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 shaking remained in the hallway. Jeha stood there for about ten seconds.

"…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 at something that wasn't funny.

"You're Mooni Re, right."

There was no sound from inside.

Then again, the sound of the latch undoing.

Room 302 was about six pyeong.

There was one window, but it was blocked with Styrofoam. It was closer to just blocking it than soundproofing. 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 next to it. Four coffee cups next to 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 on 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 sharpness in his tone. That was even worse. It was just a voice stating facts.

"I listened to the album."

"Which one?"

"<Nameless>."

Yire's hand stopped. On the mouse.

"…That's out of print."

"I bought it used."

"For how much."

"……."

"I asked how much you paid for it."

"220,000 won."

Yire looked back for the first time.

"Are you insane?"

"Yes."

"……."

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

"No wonder. It cost 12,000 won to make."

"That's cheap."

"It's expensive. Because only 500 copies sold."

Yire turned his back again.

"So what. You want my autograph?"

"Write me a song."

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

(That sound.)

(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."

"Mr. Yoon Jeha."

Yire turned the chair around. This time, all the way.

"Do you know what I do right now?"

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. I hand in demos, get rejected, rewrite them. My name doesn't go on them. That's the contract."

"But that's not the bad part. I get paid. 3.2 million."

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

"……."

"A lot of people say they liked that album. They even played it on the radio. But you know how many people contacted me after that aired?"

"Two. One was you, Mr. 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 ten years later to tell you they liked something you made."

"That's not comfort. It's a bill."

Jeha went all the way to the door.

Then turned back.

"Track 8."

"……."

"You got the lyric wrong in the first line of the second verse."

Yire's shoulders stiffened.

"You skipped an entire line and came in half a beat late. But you didn't erase it."

"…I didn't have the money."

"Liar."

"What?"

"You mastered it yourself, didn't you. That part's true because you didn't have money. But redoing track 8 doesn't cost money. You just turn on the mic and sing it again."

"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. The pitch doesn't go out, the pronunciation doesn't blur, there's a chorus, and they're three minutes 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, someone was coming up from below.

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

The woman looked at Jeha. Only her eyes showed above the mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed him. After climbing about three steps, she stopped.

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"Did you come from room 302?"

"…Yes."

"Got rejected, huh."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. She laughed out loud.

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

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

"That's selling."

The woman adjusted her convenience-store bag.

"Giving and selling are different."

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

"I know."

"Right. There were only two names on the credits."

Gyeoul looked Jeha up and down.

"How many times have you come?"

"This is my first time."

"Then you have two left."

"…Pardon?"

"He rejects it three times. Usually."

Gyeoul kept going up the stairs.

"But he doesn't reject the fourth."

"Only because no one ever comes that far."

The sound of room 302's door opening and closing rang out.

Jeha stood on the landing.

There was a cracked CD case in his pocket.

(Two times.)

The car was parked outside the alley.

Minsuk lowered the window from the driver's seat. 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 started to open the passenger door, then touched his own face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Yeah."

"……"

"Mr. Yoon Jeha. I've been next to you for eleven years."

"In all those eleven years, I've never once seen you get rejected."

"Right."

"So why do you like that?"

Jeha didn't answer. He got in the car. Fastened his seat belt.

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

"Minsuk."

"Yeah."

"Representative Oh said I wrote twelve songs a month when I was seventeen."

"…You did."

"Really?"

"Really. They were all trash, but there were twelve."

They hit a red light.

"Where did they all go."

Minsuk looked ahead with both hands on the wheel.

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

"…They're in my warehouse."

Jeha looked at Minsuk.

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

"But I couldn't throw them away."

The car behind them honked again.

"The ones burned onto CD-Rs. There are probably thirty-something. Might've gotten moldy."

"…Why."

"Give them to me."

"Jeha."

"Give them to me, Minsuk."

Minsuk stepped on the gas.

"…You lunatic."

Minsuk's warehouse was in Gimpo.

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

"First time this has been opened in five years."

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

It was dark inside. Minsuk turned on a flashlight.

There was an amp. 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 threw it out."

Jeha touched the amp. Dust got on his fingers.

It was his amp. The one he bought at fifteen. 180,000 won used.

"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 of them. Dates written in marker on each case.

Jeha took one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minsuk pointed the flashlight at the wall.

A poster was stuck there. A3 size. Printed out from a printer. The ink had all faded, leaving only blue.

The band name was written on it.

Moonlight.

Below that, four names. Two of them can no longer be reached now.

Jeha looked 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.

"I've set the release date."

"…Pardon?"

"November 21. I notified the distributor."

Jeha counted months on his fingers. Four months.

"I don't have any songs."

"You have twelve."

"I can't use those."

"Yoon Jeha."

Representative Oh turned around. His face still wasn't angry.

"Where do you keep going these days."

Jeha didn't answer.

"Cha Minsuk didn't tell me. For eleven years, he told me everything."

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

"……."

"Then fine."

Representative 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 by 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.)

(There were three tries left until the third time, and four months left.)

The next afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

K's studio was the opposite of room 302 in every way. Spacious, bright, 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 okay'd it right away. That's never happened. Usually they reject it three times."

"That's a relief."

"They might even use it as the title."

Yire looked at the monitor. A waveform was displayed. The waveform he'd worked on until three in the morning last night.

"And the credits?"

K paused for a moment.

"…Yire."

"I know. I'm just asking."

"I'm not going to say sorry. That's not manners. It's a contract, isn't it."

"Yes."

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

"Yes. I read it."

K wasn't a bad person.

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

"Yire."

"Yes."

"You've been acting weird lately."

"……."

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

"I filled it in. Isn't it okay?"

Yire didn't answer.

K left. The door closed softly. Unlike room 302's door, 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.

The first verse passed. The second came.

On the first line, twenty-four-year-old Yire missed the lyric. Came in half a beat late.

Yire pressed stop.

(Why didn't I delete it.)

(…I don't remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

Room 302 was knocked on three times.

Yire didn't look through the peephole this time. He knew who it was.

He opened the door. Even the latch.

"Second time."

"Yes."

"……."

Jeha was holding a paper box. About the size of a ramen box. The corners were wet.

"What's that."

"My demos."

"…Pardon?"

"The ones I wrote when I was seventeen. Supposedly there are thirty-one songs. I haven't counted them yet."

Yire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs were packed upright, and each case had marker writing on it. Dates.

"I told you I don't listen."

"I know."

"Then why bring them."

"I'm leaving them here."

"……."

"If you're going to reject me, you have to listen."

Yire was speechless for a moment.

"What kind of logic is that."

"If you reject me without listening, then you're rejecting me, aren't you."

"Reject my songs. That's fair."

Yire looked at Jeha.

An actor who had never failed for eleven years. Nothing he'd done had flopped, no scandals, always steady interviews.

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

"…This smells moldy."

"It was in storage."

"For how many years?"

"Thirteen."

Yire took the box.

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

"…I'll only listen to one song."

"That's enough."

"And then I'll reject it."

"Yes."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Jeha turned toward the stairs.

"Mr. 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."

"That's why 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 took the box out.

He pulled out the top CD. In marker: '2012.03.11'. There were mold stains 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 third string was about 30 cents flat.

The rhythm wavered. He definitely hadn't used a click track.

The voice came in. Seventeen years old.

His throat cracked on the high note. He was still belting it out, knowing it would crack.

(Can't sing.)

Yire let out a tiny snort. No sound.

And he didn't turn it off.

Track 2 came on.

Track 3.

Track 4, 5.

The songs were all short. None of them went over two minutes. Some had choruses, some didn't. If they did, they were cheesy; if they didn't, they were strange.

On the eleventh song, Yire made fresh coffee.

On the nineteenth, he brought a blanket.

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

"Ah, damn……."

And started again from the beginning. Without stopping the recording.

Yire listened to that part three times.

3:40 a.m.

Track 31.

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

The song ended around 2:30.

But the recording didn't stop.

The guitar disappeared, and only the room's air noise remained. Somewhere, a fluorescent light trembled. 60 hertz.

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

"…No one's ever going to hear this."

A laughing sound came out.

And the recording stopped.

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 bright.

Same night. Gangbyeonbuk-ro.

Jeha had given the whole box back.

Except for one disc.

The one he'd pulled out first in the warehouse. 2012.03.11. He hadn't told Yire he'd put it in his pocket.

He didn't know why he'd taken it.

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

He set the laptop on the passenger seat and pulled over to the shoulder.

It was the exact same spot where he'd pulled over after listening to Yire's song a month ago.

(It's a coincidence.)

It wasn't a coincidence. Jeha remembered that spot.

He inserted the CD. The drive spun for a long time. 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.

The voice came in. His own voice at seventeen.

It cracked on the high note.

Stop.

Jeha put his forehead against 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, on-stage greetings, award-show 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, suddenly, he had a strange thought.

(How many songs in is he?)

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

(No. He wouldn't have listened. He wouldn't have listened to even one.)

(Of course. If it were me, I wouldn't listen either.)

He closed the laptop.

Then opened it again.

Play.

This time he lasted one minute and twenty seconds.

Then turned it off.

The car went quiet. It was a well-insulated car, so there was no sound at all. 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 would only learn that fact seven hours later.

8 a.m. The door to room 302 opened.

Gyeoul came in carrying a convenience-store bag. Two triangular kimbap and coffee.

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

"You stayed up all night?"

"…Yeah."

"A song?"

"No."

Gyeoul stopped as she set the bag down.

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. Looked at the date.

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

"…Is this his? That actor?"

"Yeah."

"You listened?"

Yire didn't answer.

"Yire."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"I asked how many songs you listened to."

"…Thirty-one songs."

Gyeoul put the CD down.

And laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"Why."

"You didn't listen to my demo for ten years either."

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 when I gave it to you the second time?"

"…I don't remember."

"You said, what if it's good?"

Yire's hand stopped inside the blanket.

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

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

"If it's good, you'll want to do it."

"And if you want to do it, you'll end up making 400,000 won again."

Yire said nothing.

"You're like that right now."

"…No."

"Yire."

"I said no."

Gyeoul reached out and pulled Yire's blanket back up for him.

Yire didn't pull away.

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

"That's not rejection."

The fluorescent light trembled.

Yire reached out from under the blanket and grabbed a triangular kimbap. He failed to open the package. Failed again the second time.

Gyeoul wordlessly took it and opened it for him.

"…Gyeoul."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Gyeoul looked at Yire.

"…I do."

"……."

"But I'm not giving it to you."

"Why."

"Because I decided not to on the fourth time."

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

"Call him first. Him."

"Say what."

"That you're rejecting him."

"Then I should reject him, shouldn't I?"

Gyeoul left.

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

9 a.m. Jeha's phone rang.

It was an 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 only listen to one song, but it kind of turned out this way."

"……."

"And also."

"I won't do it."

Jeha closed his eyes.

"…Okay."

"This is the second time."

"Yes. The second time."

"……."

The call didn't end.

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

"But."

"Yes."

"Track 31, at 2:40."

Jeha's hand stopped.

"Where the recording didn't stop after the song. You said something there."

"No one's ever going to hear this."

"And then you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jeha couldn't answer.

For eleven years, he had been able to answer every question. In interviews, at award shows, at fan meetings. He could say things that sounded like answers even to questions that had no answer.

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 on the third time."

The call ended.

Jeha sat there holding the phone for a long time.

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

No refrigerator, no fluorescent light.

(Two times.)

(One left.)

Only after hanging up did Jeha realize.

That he hadn't asked how that person knew his number.

And that person hadn't said why they called.

No one calls to reject.

Because rejection is just something you don't do.

(…Second time.)

(One left. And there is still no answer.)

Jeha thought about that question all day.

Why had he laughed.

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

He couldn't figure out why his seventeen-year-old self had laughed.

(Was he sneering?)

(Or was he excited?)

(Why would he make thirty-one songs knowing no one would hear them.)

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

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

Did the company take him.

Or did he send himself away.

The thing Minsuk had almost said in the warehouse kept bothering him.

Not that.

(Not that? What else is there.)

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

"Minsuk."

There was silence on the other end.

"Is the practice room still there?"

Preview for the next episode

Jeha returns to his seventeen-year-old room.

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

And the words Minsuk swallowed in the warehouse come out there.

"…You quit, Jeha."

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

Until the third visit, four months remain.

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