Four months into going independent.
Work was inconsistent. Some weeks, he had three job sites lined up. Other times, ten days passed without a single phone call. On days when the phone stayed silent, he sat in his studio apartment and stared at his cell phone. The screen was dark. Even when he turned it on, there was nothing.
Three hundred fifty thousand won in rent. Truck maintenance. Film inventory. Consumable tools and supplies. The money going out every month was fixed. The money coming in was not.
There was a day when his bank balance dropped to eight hundred thousand won. Seokjun did the math while paying for a cup of instant noodles at a convenience store. After paying rent, he would have 450,000 won left. Subtract gas, and that was 300,000 won. Buy more film, and he would be in the red.
That was when the phone rang. It was an interior company called Hanbit Design.
"Mr. Moon, we've got a commercial space in Suwon. Can you handle it?"
"I'll do it."
He answered without even seeing the estimate. He needed the work.
When he arrived at the job site, he saw that the commercial space was large. The entire wall surface needed film installation. Three days, working alone. The unit rate was low, but he couldn't turn it down.
For three days, Seokjun worked fourteen hours a day. From five in the morning until eleven at night. Convenience-store lunch boxes for lunch. No dinner. On the afternoon of the third day, while he was applying the last panel to the wall, his hand slipped. The utility knife tore the film. Film that was already installed.
"Ah—"
Seokjun stared at the torn film. He had to do it over. He needed to use another sheet of film. It would have to come out of his inventory. That was money.
Seokjun sank down onto the floor. He sat there alone inside the empty commercial space. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
He wanted to give up.
Was this really right? Was this the right path? Should he go back to college? No. What would he even do there? Should he take the police exam again? No. He'd already failed twice. Should he look for another job? What kind? What could he even do?
Seokjun looked at his hands. Utility-knife marks. Adhesive stains. Cracked skin. This was all these hands could do.
He took out his phone. He thought about calling Uncle. He didn't. He had gone independent, and calling to say he was having a hard time—that wasn't right.
Seokjun stood up. He tore off the damaged film. He took out a new sheet. Then he applied it again.
Eleven thirty at night. He was done. Seokjun turned off the lights in the commercial space and walked out. Only his Porter truck remained in the parking lot. He could see stars in the sky. They were visible because he was on the outskirts of Suwon.
Seokjun leaned against the truck's cargo bed and looked up at the sky.
When he practiced kendo, he used to go behind the dojo and cry alone after losing a match. Where no one could see him. Once he was done crying, he picked up his bamboo sword again. It was okay to cry, but he couldn't let go.
It was the same now.
Seokjun got into the truck. He started the engine.
The following week, another call came. This time, it was a new company. The owner had seen the commercial space Seokjun had worked on and was getting in touch.
"You did the Hanbit Design commercial space, right, Mr. Moon? It looked really clean. Could you do one for us, too?"
Seokjun's grip tightened around the phone.
"I'll do it."
He had two job sites lined up that week. Three the next week. Two the week after that.
It was word of mouth. The thing Uncle had told him. This trade was a small world. Once word got around, that was it. Uncle hadn't told him that bad word spread fast, but good word spread fast too. Seokjun found that out for himself.
His bank balance started to rise. Eight hundred thousand won became two million, then three million. He wasn't rich. But after paying rent, filling the truck with gas, and buying film, he still had money left over.
Looking at his bank account, Seokjun thought:
This is money I earned.
With my own hands, under my own name, money that I earned.
That evening, Seokjun met Doeun. They ate together for the first time in a long while. At a neighborhood Korean barbecue place.
"Seokjun, you look better."
"I do?"
"Yeah. Before, you had a scary look on your face. Now—you know, how should I put it? You look tougher?"
Seokjun smiled as he grilled the meat.
"Doeun."
"Yeah?"
"I'm doing pretty okay these days."
Doeun looked at Seokjun. Then she looked at his hands. They had grown rough. She reached out and touched the back of his hand.
"I know. I can tell just by looking."
Seokjun took Doeun's hand. It was the first time. They had known each other since middle school, but this was the first time they had held hands.
Doeun wasn't startled. She simply let him hold it.
The pork belly was burning. Neither of them cared.