Park Jihoon QA

I refuse three times

The door opened.

About ten centimeters. The latch was still on.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door closed.

(Closed.)

Only the sound of the fluorescent light trembling remained in the hall. Jeha stood there for about ten seconds without moving.

"…Excuse me."

"I’m not buying."

"Buying what?"

"Anything."

"I’m not selling anything."

"Those people sell the most."

Jeha laughed. For the first time in eleven years, he laughed when nobody else found it funny.

"You’re Moonire, right."

There was no sound from inside.

Then again, the sound of the latch unlocking.

Room 302 was about six pyeong.

There was one window, but it was covered with Styrofoam. More like blocked off than soundproofed. Egg cartons were stuck to the walls, and half of them had fallen off and been taped back on.

A synthesizer on the desk. An audio interface beside it. Four coffee cups beside that. They all looked like they were from different dates.

(So this is where that album came from.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"I can stand."

"Then stand."

Yire sat in the chair. As he sat, he turned his back. He pretended to look at the monitor, but the screen was off.

"My name is—"

"I know."

"…Right."

"Is there anyone who doesn’t know?"

There was no edge in his tone. That made it worse. It was just a voice stating facts.

"I listened to your album."

"Which one."

"Umnyeong."

Yire’s hand stopped. On the mouse.

"…It’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much."

"……."

"How much did you pay for it."

"220,000 won."

Yire turned around for the first time.

"Are you crazy?"

"Yeah."

"……."

"I didn’t buy it. My manager did, but he’s still mad about it."

"Of course he is. It cost 12,000 won to make."

"That’s cheap."

"It’s expensive. It sold five hundred copies."

Yire turned his back again.

"So what is it. You want an autograph?"

"Write me a song."

The room went quiet. The refrigerator could be heard running.

(That’s it.)

(The low-end noise under track 3. It was the sound of this room’s refrigerator.)

"I’m not doing it."

"The conditions—"

"I didn’t ask about the conditions."

"Why not."

"Yoon Jeha."

Yire turned the chair around. This time completely.

"Do you know what I do right now?"

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. Hand in a demo, get rejected, write again. My name doesn’t go on them. That’s the contract."

"But that’s not bad. I get paid. 3.2 million."

"When I made that album, I made 400,000 won a month."

"……."

"A lot of people say they like that album. They even played it on the radio. But you know what? After that broadcast, do you know how many people contacted me."

"Two. One was you, Yoon Jeha, and one was an insurance planner."

Jeha couldn’t say anything.

"So go. I hate talking about that album."

"…Why."

"When someone comes to tell you, ten years later, that they liked what you made."

"That isn’t comfort. It’s a bill."

Jeha made it to the door.

Then turned back.

"Track 8."

"……."

"You got the lyrics wrong at the first line of the second verse."

Yire’s shoulders stiffened.

"You missed a whole line and came in half a beat late. But you didn’t erase it."

"…I didn’t have the money."

"Liar."

"What did you say?"

"You mastered it yourself, didn’t you. Doing it because you had no money was right. But re-recording track 8 doesn’t cost money. You just turn on the mic and sing it one more time."

"You didn’t erase it."

Yire looked at Jeha. For the first time, he saw him not as Yoon Jeha, but as a person.

"I can’t do that."

"I have twelve songs. Right now. They’re all perfect. In tune, clean diction, every chorus in place, three minutes and twenty seconds."

"I can’t listen to even one of them."

The fluorescent light trembled. 60 hertz.

"I’m jealous of that mistake."

"That’s why I came here. I didn’t come to buy a song."

"……."

"Excuse me."

The door closed.

On the stairs down, someone was coming up from below.

Short hair, black padded jacket, a convenience-store bag in one hand. It was a woman.

The woman looked at Jeha. Just her eyes above the mask were visible.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed him. She went up about three steps, then stopped.

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"Coming from 302?"

"…Yeah."

"Got rejected, huh."

"…Yeah."

The woman laughed. Actually laughed out loud.

"Of course. He hasn’t given anyone a song in ten years."

"…He does, though. I heard he gives them every day."

"That’s selling."

The woman adjusted her grip on the convenience-store bag.

"Giving and selling are different."

"I’m Jeong Gyeoul. I played drums on that album."

"I know."

"Right. There are only two names in the credits."

Gyeoul looked Jeha over from head to toe.

"How many times have you come?"

"First time today."

"Then you’ve got two left."

"…What?"

"He rejects you three times. Usually."

Gyeoul went the rest of the way up the stairs.

"But he doesn’t reject the fourth."

"Only because nobody ever makes it that far."

The sound of room 302 opening and closing.

Jeha stood on the landing.

There was a cracked CD case in his pocket.

(Two times.)

The car was parked outside the alley.

Minsuk rolled down the driver’s-side window. It smelled like cigarettes. He’d been saying he was quitting for ten years.

"How’d it go."

"Got rejected."

Minsuk looked at Jeha.

And kept looking.

"…What?"

"I got rejected."

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"Are you smiling right now?"

Jeha had just opened the passenger door when he touched his own face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Yeah."

"……"

"Yoon Jeha. I’ve been by your side for eleven years."

"In all those eleven years, I’d never seen hyung get rejected even once."

"Yeah."

"Then why are you happy about it?"

Jeha didn’t answer. He got in the car. Buckled his seat belt.

The car pulled out of the alley. In the rearview mirror, the signless four-story building shrank.

"Minsuk."

"Yeah."

"CEO Oh told me something. Said I wrote twelve songs a month when I was seventeen."

"…You did."

"Was it true?"

"It was true. They were all trash, but there were twelve."

They hit a red light.

"Where did they all go."

Minsuk looked ahead, hands on the wheel.

The light changed. The car behind them honked. Minsuk didn’t move.

"…They’re in my storage."

Jeha looked at Minsuk.

"I told you to throw them all out when we cleared the practice room. At the company."

"But I couldn’t throw them away."

The car behind them honked again.

"The ones burned to CD-R. There should be thirty-something. Might’ve gotten moldy."

"…Why."

"Give them to me."

"Jeha."

"Give them to me, Minsuk."

Minsuk stepped on the accelerator.

"…You’re nuts."

Minsuk’s storage was in Gimpo.

It was a container. It took Minsuk five minutes to open the lock. Not because the key didn’t fit, but because the lock was rusted shut.

"First time I’ve opened this in five years."

When the door opened, cold air came out from inside. The smell of paper and mildew.

It was dark inside. Minsuk turned on a flashlight.

There were amps. Stands. A broken cymbal stand. Bundles of cables. And boxes.

"…What is all this."

"Stuff from the practice room."

"I told you to throw it out."

"I said I threw it out. I didn’t say I’d thrown it out."

Jeha touched the amp. Dust got on his fingers.

It was his amp. The one he’d bought at fifteen. 180,000 won secondhand.

"Found it."

Minsuk dragged out a ramen box. The lid was folded down and the corners were crushed.

Inside, CD-Rs were packed tight. Thirty-something discs. Dates written on each case in permanent marker.

Jeha took one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minsuk pointed the flashlight at the wall.

A poster was stuck there. A3 size. Printed out. All the ink had faded, leaving only blue.

The band name was written on it.

Moonlight.

Under that, the names of four people. Two of them were no longer reachable.

Jeha stared at the poster for a long time.

"Jeha."

"Yeah."

"Do you remember why you quit this?"

"…The company made me quit."

Minsuk lowered the flashlight.

As the light fell to the floor, Minsuk’s face went dark.

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jeha looked at Minsuk.

Minsuk wasn’t looking at Jeha. He was looking at the poster.

"Minsuk."

"…Forget it. Never mind."

"Just carry the box. It’s heavy."

Minsuk went out of the container.

Jeha stood there for a moment.

The four people in the poster were smiling. The image quality was bad, so their expressions were blurred, but you could tell they were smiling.

(…Did I quit?)

It was the first time he’d had that thought in thirteen years.

That afternoon, at the company.

Oh Sangheon was standing by the window. He never talked while sitting down.

"We’ve set the release date."

"…What?"

"November 21. I notified the distributor."

Jeha counted the months. Four.

"There are no songs."

"You’ve got twelve."

"I can’t use those."

"Yoon Jeha."

CEO Oh turned around. His face still wasn’t angry.

"Where do you go these days."

Jeha didn’t answer.

"Cha Minsuk didn’t say anything. He told me everything for eleven years."

"This is the first time he’s covered for you."

"……."

"Then fine."

CEO Oh flipped through the papers.

"I’ll give you four months. I don’t care who you do it with."

"But Jeha."

"Yes."

"If the album isn’t out on November 21."

"Then I’ll release it with twelve songs."

He put the papers on the desk.

"Under your name."

Jeha left the conference room.

The hallway was quiet. This building was well soundproofed.

(Four months.)

(Three tries left until the third visit, and four months left.)

The next afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

K’s studio was the opposite of room 302 in every way. Wide, bright, and crowded. There was a window, and sunlight came through it.

Yire had worked in that room for three years.

"Yire, this one came out really well."

"Thank you."

"Their A&R heard the demo and said okay right away. This never happens, you know? Usually they reject it three times."

"That’s a relief."

"They might even make it the title track."

Yire looked at the monitor. A waveform was there. The waveform he’d been working on until three a.m. last night.

"What about the credits."

K paused for a moment.

"…Yire."

"I know. I was just asking."

"I’m not going to say sorry. That’d be rude. It’s a contract."

"Yeah."

"I didn’t scam you. You read the contract and signed it."

"Yeah. I read it."

K wasn’t a bad person.

That was why Yire had kept doing this for three years. If he’d been a bad person, he would’ve quit long ago.

"Yire."

"Yes."

"You’ve been a little weird lately."

"……."

"That demo yesterday, the chorus was stuck on strangely. Eight bars missing."

"I filled it in. Is it okay?"

Yire didn’t answer.

K left. The door closed softly. Unlike the door to 302, it made no sound.

Yire was left alone.

And took something out of his bag.

A cracked CD case. His own album.

The one he hadn’t opened once in ten years.

(Why did I take it out.)

Yire put on track 8.

Verse 1 passed. Verse 2 came.

At the first line, the twenty-four-year-old Yire missed the lyric. He came in half a beat late.

Yire pressed stop.

(Why didn’t I erase it.)

(…I don’t remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

Room 302 was knocked on three times.

This time Yire didn’t look through the peephole. He knew who it was.

He opened the door. Unhooked the latch too.

"Second time."

"Yes."

"……."

Jeha was holding a cardboard box. Ramen-box size. The corners were damp.

"What’s that."

"My demos."

"…What?"

"The ones I wrote when I was seventeen. There are supposed to be thirty-one. I haven’t counted them yet."

Yire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs were standing tightly packed inside, each case marked in permanent ink. Dates.

"I told you I’m not listening."

"I know."

"Then why bring them."

"To leave them here."

"……."

"If you’re going to reject me, you should listen first."

Yire was momentarily at a loss for words.

"What kind of logic is that."

"If you reject them without listening, then you’re rejecting me."

"Reject my songs. That’s fair."

Yire looked at Jeha.

A performer who had never failed once in eleven years. A person with no flop, no scandal, always smooth interviews.

That person was now climbing three flights of stairs with a wet ramen box, asking to be rejected.

"…This smells like mildew."

"It was in storage."

"For how many years."

"Thirteen years."

Yire took the box.

Only after taking it did he realize he’d taken it.

"…I’ll listen to one song."

"That’s enough."

"And I’ll reject it."

"Yeah."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Jeha turned toward the stairs.

"Yoon Jeha."

Jeha stopped.

"Why me?"

Jeha didn’t answer for a long time.

"…I don’t know."

"……."

"That’s the only thing I don’t know these days."

"So I came."

Jeha went down the stairs.

11 p.m.

Yire shoved the box under the desk. He held out there for two hours.

At 12:40, he pulled the box out.

He took out the top CD. Written on it in permanent marker: '2012.03.11'. There was mold on the back.

He put it in the player.

Play.

…It was terrible.

The guitar came in first, but it was out of tune. Not on purpose, just out. The 3rd string was about 30 cents flat.

The tempo wavered. He definitely hadn’t used a click.

The voice came in. Seventeen years old.

His throat broke on the high notes. Even knowing it would break, he was still belting.

(Can’t sing.)

Yire gave a small snort of laughter. He made no sound.

And didn’t turn it off.

Track 2 came on.

Track 3.

4, 5.

All the songs were short. None ran over four minutes. Some had choruses, some didn’t. If they did, it sounded corny; if they didn’t, it felt strange.

On the eleventh song, Yire made fresh coffee.

On the nineteenth, he got a blanket.

On the twenty-third, seventeen-year-old Jeha stopped the song halfway through and cursed.

"Fuck……."

Then he started from the beginning again. Without stopping the recording.

Yire replayed that part three times.

3:40 a.m.

Track 31.

The last song. It was a little better. Just a little.

The song ended at around 2:30.

But the recording didn’t stop.

The guitar vanished, and only the room’s air remained. Somewhere, a fluorescent light trembled. 60 hertz.

And at 2:40, seventeen-year-old Jeha said,

"…Nobody’s ever going to listen to this."

A sound of laughter.

And the recording cut off.

Yire sat there with his hand on the stop button.

He couldn’t press it.

For the first time in ten years, it was a night he’d listened to someone else’s demo all the way through.

(...I listened.)

(All thirty-one songs.)

The window was blocked with Styrofoam, so he couldn’t see the outside getting light.

Same night. Gangbyeonbuk-ro.

Jeha had given the whole box back.

Except for one disc.

The first one he’d taken out in the storage room. 2012.03.11. He hadn’t told Yire he put it in his pocket.

He didn’t even know why he’d kept it.

There was no CD player in the car. There aren’t any in cars these days. So Jeha borrowed Minsuk’s old laptop. With an external drive too.

He set the laptop on the passenger seat and parked on the shoulder.

The exact same spot where he’d stopped the car a month ago after listening to Yire’s song.

(It’s a coincidence.)

It wasn’t. Jeha remembered that spot.

He inserted the CD. The drive spun for a while. Reading a thirteen-year-old CD-R took time.

Play.

The guitar came in.

It was out of tune.

Jeha hit stop after three seconds.

……..

Play again.

A voice came in. His own voice at seventeen.

It cracked on the high notes.

Stop.

Jeha pressed his forehead to the steering wheel.

(Why can’t I listen.)

Play. Stop.

Play. Stop.

He repeated it about twelve times. The longest he lasted was forty seconds.

For eleven years, he’d watched thirty of his own movies. At premieres, greetings on stage, awards clips. He’d seen his own face thousands of times.

That was fine.

Because that wasn’t him.

But this was him.

(Can’t sing.)

(Really can’t sing.)

Then a strange thought came to him.

(How many songs has that person listened to?)

He looked at the clock. 2:10 a.m.

(No. He probably didn’t listen. Not a single song.)

(Of course. I wouldn’t listen either.)

He closed the laptop.

Then opened it again.

Play.

This time he lasted 1 minute 20 seconds.

Then turned it off.

The car went quiet. It was a well-insulated car, so no sound came through. Not the river, not passing cars.

Jeha sat in that silence for an hour.

(Thirty-one songs.)

(And I couldn’t listen to even one.)

He learned that fact seven hours later.

8 a.m. The door to 302 opened.

Gyeoul came in carrying a convenience-store bag. Two triangle gimbap and coffee.

Yire was sitting in the chair under a blanket. The monitor was off.

"Pulled an all-nighter?"

"…Yeah."

"A song?"

"No."

Gyeoul stopped as she set down the bag.

There was a ramen box under the desk. The lid was open, and about half the CD-Rs had spilled out onto the floor.

"What is this."

"Trash."

Gyeoul picked one up. Checked the date.

"2012? Hey, this was before our debut."

"…Is this his? That actor?"

"Yeah."

"You listened to it?"

Yire didn’t answer.

"Yire."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many songs did you listen to."

"…Thirty-one songs."

Gyeoul set the CD down.

Then laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"Why."

"You didn’t even listen to my demo for ten years."

Yire looked at Gyeoul.

"I gave it to you three times. Once in 2019, once in 2021, once last year."

"You didn’t listen all three times."

"…I was busy."

"Liar."

Gyeoul dragged a chair over and sat in front of Yire.

"You know what you said the second time I gave it to you?"

"…I don’t remember."

"You said, what if it’s good."

Yire’s hand stopped under the blanket.

"That was exactly what you said. What if it’s good."

"Back then I didn’t know what that meant. But I do now."

"If it’s good, you’ll want to do it."

"And if I want to do it, I’ll end up making 400,000 won a month again."

Yire said nothing.

"That’s what this is right now."

"…No, it isn’t."

"Yire."

"I said it isn’t."

Gyeoul reached out and fixed the blanket over Yire.

Yire didn’t flinch away.

"If you’re scared, say you’re scared."

"That’s not a rejection."

The fluorescent light trembled.

Yire reached out from under the blanket and grabbed a triangle gimbap. He failed to unwrap it. Failed again on the second try.

Gyeoul wordlessly took it and peeled it open for him.

"…Gyeoul."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Gyeoul looked at Yire.

"…Yeah."

"……."

"But I’m not giving it to you."

"Why."

"I decided not to give it on the fourth time."

Gyeoul stood up and set the coffee in front of Yire.

"Call him first. Him."

"Say what."

"You said you’d reject him."

"Then I should reject him. Right?"

Gyeoul left.

Yire held the coffee for a long time. Until it went cold.

9 a.m. Jeha’s phone rang.

Unknown number.

"…Hello."

"I listened."

Jeha sat up in bed.

"…How many songs."

"Thirty-one songs."

Jeha couldn’t say anything.

"I said I’d listen to one song, but somehow it turned out like this."

"……."

"And also."

"I’m not doing it."

Jeha closed his eyes.

"…Okay."

"Second time."

"Yeah. Second time."

"……."

The call didn’t end.

He could hear breathing. Breathing from someone else who’d also stayed up all night.

"But."

"Yeah."

"Track 31, 2:40."

Jeha’s hand stopped.

"After the song ended, the recording didn’t stop. You said something there."

"Nobody’s ever going to listen to this."

"And then you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jeha couldn’t answer.

For eleven years, he’d been able to answer every question. In interviews, at awards shows, at fan meetings. He could make even unanswered questions sound like answers.

But now nothing came out.

"You don’t know, do you."

"…No."

"Then that’s fine."

"When you can answer that."

A brief silence.

"Come a third time."

The call ended.

Jeha sat there a long time holding the phone.

The Han River was visible outside the window. It was a well-insulated house, so there was no sound.

No refrigerator, no fluorescent light.

(Two times.)

(One left.)

Only after hanging up did Jeha realize.

He hadn’t asked how that person knew his number.

And that person also hadn’t said why he’d called.

No one calls to be rejected.

Because rejection is just something you don’t do.

(...Second time.)

(One left. And there’s still no answer.)

Jeha thought about that question all day.

Why did he laugh.

He thought about it on set, in the waiting room, while taking off his makeup.

He, thirty years old, couldn’t tell why his seventeen-year-old self had laughed.

(Was he mocking it.)

(Or was he excited.)

(Why make thirty-one songs knowing nobody would listen.)

To answer that question, he had to meet his seventeen-year-old self.

But he couldn’t remember where that kid had gone.

Did the company take him away.

Or had he sent him away himself.

The thing Minsuk had nearly said in the storage room kept bothering him.

Not that.

(Not that? Then what.)

That night, for the first time, Jeha called Minsuk. For eleven years, Minsuk had always called first.

"Minsuk."

The other end was quiet.

"Do we still have the practice room?"

Preview of the next episode

Jeha returns to the room of his seventeen-year-old self.

The practice room no one has opened for thirteen years. The answer is inside it.

And the words Minsuk swallowed in the storage room come out there.

"…You quit, Jeha."

Meanwhile, Yire goes looking for Gyeoul’s demo. The one he rejected three times over ten years.

Until the third visit, four months remain.

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