The Happiest Man
My wife uploaded a video of our one-year-old daughter, Hyun, giggling at me as I rapped about how happy our family was.
Within a few days, the video had eight million views on YouTube. Friends I hadn't heard from in more than ten years messaged me, saying they recognized me in the video. “Congrats on becoming a star,” read a message from an unsaved number.
“You’re looking at the happiest man on earth,” a TV broadcaster introduced me yesterday. “Awwww, we should all live like that father!” a movie star commented on Instagram. My Instagram account used to have 62 followers. Now it had 52K. I pulled down the page to refresh it every few minutes, as if I were desperately checking the news during last year's presidential election.
I put “the happiest man” in my bio. I couldn't keep up with the hundreds of proposals in my DMs. More than half of them wanted Hyun and me to reenact the scene for an ad. Gourmet soft drinks, eco-friendly diapers, truffle oil potato chips, and even weight-loss pills. These companies offered to pay me at least twice my monthly salary for posting a 30-second video on social media. I thought maybe I could do a diaper ad, but my wife said, “Your fans will smell that you've sold out.” She was right. I was the happiest man. Whatever that implied, it certainly didn't mean being the guy who forced his baby girl to crack up and clap for the camera.
A week passed, and the video had more than 12 million views. Apparently, it had even trended in countries like Argentina and Morocco. Although I'd turned down every offer promising to make me a star or a millionaire, there was one sacred offer I couldn't refuse. It came from the most-watched TV show in the country.
“Tonight Show with Jungsuk” had been my favorite show for the past ten years. People said appearing on the show was one of the ultimate symbols of success. It aired on Friday nights and lasted about forty minutes. There was only one guest per episode, and the interview lasted at least twenty minutes. I'd heard rumors that agencies sometimes paid more than 100 million won just to suggest potential guests to Jungsuk.
“Before the show airs, you cannot disclose your upcoming appearance. I cannot emphasize this enough. Jungsuk asked me to repeat this at least five times to every guest. If you breach this agreement, we'll have to edit you out and bring in another guest immediately,” the senior writer said as I signed my name on five different contracts.
There were twenty pages of words, but I could summarize them in two rules:
- Don't make the news for being a criminal or an asshole.
- Don't ever leak anything about the show with Jungsuk.
The show was recorded two weeks before it aired nationwide. The recording was scheduled for 7 PM, so I couldn't bring my family to watch me sitting next to Jungsuk. I arrived in the waiting room at 6:30, and within fifteen minutes, I'd gone to the restroom three times. The room was a little bigger than our living room and mostly empty, with just a desk and a chair. On the desk were organic chocolate chip cookies and 100% orange juice.
My wife, busy putting the baby to sleep, messaged me: “Don't be nervous! Just be honest with him.”
My knuckles kept twitching, and my shoulders itched. I hadn't received the questions in advance. That was one of the rules. I'd rehearsed my answers many times. I wanted to make sure I sounded natural on stage.
Thanks for having me. I'm just a dad. I'm just blessed to be able to take care of my family. I'm nothing special. I'm nobody, really.