The branch manager paid no attention to the PC shutdown policy. Following other banks, Goldlight had introduced automatic computer shutdown at six in the evening. But one approval from the branch manager could make the policy disappear, and leaving times had no effect whatsoever on performance evaluations.
Goldlight put sales first. You might ask which bank didn't. At least a financial-sector union sometimes guaranteed a bare minimum of human rights. According to the supervisors, back when it was Sunlight Bank, the union could still hold its head high. Then the project-finance crisis toppled a mass of first-tier banks and second-tier financial institutions, putting them up for sale. Sunlight was one of them. Several companies watching the banks collapse seized the opportunity to buy them. On condition that half the existing staff left, first-tier Sunlight Bank joined Goldlight Group and survived as Goldlight Bank. Apparently the original plan had been to cut ninety percent of the workforce. To negotiate that down, the union had to sell off some of its backbone and some of our rights. One of those surrendered rights was the now meaningless PC shutdown policy.
The branch manager said he didn't understand why such a policy existed. Bankers leaving early? Why should they? Bankers arriving early? Isn't that only natural? More bullshit like that. But Ma was a lunatic who spent his vacations in his office at the branch, so nobody could argue. I'd never seen a banker take leave and spend it at work without even switching on the computer. A snake walking on two legs and pretending to be human would have been less frightening than him.
Six of us at manager grade and below gathered around the long table in the small meeting room opposite his office.
[March is a month full of hope! Stay warm through the cold winter with Goldlight Bank!]
I put that printed message and a few candies into a small plastic bag and closed it. It was February. I was the one who'd written and printed the message, and cut it into pieces smaller than a palm. Kim Jin-ju had probably bought the bags. I picked up a bag, inserted a slip, and passed it to Kim or Geon-u. Kim put in two or three candies and passed it along, and Bu, at the end, sealed it. Across from us, Geon-u and Bae repeated the same process with lifeless eyes.
Even Hong joined in at the far end. Like a factory, we churned out cheap so-called customer gifts for people visiting the branch. Bankers had quick hands. We finished almost two gifts per second.
The plastic was hard to grasp, so I tried a finger-moistening cream called Speed. When that still didn't work, I put a rubber finger cap on my thumb to pick up the bags.
Bae said they'd made things like this last year too. For the first full moon of the lunar year, they'd bought nuts by the kilogram and packed walnuts, almonds, and peanuts into bags. She'd suggested using the plastic gloves from the kitchenette to make it more hygienic. They'd tried, but it slowed them down too much, so eventually they grabbed the nuts barehanded and stuffed them into bags. ......I hoped none of the customers had got an upset stomach.
It was past seven. Still unable to leave or eat dinner, we talked about the day's events without stopping our fingers. Senior Manager Gu visited the gift factory and asked the pitiful, unfed bankers:
“How many have you made?”
Hong quickly counted the bundles of ten held together by rubber bands.
“Three hundred and sixty.”
“Let's eat when you reach four hundred. Keep going.”
Apparently the pizza Song had ordered at the branch manager's command had arrived. After gripping all that plastic, my thumb and index finger had lost their strength. When we reached four hundred, Bu let out a Yaaay! and laughed. Geon-u beamed too. Even Hong hurried off to report that we'd finished four hundred gifts. It was past seven and everyone was hungry. Hong was particularly bad at enduring hunger. She always took the first lunch shift. While she was out, Bu smiled and asked:
“We're going home after this, right? There can't be a dinner tonight, can there?”
“No, surely not. I think we'll eat the pizza and go.”
At my answer, Geon-u unwrapped one of the leftover candies, popped it in his mouth, and spoke wearily. Other branches sent their miserably paid interns home between five and six. Taecheon worked its intern this late without even feeding him dinner.
“I wondered when we'd ever finish, but we actually did.”
Kim Jin-ju fiddled with a candy bag and sighed.
“I don't know why we have to do this.”
“Everyone here thinks that.”
“I can't imagine customers will even like getting these.”
We exchanged looks, glanced at the door, and quietly agreed. Then Hong abruptly returned, looking grim. Had Ma said something to her?
“He says to make another hundred before dinner. Let's hurry.”
We'd ordered five hundred bags in case some tore or were damaged, so now we had to make five hundred gifts. At least we couldn't make more, because we'd run out of bags. If only we'd ordered exactly four hundred. Bu asked Hong to confirm:
“Didn't the branch manager tell us to make four hundred?”
“Are you deaf? Or pretending you didn't hear?”
Bu's smile vanished instantly. The pizza was cooling on a table in the customer area, and we couldn't eat until we'd met the new quota. I opened a bag and inserted a printed slip. The human factory started up again. In silence, the pile of candy gifts grew.
When we reached five hundred, Hong rushed out again. Geon-u hesitated, then pushed a lemon candy toward Bu. Kim gave her one of her orange candies too. I had nothing to offer, so I tore the top off [March is a month full of hope! Stay warm through the cold winter with Goldlight Bank!] and gave her just [March is a month full of hope!]. May March be different. May March be a little better. Beside her, Bae briefly rested a hand on her shoulder.
Hong returned with a strained smile and told us to eat. When we opened the pizza boxes, the pizzas had cooled to the consistency of dry dishrags. I didn't even want to eat them. I had no idea when they'd arrived, but it seemed they'd come almost as soon as we'd entered the meeting room to make the gifts. Couldn't they feed us before making us work? Did starving us improve efficiency? I couldn't understand the supervisors' thinking.
Would I become like that if I reached their positions? Would I act like them, and come to understand why they behaved that way?
Unlike Hong, who wolfed down her food, the rest of us pushed a few slices of cold pizza into our stomachs, gathered the rubbish, and cleaned up. The supervisors were going out to dinner separately. Everyone at manager grade and above talked about eating something expensive and delicious. All I could think was, Stuff yourselves. Between eating shriveled pizza and going home, or eating expensive food at a staff dinner, the former made me happier. Me, at least. I wanted to get home and rest. I drove Bu and Kim back to the residence, parted with them, and went into the men's apartment.
Today we'd only made gifts before leaving, and I was happy simply because it had been before nine and I hadn't drunk any alcohol. Only after reaching the residence did sadness wash over me at how little it took to make me happy.
This was my happiness. Getting off work on time made me happy.
I browsed shops and watched silly, meaningless videos on my phone. Depression and emptiness settled over me like dust. For once I was sober, and didn't want to waste the precious time, so I took my suit to the dry cleaner, ironed a few wrinkled shirts, ran my overdue laundry, and cleared the dust and rubbish from my room. Then I felt even worse. Even my scarce free time seemed to be spent preparing to go back to work tomorrow.
I felt as if the company had erased my life, while also wondering what this was if it wasn't life.
Staying in the residence seemed to make the gloom endless, so I went out for a walk. I was happy to be wearing a shirt and cotton trousers that didn't smell of alcohol. Being sober and clearheaded felt wonderful. A few seconds later, I felt sad that such tiny things could please me, then decided to enjoy the good moment while I had it. I walked as far as I could in the opposite direction from work. I bought a cup of tteokbokki from a street stall, then spotted a lottery shop and bought two tickets, wishing desperately to win and leave the bank. I pleaded into the empty air, pestering every god I could think of to let me win first prize.
Farther along, almost every other shop was closed. Taecheon was a provincial city surrounded by mountains, with barely more than 200,000 residents. After nine, everything except restaurants and convenience stores shut down.
I bought bread and a drink for tomorrow's breakfast at a supermarket, then wandered aimlessly. A branch of the Daeryong River flowed through town as a small stream called the Soryong River. An unnamed park ran alongside it, full of cute dragon characters befitting the river's name. The city must have maintained it; it was in quite good condition. There were several photo spots that looked as if the local government had installed them.
A little farther on, I found stone monuments so old I couldn't tell when they'd been erected. The explanation beside them said they bore legends passed down in Taecheon. There was an information board, but it was too dark to read easily. I couldn't make out the details, though what little I read by the park's lamps seemed to concern healing water. I took a long circuit of the park. Some elderly customers at Goldlight said they collected spring water instead of using water purifiers. Perhaps they believed legends like these. Looking at the river, I could only think of questions.
Was this life?
As a child, I'd wanted to grow up quickly, earn money, and leave home. Now I was an adult, earning money, living away from home. Was this really the life I'd wanted?