You-jeong Jeong - The Good Son

I locked my bedroom door from the inside, listening for any noise downstairs. It was quiet. Mother was probably already asleep. Please sleep through, I thought. I checked my clock: 10.10. I put on my shoes and left the sliding door slightly ajar, putting an earphone in one ear. ‘Mass’ started. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom boom, boom…

It was raining hard. It was dark and the fog was thicker than usual. I moved like a blind man, feeling the ground with the tips of my toes. I inched over to the pergola and turned on the light.

I ran down the stairs, the music booming in one ear and Hello’s barking ringing in the other. When I reached the ground floor, I could see someone opening the main door to leave the building. This late at night? Whoever it was, I didn’t want to see them. I ducked my head down and darted out so that the CCTV camera by the front entrance would catch only the back of my head. Outside, I began sprinting.

When I got to Yongi’s, the fourth song on my playlist, ‘Cry for the Moon’, began. The waves were crashing loudly beyond the sea wall. The roads were quiet, almost eerie. Other than infrequent headlights, nothing moved. Yongi’s was already dark. He must have closed early. I crouched in front of the shack to tighten my shoelaces, and then I flew like Usain Bolt until I stopped in front of the observatory, my engine overheated. I was panting, my head was hot, my ribs were sore. I had a stitch in my side and my thighs felt stiff. I hobbled down below the observatory and sat on the safety fence along the cliff, one of my favourite spots. If it was a clear night, I would be able to see the lights of District Two straight ahead. On those nights, I’d look back in the direction of Yongi’s shack, as though searching for constellations. Right now, though, I couldn’t see a thing other than the glaring searchlight.

The rain pounded down on me. The wind threw jabs. I stayed there despite that, listening to the six-minute song, because a police car, which appeared at infrequent intervals in the area, had started circling. I sat there, hunched, waiting for it to go; there would be nothing good about being spotted by the police. As soon as the patrol car left, another pair of headlights appeared. The vehicle drove all around the park with its full beams on, as though it were looking for a runaway wife. I took out my iPod and checked the time: 11.21 p.m.

When the car’s lights finally disappeared over the other side of the bridge, I stood up. I tightened the cord of my hood and took the path back. I ran lightly this time, as though I were a boxer doing road work, to the beat of the music. By the time I got to the sea wall, the fifteenth song, ‘Conquest of Paradise’, had begun. It was already two minutes past midnight, but the last bus wasn’t here yet. At least I hadn’t seen it as I was running up.

I went behind Yongi’s. Between the wood-framed shack covered in plastic and the sea wall, there was a narrow space where one person could sit. It was similar to the area behind the street lamps along the side of the river – it was dark back there and the fog provided another layer of concealment. Behind the lamps was a good place to play in, and back here was a good place to wait for a playmate.

I sat on the railing with the ocean behind me, the wind slapping me on the back. The rain was coming down at a slant. I heard squeaks below the railing: the shrieks of the boats moored at the dock as they rode the waves up and down. The searchlight danced through the fog with its beam of light. The music soared towards its climax and I tapped my foot along with the beat. I felt more excited than usual for some reason. Maybe it was the leftover dopamine from running or the primitive pounding of the music or because I was looking forward to meeting my final playmate.

The bus appeared as ‘Conquest of Paradise’ came to an end. It was nearly five minutes later than usual. I turned off the music and stuffed the earphones in my pocket. The bus halted and blood began to course through the vessels in my ears. Someone must be getting off, otherwise it wouldn’t have stopped. I felt a chill when I saw a figure standing by the door in the bright bus. Attraction and nervousness collided. Was it a woman or a man?

It was actually both, a woman and a man. I couldn’t really see, but I was able to tell that much. I felt deflated. It was the perfect night – rainy and foggy – to play with someone for the two kilometres home along the empty streets; even after running fourteen kilometres, I was bursting with energy.

The bus disappeared into the darkness. The woman, holding a crimson umbrella, had long straight hair and was wearing a purple coat, short skirt, and high-heeled boots. She kept glancing back at the man as she walked quickly down the footpath. They didn’t seem to know each other and she didn’t look too happy about her companion.

Even from far away, I could tell that something was wrong with him. He was huge, his stomach the size of an oil tanker. Each time he took a step, his body, clad in a thin disposable plastic rain poncho, wobbled about. His knees gave way every other step. He weaved from left to right. He was wrestling with a hanky-sized plastic umbrella, trying to open it with his giant hands. The umbrella would open halfway before folding; the one moment it seemed the man would succeed, it flipped inside out from the wind. Rain was pouring down on his bald head. The giant ranted, ‘Fucking umbrella!’ and ‘Fuck this fucking rain!’ He wiped the water off his head and pulled down the hood of his poncho. As soon as he’d solved the problem, he seemed to become content and began singing at the top of his lungs, some song about an unforgettable girl in the rain.

By that time, the girl had crossed the street. The crimson umbrella stood stiffly above her shoulders, like a warning. There was no way the giant man understood that warning. He followed her. They disappeared into the fog.

I came out from behind Yongi’s. The light was red but I crossed the street anyway. Time was ticking. I was worn out and disappointed. My stomach roiled. The giant had taken what was rightfully mine. It wouldn’t be my fault if I didn’t take my pill today and had to run out again in the middle of the night tomorrow. It was all his fault.

At the start of the road along the river, I crossed to the other side, adjacent to the park. I could hear the giant still singing. His voice was louder than before. I spotted him weaving in and out of the fog. The girl was walking in the street, only stepping up onto the kerb when a car appeared. She was clearly afraid of being near the man, but I sensed she was even more afraid of being completely alone.

I stopped paying attention to them. I took the razor out of my pocket and fiddled with it. Should I come out tomorrow? One last time? Or should I take a pill as soon as I got home?

I was close enough to make out First Dongjin Bridge when the girl let out a shriek. She spun around and started running towards my side of the street. The giant was standing in the middle of the lane she’d been walking along, pissing with his pants pulled all the way down, brandishing his dick like a fire hose, continuing his slurred singing. Swinging her umbrella, she leapt onto the footpath about five metres from me. I was already hidden behind the street lamps. She stood there, panting. She was so afraid that any small movement would make her freak out and run away screaming.

This changed everything. Blood surged under my jaw. A car began honking in the opposite lane; it was flashing its lights, trying to turn left onto the seashore road. The giant hoisted his pants up and slowly withdrew into the fog. But after the car had passed by, he appeared in the middle of the lane again. This time he began swinging his umbrella, zigzagging between the two lanes of the road. He was singing even more loudly, as if he were a dying elephant.