Turning Point (1)
“I’ll push you home.”
“No can do. Gotta go somewhere else.”
Choi Jung-hye narrowed her eyes. “Where do you think you’re going after getting your face pummeled like that?”
“Gotta make a delivery. Can’t skip picking up my pay.”
“Delivery? What’ve you been making lately?”
Jung-hye asked as if hearing this for the first time. Kyung-ho had always been good at drawing, she remembered, and nodded in understanding before grabbing the wheelchair handles and pushing him in the direction he’d indicated.
The sun had already dipped low, painting the red brick walls in hues of orange. At the end of the alley, in front of the Shinwon Production building where stacks of key animation paper boxes had once piled up, the first-floor door stood open. Smoke drifted from a second-floor window.
“That brick building’s the place?”
“Yeah.”
“Boss!!!”
Before Kyung-ho could stop her, Jung-hye bellowed, her voice echoing through the neighborhood. The boss poked his head out from inside, cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Who the hell’s yelling li—oh, Kyung-ho, it’s you.”
Confirming it was Kyung-ho, the boss came down to the first floor and took the key animation envelope. As he accepted it, his eyes scanned Kyung-ho’s battered face.
“What happened to your mug? Who clocked you?”
“I’m fine. Jung-hye here helped me out.”
“Jung-hye? Her? She your girlfriend or what?”
“Nah, nothing like that.”
The boss glanced at Jung-hye, who was gawking around distractedly, then lowered his voice as he opened the envelope. “Just check it out, please.”
Tsking like it was a hassle, the boss spread the key animation sheets across the box where Kyung-ho usually drew. One sheet. Two. Three. He flipped them front and back.
A fist swings, the body twists, the motion blur trails half a frame behind. The cigarette in the boss’s mouth slowly tilted.
He went back to the first one and flipped through fast. Tat-tat-tat. The motion flowed naturally. The dynamism of the action, the consistency of the character—flawless.
“You little punk.”
The boss covered the stack, the corner of his mouth curling up. “You’re no high schooler. No high school kid draws like this. Hell, bring anyone in the world—no one draws like this.”
Kyung-ho was still honing his skills, not drawing at full throttle yet, so he had no easy comeback. In the end, he just shrugged silently.
The boss unfolded the in-between animation bundle and overlaid it with the key animation. The lines matched perfectly. No timing lag. To pull this off, you needed tons of experience, insane amounts of time, or genius—pick one.
“How long’d this take?”
“Did it at school today, so… about four hours?”
“Four hours?”
The boss snorted. “Four hours for this? If you’re gonna lie, make it believable.”
“It’s true. Can’t work at home ’cause of Dad.”
Hearing that, the boss clamped his mouth shut and sank into thought for a long moment.
“You’re saying you really did all this in four hours?”
“Yeah. The style’s still not second nature, so it took a whole four hours.”
At that cheeky add-on, the boss pretended to scowl. “You insufferable punk!” He lightly smacked the back of Kyung-ho’s head.
“So, you could do even more?”
Kyung-ho thought for a second. “A few more tries, and I could probably double it later.”
Jung-hye, back from her sightseeing, had overheard and chimed in. “Hey, are you nuts? Boss, four hours for that much already—what more do you want from him?”
The boss eyed Jung-hye and Kyung-ho alternately, then chuckled. Drawing with his girl chattering away, and he’s got spare brainpower?
“Cocky little punk.”
He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, pulled an envelope of cash and a fresh key animation bundle from his armpit briefcase, and shoved them at Kyung-ho. “Key animation, 10 sheets. In-betweens, 30. You can handle it?”
“Could do more.”
“Hey, Park Kyung-ho, you crazy? No way! Boss, why’re you encouraging this?!”
Ignoring Jung-hye hopping mad beside them, they kept talking.
“But miss deadline, and I cut your rate in half.”
“Got it.”
Kyung-ho pocketed the cash envelope without checking it. Jung-hye, mid-nag, poked his side. “Hey, at least count the money!”
“Boss isn’t the type.”
“Ugh, still, money’s money—check it!”
The boss backed her up. “She’s right. Count it on the spot.”
Kyung-ho nodded, pulled out the envelope, and started counting. As Jung-hye oohed and aahed over it, the boss gave the key animation another once-over.
“Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re really a senior in high school, right?”
“What, you think I’m a middle schooler?”
“Tch.”
The boss shook his head.
The next day, the boss snatched open the thick key animation envelope Kyung-ho handed over. “Not a light load this time—let’s see how you pulled it off.”
One sheet. Two. His eyes narrowed tighter. Overlay key and in-betweens—no flaws. If anything, the lines looked crisper. Confident pen strokes, no wobbles.
The boss looked up. “Hey, Kyung-ho.”
“Yeah.”
“Output’s up, but your lines got better? How?”
“Hand’s warmed up more.”
Kyung-ho’s calm reply drew a chuckle from the boss, building to a full belly laugh.
“Ha.”
He lit a cigarette. “Knew you had it in you, but damn, you deliver.”
In the boss’s eyes flashed not Kyung-ho, but his own younger self—brimming with talent and fire. He ruffled the wheelchair-bound boy’s hair roughly, like a proud father.
“You gotta go to Japan, Kyung-ho.”
“If I can’t, no one can.”
“You… ugh. How many tomorrow?”
“Key animation 20, in-betweens 20.”
“Hmm, the crew’ll bitch. Key 15, in-betweens 30?”
“Fine by me.”
Days passed like that. Alone in his room, Kyung-ho started calculating. Tomorrow’s load: 25 key animation sheets, 20 in-betweens. Beyond what he could sneak at school. He’d have to draw at home now to meet deadlines.
One problem: Dad.
He set down the holder pencil he’d been doodling with and stared at the ceiling. Confront or hide?
But he knew his father. Speak up, and war reignited.
“Haa…”
Just closing his eyes brought Dad’s reaction to mind. No answers after wracking his brain. Fine—work in secret tonight. Had to tackle those 45 sheets somehow.
Scratch. Scratch.
Soon the pen nib scraping paper filled the room. His hand moved like precision machinery. Motion blur half-frame late, split the frame right before impact. Technical details breathed life into the page.
As one key animation sheet wrapped up—
Click.
The door opened. “Studying late?”
I looked up. Dad stood there.
His gaze shifted to the desk. “Not studying—just doodling again?”
“…It’s not doodling. It’s work.”
Dad’s eyebrow arched. “Work? Doodles pay bills?”
After agonizing, I silently pulled out the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Dad opened it. Two 10,000-won bills. Nine 1,000-won. “……19,000 won?”
In 1978, 19,000 won wasn’t chump change. Factory workers pulled around 30,000 a month. A sack of rice cost over 20,000. Near a million in modern terms. Big for a high school senior.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Skipping studies to draw, and you made 19,000?!”
He flung the envelope. Thud, scatter. Bills rained messily to the floor.
“Four days.”
“What?”
“Earned it in four days.”
His lips twitched at “four days,” then his voice dropped low. “Dunno if you got lucky or you’re lying.”
Those eyes held no pride—just rejection of this incomprehensible son.
“I don’t wanna tell people my kid’s a paint-smeared hack.”
Silence.
“Clean it up.”
Bam. Door slammed.
I stared at the scattered bills. The expected reaction—no bitter laugh even.
Dad was the same as I remembered. Maybe worse in this era.
Even in my dying life, he’d prized studies above all. Now, in an age where everyone believed studies were everything? Inevitable.
Mulling it over, lost in thought—the door creaked open cautiously. Mom.
“Kyung-ho.”
She crouched silently, gathering the dust-dusted bills from the mat one by one. Her hands smoothed the crumpled notes with care.
“Kyung-ho.”
She looked up at me, bills in hand. “Did you… really earn this?”
“……Yeah.”
“How much is it, honey?”
She licked her finger and counted. “One, two, three, four……19,000 won? In four days? Kyung-ho, you didn’t do anything bad, right?”
I nodded. She eyed me.
“Mom’ll cheer you on. But what’s with the sudden job? How’d you make this?”
“A place outsourcing for a Japanese cartoon company. Took work from them.”
“Well, whatever—glad you’re okay……I’ve been up nights worrying about your legs. Guess everyone finds their path.”
She pulled me into her embrace. Familiar soap and sweat mingled at my nose.
She whispered secretively in my ear, tiny: “And at this rate… you’re out-earning your dad already, kiddo.”
I said nothing.
“Just don’t let him catch you. Got it?”
I nodded. She set the envelope on the desk, relieved. “Hit the books quick. Pretend to study. I’ll talk to your dad.”
Door closed. Alone again, heavy silence replaced the pen scratches.
Head throbbed. Tried gripping the pen, but fingers that had flown felt stiff.
No heart for it.
“Sigh… I didn’t know focusing just on drawing would be this tough…”