A month passed.
Seokjun's hands were no longer clean. Adhesive residue had collected beneath his fingernails, and three overlapping cuts from a utility knife marked his right index finger. The tip of his left thumb had been burned by the heat gun and peeled.
Every morning at six. Uncle's truck. The job site. Seven or eight in the evening. Nine on some days.
Seokjun still couldn't apply the film properly.
"Hey, what's with that squeegee angle? Forty-five degrees. You have to push at forty-five degrees to get the air bubbles out. You're just rubbing it around right now."
"Yes."
"Don't just say yes. Do it again."
There were new technicians at every job site. People Uncle had brought in to work with them. Men in their forties and fifties. They had big hands and loud voices. Most of them reacted the same way when they saw Seokjun.
"The boss's nephew? Oh, the kid who just got out of the military?"
And when they watched Seokjun work, they either sighed or clicked their tongues.
"Hey, what are you doing applying it without primer? The edges are all going to lift."
Primer. A liquid applied to the edges to improve the film's adhesion. When Seokjun first heard the word, he didn't know what it meant and just stood there blankly. The technician looked at Uncle and said,
"Boss, this guy really doesn't know anything. How can you bring someone to a job site who doesn't even know what primer is?"
Uncle didn't answer. He didn't even look at Seokjun. He simply continued working on his own task.
That night, Seokjun searched on his phone in the small room at his aunt and uncle's house. "Interior film installation terminology." "How to use primer." "Squeegee angles." "Heat gun temperature control." He read until two in the morning. The next day, he made sure to bring the primer first. When the technician saw Seokjun, he said nothing. It wasn't recognition. There was simply one less thing to point out.
The hardest day that week was Tuesday.
It was a commercial-space renovation job. They were applying film to the curved surface of a counter. Curved surfaces were different from flat surfaces. The film had to be heated with a heat gun, then stretched into place. Seokjun assisted Uncle from beside him.
"Put the heat gun here. Here. Ah— not there. Toward the edge. The edge."
Seokjun moved the heat gun. He held it too close. The film wrinkled.
"Goddammit."
It was the first time Uncle had cursed in front of Seokjun. Seokjun's body went rigid. Uncle tore off the wrinkled film. An entire sheet had been wasted.
"It costs twelve thousand won a sheet. Are you going to earn it and pay me back?"
Seokjun lowered his head. No answer came out.
Another technician working nearby spoke up.
"Come on, boss. Who's good at it from the very beginning?"
Uncle looked at the technician.
"He's only this bad because he's new. But if he's still like this after a month, then he's not a beginner anymore. He's just bad at it."
Seokjun's ears turned red. His throat felt hot. He knew it would be over if a twenty-four-year-old man cried at a job site. He clenched his teeth. Really clenched them. His molars creaked.
That evening, Uncle spoke inside the truck.
"Seokjun."
"Yes."
"Do you know why I'm so hard on you?"
Seokjun didn't answer.
"If you make a mistake at a job site, money disappears. When money disappears, your professional reputation disappears. When that goes, the work stops coming in. When the work stops coming in, you can't eat. It's all connected."
Uncle tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"If I went easy on you, you'd have it easier. But when you go out on your own later, there won't be anyone to go easy on you. If you make a mistake then, it's your money that disappears. I'm keeping you in line now."
Seokjun looked out the window. Streetlights passed by. His eyes felt hot.
"Uncle."
"What?"
"I'm not quitting."
Uncle didn't look at Seokjun. He kept his eyes on the road. After a long while, he said,
"Good."
That night, Seokjun took out some scrap film in the small room. He had secretly brought home pieces that had been thrown away at job sites. He tried applying one to the edge of the desk. He peeled it off, applied it again, peeled it off, and applied it again. Instead of a squeegee, he used a card. He pushed at different angles.
At one in the morning, the film was stuck to the edge of the desk without a single air bubble.
Seokjun stared at it for a long time.
There was no one to go easy on him. No one to praise him. He had simply applied a piece of scrap film to the edge of a desk in a small room, alone in the middle of the night.
And yet his hands weren't shaking.
It was the first time.