Crisis and Opportunity
That day onward, my daily life changed dramatically.
First, the scene at home. The English reference books and math workbooks that had dominated my desk were shoved into a corner, replaced by bundles of rough-textured key animation paper, timesheets, and the constant scratching of graphite leads.
Knock knock.
Father no longer burst through the door. Instead of flipping my notebook shut to hide it, I left the key animation sheets spread out and called out.
“Come in.”
“Drawin’ well?”
We weren’t exactly close, so there was this awkward stiffness between father and son, but it felt strangely welcome.
“Yeah.”
“Gonna head to the company later, right?”
“Have to.”
“Then I’ll tag along to your company later.”
I paused for a moment to correct him. “I’m not on official contract, so it’s not really my company. And what’s the occasion?”
Father snorted. “What’s it matter? You’re moochin’ off ’em, so I figured I’d drop off a box of apples as thanks.”
He hefted a box of apples from the shop onto the old Porter truck parked in the yard corner. They were plump and red, perfectly ripe.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“These things come back around eventually. Thought you were all grown up, but looks like you’ve still got a ways to go.”
In the end, Father came with me late that night to Shinwon Production, shoving the apple box on the boss despite his protests that it wasn’t necessary, then bowing so low his back nearly snapped.
Now that I was working from home, I only stopped by the company to hand off animation sheets and collect payment. With my situation stabilized, Kim Sang-taek, the boss of Shinwon Production, stopped treating me like some part-timer. Not that I was officially on staff or anything.
“Hey, Kyung-ho.”
“Yeah.”
“Pulled your share aside. Let’s knock out the urgent cuts first.”
The envelope the boss handed me bulged with tight-scheduled shots—work originally assigned to Jung-ho hyung.
“Wasn’t this Jung-ho hyung’s gig?”
“That punk says he hurt his wrist or somethin’. Tsk. Ain’t nobody in this biz like you, Kyung-ho. So here’s the thing…”
The boss fished a translucent plastic business card holder from his pocket and passed it over. “Take it.”
“Business cards?”
“You’re family now, ain’t ya? Gotta give ya somethin’ proper to hand out.”
He even went so far as to get me business cards made. The rates were the same as before, but that alone blew past industry averages. Once, when I asked if it was okay to pay like this, he grinned and said, “’Course. Thanks to you, our rep’s sky-high—Japan’s uppin’ their subcontract rates. Folks comin’ for outsourcing gigs, I wanna show ’em we’re the real deal. Hell, I can spot a foreign car from a mile away now.” He even showed me a catalog of Mercedes models, beaming.
I gave part of the money I earned—plenty of it—to my parents for living expenses, dumping the rest straight into the bank. Sure, I could’ve used my future knowledge for stocks, but in this world, everyone’s birthdays were shifted. Who knew how things would play out? With bank interest rates near a insane 20%, there was no need to get greedy anyway. I can still picture the teller glancing at my face as she handed back the passbook. For a high school senior in the ’70s, it was an unreal sum.
A few days later, the vibe at school shifted too. Our homeroom teacher closed the attendance book, glanced my way, and said,
“Park Kyung-ho.”
“Yes.”
“Body feelin’ better?”
The teacher who used to scowl and ignore me was suddenly chummy. “I’m fine.”
“Good… Heard you’re part-timin’ while preppin’ for a Japan job? Principal gave the okay, so don’t worry—just don’t overdo it. Got it?”
He patted my shoulder. Was this the same guy?
Seung-gyu, watching from the side, whispered, “Ma, what’d ya do?”
“What?”
“Teacher’s talkin’ to ya all nice now, man.”
I shrugged. Probably Mom or Dad slipped him some cash from what I gave them.
An old food stall hugged the school fence. The vinyl canopy was sun-faded, and a massive pot belched thick gochujang fumes.
“Three tteokbokki!”
“Aigoo, you’ll bust my eardrums!”
Seung-gyu bellowed as he went in, and the ajumma playfully swung her frying tongs, scolding him like always. “Last time ya said I was too old to hear, so speak up!”
“Who’s bustin’ eardrums, ya punk?”
I chuckled, wheeling up beside him. Jung-hye stood naturally at my other side.
Tteokbokki piled onto melamine plates, fish cakes bubbling in the spicy broth.
Seung-gyu spoke first. “Ya went to the hospital the other day, right? When can ya walk again?”
I paused with my fork. “They said I can’t.”
Jung-hye froze mid-bite. “Can’t? Forever?”
“What’s that nonsense? They said rehab’d fix it before.”
With them yapping from both sides, it was chaos. I speared a rice cake and popped it in. Spicy. My tongue went numb.
“Yeah, before… nom nom… toes moved a bit back then. But lately, nothin’. Checked again, and the nerves are totally dead. Rehab won’t cut it.”
Jung-hye stared blankly. “Then what…”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. Dodges the army, no snag for Japan.”
Seung-gyu slammed his fork down. “…Ma, a man’s gotta do his service! How’s skippin’ the draft a good thing all sudden?”
I grinned. Folks back then were fiercely patriotic. Plenty believed army was mandatory, even if sick—pushing for active duty. Guess the old me was like that too.
Jung-hye bit her lip, head down. “This sucks so bad…”
Then the stall ajumma glanced over, fished fish cakes from the broth. “On the house ’cause I feel for ya students. Eat up and stay strong.”
Five in a bowl, handed over.
“Wha—whoa, for real?”
Seung-gyu jumped up, banging the edge. “Aigoo… Seung-gyu, easy on the energy!”
“Thank you!”
Jung-hye bowed. “We’ll eat well.”
I took the bowl. “Thanks, ma’am.”
The warm broth heated my hands. I bit into a fish cake. “I’m good like this.”
They both stared.
“Drawin’ pics, makin’ bank.”
I shrugged and waited. Seung-gyu and Jung-hye just eyed me, speechless.
“Eat up already. Seung-gyu, quit droolin’ and dig in. Forget me—what’re you two doin’ after graduation?”
Seung-gyu finally crunched a fish cake. “What else? Join Dad’s factory.”
“Factory?”
“Dad makes radio boards. Ya seen me solder, right? Suits me.”
I knew that. Classroom gadgets always got fixed by Seung-gyu.
“Right after graduation?”
“Yup. Learn the ropes, army stint, then take over so Dad rests.”
Casual words, heavy meaning. But no hesitation in his eyes. He sucked at books but had killer hand skills—maybe it fit. His eyes sparkled around machines.
“You?”
Jung-hye stirred the broth vaguely. “Me… wanna be a cop.”
“Girl cop? Tough gig.”
Seung-gyu’s eyes bugged. No talk of equality yet—female cops were rare, rough road even after.
“Heard taekwondo medals help.”
That alley kick flashed back. Pro fighter, huh.
“Studying?”
“Gotta.”
Seung-gyu snorted. “Jung-hye studyin’? World’s endin’. Aigoo.”
“You pig!!!”
“Hey, I lost weight! Quit callin’ me pig!”
“Pig loses weight, it’s a skinny pig!”
“You thorny bitch—!”
The stall got rowdy. Ajumma tsked but smiled. I watched, lips curling up. Everything’d work out. Vague, but near-certain.
I slurped spicy broth. Hot, fiery, alive.
Shinwon Production. Handing key animation bundles to Kim Sang-taek on the first floor, Seung-hyuk hyung yelled from an upstairs window.
“Hey, Kyung-ho!”
“Yeah, hyung.”
“Phone for ya. Japanese—dunno what, but kept sayin’ ‘Kyogo this, Kyogo that.’ You’re Kyogo, right?”
Kim Sang-taek grumbled, “Aigoo, fuck, gotta install an elevator or somethin’,” and hauled me up to the second-floor office.
He set me in a chair; Seung-hyuk handed the receiver.
"Hello, this is Kyung-ho."
A brief silence. Shunsuke’s voice.
“Kyung-ho? It’s you.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m truly sorry for not calling sooner.”
A sigh came through. “No big deal.”
“No, it’s not that…”
Shunsuke was clearly hesitating. I knew exactly what he wanted to say.
“It’s fine. I can tell from your reaction—just say it straight.”
“…Haa…”
I could picture him rubbing his forehead without seeing it.
“The president fired the animation director.”
“And?”
“Put one of his own guys in the spot. Now voices against bringing you over are gettin’ louder.”
Shunsuke said he hadn’t expected it to go that far, that Kyung-ho was too good to waste in Korea, and he’d scout other companies to get him to Japan somehow.
But Kyung-ho was a high schooler in body, a 30-something soul. He kept his emotions in check, sounding upbeat. “Nah, it’s cool. Subcontract work suits me fine.”
“…That eases my mind a bit, but…”
Silence stretched. Neither knew what to say next. Shunsuke broke it first.
“Haa… Tough at Tatsumino, but I’ll take responsibility and check other studios.”
“Appreciate it. Don’t stress too much.”
That’s what I said. “Really sorry.”
“No worries.”
Lies. We exchanged rote goodbyes; I hung up.
My fingertips chilled. Sensing the mood, Kim Sang-taek asked, “What’s up?”
“Looks like Japan’s off.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.”
Lips parched, but calm. “Boss, can I stick around after graduation?”
He stared, face complicated, then: “…Yeah.”
That single word hit harder, sadder than expected. The boss mumbled some excuse and left; Seung-hyuk pretended to focus on work, stealing glances. I stayed quiet too.
Work piled in my hands, but motivation tanked. Didn’t wanna go home either. Bragged about Japan post-grad—how to face my parents now?
I wheeled to the window, peering out. Jongno streets. People. Trucks. Bikes.
Skill alone ain’t enough, huh.
First realistic doubt pierced my confidence. Past-life memories and skills or not, I was just a cog in the system. Weak in every life.
Then—screech.
A yellow Corona taxi halted amid Jongno’s dust. Across the street.
Door opened; a man stepped out. Pomade-slicked white hair gleamed in the sun. Wrinkle-free suit, impeccable poise. Out of place in ’70s Korea—polished, alien.
Then, from the cab, a vivid turquoise dress cut through the gray. Enamel shoes shining, straight hair swaying like an actress’s to her shoulders.
I muttered absently, “That’s a real rich girl…”
No reason, but my eyes followed. They checked traffic, crossed. Stopped at Shinwon Production.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Steady heels on worn wooden stairs. Office door opened.
The woman’s voice rang clear, like a meticulously recorded anime seiyuu.
“Is this Shinwon Production?”
Japanese? The attendant bowed. “Miss, few Koreans speak Japanese.”
She replied calmly. “True. Call the president, then.”
The white-haired attendant bowed, then in surprisingly fluent Korean for a Japanese: “Hello. Is the boss in?”
Why’s she so damn cute.