Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

“I saw that DJ Song visited a food truck in Yongsan a couple of weeks ago. He ate pork . . .” She uses the English word this time. The pause wasn’t hesitancy to talk to me but confusion as she searched for the right word. “. . . there. You are friends?”

There’s a slight eagerness in her tone, a friendliness that I haven’t heard from her before. Is it because of Ahn Sangki, aka DJ Song, aka best friend of Yujun, aka my food truck partner, and Chaeyoung would like to meet this celebrity friend of mine? If yes, I am not ashamed to leverage that. He’s the one person with whom I’ve shared my work woes and who would completely approve of me using his fame to get in good with my coworkers.

“Yeah, we’re good friends.” I try not to appear too enthusiastic. “He loves eating at these places. They’re more fun and have lots of variety. You should come with us.” I wave my phone. “I can text him right now. We could go tonight if he doesn’t have plans.”

“Tonight?” She leans toward me.

My fingers tremble with excitement as I type. food truck 7 !!

Ahn Sangki, aka DJ Song, lives on his phone. I receive an immediate response.

SANGKI: 8?

Done. I flip the screen toward Chaeyoung. “Eight tonight.”

“Really?”

“Chaeyoung-ah, we have plans tonight,” interrupts Soyou. No air conditioner will blow colder than her.

A small line creases Chaeyoung’s glass-like forehead. “Plans?”

“Yes.” Soyou switches to Korean and I catch a few words like “restaurant” and “sushi.” At least she’s trying to keep up the charade, even in another language. I respect the effort.

“But DJ Song . . .” Chaeyoung makes a half-hearted protest, but her interest wilts under the glare of Soyou’s disapproval. The shorter woman’s face falls as she capitulates. “No. I have plans.”

Despite her refusal, I settle in at my desk with a glimmer of hope. Maybe I can lure her with Ahn Sangki bait in the future. Tonight, I’ll plot with Sangki.

“Have a good lunch?” Bujang-nim asks when we return.

“Of course,” I reply cheerily.

Chaeyoung gives a quiet yes while Soyou takes her seat in silence. She’s still miffed at Chaeyoung’s response to me, but I don’t care. I’m full of fried meat and buoyed by the small chink in Chaeyoung’s armor. I will wear them both down, given enough time. I don’t radiate charisma like Yujun but I’ve been known to tell a funny joke once every six months. I’m willing to pay for dinner. I’m a good listener. These are traits of a good friend, if only the two give me a chance. Hell, I don’t even need for us to be friends if we can be happy coworkers.

I text Sangki confirmation that I’ll see him later tonight and then apply myself to the translations in my inbox. It’s not much. For the first couple of weeks, they had me review all the English text on the website. I fixed errors here and there and then was sent around the different floors to check if all the translated signage made sense. Most of it was fine, except for one fire-safety sign that said you should light yourself on fire before exiting. I texted the signage to Yujun, who explained the Korean warning instructed you to check for fire before using the exit. We both cringed and laughed. That week I felt like I’d earned my paycheck.

Since then, my inbox has seen little action. I email Bujang-nim every day for more work, but he rarely replies. When he does respond, sometimes it’s to have me run an errand, deliver some paperwork, or even use my downtime to study Korean. That last suggestion felt like an attack even though I don’t think he meant it as one. My language skills—or lack thereof—are a sore spot for me.

Bomi said to keep walking, keep trying, and I’ll eventually get the hang of Korean, but she didn’t say how long that journey would take me. There are some days when I feel like I’m making decent progress, but most of the time I despair of even being able to hold a conversation with a baby. I can understand more than I can read, but I can’t form the words to express myself. Language learning is a damnable thing.

The lack of work makes the afternoon drag. All around me keys are clacking, phones are ringing, and conversations are being had about creative assets and campaign verbiage while I stare at my empty inbox. The minute hand moves slower than a snail across a seashell. At this rate, I might fossilize in my chair before the end of the workday.

I send Bujang-nim another email, this time in Korean, requesting a new project. When I still receive no response, I open my spam folder to see if I can decipher the Hangul. I can’t, which lowers my mood further. The fried-food high I floated in on drops to the pit of my stomach. My eyelids feel heavy and my head starts to ache. I pinch the flesh at the base of my thumb to keep myself awake. A phone rings. And rings. And rings again. It stops and then restarts. I hear someone from the next department over yell something about the phone.