Park Jihoon QA

Refuse it three times

The door opened.

About ten centimeters. The latch was still on.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door closed.

(Closed.)

Only the flickering sound of the fluorescent light 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."

"People like that sell the most."

Jeha laughed. For the first time in eleven years, he laughed when nothing was funny.

"You’re Mun Ire, right."

There was no sound from inside.

Then again, the sound of the latch being unfastened.

Room 302 was about twenty square meters.

There was one window, but it was blocked with Styrofoam. It was less soundproofing than just blocking it off. Egg cartons were stuck to the wall, 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 days.

(So this is where that album came from.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"I can stand."

"Then stand there."

Ire 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 edge in his tone. That was better. It was just a voice stating a fact.

"I listened to the album."

"Which one."

"<Nameless>."

Ire’s hand stopped over the mouse.

"…That’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much."

"……."

"How much did you pay for it."

"220,000 won."

Ire looked back for the first time.

"Are you crazy?"

"Yes."

"……."

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

"Of course he is. The original price was 12,000 won."

"Cheap."

"It’s expensive. Only 500 copies sold."

Ire turned back again.

"So what. You want an autograph?"

"Write me a song."

The room went quiet. The refrigerator was humming.

(That sound.)

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

"I’m not."

"The condition—"

"I didn’t ask for conditions."

"Why not."

"Yoon Jeha."

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

"Do you know what I’m doing right now?"

"……."

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

"But that’s not a bad thing. I get a salary. 3.2 million."

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

"……."

"A lot of people say that album is good. They even played it on the radio. But do you know how many people called me after that broadcast?"

"Two. One was Yoon Jeha, and the other 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 something you liked was good."

"That isn’t comfort. It’s a bill."

Jeha went as far as the door.

And then turned back.

"Track 8."

"……."

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

Ire’s shoulders went stiff.

"You skipped a whole 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 was because you had no money. But rerecording track 8 doesn’t cost anything. You just turn on the mic and sing it once more."

"You didn’t erase it."

Ire 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. All perfect. No pitch issues, no muddy pronunciation, all the choruses, three minutes twenty seconds each."

"I can’t listen to even one of them."

The fluorescent light flickered. 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.

As he went down the stairs, 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. Only her eyes were visible above the mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed by. She stopped after climbing about three steps.

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"You coming from 302?"

"…Yes."

"Got rejected, huh."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. Out loud.

"Obviously. He hasn’t given anyone a song for ten years."

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

"That’s selling."

The woman adjusted her convenience-store bag.

"Giving and selling are different."

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

"I know."

"Yeah, right. There were only two names in the credits."

Gyeoul looked Jeha up and down.

"How many times have you come?"

"First time today."

"Then you’ve got two left."

"…What?"

"He rejects you three times. Usually."

Gyeoul kept going up the stairs.

"But he won’t reject you the fourth time."

"That’s because nobody makes it that far."

There was the sound of 302’s door 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 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 said I got rejected."

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"Are you smiling right now?"

Jeha had just started to open the passenger door, but he stopped and touched his face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Yeah."

"……"

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

"And in those eleven years, I never once saw him get rejected."

"Huh."

"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 shrank.

"Minsuk."

"Yeah."

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

"…You did."

"Is that true?"

"It is. They were all trash, but there were twelve of them."

The light turned red.

"Where’d they all go."

Minsuk kept his hands on the wheel and looked ahead.

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

"…They’re in my storage unit."

Jeha looked at Minsuk.

"I told you to throw them out when we cleaned 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 should be thirty-some discs. They might’ve gotten moldy."

"…Why."

"Give them to me."

"Jeha."

"Give them to me, Minsuk."

Minsuk stepped on the gas.

"…You’re insane."

Minsuk’s storage unit 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.

"First time opening it in five years."

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

It was dark inside. Minsuk turned on a flashlight.

There was an amp. A stand. 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 away."

Jeha touched the amp. Dust clung to his fingers.

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

"Found it."

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

Inside were tightly packed CD-Rs. Thirty-some discs. Each case had a date written in marker.

Jeha took one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minsuk shined the flashlight at the wall.

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

The band’s name was written on it.

Moonlight.

Underneath were the names of four people. Two of them could no longer be reached.

Jeha stared at the poster for a long time.

"Jeha."

"Yeah."

"Do you remember why you quit this?"

"…The company made me quit, didn’t it."

Minsuk lowered the flashlight.

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

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jeha looked at Minsuk.

Minsuk didn’t look at Jeha. He was looking at the poster.

"Minsuk."

"…No. Forget it."

"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 too poor for the expressions to be clear, 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 sat when he talked.

"We’ve set a release date."

"…What?"

"November 21. I notified the distributor."

Jeha counted the months. Four.

"I don’t have any songs."

"You have twelve."

"I can’t use those."

"Yoon Jeha."

CEO Oh turned around. He still didn’t look angry.

"Where have you been going lately."

Jeha didn’t answer.

"Cha Minsuk wouldn’t tell me. He told me everything for eleven years."

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

"……"

"Then that’s that."

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 by November 21."

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

He set the papers down on the desk.

"Under your name."

Jeha left the conference room.

The hallway was quiet. This building had good soundproofing.

(Four months.)

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

The next afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

K’s studio was the opposite of 302 in every way. It was wide, bright, and full of people. There was a window, and sunlight came through it.

Ire had worked in that room for three years.

"Ire, this one came out really well."

"Thank you."

"Their A&R listened to the demo and approved it right away. That never happens. Usually they reject it three times."

"That’s a relief."

"They say it might even be the title track."

Ire looked at the monitor. A waveform was up. The waveform he’d been tweaking until 3 a.m. last night.

"What about the credits."

K paused for a moment.

"…Ire."

"I know. I was just asking."

"I’m not going to say sorry. That wouldn’t be polite. It’s a contract."

"Yes."

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

"Yes. I read it."

K wasn’t a bad person.

That was why Ire had worked here for three years. If he’d been a bad person, he would’ve quit a long time ago.

"Ire."

"Yes."

"You’ve been acting weird lately."

"……."

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

"I filled it in. Isn’t it fine?"

Ire didn’t answer.

K left. The door closed softly. Unlike 302’s door, it made no sound.

Ire was left alone.

And took something out of his bag.

A cracked CD case. His own album.

Something he hadn’t opened once in ten years.

(Why did I take it out.)

Ire put on track 8.

Verse 1 passed. Verse 2 came.

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

Ire pressed stop.

(Why didn’t I erase it.)

(…I don’t remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

Someone knocked on 302’s door three times.

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

He opened the door. Unlatched it too.

"Second time."

"Yes."

"……."

Jeha was holding a cardboard box. About the size of a ramen box. The corners were damp.

"What is that."

"My demos."

"…What?"

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

Ire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs were packed upright inside, each case with marker writing. 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."

Ire was briefly 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."

Ire looked at Jeha.

An actor who’d never failed in eleven years. No flops, no scandals, always fine in interviews.

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

"…This smells like mold."

"It was in storage."

"For how many years."

"Thirteen."

Ire took the box.

After taking it, he realized he had taken it.

"…I’ll listen to just one song."

"That’s enough."

"And I’m going to reject it."

"Yes."

"I’m serious."

"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 right now."

"That’s why I came."

Jeha went down the stairs.

11 p.m.

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

At 12:40, he took the box out.

He pulled out the top CD. In marker: '2012.03.11.' There were mold spots on the back.

He put it in the player.

Play.

…It was awful.

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 wobbled. He definitely hadn’t used a click track.

Then the voice came in. Seventeen years old.

It cracked on the high notes. He was screaming them anyway, knowing they’d crack.

(He can’t sing.)

Ire gave a tiny snort-laugh. No sound came out.

And he didn’t turn it off.

Track 2 came on.

Track 3.

Track 4, 5.

All the songs were short. None went past two minutes. Some had choruses, some didn’t. If they did, it felt cheesy; if they didn’t, it felt strange.

By the eleventh song, Ire made more coffee.

By the nineteenth, he brought a blanket.

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

"Fuck……"

And started again from the beginning, without stopping the recording.

Ire replayed that part three times.

3:40 a.m.

Track thirty-one.

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 faded, and only the sound of the room’s air remained. Somewhere, a fluorescent light was flickering. 60 hertz.

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

"…Nobody’s gonna hear this."

A sound of laughter came out.

And the recording stopped.

Ire 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 listened all the way through to someone else’s demo.

(…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 handed over the entire box.

Except for one disc.

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

He didn’t even know why he’d taken it.

There was no CD player in the car. Cars don’t have them these days. So Jeha borrowed Minsuk’s old laptop. With an external drive too.

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

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

(It’s a coincidence.)

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

He put in the CD. The drive spun for a while. It took time to read a thirteen-year-old CD-R.

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 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 films. At premieres, onstage greetings, award clips. He’d seen his own face thousands of times.

That was nothing.

Because that wasn’t him.

But this was him.

(He can’t sing.)

(He really can’t sing.)

Then a strange thought suddenly came to him.

(How many songs has that guy listened to.)

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

(No. He probably didn’t listen. He wouldn’t have listened to even one.)

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

He closed the laptop.

Then opened it again.

Play.

This time he made it to 1:20.

Then shut it off.

The car went quiet. It was a well-insulated car, so there was no sound at all. No river, no passing cars.

Jeha sat in that silence for an hour.

(Thirty-one songs.)

(And I couldn’t listen to even one.)

He wouldn’t learn that fact until seven hours later.

8 a.m. The door to 302 opened.

Gyeoul came in with a convenience-store bag. Two triangle kimbap and coffee.

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

"You stayed up all night?"

"…Yeah."

"Songs?"

"No."

Gyeoul stopped as she was setting the bag down.

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

"What’s 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 to it?"

Ire didn’t answer.

"Ire."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many songs did you listen to."

"…Thirty-one."

Gyeoul set the CD down.

And laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"Why."

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

Ire 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 pulled up a chair and sat in front of Ire.

"Do 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."

Ire’s hand froze under the blanket.

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

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

"If it’s good, you’ll want to do it."

"And if you want to do it, you’ll make 400,000 won again."

Ire didn’t say anything.

"That’s you right now."

"…No."

"Ire."

"I said no."

Gyeoul reached out and fixed the blanket over Ire.

Ire didn’t pull away.

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

"That’s not rejection."

The fluorescent light flickered.

Ire reached out from under the blanket and grabbed a triangle kimbap. He failed to open the wrapper. 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 Ire.

"…Yeah."

"……."

"But I’m not giving it to you."

"Why."

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

Gyeoul stood and put the coffee in front of Ire.

"Call him first. The guy."

"What do I even say."

"That you’re rejecting him."

"Then I should reject him. Right?"

Gyeoul left.

Ire 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 listen to just one song, but that kind of happened."

"……."

"And."

"I’m not doing it."

Jeha closed his eyes.

"…Okay."

"Second time."

"Yes. 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, 2:40."

Jeha’s hand stopped.

"Right after the song ended, where the recording didn’t stop. You said something there."

"Nobody’s gonna hear 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 award shows, at fan meetings. He could say things that sounded like answers even to questions that had none.

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 holding the phone for a long time.

Han River was visible outside the window. It was a soundproof house, so there was no sound.

No refrigerator sound, no fluorescent-light sound.

(Two times.)

(One left.)

Only after ending the call did Jeha realize.

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

And that person hadn’t said why they called.

Nobody calls to reject someone.

Because rejection is just something you don’t do.

(…Second time.)

(One left. And I still don’t have an answer.)

Jeha thought about that question all day.

Why did I laugh?

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

Thirty-year-old him couldn’t understand why seventeen-year-old him had laughed.

(Was he sneering.)

(Or was he excited.)

(Why make thirty-one songs knowing nobody 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 away.

Or did he send himself away.

The words Minsuk had almost said in the storage unit kept hanging there.

Not that.

(What else is there besides that.)

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

"Minsuk."

There was silence on the other end.

"Do we still have the practice room?"

Next episode preview

Jeha returns to his seventeen-year-old room.

A practice room nobody has opened for thirteen years. The answer is inside.

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

"…You quit, Jeha."

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

Until the third visit, there are four months left.

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