The Only Connection I Have

The very next day, a script came flying in through express delivery.

And along with it, a business card.

Uncle Chan-soo's message came attached as well: be at the network by 1 p.m. this Friday to meet PD Yoo Myungwoo in person.

"Well, he does work in this industry — the man's frighteningly fast."

Uncle Jung Chan-soo, my father's friend, worked at a drama production company called Phoenix. And he happened to be an old college classmate of PD Yoo Myungwoo's, the kind of friend you could call at three in the morning. So when my father reached out to him, I fully expected the connection to lead straight to the PD.

Why? Because I'd already walked that exact route once before.

Let's see... it was about three years after I'd started acting. I'd been determined not to breathe a word about acting to my family until I actually made it, but after shuffling back and forth between bit parts and extra roles until I was running on fumes, I got caught anyway. My plan had been to make the big reveal only after locking down a supporting role on a proper drama — a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠triumphant homecoming. That hope lay in ruins.

With the victory parade a spectacular failure and me wallowing in the wreckage, my father introduced me to Uncle Chan-soo. And Uncle Chan-soo, just like now, handed me PD Yoo Myungwoo's business card.

To summarize the result: I didn't exactly walk away with a glowing reception.

An interview with PD Yoo was never the kind of cozy sit-down where the role was a foregone conclusion.

"I actually thought, for a second, he might just hand me a part."

While most PDs recoiled at the mere suggestion of role-peddling, Yoo was remarkably free about the whole thing. No — to put it precisely, he seemed to enjoy it. The man gathered up every last person begging him to watch them act and ran a private audition for them all, so "enjoying it" is probably the more accurate word.

On the day he'd summoned me to, no doubt, a small army of aspiring actors besides me would be crowding in for one of those private sessions.

Yoo Myungwoo was famous ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for drawing clean lines: if your acting impressed him, he'd hand you a suitable role; if it didn't, he'd cut you loose without a shred of mercy. The reason he indulged people's requests and watched them perform wasn't to profit off impossible favors — it was to dig for hidden gems. In the end, you could boil it down to this: PD Yoo gave roles only to the hopefuls he personally deemed good enough.

"I resented him at first, I'll admit. Turns out I was wrong about that, too. Though it took me a while to realize it."

If someone asked me what was so impressive about giving roles to actors who could actually act, I'd probably answer: more than you'd think.

In this business, simply landing a legitimate opportunity was anything but easy.

Five years of knocking around this industry had taught me that the connections game here defied all imagination. Auditions themselves were almost always private, and unless you had some kind of in — an arts high school, a theater program, an agency, a prestigious acting academy — it was alarmingly common to never even get your foot in the door.

Meaning: even the chance to audition wasn't a given.

When open auditions did exist, they were rarely the pure meritocracy people imagined. The decent roles were mostly filled with a pre-selected favorite, the open call staged as pure ceremony. And if that wasn't the case, the project itself was more than halfway doomed. For a nobody like me — an aspiring actor with nothing to my name — the game started at a brutal disadvantage.

To be fair, I could understand it to a degree. Connections aside, kids who'd trained at theater programs and arts schools or with famous troupes and academies were, statistically, the safer bet. And anyone with real talent was usually already signed to a company. So if I were in their shoes, picking roles from among the kids with proper fundamentals, I'd have nothing to say in my own defense either. If that felt unfair, well — you should have majored in acting, or clawed your way into a good agency somehow. And if even that failed, sink a fortune into becoming the star pupil of a famous acting academy.

"So back then, it ended in failure. I didn't come away empty-handed, but the role sailed off to someone else."

In any case, after that private audition with PD Yoo, I failed to claim the role. The single silver lining was getting objective feedback on exactly where my acting fell short. Honestly, in the audition world, even giving feedback was vanishingly rare — if Uncle Chan-soo hadn't introduced me, I'm certain Yoo wouldn't have extended even that courtesy.

But this time, things were bound to be different. The man himself was operating on a whole different level now.

And as far as connections went, this was all I had — which made it, without question, my fastest route to a debut. Given the situation, latching on and getting the debut done came before everything else.

"The timing couldn't be better, though..."

Production had just been greenlit, and the casting was beginning now. Which meant, if I played my cards right, I ought to be able to land a fairly good role.

The problem was that this drama looked like it was going to be very successful. With the Yoo Myungwoo–Min Woohee duo riding two consecutive hits, plenty of things would have been decided before production was even confirmed. People in this industry sniffed out money like bloodhounds. The big agencies, especially, would already be shoving actors through the door with investment capital in hand — that much was a given.

"Lead or major supporting? Realistically, forget it."

Above all, there was the matter of the investors. Whoever put up the money, no one was going to welcome an unknown taking the lead in a drama this size. Whether the investors came bundled with their own pet actors or simply with deep pockets, pushing an unknown as the lead or a key supporting player in a project this big was tantamount to declaring war. There was a line of excellent actors already waiting for the chance, no need to go hunting for new faces. As powerful as Yoo Myungwoo was — an SBC flagship PD — unless the network was producing it solo, he couldn't simply steamroll the investors. And even if his artistic passion drove him to throw a tantrum, the investors would still win.

Granted, a drama this promising made swapping investors theoretically possible, but there was no reason to take that kind of reckless gamble. In the entertainment world, reputation mattered whether you noticed it or not, and even the most brilliant PD who acted like an untouchable autocrat would eventually pay for it.

Which is why I'm firmly convinced that convincing a PD and a writer on acting alone, then using that as leverage to overthrow the investors, is the stuff of fiction and nothing more.

"Once the male lead and the two male supporting characters fly off the table, there's not much left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that stands out. The one that does... hmm, would this one work?"

Crossing out the handful of key roles that already had chosen favorites written all over them, one part leapt off the page. A role that had wandered masterless for a good long while, one that had given the PD no end of grief. It wasn't that he couldn't find an actor he wanted — as I vaguely recalled, the actor in question had turned the part down again and again. With this role, Yoo could wield me with a clear conscience.

"Plus, it happens to be a part I'm actually confident about. Perfect."

Handled well, this role could hit harder than most supporting parts, and with the right preparation, I figured I could carve my three syllables properly into the memories of everyone in the industry.

I was deep in the script, shaping my character, when the dimwit from the next room barged into mine. No declaration, no warning — just pure savagery. And there she stood, watching me analyze a script with her tongue clicked in mock disbelief, looking for all the world like her brain had fully clocked out.

"Wait, you're actually doing this? For real?"

"What, were you expecting fake?"

"Hey, get a grip. I get that you're coasting on that face of yours, but this industry is crawling with pretty boys just like you."

"And I'm not one of them."

"Me... I'm different. I've got actual talent."

"Mm-hmm. Next up: eliminated from the debut group."

"Ugh, come on! Quit jinxing it! Why do you keep saying I'll get cut from the debut group?!"

There was no reason to keep enduring my mother's daughter's pointless noise, which landed with all the impact of a wet noodle. To save us both the trouble, I cut straight to the chase.

"State your business. Quickly."

"Ah, right, my business. So the thing is..."

"The thing is?"

"Don't go crying when you fail the audition."

"Oh, so you came all this way to tell me that?"

As ridiculous as her delivery was, there was a genuine flicker of concern in her eyes. Come to think of it, a visit from this dimwit was unusual in itself. Should I offer some serious advice in return, then?

"Hey."

"What?"

"Are you working a part-time job these days?"

"...A part-time job? Uh... no?"

"No, my ass. You keep this up and you really will get cut from the debut group. Wake up."

"Ugh, seriously. How did you even know about the part-time job?"

How did I know? Regression, that's how.

As I'd mentioned before, that dimwit fails to make the debut group. And then, unable to accept the result, she wastes two more years training as a trainee at a different company. The reason she couldn't let go after failing was that she had a ready-made excuse: she'd never been able to focus on training alone. Because she'd been secretly working part-time.

She'd come from an ordinary high school, so her practice hours were already squeezed thin — and on top of that, she'd been carving out time for a job. No wonder she clung to the dream. What I genuinely couldn't wrap my head around was how, after becoming a trainee all over again, she went and picked up another part-time job.

"Don't regret it later. For now, focus on training. I'll be the one making money in this family. Who's been pressuring you to bring home a paycheck?"

"...What are you even saying."

The way I saw it, she didn't have the makings of an idol. Cutting her losses quickly would be her best move.

But she wasn't the type to listen if I just told her to quit, so the plan was to strip away her excuses first — then tell her that if she got cut from the debut group, she quits for good.

From what I remembered, she had excellent hands and a real eye for fashion — she was genuinely good at the beauty trade. She'd been the star of her academy, and just two years after properly studying cosmetology, she'd landed a job, trainee status admittedly, at a hair salon famous even in Cheongdam-dong. I never got to see how it ended, since I got yanked off to Murim mid-story, but I remembered the salon owner rating her highly.

So if she quit now and went back to cosmetology, she'd have no trouble earning her own keep.

"Hah... fine. I'll handle my own life, thanks."

"Handle it or not — get caught working another part-time job and I'm telling Father."

"...Why would you tell Dad?"

"Telling Mother would just earn you a smack across the backside, same as always. But Father? He'll burst into tears about how he's failed to make you feel secure. Is that what you want?"

"...No. Definitely not that."

"Then quit the part-time job right now and focus on your training."

"Geez..."

Hard to blame her — if our emotionally effusive father started sobbing, she'd never live it down. Even that dimwit wouldn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wish for that.

Her footsteps looked unusually heavy as she retreated, having come to lecture me only to get pummeled by cold, hard facts.

My shoulders, for the record, were just as heavy. Back in the day, she'd paid her beauty academy tuition with money from her part-time jobs. Now that that income stream was gone, the tuition had landed squarely on me.

But what could I do? Dimwit or not, she was still my mother's daughter — bound to me by blood.

Apparently, I had one more reason to debut fast and start earning.