Read Online The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness by Kyung-Sook Shin - Free Book Online
Authors: Kyung-Sook Shin
Ads: Link
the letter. As soon as I finish talking, Chang starts walking away, taking big strides, leaving me on the tracks. He’ll come back, I think, but Chang does not come back. Things become awkward between us; even when we run into each other out on the new paved road, we look away. This was how things were when I moved to the city.
Inside the genre painting, the air driver in front of me hangs in mid-space. When I hold the screw that will attach the PVC cover in my left hand, then pull the air driver and press, the screw goes in with a gush of wind: shhk. Cousin, at Number Two, also has to insert more than ten screws. The only difference is that my air driver hangs midair while Cousin’s is attached at her side. In other words, I attach the screws in the center and Cousin attaches the screws in the front. At first, Cousin keeps her mouth shut tight and stares down at the conveyor.
She is displeased, for shefeels this business of pulling down the air driver hanging midair and attaching the screws is vulgar.
“I’d rather be soldering. This looks like man’s work.”
I do not respond. I hate solder smoke just as much. As Cousin and I turn into skilled workers, our names disappear. I am Number One on the Stereo Division’s A Line, and Cousin is called Number Two. This is what Foreman shouts.
“Number One and Number Two, what are you guys doing? You’re holding things up.”
Even if I am not called Number One, my name no longer exists. The name that I have been called for sixteen years cannot come work with me at the company because I am sixteen years old. Being a sixteen-year-old disqualifies me to be an employee at Dongnam Electronics, Inc. One has to be eighteen years old to be hired as a worker. I don’t know how he arranged it, but somehow Oldest Brother got my documents filled out in the name of an eighteen-year-old Lee Yeon-mi, so at work even if I am not called Number One, I am Lee Yeon-mi. Miss Lee Yeon-mi! When someone calls me this, I do not realize it’s me they’re talking to and fail to respond. Only when Cousin pokes me on the side do I lift my head, with a slow “Y-yes.”
Whether it is hanging midair or attached to the side, Cousin and I are poor at handling the air driver and no matter how we try to hurry things along, the number three position on the conveyor is empty. In the evening as we walk from Industrial Complex No. 1 to our room at Industrial Complex No. 3, we massage each other’s shoulders.
“I feel I’m developing hard muscles.”
Cousin looks as if she’s about to cry.
Cousin and I earn a daily wage of 700-something won. After three months on the job we will get a 500-won raise, Foreman says, which makes about1,200 won. Another three months will bring a 200-won raise, then after another three months . . .
It is clear that was how much we made, but thinking back today, I cannot quite believe it and doubt my memory. Manufacturing jobs were paid by the day, so excluding Sundays and half of the Saturdays, the amount would have come to, let me see, 1,280 multiplied by 25 or 24, then take away the lunch costs—so how much did I actually make?
Could I be remembering things correctly? With that money, the workers paid rent, sent some home, and even supported younger siblings who lived with them . . . Unconvinced, I do some research here and there about the labor conditions of 1978. The Labor Administration had set the minimum wage for trainee factory positions, which were mostly held by young girls, at 24,000 won, but after deducting the costs for lunch and transportation, the average monthly wage was only 19,400 won, according to records. We walked from Industrial Complex No. 3 to Industrial Complex No. 1 so we did not have to spend money on transportation; we received overtime allowance for extra hours, all-nighters and Sundays; so does that mean we made at least a little more than 19,400 won?
Over spring and summer, ever since the day Ha Gye-suk’s voice turned into icy water
Inside the genre painting, the air driver in front of me hangs in mid-space. When I hold the screw that will attach the PVC cover in my left hand, then pull the air driver and press, the screw goes in with a gush of wind: shhk. Cousin, at Number Two, also has to insert more than ten screws. The only difference is that my air driver hangs midair while Cousin’s is attached at her side. In other words, I attach the screws in the center and Cousin attaches the screws in the front. At first, Cousin keeps her mouth shut tight and stares down at the conveyor.
She is displeased, for shefeels this business of pulling down the air driver hanging midair and attaching the screws is vulgar.
“I’d rather be soldering. This looks like man’s work.”
I do not respond. I hate solder smoke just as much. As Cousin and I turn into skilled workers, our names disappear. I am Number One on the Stereo Division’s A Line, and Cousin is called Number Two. This is what Foreman shouts.
“Number One and Number Two, what are you guys doing? You’re holding things up.”
Even if I am not called Number One, my name no longer exists. The name that I have been called for sixteen years cannot come work with me at the company because I am sixteen years old. Being a sixteen-year-old disqualifies me to be an employee at Dongnam Electronics, Inc. One has to be eighteen years old to be hired as a worker. I don’t know how he arranged it, but somehow Oldest Brother got my documents filled out in the name of an eighteen-year-old Lee Yeon-mi, so at work even if I am not called Number One, I am Lee Yeon-mi. Miss Lee Yeon-mi! When someone calls me this, I do not realize it’s me they’re talking to and fail to respond. Only when Cousin pokes me on the side do I lift my head, with a slow “Y-yes.”
Whether it is hanging midair or attached to the side, Cousin and I are poor at handling the air driver and no matter how we try to hurry things along, the number three position on the conveyor is empty. In the evening as we walk from Industrial Complex No. 1 to our room at Industrial Complex No. 3, we massage each other’s shoulders.
“I feel I’m developing hard muscles.”
Cousin looks as if she’s about to cry.
Cousin and I earn a daily wage of 700-something won. After three months on the job we will get a 500-won raise, Foreman says, which makes about1,200 won. Another three months will bring a 200-won raise, then after another three months . . .
It is clear that was how much we made, but thinking back today, I cannot quite believe it and doubt my memory. Manufacturing jobs were paid by the day, so excluding Sundays and half of the Saturdays, the amount would have come to, let me see, 1,280 multiplied by 25 or 24, then take away the lunch costs—so how much did I actually make?
Could I be remembering things correctly? With that money, the workers paid rent, sent some home, and even supported younger siblings who lived with them . . . Unconvinced, I do some research here and there about the labor conditions of 1978. The Labor Administration had set the minimum wage for trainee factory positions, which were mostly held by young girls, at 24,000 won, but after deducting the costs for lunch and transportation, the average monthly wage was only 19,400 won, according to records. We walked from Industrial Complex No. 3 to Industrial Complex No. 1 so we did not have to spend money on transportation; we received overtime allowance for extra hours, all-nighters and Sundays; so does that mean we made at least a little more than 19,400 won?
Over spring and summer, ever since the day Ha Gye-suk’s voice turned into icy water
Similar Books
