"I can't make it tomorrow—got stuff to do at home," Jang Young told Taeho as they parted ways.
"What could be more important than playing the new console?" Taeho joked. "Fine, the day after tomorrow, let's meet here at nine. I want to see my report card anyway."
Back in his little upstairs room in the old villa, Jang Young flopped onto his bed, lost in thought. How on earth could he talk his father into producing bootleg game cartridges?
Not long after five, his mother Kim Soonran came home, arms heavy with groceries—some napa cabbage and a generous slab of pork.
"Your dad's not home yet? The teachers' union handed out pork tonight. Got us three kilos of belly. Mom's making your favorite dweji-gogi-jeon-gol with dangmyeon. But don't listen to your dad if he tries to get me to pour drinks!"
Jang Young felt a pang seeing how her hair had just a few white strands—less than later in life, when their hardships multiplied. He pulled her into a hug, something he never did enough in his first go-around. She had always taken care of him, even as a bachelor well into his forties.
"You've worked so hard, Mom," he said, quietly vowing to make her life comfortable this time around.
"You sentimental today, Young? I heard from your homeroom teacher—the exams weren't great. Vocational high school's looking tough, but regular high school should be fine. Study hard, get to university, and you can land an office job!"
Jang Young: "…"
He suddenly remembered his mediocre grades in junior high. In his last life, qualifying for any university had been a battle—thanks mostly to his dad's relentless support. Now, though, he could barely remember old formulas and lessons. Would he even pass the entrance test again, after all these years?
"Mom, is Dad's factory struggling? Why haven't they paid wages lately?"
"That's not for you to worry about. Your dad's a section head—they'll sort it out. Besides, my salary as a middle school teacher will get you through college if needed." She patted his hand. "Enjoy winter break; next week I'll sign you up for some extra lessons before exams."
Soon, the savory-smoky scent of pork stew filled the kitchen. The door creaked and in came his father, Jang Gwangsu. Spotting his family, he forced on a wide smile, setting aside the exhaustion and resentment clinging to him from work.
"Ooh, what smells so good in here? Is it my lucky day?"
Jang Young greeted him, grabbing the battered briefcase and hanging up his father's heavy coat. This small, everyday gesture—so normal—felt precious now.
"Out to play with your friends again tomorrow?" Gwangsu said. "Here, I'll give you a couple thousand won."
"Don't need it, Dad." What could two thousand won buy? If he wanted to start a cartridge bootlegging business, he'd need two million…
"Hmm, did you struggle on your exams? You're about to hit the big test year, Young. Don't get distracted." His father's words trailed off in awkward concern.
That night, the taste of pork hot pot, so familiar and comforting, made Jang Young eat twice as much as usual. After dinner, he sat with his dad in front of the flickering TV, quietly watching the national news.
"They say the Soviet Union is still strong. When will Korea ever catch up?" his mother sighed, nestling on the waxy old sofa.
Just last year, the Soviet leader himself had visited Seoul. Ordinary people were thrilled—Korea had a connection with a global power again. But Jang Young knew better: the USSR was nearly broke, here to plead for help before its economy collapsed for good. In less than two years, it would vanish from the world map, and before long, Korea's own standing would soar—even challenging Japan in prestige.
"Don't worry, Mom," he said softly. "Maybe less than thirty years—you'll see for yourself."
"Thirty years? Listen to this kid! Let's hope so." She could hardly imagine Korea leapfrogging global giants.
"Gwangsu, I heard the city electronics plant is bringing in some Russian engineers for training after the New Year. Any chance they'll visit our county factory?" She still hoped that the big city plant would take notice, give her husband job security.
"Those Russians are only at Samsung and LG headquarters in Seoul. They barely even stopped over in Busan. Would they come out here to the provinces?"
"Honey, if they'd even consider working with our factory, it could save us. Get some production orders in from the city… then at least you wouldn't have sleepless nights over money."
The so-called "partnerships" weren't real joint-ventures. In truth, the big companies took on smaller factories to crank out basic, low-value parts on an OEM basis, tossing them a slice of the profits at best. Korea was transitioning away from strict government planning; private enterprise was booming, but the period was rough and chaotic.
Too many state and city factories had bet everything on the wrong products. Many, like Jang Young's father's, were hemorrhaging money without new orders or paychecks.
Gwangsu sighed, "If city factories sent us orders, even small batches of radios, we'd take anything. But there just aren't enough orders. The TVs I pitched the county on would sell, but the seed money needed is… unrealistic."
He rubbed his head and shuffled to his room. "What good is talking about all this? You two watch TV. I'm going to lie down."
"Mom, I'll sleep early tonight. I need to go to school for my report card tomorrow." The TV never interested him much anyway—it was just a battered little 14-inch Daewoo, older than he was.
After tonight's family talk, he understood the real state of the factory. If an order came in, they'd jump. But as things were, workers sat idle, desperate, depressed.
Jang Young took out pen and paper, jotting down a dozen key video games everyone wanted, so he wouldn't forget. He quickly outlined a rough plan—steps for making and selling pirated game cartridges, using the factory's unused equipment.
Everything was ready, except the spark to
set things in motion.
That spark—he'd go searching for it tomorrow.