By 6:30 a.m., Kim Min-jae was up. The courtyard was a cacophony of clanging pots and rushed footsteps as families prepped for work. Sleep was impossible.
He slipped on his nylon socks, tucking his long johns into them. The socks—blue, checkered, with reinforced heels—were sturdy, easy to wash, and vibrant, but they trapped sweat and reeked in no time. In winter, airing them by the stove sent up a pungent haze. At 2,000-3,000 won a pair, they were a splurge most couldn't afford. In the future, cotton would be pricey, synthetics cheap. In 1979, it was flipped—cotton was affordable, nylon a luxury.
The infamous "Dacron" was just polyester by another name.
Poor folks wore cloth socks, inelastic and prone to slipping, tied to the calves with laces like ancient hanbok. Monks and shamans still rocked them. By the mid-'80s, nylon socks would flood every household. If you were born in the '70s, '80s, or '90s, you've probably worn them, paired with suspenders, white sneakers, and half-exposed socks—peak coolness, as the old jingle went.
"Stay home, don't stir up trouble!" Lee Soo-jin called out.
"Need anything, come to the library!" Kim Dong-hyun added.
After breakfast, his parents left for work, treating Min-jae like a kid who'd never grow up. At 20, they'd warn him about strangers; at 30, they'd still buy him snacks.
Left alone, Min-jae got busy. He locked the door, pulled out his hidden notes from under the bed, and sat at the low table, scribbling furiously, cross-referencing his *World Atlas*. In his past life, he'd worked in media, then built his own company. He'd churned out articles, long and short, with a sharp pen. Now, he deliberately dulled his style. Why? To mooch off the system.
Writers were rock stars in 1979, and the pay wasn't bad. Submit a novel or script to a magazine or film studio, and if they saw potential, they'd call you in to revise. Travel expenses covered, meals and lodging provided, plus a daily stipend. Take Yu Hwa, a small-town dentist in the '80s. He sent a story to *Seoul Literature*. The editor called: "Great piece, but the ending's too dark. Can you brighten it up?" Yu Hwa replied, "Publish it, and I'll make it glow from start to finish!" He spent a month at the magazine's guesthouse, eating free meals, pocketing 2,000 won a day, and left with extra cash.
A month? Amateur. Min-jae was playing the long game—mooching for *years*. Magazines might dry up, but film studios? Screenwriters practically lived there, freeloading full-time. So, he wasn't writing a novel—he was crafting a literary script. Screenplays paid better than novels, unless you wrote a tome.
"No more alley life!" he muttered. "I'm crashing in a guesthouse."
As he scribbled, Park Ji-young's voice cut through, tinged with a sob. "Min-jae, you there?"
"Right here!"
He opened the door to find her eyes red, face grim. "What's wrong?" he asked, ushering her in.
"Auntie Park came by last night, talking about the tea stall. My parents *agreed*!"
"Why'd they say yes?"
"They're both at the library, but there's only one retirement slot. It's going to my brother. He just finished middle school, flunked his exams, and now he's jobless at home… *sniff*… I don't want to sell tea!" Ji-young wiped her eyes, maybe crying over the job, maybe over her parents favoring her brother.
Min-jae wasn't great at empathy, but he knew when to be serious and when to play rogue. "So, you're selling tea?"
"Yeah," she mumbled.
"Awesome! I'm in too!" He grinned wide. "I was freaking out about doing it alone. With you there, I'm set. You're tougher than me anyway."
"You're such a guy!" Ji-young scoffed.
"I'm a weakling. You're like General Yi Sun-sin out here. But seriously, I think you're perfect for this. You're outgoing, sharp, and led the youth brigade in the countryside. This cooperative? It's your stage. You're made for it!"
Some people lean on others; some love being leaned on. Ji-young was the latter, blushing at the praise. "It's just selling tea. What's the big deal?"
"Oh, there's plenty to do!" Min-jae stood, glancing outside to check for eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice. "Auntie Park said 80,000 unemployed kids in Mapo, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Imagine the chaos if those 80,000 can't find work. Social disaster."
Ji-young nodded. "The government's obsessed with jobs."
"Obsessed? It's their top priority! Listen, policies bend with the times. To create jobs, they're loosening rules left and right. Don't think tea's the endgame. Could we sell roasted chestnuts on the side? Maybe some dried squid? Add a few chairs for people to chill? Throw in street performances, rent a space, open a proper shop? Or think bigger—Busan's got new trade zones, and we're trading with Japan now. Foreign goods are coming. Why not snag some to resell?"
Ji-young gasped. "That's… smuggling, isn't it?"
"Nah, keep it small, and the higher-ups look the other way. Policies flex for the greater good. Point is, don't let selling tea drag you down. Let the winds blow—stay steady."
"Good lord, how do you *know* all this?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"I've got a knack for foresight," he winked.
"I don't get half of it, but it sounds *cool*." Ji-young, sold on the first pie Min-jae baked, lit up with entrepreneurial fire. "Keep talking, Comrade Kim Min-jae. I'm ready to climb!"
---
Lee Soo-jin and Kim Dong-hyun had been scrambling to find their son a decent job. But the market was brutal. Good positions were long claimed, mid-tier ones required skills, and even lousy ones were fought over. In the end, tea stalls were the best bet.
It felt like landing a PhD from Seoul National University only to earn 500,000 won a month. Soul-crushing.
Every family had its struggles. Within two days, all 13 of Auntie Park's assigned youth agreed to the tea stall gig. Across Mapo, other streets launched cooperatives—bamboo weavers, knife sharpeners, knitters, window painters—all buzzing like a national campaign. A few self-employed vendors popped up too, unlicensed and skulking like alley cats, eyeing the reform wave warily.
(End of Chapter)