For the short term, you’ll be focusing on field reporting. That was all Shitara said to me. No explanation, no specified time period. But he was my superior, and my only option was to do as I was told.
I was required to be “on call” at all hours of the day; unlike a studio broadcast, there was no fixed end point. On the scene, a lot of time was spent on standby outdoors, and naturally, chairs were hard to come by. Some days, depending on the distance, weather complications could lead to hotel stays. Other days, if news was slow, I would sit around at the studio like usual.
Frankly, this wildly unpredictable schedule was stressing me out. Some people might enjoy the thrill of never knowing what your job had in store for you until the day it happened, but for me, it was draining. If only Shitara would have told me where the finish line was, I could have used it as motivation to keep going, but nope. And on top of all that…
“Hey, kid!”
“My name is Kunieda.”
“Tell me what shots you want! You’re the director today, remember?”
The size of the crew was always strictly limited—one cameraman, one sound guy, one lights guy, one assistant director, each with a huge list of responsibilities. Unlike in the studio, there was no one to hand me my script, no one to call for me when it was time, no one who handled the filming and editing and pre-recorded segments.
Still, would it have killed them to give us a director, at least? Not to suggest it was entirely unheard of for news anchors to manage an entire film shoot like a police reporter, but my whole career was centered around the studio. When it came to what shots I wanted, the best I could do was comb through my cultivated experience and choose the safest bets.
“Could you start with a close-up of that, then zoom out?”
“What? Are you serious? The framing’s gonna look sloppy, y’know.”
And how am I supposed to know what that means? “In that case, what would you personally recommend, Nishikido-san?”
“You said start with a close-up and zoom out, didn’t you? Well, how far back? Out with it already!”
Here we had the root of my stress: this walking personification of the phrase “stubborn as a mule.” Every now and then in this industry you’d come across self-styled “experts” who made life hell for the technical staff. As a studio star, it didn’t typically affect me; I could write it off as “just another day at work” and keep walking. But unfortunately, this grump was now my cameraman. I understood how annoying other people’s mistakes could be, but why couldn’t he discuss them calmly at a normal volume? Or consider the merits of my ideas before criticizing them? Or even remember my goddamn name?
Whenever these shifts came up, the crew was staffed with whoever happened to be available. In theory, it should have been a roll of the dice each time. So why, pray tell, did this man seem to show up on nearly every trip with me? Was I just paranoid?
Nishikido had worked as a news cameraman all his life, but he continued to lug his equipment around on short-term contracts long after it came time to retire. He was an ornery old nut who wouldn’t crack even if you dropped 25 metric tons of Gundam robot on his head. Every five minutes I spent on an assignment with him, I found myself wishing I could hire Golgo 13 to take him out. I’d give my life savings for someone to put a bullet right between those furrowed eyebrows.
Ignoring his quibbling, I was compiling the shot list in my mind when a man in a black suit stepped out of the leather goods store next door and suddenly walked up to us. “Excuse me—may I ask what you’re doing?” he asked.
“Come again?” growled Nishikido, like he was the king of the world. Interpreted more generously, he didn’t try to hide who he was inside. “Restaurant next door’s been givin’ folks food poisoning, so we’re here to report on it. What about it?”
Act civilized or I’ll sell you to the damn circus, you mountain gorilla!
The other man frowned. “We can’t allow our business to be depicted in a negative context.”
“’Scuse me? Don’t you sell purses in there? Nobody’s gonna associate purses with food poisoning!”
“Well, it can still impact our brand image, so we have to ask you to refrain from filming. Or if you insist, then we ask that you only use footage that doesn’t show our store.”
“FUCK OFF!” Nishikido screamed, loud enough that I half-expected the camera lenses to crack. “We’re here to do our jobs! Who the fuck do you think you are, barking orders at me, you snot-nosed kid?! The viewers at home need to know what street this damn restaurant’s on! If you’re so afraid of being in the shot, then I’ll give you 60 seconds to run back and throw a tarp over your fucking logo!”
If he wasn’t holding a camera, one might think they were witnessing a yakuza shakedown in broad daylight. His assistant, who was barely more than a part-timer, was already quaking in his boots. Ugh, what if he makes us all look like thugs?
Then, as the man in the suit ran back into his store, Nishikido turned to me. “Hurry it up, kid, before more of ’em come bitch at us.”
“My name is Kunieda,” I repeated patiently.
Somebody, anybody, give me your Swiss bank account number and just name your price.