Smoothing Wrinkles In The Dark

Somewhere in or near Seoul circa 2011

“There are others who are sleeping in this room.” Mr. A called from the doorway. 

Without asking what he was talking about, I ceased my grunting and teeth grinding. It took some effort on my part as I struggled to hold my jaws apart. Like many things in my short but rather intense life of 15 or 16 years, depending on the aging system used, it was an unconscious quirk. I folded my two blankets, one to lay on on the spartan room’s floor and the other to cover my exhausted body during my brief sweat-drenched rests, in my own unique style. Of course that was just an attempt to be polite and gentle to myself since few others were. I tried my best as always but my best resulted in sloppy and haphazard results that would’ve earned disapproving looks and criticisms if there had been any light in the room aside from the light filtering in from the hallway through the half opened door.

“Come on, Isa! You know that I really can’t be here.” Mr. A hurried me. 

It was true. His presence at the doorway was testing the boundaries of the entertainment company’s rules. The room was reserved for females only. No guy friends, no boyfriends, and certainly no older men even if they worked at the place! A speaker system and loud resounding knocks on the door would rouse the occupants at precisely 6:30 a.m. which was almost an hour before official sunrise on the dreariest of winter days. 

Mr. A, for more than one year, had appeared religiously at the doorway at 5:15 a.m. every Thursday. That meant he often got out of his own bed at least one hour earlier to make his way through the light pre rush hour traffic and come to the company buildings. He came just to meet me hours before he had to begin any actual work, or worse right as he was finishing up his work, without any sleep.

Once my blankets were folded and put away, I finally stepped out of the room with my shoes in one hand and the other hand busy fixing my glasses on my face. My hair was a mess, as usual, long dark and unbelievably thick, neater in plaits but merely tied back. I wasn't the least bit vain.

“Where’s your coat? Don’t you have a warm jacket?” Mr. A scrutinized my rumbled t-shirt and sweatpants which went three quarters of the way down my legs. There was a 10cm gap between where the pants ended and the top of my socks. 

“It’s still too hot for a coat.” I brushed off his attempt at concern as I bent to put on my slip-on Van's.

“Find it.” Mr. A opened the door again and pushed a hand against my shoulder.

He wasn’t a big man standing only 176 cm, in fact I was now taller than him, having been only a few inches shorter when we first crossed paths some three years earlier. Back then he’d seemed like a giant, so intimidating, more like a seasoned mean guy than a mere company cog and one day ally. I could’ve withstood his shove, stood my ground, and stayed in the hallway but a certain healthy respect made me stumble backwards a bit and then re-enter the apprentices’ room. 

A few seconds later I was back out in the hallway fumbling with the buttons of my approved school cardigan. At least I had tried to comply somewhat, yet another personality quirk of mine. The buttons were mismatched as I had never given much care to my clothes or appearance,only immaculately turned out when I was dressed by others.

Together we went down the hallway to the staircase to begin the arduous five flight climb to the door that led to the rooftop. At first I used to practically gallop up the stairs, outpacing Mr. A and waiting impatiently for him to arrive at the last landing. Always in a hurry, always agitated, always anxious. Now I kept the pace or followed slightly behind him. Mr. A always took his time.

Inevitably, as I was paying attention to not stumbling over my own feet, my mind would wander, darting across the ocean and back again, from this year to a decade or more in the past, and even to a future partially planned for me and yet still mostly unknown.

“Ya!” Mr. A snapped harshly. Hey, you!!

His tone startled me briefly. Then I remembered that although he had spent more years in my country of birth than I had and we shared a language, local customs still applied, and being older he could speak that way to me. In less than ten seconds I exited my ever whirring mind and noticed finally that the entrance to the rooftop was being held open for me. And it had been open long enough for me to feel the thin epidermis of my face chilling and freezing.

I stepped over the threshold and relished the subzero predawn air with several deep breaths watching my hot breath hang in the air. The high that day was predicted to be 2 degrees C. 

“Are you sure that you were born in California, Isa?” Mr. A asked me grabbing my wrist to guide me across the icy slick surface.

We sat on a stone bench that chilled my single layer clad legs to the bone, side by side facing forward. We always sat like that, I recall. No matter how familiar I got with Mr. A, I could never look him in the face. Eye contact was like a rare treat that I gave sparingly, but he never received it. 

“That’s what my birth certificate says.” I shrugged.

It only took me a moment to regret my attitude and tone. 

“I like the cold weather.” I added to cover myself. 

Why was I so hostile and standoffish to someone who was willing to go out of their way for me?

“How is your week going?” Mr. A inquired after a minute or so.

“Every day is so hard. I wish it was over.” I admitted. 

“Is that why you skipped your schedule on Tuesday and most of yesterday too?” He pressed. 

I fell silent, unsure of how to answer, and only Mr. A could make me do that. Truth be told, back then, I lied…..a lot. 

Except to Mr. A. He never let me lie or rather I could never get away with it. So, like most kids, I had stopped trying to get away with it.

“Yes.” I finally admitted. 

“Because you did not want to deal with me? You don't like that your group has to meet me so much now?” He didn’t hold back on getting straight to the point. “You ran away again to avoid me like you used to do back in the early days? How many times did I have to come find you?”

“No!” I answered him immediately. “What good would that do me? You always come looking for me any way even if I tried to hide.”

“Aha!” Mr. A deduced. “Then it’s because you had that fight with Dabin and need to apologize but you didn’t want to, right?” 

I nodded wordlessly, not sure he could see me.

“You have a mouth, Isa.” He clarified that he could indeed see me. "Use it."

“Majayo.” I mumbled in Korean. That’s right.

Maybe that’s why I had taken so long with my blankets pretending that maybe I could get it right? Because I knew subconsciously what the subject of this week’s discussion would be.

“Did you talk to your father lately?” Mr. A abruptly changed the subject.

“No.” I shook my head. “Papa doesn’t contact me unless I message him first.”

“Ah? What did we agree about respect for elders and being understanding to parents? Your custody is with your father, right? So you should talk to him regularly.” Mr. A sounded disappointed. 

"We didn't have anything to talk about!" I insisted. "And I have a schedule every day now plus school since Papa said I can drop out only over his dead body….."

"And so what? You don't have even 1 minute to send him a message to ask how he is doing?" Mr. A was unforgiving. "Bad brat!" 

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

In my mind, my excuses ran out, so I broke the silence.

“I’ll send him a message later. It’s still too early right now.” I promised reluctantly ,knowing I would be bound to keep my word.

Without thinking about it, having become suddenly restless and uncomfortable, I started to stand up.

Mr. A grabbed the back of my cardigan.

“Don’t think about it. Not even for a second.” He admonished.

I sighed. 

“I did it one time….” was all I could say.

The first time we had been on this rooftop together had been under less than ideal circumstances. My motivations had been partially to hide and more to contemplate incredibly stupid thoughts as I’d leaned over the ledge.Once you got caught in the act of the latter, it was hard to backpedal. 

The very next morning, a Thursday in October, was the first time that he had come to wake me to go to, at that time, destination unknown. 

I glanced as far as I could see over the edge before I resigned myself and sat back down.

“Did you eat last night? What did you eat after the schedule?” Mr. A allowed an uncomfortably long amount of time pass before he spoke again. 

“No, I was too tired.” I answered without hesitation.

How did he get me to answer questions so easily when others could barely get five words out of me on a good day?

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

The blare of a horn prevented me from having to respond or so I thought.

“Eat this.” Mr. A pulled something from his jacket pocket.

A samgak kimbap or triangular shaped rice ball was deposited in my lap. 

I put my own self to shame by how quickly I unwrapped and inhaled the thing, barely taking note of how much I detested the Tuna Mayo combination. 

“How much longer now?” I asked as I finished swallowing and could speak again. 

“13 minutes." 

Thirty minutes a week, that was the price for his continued silence, all it took for him to keep his rather well founded concerns to himself and allow me to continue on at the company as a trainee. If he had told it would've been the end for me for sure.

Why he cared about what went on inside of my head and what happened to me was anyone’s guess? Who or what motivated him remained unknown? Maybe it was an open secret or perhaps no one at all took notice of my weekly predawn absences.

The last ten minutes were always the hardest. Nothing but empty space and questions I dared not ask. My eyelids fluttered just as the noise from below picked up and the city came to life. 

“You might succeed one day….and you might not. Don’t worry too much about it, kid. Just enjoy the moment and the possibility. These years will be gone before you know it. And then you’ll be just another ordinary person.” 

Wordlessly I stood and started to take my leave sure that I didn’t want to hear more. 

“Isa! Eee-sah!!” Mr. A called after me. 

I paused.

“Next week, fold your blankets neatly.”