Episode 7: The Bassist
“I just got off the phone. He says he is over toward Yeongdeungpo today, so let’s meet in Hapjeong first.”
Sang-jeong slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at Seon-ha.
“Getting excited, huh?”
“Uh … yeah.”
“Jang-ha still looks like a real possibility, but what about Choong-gi?”
Sang-jeong’s face tightened a little.
“Jin-hyeok is back. We will make it work somehow.”
“I hope so, but still …”
“I am heading out. I changed the oil with fresh stuff, so you can just fry. It is Saturday, so we will probably get a lot of orders.”
“Move it, will you. Stop teasing the one who has to work alone.”
Seon-ha tapped his shin with her foot.
“Uh, right. Got it, honey.”
“This is the last shot. Keep that in mind and fight.”
She made a fist.
Her bright smile set his heart pounding.
“Uh … noona, I… love …”
“Hey, cut it out!”
He hugged her tight.
“Oh, are Mom and Dad over their middle-age rut?”
Their son Seo-jun squinted and clicked his tongue.
Startled, the two pushed each other away.
“Wow.”
“A piano can sound like that?”
“Isn’t this rock?”
“That is seriously cool.”
The kids stared at the tablet, unable to take their eyes off the screen.
“But they say it was improvised?”
“Mm, kind of dubious,” I-han replied, shaking his head at Jun-ho’s question.
“It is staged,” said Hyeon-ho, the keyboard player who had been at the piano since he was six.
“Probably, yeah.”
“No way total strangers could lock in like that. They must have rehearsed.”
“But Gi-soo hyung is not the type to lie about something like this.”
“Hmm.”
“We will know for sure when the full video drops.”
Jun-ho shut off the screen and jumped up.
“Practice time. Chyo, let’s do this.”
“Yep.”
Everyone took position, and Eun-seo slung her guitar.
The clip was low quality, shot from far away, the audio terrible, yet the raw intensity came through.
She looked at the pick in her fingers.
Can I ever make music like that?
She glanced at the tablet on the sofa.
The video only showed a back view, but something about him felt familiar.
Do I know anyone who plays piano?
She shook her head.
No way.
The drummer struck, the song began, she hurried to her chart, and the questions vanished.
Yeongdeungpo Station.
In the alley beside the department store, a feast for the homeless was in full swing.
One Happy Meal read the banner at the subway exit.
Tables were lined with rice and side dishes, and men and women stood in line with trays.
A foreign priest, speaking fluent Korean and making comical gestures, guided them while the volunteers hurried about.
Father Kang Yosep, who ran the Happy Meal Truck around Seoul Station, Yongsan, and Yeongdeungpo, watched the little cluster of diners with a pleased smile.
“All right, looks like everyone has eaten, let’s start cleaning up.”
At his words, the volunteers jumped into motion.
The station had granted exactly three hours of use.
They had to clear the tables fast if they wanted even thirty minutes for the charity performance.
A church band was supposed to play today, every minute counted.
“Mister, over here.”
“Aw, damn it.”
A hulking middle-aged man grumbled as he moved.
The bucket stuffed with leftovers looked enormously heavy.
“Damn thing is heavy.”
The long scar beside his eye twitched as he scowled, but the college girls nearby only beamed at him.
He lifted the drum-size bucket with ease.
“Wow, real muscle.”
“Mister, you are awesome.”
“Oppa, the best.”
“Shut it, you brats.”
They scattered, laughing.
“Hey, old man, instead of weak girls bring some guys.”
“That would kill the mood.”
“So I have to do all the lifting.”
“What is that bulk for if not this.”
“Hell with it.”
Still cursing, he lugged the bucket toward the parking lot.
Father Kang smiled at the big back.
Just then the alley grew noisy.
“Hey, you filthy bums, what the heck!”
A group swung a clutch bag, threatening the diners.
“Eating right in the walkway, get lost, now.”
One thug kicked a homeless man’s tray over and swept the crowd with a glare.
“Disgusting.”
He flicked soup from his pants and moved in again.
“Please stop.”
A college girl stepped in front of the crouching man.
“What’s this?”
“Pretty cute.”
The punks circled her, grinning.
A volunteer stamped her foot.
“Hey, what do we do?”
“Yeah, what now?”
“Those guys are in trouble now.”
“Huh?”
The worried girl blinked; her friends’ tone was strange.
“Ji-min, this is your first time, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Those punks are doomed.”
“What?”
The others patted her on the shoulder.
“Father is going in. Let’s watch.”
“Watch?”
Faces expectant, they followed the priest toward the thugs.
“Brothers, we will wrap up soon. Please move along.”
“Oh, the foreigner speaks Korean fine.”
“What’s that outfit, a minister? Not a monk, he has hair.”
“Idiot, it’s a priest.”
“Why not give us a plate too, Father?”
“I’m suddenly starving.”
They laughed.
Father Kang sighed softly. The volunteers behind him were sparkling with anticipation. He shook his head.
“I will feed you, but end the commotion here, you could get hurt.”
His quiet tone made them roar with laughter.
“A threat? Old geezer?”
They loomed, but the priest did not blink.
The punks felt something off.
The girl showed no fear, and the women behind the priest looked like they were waiting for a show.
“What is with this vibe, damn it.”
They had planned to scare and leave; now they felt angrier.
“Mister, food is ready, come this way,” a girl sang, waving the ladle.
“Three souls to God today.”
“Amen.”
They were even teasing.
“You bitches.”
One punk strode at them.
“Someone hungry?” came a heavy voice. The punks turned.
A man a head taller than them held a metal bucket.
“They said they want rice, these folks.”
His eyebrow twitched; the punks flinched at the imposing bulk and the knife scar at his eye.
The man looked them over.
“You causing trouble?”
He felt like a tiger roaring in front of them, chills ran up their spines.
“They kicked this man’s tray.”
At the sharp tattling he set the bucket down.
“You bastards.”
Grinding his teeth he drew a breath, then glanced at Father Kang. The priest shook his head.
“Do not hit anyone.”
The big man smacked his lips in regret.
“Fine, no hitting, come here.”
The punks glanced around, escape only possible now. They shoved at the priest—
What is with that geezer’s face, for a moment it twisted like a demon. Their hearts shrank.
If the big man was a tiger, the foreign priest was a lion.
Too late.
Entangled, one thug flipped in the air and fell headfirst.
“Oops.”
Father Kang braced his head with a foot, cushioned his back, then scratched his own head.
“Drop a guy like that and he dies, old man.”
“Reflex, sorry brother.”
The priest apologized sheepishly.
Flat on his back, the punk stared in shock. The priest was no ordinary man.
“You will die if you mess around. Over here. The one who kicked the tray cleans up and brings a fresh plate.”
The big man gestured; the punks twitched.
Facing a priest who tossed men and a tiger of a man with a ladle, they had no choice.
“You wanted food, right? Come here.”
“Yes, sir.”
They scrambled up.
He piled rice on their trays and smiled.
No dishwashing today.
“Eat it all.”
They buried their faces in plain rice.
“They got off easy today.”
“Yeah, thanks to Uncle Yo-han showing up.”
“It would have been fun to see Father go wild again.”
The punks wiped cold sweat at the girls’ whispers.
“So, about Jang-ha, he’s on probation right now.”
“Yeah?”
“Not a huge crime but a few assault cases.”
Jin-hyeok pictured the huge hot-blooded bassist. Temper, sure, but always a reason, a thinker inside.
Last time he saw Jang-ha was fifteen years ago. It was said he opened a detective agency.
“And now he is scooping rice?”
“Yeah, court-ordered service with a priest. His term ended but he kept tagging along.”
Jin-hyeok smiled. Imagining the giant serving rice made him laugh.
“I only text him now and then. Haven’t seen him in ages. He seems to dodge me, and I didn’t tell him we’re coming today.”
“That’s fine.”
“Huh?”
“He will join. He can’t stand us having fun without him.”
“True.”
Jin-hyeok gazed out the window; Sang-jeong nodded.
Despite his size, Jang-ha hated being left out. If the others did anything without him, he raised hell.
But still, the real problem…
Sang-jeong looked at his own hands.
Keep the expectations low.
He tried to calm down but memories pounded his heart. Big hopes meant big disappointments.
How much can I still play?
His hands shook. Over ten years since real keys. He remembered the supermarket keyboard that felt so alien.
His teeth clenched. This chance, he could not drag them down.
Eyes closed, he tapped silent keys on his thigh.
“Aw, old man, save hymns for church.”
“Hey brat, what’s wrong with trot?”
“You will put everyone to sleep.”
“There are lively hymns, fool.”
“So, how much did you pull in at Seoul Station?”
“Tsk.”
Father Kang snapped his head away.
“Hey, trot guy.”
Min-hee, amused by the quarrel, reached for the laptop on the speaker.
“Father, should I play some trot?”
“Whatever.”
“He knows nothing of life’s sorrow, never married.”
“Quiet, you have not either.”
“I have had plenty of women.”
“Bah.”
Static-laced trot poured from the cheap speaker.
Boom-chack, boom-chack.
The jaunty beat set the homeless dancing, and Jang-ha nodded.
That is it. Hymns could never make this scene.
“Hey, punks, move with the rhythm.”
“Yes, sir.”
They jumped up and danced with the diners.
Smiling, Jang-ha eyed the small stage.
Beside the speaker sat a guitar, a stripped drum kit, a keyboard, and leaning against it a white bass.
His big hand twitched.
He planned to sneak in for one song when the kids played, but Sang-jeong’s call had him restless.
He closed his eyes.
A brilliant scene flashed, going wild with friends. Twenty-five years, yet still vivid, leaving his chest hollow.
The genius who had led them from the very front was long gone. Knowing they could never go back hurt even more.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Standing before him, grinning wide, were two friends he had missed more than anything.
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