Assistant Manager Kim Hates Idols-Chapter 169: On-Site Work (3)

Jeong Seongbin barely made the cutoff. Half of Choi Jeho’s octopuses were missing limbs, but the sheer quantity earned him a passing score.
And I, who had put on a hellish shoveling show, recalling memories of my military days…
“Eighteen, nineteen… twenty!”
“Mr. Iwol, you should change careers.”
…received a career change recommendation. The captain’s eyes sparkled. I’ll consider it when I retire.
“What’s the penalty?”
Choi Jeho asked as he gathered the octopuses scattered across the deck.
No one had asked him to clean up, which meant one thing—he was definitely eyeing the defective ones to make sannakji later.
(Tl note: Sannakji is a raw dish made from octopus limbs.)
While I was busy deciphering Choi Jeho’s shady intentions, the PD pointed to a black sedan parked in the parking lot.
“If you drive about 40 minutes from here, there’s a place called Muan. They have mudflats there too.”
“Are we catching more octopuses…?”
“Nah, it wouldn’t be fun if we only caught the same thing.”
The PD let out a hearty laugh and waved his hand dismissively at Park Joowoo.
I didn’t know what he meant by ‘same thing’. Even though they were the same type of octopus, Choi Jeho’s only had four legs.
“That mudflat has a different specialty.”
“Don’t tell me…”
Jeong Seongbin flinched. It seemed he remembered one of the ‘101 creatures living in the mudflats’ that we had excitedly discussed on the way to Mokpo.
The ominous premonition was right.
“Yes, you’ll be catching clams!”
“Wow…!”
Lee Cheonghyeon and Kang Kiyeon cheered, their voices hollow. Both of their faces were ashen.
And so, Spark’s first-ever octopus catch and six sea-scented idols made their way back to land.
***
We had to wait for the tide to recede again before the penalty could be carried out.
Considering the additional filming time on land and the travel time to Muan, that meant we would have about a four-hour break.
Thanks to ‘Challenge Life’ lending us a container that the workers used for resting, we were able to catch some sleep until the tide came in.
‘They can’t make us film for extended periods, especially since there are underage members, and they already made us work through the night.’
To ensure we actually got some rest, there weren’t even any cameras inside the container. That meant Spark could finally recover from the all-nighter.
Starting with Park Joowoo, who passed out the moment his head hit the floor, one by one, the members huddled together and fell asleep,
I found an empty spot, lay down, and covered myself with a floral blanket. It reminded me of the time we went to the countryside to film a self-produced video.
But my nostalgic reminiscing was short-lived.
The warm floor was too powerful. I became one with the floor and drifted off to a morning sleep, something I rarely experienced.
I woke up shortly after. It was a little noisy outside the container.
When I opened the door, the camera directors were taking out the equipment they had put away.
“Mr. Iwol, why are you up so early?”
A passing writer spoke to me. I figured saying I woke up from the noise would be rude, so I didn’t explain.
“Are the guys leaving soon?”
“Not right away. Maybe in about ten minutes? A staff member will wake them up.”
I glanced at the preparing crew, then back at the guys, who were either sleeping or unconscious; it was hard to tell.
Despite their two-meter-long legs, they were still high school students. Not only had they stayed up all night traveling from Seoul to South Jeolla Province, but they had also worked for hours on a boat and in the mudflats without a break. That was definitely hard labor.
And now they had to be sent back out to the mudflats on mud sleds. Until they each collected 100 clams.
It couldn’t be helped. If I let this happen, I would be a heartless, uneducated adult with no moral compass.
“Writer-nim, would it be possible for me to… take their place?”
“Why? You want to go?”
“Yes, I want to let the kids sleep. They’re still growing.”
Perhaps touched by our friendship(?), the writer readily agreed.
There were three kids who had to do the penalty. I could only replace one of them.
That meant…
“Choi Jeho, wake up.”
“…Why?”
“Let’s go dig for clams.”
…If he went with me, we could at least save the two maknaes.
Choi Jeho woke up, frowning deeply. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands.
“Instead of the kids?”
“Yeah.”
“Sigh…”
He lowered his head and let out a deep sigh.
Then, he stumbled to his feet and picked up the jacket he had taken off.
Well, what else could we do? We were the adults of the team. Let’s think of it as our contribution to building a more mature society.
While Choi Jeho and I were strategizing, Park Joowoo also woke up.
That one was doomed to go anyway, but maybe if I negotiated with the staff—offering to dig up 150 cockles each with Choi Jeho—he might be able to rest.
“Joowoo, want to go dig for clams?”
“…You hyungs are going?”
“Yeah. I think Kiyeon and Cheonghyeon should sleep. If you’re too tired, Choi Jeho and I will dig 300 ourselves.”
“No, I’ll go too. Let’s go together.”
“Aren’t you going to ask for my opinion?”
And so, a new three-man party was formed. One member seemed to have an objection, but I ignored him. And we set off on our long journey to dig for clams.
Nothing particularly special happened after that. Except that Park Joowoo was surprisingly good at riding the mud sled, and Choi Jeho, trying to shake off the mud, ended up flinging mud and clams everywhere from his basket.
Still, the clam digging mission ended smoothly.  When we returned, we received tearful hugs from the younger members who had learned about the situation later. It was a fulfilling shoot in many ways.
***
While some schedules, like variety shows, became familiar, others remained unfamiliar.
Drama script readings were one of them. Since I’d never been in a drama before, I spent the past few days binge-watching famous dramas, behind-the-scenes footage, drama communities, and scripts. Today was my first day stepping into that world.
As I entered the designated meeting room, there were two long tables facing each other, just like in the script reading videos I’d seen.
A staff member was placing nameplates at each seat.
“Mr. Iwol, you’re here early.”
“Hello! Fortunately, there wasn’t any traffic.”
After checking the seating chart, I gathered the nameplates that belonged on one side of the table.
“Oh, just leave it. I’ll place them quickly. Mr. Iwol’s seat is…”
“It’s okay. I just need to follow the seating chart, right?”
“I should have done this before the actors arrived, sigh…”
“I still haven’t shaken off my idol habits. I try to be helpful wherever I go.”
As I chatted and organized the meeting room, people started to arrive one by one.
The large meeting room filled up as the director, writer, and actors I had met during the audition all entered.
My role was to be inconspicuous among these people.
No NGs, and no awkward acting that would stand out.
Of course, my first foray into acting wasn’t going to be easy.
“Who even evaluates performance reviews like this?!”
“If you don’t like it, Ms. Guan, you’re free to change it. By getting first place in sales.”
Even though I had crammed at the academy, everyone here were veterans who had been acting for at least several years, some even for over a decade. Even I, a non-professional, could sense the difference in their vocalization.
So how was I supposed to blend in?
There was only one answer: ‘Naturalness.’
Just like when I was working at the Hanpyeong Industry. Like an object, not a person.
Like a third party beyond the partition, whose presence in the organization was barely noticed.
“Is the new team leader crazy? Doesn’t that violate labor laws?”
“Hasn’t our company been above the law for a long time?”
I just had to sit still while others delivered their lines.
That was the plan, at least…
“Even so, don’t you think it’s weird, Mr. Yeonghwan?”
A problem arose. Ha Seomyeong, who played the female lead, Seon Guan, suddenly threw an ad-lib at me.
Everyone’s eyes, which had been following the script, turned to me.
I had heard rumors that Ha Seomyeong was famous for her ad-libs, but I didn’t expect her to do it during the script reading. Especially towards me, whose acting level was practically zero.
“Well, I guess I won’t be going home on time for a while.”
I answered, imbuing my response with a fraction of the despair I felt on the day Manager Nam was promoted. I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as the next line was delivered smoothly.
And for the rest of the time, I prayed that I wouldn’t have many scenes with Ha Seomyeong.
Before the reading, when the cameras were rolling, everyone exchanged formal greetings.  We each took turns introducing ourselves in front of everyone, saying, ‘I’m ○○○, playing the role of ○○○! Please take care of me!’ and then bowing, after which everyone would applaud.
On the other hand, after the reading, the atmosphere was more about genuine greetings.  People shook hands and exchanged names.
Someone extended their hand to me before I could even put my script away. It was Ha Seomyeong.
“Mr. Iwol! You must have been surprised earlier. I keep telling myself I need to fix this habit, but I can’t. I’m Ha Seomyeong!”
“Not at all, sunbaenim! I was amazed watching you act. I have a lot to learn from you!”
“Oh wow, even if that’s just flattery, I’ll take it!”
It wasn’t empty flattery. I was genuinely surprised. My heart is still pounding, so please leave the ad-libs to the experienced seniors.
I also had the opportunity to talk to the writer after a long time. She said she had revised many of the words in the script after seeing my research materials. No wonder the first episode had changed so much.
“You know, Mr. Iwol, I think you would have done well even if you had studied business administration!”
She didn’t hold back on the praise. The lectures I had attended for four years flashed before my eyes.
I hoped the drama filming would start soon.
And I hoped that everything would go smoothly, so that I could receive the reward of increased proficiency after completing all 12 episodes.