IN JAPANESE TV RATINGS, 1 percent equals approximately 408,000 viewers, or 180,000 households. My news program has an average rating of 12 percent. Multiply 408,000 by 12, and we’re somewhere in the ballpark of 4.9 million viewers on average—and that’s just the Kanto region. Add in the rest of Japan, and, well… Long story short, there are currently several Tokyo Domes’ worth of people looking at me, Kunieda Kei, and my winning smile. Obviously those numbers fluctuate on any given day, but hey, I’m allowed to feel good about myself.
“This has been The Evening File. Have a good night, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I gave my signature signoff, I looked directly into camera 2 and did my usual half nod, half bow, bringing the nearly two-hour program to a close.
“That’s a wrap!”
All around me, the studio came to life in almost perfect unison, but I didn’t bat an eye. Then the assistant director ran over and bowed deeply in apology.
“I’m so sorry, Kunieda-san! There was a page missing from the manuscript for the second half of the breaking news segment!”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “I was able to work around it while we were live. But it did kind of throw me for a minute there—did my voice crack?”
“No, not at all!”
“That’s good.”
Then the floor director walked over, looking deathly pale. “Wait… He didn’t have the full script?”
“I’m afraid not. You see, um… After he gave it a quick readthrough, I had the studio print him a fresh copy while he was getting his makeup touched up. But while they were on the way here, one of the pages slipped out of the stack, and they didn’t notice until right before the segment started…”
“You should’ve checked it before you handed it to him, you moron!”
“I’m sorry!”
“It’s all right, honestly. No harm done,” I insisted, smoothing things over with an awkward smile. “Just try to be more careful next time.”
“Kunieda-kun, how on earth did you work around that giant hole in the script?”
“Well, I memorized it during the initial readthrough, so I simply recited it from memory.”
“You’re joking! What are you, a genius?!”
“No, no. Anyone could memorize a single page.”
Each script was printed out in giant two-inch letters for readability, so any given page was only about fifty words total, if that.
“Okay, but still, I don’t know how you managed to recite all four of the missing news stories with such flawless accuracy! You’re incredible!”
“I got lucky, I suppose,” I replied modestly.
Meanwhile, in my head, I was thinking: Cram it, you ignorant plebeians! Setting aside the incomplete script, surely one of these idiots must’ve gone looking for the missing page at some point, right? You’d think the goddamn floor director would have noticed that something was up—and yet you want to point the finger at this guy? Stone, meet glass house! And another thing? The cameras started rolling way too early! That camera assistant’s a total clod. Plus, the assistant director put the teleprompter in the worst possible spot… Is this whole studio brain-dead?!
I didn’t breathe a word of this out loud, of course. My smile was more airtight than a vacuum-sealed Tupperware container. Instead, with a polite, “Great work today, everyone,” I headed out of the studio.
Unfortunately, my director chased after me. “Kunieda!”
Ugh, go away. What do you want now?
“How can I help you?” I asked, turning back with a pleasant smile. He handed me a stack of papers stapled together in the upper left corner.
“Here’s your script and the other materials for tomorrow’s filming trip. Sorry it’s late.”
You should be sorry! Why do you always wait until the last minute to get this shit to me? I don’t have time to wait around for you forever, you stupid pleb! “This is for the behind-the-scenes with the animator, right?”
“Yep, that’s the one! He’s making a new animated title sequence for The News. Not sure why we’re being asked to cover it, but whatever.”
“They’re really going all out with this overhaul, aren’t they?”
“I just wish they’d spare even half that budget for the evening timeslot… Anyway, we’ll be leaving here at ten and returning around two. That’ll get you back in time for the show, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve visited the place a few times already. Real nice guy, that animator. Very down to earth.”
“Glad to hear it.” I don’t trust your judgment as far as I can throw it.
“Don’t worry. Knowing you, I’m sure you’ll get along with him just fine.”
I hate to break it to you, but everyone I meet is either incompetent, obnoxious, or beneath my notice.
“Anyway, good work out there today. See you tomorrow!”
“Have a good night.”
On my way back to the newsroom, I paused to examine a poster taped up on the hallway wall. It was an ordinary bust shot of a man, paired with the logo for The News, with the tagline: Reinventing Nightly News With Asou Keiichi. Overall, the poster’s simple, no-frills design suggested unwavering confidence in its claims.
Beside it was a poster for The Evening File. In contrast with the dignified design of the first, this one was much more casual—a reflection of the show’s overarching theme of “quick news updates over a cup of tea.” Photos of the anchors were depicted together in a collage, myself included. These photos were taken at the start of the new year to gear up for the overhaul starting this spring, and my smile was flawless. Yes, I was easily the most photogenic of the bunch. Not even my female costars could hold a candle to my perfection.
“Whatcha looking at?”
A female anchor, two years senior to me, caught me admiring my own image and walked over.
“Oh, hello there,” I replied affably, suppressing the spark of annoyance that flared up as she interrupted my train of thought. “This is my first time getting to see the new posters, that’s all.”
“Ooh, I see. Great photo, Kunieda-kun! The perfect prince, as usual.”
And as for you, I hear you turned into a total party girl after the morning timeslot dropped you like yesterday’s news. Maybe you should think about turning it down a notch now that you’re almost thirty. Just a little friendly advice.
“No, no, I wasn’t looking at me. I was looking at Asou-san. He’s so photogenic.” I smiled bashfully to play up the “young rookie admiring the veteran” angle.
“Yeah. I hear they’re gonna put these up in all the stations and trains.”
“Seems like management’s pulling out all the stops.”
“Well, a lot’s riding on this overhaul, you know. And it seems to be working. These days we’re starting to break 13 percent.”
The higher-ups were angling to “reinvent” the station (and cut costs, naturally) by dropping all the big-name veteran MCs and brainless bimbo assistants in favor of putting the spotlight entirely on the news anchors. Personally, I didn’t really see the point in them going out of their way to advertise it during the evening timeslots, but then again, I didn’t have the numbers.
“You know, with talent like yours, you might just get a poster of your own one of these days.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
That was the honest truth. To me, being a headliner sounded exhausting. As a run-of-the-mill news anchor, it didn’t matter whether I was on set or hiding out in the newsroom, fiddling around on my phone—as long as I showed up to work, I got paid. Plus, I still got enough screen time to keep my ego happy. In that sense, I was perfectly content with my role as anchor and co-host on the evening timeslot.
I had achieved the perfect balance: the exceptional good looks and flawless diction of a skilled pro, and yet when it came to prerecorded segments, I could still crack jokes and drop one-liners with the best of them. Above all, my reputation was that of a responsible, competent, princely young man…and I planned to keep it that way for a long time to come.
“Say, Kunieda-kun?” Her voice took on a hint of obsequious flattery.
“Yes?” I replied, guarded.
“Listen, um… Me and my friends are going out drinking together; would you wanna come? There’s this one girl who’d really love to meet you—”
I had a feeling something like this was coming, and frankly, it made me want to roll my eyes into the back of my skull. An older anchor past her prime trying to put her mark on a new up-and-comer? Barf.
“I’m sorry, but…” I selected the hesitation and guilt masks from my collection of outward personas and fused them together. “There’s this girl back home in Shizuoka, and…”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?”
“Well, not exactly, but…” I added a dash of embarrassment.
Technically, I wasn’t lying—this chick simply took what I said and read into it, that’s all.
“Don’t worry. I understand completely.”
“Sorry… Oh, but please don’t tell anyone! It’s a secret!”
“Hmmm… Not sure I can promise that…”
“C’mon, please? I’m serious!”
“Fine, fine! But you still have to come drinking with us one of these days. Just drinks, I promise.”
Hah! The dumbass fell for it!
All I had to do was make it feel like “our little secret” and suddenly any disappointment or annoyance she felt toward me was replaced with an irresistible sense of superiority. Knowing her, she wouldn’t actually blab, but would happily lord it over the heads of other women, like: “Oh, Kunieda-kun? Yeahhh, about that… I don’t have all the details, and he’s asked me not to spread it around, but… I wouldn’t, if I were you. Sorry, hon.”
Piece of cake. These plebs are all so simple.