Kpop Summer

Chapter One: Mac at Two Weeks of His Summer Job

Aigoo! someone exclaimed from the front of the sleek, white, conversion van. Somebody pound Lunch Dog on the back. I don’t want his drink all over me before we stop!

Min-Jun seethed inwardly. On the outside, he smiled politely and whacked the new guy, maybe a bit too hard. The managers hired Mac, the Lunch Dog, but gave the group no say in the matter. That was not right! The band should have chosen who replaced Jung-Ja. Had it been up to Min-Jun, this pretty American sitting in front of him in the van had already failed the cut. Were it up to Min-Jun, though, no one would make the cut to join the group. They should be split up by now and he, Min-Jun, be launched into his solo career. This new guy was just not a good fit. He dripped nice from every hair on that blond head. He even apologized to everyone for choking!

For two weeks Min-Jun lived with this new guy and had just about enough of him. Tonight was the true test. If Mac failed to perform at the concert, the managers would probably get rid of him. Min-Jun was certain Mac would fail, but just to be sure, he planned a little bit of his own insurance to help hasten the elimination. A few well-timed accidents were going to happen to Mac during this concert. Min-Jun hoped it would frustrate that flower boy so much that he would quit, if the management didn’t fire him first. He ensured that during the beginning number, Mac’s microphone would malfunction. Min-Jun was also going to cut one of the guy’s guitar strings just enough to break in the middle of his solo, stopping him from singing, ruining his debut. Finally, he was going to make sure Mac came on stage late, or not at all, for the last number, putting off the sequence and ruining the end of the performance. With any luck, the Lunch Dog would vomit all over the middle of the stage, like he’d been doing in their practices, and seal his own fate. Now, that would be perfect! A slow smile spread across Min-Jun’s face as he pictured the scene, puke all over and hundreds of shocked fans looking on with disgust.

Mac was choking on the last swallow of his energy drink. It was widely apparent by his gasping and coughing. In the seat somewhere behind him, an arm reached up and hit him everywhere except his back, making him gasp all the louder and briefly taking his focus away from what had caused him to choke in the first place. A hand waved a paper airline barf bag in front of his face, adding to the insults.

Come on, Lunch Dog, someone whined. Get a grip! We’re going to be stopping soon and it won’t look good to have anything but a smile on that beautiful, white face. You can’t disappoint our adoring fans, now can you?

Sorry, Mac managed to spurt out, in between his coughing and gasping.

The sarcasm, thick in the van, was all aimed toward Mac, the new guy, but stopping his choking proved easier said than done. Mac still reeled from his mistaken swallow. They were being a little harsh, but it was not unexpected from these guys. They didn’t exactly count him as one of them. He was only two weeks into his summer job, the hardest job he had ever held. When the van stopped, and everyone piled out, it would be Mac’s debut with the popular, South Korean boy band, G5. He had to get through the whole performance tonight, singing and dancing in a too tight-fitting, leather and sequined jacket, stretch trousers, and barely broken in, high-top sneakers. Matching the dance steps of his four companions, his vocals must be pitch perfect and timing exact. Worse, though, was the solo that he was performing during the concert. Alone on stage in front of hundreds of spectators, that, more than anything, was making Mac so nervous, he might, indeed, vomit up the last of that energy drink.

Every time the group ran through the whole performance in practice, the last few days, Mac ended up emptying his stomach before the last number. Once, he did it right on the floor in the practice room, not making it to restroom, causing a few hours of delay, while the mess was mopped up and the smell filtered out of the room. Embarrassing, it earned him yet another derogatory name, in addition to Hey, You! Lunch Dog was an awful nickname, but fitting, since Mac usually vomited up his lunch. For Mac, a combination of overactive nerves, excessive exercise, and probably a weak system, leftover from a childhood illness, didn’t mix well within his body.

Thank God Lunch Dog isn’t doing all the numbers, Min-Jun said from the back seat. He’d never make it through. Look at him, now. He’s shaking like a leaf and his face is whiter than the lines on the pavement.

Min-Jun, the manager up front said, leave Mac alone. It’s his first concert. You guys all had a lot of time to work up to this point. Mac’s being thrown into the fire with only two weeks of practice.

Min-Jun’s right. He’d never make it through the more complicated numbers in the second half, Ji Hu echoed from beside Mac in the middle of the van.

You guys trained on those numbers for months. Of course he can’t do them, yet! He’ll need weeks to get up to your level. The manager still stuck up for Mac. He’ll do the first few numbers, his solo, come back on stage for the last few pieces, and then it will be over.

Or, at least this particular concert will be over. Mac swallowed hard. He still had the option to back out of the contract after this performance, if he wanted, and right now, he was thinking seriously of doing exactly that. He didn’t know if he could take another case of nerves like he had going on right now. His stomach protested loudly. He heard it even over the crowd noise, and his head pounded in time to the beat Leo annoyingly tapped on the seat near the door.

When he flops, you managers can exercise your option to let him go, Min-Jun said. It is probably just as well that he’s not doing all the numbers. The audience won’t notice, as much, if he isn’t there for the next concert and we get somebody else to replace him…somebody that is really Korean and not just made up to look like one, like this American Dog.

Enough, Min-Jun, Shinwoo said. We’ve got to get through this concert, right now, and with all five of us, including the Dog. Enough, he repeated. Mac will perform. We were all nervous at our first few concerts, so give him a break. Shut up and put that darling smile on your face for the fans before the van stops and the door opens.

Shinwoo reached forward from the back seat and popped Mac on the head. Same for you, Mac. Pull your eyes away from that window and put a smile on your face. He paused then added in English, And for God’s sake, don’t throw up in front of our fans.

Mac wasn’t nearly this nervous when he got into the van earlier. He had been on stage by himself before, but that was only singing to a few people in a coffee house. Still, he thought he could handle this first concert, no problem. As the van rounded the corner of the block on the final approach to the performance center, however, Mac got a good view of the fans outside. People packed the area so tightly that it seemed like a raging river with signs bobbing up and down in the current. Hundreds of fans waved excitedly, jumped up and down, screamed, held signs, and pointed right at the van, his van. Even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined that many excited people in one place at one time. How the heck did he get himself into this? Why did he sign that contract? Why did he agree to this job? He grabbed the barf bag and clutched it, just in case, as he stared out the window, mesmerized by the crowd. Screaming teens engulfed the van as soon as it stopped, pressing in closely, the sound deafening, louder than anything Mac had ever heard before, except maybe his heartbeat thundering in his ears. A hand reached up and smacked the window right in front of his face and Mac jerked back, startled. He didn’t care, at this point, if they all laughed at him inside the van.

Mac! Hey Mac! Fingers waved in front of his face. Come on!

The van had halted and everyone else had already exited. The band manager stopped trying to get Mac’s attention. Grabbing the barf bag out of Mac’s hand, he pulled him toward the door and the hoards of screaming fans, surging and pushing towards the van.

Don’t worry. We’ve only got to walk a few feet and we’ll be inside, the manager said.

He pulled Mac out the door and the volume from the crowd increased ten-fold. Fans pushed against the barriers and security guards, thrusting out their hands to grab or touch anything.

G5!, Shinwoo, I love you!

OMG! Leo!

You're so cute, Ji Hu!

The screams erupted painfully close to Mac’s ears, too close for comfort. The guards held the fans back so that the group could safely get from the van into the building. Walking casually, with a swagger to their step, the other guys smiled, waved at the crowd and stopped to sign a few autographs along the way. To them, it was a stroll in the park, just another day on the job. To Mac, this was what the beaches at Normandy during World War II must have been like. Only here the Germans weren’t attacking, it was an army of teenage girls. Instead of being showered by bullets, piercing screams assaulted his eardrums.

Mac followed the other guys, half staggering, half pushed along by the band manager taking up the rear. Somehow, he got through those few feet and into the door of the performance center. He didn’t remember to smile, he was sure, but at least he didn’t trip on anything and fall flat on his face. He looked as shocked as he felt, a deer in the headlights, his face whiter than his now perfectly polished teeth. The door shut behind him and the volume instantly decreased. Would he make it through the night? He wasn’t sure. He never, ever imagined that he’d be in this situation.

Mac got whisked upstairs and put in a chair for the finishing touches on his hair and makeup. He appeared as a totally different person afterward, but that was the point. He wasn’t supposed to look like his normal self. Unless someone stood two feet away from his face, when the makeup artist finished, he was an exact duplicate of the other four of his group, except for the hair color and style. It was actually a relief to Mac that he didn’t look like his usual self, and he would find, it came in handy later when he wanted to go out on his own. No one recognized him.

Hair styled, makeup finished, tight clothes feeling like they cut off his circulation, Mac stood on the dark stage, in position with the group for the first number. His heart thumped as hard as the drums coming from the backup band behind them. The lights hit, and Mac heard the cue for the first number. At the same time, his microphone cracked, shocking him so that he jumped slightly, but he continued the routine, as he had been taught through the last two weeks of constant drilling. Time sped up and everything went by lightening fast. He didn’t trip. He didn’t choke. He wasn’t off key and didn’t throw up, at least not then. The first number blurred by with only a few minor errors on his part and was over before he knew it. He was ashamed that he had made any mistakes at all, having completed the number so many times that he was sure he danced it in his sleep all night long. The group progressed right into the second number, and then everyone ran backstage to change for the next few songs.

Sorry about the mic, a technician said to Mac as he came backstage. We discovered a problem and fixed it at the last minute. I saw you jump, so sorry if you got a bit of a shock. The man apologized to him, bowing a few times.

Mac could only nod. He was trying to stay upright while hands stripped off his leather jacket and trousers and others patted down his dripping torso. Sweat rolled off of him, soaking into his underwear, which now clung to his body. And that’s why they made me switch from cotton boxers to knit briefs, Mac thought. The cool towel someone mopped him with felt good, but then he glanced around and blushed red from the tips of his hair to his toes.

He knew about the costume changes and practiced them with the wardrobe staff several times, to make sure he understood how and what he must do to change quickly. They even ran through the changes right here, backstage, yesterday. What he wasn’t prepared for was all the people backstage. Right now, practically naked, well, he might as well be naked as much as his underwear clung to him, stage hands rushed past, managers and staff flitted everywhere, and people with backstage passes hung out in the wings. To top matters off, Min-Jun walked by, glanced at him, and smirked.

Before he had time to contemplate the look from Min-Jun, he was stuffed into the next outfit, wet underwear and all. Someone shoved a bottle of water at him and he swallowed twice before being pushed toward the stage lights, again.

Mac? You all right? You’re a little green. The stage manager questioned him.

Mac nodded. I’ll survive.

Walk to center stage, pick up your guitar and do your solo, the manager instructed, just like practice.

Mac did as told. He walked to center stage while the audience cheered and clapped. Grabbing his guitar, already in a stand next to him, he sat down on a tall stool. A hot spotlight shone directly on his head, contributing to his headache. Knowing the managers were observing him from backstage, he wanted to do well in this performance. Knowing that the guys were probably watching, too, he wanted to sing well and show them that he could do the solo. They all doubted him and he didn’t like that at all. A tiny bit of himself doubted his abilities, too, though, contributing to his anxiety. If anything went wrong, the management might elect to end his contract. They had only put in two weeks of effort with him. They could get someone else and coach that other person up to speed in another two weeks, probably. Still, it wouldn’t be good for them to keep switching replacements. On the other hand, he probably would be the one canceling after tonight, not the management.

With all those comments and more banging around in his already hammering head, Mac tightly wrapped his fingers around the neck of his guitar then let them relax. He told himself this was nothing more than another coffee house performance, albeit a large one. So shape up, he admonished himself, and get on with it!

Mac already knew what song he was singing. It was one of his own. Surprised that they wanted him to sing this particular one, he had tried to get them to pick a different song. They were firm in insisting it be this one. Before being thrust into this band, Mac used to spend hours playing his guitar and composing his own songs. He was happy that they were letting him play one of his own, and not one from the other members. The song they picked, however, was a challenging one for Mac to sing because he had to be careful to keep his emotions in check. He must also sing it mostly in Korean, and not the American English in which it was originally composed. At home, whenever he sang it, he ended up nearly crying by the end, so emotional of a song was it for him. Singing it in the coffee house, Mac could never get through to the end, so he usually stopped before the last line. He had composed the song, originally, for Mallory. When he sang, of course, it brought up memories of her and tears to his eyes. He remembered her smiling at him and her large, sparkling brown eyes.

He took a deep breath, thinking of the song, then of Mallory, and almost choked up. He sensed tears coming already. He gulped in another large breath of air and let it out slowly, then tried a practice strum on his guitar and instantly knew something was wrong. Taking a look, he saw that one of the strings was slack.

Great. My first big solo and I have an equipment malfunction, he thought. Making a split second decision, he took another deep breath and said softly, This is for you. Keep me strong.

The crowd went wild. He didn’t hear them, though, at that point. All sounds had ceased the moment he took that last breath. Mac sat alone with his broken guitar. No, he wasn't quite alone. Mallory was there with him.

He had never actually encountered her when he was awake. Mac always felt the overwhelming sadness, like in his dreams, going into this song, but when he raised his head up from the broken guitar, he noticed Mallory sitting there, on the fringes of the shadows at the edge of the stage, smiling at him. He blinked a few times, but she stayed in his vision. He saw her eyes shining at him and they held him, mesmerizing him. He sang, a cappella, still clutching the guitar in his hands.

With the lights focused on stage, it was difficult to see anything beyond a few feet. Singing this slow, sad song, it became easy for his mind to go somewhere else. He drifted. The flower petals floated across the stage as he sang about them in the song. Their creamy, pink colors swirled with the wind in perfect sine waves. It was spring, again, with the air cool and heady, full of the fragrance of the blossoms. She smiled at him from the edge of the shadows and the petals twirled and danced. He sang through the final chorus and to the last line. Seeing her smiling, he sensed her as never before.

And the blossoms fell like rain, and the tears began, again, he sang.

That was it. That was the last line. He did it. He got through the whole song, including the last line. Mac watched his hands shaking, still gripping the broken guitar, then searched the shadows at the edge of the stage. Mallory was gone. Back from his dream state, the blossoms vanished. Silence greeted him, now. Not a sound came from the dark area beyond the stage where he knew the audience sat. Did he flop? Was he off tune? Did he say something wrong in his hasty Korean translation of the song? He brushed the tear that trickled down his cheek, a leftover from his emotional state, and heard a gasp from the audience.

The silence only lasted a few seconds before it was replaced with cheering and clapping, and more screaming. Mac had made it through his solo. He felt like he had not slept in three days, he was so drained, but somehow he walked off the stage, with the broken guitar in tow. He was immediately clapped on the back.

Good job! They loved it, the manager bellowed into Mac’s ear over the roar of the crowd. That was brilliant to do it without the guitar.

I had to, Mac explained, and showed him the instrument.

And then the costume change started all over again, to get prepared for the last few numbers. Everyone else had taken a break while Mac performed his solo, so they appeared fresh for the next few numbers. Mac, on the other hand, was ready to collapse, but somehow managed to stay standing, practically naked, shaking in his wet underwear, while someone frantically searched for his missing costume. Nearly late getting onto stage for the final numbers, his new outfit fitted on him at the last second, he ran back out to finish the performance. How he did finish, he never knew, but somehow he got to the end of the show before throwing up.

Chapter Two: Mac at Day One of His Summer Job

Mac guessed he took after his grandfather for his love of math and physics. Wherever he went, what ever he did, he saw patterns in everything and tried to solve problems by addressing things logically. His grandfather was like that, too, with a career in engineering. However, after retirement, Grandfather moved back home and took over the family farm. Then, again, maybe he took after his mother or aunt. They both excelled with their careers in managing and teaching. He was good at managing people and getting results in situations with the odds stacked against success. Perhaps he took after his father, a professor of software engineering, since he enjoyed computers and programming. Who knew where Mac acquired his strengths and talents? His family certainly didn’t know even though they liked to believe that his genes came directly from their lineage. The fact was Mac never knew his birth parents. He was adopted.

Even though Mac was loved and showered with affection by all his family, he knew he was very different from them. For starters, he looked nothing like any of them, having, probably, not an ounce of Asian blood in his body. Just over six feet tall, he towered above all of them, even his father, the next tallest. Where all his family sported dark hair and eyes, he was the opposite, with blond hair so light it was almost white, and crystal clear, large, blue eyes. At ten years of age, his mother actually colored in his eyebrows for him so that they would show up on his face after kids teased him saying he didn’t have any. At that point, Mac had them, but they were lightly colored, like his hair. That hair, too, grew so thick that Mac referred to it as his space alien, with a mind of its own. He kept it clean and cut a reasonable length, but that was about it. If he combed it, which he usually did after he showered each day, ten minutes later disaster reigned, no matter what he did or what hair products he used.

He was adopted at ten years of age. His parents lost their only child in a long battle from cancer. Feeling the loneliness, they decided to take Mac in as a their foster child, and ended up adopting him a year later. Both from South Korea, his parents immigrated to the United States when they were in college. All the rest of the family was still back in South Korea. Mac had met most of his extended family when they visited, but he had never been to South Korea. His mother never went back to her home country, either, although his father traveled frequently to see his family and meet with colleagues.

Affectionately called the black sheep of the family, even though he was far from that color, Mac stood out, at family gatherings, literally. Growing up, it was always a joke in the family to watch the reactions of outsiders. Of course, they did what other foreign families often do, and talked in the language that they were most comfortable speaking. People stared at their little threesome happily chatting in Korean as they munched their pizza at a local restaurant or shouted back and forth to each other on a hike. The only language spoken at home, Mac picked up Korean quickly, once he joined the family. He also learned how to read the Korean characters. It took him a while to get through the Korean newspaper that his father rapidly scanned each morning, but his father helped Mac to learn by quizzing him each night. Also taught to use manners, his mother ensured that Mac followed her instructions. Manners provided structure and a sense of order in situations that might otherwise have been difficult for him.

So how did Mac end up in a K-pop band in South Korea? He guessed fate had a lot to do with it, and the desire for a well-paying summer job. Mac’s parents, although not poor, were not extremely rich, either. The family lived comfortably, in a three-bedroom, two-story house, in a neighborhood where most of the dwellings were exactly alike if not for a few, slight architectural changes. Mac got good enough grades in school to have earned a scholastic scholarship for college, but, in today’s economy, the amount in that scholarship was not enough to pay for a whole semester’s tuition, books, room and board. His parents offered to help with the expenses, and did contribute some, but he preferred to work to make up the difference from his scholarship, and he liked to have some money for other things, too. Mac enjoyed being independent, and he knew his parents were proud that he had that ambition. They worked hard during their careers, and still did, to give them and particularly Mac, a home to feel comfortable. So, Mac started in his early teens earning pocket money by mowing lawns, raking leaves, and babysitting. He graduated to a fast food place when he turned fifteen, and moved up to a coffee house at seventeen.

Mac still worked at a coffee house close to his campus, on the local main street in town. He landed that job shortly after he started college. The work was great, but he was addicted to good coffee, now. He was also hooked on playing his guitar, singing, and composing. The coffee house held open mic night every Tuesday, and he could usually be found sitting in front of that microphone, singing his songs. It helped him to relieve some of the stress of school because, when he was singing and playing, he could, and did, let his mind wander. Still, Mac was nervous the first time he performed. He remembered that night because it thrust him on the stage by accident. Working the evening shift at the coffee house, manning the counter, Mac studied for his calculus class at the same time.

Mac, his manager poked him in the ribs, why don’t you get your nose out of that book and go clean up the tables. It’s pretty slow in here tonight. You can sit down afterward with a cup of that special dark roast that you like.

Sometimes, when it was slow, Mac’s manager let him sit in the corner and study until business picked up.

Sure, Mac said, thinking of the smooth, strong roast with a subtle flavor of maple and walnuts. A cup of coffee, especially a good one like that, was always welcome.

Didn't you have some guy coming in to sing tonight?

Yah, I did, his manager said with a frown. The dude brought his stuff, and got all set up, but ducked out for some emergency at home. Said he’d be back to get his equipment later.

It sounded like the manager was a bit disappointed that his first open mic night had fizzled.

Say, he said, with a sudden gleam in his eye. Don’t you know how to play the guitar? Get over there and play me something.

Me? Mac glanced back at his calculus book lying open on the end of the counter. I figured I’d be able to get in more time for my class.

Oh, forget that book for tonight. You’ve had your head in it for two hours, already. Clean the tables then play me something. He pointed over to the guitar sitting in the open case.

Mac gathered up the rest of the empty cups from the tables and carted them over to the sink, dropping them in the soapy water to soak. Walking back to the guitar case, he took his apron off over his head and tossed it on another empty table. The few patrons in the house glanced over, curious. The guitar was nothing fancy, and that suited him just fine, but it was dicey playing on borrowed equipment. Mac picked it up, tuned it a bit, then started in on a song he wrote a while back. After he finished that song, he kept on going with some of his other pieces, realizing that it was nice to play and sing and not have to worry about whether his homework was done, the date of the next exam, or if he was going to be able to get enough sleep before his classes started tomorrow. He let it all go.

After that night, Mac’s manager asked him to play for every open mic night, and gradually the number of customers picked up until open mic night was standing room only. Grateful for the opportunity to try out his new songs and sing his old ones, Mac got much better with the guitar, too. He even played the keyboard, sometimes. His mother made him take lessons for a few years, so he knew how to play, but when it became apparent that he was not a child prodigy, she let him quit. It surprised Mac that most of those old lessons came back to him and, like the guitar, he improved on the keyboard until it became easy to play his songs on either.

Open mic night also paid more, with the tips from the jar on the edge of the tiny stage. That helped go towards college expenses, too. He counted every penny and watched where every cent went. Frugal with his dining, he did not sign up for a meal plan at school, but ate ramen noodles, searched the local supermarket day-old bins and sale items, and consumed the stale muffins from the coffee house. Whenever he visited home, his mom sent him back with a mountain of food and he carefully savored those packages as long as he could. Truthfully, though, he didn’t think his room mate would have minded if he gave up bringing food from home. Some of those dishes, especially the home made kimchi, were pretty fragrant, or God-awful stinky as Brad told him. He loved them, though, and ate every bite, often with a pair of chopsticks that his aunt gave him at some past Christmas. His room mate laughed at him because, to Brad, it was amusing to see Mac always eating with chopsticks. Brad laughed the day Mac brought them with him to eat lunch in the cafeteria. Kind of embarrassed to use them, since no one else did, to tell the truth, he was more comfortable with his chopsticks than using a fork. After that first time, he always tucked a pair into his jacket or backpack. He didn’t care what other people thought. He’d already been branded a geeky nerd by his room mate because Mac majored in engineering, knew how to fix his own computer, and loved math. His room mate also said that he must be a reincarnated Asian and that was why he had Korean parents and ate with chopsticks. Who knew?

Even with