Pop Singer: A Dark BWAM / AMBW Romance (5 page)

We sat down together for our “lunch,” at the front desk. While we ate, there were a stream of customers coming in to pick up their children. The other coworkers were on duty, handling the kids for them. I was on my “break,” which consisted of me tallying up our customers’ charges while simultaneously chewing on a sandwich—sausages falling off the sides of my lips.

I handled the cash register as fast as I could, wiping my mouth with a napkin nearby, dishing out all of the receipts for this week, and tallying up the results for next month. Not only did I handle kids, but I was pretty much the only one who could handle basic accountancy. The other girls helping to run the place couldn’t calculate groceries if it killed them. Sometimes I wondered if they could even wipe themselves.

No offense.

“Lila,” I said, beginning to rip off the bandage, trying to force out the words. When one of the customers stole her attention, and she was half focused on trying to appease someone else, I spilled it all out. “Lila, I’m quitting.”

“Sir,” can you sign here please?” She turned to me. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m quitting. Here’s my two weeks’ notice. Some things have come up in my life, and I’m not going to be able to work for you anymore. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

The man—the customer she was handling—handed back over a couple of papers to Lila. But Lila was still staring at me, her mouth agape. She turned back to the man, nodding at him, yanking out the best smile she could from her disappointment.

“Okay,” she said to me, although I could hear the immense strain, like a cracked violin string.

“I’m sorry,” I said, typing in a couple of numbers into the cash register, chewing on my sandwich, and trying to sound as nice as possible all at the same time. “I’m really sorry that things have to be like this. But I’ve just got to get out of here and go do things for me now. You understand, right? I’ve got to live for me.”

Lila didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

A customer—a different one—came up to the front desk. Lila was never going to catch a break.

I had to look out for myself though. My own affairs were more important than other people’s. America is the kind of place where you need to look out for, what is the expression? Number one. Yes, look out for number one.

I finished up my sandwich, and went back to the daycare floor.

No longer did I feel guilty about leaving these children. Some other girl could come in and torture themselves over these demons.

Oh, well.

Korea, here I come!

JONG-SOO

The Double Dragons took center stage, collecting around the amphitheater’s sides. We had a show to play at, a local event. Right there in Gyeryong.

Most of the guys there wore pretty muscular, which is what the fans really liked. They were leather boots, the kinds you would find in the military. And then they had guitars made out of the finest Italian woods. We also had some traditional string instruments in the back—a
pyeonjong
, for instance. I knew the show would go well. Our fans always showed up on time, and ready to have a good night.

And just as I thought that, the grass field filled in.

Slowly, little by little, you could see the different types of people who would show up. Women in their 40s, toting around little girls. Gay men wearing nothing but scantily clad hotpants. And then the mostly conservative crowd: they wore their hair back like they were going to a corporate Halloween party, the craziest parts of their attire being how they talked to one another, excitedly, expectantly. They whispered on their lips: “Jong-soo is so sexy. Jong-soo is so hot. I can’t wait to hear him sing!”

I liked the fact that our crowds were mostly women. Performing for them came easily to me. And, hell, the attention wasn’t so bad either. After every show, you could easily get with any girl you wanted.

If
you were me.

My bandmates? Not so lucky. For whatever reason, the girls focused most of their admiration on me. Like a laser beam, a strict center, with a radiating outer perimeter. Sure, some girls preferred Hae-il, and others preferred the guitarist or the drummer. But unlike most of the acts in mainstream Korean media, I had the lion’s share of love.

A couple of girls stood at the front of the stage, screaming already. There was barely anyone there at that time—about 5 PM in the afternoon—and they wanted my autograph. I knelt down low, considering they were so eager and early. I adored those who showed me such lavish praise.

I soaked it up. It was nice. Being away from the hustle and bustle of the streets. Not having to think about money or North Korean activities or Beijing politicians. I had no one to answer to like this.

Just standing outside in my jeans and T-shirt, holding a guitar around my waist. Ready to go and sing to my heart’s content. This is what I lived for: the moment where I could interact with another human being who was normal.

If only I could tell them the truth of what was going on. The smiling faces, giggling at me, showing me what life was like beyond my four walls, the walls of the mansion, my room, the gym, the hallways and the dining and living room…

“Thank you so much,” the girls said. “You’re so inspiring.”

They had probably read my biography. The official one you would find on the website or on a poster or that I would give away during an interview.

It went a little something like this:

Jong-soo Jeup, born and raised in the far-flung provinces of South Korea, had always wanted to be a musician. But he never knew if he had the chops to make it; his parents were poor; and he had little in the way of professional training.

But then out of nowhere, he broke out as a superstar, getting signed onto LBC Records, which was also a breakaway hit: one of the first record labels to not be tied to Seoul.

After only a couple of years, and much promotion near the countryside, Jong-soo Jeup became one of the fastest selling pop singers in all of Korea. His work was smuggled across the border, into Pyongyang homes, and further out into Chinese and Japanese territory.

Before he knew it, he was on everyone’s mind across the Far Eastern seas. Everyone knew his name, and everyone wanted to be like him. Men started cutting their hair. Women kissed pictures of him in their bedrooms.

Who didn’t want a piece of Jong-soo Jeup?

Soon enough, he would be headlining in the United States. Certainly! That was the next stop for big-name men like him. America, Europe. Canada? Who knew how far he could go. All across the world, and in time, everyone would come to know his music, his style, and his image.

There was little scrutiny about who I really was. The Double Dragons were so good at staying underground. We were so incredibly immaculate about leaving crumbs behind. As in, we didn’t leave any. No one could trace our trail. There was no paper to be found. Money laundering was done strictly by the books, mafia style. How do you think the Sicilians or the Chinese could get away with so much? The Yakuza in Japan and Brazil?

Criminals knew—and still know—how to be good chefs. How to cook the books real well so that no one could tell what was going on.

“You’re looking a little bit nervous,” Hae-il said, rolling up to me. He had on a tank top, and his hair was spiked. Some of the other girls looked at him with amazement. I heard them talking about his musculature. I glanced at my own chest. Mine was bigger.

“I’m not nervous at all,” I said. I winked at some of the other girls walking down the grass, getting closer to the stage. I waved at everyone, smiling. Yeah, they waved back when I did.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Hae-il said. “You need to make sure that you’re keeping up the goody-two-shoes illusion. You’re a golden boy to them. Remember that.”

Hae-il clapped me on the shoulder. I glanced at him. What was his deal? For a long time, I wondered why he had not killed me. He could’ve easily tried at several junctures over the course of my life.

But he hadn’t made an attempt.

Yet.

I guess in part because I kept everyone in the Double Dragons together and in line. No one bothered to question me because I had legacy. And because I knew what the fuck I was doing. How to rule a gang. And how to make a lot of money. Really, if he—or anybody else— “fired” me, then the entire gang would go down in flames. There would be chaos amongst the ranks. No one to give orders and very few who would want to take them.

I gave money and treated my members fairly. Taught them respect. Taught them how to hold themselves high, even though many of them had shady backgrounds, or had done despicable things.

They had self-worth because of me. Under Hae-il? They would be brutalized. Which is the other reason why I found it difficult to leave my top position. Going away would mean abandoning all of the people who had found themselves in similar straits: a bad position, a compromised lifestyle.

You think that anyone would want to be a gangster in Korea?

No.

Of course not.

We lived in one of the wealthiest countries on all of planet earth. And then only a couple of generations at that. As Koreans, we had managed to elevate and transform our society into something else. Something very few people had seen in a long time.

From Third World destruction to First World democracy. We shone and stood above the rest.

We had power in our hands.

And yet, here people were like me, acting in gangs. Causing trouble. Ruling a different side of life. The wrong side, but a side.

“Testing,” I said into the microphone, “testing 123.”

The girls cheered at the front. I laughed.

“Thank you all for coming,” I said, winking. “The show will begin in about thirty minutes or so. I have no opening act. I’m all there is tonight.”

More cheering. More laughter on my part.

There were women with boyfriends. I wondered what it would be like to have a girl around me, a normal girl, someone soft and delicate but still able to speak her mind. Someone who would put her foot down when it came time to.

I thought that if I had a woman by my side, I would not have fallen into the same kind of lifestyle my parents had set up for me. I would’ve tried for a better world, a good future. Maybe studied for a couple of tests and gone to a prestigious university. Even abroad? I could’ve gone to a state school in Texas or something. Maybe in New York, California. There were plenty of good schools over in America. And my mother and father had more than enough money to support me. Hell, I had the kind of hustle they did. I figured I could get around the cities eventually.

But none of that happened, did it? None of it mattered anymore. I only had this to my name.

A band.

A gang of brothers.

My music.

Fans.

I looked out into the distance. Surrounding the amphitheater was a corrugated fence. And behind the fence were brick buildings. Far out into the setting sun were mountains. Mountains sprawling with green hills, bushes and trees, thick like you would never find in the major cities. Out here in the countryside, you could still find farm animals, and people working their backs to death on the soils which never yielded much for the amount of work they put in.

On the right side of amphitheater, there were several of my crewmembers. They were acting as my guards, my cronies. It’s strange to say this, but I didn’t exactly know everyone specifically. The gang was somewhat large, so it wasn’t really possible to put a face to every person’s name.

An outsider might’ve thought that dangerous. And it was dangerous not to know everyone. A good organization would be tight. No leaks. I guess I didn’t care if someone squealed. Maybe that’s what I really wanted.

I did know I wanted to sing. And that’s all that really mattered in those days. Having a couple of hours connecting with actual human beings—no ulterior motives, no destruction, no posturing and riches and wealth. Just humanity and love. People swaying back and forth with their arms up in the air, rocking on their heels. Listening to my voice, the way my sonic amplitude carried out into their hearts. Swaying down their arms and into their very DNA. Unraveling all of their hurt, their pain.

I gave it all to them, myself, me. I told metaphors through my music, detailing my life as much as I could, but never giving away too much.

There were police in the area as well.

Private police, not public police. I made sure our task force would only work for us. And never be in allegiance with local government. Mainly because some of my gang would hand out and sell hard drugs during the shows. I was not only known for my fantastic vocals, but also for throwing wild parties. Especially after an event.

Heroin, ecstasy, black tar.

Name any sort of drug, and you could find that at my shows. Which is why Hae-il was so filled with angst the other day about not having North Korean shipments on time. We had to be on point always, receiving incoming packages at specific times along the Korean-Chinese national boundary line.

Then we had to ship it over and to the south, carefully, on boats or planes. Private planes, the ones we could afford. Landing them in the countryside, in hidden hangers. Everything secretive, quick, efficient.

It was sort of like a positive feedback cycle: these pop shows and my albums helped prop up our drug trade, and our drug trade helped prop up my shows and my albums.

An endless cycle that never seemed to end.

I thought about maybe one day having the label to myself. Free from the constraints of the gang lifestyle.

But that would be still for a very long time.

A long, long time.

My drummer started up a couple beats, and my guitarists strummed a couple of key notes. I listened to them, playing the songs that we would have to perform in my head. The show was about to begin. People were pouring in now through the gates of the amphitheater.

I closed my eyes, thinking about how far I had gone, and where I was in life.

How far I had to go.

The day passed, and night came in full force. I stood in front of a massive crowd, yelling and cheering all sorts of nonsense.

I had a shot of vodka by my feet. That always loosened me up properly. I bent down, grabbing the top, and poured a little down my throat.