It was the Monday after Golden Week that Newsment finally overtook The News. When I got to work and checked the ratings at my newsroom desk, theirs was 16.1 and ours was 14.9. Our market share was lower, too. But I mean, that feature on single fathers was pretty good. The “married with kids” demographic must have loved it.
Oddly, part of me was relieved. Every day I came to work, the possibility that they’d beaten us always loomed over my head until I checked the ratings. So you’d think I would have preferred to avoid a day like today at all costs—but now that it was here, it sapped away all my negative emotions. What happened to not giving a rat’s ass, huh? I rolled my eyes at myself.
These days I couldn’t go anywhere in the station without hearing somebody talking about Newsment.
“Shitara-san! Did you see their numbers spike? What’ll we do about it?”
“Good question… I know! Let’s add a horoscope segment and call it ‘Tonight’s Two-Hour Fortune,’ since the day’s practically over with by that point. Original, am I right?”
“No one wants that!”
But how long would we be able to play it off as a joke?
“Kunieda, have you had lunch?” asked Asou as he approached.
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s grab a bite together for a change.”
This was a rare invite from a man who generally didn’t seem to care about playing mentor to the junior employees. I could feel the newsroom turn electric with wordless interest. And needless to say, I was alarmed.
“Hey hey, I wanna come too! Sushi, chicken, or ramen! Sushi, chicken, or ramen!”
So much for wordless interest.
“You’re not invited, Tatsuki. Your incessant babbling drives me insane.”
“Awwww…”
I was in full agreement, of course, but without someone there to babble, it would just be awkward. Fight harder, Dumbagawa!
“Mind if I pick the restaurant?”
“By all means, go for it.”
And so I was brought to a hole-in-the-wall soba noodle bar in a back alley about a ten minute walk from the station. Lunchtime had long since passed, and there was a “closed for cleaning” sign out front, but Asou slid the door open regardless.
“Hello, there!”
“Yes, yes, come on in,” answered a stooped old lady who gestured to a table in the back without hesitation. Clearly this was his go-to restaurant. He ordered the mori soba.
“Ever since my stomach surgery, I haven’t been able to eat too much in a single sitting, but I’m always hungry for a little something. What’ll you have, Kunieda?”
“I think I’ll have the tenzaru soba… How are you feeling these days?”
“Better, now that I’m going to the hospital on the regular.”
“That’s good.”
As we discussed inoffensive topics like the newsroom sectional meeting and the upcoming broadcasting terminology workshop, our two plates of noodles arrived at last. He picked up a pair of disposable chopsticks.
“Inside the Jipang station, rumor has it they’ve got six foot tall posters that say ‘BEAT THE NEWS!’ on them.”
“Wow. That’s…impressive.”
“I haven’t seen them for myself, so they might not really be six feet tall, but I also heard they ordered a confetti ball and cracked it open right there in the studio.”
“Well, they are on the upswing.”
Matcha salt, grated daikon radish, and crispy tempura with a fancy dipping sauce. It was all delicious, of course, but deep down in the dungeon of my heart, I yearned for deep-fried garbage with tons of mayo and teriyaki sauce.
“What do you think of their show, Kunieda?”
With Asou asking me questions across the table, it felt like an interview from hell. “I enjoy it,” I answered. “I suspect the casual tone is divisive for a lot of people, but the hosts seem relaxed and unrestricted.”
I didn’t know if the rumors I heard at the get-together were true, but at the very least, I couldn’t detect any strife on-screen. If the viewers couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist.
“Unrestricted indeed,” he replied, eating his noodles at a torturously slow pace. “In this industry, there is nothing more precarious than an unrestricted program.”
“What do you mean?”
“Say, for the sake of argument, that a sex worker was murdered.”
This was not the sort of hypothetical story that I wanted to hear in a noodle bar.
“Some might think she brought it on herself for engaging in such a high-risk profession. But would we ever say that on air? No, we would not, and neither would any of the guest commentators we brought on. It’s never ‘prostitute,’ it’s ‘escort.’ We never say ‘hookups,’ and instead say ‘personal relationships.’ That’s just the way it is on TV, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But Newsment is different. Their hosts are free to say things like, ‘I hear she hooked up with a lot of different men.’ Who’s going to fact-check that statement? They weren’t there at the crime scene. What gives some random commentator the right to blab about secondhand information they saw online? If you ask me, they have no business putting informal conversations on the air just to seem relatable for the views.”
I could feel all twenty years of broadcasting experience behind every word and it packed a punch, especially since I knew he wasn’t the type who just wanted to hear himself talk. As the faces of their TV station, anchors were required to be very careful about what they said. Not just politics, but any strong opinion—no matter how minor—could be construed as representative of the station as a whole. For us, restrictions like these kept us out of trouble.
“But hey… Maybe I’m just being a sore loser, you know?” He chuckled and reached for his cup.
“Does it bother you that they beat us?”
“Not really. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing things the right way. So if they wanna give my job to someone else, they can go ahead.” He spoke with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t be replaced.
“Asou-san…” I paused, then continued, “What made you want to be a newscaster?”
“I take that to mean you never planned it yourself. I mean, I know the story of how you were hired, of course. The CEO asked me for advice about it, and I said, ‘Trust your gut reaction and just hire the guy.’ Worst-case scenario, there’d be more hires next year.” His tone suggested it was only natural for those without skill to be cut loose, and he took no pleasure in it. “Anyway, we were talking about me, right? It was so long ago that I forget my original reason, but I love this job. What about you?”
“It’s very fulfilling work.”
“Spoken like a true teacher’s pet.” For some reason, Asou’s gaze felt like the dull, dark gleam of a camera lens—as though he alone controlled the narrative.
“I’m sorry…”
“I’m not criticizing you. To put it crudely: no matter how beautiful a woman is, after sleeping with her five days a week, you get bored of it, right? But I’ve never gotten bored of broadcast television. Every time I’m about to go live, I feel the thrill of it, never quite knowing how it’ll play out. Not once have I ever gone to work purely out of obligation. I eagerly look forward to our show every single night.”
The twin lenses of his eyes glinted like the studio lights were shining on them. At last, I understood what drew the public eye to him. It wasn’t his appearance, his voice, or his speaking skills—it was his ceaseless devotion. And now it felt like he was probing me, demanding to know why I was here.
“…I don’t think I’m anywhere near that stage yet.”
“You don’t have to strive for it. You can move at your own pace. But you do have the tendency to be too well-mannered, and sometimes I wish you’d push back a little. Like you did during our first episode.”
“That was just… I was caught in a tailwind, so to speak.”
Did I really have my own pace? When someone set a goal for me, I put in the work to reach it, but it was only because someone else told me to do it.
Asou suddenly grabbed the bill and rose to his feet. “Shall we head out?”
“Thank you for lunch,” I replied with a bow.
“Anytime. If you ever need advice, come see me.”
“Thank you very much.”
“…But I already know you won’t take me up on that offer. I just wanted to sound like a proper mentor.” Way to invalidate your own statement. “Because you’re the kind of guy who’ll never reveal your true colors.”
“That’s not true…”
“Sure it is. I don’t know if it’s stubbornness, pride, or fear, but something in there keeps you from asking for help. Granted, I’m not here to be somebody’s therapist, so I appreciate you having your shit together—you and Tatsuki both. The young hires these days all have their heads screwed on straight.”
I’ve asked for help plenty of times! Like when you got sent to the hospital and your show got dumped on me instead! To hear Ushio tell it, I pulled through all on my own, but no. I asked him for help, and he helped me.
This time, however, my fears didn’t start and end with one specific broadcast. The ratings weren’t supposed to matter. Kizaki Ryou wasn’t supposed to matter either, but here I was, obsessed with these things against my will. No matter what anyone said, I just couldn’t shake it off.