by Frances Cha
“She is here right now and I will kill her myself,” she seethes into the phone. “Let us handle it. Please, just think about it for a few days before doing anything hotheaded, please. I am so sorry.”
When she hangs up, she slaps me so hard I fall to the floor. I was already crying from terror and she is so angry that she picks up a whiskey glass from a set on the table and throws it against the wall. It shatters around me like fireworks.
“You fucking cunt,” she screams. “Are you out of your mind? What have you done?”
At the sound of the breaking glass, the door swings open and girls swarm in as Madam yells for someone to bring her an empty bottle. If not for Yedam and Seohyeon holding her back, she would be smashing a bottle against my head. I heard she did that once, to a girl who slapped a customer. The girl had already been in a great deal of debt to her when it happened, and she had had to get more than fifty stitches in her scalp. The customer had been about to sue the shop but stopped, mollified, when he heard about the girl’s injuries.
The manager comes running in and tells Madam that things will be fine, that Bruce is just angry now and it will pass, and isn’t Kyuri the shop’s ace? So many men asking for her every night and Madam doesn’t want to lose all that business, does she?
Breathing hard, Madam stands in the middle of the room, not looking at anyone. The only sound I hear is some quiet, stilted sobbing, and I realize that it is coming from me. Then she turns on her heel and stalks out without another word and the girls help me up and hug me. They are asking what happened, why is Madam so mad? They want to know so that they won’t repeat my mistake, whatever I did.
I tell them that one of my regulars is angry with me and leave it at that.
* * *
—
FOR A WEEK I hold my breath and live as if I am swimming in a dream. At work, in the rooms, I am bubbly, I am witty, I am effervescent to the point of frenzy. A few of my customers ask me why I am so high. “Did something exciting happen? Share the good news!” they say when I can’t keep still and bounce around, drunk out of my mind. They think I am even greater fun than usual.
“You are why I come here, Kyuri,” they say, slapping their thighs appreciatively and calling the waiter to order more drinks. I sing, I dance, I do splits and my tight, rented dress rips and they scream with laughter. “This is not what I expected from a ten percent joint,” say some of the new customers who are here with the regulars, but they say it in an entertained and not disapproving way.
All the while I am praying that Bruce’s fury is cooling. The manager has already told me that Madam added a charge for her broken glass and cleaning bill to my debts to her.
“Just so you know, she might charge a few other things to you too, just to relieve her anger. I would let it go if I were you,” he says nervously, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves. He is new and very nice, unlike the other managers. He looks like a teenager with overgrown bangs—although he must be in his late thirties at least. His skin is terrible, and I want to recommend some face masks to him because he is so nice. I am sure it won’t last long, though, his niceness. Money will turn him soon enough. When he warns me, I say nothing, just pick at my nails, which need repolishing. I have been neglecting them shamefully.
* * *
—
ON FRIDAY, one of Bruce’s friends—the pudgy lawyer—comes in with his clients and co-workers. When I hear this from Sejeong, who has just come into the room I am working in, I excuse myself and hurry over to his.
“Oh, no, no, no,” he says in alarm, his plump face flushing when I walk in and sit down next to him. “Not you.”
“Why?” I say gaily, tossing back my hair as my heart starts to pound. “Aren’t you glad to see me? I missed you so much!”
“I heard what happened,” he says in a low voice. “Our group of friends—we all know.” He leans forward and whispers, “I didn’t want to come here, but my client insisted, okay? And I could have told my client the story too and he definitely would have gone somewhere else, but my girlfriend’s place happens to be close to here and I want to stop by before I have to go home.”
I look at him unhappily. I’ve only had a few drinks in my first two rooms, but my heart is already starting to feel as if it’s being squeezed.
“I don’t know that what I did was so wrong,” I say. I know I shouldn’t talk about it, especially here and now, but I just can’t help myself.
He looks at me in disbelief. “This is exactly what’s so terrible about it,” he says. “Are you serious? Are you insane? Someone actually has to explain this to you? I don’t even know where to begin. Do you even understand how humiliated his family would have been because of you? At the Reign Hotel? Are you kidding me?”
His raised voice draws attention and the room falls silent. The other girls quickly try to start up conversations again, but a lean man with silvery hair addresses him sharply. “What is the matter?” he says, looking displeased. “Why is the mood in the room turning this way?” He is clearly the client.
The chubby lawyer looks panicked. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, swallowing. “Er, this girl, she was secretly trying to throw away her drink, so I was getting angry.”
I am caught off guard, but I quickly bow my head in the client’s direction. “I’m so sorry, sir,” I say. “I was drinking too quickly so I just wanted to rest a bit but I should not have.”
My stomach is clenched so hard it hurts, but I hurriedly take up my glass and gulp the whiskey down. “It seems particularly smooth tonight!” I say with a big smile. “You ordered the expensive stuff!”
The client laughs and says he likes my style. He points to my cup, and I hurry to fill it again. Taking a quick deep breath, I drink another shot. It burns down my throat. “I like good drinkers,” he booms. “I like this place. No one tries to back out of the party. I’m sure you were mistaken, Shim-byun. The girls here—their livers are made of iron.”
“Of course, sir, I love this place too!” says the lawyer hastily. “Kyuri here is one of the prettiest girls in the shop. We were just teasing each other. She has a great sense of humor.”
“Oh really?” says the client. “You’re funny too? Why don’t you come over here, then?” He pats the seat next to him and nods curtly to Miyeon, the girl sitting next to him, to switch.
“What an honor!” I say, bouncing up instantly. The room tilts sharply around me but I ignore it.
“I’m warning you, if you try to secretly throw away a drink on my watch, there will be big trouble,” he says as I perch next to him. “I’m spending good money here and I can’t stand that kind of thing.”
“Of course not, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it! And honestly, I was waiting for someone to pour me some more, but I didn’t want to make you men seem like weak drinkers next to me,” I say. I am babbling, really, and have little idea of what I am saying, but he pours me some more and we drink and then we drink and drink some more and I do not remember anything after that.
The next morning, I throw up so much in bed that Miho is wakened by the noise and runs to the convenience store to buy me some hangover powder and Pocari Sweat and has to spend the rest of the morning washing my sheets for me. I am seeing rivers of stars and cannot get up, and while Miho is hanging the sheets up to dry, I fall asleep again on the floor of my room, clutching my coverless pillow to my chest.
When I finally wake up again, it is almost dinnertime. There is clanging coming from the kitchen, and when I limp out of my room I see Sujin heating up some hangover stew on the stove.
“Miho had to leave for the studio so she called me over,” she says when she sees me. “I went to that hangover stew place you like near the puppy spa. I love that place so much—today you could see all the puppies in the hinoki baths with mini-towels wrapped around their heads like little old women!” She cracks up, stirring the bubbling stew with a plastic
spoon.
When I don’t answer, she squints and points to the dining chair, and I sink into it. “How much did you drink last night?” she asks tentatively.
I can barely shrug and I gingerly lower my head into my hands.
She ladles the stew into a bowl and brings it over to me with a spoon and chopsticks and some kimchi.
I peek at her as she starts ladling some more into a bowl for herself, humming cheerfully.
I know Sujin is not an idiot. She just seems simple because she reverts so naturally to a positive state. That would be essential for surviving in my industry, though I don’t think anyone can truly come out unscathed.
One would think seeing me like this would be more than fair warning to steer clear.
But I know what she would think even if I told her what was happening—she would think it’s my fault for making terrible choices. “I told you Seul-kuk was a bad idea,” she’d say. She does not know what this work does to you—how you cannot hold on to your old perspective. You will not be able to save your money because there will never be enough of it. You will keep doing things you never expected to do. You will be affected in ways you could never imagine.
I know, because that is what has happened to me. I never would have thought I would end up like this, with no money to speak of, a body that is breaking down, and an imminent expiration date.
I start eating in silence as she joins me at the table.
* * *
—
THE POLICE COME on a Tuesday. We are getting ready for what is always our busiest evening, with reservations for every room. Until then, Madam has been happy—something close to a smile hovering on her toad-like face as she flits in and out of rooms, checking over the girls, telling them to go change their dresses if she doesn’t like the way they fit, ignoring me when she crosses my path.
There are two policemen. We have not had any warning because they walked right downstairs without waiting for the door manager to call. From upstairs we just hear a strangled yelp of “Police!” but it’s too late—they are already here and suddenly the girls are scampering into the changing rooms, terrified and breathless. Usually, they come after letting salons know days in advance and the “sweeps” are a formality—a joke more than anything. But a raid without warning—if anything serious happens, the girls take the blame. It’s never the Madam or the actual owner of the room salon, who is always some shadowy fuck who’s busy pretending like he’s high society, his wife sucking up to richer people, trying to pretend like their money isn’t dirty. It has always been that way and it will always be. Us girls, we have been trained for years: “Say that you were the one who wanted to sleep with the customer. You just wanted some money. Got it?” So the girl gets jailed and fined for prostitution, and vilified in society as someone who does this for easy money. The girls who die in the process—the ones who are beaten to death or the ones who kill themselves—they don’t even make the news.
I am the only one that lingers behind in the hallway. I want to know what the cops are saying. There is a middle-aged one, who is bored and annoyed, and a rookie, who is standing with his mouth agape. He looks like he is in middle school, this young cop.
“Listen, I don’t like having to come here either, but this is a matter of someone official reporting prostitution in this establishment, so what are we supposed to do, eh?” the older policeman is barking at Madam. He flaps sheets of paper on the front desk. “Here, it says the charge—attempted prostitution and fraud. This gentleman claims you billed him millions of won. I was sent here by my boss, who says this came from one of his boss’s bosses. I don’t even know who his bosses are. That’s how high up this is. Do you understand me?”
Madam is distraught. “This is a complete misunderstanding,” she says, her voice quivering in what she is hoping they will read as fear, but what I know is anger. She is trying to appeal to their sense of chivalry. It’s too bad that she is ugly as sin.
They must have planned it this way, because it can’t be worse timing. It is 6:30 P.M. now and the first customers will be arriving soon. If they see the police here, the entire night’s business will be lost and men might stay away for good. And I have no doubt that Madam will put this all on my tab. My debt will run to several tens of millions of won before the night is over. I feel like I am about to faint.
I can see Madam calculating all this too as her head swerves frantically in the direction of the wall clock, and then back to the policemen.
Pulling myself together, I take a breath and step forward.
“Is this a report filed by Choi Jang-chan?” I say. It’s Bruce’s real name.
“Yes,” says the older cop angrily. “Who are you?”
“I’m his girlfriend,” I say, clearing my throat nervously. “We had a fight and this is his way of getting back at me.”
They look at each other and then give me an up and down stare. There is a wary silence. “Is that true? This is just some lovers’ spat?” says the older one, finally. He has a look on his face that says, These rich men—they’re all the same. He is now incensed.
“I know his name, don’t I?” I say. “I have texts that show we are very close. I don’t know what he is saying about me to the police, but he is very angry with me right now because I went somewhere he didn’t want me to. It’s a long story that is embarrassing to tell. Look, I’ll come to the police station and give my statement, but please don’t let our personal fight interfere with business here. This is not the shop’s fault, it’s my fault.” I bow deeply to Madam. “I’m so sorry about this,” I say. “I have no words.” I bow again and cower, but inside I am feeling stronger, almost euphoric.
Madam opens and closes her mouth several times. She is deciding which course of action to take. So is the older policeman, who is surveying me with disgust. The younger one is speechless.
“Lovers’ quarrels!” says Madam finally. “Rich people these days are too much! Just because they get angry doesn’t mean they can make accusations about a business when people’s livelihoods depend on it! And what about your busy jobs too? I’m sure you have better things to do than run around after a rich man’s girlfriend simply because he knows your superiors. That’s just not right.”
Trust her to prick a man’s pride and self-righteousness for a nudge in her desired direction.
“Ridiculous,” mutters the older policeman bitterly. We are all watching him now, to see what he will say. Madam looks at the clock again, and I know she is experiencing several mini heart attacks. The manager will have to start making calls to clients with reservations soon, to tell them not to come.
“All right, you,” he says, pointing to me. “Come with us right now. Don’t think you’re going to change your clothes or anything. I’ve wasted enough time as it is coming down here.”
There is a muted collective sigh of relief from the hallway, where the girls and waiters are hiding behind partially closed doors, eavesdropping.
As I scurry toward the stairs after the police, our manager runs up, pushing his suit jacket into my arms, and I smile in gratitude toward him. In the police car, I put it on and feel the pockets, in which there is some cash and a small bag of nuts, thank goodness. It’s going to be a long night.
* * *
—
WHEN I WAS working in Miari, I saw and experienced things that I always assumed would be the rock bottom of my life. I lived and worked among people who were either so evil or so lost that they did not have a single thought in their heads. When I got there, I vowed to get out as fast as I could, and when I did they told me I was a ruthless, toxic bitch, that they couldn’t believe how ungrateful I was to leave them behind when they had done so much for me. They tallied things they actually viewed as favors—“I gave you time off each week to go to the bathhouse,” “I bought you those expensive shoes,” “I helped you decorate your ‘room,’ ” “I took y
ou to the doctor when you were sick.”
Speaking of those hoity-toity doctors and pharmacists who run their clinics in districts like Miari and profit off the working girls and their sicknesses—they are no better than the gutter trash who come around selling lubricants and “handmade” dresses to the girls to wear in our glass showrooms that light up red in the night.
They are no better than the managers and the pimps and the politicians and the policemen and the public who vilify only the girls. “This was your choice,” they say. They are gutter trash, every last one of them.
* * *
—
AT THE STATION, they make me wait for hours before taking my statement, to punish me. They do not know how grateful I am to be here rather than drinking in the shop. By the time I am allowed to leave, it is late and there are already a handful of drunk people on the streets, leaning on lampposts at the crosswalks, waiting for the lights to change.
I know I should be hungry, but all I can feel is a headache coming on again. I have to do something before it comes at me full force, which will be in a matter of hours, and then I won’t be able to walk straight. I find a chair outside a convenience store and fish out my phone from the manager’s silky suit jacket.
I have several texts. One is from the manager, who says that I shouldn’t worry because business has not been affected at all. Madam won’t be able to say otherwise because there were so many witnesses who can vouch that it was a busy night.
He also writes that I should not come back to the shop after the police. “Go home and rest,” he texts with a winky emoji and a sweating face emoji.
There are a few texts from the girls—the younger ones who look up to me—asking if I am all right.
I text them all smiley faces. I don’t have the capacity to respond further. And I don’t have much time before the headache will hit. I have to find a pharmacy.
