WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Potter
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ My Fired Uncle Is a Genius Guitarist? ◈
Chapter 5: What Did You Even Do?
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The blaring alarm woke me. The sluggish air unique to a Monday morning hung in the studio apartment.
As I sat up, I rubbed my stomach out of habit. The three-digit number I’d seen on the scale yesterday flashed through my mind again. At 174 centimeters and 105 kilos, there was no excuse for this body.
“Haah...”
I stood before the bathroom mirror, washing my face, then lowered my hands and looked at them. The tape around my wet fingertips was fraying. When I carefully peeled it off, red, swollen marks were revealed.
But the problem wasn’t the injuries. It was the thickness of my fingers themselves.
I’d gained weight, and even my fingers had become puffy. Half the reason my chord changes had been slow during rehearsal yesterday was my rusty sense of touch, but the other half was this extra flesh. Every time I pressed down on the narrow frets, my fat fingers touched neighboring strings and muted the sound.
‘How am I supposed to lose finger fat?’
It wasn’t as though I wanted an idol-like physique. But it was another matter if my belly pushed the guitar away from my body and my fingers mangled my chords. It was weight I needed to shed for the sake of playing.
‘I can’t exactly sign up for a gym and draw up a meal plan right away.’
All I could do was settle on a very realistic compromise. I’d just eat a little less.
My thoughts were on the guitar, but my body was already following the muscle memory of a department manager with ten years under his belt. I reflexively tied my tie and picked up my briefcase without the slightest error.
#
“Good morning, Manager.”
Assistant Manager Kim, who sat beside me, slid a steaming cup of coffee onto my desk.
“Oh, thanks.”
Kim made coffee every day and always prepared mine too, so I accepted it out of habit and took a drink. Then Kim’s gaze settled on my fingertips, freshly wrapped in tape before I left for work.
“Huh? Manager, what happened to your fingers? Did you get hurt?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I played guitar for the first time in a while over the weekend.”
“What? You play guitar too, Manager?”
Kim’s eyes went wide. It must’ve sounded strange coming from the fat manager who usually knew nothing but paperwork and Excel shortcuts.
“No, I played a little when I was young. I picked it up again after a long time, and my fingers got torn up right away.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. A manager who plays guitar? I never would’ve imagined it.”
I held back a laugh at Kim’s sparkling eyes and excited fussing.
‘They’d faint if they knew that “a little” meant twenty-three years.’
Whether I reacted or not, Kim started chattering excitedly.
“I’ve been obsessed with bands for ten years now. I never thought I’d get to talk about this with you, Manager.”
“...Is that so?”
“Then do you have a favorite band? Oh, right. Have you heard Glass Cannon’s new album?”
“Glass... Cannon?”
“This one is seriously a masterpiece. A masterpiece. Oh, what about Night Voyage? They’re huge these days.”
“Ah, that band.”
I’d never heard of them.
“There are so many bands these days with players who are absolute monsters. What kind of guitar did you play, Manager? Electric? Acoustic?”
“Electric.”
“Ooh. Then were you in a band too?”
“...I almost was, once.”
“That’s too bad. There are tons of office-worker bands these days. People have talked about making one at our company too.”
“What do you play, Assistant Manager Kim?”
“I specialize in listening. My hands are amateur, but my ears are professional.”
Kim smugly fiddled with an earlobe. Was that really something to brag about?
Kim enthusiastically rattled off band names. I recognized maybe two out of every five. They were old bands, or bands that had been famous even in the other world.
Of course. The musical map I knew belonged to that other world. The two worlds had split in the winter when I was twenty, then spent sixteen years moving separately. While rock had withered over there, it had flourished here. Naturally, several times as many bands must have emerged here in the meantime.
‘I know absolutely nothing about this scene’s last sixteen years.’
Knowing how to write songs and knowing the market were different things. I needed to listen to the songs everyone said were famous.
“Manager? Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening. So what happened with that vocalist?”
“They suddenly announced they were leaving! After ten years together, isn’t that awful?”
“...Bands are just like that.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Let’s work.”
The morning passed in a blur. By the time I finished answering calls and handling client complaints, it was already lunchtime.
I rolled my stiff neck and stood up. Kim poked their head over the partition.
“Manager, what do you want for lunch? The usual spicy pork? Or pork cutlet?”
“Salad.”
“...Excuse me?”
“What?”
“It’s just the first time I’ve ever heard that word come out of your mouth.”
“Ahem. People can change sometimes. There’s a new salad place in the alley ahead. Let’s eat there.”
“Manager, nothing bad happened, right? Like you suddenly got dumped by a girl you were seeing...”
“What girl do I have to dump me?”
Why were they nodding as though they agreed?
After returning from an afternoon meal of grass, I quietly tested the feeling in my fingertips whenever I turned over an approval document on my desk.
‘Huh. This is more bearable than I thought.’
The pain was a little duller than yesterday. No, it wasn’t just duller. My fingertips felt ever so slightly tougher. Beyond the needle-like pain, calluses were finally beginning to form.
‘At this rate, tomorrow’s rehearsal...’
At the very least, I should be able to make it through one song without stopping midway.
As I prepared to leave work, Kim waved a phone at me.
“Manager, I just sent you a playlist. I picked out only the essentials for getting into bands these days.”
“...Thanks?”
“Listen to it and give me your thoughts tomorrow. It’s homework.”
“...And what happens if I don’t do the homework?”
“Hmm. Do you want to find out?”
I didn’t, so I just went home.
#
Dinner was a convenience-store chicken breast and two boiled eggs. It didn’t taste good, but I chewed diligently.
The moment I returned to my studio apartment, I picked up my guitar. Chromatic exercises, then two songs. Yesterday, my fingertips had given out at the start of the chorus. Today, they made it past the chorus. I was definitely improving day by day. Even this worn-out thirty-six-year-old body could improve if I kept working it.
But the real problem appeared elsewhere.
At ten at night, I was soaking my fingertips in ice water to cool them down.
Grrr.
Naturally, I was hungry after such a meager dinner. I ignored it and drank a glass of water.
Grrr.
I ignored it again.
And when I came to my senses, I was standing in front of the gas stove with a pot of water on it. I’d even measured out exactly 550 milliliters without the slightest error.
‘...What am I doing right now?’
I’d definitely decided to ignore it. Yet my hands were already pulling out and opening a packet of ramen from the cupboard. I didn’t even need to consider whether to add the seasoning or noodles first.
I knew this feeling. My right hand pressing Excel shortcuts on its own. My neck knowing the fifteen-degree angle for an apology bow. And my stomach craving ramen every night at ten.
Not a trace of guitar muscle memory remained in my hands, yet sixteen years of late-night-snack muscle memory were carved intact into my stomach. This damned body only saved the strangest things.
The water was already boiling.
Kim’s playlist was playing on my phone. Market research in name and a late-night snack in practice came together over the pot.
‘Yeah. The water’s already boiling. It’d be a waste to throw it out.’
Making that generous excuse, I added an egg. Since I was already doing it, I chopped up some green onion too. The instant I took my first bite, I cleanly admitted defeat.
‘...This is good.’
After emptying even the broth and washing the pot, I came to a conclusion.
The diet would start tomorrow.
#
Tuesday evening, I coasted through the afternoon’s work and headed straight for the rehearsal room in the basement of the shopping complex as soon as I got off work.
When I opened the door, the others had already set up their equipment and were waiting. Yun Taerin was already twirling drumsticks, while Bae Somi was tuning up. Cha Sion glanced at my guitar case, then gave a brief nod. Compared to the first day, when Sion openly ignored me, it was a huge improvement.
“Uncle! You’re late!”
“I left work right on time and came straight here. This is an office worker’s top speed.”
“Uncle, how are your hands? How many songs do you think you can last today?”
“Who knows? Today might be different.”
“What’s different?”
“You’ll find out when we play.”
“Ooh? You’d better not be the same as before.”
I took out my guitar and wrapped my fingers in tape. Having repeated it every day, my hands had grown used to the motion. Today, they felt particularly light.
“Let’s start with ‘Fall.’”
At Cha Sion’s words, Yun Taerin clicked their sticks together. The count, then the intro.
The instant I played the first chord, I knew. This was different from yesterday. My slightly tougher fingertips withstood the fierce pressure of the steel strings. At least my part wouldn’t weaken and break the flow of the song.
Bae Somi’s bass playing had also improved, however slightly. The habit of getting scared and choking off the sound still surfaced, but Somi at least noticed it and tried to let the notes ring again.
Verse, pre-chorus, chorus. Cha Sion’s voice, now completely accustomed to the raised key, comfortably made it through the chorus. The first verse passed. No one stopped.
“First verse cleared!”
“Focus.”
Yun Taerin shouted over the hi-hat, and Cha Sion briefly replied while holding the microphone aside. Sion spoke sharply, but the corner of their mouth had lifted a little too.
The second verse. From here on, it was unknown territory. We’d never once made it all the way past this point.
The fill section that led from the bridge into the final outro.
Yun Taerin’s sticks tangled in the air for half a beat. It was the chronic problem I’d noticed from the first rehearsal. Seeing the finish line ahead, Taerin got excited and tried to force in an extra kick, only to trip over the rhythm.
Thump. The bass drum crashed down on an offbeat.
Normally, the whole song would’ve collapsed like dominoes there. The music should have cut off, followed by someone saying, “Sorry, let’s start over.” Cha Sion’s brow drew together, and Yun Taerin squeezed their eyes shut at the same moment, realizing the mistake.
My left hand moved before my mind did.
Into the gap left by that broken half beat, I shoved a chromatic line that didn’t exist in the original song. An improvisation that forcibly stitched the missed beat together with a guitar riff and dragged the rhythm back into its proper direction.
It wasn’t flashy speed playing or technique. It was simply the seasoned know-how carved into my bones after sixteen years of cleaning up countless missed notes and broadcast mishaps onstage. It wasn’t about how well I could play. It was the judgment to know exactly how to save a band that was collapsing.
The scattered beat found its place again as if by magic. The gears that had been clattering began to mesh and turn smoothly.
“?!”
Without knowing why, the others were grabbed by the collar and hauled along by my guitar riff, returning to the proper track. Then we charged all the way through the outro on that momentum.
Zing.
The final chord struck the rehearsal room walls and rang out long.
It was our first complete run, from beginning to end without stopping.
A second of silence passed. Yun Taerin’s scream broke it.
“We finished it! Hey! We just finished it!”
“Yeah, we did.”
“Somi! Sion! We finished it!”
“I, I saw it... No, I heard it. W-we really made it to the end.”
Bae Somi bounced in place while hugging the bass. Somi’s voice was twice as loud as usual.
Unlike Yun Taerin, who threw down the sticks and raised both arms, Cha Sion didn’t move at all before the microphone. Sion only stared at me as though they’d seen a ghost.
“...Mister. What was that when we went into the outro? That line isn’t in the original song.”
“Yeah. The beat slipped, so I filled it in as best I could.”
“You filled it in? Right there, on the spot?”
Yun Taerin froze in the middle of celebrating.
“Wait. I messed up that fill. So why didn’t the song die?”
Bae Somi cautiously raised a hand.
“Uncle... caught it. The half beat you missed, Taerin. With the guitar.”
The rehearsal room fell silent again. Three pairs of eyes turned toward me at once.
“Wait. You can do that? Catch a mistake right on the spot?”
“Normally, no. You have to hear the rhythm falling apart, create a line to fill it at the same time, then immediately play it with your hands.”
Yun Taerin picked up the sticks and asked. Cha Sion’s low, dry voice carefully dissected what had happened. Sion’s ears really were sharp.
“Then how is that possible? Uncle just did it!”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Their eyes turned back to me. I shrugged.
“Let’s do it again. This time, nobody makes a mistake.”
“Don’t change the subject! ...No, let’s go. One more complete run!”
The second run didn’t waver from beginning to end. Not a completed run patched over after an accident, but a proper one. We immediately followed it with one of those standard band songs and made it through that too. By the third run, my fingertips were starting to scream, but they held out today.
When we were done, Yun Taerin drained half a bottle of water, dragged over a drum stool, and came up to me. The earlier excitement had vanished, replaced by an oddly serious expression.
“Uncle... What did you even do before?”
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