Only when you're older do you realize that sometimes, a good dump is something to brag about.
It was spring, 1979, in Seoul.
Kim Min-jae hiked up his pants and stepped out of the public restroom in Hongdae's narrow alley, grinning with satisfaction. He'd just had a glorious bowel movement—smooth, effortless, the kind that leaves you feeling like you've conquered the world. His 19-year-old heart pounded with vigor, blood pulsing through his veins. Even the faint stir in his lower abdomen felt like a triumph, a sensation he hadn't noticed in ages.
Nine in the morning.
The alley was quiet, past the morning rush. This 100-meter stretch, barely three meters wide, was tucked away in Hongdae, unassuming but legendary. Thirty years ago, this was *the* spot for street food—Kalguksu stalls serving steaming noodle soup, Tteokbokki carts with spicy rice cakes, and old-school Bindaetteok vendors frying mung bean pancakes. Alongside Myeongdong, it was Seoul's beating heart, alive with flavor and hustle.
Min-jae took a few steps and reached the entrance to Courtyard No. 12. A faded sign hung on the gate: *Seoul City Library Dormitory.*
Once, this was the home of a famous novelist, sprawling with seven inner courtyards, grand and open. He'd lived here for three years, penning a classic family saga before moving to Busan. Over time, the place changed hands, eventually becoming a dormitory for library workers.
The courtyard was chaos. Dozens of families shared a single water tap, with makeshift coal sheds and cluttered storage nooks scattered around. Pots clanged, chickens clucked, and stray dogs rummaged through scraps. People romanticize "everyday life," but when you're knee-deep in it, broke and crowded, it's anything but poetic.
Min-jae wasn't thrilled about living in this cramped mess. His parents were both at the library, working. He stepped inside, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face. The mirror, stamped with a retro *Hankuk Electronics* logo, reflected a young man's sharp features. His hair was cropped short, not the trendy side-part but spiky, like a hedgehog. His eyes gleamed with mischief, his lips thin and rebellious. At 178 cm, he towered over most in 1979 Seoul—taller than heartthrobs like Bae Yong-joon (165 cm), Lee Byung-hun (169 cm), or even Song Kang-ho (173 cm). The stars? They stuffed their shoes with pads to fake the height.
"Min-jae!"
"Kim Min-jae!"
A shout broke his thoughts. A girl burst in—Park Ji-young, with short, ear-length hair, a round face like a crisp apple, and slightly rough skin. Tall, dressed in faded gray hanbok-style clothes, she wore black cloth shoes with red soles, size 260 mm at least.
"Why are you still lounging? The meeting's starting!"
"Nah, I'm good." Min-jae flopped onto a mat, craving a nap.
"If you keep slacking, I'll drag you to the criticism session myself! What's with this lazy, defeatist vibe? You're back in the city, Comrade Kim Min-jae—snap out of it! The organization will find us work!"
"Comrade Park Ji-young, don't ruin our revolutionary bond. Just let me wallow in peace…"
"Quit whining and move!"
Ji-young's voice boomed, her strength even mightier. She yanked him up like he weighed nothing.
Grumbling, Min-jae threw on a worn jacket and slipped into his own black-and-red cloth shoes. They hopped on their rusty bicycles—classic *Samchully* models—and pedaled out of the alley. Hongdae's vibrant energy greeted them, a stark contrast to the gray, quiet streets beyond. They wove through Seogyo-dong, then east along Mapo-ro. Seoul in 1979 was like a faded photograph: wide streets, sparse traffic, bicycles ruling the roads. Low, weathered buildings lined the way, tangled with telephone poles and wires. The crowd blended into a sea of blue, gray, and olive-green clothes, with only the crisp white uniforms of traffic police adding a splash of color.
Every few meters, people were planting trees. Two years earlier, the UN had warned that Seoul was teetering on the edge of desertification. Sandstorms swept through every spring—1979 was no exception, with yellow dust choking the air. The government had declared Arbor Day, and poplar trees were popping up everywhere. In the years to come, those trees would bring not just shade but also clouds of pollen and catkins.
After a 5-kilometer ride, they reached the east side of Namsan Park, where a modest building stood: *Mapo District Workers' Club.*
"So many people!" Ji-young gasped.
"Unemployed youth, all in one place," Min-jae quipped.
"Call it *jobless*—sounds cooler."
"Jobless, huh? Bold new word for bold new times."
Min-jae smirked, scanning the crowd. Hundreds of young men and women, each looking more dejected than the last, milled about in threadbare clothes, glancing nervously at the club's doors. Ji-young, ever the extrovert, grabbed a scrawny guy with glasses. "Comrade, we just got here. Any news?"
The guy leaned in, whispering, "Rumor is, we're a test group. They're setting up a production service cooperative for us first."
"A cooperative?" Ji-young's eyes widened, her voice dropping. "That's a collective unit! Low pay, no benefits, and everyone looks down on you."
"Weren't you just preaching revolutionary spirit?" Min-jae teased.
"If it was a proper state job, I'd scrub floors happily. But a collective? It's a joke! My parents would die of shame."
"I don't care," Min-jae shrugged.
The crowd surged forward as the doors opened, shouts for order drowned out by the chaos. Ji-young, like a bulldozer, pulled Min-jae through the mob into a cavernous hall that could hold a thousand people. A stage loomed ahead, perfect for rallies or movie screenings. A banner stretched across it: *Government Briefing on Solving Youth Unemployment.*
They snagged seats. Soon, officials took the stage, and the meeting began.
In 1979, South Korea faced a crisis: 2 million jobless youth nationwide, including 1 million returnees from rural work programs, 200,000 urban idlers, and 150,000 college and technical school graduates, plus demobilized soldiers. Seoul alone had 400,000 unemployed youth—on average, one in every 2.7 households. A staggering figure, worse than the post-war years.
The era wasn't what people imagined. Sure, a degree could land you a job, but only if jobs existed. Sending youth to rural areas in the '50s was a way to ease employment pressure from the first baby boom. Now, those returnees, combined with a second population surge, created a restless, jobless mass. Young, energetic, and idle, they roamed the streets, picking fights—a ticking time bomb.
Job placement was the government's top priority.
The official droned on, but Min-jae boiled it down to three points:
1. Parents could retire early, letting kids take their jobs.
2. Agencies and factories could hire temporary workers, even splitting one job between two people or stretching resources thin.
3. Expand collective businesses to create jobs and loosen labor restrictions.
"Early retirement, temp jobs, shared wages, flexible work… sounds familiar," Min-jae muttered. "The service industry's been gutted. No wonder there's no work. They need to rebuild it."
He chuckled, thinking of the future—live streaming, delivery apps, ride-hailing. By the '90s, another population boom would hit, followed by university expansions. Life would get simpler, with K-pop, K-dramas, and smartphones. But for now…
"Oh, what a mess," he sighed. "A millionaire like me, stuck cleaning outhouses in some grimy alley. Where's the justice?"
Yes, Min-jae wasn't from this time. He'd lived into his forties in the 21st century—a digital native who'd been online since the early PC bang days. He'd hustled as a freelancer, then built a small media empire. His KakaoTalk channel had millions of followers, and he'd dabbled in K-drama investments, partnered with influencers, and lived the high life. The pandemic hit hard, but he scraped by, backed by savvy investors.
Then the stock market crashed. He bet big on a startup, lost it all, drowned his sorrows in soju, and woke up here.
His parents worked at the Seoul City Library. He'd had a little sister who didn't survive infancy. The original Min-jae had been sent to the countryside after middle school, where he met Ji-young, a fellow library kid. Back in Seoul, he'd flunked every job exam and joined the ranks of the unemployed.
"Prioritize older youth and long-term jobless!" the official barked. "After this, local cadres will go door-to-door, setting up cooperatives to ensure every young person has work. Trust the system, but change your mindset! Times are shifting—we've opened trade with Japan! No job is beneath you. Every role serves the nation's progress!"
The crowd sat in stunned silence, confused and skeptical.
Min-jae yawned.
(End of Chapter)