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I watch as she walks away with her personal driver. Nothing about her screams that she comes from money, what with her no-name clothes, worn gym shoes, and cheap bag. Everything is generic. But she’s the girl I saw in first class. And she has a driver...all that’s promising. I wonder what family she’s from. How they made their money. She looks Korean and the driver called her Miss Lee. I’d know her already if she was chaebol. But maybe her parents immigrated and made their money here in the States.
I shake my head to rid myself of this entire train of thought. Why do I even think shit like this? It’s how my dad sizes up everyone, that’s why. Always looking at how they’re dressed, what labels they wear to indicate what they can afford, what situations they’re in, how much they’re likely worth, and where that money comes from. Most kids get their parents’ eyes or their sense of humor. I, unfortunately, have gotten my father’s internal money meter. But what I won’t allow myself to become is the judgmental prick he is.
Every relationship in my dad’s life is carefully strategized. Who he married. Who he’s friends with. Who he plays golf with. Who he eats lunch with. All planned to maximize partnerships, publicity, and the bottom line. Every playdate I had as a kid was with some spoiled rich brat I couldn’t stand. And I won’t be surprised if my future love life is already arranged for me as a part of a huge business deal.
What I would give to just not have everything in my life organized according to some business plan. Not have my future already determined for me. Not be told I can’t just figure out who I am, what I want to do, who I want to be with on my own terms.
My eyes catch on a handwritten sign held up by a frazzled-looking Korean woman. “Haneul Corporation.” That must bemydriver. I walk up to her and lower my voice from its normal higher register. Make it seem like I know what I’m doing instead of having spent the last thirty minutes lost at the airport trying to find this person who has been standing right in front of me all along.
“Hi, I think you’re my driver.”
“Name,” she says as she looks down at her clipboard.
“Elijah Ri,” I say. Is it not obvious I’m the person she’s here to pick up? I won’t let that irritate me. I’m in no hurry. Though, I’d love to change out of my travel outfit and into something clean and less arctic-appropriate. I hope whatever’s waiting for me at the brownstone is lightweight because I’m a sweaty beast right now. The personal shoppers assigned to my travels have impeccable taste and never get it wrong.Well,I think as I squirm in my too-hot-for-the-season trench coat,almost never.
I watch as the woman looks at her clipboard and furrows her brow in confusion. Not this again. “Lee Yoo-Jin, maybe?” I don’t need to explain Korean vs English names to her, apparently, because she immediately nods, checks the name off and looks up.
“Please stand to the side while we wait for the others.”
“The others? I don’t have any staff with me this trip,” I say.
But she’s not listening. She just lifts the sign back up and ignores me.
Maybe this is why my dad is such a tyrant when it comes to work. When he isn’t paying attention, his staff slacks off or doesn’t treat people the way he would expect, especially his own family. But I kinda like that she clearly doesn’t know who I am, who she’s here to pick up. This is what I wanted, to be incognito this summer. I’ll just hang out and people watch and see whoever it is she thinks we need to wait for. No skin off my back.
Two hours later, I’m stuffed into a van with weak air-conditioning and a handful of other Korean kids who all seem around my age. From what I gathered in bits and pieces of eavesdropping, they’re all here for some summer internship program at, you guessed it, Haneul Corp.
The chatter in the van is low, everyone still sizing each other up. Or maybe it’s just me doing the sizing up while the others go through the roll call of introducing themselves. James from St. Louis, second year at Stanford. Grace from Dallas, third year, Harvard. Jason from Irvine in his second year at UCLA. I recognize him from my flight. He was sitting next to me but he gave up his aisle seat to a mother with a baby and took her middle seat in another row. Which left me next to a crying child for five hours.
Jason’s a fucking saint apparently.
And I’m clearly in the wrong ride.
But at this point, I’m too tired and too annoyed to try and explain it to anyone. Just drop me off at my home for the summer and I’ll sort it all out later. The rest of these people can go on their merry way.
By the time we get on a highway, it’s loud and buzzy in the van. I’m not used to being around this many people. I’m tempted to put my AirPods in and ignore them. But I’m curious to hear what they all have to say. And it’s kinda cool being a part of a group of people and not stand out in any way.
“Hey, man, saw you on the flight over. I’m Jason,” he says to me. He’s sitting in the bench seat in front of mine and reaches his arm over for me to shake his hand. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Hey, I’m Elijah. Um, I’m not sure where I’m going to school yet, to be honest. Still working through the details.” The details being I’d rather study abroad in the States than go to Seoul National University. But that isn’t an option in my dad’s mind.
The plan for my life, made for me entirely by my father, is to graduate from Seoul National and then step into an upper management role at Haneul. Follow in my family’s legacy. My dad is the third-generation CEO of the company. My older sister has even taken this route and now is second-in-command. But since the company reins will only go to the first son of the family, she’ll never be in charge. I hate how misogynistic Korean culture can be.
I hate it for her. And I hate it for me.
We pull up to a nondescript building and everyone files out of the van. “Are we in the Upper East Side?” I ask the driver.
“Sure, something like that,” she says with a laugh. “Shut the door behind you. Remind everyone there will not be transport provided to work tomorrow or from this point on. Every year, the interns think they’re gonna get a ride every day.” She shakes her head and faces forward, waiting for me to shut the door. I do so and within seconds she takes off and folds into the heavy New York traffic.
One of the interns, Sarah, I think it is, hands me her bag. “Hold this, would you? I have the apartment info in my phone.” She looks down at her screen and reads the instructions. “We’re on the fifth floor and the door code is pound four five nine nine pound.”
One of the others punches in the numbers and buzzes us in. We make the trek up the four flights of stairs. Though the sun has set by now, it’s still pretty hot and definitely humid.
“Oh shit, dude. Did the airline lose your luggage? I’m always freaked out that’s gonna happen to me for some reason. That sucks,” Jason says.
All eyes turn to me and take notice that I have only my backpack and the unseasonable black trench coat draped over my arm. I just nod as, truthfully, I am way too out of breath to talk as we’re climbing these stairs. Why is there no elevator in this building?
“Where’d you get your dupe?” Grace asks me. “It’s decent quality. You wouldn’t be able to tell from far away, though I see some of the inconsistencies in the stitching up close.” She reaches out for my backpack and examines it closely. “I have an awesome Gucci dupe I got in some hole-in-the-wall deep down an alley in Itaewon.”
