Behind the locked double doors of Gangnam’s biggest Yves Saint Laurent store, Ahn Sayoung fumed, shoving clothes aside with ringing cracks that made Kwon Yuri wince.  The former had marched and literally screamed at the unfortunate manager in charge a command of entertaining no other customers apart from herself and her best friend.  In his defense, the manager had maintained professional decorum initially, undoubtedly with the view that he should treat this aggressive customer as a lunatic despite the expensive apparel she donned.  Then, when Sayoung showed no signs of backing down, putting her decorated face right up to his and asking in a sultry voice whether he knew exactly who she was, the manager had made the wise decision of giving in.

He stood guard at the glass entrance now, the manager, bowing deeply to the passersby who happened to glance toward the store’s general direction, a suitably apologetic pained smile in place.  The flustered salesgirl left in charge of trailing behind Sayoung could only wring her hands helplessly and look on with a sort of choking panic on her made-up doll face.

For once Yuri could totally sympathise with the lowly salesgirl.  Exhaling an exasperated sigh, she picked up a piece of apparel that had ended up on the floor amidst the violent tantrum rampaging across the expensive Yves collection, and draped it over the stretched arm of a mannequin.  “Sayoung hon, don’t you think this is a little too much, even for you?  I mean, just check this place out,” arms crossed, Yuri looked around pointedly, “it’s like Coco Chanel went through everything after realising her main garment for the upcoming fashion show went missing.  Or something.  Whatever.”

Her minimalist effort at persuading Sayoung was acknowledged by a peach jacket flung aggressively towards her, narrowly missing her precious hair.  “For ’s sake, you little ,” Yuri yelped, instinctively bringing her perfectly manicured fingers to check that every strand was still in its rightful position.  Luckily the new unreleased hairspray product she had tested on immaculate ponytail this morning was indeed working its magic, and a quick check in one of the many mirrors around assured Yuri that no damage had been done.

“Look here, Ahn Sayoung,” she raised her voice above the decibels of a vicious tantrum at work, emphasizing each syllable the way she did whenever she was preparing to put someone in their place, “I don’t know about you, but I have an important meeting in an hour.  As your friend, I have no choice except to take responsibility for your rash and stupid actions, so naturally I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.  For once in your goddamned life can you please, just chill, and let’s sit down at a café instead if you want to rant or something?  Hmm?  Come on, do me a favour already.  You know, don’t you?  That your father won’t let me off if I don’t fulfill my duties as your friend.  I really don’t need this kind of added stress now, Sayoung-ah.”

Finally, something seemed to get through to her.  Stopping in her path of destruction, Sayoung bit her upper lip and took a long, deep breath with her eyes closed, then let it all out.  She stayed immobile for several moments, appearing to be weighing her options carefully while Yuri rolled her eyes and tapped out the half seconds of waiting.

“Right.  I shouldn’t waste my energy getting so upset over something I knew would happen anyway, should I?  Instead, I should just focus on finding some manner of proving myself – in any case I’m of age to participate in the Welcoming this year, so there isn’t any reason I can’t get involved, don’t you agree?” Sayoung turned her head to give Yuri a suggestive hybrid between a secretive smirk and a playful smile; most commoners would involuntarily shrink back and shiver, averting their eyes, but Yuri’s only reaction was a scoff of relief laced with exasperation.  Thank – bloody – god.

Sayoung flung the jacket she had wrestled off last season’s rack onto the manager following in the wake of her rage as he stood up from retrieving several abused items, and brought the round metallic sunglasses resting atop her head down in a smooth movement coordinated with her arrogant catwalk towards the double doors which the salesgirl hurriedly pulled open.  Shaking her head imperceptibly despite the slight smile forming, Yuri followed suit, sliding her aviators up to rest on the bridge of her nose.  She could hear the exclamations of worrying over the mess Sayoung had created, the whining criticisms in a high pitched voice that could only belong to the salesgirl, going What’s wrong with all those rich people? Are they even human? Doing such rude things to other people – as if it’s acceptable just because they have money.

And she wanted to turn around, go up to the pauper airhead, give her a sharp slap, tell her You think it’s easy, being rich?  You poor little child, you don’t even know anything.  But she suppressed the urge and lengthened her steps to catch up to Sayoung.  “I know a good café nearby, I’ll text you the address.  I need to run to get ready for the meeting, so let’s meet there for lunch.  My treat.  Don’t be late again or I’ll have to kill you, alright?”

“Yah Kwon Yuri, it’s not my fault you’re always early, next time just come a little later why don’t you,” Sayoung laughed lightly, all her negativity evaporated in the bright sunlight.  Weather like this gave her hope, because nothing ever seemed as bad as she had thought under the caressing warmth of the day; behind the reflective lens, her dark irises took on a heavy, serious expression, bespeaking the undefeated determination accumulated over a lifetime of being sidelined.  If there were to be an appropriate time to challenge the boundaries forced upon her, the Welcoming was it, and she intended to play her hand for victory.

The Brer Rabbit was what Bang Sungjoon’s father would have referred to as a genteel bar in another time, exactly the type of place the elegant man would have liked to own.  Unlike other bars incorporated within nightclubs, or found on an expensive floor of a five star hotel, Brer Rabbit leaned uniquely toward the traditional style that catered solely to the weary and the melancholic, good old jazz records playing on genuine antique gramophones as per the taste of the owner.  Its address was not publicly available, for the owner was particular about keeping Brer Rabbit’s existence off the Great Evil otherwise known as the Internet, and was passed around by word of mouth.  Of course, there was also the group of clientele that happened upon the hidden-in-plain-sight drinking hole quite serendipitously.  A very romantic concept, to be sure, though not really practical from the business point of view.

I could have walked past this doorway a hundred times and not noticed if I had not been searching for it, thought Weng Kwon.  In fact, he had managed to miss it for a frustrating half hour at the least, pacing the area repeatedly with an intensity that alarmed the vicinity’s storekeepers until he finally traded in his pride for help.  Kwon gave a tight nod of appreciation to the old man who had pointed out the bar – which was looking less and less like the bars Kwon knew the more he reviewed it – and confirmed that the address etched into the metal sign outside matched the scrawl on the scrap of paper he held.

He had received that torn corner of some poster several days back, arrived in an unadorned regular envelope bearing nothing beyond the requisite stamps and his New York address in Victorian cursive that was impressive despite the slight hesitation marks, all things considered.  Since it had looked the least burdensome out of the pile of mail, Kwon had opened it first.  The Korean address took a long while of sorting through memories to register, but once he caught on, that Sungjoon had sent it was immediately apparent.  Choongjae wouldn’t possibly dare give away his address to anyone else.

Originally, the plan had been to drop by the day after he returned.  However, what with the endless series of meetings and receiving obligatory social calls, Kwon had only managed to find some personal breathing space two days late.  If this had been in their adolescent years, Sungjoon would have barged right over to his Seoul abode, demanding for attention.  Or arranged to pick Kwon up straight from the airport, whisk him off before the boring old men got their paws all over him.

I’m starting to daydream like a prissy teenaged girl with a Prince Charming obsession, Kwon realised, grinning inwardly, but that’s just the kind of effect Bang Sungjoon has.

As he pushed through the decorative gate, the young heir could physically feel the stress of his duties slip behind, shut out with reality – the pressures of pulling strings to secure the coveted invitation to the Welcoming’s organizing committee, calling in favours on his father’s behalf to renew old partnerships, putting up with stiff, roundabout conversations to maintain his social network… none of that trash made a difference here.

Genuine wood doors with brass knockers – the kind he imagined castles should have – guarded the entrance, creaked in compliance to his intrusion.  An unlit corridor, whose walls bore testament to the building’s grand old age, led down his left, and beyond that it would turn, presumably, into the bar itself.  Kwon guessed that in the day, the Brer Rabbit operated without turning on the lights, for some scant rays of sunlight spilled out of the archway between corridor and bar, tracing the dust particles in the air.  Chasing the rays were sounds of glasses clinking at intervals in accompaniment to the jazz records, water rushing out from a tap, then stopped.  It was as though the objects were functioning independently of people.

Kwon slowly walked toward the archway, relieved that he had chosen his worn loafers which trod silently upon the wooden boards – the tranquility was almost hallowed that to disturb it would be a shame.  Just short of entering the bar, he paused reflexively.  Was it hesitation?  That he scoffed at: why should he lose his nerves at this menial task.

Before he could proceed to carry out whatever it was that should have come next otherwise, a familiar voice called out from within, mellow amusement in deep baritone, “Is the most eligible bachelor in all of Asia actually too shy to see me?”

In the span of a few seconds, Kwon could feel his insides flail in illogical panic, then suppressed, cocksure composure revived forcefully.  He slid both hands into his tailored trench coat pockets – which, until he consciously prompted into action, had hung limply, one pinching the scrap of paper, another holding the envelope – and took a step diagonally forward, thus putting himself back under the harsh winter sun’s glare seemingly determined to make him squint in discomfort.  As his eyes adjusted gradually to the change, details began to return to the silhouette behind the bar counter, till finally the shadowy form became recognizable as his long-time (and possibly only) friend, Bang Sungjoon.  Although the term ‘friend’ was a label that could not do justice in summing up the depth of their relationship.

“Why, was that an attempt to flirt with me?” Kwon countered, sauntering across the room and seating himself at one of the high stools surrounding the semicircular bar island.  Sungjoon laughed, a throaty sound that resonated clear through the empty room, catching on the nostalgia lodged in Kwon’s chest. 

The latter hadn’t realised, or perhaps had been too stubborn to acknowledge it, the fact that he had missed every little thing about Sungjoon most terribly, starting from when he had boarded the plane bound for America with the sharp awareness that the distance between them could not be healthy for his state of mind.  Indeed, apart from the permanently burdened Choongjae, whom he was unwilling to bother more than was necessary, Kwon had not let down his barriers in front of anyone else.  Tiredness suffocated him from within, no outlet for release.  He hated to admit how fragile his mentality was, but the truth was he had nobody to go home to, to share his suffering with, when that was what he needed.  Not endless bottles of painkillers, or sleeping pills, or ridiculous spending means.  Just a person he could rely on, next to him.

And that person was before him at long last, in the very flesh.  Strange though the delay in realization was, it suddenly occurred to Kwon that he could reach out with his trembling fingers and touch this overwhelmingly real Sungjoon.  Except his body, stuck in the continuing momentum of practical reality, automatically rejected such an absurd request from the reflex of his heart.  So he remained precisely where he was, immobile, yet buoyed along with the sequence of events – not out of his will, but out of a lack of resistance – to the next part: Sungjoon swinging the cloth over his shoulder (the one he had been using to wipe the glasses dry), turning to answer the high-pitched call of the old-fashioned kettle clattering atop a kerosene stove.  Flicked the switch, wrapped the selfsame cloth around the handle.  Tilted the kettle backward, peered closely at the water through the steam and the narrow opening of the spout, a nod of satisfaction.  From the cabinet with a loose door hanging at an angle, Sungjoon retrieved two metal mugs, the chipped old kind, painted orange and black respectively; again reaching, now downwards to some drawer below Kwon’s line of sight, for teaspoons he stuck into the mugs.  Leaning against the wall, partially hidden by the stove-and-kettle set was a Japanese style lacquer box of the cheaper variety, and from that box he proceeded to remove a reusable type coffee filter, depositing it across the rim of the orange mug.  Following which, of course, ground coffee beans were shaken out of another container into the filter, and the complicated process was completed by the pouring of piping hot water to produce two cups of coffee.

Although all these actions happened one after another in smooth succession as was only natural, to the man who wished to slow down time so he could savour even the most ordinary moments shared with him, they were recorded individually the way cameras are equipped to translate into individual frames a single motion in its separate stages.

Oblivious to the Kwon’s complex cognition, Sungjoon set the orange mug on the counter.  “Straight black, though it’s not top grade Americano or whatever.  Can’t remember half the things from my barista days,” he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Kwon glanced at his friend’s relaxed expression and let loose a wry smile, “There’s still half the knowledge left, so that’s why you haven’t stooped to instant?”  He reached for the mug, bringing the chipped metal edge to his lips to take a cautious sip, careful to avoid scalding his tongue.

Without warning, Sungjoon leaned over the counter and pushed the base of Kwon’s mug into a sharper incline, going, “Drink it like a man, rascal.”  Before Kwon could check for the wicked grin he heard lacing that encouragement, hot coffee splashed unprecedentedly down his unfortunate throat – he tried to reject the act, failed, and swallowed in surrender, mostly because no alternative option was available.  Sungjoon started slapping his back helpfully, with a little more force than Kwon felt was justified. 

Yes – there was the wicked grin, the sum of Sungjoon’s adolescence, when they ran wild together, and not even an apocalypse could have stopped them.  But the memories had no time to register, in deference to the current first priority of inhaling sufficient air in a quick confirmation that his lungs had not suffered any damage.  Kwon was not very amused.  He glared, almost petulantly, at his assaulter.  Away went the final vestiges of nostalgia and melancholia.  The burn of coffee had succeeded in snapping him abruptly out of private black-and-white ballad music video, catapulted him into facts, such as his taste buds would be out of order for a while now.  As he recalled his contemplative mood just one gulp of caffeine ago, Kwon scorned that moody self and did his best to ignore the second-hand shame blushing within.  Of course, it was over in less than a millisecond, because Kwon conveniently had an ego big enough to crush any self-doubts and potential embarrassment.

On the other hand, Sungjoon was very much amused indeed.  Riling his buddy happened to be one of his pastimes, ever since he had discovered the great fun this activity entailed, and ruffling Kwon’s typically smoother-than-a-new-ice-rink feathers the slightest bit always brought up his own mood several notches.  Having accomplished that, he felt an immense satisfaction which promptly overwrote the vague wisps of annoyance that had gathered, like a particularly irritating bout of fog, around his past few weeks.  Simply said, he was refreshed. 

In his newly refreshed state, Sungjoon took off his stained apron and walked through the swinging door barring entry of non-employees to the area behind the counter, and sank into one of the armchairs.  So positioned, he waved lazily at Kwon, a gesture of invitation to take the armchair opposite his.  Less disgruntled than before, but disgruntled nonetheless, Kwon did, with an air that suggested his acceptance was a big favour on his part as opposed to reacting upon a command.

“So, tell me – what’ve you been up to this whole time, living the fancy overseas life?” Sungjoon chuckled; his tone, Kwon noted again, was absent of the characteristic acrid bitterness that every syllable adolescent Sungjoon used to spit out.  To the heir whose destiny lay in the unforgiving upper echelons of sharp realism, this drifting, quiet mellow represented the sort of slow paced ideal he could hardly even desire to achieve anywhere in the near future.  Aching was his soul to fall right into that steady rhythm of numbering days as they were, not as instruments to churn out affluence, and from such longing was constructed the illusion of lonely distance between himself and his closest friend.

A suppressed shudder expelled that overwhelming sensation, dissipated his melodramatic overthinking.  And appropriately so, too.  Gathering his scattered rationality, Kwon released the tension accumulated in his muscles, allowing his body to fully relax into the armchair, and clasping his hands to form a tent above his abdomen as he trawled through his memories to select the best place to begin his narrative.  “Well, you know how I really dislike being bothered…”

As the panel of interviewers settled back into their seats and busily reorganized their notes, indicating that they had arrived at some form of conclusion, Myungsoo’s drifting attention snapped back and he straightened his back hopefully, the clasped sweaty hands in his lap a desperate prayer for the answer he wanted to hear.  Please, please, please…

The bespectacled fifty-something in the centre gave a hard stare at the stack of papers he held at an angle – a ploy to delay the announcement, Jessica always liked to say, although she never could state a satisfactory reason for it.  Then, clearing his throat, he looked up to squint at candidate number 1396.  Pity, the human resource director thought, his credentials are quite impressive, and he looks like a nice young gentleman.  Too bad that he didn’t answer well enough to swing the votes his way.

A part of him must have sensed that thought running through the man’s balding head, but Myungsoo mentally sat on the gut feeling to squash it, willing to be an idiot and hope while he could— “We’ll contact you later if you are selected.”  So it sank a little lower than it had gone, his heart did, though he had been certain earlier on that it was already at the bottom of the abyss.  All he could do was to swallow down the  familiar acrid taste saturating his tongue and push himself onto his feet, a little unsteady but no thank you, yes he was fine, no he did not need help, and bow deep so the blood rushed into his head, saying a shaky thank you for… for what?  He had no idea, trailing off into blanks, backed out of the carpeted room on unreliable legs.  A whole long row of foreign yet familiar faces seemed to turn his way simultaneously: nervousness, stress, the hope that had gone out for him.

Suddenly his bladder couldn’t hold it in any longer, and he went from a brisk walk into a sprint.  One of the ushers for the interview, or perhaps a regular employee (lucky bastard) shouted at him, a jumble of sounds he could not rearrange into coherence, so he carried on, and in his disorientation he somehow stumbled into a bathroom.  Everyone else there wore number tags similar to his, most of them crowded around the sinks where the mirrors were, too tense to need to use the other facilities available.  The sight of them prompted Myungsoo to pull out his tag and drop it into the trash can on his way into the first cubicle, slamming the door to the uninterrupted stream of model responses being practiced.

He took a good long pee and continued to sit there, on the toilet bowl, even after he was done, tears of frustration welling in his bloodshot eyes.  Chances were he would not have moved for a long time if his phone had not vibrated with an incoming call.  Sniffing slightly, Myungsoo picked up the call without checking the caller ID.  “Hello?”

“Myungsoo-yah, how did it go?  Did you do well?  You did, right?”  Through his watery vision, Myungsoo had to smile – he should have guessed it would be Jessica calling in to check on him.  She was meticulously thoughtful like that, in all the years he had known her.  Sometimes she kept tabs on him so well that he suspected she must have somebody following him around for surveillance 24/7.

Wiping away the tears with the ball of his hand, he tried to sound perky for her sake, “They haven’t told me the results yet, but I suppose I did pretty okay.  Anyway, I’m sure there are more opportunities out there, so even if I don’t get accepted here, I can always try elsewhere.  As you always say, I graduated from the best university in the Republic of Korea, so if I can’t secure a job quickly, then it must be much worse for others who didn’t, right?”

On the other end, Jessica laughed brightly, “That’s my boy!  Don’t let small disappointments like this bring you down, and take care of yourself okay?  Don’t skip your meals, sleep early, drink lots of water—”

Chuckling, Myungsoo cut in, “I know, I know, you’ve reminded me at least a million times.  I will, so don’t keep nagging.  Thanks for calling to cheer me up.”

He could hear her smile.  “No need to keep thanking me or it’ll be come burdensome, got it?  Just make your family and I proud, and treat me to a big, fancy meal sometime, Kim Myungsoo.  Promise?”

“Promise.  I’m going to hang up now, but I’ll call again tomorrow.  Yes, I won’t forget it, really.  Okay stop nagging already.  Bye!”

Some people may find it weird to find encouragement and renewed optimism while in the bathroom with one’s pants down, but Myungsoo spared not even a fleeting thought to how strange the situation was.  His positive mood restored, he tugged his underwear and trousers back on, zipping with care because the zip had broken before, then flushed the toilet and squeezed past the other interviewees to wash his hands thoroughly.  In fact, he was in such a good mood that he clapped a particularly panicked man firmly on the shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry, you can do this!  Fighting!”  Nope, nothing out of the ordinary here, just your regular everyday fresh university graduate.  Definitely.

Feeling prepared to take on what other else the world had left to throw his way, Myungsoo slipped out the vintage Pororo watch his father had given to him from his inner lining pocket – 4.17 pm.  Another forty minutes to his next big interview at none other than the globally-renowned Weng Corporation, where he would probably have to compete with twice the number of hopefuls, but thanks to the timely confidence boost his childhood friend had given him, Myungsoo had a good feeling about this one.  For real.