A Crisis Is a Crisis (1)
There’s a saying: “Turn crisis into opportunity.” Fine words. They’re perfect for sounding like an old bore at a drinking party, for padding out self-help books that fleece the masses, and for killing a person in trouble not once but twice.
If turning a crisis into an opportunity were as easy as it sounds, Gi-yun would already have been born to be an unrivaled opportunist—because his life was forever brimming with crises.
Even crises become opportunities only for those who are prepared. The side that takes a direct hit is always the one with nothing to its name. So to people like Gi-yun, slogans such as “Crisis is opportunity” were as hypocritical and hollow as the sermon, “You must be shaken a thousand times to become an adult.”
Just as your semicircular canals would give out long before you finished being shaken a thousand times, a crisis ravages the mind and sickens the body. The fewer you endure the better, but sadly that wasn’t something Gi-yun could control just by wishing.
He came from a family that was anything but peaceful or affluent. His father had no ability yet still managed to be a womanizer. Perhaps because of that, his mother always looked unhappy and never once smiled at him. His parents fought often and never stopped complaining about having no money.
Yet whether by nature or nurture, Gi-yun’s expectations were so low that he thought life was still bearable up until then.
In that sense, Gi-yun’s first crisis hit when he was in high school, when the father he’d thought merely useless and unfaithful fell into gambling as well. A scoundrel never sticks to just one vice; he can juggle three or more at once.
Attachment notices were plastered over every shabby piece of furniture in the house that no one would take even for free. Unable to watch any longer, Gi-yun started a part-time job.
Other parents might have said, “A student shouldn’t work, just study,” but Gi-yun’s parents stamped the parental-consent form without a word. Thanks to that, he spent weekdays at a gas station and weekends at a convenience store, handing his wages over to the family.
Another trait of crisis is that it strikes the moment you lower your guard. If you can predict and prepare for it perfectly, it’s no longer a crisis. Gi-yun’s second crisis struck exactly that way.
“I’ve decided to divorce your father.”
Right after the college entrance exam, while Gi-yun was rejoicing that they had paid off much of their debt, his parents announced their divorce. His still young sibling would go with their mother, and the now grown Gi-yun was told to live on his own.
If I’d known this, I wouldn’t have pretended to be so mature. I should’ve whined like a kid, rebelled and thrown tantrums, said I hated it…
All of it was too-late regret. On the day he became an adult, Gi-yun was flung into the world alone. After that, the four of them never gathered again.
That untimely independence was not self-reliance but isolation. Self-determination and self-responsibility were forced upon him, with no room for philosophy or dignity.
“Self-determination” sounded fine but in reality, it was an utterly desperate matter of survival. One failure and life would collapse. Trial and error was a luxury.
To survive, Gi-yun pondered what to give up first. Since he had nothing, you could call “enjoyment” to begin with, choosing was hard.
The first thing he abandoned was college. Even after enrolling, there was no guarantee of a job four years later, and he couldn’t invest that much time and money in an uncertain future.
Not everyone is handed, like a gift, the leisure to look ahead a full four years. Gi-yun had to weigh opportunity costs; when you have nowhere to lean, shortsightedness is inevitable.
But he couldn’t spend his whole life cycling through convenience stores and gas stations. He desperately needed a stable job open to high-school graduates—one that ignored academic credentials, offered decent loans, guaranteed employment security, was legal and respectable.
Left on his own, Gi-yun decided to prepare for the civil service exam.
Academy tuition was murderously expensive. Even taking only the cheaper online courses instead of in-person lectures, it was the same. To cover living expenses on top of tuition and book costs, he had to keep working while studying. It was literally study by day and work by night.
Gi-yun studied harder than anyone. He had no choice. Cutting off all retreat, living day-to-day, he vowed to suffer for just one year. This lifestyle couldn’t last long anyway.
He didn’t waste a single moment outside work and study. While working at the convenience store, if there were no customers he spread out a history summary notebook and memorized it. He learned English vocabulary even while eating. When he simply couldn’t focus on the page, he played a cram lecture on administrative law summaries and forced himself to listen.
His body was exhausted, but his scores steadily rose. He chose to believe the saying that effort doesn’t betray you. Once he passed, all this hellish struggle would become a fond memory.
Days flew by in a blur. After a year of do-or-die effort…
Gi-yun failed the civil service exam.
He’d known it, but the world was indeed unforgiving.
“…”
To keep from crying, he tilted his head back in front of the monitor. He’d even failed Seoul City, his last line of defense. That ended all chances for the year. Because his score hadn’t been hopeless and he’d kept up hope until the results were announced, the disappointment was greater.
Compared with when he first began studying, he’d made remarkable progress. Korean, English, Korean history—subjects that had once hovered near failing—and administrative law and public administration, whose questions he’d once not even understood, were all now in the passing range. Had he been studying as a hobby, he would have praised himself by now.
But he studied not for a hobby but for employment. Without passing, it meant nothing.
Maybe the problem was insisting on the capital region. Pressing both eyelids with his hands, he sighed. These scores would have passed in provinces with lower cutoffs, but he couldn’t do that when he thought of eventually living with his sibling. If he were alone, it wouldn’t matter where he lived, but unlike him, his sibling would attend college and get a job here. Now it was all meaningless talk.
Wasting a whole year hurt. If he’d gone to a dorm-factory job he might at least have saved money, but playing at studying had cost him both cash and time. Having cut all ties, there was no one left even to laugh at him.
He turned on his phone. The only messages were a cheer-up text from his sibling a few days ago and posts in the study-group chat. He’d recently joined that offline interview study group—the only offline group he’d participated in because interviews, they said, had to be prepared in person.
Because today was the first-round announcement, the chat was livelier than usual; they seemed to be sharing results to reorganize the interview group.
[I passed too~]
[How about you, Gi-yun?]
The study-mate’s message arrived at just the wrong time and killed him twice over. Most members except Gi-yun had passed. He typed:
[I failed.]
After sending congratulations and encouragement, he left the chat. He had no more reason to stay.
“What am I supposed to live on now….”
He opened a job site, looking for faster, more efficient work. Delivery gigs caught his eye. Should he at least get a license? Then first he’d need money for the license and a motorcycle. Maddening.
Was it wrong for a mere high-school graduate to expect a decent job? Or wrong to prepare for a job he didn’t even want? It would be great if he could live with his sibling before it was too late.
Just then, a call came from a study-mate. They were having a farewell party once today’s session was over and really wanted him to come. He politely refused and hung up.
He had no reason to go to such parties. During time spent resting or having fun he should be studying or working. That was the right answer.
But today, unlike usual, he couldn’t get anything done. He felt hollow, so hollow. Tears kept threatening to come. He’d managed alone for over a year, but at this rate he might suddenly make some extreme decision.
After struggling not to despair in the hot, dilapidated rooftop room, he finally fled outside.
The after-party place was near the study venue they always used, far from his outskirts-of-Incheon home, so just getting there took a while.
This area had once been a mecca for college-prep academies; now it was famed for civil-service prep. Famous institutions had sprung up, drawing examinees from all over the country who formed a test-prep village. Many of those walking these streets were examinees like him.
Nervously stepping into the bar, his first ever, he looked around.
“Oh? There’s Gi-yun!”
“Hello….”
Study-mates near the entrance recognized him and welcomed him. Awkwardly, he perched on the seat they offered.
“Regardless of results, everyone worked hard. Tonight, forget everything and bottoms up!”
The first alcohol he ever tasted was incredibly bitter. Unable to hide his frown, he set the glass down.
They say if life is bitter, alcohol is sweet, but apparently his life didn’t even measure up. The drink itself seemed to jeer at him, saying he hadn’t yet tasted real bitterness and that his hardships were nothing.
Once alcohol flowed, people began talking about the exam as if on cue. Most bars around here tonight were probably having similar conversations.
“You missed by one question, Gi-yun? What a waste.”
He shook his head at the study-mate who sighed even more regretfully than he did. At first, he’d thought the same: if only he’d answered one more right.
But examinees usually have similar score distributions. Between one question lie as many passers or more as the number of successful candidates. He’d have needed three or four more correct, not just one. It was all because he hadn’t studied enough.
“Cheer up. You’re the youngest of us. You did great for a first attempt; next year you’ll definitely pass!”
Next year. Would there even be a next year for him?
He had already spent his money almost to its limit. Though he’d never stopped working, his meager balance was steadily drying up.
If he kept studying for next year, even supposing he got the supplement for the books, he’d still have to pay anew for those outrageously expensive lectures. Unless he was fool enough to take out loan-shark money just to study, he’d have to work many more hours, shrinking study time. The claim that everyone has the same twenty-four hours is a lie.
Above all, he was tired—tired of clawing in this cesspit reality, pouring effort into an uncertain future with no guarantee.
Could he live another year of gnawing away at body and mind for uncertainty? If he failed again by one question, could he avoid regretting today’s decision? Opportunity costs would only double; poverty charges interest.
Contrary to his thoughts, he merely lifted the corners of his mouth a fraction and agreed.
“Yes. I’m sure there’ll be another chance… thank you.”
“What thanks? I just said what anyone would.”
Pull yourself together. This is just a light drinking session. It’s a place to say nice things, laugh, and part—not bare serious worries. If he unloaded heavy talk, it would only sour the mood. Forcing down the buzz, he steadied himself.
“Right, you’re twenty-one? If I had your age and face, I’d have no more wishes.”
“Honestly, once Gi-yun passes the first round, the interview’s a free pass. If I were an interviewer, I’d pick him no matter what.”
“Look at that baby-soft skin. How’s it so white with not a single blemish?”
The more they praised him, the more uncomfortable he felt. Was he really that pitiful?
Pessimistic thoughts kept creeping in. They were all good people, but he twisted every word—that was his problem. He’d come because he didn’t want to be alone, but it was the wrong choice. Drinking out wouldn’t change anything so long as his circumstances didn’t.
“…I’ll head out. If I’m too late my parents will worry.”
As if his parents would. Spouting that ridiculous lie, he abruptly stood. Having drunk for the first time, his legs wobbled. He doubted he could get home.
Even as they said there was no need, he pulled a crumpled green bill from his pocket, insisted on leaving it on the table, and walked out. Pointless pride, perhaps—he could barely scrape up the fare home…
Only at the subway turnstile did he realize he truly had no fare.
“This is insane….”
He muttered blankly. He’d lost the card he’d brought. He’d definitely put it in his pocket, but who knows where it slipped out.
He hurriedly called the card company, froze the card, and requested a replacement. The balance was paltry, but he couldn’t do without it. Fortunately, no one had used it yet.
He ought to go back to the bar, explain, and borrow fare, but he couldn’t make himself. First, he thought, he needed to sober up, so he left the station and wandered the streets aimlessly. Maybe once his dazed mind cleared, he’d think of some other plan.
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