Chapter 72.5: Gyopo Style

Chapter 72.5: Gyopo Style

Gym Won Taekwondo, Koreatown LA. March 2012.

The stereotypical busking breakdancer conjured specific imagery in one’s mind. A bowl begging for spare change, a crackly boombox busting out sick beats, and—most ubiquitously—a blanket of shoe-stamped cardboard.

Picturing it? Good.

Then explain to me why a pair of dancing Korean kids were scuffing up the dojang floors I’d only just finished hand polishing!

Deep breaths, Bas. Deep breaths. 

Too bad that when I inhaled, all I could smell was the vaguely citrusy detergent. I wrung the rag I’d been using to relieve my stress; twisting it until it was bone-dry, unlike my now soaked, lemon-scented knuckles. 

The spotless floorboards were only squeaking right now because there was a taekwondo instructor playing dance dance revolution on them. Jae Sok, ‘Jay’, Oh Dae Su’s son and senior instructor at the dojang, had swapped practising roundhouse kicks for doing b-boy windmills. 

His younger sister, Jin Hee—Jenny to her white friends, wasn’t any better. Parked in front of the wall of mirrors, she had her laptop hooked to a portable speaker blaring out a K-pop song. The same single song. Again and again, on a perpetual loop, so that she could follow along and memorise the choreography. Those same types of moves, body rolls, and overtly sensual sways that teens on tiktok in a few years would try to imitate. Although, without any semblance of rhythm, flow, or talent of any sort. 

My singing was better.

This ‘wax-on, wax-off’ routine of scrubbing the floors wasn’t designed as some nebulous lesson in humility. It was simply part and parcel of being a long-time student, and the duties therein.

Normally, other students should’ve also contributed, but the one time we’d tried to include me in a group class, it didn’t work out. My presence proved too much of a distraction; the purpose of martial arts was to hit the mats, not get hit on by guys named Matt. Thus, I was relegated to private sessions with the family once more.

But, at this moment, watching the two siblings have a grand ol’ time while I was reduced to a chore boy was an exercise in patience. And given that my sore muscles were still roiling from both my morning lift, and more recent spar—let’s just say I wasn’t keen on exercising anymore. 

“You both are pushing damn near thirty, and this is how you behave!?” Clambering off my raw knees, I twirled the cloth between both of my hands, and—whapish!—whipped Jay. 

The tip of the fabric lanced through the sound barrier and pinned a welt right on his butt cheek. “Kya!” Jay’s surprisingly girlish squeal and subsequent thump as he lost balance acted as the perfect record-scratch moment. “Shibal, Bas! What the fuck?” 

Instead of answering him as he squawked indignantly flat on his back, I stepped over his torso and snapped my fingers at Jenny. “You skip that song this instant, y—old lady!” My unusually serious tone compelled her to comply. I knew I was being harsh; a little more tough than love than they were used to coming from me, but it was deserved. Because how dare they hog all the fun without me!? “Get that weak sauce outta here. This may be your house, but I’mma raise the roof on this place!”

Someone else could wipe up the fresh set of smudges from my own footprints. They’d be trailing out the door in a minute since I wasn’t planning on a slumber party here, anyway. 

As the music shifted, I bobbed my head to the beat and immediately with some fancy footwork of my own. A toprock sequence—that quintessential range of motions everyone links to breakdancing—before chucking myself to the ground.

Planting my palms smack-dab on the ground with all my body weight, I didn’t break my wrists, but I sure as shit broke it down. My newly trained strength gave me the ability to kick, flip, and dip to my heart’s content. Toes pointed to the ceiling, one hand behind my back while the other supported my handstand. I freeze-framed to taunt Jay with all the arrogance my taekwondo, gymming, and gymnastics had earned me. “You just got served!”

“Oh, it’s on!” Rising to the bait, Jay kipped-up with a flourish.

Not one to be outdone, Jenny also stomped forward and threw out her own moves. “Calling me old and then breakdancing, of all things? That’s, like, so early 2000s. Korea’s got the hottest new trends. You’ve brought a stone knife to a ray gun fight, Bas. Both of ya’ll are gonna get f’d in the a!” 

Needless to say, this little song and dance was far from our first group performance. 

But before we could groove too much into our newest rendition of ‘Step Up 3: Electric Kimchi’, Oh Dae Su aborted our music video via disco-itus interruptus.

“Ya! Why you do this every time? Dirty floor, dumb dancing, disappointing childrens!” He marched to the laptop and tried to shut the tunes off. Tried being the operative word, because after ineffectually clacking random keys, he gave it up as a bad job and settled for closing the lid instead. “I only ask you to clean but yous cannot even do that even. How I can leave my dojang alone and go like this, huh?” 

Far too used to his temperamental tirades, everyone—myself included—ignored everything he said, except the lone atypical bit. Jay was the first to pick up on it. “Go? Go where? I didn’t realise you knew what outside was, abuji.”

I cast a suspicious glance between my master and the bell hung over the entryway that jingled whenever anyone used the front door. “I—is it even legal for him to leave the premises?” 

Somebody ought to ring the alarm.

My point was only proven when he kicked the discarded rag at me. I dodged it, it sailed across the room and splattered loudly on the glass doors, terrifying an innocent passerby. 

“I go take your eomma on dates night.” At that proclamation, we took a better look at him. True enough, he was actually in civvies rather than his uniform. 

“Hate to break it to you, appa. Valentine’s was a month ago.” 

Personally offended by that comment, Dae Su nearly cussed out his own favourite daughter. “Aish—! This is why you gyopo, Jin Hee. Face Korean but brain American.” Why was I craving bananas all of a sudden? “Valentines expensive, busy–no reservation. Now fancy restaurant much cheaper, easy to book table.”

“Don’t let your father sell himself short!” Out from behind the connected living quarters, the family’s blonde-haired, blue-eyed mum arrived. 

I would’ve said she was dressed to the nines, but the clear effort she’d put into her appearance made the number insufficient. “Someone fetch my wallet. I just found a dime!” 

She giggled as she twined her arm around her husband’s. “Thank you, Bas. Put a little more oomph into my outfit than usual since not only do we have dinner plans, but we’re also catching a concert tonight!” 

“Hold on… you better not be talking about the YG Entertainment concert.” There wasn’t any hiding the jealousy in Jenny’s voice. 

“Of course. You the one who gave me idea. Many different Korean singer for price of one show. Good deal.” 

Jenny frantically began listing out the matinee’s line-up. “2NE1, Psy, Gummy, BigBang–they’re all on my playlist! Didn’t you think I mentioned it because I wanted to attend?” Actually, that sounded familiar. If I recall, they were the same company that would sign BlackPink in a few years. 

“Oh? Then why didn’t you buy tickets, sweetheart?” 

Flabbergasted by her mom’s simple logic, Jenny accidentally blurted out the truth. “B—because I thought appa would buy it for me so that I wouldn’t have to spend my own money…”

Unfortunately for Jenny, her daddy exclusively reserved his sugar for his wife. “Next time, get boyfriend.” 

Watching Jenny slump as a proverbial rain cloud formed over her head, I decided to toss my hat in the ring to potentially provide some cover. “I cou—”

“—Not you!” Tucking his wife’s arm tighter to his torso, he hurriedly began guiding the both of them out. “When we return tomorrow, my dojang should be clean!”

Jay, ever the detective, once more zeroed in on a clue. “Tomorrow?”

“We’ve also got a hotel suite booked for the night. Don’t wait up, kids!”

“Come, yobo. Maybe we try for third baby who make us more proud.” 

Huelck! Jay folded in on himself and dry-heaved at the mental image of his parents’ copulation as they skipped out arm-in-arm. 

“Steady on, old boy!” I hastily patted his back to soothe him; didn’t need the floor messier than we’d already made it. “Let’s just get this place tidy, yeah?”

Jenny, valiantly cradling her face in her hands to not spill extra tears and snot on the floor, sniffled. “... Fine, but I get to choose what we’re watching.”

–

The entire purpose of adding a backing track to our errands was to make time go faster as we did our chores. 

An error in judgement

Because, instead of mopping then heading out as soon as we were done, Jenny’s choice of Korean soap opera—colloquially called K-dramas—had all three of us huddled in front of the tiny laptop monitor for a few hours. “This stuff is crack.”

“Nah, this stuff is cracked.” Still huffy from her dashed concert dreams, Jenny irritatedly mashed the spacebar to get the video to stop buffering and play. “Why can’t they release official versions of the shows on Netflix already?” 

It seemed that putlocker links from Asian tv-show and anime sites weren’t the most conducive means for foreigners like me to get subtitles, anymore.

“I’m working on it. Difficult market to penetrate, though.” Shinpachi had made ample inroads thus far. But by virtue—or in the view of Koreans, vice for being Japanese—BASNIZ business deals were a little bumpy in that part of the world. Chances were, I’d need to find a native connect to grant me an initial ‘in’ so that I could fully capitalise on Korea’s upcoming cultural colonisation. 

“Ugh, screw it!” Jenny slammed her PC’s lid closed. “It’s getting late, anyway. Let’s just grab a tight bite and head to bed. Not like there’s anything else to do. So unfair of mom and dad to ditch us like this.”

Jay went green at the reminder. “Yeah… forget cooking. I’m not even sure I have an appetite left.” 

“Sounds like we’re headed out then, aren’t we?” I suggested while already making my way over to the shoe cubbies by the entrance.

“You following along limits our options, though. We should probably go to one of those celeb-friendly BBQ joints. People there at least try to respectfully keep their distance.” Jay countered.

And Jenny complained. “God, I hate those places. They’re always super packed. The lengths we have to go to just to keep your gawkers at bay is so damn troublesome, Bas.”

Despite their moaning, both of them were right next to me as we got ready. Them in their regular comfy clothes, and me in my usual masked disguise. I wanted to complete my ensemble by nabbing Jenny’s fave heels—force of habit; you know? “Nuh-uh, not happening!” But she swatted my teasing fingers away, so I settled for my sneakers to heel-toe us over to our chosen diner.

“Crikey, you weren’t kidding. It’s fucking sardines in here. Not even standing room, nevermind seating.” Peddling a few minutes down the street, we were met with smells, sounds, and sights of patrons bursting out the front door. 

Cramming our way into the cracks between the clamouring clientele, our heads were on a swivel for a free grill. 

“Even more than usual, somehow. Wonder what the rush is?” Jay winced as a harangued accidentally waitress trampled his feet as she shoulder-checked past him with her customer’s cheque.  

For a second, I thought the fist abruptly thumping away on my spine was another irate person attempting to barge their way through; turns out it was just Jenny going into shock. “I—I think I figured out why…” she practically squealed as she pointed at a table deeper into the store. 

Huh. Guess she’d be getting that concert after all.

Perched on one end of an otherwise family-sized bench, Psy and two hulking dudes on either side of him—probably his manager or bodyguards—steadily picked through a sizzling grate loaded with meat.

Still dressed in a garishly sequined jacket, I’d wager he was refuelling after his stage show. His costume and companions revealed his obvious celeb status, allowing him the widest berth among the feasting throngs. 

Which also meant the only vacancy was on his table. “Wait!” 

Jay and Jenny tried to collar me before I could predictably forge ahead, but I slipped out of their grip before they could get their star-struck bearings, and unashamedly slid myself onto one of the open chairs. “‘Scuse me!”

“No sit here. Taken!” The most sumo-esque member of Psy’s posse struck out an oversized hand to bar us from plonking our butts. 

I parried by yanking my mask down. “Sure about that?” All it took was a quick glimpse of my face for them to realise my identity. 

“Bas Rh—!” 

Psy elbowed his man, forcing him to put his barricade of an arm down, and swiftly offered me an invitation directly opposite him. “No, no, no! Please to sit—your friends can also.” 

“Thanks a bunch!” I waved the siblings over, who rushed in with stuttered steps and greetings. “Hope you won’t mind taking a couple of pics with ‘em afterwards. They’re big fans.” I didn’t begrudge them their stilted response. I very well understood the effects of fame.

Nobody, not even other stars, were immune. “Of course, no problem. I’m never dreaming that I get to meet top star like you so unexpected like this. Or that you even know me! Order anything you want!” 

How gracious. I almost felt guilty about taking advantage of this fortuitous opportunity. Almost. “Then I won’t be polite; next meal’s on me, fair?”

His boys started piling plates of pork belly and passing them over to the three of us without further prompting. “Ah, it’s ok. Concert is now last day, so we are flying back tomorrow morning.”

“C’mon, don’t leave me in the lurch. There must be some way I can repay you. Surely you can delay your return by a day or so?” I pressed.

“Cannot. My new album is releasing very soon, so I have to finish recording.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe I can help with that, then?” This was it. Time for my voice to shine! 

“You can sing?”

“Well, I’ve been known to carry a tun—!”

“No!” Two pairs of chopsticks shoved succulent meat into my mouth to mute me. As I struggled to chew through the food stuffed in my cheeks. The traitorous duo I’d brought with me rattled off in panicked Korean, with wild gestures like covering their ears. 

My dreams of pop-stardom died with Psy’s strained smile. “They say that you are, uh… much more talented at dancing.”

Well, better than nothing, I suppose. “Deal. Music video it is.”