Chapter 1 Part 3: The Color of Despair is Beautiful

“Yejun, do you have time right now?”

Jeonghwan, whom he had met and gotten familiar with during the audition, asked as they walked up the theater stairs.

“Did something come up?”

“Ah, I’ve got to head to a part-time job, but one of the people who was supposed to show up today bailed on us.

I was wondering if you might be interested.”

His eyes lit up.

 

He had been worrying about what kind of part-time job he should take anyway, so this was perfect.

“What kind of job is it?”

“It’s an amusement park event, you know?

Walking around in costume, taking photos with people, playing with them—that kind of thing.”

“Ah.”

He’d done that before.

 

In the middle of summer, he’d worn a pig costume and practically bathed in sweat.

 

But now would be fine.

 

It was only March, and the weather was still on the cold side.

“How much does it pay?”

“Today’s special duty, so the hours are longer than usual.

It’s at the Jamsil indoor amusement park, from two in the afternoon until ten at night.

There’s a one-hour break, and the park provides dinner.

Daily pay is seventy thousand won.”

From two to ten.

 

Eight hours total.

 

Minus the one-hour break, that came out to exactly ten thousand won an hour.

 

Not bad at all.

 

And since it was an indoor amusement park, it wouldn’t be too hot or too cold—pretty comfortable, really.

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank you.

Whew.

That’s a relief.”

***

On the subway ride to Jamsil with Jeonghwan.

 

Since it was daytime, the subway was relatively quiet, and there were plenty of empty seats, making it easy to sit comfortably.

‘Come to think of it… I’ll probably be seeing this guy a lot.’

Once a play went up, it could run anywhere from three months to as long as six.

 

Even if the initial schedule listed four months including rehearsals, Daehangno productions often extended flexibly depending on ticket sales.

 

If they kept things awkward between them, it wouldn’t be good.

“Um, would it be okay if I called you ‘hyung’?”

Jeonghwan’s face immediately brightened.

“Oh, of course.”

“Then… you can drop the formal speech with me, hyung.”

“Really?

Haha.”

Maybe switching to casual speech made things easier.

 

Jeonghwan started talking more.

“Geukdan Mae is actually a pretty good place.

Did you know that?

Our director—the owner of the troupe—he’s also the building owner.”

Ah, that explained it.

 

A place that put on shows with only seven audience members and still managed to stay afloat.

 

Turns out the director owned the building.

 

That meant no rental costs for the theater, so it was unlikely to go under.

“He loves theater like crazy, but he said he didn’t have talent himself.

So he worked his whole life, bought a building, and then started a troupe.

They say his eye for talent is really sharp, though.”

“Have you been in Daehangno a long time, hyung?”

“Nope, just three years.

I quit my company job at twenty-nine and jumped into this world.”

Where had he found the courage to quit a stable job and enter the theater scene?

 

Maybe this hyung was far braver than him.

 

Rubbing his palms together, Jeonghwan spoke.

“Anyway, as long as the director’s around, Geukdan Mae won’t go under.

Actually, the troupe I was with until recently went bankrupt, so I’ve been going around auditions.

I heard about the director and figured I’d give it a shot, and I got lucky.

Haha.”

“I see.”

“So where were you before?”

It was the same question he’d been asked during introductions earlier.

 

Back then, he’d dodged it casually.

 

Because it was embarrassing.

“Daehwa Entertainment.”

“…?”

Jeonghwan’s eyes grew wider and wider.

“Da—Daehwa?

You mean the agency where Lee Jihoon is?”

“…Yes.”

“You were with a company that big?

Then why did you leave?”

What good was being with a major agency?

 

He’d been cut anyway.

 

Yejun gave a bitter smile and ran a hand through his hair.

“It just… happened.”

Sensing the mood, Jeonghwan closed his mouth.

 

He seemed to understand the general reality of the industry.

 

There were tens of thousands of aspiring actors.

 

Each year, a few thousand debuted.

 

But among them, fewer than five were remembered by the public in a year.

 

The rest drifted through obscurity, waiting for a chance—or giving up altogether.

 

That was the ecosystem of this world.

***

They got off at Jamsil Station, passed through the shopping center, and headed toward the amusement park.

 

A gate employee recognized Jeonghwan.

“Oh, hyung.

Coming in to work?”

“Yeah.

Busy today too?”

“Same as always.

Three elementary schools are on field trips today, so the morning was chaos.

They’ll probably clear out around three, so you should get ready and head out before then.”

“Yeah, yeah.

Same old story.

Yejun, let’s go.”

The gate employee gave Yejun a small nod.

 

Seeing that Jeonghwan had brought him, he probably assumed Yejun was a one-day temp.

 

After entering the park, they walked a long way through the staff corridors and arrived at an old office.

 

There were quite a lot of people inside.

 

What was interesting was that most of the part-timers were women.

 

Jeonghwan introduced Yejun to the team leader.

“He’s a friend from my Daehangno theater troupe.

I managed to bring him to fill in for the no-show.”

The team leader nodded.

“Alright.

Thanks for helping out when we’re short.

Go change into your costume.”

Separate changing rooms for men and women.

 

More than ten people went into the women’s room, but only Jeonghwan and Yejun entered the men’s.

 

As Yejun took off his clothes, he asked,

“Are we the only guys?”

“Yeah.

If you wear mascot suits, you look taller, and kids get scared.

Did you know?

The park mascots—the raccoon couple—both of them are women.

Haha.

If they’re too tall, it doesn’t look good, so they usually use female performers.”

I see.

 

Then why was he okay?

 

Seeing the question on Yejun’s face, Jeonghwan laughed.

“We’re not wearing mascot suits.

We’re doing face makeup.”

“Oh.

What kind?”

“Pierrot.”

“Ah.”

That made sense.

 

Pierrots could be tall.

 

Face makeup would be rough on the skin, but it was just once, so whatever.

 

Come to think of it, the reason he’d first wanted to become a real actor was because of a pierrot.

 

Back in college, he’d thought of them as just clowns, but later learned that pierrots carried a deeply sad legend.

 

Even now, seeing pierrot makeup made his heart ache a little.

 

Jeonghwan, wearing a costume with a round wire around the stomach that turned his body into a diamond shape, went into the makeup room and handed him materials.

“You’ve done makeup before, right?”

“Yes.

Back in school.”

“I’ll be the smiling clown.

You’re the crying clown.

Okay?”

“Yes, hyung.”

“Just as expected of a major!”

***

They finished their makeup quickly and went back to the team leader.

 

After checking their costumes, he asked,

“What was your name again?”

“Ma Yejun.”

“Alright, Yejun.

But smile a little.

You’re a clown.”

“….”

Pierrots don’t smile, sir.

 

Jeonghwan was a clown, so smiling was fine.

 

But a pierrot was a role that should never smile.

 

Just as Yejun was about to argue, Jeonghwan nudged him aside with his body and laughed.

“Haha, he’ll smile once we’re out there.

Don’t worry—he’s an acting major.”

“Hmm, alright.

Get out there quickly.

You need to greet the kids around the time the field trips end.”

“Yes, sir!

We’re going right now!”

Jeonghwan pulled Yejun into the hallway and let out a sigh.

 

A sigh coming from a man in clown makeup looked ridiculous.

“Yejun.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think ordinary people who aren’t acting majors can tell the difference between a pierrot and a clown?”

“….”

“They’re all just clowns.

Clowns who make people laugh.

Got it?”

“…Yes.”

Right.

 

This wasn’t an agency.

 

It wasn’t the acting scene.

 

It was just an amusement park.

 

Here, being true to your role meant focusing on making guests happy.

 

As long as people enjoyed it, that was enough.

***

Once they stepped into the park, people’s attention gathered instantly.

 

They exaggerated their movements, acted ridiculous, tripped for no reason, rolled around on the ground.

 

People burst out laughing and applauded.

 

He rolled his eyes, scanning the surroundings for anything that could help with physical comedy.

 

He tripped over a flower bed in the center, rolled forward, and smashed his face into a cleaning cast member’s trash bin.

 

When the cleaner snorted with laughter, the guests burst into giggles.

 

Children tugged on their mothers’ hands, begging to take photos.

“Mom!

Pierrot!

Pierrot!”

The crying clown was more popular than the smiling one.

 

Doing silly things with a sad face made it even funnier.

 

He posed for photos with exaggerated expressions, placing kids in the center, and they laughed happily.

 

Something felt strange.

 

He’d been fired from his agency.

 

His dream of being an actor felt far away.

 

He was thrown into the cold reality, wearing clown makeup and working at an amusement park.

 

So why did he feel happy?

 

Behind the makeup that hid his expressions, Yejun saw people enjoying themselves because of him.

‘Right… what does it matter what role it is or what kind of acting it is?

 

If you can make people happy, an actor should be willing to become a clown anytime.’

It had been a chance opportunity, but he liked it more than expected.

 

So he worked even harder to be ridiculous.

 

After spending a long time near the center of the park, they moved to a quieter area.

 

Jeonghwan spoke softly.

“Wow, seriously—you really are a major.

I was a little worried at first, but you’re amazing.”

“I did Commedia dell’Arte back in school.”

“What’s that?”

“A 17th-century French theater style where pierrots appear.”

“Oh, so that existed.

I thought they were just circus clowns.”

“Haha.”

The heavy mood that had been dragging him down for days lifted a little.

 

Seeing guests approaching, Jeonghwan jumped back into character.

 

If he got hit, he fell dramatically.

 

If he tried to get revenge, he got beaten up even worse.

 

The more ridiculously they ruined themselves, the more the guests loved it.

 

Being able to do what you like was definitely a privilege.

 

So many people lived doing work they never wanted.

 

No matter how insignificant the job might seem, feeling joy while working was a blessing.

 

Yejun gave it his all.

 

So much so that when the team leader came out to check on the costume cast, he looked completely satisfied.

“Haha!

Yejun!

How about making pierrot your regular position?”

The unexpected offer of a permanent part-time role.

“Me?”

As Yejun came in to rest since it was evening, the team leader patted his shoulder.

“Honestly, once someone no-shows like this, they almost never come back.

We’ll probably have to hire someone new.

Even if the original worker does return, I don’t plan on taking them back, so that seat’s basically empty.

Today was a special case with longer hours, but normally Jeonghwan only works mornings—from ten to three.

What do you think?”

The conditions were excellent.

 

Even once performances started, they were evening shows.

 

Rehearsals usually began late afternoon, too.

 

He could easily manage both.

 

Right now, he was ready to do anything to keep pursuing acting.

“If you’ll have me, I’d be grateful, sir.”

“Haha!

Great.

I’ll skip the interview on my authority—just bring your résumé tomorrow.

We’ll register you with the company and issue your pass.”

“Thank you.”

Four hours a day, excluding lunch.

 

One day off per week.

 

Daily pay of fifty thousand won.

 

About 1.3 million won a month.

 

Some would be deducted for insurance and such, but considering the short hours, it was more than enough to live on while pursuing theater.

 

He felt grateful toward Jeonghwan, who had disappeared to smoke right after dinner.

 

Sitting in the staff lounge, sipping the free bottled water, Yejun felt good for the first time in a while.

‘I shouldn’t waste time like this—when I get a chance, I should study.’

Right.

 

What good was idling around?

 

Because he worked hard, even small opportunities like this came his way.

 

He would give theater his all, too.

 

Who knew?

 

Another chance might come from here.

 

Still wearing pierrot makeup, Yejun opened the book he always carried—Harold Guskin’s How Not to Act.

 

Believing that everything that had gone wrong was due to his own lack of effort, he tried to use spare moments to study.

 

But the moment he opened the book, it felt as if someone had switched off the lights.

 

All the light vanished with a pop.

 

He jerked his head up.

“What the—?”

The surroundings had suddenly changed.

 

A very dark, small room.

 

In the middle of the room, with only the plastic chair he’d been sitting on left behind, someone was standing.

 

A crying pierrot.

 

With a teardrop painted on its face.

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