Pop Singer: A Dark BWAM / AMBW Romance

by Asia Olanna

  Latasha turned into the complex where the bank was housed. And where my daycare was located, right across the street. She simply shook her head. “I’m just on your side is all, I want you to know that. But at the same time, if it were me, I have to say, I don’t know if I would go. I’m not really sophisticated enough to understand the nuances of… the ahhts.”

  I rolled my eyes one last time. I felt a strain at the back of my head. Ugh. “You listen to music, don’t you? So if you appreciate music, then you should respect all the art forms. Sculpting included.”

  “Well, when you get rich and famous,” Latasha said, pulling into a parking space, “then you can come and call me. You don’t have to give me any money at all. You can just rub it in and tell me how wrong I was.”

  We got out of the car, my purse at hand, the letter in my ever-tightening fist. Latasha patted down her dress, looking much more professional than me. We walked over to our respective working spaces, Latasha ready to put on her manager’s hat, and I ready to deal with the nastiness from the general public.

  We said our goodbyes, knowing that we would meet each other for lunch eventually.

  “See you later,” Latasha said, walking off.

  I waved at her, walking in, head held high, not feeling any less than her.

  Because at the end of the day, I was pursuing my dreams. And I knew that it would lead me to riches.

  At least I thought so at the time.

  ***

  I have to say though, the daycare center—Lila’s Daycare—was kind of low class. I’m sorry, but the people going there were the type of folk who didn’t know how to spell their names properly on their check books. Like, seriously, these were the type of people who didn’t even know how to drive properly, who couldn’t use the Internet to pay their bills, and who constantly complained about how much money they were paying for “high-caliber services.”

  Girl, we were next to a strip mall.

  Hell, we were in the strip mall.

  “I expect so much more than this,” a woman said as I walked in. She was the usual customer who stopped by our place, a woman whose name I didn’t know and who I didn’t care to know. She yelled and yelled and yelled like always. “When you people charge me per week for your daycare—”

  The woman was yelling at Lila, no surprise, considering that Lila was the one who absorbed all of the damage and heat. She wore head wrap around her head, wiping sweat from her brow, turning up the cheap white fan that she propped up on a stool to act as air-conditioning. “Ma’am, I’m sorry that you feel this way,” she said, “but you have to understand—”

  “Understand what? This big rip-off that you’re running over here. Yeah, I understand that. I want my money back.”

  This woman asked for her money back all the time. She and a legion of others. If the bathrooms weren’t clean enough, she wanted her money back. If she wasn’t given slave service, she wanted her money back. She was the type of person who wanted every single customer service personnel to basically prostrate themselves on the ground like she was a goddess.

  “I’m sorry that you feel that way, ma’am…”

  I walked past Lila, going into the back. She gave me a quick smirk, nodding at me. I met some of my coworkers, poor souls who basically gave me shy looks. I punched in my numbers, logging into our tracking system, and then I got to work, attending to some of the kids on the floor. They were already rowdy and loud.

  But they were still not as loud as the woman screaming at Lila.

  Eventually, the woman at the front calmed down, and Lila came to our side, sighing. I wasn’t exactly sure when I would drop off my two weeks’ notice, but it would have to wait until around lunchtime, when the craziness settled down. Lila looked incredibly stressed. You might have heard the saying, black don’t crack.

  But Lila looked like she had cracked in her teens, girl. She was cracked all over the place. Cracked by her lips, cracked by her eyes. Even her voice cracked. She parroted her old commands as she did every single day, telling us all to, “get into place already and get to work!” Finding a good time to bring her aside and tell her that her best employee was going to quit…

  Now that was the hard work ahead of me.

  “Hey,” I said, around 11 AM, chasing a little girl in pigtails. “Hey, don’t eat the crayons!” I barely even knew the names of our clients. There were literally fifty kids stuffed into a room that had to be no more than 2000 ft.². They were running all over the place, standing on top of tables, singing at the top of their lungs, wiping their asses all over the ground, pulling on my earrings when I bent down low to grab at them, drawing on the walls, breaking apart the mats on the floor, peeing on the bathroom tiles, yelling, screaming, shouting.

  Lila and us three who were at work—well, we had more than enough on our hands. Our establishment was borderline illegal. I couldn’t imagine Lila being in business a year from now. I could see on the face of my coworkers, fear and disappointment, a sadness creeping across their faces.

  What the hell were we doing with our lives?

  “Lila,” I said, at around 1 PM. “We have to talk.”

  She predicted my speech ahead of time. I had stuck around for several months, the only one of many. The other employees booked it: they had left within only three or so weeks. I stayed on board for so long because I thought the paycheck was worth it.

  But I was at my wit’s end. No longer could I tolerate having kids screaming and yelling at my face. Calling me a “black bitch” when they didn’t even know what those words meant.

  We sat down together for our “lunch,” at the front desk. While we ate, there were a stream of customers coming in to pick up their children. The other coworkers were on duty, handling the kids for them. I was on my “break,” which consisted of me tallying up our customers’ charges while simultaneously chewing on a sandwich—sausages falling off the sides of my lips.

  I handled the cash register as fast as I could, wiping my mouth with a napkin nearby, dishing out all of the receipts for this week, and tallying up the results for next month. Not only did I handle kids, but I was pretty much the only one who could handle basic accountancy. The other girls helping to run the place couldn’t calculate groceries if it killed them. Sometimes I wondered if they could even wipe themselves.

  No offense.

  “Lila,” I said, beginning to rip off the bandage, trying to force out the words. When one of the customers stole her attention, and she was half focused on trying to appease someone else, I spilled it all out. “Lila, I’m quitting.”

  “Sir,” can you sign here please?” She turned to me. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m quitting. Here’s my two weeks’ notice. Some things have come up in my life, and I’m not going to be able to work for you anymore. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  The man—the customer she was handling—handed back over a couple of papers to Lila. But Lila was still staring at me, her mouth agape. She turned back to the man, nodding at him, yanking out the best smile she could from her disappointment.

  “Okay,” she said to me, although I could hear the immense strain, like a cracked violin string.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, typing in a couple of numbers into the cash register, chewing on my sandwich, and trying to sound as nice as possible all at the same time. “I’m really sorry that things have to be like this. But I’ve just got to get out of here and go do things for me now. You understand, right? I’ve got to live for me.”

  Lila didn’t answer.

  She couldn’t.

  A customer—a different one—came up to the front desk. Lila was never going to catch a break.

  I had to look out for myself though. My own affairs were more important than other people’s. America is the kind of place where you need to look out for, what is the expression? Number one. Yes, look out for number one.

  I finished up my sandwich, and went back to the daycare floor.

  No longer did I f
eel guilty about leaving these children. Some other girl could come in and torture themselves over these demons.

  Oh, well.

  Korea, here I come!

  JONG-SOO

  The Double Dragons took center stage, collecting around the amphitheater’s sides. We had a show to play at, a local event. Right there in Gyeryong.

  Most of the guys there wore pretty muscular, which is what the fans really liked. They were leather boots, the kinds you would find in the military. And then they had guitars made out of the finest Italian woods. We also had some traditional string instruments in the back—a pyeonjong, for instance. I knew the show would go well. Our fans always showed up on time, and ready to have a good night.

  And just as I thought that, the grass field filled in.

  Slowly, little by little, you could see the different types of people who would show up. Women in their 40s, toting around little girls. Gay men wearing nothing but scantily clad hotpants. And then the mostly conservative crowd: they wore their hair back like they were going to a corporate Halloween party, the craziest parts of their attire being how they talked to one another, excitedly, expectantly. They whispered on their lips: “Jong-soo is so sexy. Jong-soo is so hot. I can’t wait to hear him sing!”

  I liked the fact that our crowds were mostly women. Performing for them came easily to me. And, hell, the attention wasn’t so bad either. After every show, you could easily get with any girl you wanted.

  If you were me.

  My bandmates? Not so lucky. For whatever reason, the girls focused most of their admiration on me. Like a laser beam, a strict center, with a radiating outer perimeter. Sure, some girls preferred Hae-il, and others preferred the guitarist or the drummer. But unlike most of the acts in mainstream Korean media, I had the lion’s share of love.

  A couple of girls stood at the front of the stage, screaming already. There was barely anyone there at that time—about 5 PM in the afternoon—and they wanted my autograph. I knelt down low, considering they were so eager and early. I adored those who showed me such lavish praise.

  I soaked it up. It was nice. Being away from the hustle and bustle of the streets. Not having to think about money or North Korean activities or Beijing politicians. I had no one to answer to like this.

  Just standing outside in my jeans and T-shirt, holding a guitar around my waist. Ready to go and sing to my heart’s content. This is what I lived for: the moment where I could interact with another human being who was normal.

  If only I could tell them the truth of what was going on. The smiling faces, giggling at me, showing me what life was like beyond my four walls, the walls of the mansion, my room, the gym, the hallways and the dining and living room…

  “Thank you so much,” the girls said. “You’re so inspiring.”

  They had probably read my biography. The official one you would find on the website or on a poster or that I would give away during an interview.

  It went a little something like this:

  Jong-soo Jeup, born and raised in the far-flung provinces of South Korea, had always wanted to be a musician. But he never knew if he had the chops to make it; his parents were poor; and he had little in the way of professional training.

  But then out of nowhere, he broke out as a superstar, getting signed onto LBC Records, which was also a breakaway hit: one of the first record labels to not be tied to Seoul.

  After only a couple of years, and much promotion near the countryside, Jong-soo Jeup became one of the fastest selling pop singers in all of Korea. His work was smuggled across the border, into Pyongyang homes, and further out into Chinese and Japanese territory.

  Before he knew it, he was on everyone’s mind across the Far Eastern seas. Everyone knew his name, and everyone wanted to be like him. Men started cutting their hair. Women kissed pictures of him in their bedrooms.

  Who didn’t want a piece of Jong-soo Jeup?

  Soon enough, he would be headlining in the United States. Certainly! That was the next stop for big-name men like him. America, Europe. Canada? Who knew how far he could go. All across the world, and in time, everyone would come to know his music, his style, and his image.

  There was little scrutiny about who I really was. The Double Dragons were so good at staying underground. We were so incredibly immaculate about leaving crumbs behind. As in, we didn’t leave any. No one could trace our trail. There was no paper to be found. Money laundering was done strictly by the books, mafia style. How do you think the Sicilians or the Chinese could get away with so much? The Yakuza in Japan and Brazil?

  Criminals knew—and still know—how to be good chefs. How to cook the books real well so that no one could tell what was going on.

  “You’re looking a little bit nervous,” Hae-il said, rolling up to me. He had on a tank top, and his hair was spiked. Some of the other girls looked at him with amazement. I heard them talking about his musculature. I glanced at my own chest. Mine was bigger.

  “I’m not nervous at all,” I said. I winked at some of the other girls walking down the grass, getting closer to the stage. I waved at everyone, smiling. Yeah, they waved back when I did.

  “Don’t get too cocky,” Hae-il said. “You need to make sure that you’re keeping up the goody-two-shoes illusion. You’re a golden boy to them. Remember that.”

  Hae-il clapped me on the shoulder. I glanced at him. What was his deal? For a long time, I wondered why he had not killed me. He could’ve easily tried at several junctures over the course of my life.

  But he hadn’t made an attempt.

  Yet.

  I guess in part because I kept everyone in the Double Dragons together and in line. No one bothered to question me because I had legacy. And because I knew what the fuck I was doing. How to rule a gang. And how to make a lot of money. Really, if he—or anybody else— “fired” me, then the entire gang would go down in flames. There would be chaos amongst the ranks. No one to give orders and very few who would want to take them.

  I gave money and treated my members fairly. Taught them respect. Taught them how to hold themselves high, even though many of them had shady backgrounds, or had done despicable things.

  They had self-worth because of me. Under Hae-il? They would be brutalized. Which is the other reason why I found it difficult to leave my top position. Going away would mean abandoning all of the people who had found themselves in similar straits: a bad position, a compromised lifestyle.

  You think that anyone would want to be a gangster in Korea?

  No.

  Of course not.

  We lived in one of the wealthiest countries on all of planet earth. And then only a couple of generations at that. As Koreans, we had managed to elevate and transform our society into something else. Something very few people had seen in a long time.

  From Third World destruction to First World democracy. We shone and stood above the rest.

  We had power in our hands.

  And yet, here people were like me, acting in gangs. Causing trouble. Ruling a different side of life. The wrong side, but a side.

  “Testing,” I said into the microphone, “testing 123.”

  The girls cheered at the front. I laughed.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I said, winking. “The show will begin in about thirty minutes or so. I have no opening act. I’m all there is tonight.”

  More cheering. More laughter on my part.

  There were women with boyfriends. I wondered what it would be like to have a girl around me, a normal girl, someone soft and delicate but still able to speak her mind. Someone who would put her foot down when it came time to.

  I thought that if I had a woman by my side, I would not have fallen into the same kind of lifestyle my parents had set up for me. I would’ve tried for a better world, a good future. Maybe studied for a couple of tests and gone to a prestigious university. Even abroad? I could’ve gone to a state school in Texas or something. Maybe in New York, California. There were plenty of good schools over in Ame
rica. And my mother and father had more than enough money to support me. Hell, I had the kind of hustle they did. I figured I could get around the cities eventually.

  But none of that happened, did it? None of it mattered anymore. I only had this to my name.

  A band.

  A gang of brothers.

  My music.

  Fans.

  I looked out into the distance. Surrounding the amphitheater was a corrugated fence. And behind the fence were brick buildings. Far out into the setting sun were mountains. Mountains sprawling with green hills, bushes and trees, thick like you would never find in the major cities. Out here in the countryside, you could still find farm animals, and people working their backs to death on the soils which never yielded much for the amount of work they put in.