Dusk crept in before Kim Min-jae noticed.
He glanced at the clock, tucked away a few pages of scribbled notes under his bed, and stretched. As the sun's soft glow spilled across the low table, the courtyard, quiet all day, burst into life. Bicycle bells jangled, kids shrieked, and the rhythmic chop of knives on cutting boards echoed. Wisps of smoke curled from every corner.
"Mom, you're back!" Min-jae called.
"Got anything tasty?"
"It's not Chuseok or Seollal—what's tasty about cabbage, potatoes, and kimchi?" Lee Soo-jin replied, shrugging off her coat and diving into dinner prep. "Plate the kimchi. Grab that half-block of tofu from this morning!"
"Tofu? Mix it with kimchi and call it a day?"
"With your brain? Boil it, add some soy sauce, and eat!"
The kimchi came in two types: crunchy cucumber and sweet-spicy radish, both from Mapo's famous *Hongik Kimchi House*. Back in '72, when a Japanese delegation visited Seoul, they specifically asked to see the shop, so the old sign was dusted off and rehung.
The kitchen was a cramped shed outside, cobbled together with bricks and tarp, barely fitting a stove and a rickety cupboard. Next to it, coal briquettes were stacked neatly under another tarp. A tidy house kept them dry; a lazy one let black water pool on rainy days.
Min-jae pitched in without being asked. He'd only been in this body a few days—hardly enough time to bond with his "parents." But when someone's good to you, you return the favor. Soo-jin moved like a whirlwind, slicing vegetables, stealing glances at him. *This kid was a total slacker last week. Now he's hopping around like a koi fish. What's gotten into him?*
By the time darkness settled, dinner was ready, and his dad, Kim Dong-hyun, rolled in. In his forties, tall and wiry, Dong-hyun carried himself withcier than most. Despite his worn clothes, he was neat, a fountain pen tucked in his shirt pocket—a mark of his bookish trade.
Dong-hyun worked as a library distributor. Seoul City Library was the country's biggest book hub. Want to publish a book or magazine? You deal with distributors like him. He'd skim the content, estimate demand—say, 1,000 copies—and the library would order that amount, adjusting based on sales. Later, his role would shift to sales as the industry opened up, but that was years away.
"Dad!" Min-jae greeted.
"You go to the meeting?"
"Yup."
"Good. Let's eat first, talk later."
Dong-hyun's smile was warm, his demeanor gentle. He'd never cursed once in his life.
Dinner was simple: potato japchae, boiled tofu with soy sauce, and kimchi. Meat wasn't an option—urban families got maybe 300-500 grams of pork a month. During the lean years of the early '60s, Seoulites were lucky to see 250 grams a year. Other cities had it worse. Min-jae's parents, both educated, kept things refined, saving serious talk for after the meal.
Once the plates were cleared, Dong-hyun asked, "So, what'd they say at the meeting?"
Min-jae recapped the push for collective cooperatives to absorb jobless youth.
"Your thoughts?" Dong-hyun pressed.
"I—"
A shout cut him off. "Kim Min-jae! You home?"
"Auntie Park!" Soo-jin called. "Come in, come in!"
An older woman with gray hair and a kind smile stepped inside—a district cadre. She sat, sipping tea. "Had the meeting this morning, got our assignments this afternoon. The district gave me 13 kids to place. You're my first stop."
"You're working late. Thanks for the trouble," Soo-jin said, pouring more tea. "Min-jae mentioned a production service cooperative. But those are looked down on, you know? There's that textile factory on our street—can't he get in there?"
"Easy to say," Auntie Park snorted, slapping her thigh. "Eighty thousand unemployed kids in Mapo alone! Where do we find that many jobs? The government's tearing its hair out. Some of these kids are pushing 25, jobless for years. They get priority. The textile factory? We fought to squeeze in just over 100. Don't hold your breath."
"So what's the plan for them?" Dong-hyun asked.
"Here's my idea…" Auntie Park took a sip of tea. "Hongdae's a goldmine. Locals love it, tourists flock here—business travelers, too. But there's no one selling drinks. People are parched, sipping from random faucets. I saw it myself! A tea stall in Hongdae would rake it in. No one's buying 150-won Yuzu Tea when they need a ticket for it. Plain tea? They'll bite."
*Tea stall?* Soo-jin and Dong-hyun exchanged looks. *No way.* They were library folks—cultured, educated. Their son, slinging tea on the street? That was for the lowest rungs, like something out of a sad old novel. In *The Rickshaw Boy*, an old man, too weak to pull carts, sold tea to scrape by—pitiful, barely surviving. Tea vendors ranked below rickshaw pullers, who at least had a rented room, a cart (bought and lost thrice), and a wife (gone in childbirth).
"Auntie Park, nothing else available?" Soo-jin pressed.
"Technical jobs. Can your boy do carpentry?"
"Nope."
"Sewing?"
"Nada."
"Cook?"
"Not a chance."
"Then that's that!" Auntie Park shrugged.
The parents glanced at each other, a mix of shame and frustration. *So our kid's useless?* Worse, Min-jae was grinning like it wasn't his problem.
"Talk it over," Auntie Park said, standing. "I've got more houses to hit."
Silence settled over the family. Soo-jin broke it. "Well? What do you think?"
"I'll do whatever the organization assigns," Min-jae said, unfazed.
"Sell *tea*? In Hongdae, right by the library? My coworkers will never let me live it down!" Soo-jin snapped.
"Half their kids will be out there with me," Min-jae shot back.
Soo-jin nearly choked. "Don't give me lip! I'm retiring early tomorrow, and you're taking my job."
"No need for that. Retire, and I'll still set up the stall."
"Min-jae, be serious," Dong-hyun said, his voice calm but firm. "Why are you okay with this?"
"No big reason. Labor's honorable, right? I can serve the country anywhere. You two are stuck in old thinking, looking down on tea sellers. Look at Park Bong-sik—he hauled manure in Mapo and still made it to the National Conference in '66, shaking hands with leaders. If he can be a national hero, why can't I sell tea and end up in the Blue House?"
Min-jae's conviction hit like a freight train. Park Bong-sik, a local legend, had climbed the ranks as a manure collector. In '66, during Chuseok, he stood proud at the National Conference. Back then, Seoul had a craze for volunteer manure hauling—students, writers, even actors joined in. Rumor had it a Yonsei University girl posed as his goddaughter just to snag a spot and shovel waste alongside him. His story used to be in schoolbooks, though Min-jae wasn't sure if it still was.
That was the golden age of the working class.
Dong-hyun, floored by Min-jae's words, turned to Soo-jin. "Should we have another kid? This one's lost it."
Dedication sounds noble when it's someone else. When it's your own family, most hesitate. True role models don't flinch, but that's a high bar.
The conversation fizzled. Bedtime called.
No TV, frequent blackouts, just a crackly radio for entertainment. The courtyard hushed, moonlight glowing through the curtains, spring crickets humming softly. Min-jae lay on his outer-room bed, catching his parents' muffled whispers inside, still fretting over his future.
He didn't want Soo-jin retiring early. He knew he wouldn't stick around the library job long—it'd be a waste. And honestly? He had zero interest in a bookstore gig. Three generations of library workers? Not his vibe.
Min-jae rolled over, eyes shut. Tea stall, manual labor, didn't matter. He was ready to ditch this alley with a chamber pot in hand.
(End of Chapter)