I squirt some in. She nudges me to add more. I continue filling the paper cup until she is satisfied.
“Good,” she announces. “More pork.”
I burn the first few batches, and a couple of the customers are ready to curse me out. We give them free food and drinks to pacify them. By the fourth customer, I have the hang of it, which is good because Yang looks like she’s going to die.
And for the next four hours, almost without a rest, I pound bread, stuff thin pork fillets with cubes of mozzarella, drench vegetables in tempura batter, and dump them all into different vats of hot oil. Despite being ill, the older woman serves and takes orders and processes cash in a whirlwind of efficiency.
During a lull, I text Bujang-nim and tell him that I’m sick. He doesn’t respond right away, so I call Bomi.
“Have you gone to the hospital?” she asks with worry when I explain that I need to take a sick day.
“I’m not actually sick. Yang Ilwha is and she needs my help.”
“Yang . . . Il . . . wha?”
“The pork food truck lady.”
“You’re . . . helping her?”
“Yeah. She needs it. I think she needs to go to the hospital, actually. I have to run, but will you make sure that human resources or whoever needs to know that I’m not coming back this afternoon?”
“Your text to your manager is fine.”
“Great. I have to go now. There’s a customer.” I work hard through the lunch hour, and around two, the steady stream of lunchgoers has ended. I sit down next to Yang Ilhwa with a Milkis.
She pats me weakly on the back. “Good job. Good job.”
“Thanks.” I stretch out my legs. “This is tiring. I need better shoes.” My little flats weren’t meant to be stood in for four hours straight. Yang is wearing sneakers with thick soles. I eye them with envy.
“You a good worker. What you do?”
“I work for IF Group.” I point off in the direction of the building.
She shakes her head. It’s not a company with which she’s familiar.
“You have boyfriend?”
“Y-ye—” I start to say and then stop. Yang Ilhwa is the perfect person to ask about Yujun and me. She’s an impartial party who doesn’t know who I am, what my place in the world is. She doesn’t know Yujun or Wansu and will give me an honest cultural perspective. “Imo-nim, do you remember earlier in the summer, in June, the young couple that made an extreme choice because they were from the same clan and their families refused to allow them to marry?”
She clucks her tongue. “Aigoo, yes. Very bad.”
“As in tragic?” I gnaw on the side of my lip.
“Yes, but also bad. Law allows, but still bad. Should find someone new, different. Many people out there.”
I swallow a frustrated sigh. “What about stepsiblings? Euiboot nammae?”
Yang Ilhwa’s expression turns green. She grimaces and shudders. “Those two should not eat rice for a month. Sooooo selfish.” She shakes a spoon at me. “Their family would be bloodied and heartbroken. You know the Chun brother goblins story?”
“No.” And I don’t think I want to, but Yang Ilhwa tells it anyway.
There were two Chun hyungjaes—brothers. The older Chun was lazy and spoiled, but the younger brother worked hard as a woodcutter and gave all his earnings to support his family. One day, the young brother was in the forest gathering acorns for himself and his family. He found a house and entered, believing no one to be home. Inside he heard voices, and so he quickly hid in a closet. Through a crack in the door, he saw a gang of goblins form a circle, bang their clubs on the floor, and chant, “Make gold, make gold, make gold.” Soon a pile of gold appeared. The goblins repeated this chant, but with new forms of riches, until there were giant piles of silver, rubies, and diamonds all in the middle of the floor.
While the goblins were staring at their treasure, Chun’s stomach grumbled. Chun froze with fear, reckoning he was going to be discovered. Instead the goblins assumed a storm had arisen and thunder raged outside. Chun’s hunger remained, and, to stifle any noise, he stuffed an acorn in his mouth, but when he bit down, a tremendous noise echoed in the room.
The goblins were terrified and believed the roof was about to collapse, so they fled the house, leaving Chun behind. The younger brother worried the goblins might return and remained hidden until dawn.
When the first ray of light broke through the dark sky, Chun gathered up as much of the treasure as he could carry, along with the club that one goblin had left behind, and returned home. With his stolen riches, he built a mansion, furnished it with the finest of goods, and showered wealth upon his family. When his treasure was depleted, he took out his stolen club and repeated the chants until jewels and gold filled his floor.
The elder brother grew jealous of his younger brother’s status in the family. He demanded to know his brother’s magic. The younger Chun immediately shared the details of his forest adventure, but the older brother’s ears were closed. He only heard what he wanted. He picked up an acorn, went to the house, and hid in the closet. When the goblins appeared, he bit down on the acorn. Thunder filled the room and Chun rushed out to gather up the treasure, only to find the goblins waiting for him. “Thief,” they cried out and beat him with their clubs.
Some say he died. Other tellings have him returning home in shame.
She taps my shoulder with the spoon and points toward the counter with her chin. “Customers.”
I get to my feet and resume cooking. Yang Ilhwa isn’t familiar with my circumstances so she could not have known the folktale she chose to share closely mirrored my life. The parallels are eerie. Wansu took a rich man’s wealth. To want more is to end in tragedy. Yang Ilhwa’s message is that I should not bang a stolen club against the ground and ask for more lest I be beaten, shamed, or worse. We end the afternoon quietly. I can’t stop thinking about the goblin brothers and Yang Ilhwa is exhausted.
After the last customer leaves, I give Yang Ilhwa my number. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.”
When I get home that evening, smelling of grease and meat and eggs and bread, I hide inside my suite of rooms, texting Yujun and Wansu that I’m not feeling well. I manage to get a shower in before Yujun knocks on my door.
“Should I call a doctor?”
“No. I’m tired. I think all the alcohol I’ve been downing is catching up with me. I don’t have the tolerance that you all have.” I open the door and let him in.
He has a tray of clear broth and rice porridge. He sets it aside and places his hand against my forehead. “You do feel warm.”