Park Jihoon QA

I refuse three times

The door opened.

About ten centimeters. The latch was still engaged.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door closed.

(Closed.)

Only the buzzing of the fluorescent light remained in the hallway. Jeha stood there for about ten seconds.

"…Excuse me."

"I’m not buying."

"Buying what?"

"Anything."

"This isn’t something for sale."

"People like that sell the most."

Jeha laughed. For the first time in eleven years, he laughed in a situation that wasn’t funny to anyone else.

"You must be Mr. Moon Ire."

There was no sound from inside.

Then again, the sound of the latch being undone.

Unit 302 was about six pyeong.

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 next to it. Four coffee cups next to that. They all looked like they were from different dates.

(So that’s where that album came from.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"I can stand."

"Then stand."

Ire 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."

"…Okay."

"Is there anyone who doesn’t know."

There was no edge in his tone. That made it worse. It was just the voice of someone stating a fact.

"I listened to your album."

"Which one."

"《Anonymous》."

Ire’s hand stopped. On the mouse.

"…That’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much did you pay."

"……."

"I asked how much you paid."

"220,000 won."

Ire looked back for the first time.

"Are you crazy?"

"Yes."

"……."

"It wasn’t me who bought it. My manager did, and he’s still mad."

"Of course he is. The production cost was 12,000 won."

"That’s cheap."

"It’s expensive. Because they sold 500 copies."

Ire turned back around.

"So what. You want an autograph?"

"Write me a song."

The room went quiet. The sound of the refrigerator running came through.

(That sound.)

(That low-frequency noise under track 3. It was the refrigerator in this room.)

"I’m not doing it."

"The conditions—"

"I didn’t ask about the conditions."

"Why not."

"Mr. Yoon Jeha."

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

"Do you know what I do now?"

"……."

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

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

"Back when I made that album, I was making 400,000 won a month."

"……."

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

"Because when someone comes ten years later to tell you they liked something that was good."

"It’s not comfort. It’s a bill."

Jeha made it to the door.

Then turned back.

"Track 8."

"……."

"You messed up the lyrics at the first line of the second verse."

Ire’s shoulders stiffened.

"You missed an entire 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. That part’s true because you didn’t have the money. But rerecording track 8 doesn’t cost anything. Just turn on the mic and sing it once more."

"You left it in."

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. They’re all perfect. The pitch doesn’t slip, the pronunciation doesn’t blur, all the choruses are there, and they’re 3 minutes 20 seconds long."

"I can’t listen to a single 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."

"……."

"Sorry for the trouble."

The door closed.

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

Short hair, black padded jacket, a convenience store bag in one hand. A woman.

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

"……."

"……."

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

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"Are you coming from 302?"

"…Yes."

"You got rejected, huh."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. Out loud.

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

"…But I heard he does. I heard he gives one every day."

"That’s selling."

The woman adjusted the convenience store bag in her hand.

"Giving and selling are different."

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

"I know."

"Of course you do. There are only two names in the credits."

Gyeoul looked Jeha up and down.

"How many times have you been here?"

"This was my first."

"Then you’ve got two left."

"…Huh?"

"He rejects you three times. Normally."

Gyeoul went on up the stairs.

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

"That’s only because no one makes it that far."

The sound of Unit 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.

Minseok 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."

Minseok looked at Jeha.

And kept looking.

"…What?"

"Got rejected."

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"Are you smiling right now?"

Jeha was about to open the passenger door, then touched his own face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Yeah."

"……"

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

"And in those eleven years, I’ve never once seen you get rejected."

"Yeah."

"Then why do you like that?"

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

The car left the alley. In the rearview mirror, the four-story building with no sign grew smaller.

"Minseok."

"Yeah."

"Representative Oh told me something. That when I was seventeen, I wrote twelve songs a month."

"…You did."

"Was that true?"

"It was. They were all garbage, but there were twelve."

A light turned red.

"Where did they all go."

Minseok looked ahead, hands on the wheel.

The light changed. The car behind them honked. Minseok didn’t start driving.

"…They’re in my storage."

Jeha looked at Minseok.

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

"But I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away."

The car behind honked again.

"The ones burned onto CD-Rs. Probably in the thirties. They might’ve gotten moldy."

"…Why."

"Give them to me."

"Jeha."

"Give them to me, Minseok."

Minseok stepped on the gas.

"…You crazy bastard."

Minseok’s storage was in Gimpo.

It was a container. It took five minutes for Minseok to unlock it. Not because the key didn’t fit, but because the lock was rusted.

"First time opening this in five years."

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

It was dark inside. Minseok turned on a flashlight.

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

"…What’s 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 an amp. Dust got on his fingers.

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

"Found it."

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

Inside were CD-Rs, packed tightly. Thirty-something of them. Dates written in oil-based marker on each case.

Jeha pulled one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minseok aimed the flashlight at the wall.

A poster was taped there. A3 size. Printed out. The ink had all faded, leaving only blue behind.

The band name was written on it.

Moonlight.

And below that, the names of four people. Two of them could no longer be reached now.

Jeha stared at the poster for a long time.

"Jeha."

"Yeah."

"You remember why you quit this?"

"…The company made me quit."

Minseok lowered the flashlight.

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

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jeha looked at Minseok.

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

"Minseok."

"…No. Forget it."

"Just carry the box. It’s heavy."

Minseok went out of the container.

Jeha stood there for a moment.

The four people in the poster were smiling. The image was too blurry to make out their expressions, but it was clear 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 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."

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

"Where have you been going lately."

Jeha didn’t answer.

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

"He’s defending you for the first time."

"……."

"Then fine."

Representative Oh flipped through the papers.

"I’ll give you four months. I don’t care who you work 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 times by the third visit, and four months left.)

The next afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

K’s studio was the opposite of everything about 302. Big, bright, full of people. There were windows, and sunlight came through them.

Ire had been working in that room for three years.

"Ire, this one really came out great."

"Thank you."

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

"That’s a relief."

"They might even make it the title track."

Ire looked at the monitor. A waveform was displayed. The waveform he’d been messing with until three in the morning 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 professional. It’s a contract."

"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 Ire had been doing this job for three years. If K had been a bad person, he would’ve quit long ago.

"Ire."

"Yes."

"You’ve been acting weird lately."

"……."

"That demo yesterday. The chorus was wired up strangely. Eight bars missing."

"I filled them in. Isn’t it fine?"

Ire didn’t answer.

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

Ire was left alone.

Then he 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.

The first verse passed. The second came.

On the first line, 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 can’t remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

There was a knock on the door to 302 three times.

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

He opened the door. Even unlatched the chain.

"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 supposed to be thirty-one songs. I haven’t counted them yet."

Ire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs stood packed tightly inside, with dates written in oil-based marker on each case.

"I told you I’m not listening."

"I know."

"Then why bring them."

"I’m leaving them here."

"……."

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

Ire was momentarily at a loss for words.

"What kind of logic is that."

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

"Please reject my songs. That’s fair."

Ire looked at Jeha.

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

That person was now climbing three flights of stairs with a wet 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’d taken it.

"…I’ll only listen to one song."

"That’s enough."

"And I’m going to reject it."

"Yes."

"I’m serious."

"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 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 a.m., he took the box back out.

He pulled out the top CD. Written in oil-based marker: '2012.03.11'. There was a mold stain on the back.

He put it into the player.

Play.

…It was terrible.

The guitar came first, and it was out of tune. Not on purpose, just out. The third string was about 30 cents flat.

The timing wobbled. He clearly hadn’t used a click track.

Then the voice came in. Seventeen years old.

His throat cracked on the high notes. Even knowing it would crack, he was still belting it out.

(Can’t sing.)

Ire let out a tiny laugh. No sound.

And he didn’t turn it off.

Track 2 came on.

Track 3.

Track 4, 5.

The songs were all short. None went past 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, Ire made himself a fresh coffee.

On the nineteenth, he brought a blanket.

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

"Damn it……."

Then he started over 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 at about 2:30.

But the recording didn’t stop.

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

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

"…No one’s ever gonna hear this."

A sound of laughter came through.

Then the recording cut off.

Ire sat with his hand over the stop button.

He couldn’t press it.

It was the first night in ten years that 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 sky brighten outside.

Same night. Gangbyeonbuk-ro.

Jeha had given up the whole box.

Except for one disc.

The first one he’d pulled out in the storage room. 2012.03.11. He hadn’t told Ire he’d slipped it into his pocket.

He didn’t know why he’d taken it out either.

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

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

It was the very spot where, a month ago, he’d heard Ire’s song and stopped the car.

(Coincidence.)

It wasn’t coincidence. Jeha remembered that place.

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

Play.

The guitar started up.

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 rested 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.

He’d watched thirty movies he’d appeared in over the past eleven years. At premieres, at greetings on stage, in award 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, an odd thought came to him.

(How many songs into this is that person now.)

He checked the clock. 2:10 a.m.

(No. They probably didn’t listen. Not even one song.)

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

He closed the laptop.

Then opened it again.

Play.

This time he lasted one minute twenty seconds.

Then turned it off.

The car went quiet. It was a well-insulated car, so nothing could be heard. 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 kimbap and coffee.

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

"You pulled an all-nighter?"

"…Yeah."

"Songs?"

"No."

Gyeoul stopped while setting 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. Looked at the date.

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

"…Is this his? That actor?"

"Yeah."

"You listened?"

Ire didn’t answer.

"Ire."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many songs did you listen to."

"…Thirty-one."

Gyeoul put the CD down.

Then laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"What."

"You haven’t listened to my demo in ten years either."

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 dragged a chair over and sat in front of Ire.

"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 stopped under the blanket.

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

"At the time I didn’t know what that meant. But now I do."

"If it’s good, you’ll want to do it."

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

Ire said nothing.

"You’re like that right now."

"…No, I’m not."

"Ire."

"I said I’m not."

Gyeoul reached out and pulled Ire’s blanket back into place.

Ire didn’t pull away.

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

"That’s not rejection."

The fluorescent light trembled.

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

Gyeoul wordlessly snatched it and opened it for him.

"…Gyeoul."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Gyeoul looked at Ire.

"…I do."

"……."

"But I’m not giving it to you."

"Why."

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

Gyeoul stood up and put the coffee in front of Ire.

"Call him first. That guy."

"Say what."

"You said you’d reject him."

"Then I should reject it. 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."

"All thirty-one."

Jeha couldn’t say anything.

"I said I’d listen to just one song, but it kind of turned into that."

"……."

"And also."

"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 like someone who’d also been up all night.

"But."

"Yes."

"Track 31, at 2:40."

Jeha’s hand stopped.

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

"No one’s ever gonna hear this."

"And then you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jeha couldn’t answer.

For eleven years, he could answer every question. In interviews, at award shows, at fan meetings. Even questions without answers, he could say things that sounded like one.

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.

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

No refrigerator noise, no fluorescent hum.

(Two times.)

(One left.)

Only after hanging up did Jeha realize.

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

And that person hadn’t said why they 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 removing his makeup.

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

(Was he mocking it.)

(Or was he excited.)

(Why make thirty-one songs if you know no one’s going to hear them.)

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.

Or did he send him away himself.

The unfinished thing Minseok had tried to say in the storage room kept nagging at him.

Not that.

(Then what is there besides that.)

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

"Minseok."

There was silence on the other end.

"Is the practice room still there?"

Next episode preview

Jeha returns to his seventeen-year-old room.

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

And the words Minseok swallowed in the storage room will come out there.

"…You quit, Jeha."

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

Until the third visit, there are four months left.

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