| Cover of “I've Been Thinking about It for a Very Long Time” by Kim Keum-hee, which includes “Half of His Egg Muffin” / Courtesy of Maumsanchaek |
Written by Kim Keum-hee
Translated by Clare Richards
Once she'd started working for a company in Sinchon, Seonmi usually sorted breakfast on the no. 1000 intercity bus. Something quick―bread, an apple, a boiled egg. An empty stomach gave her heartburn, so she couldn't not eat. One day, however, Seonmi spent the entire bus journey in hell, desperate for the toilet, and from then on refused to have a single sip of water on her morning ride to work. Instead, she left earlier and got something to eat nearby the office. It meant having to wake up at 6.30am, but at that time the main roads were less jammed, and it was also before her bowel movements kicked in, ensuring she wouldn't end up in another awkward situation ― all in all, Seonmi decided she was probably better off this way. But when she woke up in the mornings, rather than moving of her own accord, it felt as if something was extracting her out of the duvet, like a radish being plucked from the soil.
Still half-dreaming, she'd take the local bus to the intercity stop, then load herself onto the no. 1000. No matter how good she felt, how awake, or how prepared for work she was, if Seonmi could just make it onto that bus, she felt like she'd somehow managed to start the day. Likewise, the bus driver's job was to drive, and so he always found a way across the highway into Seoul, past all the other stops, before dropping Seonmi off safely in Sinchon. Seonmi would spend the whole journey dozing, before instinctively jolting awake at precisely the right moment. She'd flail about as she made her way to the back door of the bus, and go find something to eat.
At that time of morning, Seonmi's breakfast options were limited. There were the pancakes, egg muffins, or hash browns from the franchise burger place, the sweetcorn or baram tteok sold by the crouched-over old woman at the entrance to the metro station, or gimbap from the covered street stall. If Seonmi was running late, she got the corn on the cob, but felt self-conscious chomping on it at her desk, and so generally went for the burger restaurant's breakfast menu or the gimbap.
When she wanted to savour her final moments alone before going into the office, she ordered the egg muffin set. Though she got sick of it after more than two days in a row, she relished the act of shifting her brain (still drowsy as she tore off the egg muffin bit by bit) into gear with the cup of coffee. Noting down unremarkable plans in her near-blank diary, debating whether to leave a message on the social media accounts of people she'd fallen out of touch with. Watching the rain, or setting her gaze on the grass popping out between the sidewalk blocks; such things had nothing to do with the work she needed to do for the rest of the day. Seonmi had no idea why these pointless activities made her feel she could make it through her time in Seoul.
The gimbap stall was on a sidewalk in front of a skyscraper. The couple calling 'hey,' and 'can I get some help over here?', to each other were the owners. They put processed fish, ham, and not cucumber, but spinach in their gimbap, and there was broth on the gas burner you could help yourself to. It was a long while before Seonmi found out that the gimbap stall was only there in the mornings, and disappeared in the afternoons. One day, when she didn't feel much like joining her colleagues for lunch inside the office building, Seonmi went to get some gimbap, planning to eat it by herself in a nearby park, only to discover that though the vendors were there, they were all selling tteokbokki and other bunsik. Each one had signs up, numbers issued by so-and-so union, and bulk-bought tables and chairs.
At first, thinking the couple sold gimbap in the mornings and tteokbokki in the afternoons, Seonmi searched every shop to find out which was theirs. It was only later that she discovered they could only sell gimbap until 10am, at which time the tteokbokki vendors showed up. That yet other owners would appear on the city sidewalks, set up their tent stalls, boil water, mix in gochujang and seasoning, and start business. The processions of stalls, which looked far more stable and presentable than the gimbap one, would begin another day on that unlicensed sidewalk. Seonmi didn't get her gimbap in the end, but something made her heart go out to those vendors, forced to disappear when their allotted time was up. Like a mirage, appearing then vanishing; like an umbrella that spreads open, then folds away.
Sitting down in the burger shop with her egg muffin felt like a time of solitude. The gimbap place, however, was another matter. First of all, it was cramped inside, forcing you to get up close and personal. Whenever you went to get soup or napkins, you'd have to excuse your way through, brushing arms and shoulders along the way. You were also subjected to the sounds of pickled radish being chewed, water being swallowed, and noses being sniffed. The majority of people coming for gimbap in the mornings were students of the language school located in the building just behind.
Whenever she considered the fact that there were people who went as far as to study languages before work, Seonmi felt she was lacking. But she also felt a flash of defiance ― aren't we already doing enough? It's too much as it is coming here after waking up at 6.30am, like dust sucked into a vacuum cleaner ― how much more are we supposed to do? Even more depressing was that most of the students looked to be in their forties or above. It felt like having reality shoved in your face―if you don't keep going the extra mile, you'll never be able to stick it out at your job. Feeling a tightness in her throat, she could do nothing but gulp down the red pepper-spiced anchovy broth, which only made her feel worse.