I can make a gin and tonic with my eyes closed.
“Do you want a drink?” He doesn’t even touch the shrimp chips that come with the drink. He orders another drink, the same one. There are five or six toothbrushes sticking out of his rat-colored pocket. He must be a toothbrush salesperson. Is he one of those people who loudly profess how amazing the toothbrush is that they’re selling on the subway, trying to coax the passengers into buying one? He glances at the check and gives me twenty thousand won.
“The total is ten thousand.” As I return one of the two ten thousands bills, he pushes it back into my hand. “Why would I take this?” I get annoyed, but Eunyong pokes my side to take it. Oh, I guess this is what they call a tip.
* * *
The Aesthetic Studies professor stops by. He studied Aesthetics at a prestigious university in Seoul. Now that I work at a café, I see people like this up close. I have to hide my excitement when I see him walk in with his fellow professors. I used to sneak into his class because everybody talked about him: he was a true believer in democracy, a great agitator, and a blindingly handsome man. I used to go all the way down to the Fine Arts wing of the university for his lecture, and I learned a few things about Lukács’ philosophy among the slacker Dance majors.
When the party he’s having with his friends warms up, the professor sneaks his arm around Eunyong. Is that okay? He’s allowed to grope her, just like that? Wait, should I have been sitting next to him? I don’t know how I feel about the situation. My head spins.
The professor’s friend picks up a fork and moves his hand off my thigh. He sings into the fork as though it’s a microphone. He sings a new pop song. His voice sounds like he is scratching the plate with a fork. I like the psychedelic song by Sanulim he’s singing, but he’s not getting it right, not even close. A professor next to him butchers Songolmae’s “I Lived in Oblivion.”
“Hey, you over there! You should sing a song,” the Aesthetic Studies professor yells at me, and I decide to obey his command, but can’t think of any song I know the lyrics to. I remember melodies better than lyrics. Everybody in the café is getting impatient with me. Whatever. I’ll sing a song that will elicit applause for sure.
“Having endured the long night, like the morning dew on the grass leaves, more beautiful than a pearl, the sun rises above the cemetery, and the sweltering daylight torments me …” The song is reaching its climax, and I feel great.
“Hey! What the fuck. Stop that!” someone yells at me. The room quickly cools in silence. They all look angry, abruptly sobered up. “I don’t believe this. You’re just bargirls at a shitty bar, okay? I don’t know what you think you know, but how could you sing a protest song here? Some things are sacred!”
After that everybody leaves, even the couple who have been giggling over two cups of coffee for several hours. Eunyong, Sungyun, and I go outside to talk. The two of them, who have worked here for a while, tell me that the tips are pooled and then split. But since it’s my first time getting a tip, I get to keep it. I head to the record store by the university. There’s a record I’ve been eyeing. I hope it’sn’t sold already. I’m nervous. The album cover was beautiful, and the title was glorious. The cover art had a monster’s face with diseased skin and an expressionless man caged inside its mouth. The man is probably the lead singer of the band. They are an Italian art-rock band called Museo Rosenbach, and the album is called Zarathustra. After all those days pressing my face against the display case window, peering at the album, I finally get to own it.
The dark and stuffy café is now filled with the fantastic Zarathustra. Running time: twenty-something minutes. I could listen to this album at least ten times a day, every day from now on.
“Are you just gonna play this record over and over again? I feel like I’m going insane listening to this!”
As Eunyong complains, I narrate, “Behold, I teach you, Übermensch. Man is something that shall be overcome!”
“You’re acting like an intellectual buffoon.” Sungyun replaces Zarathustra with Lee Guanjo’s record on the turntable. “The customer is king. We need to play songs that they like.” Sungyun is supposed to be majoring in Athletics, but he doesn’t look it. He hangs out with the jocks in town who call each other “brother,” but he’s barely taller than me, maybe 175 centimeters. Sporting a buzzcut and wide shoulders, he boasts that he only wears brand-name sportswear and trainers.
“I’ll donate the record here, since I bought it with the tip that should’ve been shared,” I suggest.
* * *
Down the dark alley, I return to Jimin’s place, swinging the plastic bag containing a pork cutlet I saved for dinner. The room is dark and quiet. “Jimin, are you asleep?” Nobody is there. She never stays out this late. Without washing my hands or anything, I just lie down on my belly, and open a book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, one of the books Jimin begged me to read. I was probably drawn to Museo Rosenbach, not a very well-known band around here, because of her recommending this book. Goddamn, this book is thick. She would grin if she saw me struggling with it. Where is she? On the back cover, there is this passage: “The Earth has skin, and the skin is riddled with several diseases. One of the diseases is Man.” After turning a few pages, I am overwhelmed by sleepiness and worry about Jimin’s whereabouts. I can’t help it. I can’t help being the squirming skin disease. Even if the whole Earth self-destructs tomorrow, I’ll just pull a blanket over myself. I’m the Sleepy Demagogue.
Aldebaran
Lately, Jimin Sunbe seems to be plotting something with other Sunbes. Jimin spent the past four days protesting at the day-and-night nonstop rally after the activist Lee Hanyeol passed away. She’s that kind of bleeding heart. She resigned as the PR manager of the Feminist Students’ Association group to go join the laborers at the Guro workshop. She gave up on that mission after her mom threw a fit, but she’s still a troublemaker, big time. For some reason, she tries to embrace all the illnesses of the world with her bleeding heart.
During finals week, I never see Jimin come back to the apartment. She says she’s been studying late at the library and in the activity room, but I don’t know if she’s even taking the exams or eating enough. She won’t answer me when I ask what she’s been up to, or if she does, the answer is curt. I want to hassle her into telling me what’s going on, but I can’t. I’m close to academic suspension myself. I turn in my German Grammar exam with almost nothing filled out, and the professor rejects my late paper. The electives aren’t too bad, but even in those, I’m not sure what kind of grades I’ll receive.
* * *
At Instant Paradise, the owner seems to have taken to me, so she doesn’t care if I don’t come to work during finals. She even copied the key to the café for me to keep, telling me to feel free to come study there. Tonight she’s standing on the street with Nana in her arms.
“The stars are beautiful tonight,” she says. I look up into the sky. When I walk, I only look down at the ground. Frankly, I find the people who ramble about the stars pathetic.
“I don’t see any.”
“You have to envision them through your imagination. One star, two stars, three stars.”
There are too many of these romantic literary types in the world. I walk into the café, and she follows me.
“Yeoul, what’s your zodiac sign?”
I’m getting real sick of this shit. “I was born in May, so probably Taurus.”
“Hmm. You were born under the influence of Aldebaran. It’s a large star, and in astrology, it’s the star that brings fortune.”
“Hmm. I guess that’s nice.” I find it strange how chummy she’s being with me tonight. I wonder if she wants something from me. “Aren’t you busy today? You usually are.”
“Not