A week after what I've come to call 'the phone incident'.
As before, we met at a coffee shop in Koreatown, and Simon Carver immediately started with this:
"The company has been in chaos."
"Why?"
"Because of your novel."
According to Simon, after the phone incident, there were those who became curious about the work of the high school student author who had rendered the editor-in-chief speechless.
There was no particular reason to refuse, and Simon, curious about other people's opinions, copied and distributed 'Mother.' The journalists who read my novel did not skimp on their praise.
"Now, it's become a routine for everyone to come to me in the morning and ask if the next episode is out."
"I feel somewhat embarrassed."
"Ha ha, you'll need to get used to it. You'll experience it a lot from now on. 'Mother' is a really good novel. It will definitely do well."
"I hope so."
"Of course, I do have some things to say regarding the work itself."
Simon adjusted his posture.
"Especially about the 'ending' of the work, which other journalists have not seen yet. Um, Mr. Author?"
"Yes, Mr. Journalist."
"The ending has changed quite a bit from the original plan."
"It turned out that way as I wrote."
"It seemed like you said over the phone before that you were just going to write it as planned."
"Did I? Anyway, I think this version is better, but what do you think?"
"Well…"
Simon seemed lost in thought for a moment.
While he gathered his thoughts, I casually looked around.
The coffee shop in Koreatown had an English sign with '코오-피-쇼프' written in Hangul underneath it. It was a declaration of the will not to forget the language and culture of the homeland. It was true that such a presence of the Korean community could cause discomfort among other races, but I thought it was unavoidable.
'Even though we're in America, you can't completely erase your past life.'
This was characteristic of the first-generation Korean immigrants who were more comfortable with Hangul than English and preferred rice to bread, and it wasn't entirely absent from me, a second-generation.
That's why I thought it was most natural for Suzy, who had lost everything, to end up killing her mother in the end.
Of course, that ending was essentially the opposite of what I wanted to express.
I wanted to show 'Eastern terror,' a realm unknown to contemporary Americans, through the character of Suzy, and to convey that it was a prejudice. Whether readers would care or not, it didn't matter. I wrote this for my soul.
However, prejudice is usually based on observed phenomena, and I did not ignore that.
'This is the right way to go.'
The ending was originally envisioned for Part 1.
After much thought, Simon's opinion was as follows:
"It was an incredibly good ending for a 'horror novel.'"
"Really?"
"Did you have this ending in mind from the beginning?"
"If I said I hadn't considered it at all, I would be lying. There was a lot of contemplation until the end."
"What made you decide on it?"
"Just, I wanted to add more imagination to this novel."
What would become of Suzy's life, now that she had become the same kind of being as her mother? Is it impossible to escape the circumstances given at birth?
However, apart from the symbolic elements, if the readers felt uneasy after reading the novel, that was enough.
"I really hope November comes soon."
"Thank you. There won't be any changes to the serialization date, right?"
"It should stay the same. It's been about a week since 'that incident,' and the editor-in-chief hasn't said anything about it."
"I might be overstepping by asking, but do things like this happen often?"
"What do you mean?"
"The editor-in-chief behaving this way."
"Oh, not really."
"I was quite surprised. I didn't expect someone so high up in the newspaper to suddenly call, and I wondered if I had done something wrong."
"Ah, ah. Don't worry about that, Mr. Author. It definitely isn't a problem with your work."
Simon seemed to be trying to reassure me.
In essence, it was a common occurrence of office politics.
While thinking about the serialization start date of my work on November 6th, Simon suggested securing more printing presses in relation to the election, leading to repercussions. If Reagan were elected president, sales of the conservative-leaning Torrance New Media would inevitably increase.
"Why would that be a problem?"
I probed further to unearth more of the story.
Torrance New Media.
I had decided to debut through this newspaper company, which I anticipated would thrive with Reagan's election. It was to expose my debut work to as many people as possible and, at the same time, to quickly increase my value for better treatment. As Simon said, if my work became popular enough to impact the newspaper's sales, they would also want to serialize a sequel to 'Mother.'
But from the last call, I realized that one more thing was needed for that purpose.
'Using Simon to engage in political battles within Torrance New Media.'
I wondered if such a grand task was necessary, but at least it would be problematic if Simon continued to be undervalued in the environment he was in. Even if my novel serialized in the culture section became hugely popular, if the page itself was undervalued, complications could arise.
After a brief moment of thought, Simon burst into laughter.
"I wasn't really in that sort of position at the company."
"What position is that?"
"Ah, it's nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Author!"
"Mr. Simon."
I took a firm stance, though my tone was gentle.
"As a collaborator, I would like to know."
"Do you really need to?"
"If situations like this continue to occur, it would be problematic for me too. We've managed to get our stories straight this time, but wouldn't it be unpleasant for both of us if such incidents happen again or if we're caught lying?"
"That's true."
"It's not just about my work doing well. Through this, Mr. Simon, you should prosper too, so that the editor-in-chief can no longer interfere with the cultural section arbitrarily, right?"
"...Umm."
"Think of it as for me and other authors."
"That might be a way to look at it…"
Simon's eyes widened as he began to spill his thoughts.
As I suspected, he was a good person at the company, but that made him easy to use. Everyone seemed to implicitly disregard Simon and the cultural section. He believed it was okay as long as there were good novels and authors, but I felt differently.
"To attract more good authors and good novels, we need to create better pages."
"That, that makes sense."
"For that, it's essential that 'Mother' is recognized by many."
"Um, well…"
"Yes?"
"Mr. Author, you really are an enigma."
"Me?"
"Sometimes you seem like a boy of your age, but then you point out very sharp details like you've been through a lot. But you're absolutely right. I must work harder for your sake too, to read more good novels."
I felt an inexplicable guilt.
Yes, this man. He was older than me now, but he was actually just a twenty-four-year-old young man.
Moreover, his actions and words seemed incredibly innocent. Therefore, having a weapon like 'Mother Part 2' hidden, and him quickly agreeing with me again, made me feel as if I was deceiving him.
'Well, it's supposed to be a win-win situation.'
I rationalized lightly and moved on, then looked into Simon's shining eyes.
I felt guilt rise again.
"Phew! I'm feeling quite motivated! Mr. Author, shall we move on to business?!"
Laughing more boyishly than before, he pulled a document envelope from his bag.
Checking the contents, I smiled unconsciously.
"The logo is ready."
It was exactly as I had imagined.
The four designs each depicted a woman with a veil over her head, but the angle and the extent to which the face was shown varied.
Moreover, he had thoughtfully included small images to show how they would look in the newspaper, allowing for a multi-faceted review.
"Which one do you like best?"
"I think they all look great, but number 3 might be the best."
Picture 1 showed too much of the face, losing some mystique, and Picture 4 showed so little it was hard to tell if it was a face or a hand. I chose number 3, which was a middle ground leaning a bit more towards mystique, and Simon agreed.
"I think so too. Let's go with number 3."
"Now that we even have the logo, it really feels real."
"Hahaha, check this out too. Since you write your manuscripts by hand, I typed it up on a typewriter. The articles will be published in the newspaper in this font."
"It's cleaner than my handwriting, which is nice."
"Ah, I actually prefer the feel of reading it in your unique, handwritten style."
"That's true, but my hand hurts when I write. I need to save up and buy a typewriter."
"Ah, I see."
Simon nodded with a somewhat mysterious smile.
***
And then came November 5, 1980.
In the early evening, my mother and I began watching the presidential election results broadcast at home. The old sofa, popcorn sprinkled with raisins, and the cathode-ray tube TV somehow gave a sense of coziness.
Although winter in California wasn't particularly cold compared to other places, it still got quite chilly at night, so we had the fireplace on. Thanks to this, there was already a strong Christmas vibe.
"Shin, who do you think will win?"
"Definitely Reagan."
"Then this mom will give Carter her vote."
"Where did you vote?"
"That's a secret."
My mother smiled slyly, wearing a blue T-shirt. After the 2000s, the colours would switch, but at that time, the Republicans used blue, and the Democrats used red. So, without saying it, my mother had conveyed to me which side she had voted for.
The broadcast continued for several hours. As the results were finalized, each state on the map of the USA was coloured to show which side had won. Gradually, the map turned more blue, and my mother and I went about our separate tasks, occasionally checking the broadcast. Sometimes the commercials were even more entertaining.
Four men were watching football on television.
Then the phone rang.
Drrrr, drrrrr.
[Sam, answer the TV.]
Space Phone!
[Ah, darn it, it's probably my wife. Derek! Answer the TV!]
[You kidding?! It might be my boss! Hubie! You answer the TV!]
[Uh… alright.]
Just press a button and answer the phone from your seat!
Space Phone, a product that combined the telephone with the television.
Back then, to answer the phone, one had to move away from the television to where the phone was located. In that sense, the Space Phone was an excellent choice for those who wanted to sit in front of the TV and answer calls. The fact that it allowed the voice of the person on the phone to come through the TV, eliminating privacy, was also a selling point of the Space Phone.
"Unbelievable."
I couldn't help but laugh.
But such products were openly sold back in the 1980s.
The broadcast of the vote counting ended with Reagan's overwhelming victory.
Relieved to see the results matching my memory, I went to bed early in preparation for the next day.
After learning that I would be serializing a novel at Torrance New Media, my mother immediately subscribed. Thus, she got up early the next morning, still in her pyjamas, and went outside to check the November 6th newspaper.
The front page was very simple.
[WIN!]
Below the large letters was a picture of Reagan smiling and waving among his family.
Thanking the noble sacrifice of Torrance New Media journalists who must have been stationed across America all night to write this article, I turned the page to check the cultural section.
"Mother,"
As the title caught my eye, chills ran through my body.
Everything was just as I had confirmed: the somewhat stiff typewriter font, the small but clearly recognizable logo, and even the content of the novel I had written.
Standing there, I read it intently, and I turned around to share this news with someone I was most proud of.
But before that.
"What's this?"
I noticed a huge parcel that had arrived with the newspaper and tilted my head in curiosity.
A large box was there, even though I hadn't ordered anything online. The address on it revealed that it was sent by Simon Carver, a journalist at Torrance New Media.
He had mentioned sending the first newspaper, but was there a need to pack it in such a big box? Maybe if I opened this box, Simon would appear in person to hand me the newspaper and then disappear. If that happened, I would have to immediately cancel the contract.
With various wild thoughts, I tore off the duct tape and opened the box, only to realize that my thoughts were just a writer's needless fantasy.
"...Holy mother."
Simon Carver had sent me a typewriter.
And not just any typewriter, but a manual one from the esteemed line of standard typewriters—a typewriter for writers and journalists.
Affectionately known as the 'Hard-boiled nine thousand'.
"That's damn sexy."
If it weren't for being outside, I'd be having a happy time with this black typewriter right now.