Park Jihoon QA

I’ll refuse three times.

The door opened.

About ten centimeters or so. The latch stayed caught.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door shut.

(It closed.)

In the hallway, only the flickering fluorescent lights' buzzing remained. Jihay stood there, roughly ten seconds the same.

"…Excuse me."

"I’m not buying."

"What?"

"Anything."

"I’m not selling, though."

"People like us buy the most."

Jihay let out a laugh. For the first time in eleven years, she laughed when the situation wasn’t even funny to anyone else.

"You’re Ms. Eire, right."

From inside, there was no sound at all.

Then, again—the sound of unlocking the latch.

Room 302 was about six pyong.

There was a window, but it had been blocked with Styrofoam. It wasn’t so much soundproofing as just... covering it up. An egg-tray panel was stuck to the wall, and about half of it had fallen off; the rest were reattached with tape.

A synthesizer on the desk. An audio interface beside it. Four coffee cups next to that. All of them looked like they belonged to different dates.

(That’s where the album came from.)

"There’s no place to sit."

"You can stand, though."

"Then stand there."

Eire sat down on the chair. As she sat, she turned her back. She pretended to be looking at the monitor, but the screen was off.

"My name is—"

"I know."

"…Yes."

"Is there someone who doesn’t know you?"

There was no thorn in the tone of her voice. That was worse. It was a voice that just stated facts.

"I got the album."

"What kind?"

"《Nam-Myung》."

Eire’s hand stopped. Right above the mouse.

"…That’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much did you pay?"

"……."

"How much did you pay?"

"220,000 won."

Eire turned back for the first time.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Yes."

"……."

"I didn’t buy it. My manager bought it, and she’s still angry."

"Of course. The original price is 1,12 0 0 won."

"That’s cheap."

"It’s expensive. It sold 500 copies."

Eire turned her back again.

"So what now. You want me to sign it?"

"Write a song."

The room went quiet. You could hear the refrigerator humming.

(That sound.)

(Low-frequency noise that had been under track 3. It was this room’s refrigerator.)

"I won’t."

"The condition is—"

"I didn’t ask about the conditions."

"Why?"

"Yun Jihay."

Eire turned the chair around. Completely this time.

"Do you know what kind of person I am right now?"

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. Hand in the demos, get criticized, rewritten. My name doesn’t go on it. That’s the contract."

"But that isn’t a bad thing. I get paid. 320."

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

"……."

"A lot of people say they like that album. They even played it on the radio, they said. But do you know this? How many people called me after that broadcast?"

"Two. One was Ms. Yun Jihay, and the other was an insurance agent."

Jihay couldn’t say anything.

"So go on. I don’t want to talk about that album."

"…Why?"

"If someone comes ten years later just to say that something that was good is still good."

"That isn’t comfort. It’s an invoice."

Jihay walked up to the door.

And turned around.

"Track 8."

"……."

"In the first line of the second verse, you got the lyrics wrong."

Eire’s shoulders stiffened.

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

"…Because I don’t have money."

"That’s a lie."

"What?"

"You mastered it yourself. That’s true—you did it because you didn’t have money. But re-recording track 8 doesn’t cost anything. Turn on the mic and sing it one more time."

"You didn’t delete it."

Eire looked at Jihay. For the first time, she saw him—not as Yun Jihay, but as a person.

"I can’t do that."

"I have twelve songs right here. All perfect. The pitch doesn’t slip, the pronunciation doesn’t get mashed, all the choruses are there, and it’s three minutes and twenty seconds."

"I can’t listen to even one of them."

The fluorescent lights flickered. Sixty hertz.

"I envy that mistake."

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

"……."

"Excuse me."

The door shut.

As she went down the stairs, someone came up from below.

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

The woman looked at Jihay. Only the eyes visible above her mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed by. She climbed about three steps, then stopped.

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"You’re going to Room 302?"

"…Yes."

"So you got rejected."

"…Yes."

The woman smiled. She laughed out loud.

"Of course. She didn’t give anyone songs for ten years."

"Even though she said she would. I heard she gives them every day."

"That’s selling."

The woman adjusted the convenience-store bag.

"Giving and selling are different."

"It’s Junggyeowol. I played drums on that album."

"I know."

"You know. There are only two people listed in the credits."

Gyeowol looked Jihay up and down.

"How many times have you come?"

"Today was my first time."

"Then there are two more chances."

"…Yes?"

"She refuses the third time. Originally."

Gyeowol climbed the rest of the stairs.

"But she doesn’t refuse the fourth."

"It’s just that no one comes until then."

You could hear the door to Room 302 open and close.

Jihay stood on the landing.

In her pocket was a CD case cracked.

(Two times.)

Next episode preview

Jihay stands in front of that door for the second time. This time, she doesn’t have empty hands.

And Eire— for the first time in ten years— listens to someone else’s demo all the way through.

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