Turning Point (2)
The next day. After school, at Shinwon Production.
The boss flipped through the stack of key animation sheets Kyung-ho had handed him, one by one, furrowing his brow.
"Not bad enough to need fixes."
The rustle of paper sounded unusually harsh. Another sheet.
"Worse than before, though? The lines are dead."
Instead of answering, I fiddled with the wheels of my wheelchair.
"Did your wrist give out from all the volume?"
"...No, sir."
"Then what?"
The boss slammed the stack down on the desk like it was trash.
"Nothing happens and suddenly you churn out charm-free crap like this? Kid, I can see the hesitation in every line. Spill it."
A beat late, I pried my stiff lips apart.
"...Dad found out I'm drawing."
The boss froze for a second. He chuckled, pulling a cigarette from his drawer and lighting up.
"Hey,"
Chik—the lighter flared, acrid smoke curling into the air.
"My old man was the same. Threw a fit about starving as an artist. But get this,"
He exhaled deeply and continued.
"I shove a comic magazine under his nose with my name—Kim Sang-taek—in bold print, and that's when he came around. Wasn't the money; it was the weight of that name."
I looked up at the boss.
"You'll get there too. One day, your dad'll understand. Those old-timers? Simpler than they seem."
"...Hope so."
The boss slid over two yellow envelopes. One fat with cash, the other stuffed with fresh key animation paper.
"Till then, prove it with your drawings. Words are cheap. Art doesn't lie."
Scratch. Scratch.
In the dark room, only the sound of graphite from the holder pencil scraping paper filled the air. But at some point, my fingertips went numb. Anxiety clawed up my spine—what if the door burst open? If it was just yelling, fine. But he might rip up my sheets in a rage. The boss said prove it, but how long could I keep up this suffocating undercover gig? I couldn't take it anymore. Hiding didn't suit me. Time to crash through or carve a path.
I tucked the two envelopes into my shirt and opened the door.
Creeeak—
I wheeled into the living room. Dad sat at the kitchen table chair, reading the newspaper. Under the old fluorescent light, his shadow stretched long.
"Dad."
The rustle behind the paper stopped. It lowered slowly.
"What."
"I need to talk."
"What now. Study."
"I'm gonna make my living drawing."
Dad's eyebrow twitched, jerking up in an unnatural arc.
"What?"
Thwack! The paper folded roughly. He stood. The chair scraped the floor, slicing the room.
"You little shit, after yesterday and you still don't get it?!"
I steadily placed the two envelopes on the table, one after the other.
"This is nineteen thousand won from the ones I showed you yesterday."
Then I slid the other toward him, slow.
"This is thirteen thousand five hundred won I got today."
"...What'd you say?"
"From what I drew in one day yesterday."
His breath roughened at earning over ten thousand in a day. His eyes darted between the envelopes and my face.
"This isn't just yesterday and today. I'll earn like this tomorrow, and the day after. With these hands."
Dad sat back down. No paper crinkle this time. Dead quiet, he counted the bills with trembling hands.
The grandfather clock's second hand ticked in the living room. Ten-thousand-won bill. Three thousands. One five-hundred coin.
"...You earned this in one day?"
"Yes."
"This... is a day's pay?"
Dad stared into space, incredulous.
"Twenty-five key animation sheets at five hundred won each: twelve thousand five hundred. Twenty in-between frames at fifty won: one thousand. Total thirteen thousand five hundred. Exact."
Dad said nothing. His rough breaths stilled, lips clamping shut. Mom, watching from the kitchen corner, gripped her apron tight.
"School?"
"I'll go. Get the diploma."
"I'm asking about studies."
"Studies? I can do well if I try. But even if I bust my ass for college, it won't touch the heel of my drawing skills now."
I didn't look away. First time in this new life facing Dad's iron wall head-on.
"College means a proper job, sure. But tuition? Four years bleeding cash. I can earn more than a big-corp salaryman right now. No way I'm wasting that time and money on uni."
Dad's jaw clenched.
"Dad, my art's the world's best."
Had to drive it home.
"Right now, subcontracting in Korea. But the Japanese head office rep's watching me. Graduate, and I can head straight there."
"Japan?"
A short gasp from Mom.
I pulled out the Shinwon Production boss's card and Shunsuke's from Tatsumino Production. They gleamed under the fluorescent light on the table.
Shinwon Production President Kim Sang-taek
Tatsumino Production Co., Ltd. Production Dept. Overseas Coordinator: Kimura Shunsuke
"What's this?"
"One's my boss's card where I work. The other's the Japanese head office rep."
1978 Japan. The world's number-two economy nipping at America's heels. The land of "Made in Japan," pinnacle of appliances and tech. A company from that country showing interest in his pre-grad son? Dad looked shell-shocked.
"This... really the head office rep's card?"
"Yes. Work comes from them to Shinwon, and to me."
"Your drawings really cross the sea to Japan?"
I nodded. Dad picked up the card, feeling its texture.
"You... can read this?"
"Yes. Want me to?"
I took it back, drawing on past-life memory, reading fluently in Japanese, letter by letter.
"Tatsumino Production Production Department, Kimura Shunsuke."
The room froze. Mom covered her mouth, approaching.
"When'd you learn Japanese like that?"
"Picked it up bit by bit at the school library."
Dad closed his eyes as I spoke. Tension melted with a deep sigh. Mom glanced, then grinned, wheeling me to the master bedroom.
"Mom, soybean paste stew."
"Aigoo, look at me! My Kyung-ho's such a good boy!"
Mom, back after killing the gas, bombarded me with questions. Dad seemed mostly won over, but was it legit, not a scam? She played worried, but her ear-to-ear grin killed the act.
"Mom, don't worry. Shinwon boss is a good guy."
As I told her about the help and talks, Dad finished thinking and entered with the cash envelope, closing the door.
"Got a plan?"
"Yes."
"Spit it."
I caught my breath and laid it out.
"Subcontracting at Shinwon now, but the Japanese rep wants me over post-grad. Saving for Japan living expenses on the side."
Dad questioned.
"Japan living costs a ton. How much by graduation?"
"Hmm, at least..."
Quick math.
"Over a million won."
"O-one... million...?"
Mom swallowed. A million was small-house money now.
"Yeah, earning over ten grand a day already."
Dad blinked, shocked, but schooled his face stern.
"Ahem... Japan's not for just anyone."
"Tech dispatch first. Boss'll help. They send request docs, we file here."
"That works?"
"Japanese side confirmed."
I shared my long-researched Japan intel.
"And with these legs, army exemption. No service issues boosts exit permit odds."
"Still, army... this wife of mine..."
"Keep going, Kyung-ho. Ignore him."
Dad opened his mouth at army talk, but Mom elbowed him shut.
"Work hard there, likely formal hire. Long-stay visa follows."
Mom chimed cautiously.
"Long-stay? Living there forever?"
"Yeah. No other way."
She bristled.
"Month or two, fine. Family lives together."
"Succeed, I'll bring you both to Japan."
Dad eyed me straight.
"Can't hack it there?"
"Come back. But won't happen."
Silence. Dad sighed again.
"What makes you so cocky?"
No hesitation.
"My art's world-best."
"I know you're good, but not that good."
Mom didn't grasp my level yet. Never showed parents properly in past life either.
"I'll show you. One sec."
I wheeled to my room. Pulled a sheet from the yellow envelope—the pro animation paper, smooth and firm unlike regular. Jung-hye's holder pencil.
Back in the living room, their quiet gazes pinned my hands at the kitchen entrance. I spread the paper on the table.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Hesitation-free lines slashed the white. Motion repeated tens of thousands in past life. Right-hand micro-tremors controlled by left-axis grip. Brain image poured through arm muscles onto paper.
"Mom likes pansies, right."
Mom's round face contoured instantly. Beyond likeness—muscle flow, eye-corner wrinkles calculated. Lines breathed life. Vivid pansies bloomed over her flower basket.
Dad watched wordless. His pupils dilated.
"Dad, fishing."
Rough fishing chair beside her. Him perched, rod dangling, beaming at standing Mom. Not the gruff reality Dad—the serene, happy instant.
Scratch-scratch. Graphite quickened. Chiaroscuro layers built depth on flat paper. Light source, wind rippling her skirt—visible.
Last line. Set down the holder.
"......"
Silence blanketed the room. Mom gaped, eyes glued. As if paper-her might sniff flowers and chat anytime.
Dad leaned in. Rough fingers, toying with cards, halted at paper edge.
"This... you drew?"
"Yes. You saw."
Dad looked up slow. No prior bafflement. Awe at child's overwhelming talent.
Long pause, then slow exhale.
"Never learned shit myself—hurt like hell. Wanted you to study hard. But you hated it to death."
I stayed quiet. Dad stared floor, lost in thought.
"Legs like that... Thought studies were only way, even if you hated it."
He eyed the cash again.
"But you earned with art. More than I thought."
Patted my shoulder.
"Solid plan. Good job. And sorry."
Ruffled my hair. Weird feeling.
"Do what you want now."
"But his body's not right—Japan alone..."
"Speaks Japanese, Shinwon boss helping."
Dad continued.
"Proved it. Gotta believe."
Mom shut up.
"He'll manage. Right?"
Something surged. Dad pressed the cash back into my hand.
"Use for Japan."
"...Yes."
Unexpected support stung my eyes red.
"Draws damn good."
Head down, fiddling envelope, finally answered. Surge. Hot lump rose throat. Vision shook frame-by-frame. My 1978 was truly starting now.