Chapter 80: Casting Out the Cockroaches

If you head down the hill from the back gate of Seoul Arts University’s Namsan Campus, you’ll find a row of old restaurants and bars befitting a college town.

Hong Joohee led me to the left alley at the fork where the hill descended into a three-way intersection.

She told me she’d rented out a place called ‘Kang Pocha.’

“Wow. Isn’t this place full of memories for everyone from Arts Uni?”

She added that she used to come here all the time back in her student days, but coming again now that she was all grown up gave her a strange sense of nostalgia.

Even a loner like me knew about Kang Pocha.

It was impossible not to, since you’d see it every day coming and going from school—and especially after classes, it was always packed with students.

“The pork jjageuri here, made by the grandmother who runs this place, is a taste you can’t get anywhere else. And if you come in spring, the fresh strawberry bingsu is incredible, right? Every year, during strawberry season, we used to bet on who could eat more of it. How many times have you had it, Writer?”

“Not even once.”

“Not even the strawberries?”

“Do I need to? I don’t really like strawberries.”

That was a lie. I love strawberries. I’d eat them all the time if I could.

But I didn’t want to admit that I’d never even tried the fresh strawberry bingsu at Kang Pocha—a place every upperclassman took their juniors to at least once.

‘A strawberry’s a strawberry. Put some in whipped cream and isn’t that a “fresh strawberry” dessert anyway?’

With this classic outsider’s rationalization, I stepped into the bar.

And so, more than ten years after graduation, I entered Kang Pocha for the first time—a place like a second home for Seoul Arts University students.

Inside, it was worn-down but familiar, just like every college town bar.

(I’ve never actually been to a college bar before, but you know—one of those places that gets used as a filming location in dramas.)

There were wall calendars from who-knows-what-year, mirrors donated by some foundation, flickering lights past their lifespan, and floors sticky with spilled water and alcohol.

The round steel tables were surrounded by plastic chairs that looked like they’d hurt your back if you sat too long, though that never seemed to bother young students.

A gas burner sat on every table.

Whether it was kimchi stew, braised spicy chicken, or fish cake soup, it was all set up so poor college students could heat up their food whenever they wanted.

That’s not all. Complimentary puffed rice snacks, cold soybean sprout soup, and egg rolls and tteokbokki—probably mass-produced in the morning—were served as side dishes.

They were cold and stiff, of course, but for some reason, your chopsticks kept going back to them. They just felt right.

“Wow. Looks like this writer’s taste fits right in, huh?”

One of the Creative Writing professors from Seoul Arts University sat across from me and spoke.

Next to him, a female professor poured me a drink, smiling warmly.

“Shall we head somewhere quieter for the second round? It’s so noisy in here, you can barely hear yourself speak.”

He was right—the place was packed with students.

Contrary to what it looked like from outside, the interior wound further in with hidden rooms. Business must be good—they’d bought out the place next door and even expanded into the storage room, it seemed.

The place was crawling with students—not just from Creative Writing, but also Theater, Acting, and Playwriting. It was nearly bursting at the seams.

“Writer, could I get your number? I hope we can do more of these events in the future. I went to Seoul Arts for undergrad too, you know. Wouldn’t it be nice to get closer?”

The male professor who first spoke to me handed over his phone, wearing a friendly grin.

He acted as if he was meeting me for the first time, but I remembered his face clearly.

He always looked so kind, yet mercilessly handed out Fs to students.

The unspoken rule in Creative Writing was three absences—tardiness was usually overlooked.

Most professors had the fairly reasonable standard of, “As long as you write well, it’s fine,” and many even stayed late drinking with students after class.

Of course, I wasn’t late or absent because I was out drinking.

To pay the ridiculously expensive tuition, I worked part-time every weekday and weekend, and was genuinely exhausted—that’s all.

After being late a few times, he immediately gave me an F and told me, with the same smile, that there was no need for me to attend class anymore.

Not having the courage to talk to him in person, I wrote him a long email explaining my circumstances, but all I got back was, “That wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.”

‘I never even missed a single class!’

I made it in, even if it was late!

Because of that F, I couldn’t get my national scholarship and had to take on extra weekend wedding hall shifts. The memory flooded back, making me want to throw his request for my number right back in his face and demand an explanation.

“It’s hard for me to share my number privately. I get really sensitive when I’m writing.”

“Oh. Hahaha. Sure. You must be really busy these days.”

The male professor forced a smile as he put his phone away.

“Here, Professor, my card. If you ever need a lecture from Writer Lee Junghyuk or any help on that front, please contact me.”

Hong Joohee, radiating her social prowess even in front of the professors, quickly handed out her business cards.

“And Professors, I think the students have a lot they want to ask the writer tonight. If you don’t mind, could you give up your seats?”

The male and female professors awkwardly got up, saying, “Oh, of course.”

For the first time, Hong Joohee’s social skills had actually helped me.

But the moment the seats were empty, students immediately rushed in.

“Hello, Writer. I’m a fan.”

“Me too. I wanted to hear your lecture today, but it was only for Creative Writing students. Next time, could you come visit our Acting department too?”

Apparently, these were Acting majors from the neighboring department.

“Oh, Writer, we’ve been preparing a performance lately—would you like to see a bit?”

Three female students immediately stood up, played an idol song on their phone, and started dancing.

They nailed all the typical “last chance to show off” poses you see on variety shows—winks, sticking out their tongues, breathless smiles, all the signature moves.

Maybe actors just have to be born with that ridiculous need for attention and shamelessness.

If you didn’t know the context, you’d probably have no idea why they were doing something so bizarre.

But after years in this industry, having heard all sorts of horror stories, I immediately understood their intent.

“Sorry, everyone, but I’d just like to drink quietly.”

“Oh, okay!”

The girls hurriedly sat back down and tried to top off my glass, one after another.

That’s right. They just wanted to look good in front of me.

There was a rumor that, after a famous writer finished a talk like this, they’d make aspiring young actors do impromptu auditions for fun at the after-party.

I never thought of it as just a rumor.

Some “great writers” get so used to being worshipped that they start thinking they’re really something, acting monstrously.

These students were just victims of that kind of legend.

“And anyway, all my current projects have finished casting. I don’t usually get involved in casting either. No matter how much you try to impress me, you won’t get any crumbs from my table.”

So I replied as politely as I could.

But everyone’s faces fell.

Especially Hong Joohee, who looked at me like she was thinking, ‘Maybe it wasn’t your circumstances that ruined your college days—maybe it was your personality…’

Hong Joohee handed out her card to them, just as she’d done with the professors.

“I’m Hong Joohee, CEO of H Studio. We still do open auditions, so please send us your profile.”

The girls left, but a few brave students kept coming to our table.

But when I spoke again, they all scattered like cockroaches.

“I don’t put much stock in being alumni, so even if you try to impress me, I won’t cast you in my next project just because we went to the same school. In fact, seeing all this fakeness just made me think, ‘I should never pick people like this.’”

“…Writer.”

Hong Joohee let out a short sigh, then went around handing out her cards to every student who left.

She seemed to be adding something like, “Our writer talks tough, but he’s really a good person.”

“Um, is this seat free?”

The older-looking male student who’d asked the last question at the lecture came over to where I sat alone.

With him were a bespectacled male student who seemed to be in the same boat, and a girl with her long hair loosely tied back.

“Yes, go ahead.”

They sat beside me, not even touching the snacks, just drinking straight soju.

It was endearing to see these types, who usually never show up at gatherings like this, mustering up the courage. I poured each of them a drink.

“Writer, your words earlier were really inspiring. Thank you.”

“If we work hard, do you think we could become like you one day?”

“No.”

But even they couldn’t hide their disappointment at my answer.

“To be blunt, I got here with 99% luck and 1% effort. The world is terribly unfair. Some people fall down and break their nose, and instead of feeling sorry for you, the world just points and laughs and divides everyone into strict classes. Remember: the world is cold, heartless, and harsh.”

I didn’t stop there—I added, You might never see the bright future you’re imagining. Personally, I recommend learning a skill. There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t regretted not learning a trade sooner.

They looked like stalks of barley shaken out from head to toe by a threshing machine.

Returning from handing out more business cards, Hong Joohee shot me a look of pure contempt.

She was saying, wordlessly, ‘Fine, be a jerk to aspiring actors, but do you have to be that way to future writers too?’

“But if you keep writing anyway, your chances of becoming like me go from zero to one percent. If you’re ready for that.”

I tried to stylishly take out my own business cards, like Hong Joohee, but I hadn’t even thought to bring any in the first place, so of course I had none.

Instead, I grabbed three napkins from the table and wrote down my email address.

“Send me your scripts. If they’re any good, we’ll give you a chance to work (getting dragged through hell) with our studio.”

“Thank you, Writer!”

“We’ll never give up!”

The outsiders nodded enthusiastically, holding their little napkins with my email on them like a treasure.

Seeing them, I thought maybe I should’ve actually said the ‘getting dragged through hell’ part out loud.

Still, it felt like this drinking party—which I’d never experienced during my own college years—might just become a treasured memory for me.

If I’d had a moment like this back then,

Maybe I’d have turned out a little different.