “Why don’t we go to a nice sool-jib, with some real soju, and then work everything out?”

“The way you go on, Mr. Shin, sends out very conflicting messages. You going to be a ggangpae, a madman, or a friend?”

Tipping his hat down so that the shadows covered his eyes, he let out a soft huff of laughter, lips twisting ruefully for a brief moment, and then opened the storeroom door. “Sshibal. You’re coming, whether you want to or not.”

How could I possibly deny him? I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and, spotting my employees, told them to look after the shop. I picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray on the counter. Just as I lit the charred end, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder and pulled me towards him.

Before I could say anything, he introduced me to his vaguely perplexed gang as “a good friend, so don’t fuck with him unless you want your legs broken.” The lackeys muttered their “Yes, Hyung-nim!”s as they parted for us like the foam at the prow of a ship and followed us out of the shop.

Half an hour later, I was tipping back a glass of sweet soju. Shin hadn’t been kidding—the stuff wasn’t the cheap ethanol crap, even if it was slightly diluted. This noraebang/sool-jib was apparently one of the small businesses that he managed, which explained the supply of black market liquor.

To be honest, I was feeling pretty good. I hadn’t taken part in a group dinner in a while. Surprisingly, ggangpae company wasn’t so bad.

These guys knew how to keep each other and their boss entertained, and the degree of tense formality was much less than what I had seen in other gang circles. They laughed freely and their talk consisted of work (although they kept the more criminal details quiet), girlfriends, family, and I was left to feel as comfortable as I had been during the weekly office dinners.

I chuckled as I watched the antics of the ggangpae trio currently singing in the front of the room. Irrelevant images flashed on the cheap screens behind them, and spots of colorful light from the disco ball streaked across their faces. Time passed as I forgot myself, enough to almost let go of the stress of my predicament. Interesting company had such a way of sucking me in.

So…this was what happened to even people like me. Even a son of high society—though that title’s begun to dwindle—who’d thought he’d backed away from it all, wasn’t immune to the ever-present temptations of the lawless ggangpae lifestyle. How else could I have agreed so easily to the deal…

When I was 15, in my first year of high school, I had decisively turned down a distant cousin’s quiet, informal invitation to join one of the biggest street gangs in the Busan district. To even be considered was an honor, I suppose, back when I was a fairly impressionable kid. Ah, but the enticement…what teenage boy wasn’t awed by the white-suited ggangpae lord, strutting about the streets like royalty, flanked by a loyal posse ready to cater to every flick of his fingers?

It had taken days and days of deliberation, but in the end, I managed to come to terms with the fact that that kind of lifestyle was unbefitting a yangban’s son. No…it wouldn’t do for the son of Jagalchi’s “Baron” to roam the streets as a mere high-school dropout criminal.

I wasn’t presented with anymore direct bait, and I contented myself with watching at a safe distance the gangs swagger through the lives of helpless citizens, admiring their shallow wealth. And perhaps I was subconsciously relieved that I had the privilege to be born into high society, that I had choices beyond squeezing out a living through “protection money” and intimidation and violence and jail time.

Of course, that decision hadn’t stopped me from carving out a bit of a comparable, respected niche in school. Things went very smoothly, after the first dozen fights or so that marked me as one of the “fighter” elite, practically a king.

But there had been one awfully memorable fight, near the end of my second year of high school, when I didn’t think I would be challenged again.

I blinked several times and glanced to my right at the ggangpae leader who was laughing and pouring soju for Choi Joonsuk, his right-hand man. Shin had known my school—my class, even. He’d recognized me the moment we faced each other.

My shot glass clacked solidly against the table as I put it down to unceremoniously grab Shin’s left wrist, effectively causing soju to slosh onto the table.

I pushed up the white sleeve to uncover his lower arm, and…there it was. A few centimeters long, smooth-edged…faint, almost invisible in the dimness of the room, but the scar was there.

Apparently, not only did I have to hone my people-reading abilities, but I also had to work on face-recognition. I really couldn’t have my memory failing me at such a young age.

I looked up to meet Shin Haehyul’s unreadable gaze.

It was late summer, 1972. Hot and humid enough to risk punishment by unbuttoning my collar. I generally suffered the strict uniform code, but some days were just too much. I was minding my business as I shared my doshirak with a couple friends, when, at the end of lunch, some punk slammed open the sliding door, shattering one of its panes of translucent glass. It was loud enough to completely silence the rowdy chattering inside the classroom.

I was the laid-back, unperturbed king of the classroom, while he was a storm of barely contained emotion—excitement? fury? Something. I didn’t care that much, busy finishing up my rice and kimchi, and I only looked up when he spoke.

“Hey! Yi Jihwan!” he said heatedly, looking straight at me.

“Yeah, that’d be me,” I replied unnecessarily. I swiftly took in the intruder’s scruffy appearance: too-long hair almost falling into his angry eyes, his faded and patched blazer completely unbuttoned and showing off the untucked white shirt underneath, fisted hands lightly bandaged in dirty white, his ragged tennis shoes.

So, he was a ggangpae-wannabe. He even had a posse behind him.

I gestured casually for him to come over, chopsticks still in my hand. His eye twitched once before he strode over with his gang, and I stood up.

“Remember me, asshole?”

“Uh, not really…”

The bell signaling the end of lunch rang, and most of the other students started frantically rearranging their desks and putting away their doshirak.

For a second, he tilted his bitter gaze away from me in disbelief. “Tch. Fucking dumbass…” Before I could open my mouth, he went on, lifting his chin. “Whatever. I’m Shin Haehyul, and I challenge you, idiot Jihwan, to a fight.”

Predictable (though not so much his irritating insults). But why was he appearing now? I was the best fighter in class 2-4, and one of the best in the entire school, and by last semester, solid hierarchies had been established. The fighting elite had learned to keep to ourselves, to stay in our territory. We all knew that in a scuffle between the strongest, someone could get seriously injured. And as much as most of us admired the badass ggangpae lifestyle, we were not willing to risk our lives or our education.

Shin Haehyul was either was a dumb 2nd-rate punk or a reckless “elite.” Still, whatever personal issue he had with me didn’t matter in the face of upholding my undefeated status. This record was something I kind of prided myself in, so—though I couldn’t gauge his ability at that time—I accepted.

“Sure. And you know the condition.” It was what all respectable students abided by. I just liked to remind my challengers. “Fists and feet and body only.”

His smirk was feral. “Of course. Room 2-7, today at four thirty.”

We shook hands, each attempting to crush the other’s fingers, and both of us would’ve been home-free if the teacher hadn’t entered just as Haehyul took a step back from me.

For about a quarter of the period, the two of us and a few of Haehyul’s straggling posse had to endure the tyranny of the old man’s damn whacking stick. “Uniform violations,” “destruction of property,” “worthless” punks, irresponsible “yangachee,” guilt-tripping us with our “hardworking parents, how ashamed they would be”…etcetera.

A fucking ass-beating on the day I was to have a fight… The teacher yelled at Haehyul to clean up the broken glass, but the insolent punk just gave me a look that said that we were still going to have the fight and kicked away thick shards as he left.

The rest of the day seemed to thrum with the excitement of classmates who were planning on watching, and I was caught up in the wave, too. At 4:30, after pretty much every student and teacher had left the school building, room 2-7 was a flurry of activity. Metal screeched against the waxed wooden floor as Haehyul and I and our respective posses and spectators pushed the rows of desks to the edges of the room. In my arc of the haphazard fighting ring, I warmed up, stretching my arms and legs and cracking my knuckles.

“Why don’t we make this a bit more interesting?” Haehyul suggested, taking off his beat-up shoes and tossing them to one of his followers.

It was going to be hard to move in socks on this floor, the wood shining softly with its semiweekly coat of polishing wax. We were going to have to be in tight control of our movements. I’d fought like this before, and it had been difficult, only because of the unfamiliarity of the situation; my opponent hadn’t lasted 10 minutes.

This was going to be a hell of a fight, if Haehyul’s skills could match his angry, smirking confidence.

“Heh.” I got rid of my slippers—a standard indoor uniform regulation. “The more interesting, the better.”

And then the fight began.

Haehyul was agile and his movements were sudden. They didn’t seem to be part of a set pattern. It was pretty much street-fighting, and I had faced it several times before. His steps were lighter than my own, and he seemed to have no difficulty keeping control in this condition. I dodged the first barrage of prodding punches and kicks, focusing more on adjusting my socked feet to the slipperiness. My nerves danced with the thrill.

This went on for a while, with me intermittently delivering a few punches, a few kicks and fancy spins. Then Haehyul’s moves progressively became more violent and all-out; he was a run for the money, I had to admit. He even forced me from the half-assed defense I usually used when attacked first. Haehyul was a stick compared to me, so it was impressive that he was able to keep me busy and make me break a sweat in the first half-hour. Very surprising that he lasted this long, actually.

He had the street smarts, nimbleness, and stamina to pose a formidable workout for me, but still—I had bulk and power and even agility working with me. Black belts in taekwondo and judo, two years’ experience in kick-boxing and wrestling, a year’s worth of middle-weight boxing…in other words, lots of formal training was on my side. Now, if only I could actually catch the guy with my advantages, maybe I could finish the fight soon.

We continued the scuffle amidst the cheering and jeering of the student audience enjoying the display. It was easy to work with the spirited racked in the background. And Haehyul—he still had that hard expression.

From a particularly misplaced step back, I slipped, almost tumbling onto my back. He took the chance to bodily tackle me, and we went down together, sliding. Damn! Haehyul sat on my stomach and proceeded to try to get to my face, which I blocked with my forearms. I didn’t give him too much of an upper hand, though, and threw him off me. He landed on his rear, slid back a few feet, and immediately crouched up and sprang toward me.

I surged off the floor and met him head on, bracing my body against his incoming one. He crashed into me, and I used a judo technique to grab and throw him into the cluster of desks. From the momentum, I slipped forwards, onto one knee. When I heard the thunderous crash, I had to wince. Haehyul waved off his posse when they moved to help him. His eyebrows were furrowed and he was definitely gritting his teeth behind his pain-twisted lips as he tried to extricate himself from the awkward mess.

Fucking persistent guy…

“Why don’t you just give up?” I suggested lightly, haughtily.

“Sshibal...shut the hell up, you bastard,” he insulted darkly and stood up. “I don’t fucking give up a fight.”

I was getting a little pissed. “What is up with the swearing?”

He scoffed but otherwise didn’t give an answer as he assumed an attack stance. Fine. It didn’t matter to me if he refused to surrender. Whatever problem he had with me was irrelevant.

Our fight, unexpectedly, lasted over three hours. Haehyul was stubborn and he doggedly continued to hold his own, his moves getting even more reckless and violent. All the rest a sweaty, tired blur of adrenaline. It was nearing sunset when things turned for the worst.

When he pulled out the razor, I was jumping off a desk.

The entire classroom—what little was left of the audience—seemed to be one collective gasp. I could see in my peripheral vision the lounging spectators bolt up. I instinctively stepped back, eyes stuck to the sharp edge glinting orange in the dying glow of the sun. At this point, the position of his arm told me nothing of what he was going to do with the weapon.

And at that moment, I didn’t think I had seen such an angry, desperate, willful look on any kid’s face before.

What the fuck…! What the fuck had driven him to this?! The sshibal-saekki!

I could distinctly remember an abject fear blowing over my mind. Or something like that. I know I wasn’t panicking outwardly, though. Why else would he have looked so much more damn pissed off?

“Sshibal—surrender, you damn fucker!” The blade suddenly hovered over his left wrist and everyone around us seemed to shut up.

“You wouldn’t dare.” My thoughts on Haehyul shifted and disbelieved and I didn’t know whether I should commend his bravado—stupidity?—or curse it or scorn it. What point was he trying to make? I wondered.

“Why won’t you fucking give up, Jihwan…?”

This was ridiculous. Even though the hothead’s life was on the line…why the hell did I have to give a fuck? This day came back to bite me in the ass, but I had no reason to think much of it then.

“Put that fucking thing down,” I warned as I advanced calmly. It only encouraged him to lower the blade to touch his skin. “Don’t be stupid, Haehyul…don’t be a coward.”

I couldn’t lose the fight for his damned idiocy. And maybe that selfishness was a flaw of mine. But his actions were not my fault. He had been the one to challenge me, to promise me, to be a spineless liar.

And I just had to take that last purposeful step towards him…

He lifted the razor. Someone yelled a swear word. The blade flashed.

A fountain—that was the only way I could describe it—of crimson spurted out of the cut. It was both awesome and alarming. The wet splatter and burble was audible in the deafening, frozen silence of the room. I watched, almost mesmerized, as blood leaked out and down Haehyul’s hand to pool on the floor. I caught his steady glare, noted his knees buckling. My mouth obstinately did not move, did not give Haehyul his satisfaction.

I heard his last promise loud and clear. “Sshibal…sshibal, this isn’t surrender…” He collapsed to the floor, and I stood still, watching as the students frantically tried to slow the bleeding, carried him off…did whatever was necessary to help.

And I just went home.

That muggy evening was the last I ever saw of Shin Haehyul. I had catalogued that day away; it had become a distant, obscure memory… Until, twelve long years later, and Haehyul was suddenly back in my view, healthy and successful beyond my belief.

INFO:

* sool-jib (술집): A sort of bar/restaurant. Literally, “house (jib) of liquor (sool).” Sool is, for the most part, rice wine in Korea.
* soju (소주): Distilled beverage native to Korea (from Wikipedia), traditionally made from rice. During the second half of the 20th century, rice shortages in Korea prohibited direct distillation of fermented grain, so cheap/non-grain soju was the norm.
* hyung-nim (형님): Literally, “big brother.” The suffix -nim is a deferential term used for an elder or a person of higher status. Equivalent to “Boss.”
* noraebang (노래방): Literally, “song (norae) room (bang).” Karaoke bar, pretty much.
* doshirak (도시락): A box/packed lunch. Kind of like a Japanese bento.
* kimchi (김치): Spicy pickled cabbage, radish, and/or other vegetables.

* ggangpae: Gangster.
* saekki: Son of a bitch. Bastard. And other such variations.
* Seogupa: Seo-gu district gang/mob.
* sshibal: Swear word somewhat equivalent to the ubiquitous “fuck.” (UPDATE: Perhaps even worse? One source says that it’s the kind of profanity used only by the crudest gangsters.)
* yangban: Aristocracy/nobility.

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