MCMH | Chapter 1.1

Everyone called me Cherry. I introduced myself as Cherry too.

I’m Cherry. No last name. Sometimes I’m called bastard, male whore, rag, or junkie.

You might think, what kind of guy is named Cherry? I don’t like it either. You can call me whatever you want.

Even when I joke, people don’t laugh. People on New York 125th Street don’t have a sense of humor. They don’t know how to joke. They’re all boring folks.

That’s why rock died.

I think rock crumbled because humor disappeared.

But I still love rock. You could say I’m an outdated Cherry. I always wear black jeans and a denim jacket that no one wears anymore, and my hair is a shaggy bob, unkempt.

Still, no one cares. No one bothers with dirty me.

Cherry is inherently like that. Can’t be the main. It’s crushed and mixed with other things, used as an ingredient, or just a decoration for other dishes.

Tonight, I’m going to mix with other things again. To become the dirtiest and most tasteless ingredient on this filthy street. To be precise, I’m going to sell my mouth.

I’m good at everything with my mouth. Blowjobs and singing.

In this filthy place, I’m the dirtiest Cherry. A bright red Cherry that opens its mouth for money without even removing the stem. I love men in heat.

But what I love more is singing.

I sing rock. At a bar with the funny name ‘The Box.’

On the dimly lit small stage of the bar, when the lights come on, I put my lips to the microphone and let out the first note.

I love that moment. Even if I perform every day, the smell of the first note is different each time.

C chord smells like cigarettes and cedar, G chord like espresso, Am chord like a wet leather sofa.

I exhale with the smell. The breath becomes a pitch, and the pitch leaves me, taking shape.

If you could see sound, I wished my voice was bright red. So anyone could see it, even those who can’t hear.

When I sing, I can feel the gazes on me. Though Cherry is meant to be crushed and pressed, at that moment, I become the main. It’s an ecstatic moment.

Does it feel like heaven?

Unfortunately, I hate the word heaven. What is heaven? Its definition varies from person to person. Such ambiguous and funny words are unacceptable as a rocker.

Will I ever sing a song I composed? For now, I can only do cover performances, but I keep composing.

Every time I create a song, I imagine the smell of the song. I never use ‘Cherry’ as a composer name. Sometimes it’s ‘B,’ sometimes ‘Laurent.’ Sometimes ‘Shakira,’ ‘Mc. O.L.,’ or ‘Andy.’ I don’t want my songs to smell like me.

The Box is originally a jazz bar. But the owner likes rock, so he hired a band.

In exchange for singing at The Box, I get to sleep in the storage room and eat leftover nachos and sausages in the morning.

I asked the owner of The Box. Wouldn’t it be better to hire a drag queen instead of me?

The owner replied. Some people come to see your blue eyes and black hair. Pretty Cherry. Oh, but your hair isn’t dyed, right?

The owner was right. After finishing a song, some guys approached me. I had fans too.

Fans wait for me and give me money. Then they unzip. I kneel in front of them, offering my black hair.

I love singing. I love singing and being loved. Being loved by men, even when crushed, is an extension of the performance.

After singing with bright red lips and sucking men’s dicks, the night passes. Sometimes junkies approach and offer to do drugs together. But I never do drugs I’ve never seen before, nor do I take drugs from strangers.

Even a dirty and insignificant Cherry has its own rules.

First, don’t do drugs for the first time. Second, don’t let the backdoor be opened. Third, only steal once a week.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep these rules. Especially the second one is the hardest. But after biting the dick of a guy who tried to rape me, it got a bit easier.

Rumors probably spread. Crazy Cherry bit a dick like a dog.

Though I’m small and skinny, I’m confident I won’t lose to anyone in fierceness.

As a mixed Asian living in this city’s slums, it’s a given. Without fierceness, you die. You die from drugs, get beaten to death, or get run over while sleeping on the street. Vroom, crash.

Homeless old man Bill died like that. Vroom, crash. I peed where Bill died. Offering urine on the bloodstain was my way of mourning.

This city and I are alike. Everything is mixed up, ready to explode at any moment.

I’m a Cherry bomb. Inside me is full of rot.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Even a dirty and insignificant Cherry has friends. Sandy is a girl my age who works part-time at a pizza place with me, and Jasmine is the grandma who took care of me since I was young, feeding me empanadas.

Sandy is the only person who genuinely wants me to pursue music. She’s also the only person I can talk to about music. Though she prefers pop over rock.

Anyway, she keeps telling me to upload my songs on some SNS called TokTik or something. I care about her, but that’s not going to happen.

“People will laugh. What if Cain sees it?”

“Cherry, people laugh at anything. And why would Cain watch your video?”

I pouted, and Sandy shook her head.

“And so what if they laugh? That’s how you debut.”

Sandy doesn’t know how stupid I am. That’s why she’s my friend, I guess.

That’s why I couldn’t tell her.

It’s not Cain laughing at me that’s the problem, but I’m scared ‘that guy’ might find me.

I’m afraid he’ll see my face on TokTik, come find me, and ask why I killed my mom.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

I don’t have a main source of income. The money I get from blowing guys, the pizza place part-time job, and other odd jobs are all temporary.

No junkie in New York has a proper income. Being able to earn and eat day by day is a blessing.

While working little by little, sometimes decent errands come in.

I never transport drugs. The DEA feels sorry for addicts but has no mercy for middlemen.

What I usually do is buy or deliver something. Sometimes I spend time with rich old ladies, but such easy jobs are rare.

Most of the time, it’s life-threatening. Because it’s related to gangsters. But the pay is decent.

“Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.”

Oliver always calls my name three times. Not many people can keep a straight face looking at his greasy blonde hair. I’m one of them. Still, I try to get on his good side. Oliver sometimes gives me decent jobs.

“Got any good jobs today, Oliver?”

“Why do you think I called you?”

“Right? Spill it.”

Oliver wiped his face with his dirty hands, looking around. There were disgustingly many people in front of the theater. As always.

“It’s a delivery job, but the pay is quite good.”

“How much?”

“Your share is 800 dollars.”

My eyes widened. 800 dollars is enough to live for a month without doing blowjobs.

“It’s not drugs, right? You know I don’t do drug deliveries.”

“Of course not. Just some rich… guy’s request.”

It’s dangerous. I said I’d think about it.

When I returned to The Box, the band members were already preparing for the performance. Today we’re covering Bite the Beat.

As I connected my guitar to the amp, I felt a strange gaze. When I turned around, the members were all looking at me.

“What? Aren’t you practicing?”

The drummer approached. He was bald and huge. Just looking at him, you’d know he’s a drummer.

“Cherry, can we talk?”

Then the bassist and lead guitarist approached. The bassist smelled, and the lead guitarist was really ugly.

“About what?”

“Not here, back there.”

When the drummer took another step closer, I realized. They weren’t just trying to ‘talk.’

I glared at them, ready to defend myself. The members of The Box band change all the time. Except for me. Some tore up my composition notes, and some tried to rape me.

Usually, they want my music or my backdoor, but what’s it this time?

“Hey, drag him.”

At the drummer’s command, the others grabbed my limbs and stuffed a dirty handkerchief in my mouth. They dragged me out through The Box’s back door.

When the first punch landed, I tried to assess the situation, and when the second punch came, I was bewildered. Only after the third hit did I realize. These guys didn’t want my music or my body.

“Bastard, dirty male whore. Damn.”

Sometimes people bully others for no reason. Living in New York, I’ve realized this several times but keep forgetting.

There was no reason for these guys to beat me. If I had to point out, maybe because I’m a mixed Asian and small.

Only when I stopped groaning did they stop hitting me. The act of spitting was filled with pure malice.

Even after getting beaten, I had to work. I put on cheap sunglasses – given by the late Bill. Let’s pray for Bill’s soul again. – and went on stage.

The band guys played as if nothing happened. I did the same. No matter how bruised I was, the song had to be there. Even as a cheap vocalist of a cheap bar, I’m a musician.

As usual, ‘fans’ waited for me backstage, but today I sneaked out through the front door, hiding among the people. I couldn’t do blowjobs with a busted lip.

Today, I became a busted Cherry. Sorry for not giving you pleasure.

While hiding in the darkness of the night with my hood up, a thought crossed my mind.

If I get close to the person Oliver got the job from, couldn’t I get more high-paying jobs like this?

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

My favorite place is in front of the movie theater. Even though I can’t afford to watch a movie, sitting in front of the building makes me feel like I’m part of this city.

I was born to a Korean mother and a British father. My black hair and deep blue eyes, almost black, are legacies from each of them.

My mother slit her throat and killed herself in front of me. It was about a year after my father left us.

As a child, I resented her, but now I know she was very sick.

I grew up rolling around the back alleys of New York. As a skinny, small-framed boy, I did all the bad things I could. 125th Street is where my misdeeds are buried.

That’s why I wanted to leave 125th Street. I wanted to abandon all my wrongdoings. How nice it would be to live without any burden. A life like music starting in C major, not Am. It’s what I want but can’t have.

Jasmine Grandma seemed to want me to stay here.

“All I do is eat your lumpia. Wouldn’t it be better for you if I wasn’t here?”

“Because a person can’t live on empanadas and lumpia alone, dear.”

Jasmine sometimes brought up philosophical topics. They were words I couldn’t understand as an uneducated fool.

“Life is something you have to inflate yourself. Just eating makes you too thin and weak, and you break easily. Like a burst lumpia.”

A burst lumpia is indeed terrible. I nodded vaguely.