I think I realized things weren't right when Anderson left. Or maybe when Tasha did. Or was it Terry? In the four weeks I worked at (redacted), I witnessed about half of the meager 15 person staff turnover. Which means we had goodbye cake and other sweets about seven times while I was there. No complaints about that. But I barely had a chance to learn people's names before someone new was sitting at their desk. After about two weeks of this, I stopped the charade of introducing myself to the newcomers. I knew I was leaving soon, too.
On my first day at work I met Ken, the office's equivalent of an HR person. Over the course of the month, Ken started taking a few minutes out of his day to teach me the Korean I wouldn't be learning in class. Nothing vulgar or anything like that -- usually -- but just the everyday kind of talk and slang that might help me pass as a native. He also made a routine of pulling me away from my desk every couple hours to take a break and go catch some fresh air with him, which he usually liked to take in with a fresh cigarette. If anything, Ken taught me work doesn't have to be a prison. As he told me, "A hard worker is a sad worker."
But on that first day, work felt like a prison and he was my guard. I had agreed with the head of the company that I would receive a one-month contract to write his textbook, as a sort of tryout, and during that time I would have the freedom to work both in the office and at home. Sometime over the weekend, though, the deal had changed without my knowing. The laissez-faire terms had suddenly turned into strict working hours and my pay had been incidentally cut because of taxes and a health plan I hadn't agreed to. Not only that, but I could no longer deal directly with the boss anymore, I had to go through Ken, which meant I would have to clarify and negotiate the terms of the contract through him, after which he would check with the boss and get back to me. These mediated negotiations happened over the course of my first four hours at work, and after three or four rounds of getting nowhere, I finally convinced Ken to let me see the guy in charge.
Something about my boss's broad smile never quite sat right with me. It seemed to ingratiate and somehow also insult you at the same time, the way a fascist dictator might look upon his populace. I later learned I wasn't alone in feeling this way. The reason many, if not most, people were leaving the company was because they couldn't stand him. After some debate and essentially threatening to walk out, I got most of what I originally wanted in my contract, but the owner insisted on one thing: I work all my hours at the office. I hate working in offices.
Thankfully, my last day there was on Friday. A few minutes before I was about the leave, my boss ran into me in the hallway and asked that I stay for some cake and sweets in my honor. That was OK, I said, I have plans with a friend. We shook hands, bowed, and he thanked me for my work. An hour later, Ken and a few other co-workers met me at a restaurant a few blocks away, where we talked and laughed over some grilled pork and 소맥, a sweet mixture of beer and soju I had for the first time. Ken told me he hadn't bought any cake that day, for one, because he was sick of buying cake. This was better anyway, he said. I wasn't getting a goodbye party. I was getting a welcome one.
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