I left the station around eight. Naturally, I made sure to offer the guard a friendly “See you tomorrow!” on my way out. Yes, I built this image campaign from the ground up.
But the second I walked into my apartment and locked the door behind me…that was what marked the start of my off-hours.
First things first, I let out a long sigh, the likes of which I would never replicate in public. Then I washed my face in the sink, and when I was done, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My perfect smile was gone, replaced with a steely blank stare, almost like my face was refusing to exercise a single muscle.
Next, I ran a hand through my perfectly styled hair and ruffled it up, then loosened my tie. Piece by piece, I stripped off my suit and tossed it over the back of the couch. Then I changed into my favorite loungewear: an old tracksuit (jacket and pants) my mother bought for me years ago on the second floor of a department store. At this point it was practically falling apart, but as long as I wore a coat over it, no one would notice the holes in the elbows.
And by “coat,” I’m not talking about my designer Aquascutum trench coat, either—I’m talking about a pilly off-brand duffle coat I bought online. Anything that I didn’t want to associate with “Kunieda Kei, the news anchor,” I had shipped to my house directly. Cheap instant foods, collector’s editions of my favorite manga, you name it.
I slid on a pair of thick, black-rimmed fake glasses and a surgical mask to cover everything from my nose down (to protect my throat from infections, among other things). Then I grabbed my worn-out synthetic leather wallet, stuffed it in my pocket, and pulled on a pair of grimy old sneakers.
In this getup, no one ever afforded me more than a passing glance…and it was such a relief. Some people would call this their “lazy day outfit,” but not me. Hell, I’d wear this anywhere—Shinjuku, Shibuya, Roppongi, fashion be damned. It was so much easier to exist in the outside world not as a “guy from TV” but as a bland nobody.
Every night, I spent exactly thirty minutes of my daily schedule enjoying a nighttime stroll in this disguise. No chance of anyone flagging me down. No paparazzi shots posted to Twitter. No stupid, pointless messages sent through my show’s contact form just to say “I saw so-and-so walking down the street yesterday, and I wanted to say hi, but I got too scared, LOL!”
Seriously, my job is so bizarre. I go on TV and occasionally get the (D-list) celebrity treatment, but other than that, I’m no different from any other white-collar worker. I make the same amount of money no matter how popular I am. Of course, this is a double-edged sword—it means I’ll never directly profit off of any star power I generate, either. (Quite a few people have left the biz to go freelance for this exact reason, but I digress.)
But the most important difference between a news anchor and a TV star is that we don’t have any managers (or agents or what have you) to shield us from bad press. We’re not allowed to be “arrogant” or “troublemakers”—the industry won’t allow it. I’m not even talking about capital-C crimes; if you commit even the smallest act of impropriety…well, it won’t ruin your life, but it’ll certainly haunt you for as long as you appear on TV. And don’t think you can play it off as a joke, either; only a respected veteran can get away with that.
To be fair, though, our job is to sit there and read the news to the camera, so I could understand how the station might want us to avoid provoking any sort of negative response from the viewers. But me, personally, I wanted the freedom to read trashy magazines I bought from the convenience store, or order a side salad from the deli, or put a grouchy taxi driver in his place. These were all things my “news anchor” persona could never do…but if I had to wear that mask 24/7, I’d probably suffocate to death. So to me, a scant few minutes spent dressed like a loser were worth their weight in gold.
The late January wind was chilly, but I paid it no mind. At the end of my stroll, I usually ended up at my favorite neighborhood izakaya—the one that let me order food to go. My favorite item on the menu was the beef bowl (with a soft-boiled egg on top); I carried it out in a plastic to-go bag, and as I headed to the convenience store to pick up some beer to accompany it, there was practically a skip in my step.
When I arrived back home, I plopped down cross-legged onto the couch and lifted the lid. Steam rose into my face as the soft-boiled egg jiggled slightly.
“Holy hell, I’m drooling,” I muttered to myself. This was not my perfectly practiced, diligently crafted “television voice,” either. That’s how you know I’m in my happy place.
Thinly sliced beef, each piece adorned with fat like a glistening lace hem. Shirataki noodles dyed brown from the marinade. Shapeless, mushy onions. And last but not least, the secret ingredient: finely chopped chicken liver sautéed in garlic. I stabbed my chopsticks into the egg like it killed my parents and gave the whole thing a good stir. Then, at last—paying careful attention to the meat-to-rice ratio—I took my first bite.
“Sho good…!”
I ate this same thing three to four times a week, and yet somehow I never tired of it. Between bites, I took a sip of beer or added another dash of sesame to jazz things up.
At the staff cafeteria, I only ever ordered the “multigrain special” or whatever other new-age healthy crap they had on offer. No matter how deeply my heart yearned for the chicken nanban with tartar sauce, I couldn’t afford to tarnish my carefully sculpted image. So for me, dinnertime was always pure bliss.
With a satisfied sigh, I cleaned up my trash and made myself a cup of after-dinner coffee. Nothing fancy, just instant. I couldn’t be assed to do the dishes, so I used a paper cup instead.
Technically speaking, I had assigned my news anchor persona a favorite coffee blend, as well as a favorite tea blend, a favorite shampoo, a favorite furniture brand, and so on. And I hadn’t chosen them at random, either. These little details were crucial props, instrumental in expressing the sort of taste I wanted people to think I had. Besides, I was pretty sure normal (as in non-celebrity) people did this sort of thing to some degree or another.
Sipping my coffee, I picked up the remote…but just then, my phone started to ring. Not the one I used for work, either—my personal phone that only my family knew about.
“Hello?”
“Kei? Have you been getting enough to eat lately?” asked my mother. “One of the neighbors brought us a box of tangerines, so I was thinking of sending you some. Anything else you need?”
“Cup noodles,” I answered without missing a beat. “And I want a bigger variety of flavors this time. Oh, and potato chips. And canned stuff, like chicken and corned beef. Oh, and could you send me my complete collection of Dragon Ball manga I left on the shelf? I wanna reread it.”
“I can’t fit all that in a single box! And good lord, your eating habits are terrible!”
“Like I told you, I eat healthy stuff when I’m at work.”
“At work. Right,” she muttered, then let out a big, exaggerated sigh. “You know, I see your little façade on TV every single day. At first it used to make me laugh, but now? It just makes me sick.”
“Wow. Thanks a lot, Mom.”
“I’m serious, Kei! I don’t know how you keep up the act. To think that lazy little glutton I raised would one day be a newscaster… I mean, you always knew how to behave in public, but every time the neighbors gush about you, I always feel like such a fraud…”
“Oh, shut the hell up! And don’t go running your mouth about me to anyone, got it?! You’ll ruin my career!”
“Yes, yes, I know… Now tell me, what are your plans for the future? With a personality like yours, is there any woman in the world who could possibly agree to marry you?”
Of course not.
I’d made some attempts in the past—short-lived relationships with women I saw only as accessories to my “perfect” self. But these efforts inevitably ate up all my precious free time, which meant they quickly became exhausting to maintain. Then I’d have to spend even more effort making a clean break without looking like the bad guy. Rinse and repeat.