“Kunieda!”
Back at the news station, after I returned my armband, someone called my name as I was typing up my report notes to share information with the other reporters. It was one of my peers from the news team.
Damn it, I don’t have the energy to keep playing nice. “Yes?”
“You’ve been juggling a lot the past few days, eh? Hanging in there?” he asked.
“I suppose.”
“Must be hard doing all that field work! So much footage ends up on the cutting room floor. It must seem like a total waste of time to a guy who’s used to being on TV every day.”
“It’s disappointing when something doesn’t make it to the air, but I wouldn’t call it a waste of time.”
For as often as Ushio called me oblivious, I was at least shrewd enough to know that this was sarcasm. And I knew a portion of the reporting team saw me as an outsider. They had every right to.
Field reporters only got to say two or three lines at most; there was no need to make some well-spoken news anchor do it. Hell, even the cameraman would suffice in a pinch. In fact, some directors specifically refused to let anchors report at all, lest it “destroy the realism.” But now here I was, stealing up all their screen time. Little wonder some of them felt threatened.
Well, I don’t give a shit. I’m not here because I want to be. Go get some tooth implants if you care so much. The deeper my rage, the tighter my smile became. At this point, I was starting to prefer Nishikido’s infantile screaming.
“Actually, I was wondering…” The reporter lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Off the record—did you screw up or something? Why are they sending their sheltered little prince out to do hard labor? Maybe it’s your producer’s policy, but still, isn’t it weird that the whole newsroom is just letting it happen?”
Trust me, pal, I wish I had the answers. To me, the newsroom’s silence indicated that Asou approved of Shitara’s decision, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. Did I offend him at the noodle bar? No…neither of these guys were the type to let personal grudges spill over into their work. That was what made this whole thing inscrutable.
Relax—we’re not trying to replace you, Shitara had said. Not yet, maybe.
“I confess, I don’t know what’s going on myself,” I said, switching to my “uncertain” mask as I prayed to a sky I couldn’t see for this dude to get canceled on every social media platform under the sun.
I was dying to get home as soon as possible, but I was too exhausted to commute all the way there. So instead, I bought a sugary coffee drink at the vending machine and headed to the deserted staff cafeteria when work hours were over. With the lights turned way down low, the main source of illumination came from the wall of television screens set to display the current programming for each individual station.
The pale glow in the darkness threatened to lull me to dreamland. Gah, I can’t sleep here! I shook my head, then downed my coffee and looked back at the TV screens. One in particular caught my eye: Kizaki Ryou’s face next to the Persons logo. Hastily, I took a chair over, stepped onto it, and reached up to crank up the volume on that particular TV.
“Good evening, and welcome to Persons, the show that brings you a close-up look at someone who shares this earth with us, whether they live next door or on the other side of the globe. I’m Kizaki Ryou, and tonight, I’ll introduce you to a very special creator.”
The green tile set served to accentuate Kizaki’s polished appearance, and I couldn’t help but feel like shit by comparison, sitting here tired and alone in a dark, empty cafeteria.
“Now, when I say creator, I don’t mean a writer of books. Have you heard of stop-motion animation or claymation? It’s a profession that involves a lot of painstaking effort just to convey a single second of motion, repeated again and again to create a full-length feature.”
As always, his articulation was aggravatingly fluid.
“So tonight, let’s take a look at just how much time and passion goes into each and every imperceptible frame.”
The screen shifted to a pre-recorded segment featuring a smiling Ushio. Instantly, my drowsiness vanished. Ushio. Smiling. But…he wasn’t here. My heart felt like someone was wringing it out to dry. He hadn’t sent any more emails, and since I was so busy with work, I couldn’t visit him at home. But now that I was suddenly looking at his face, I wanted nothing more than to see him again.
“Could you help me with this?” Ushio asked the camera with a grin, holding out a sheet of black fabric. It was the very same fireworks cloth I myself had contributed to three whole months ago.
“What is this?” Kizaki asked.
“Every person who visits my house has to do a set amount of sewing. That includes the camera guy, the sound guy, all of you.”
“Are you sure you want that? Because I failed my home ec class.”
“That’s perfect, actually. See, I want each one to look different.”
“Wow, so this is one of your projects? I’m nervous already…”
When I last saw it, that night sky was mostly empty, but now there were several big fireworks blooming on the cloth. Clearly Ushio had kept himself busy while I was away. But unlike me, he sincerely enjoyed his work, and he was the one who decided when it was finished. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even think of what shots I wanted. Just normal footage for a normal broadcast, please.
How many other hands had touched that tapestry besides mine?
I stood there, transfixed by the sight of Ushio on screen. Everything about him and his life seemed so different through the camera lens. These were all things I never knew. Because when he and I were together, he didn’t talk about himself—he sat back and let me take the wheel.
He always insisted his life was nowhere near as interesting as mine, but anyone who watched this segment would disagree. One minute they were discussing things at his house, then the next they were traveling somewhere for a different meeting, or filming at the Persons studio, or helping design students put together a puppet video. And in between these scenes, every time they showed candid footage of Ushio standing in his kitchen, I felt some combination of blood and tears drip from my wrung-out heart.
I was fine with footage from the first floor, since that was Ushio’s workspace. But I hated the thought of Kizaki and his cameras trespassing in the kitchen, the dining area, or the space beyond with the bed. If I’d known this would happen, I would have told Ushio to cancel filming, and he probably would have. But I never imagined I would feel like this.
Why are you just standing there, laughing with him? That’s my spot! I finally found a place to belong, and it’s mine! Don’t let some total nobody in there! Get him out! Give it back!
I loathed—no, despised Kizaki from the very bottom of my heart. Jealousy clogged up my chest like black tar. And when I imagined Kizaki feeling this way toward me a few years ago, it terrified me.
“What made you decide to pursue a career in this field?” Kizaki asked, sitting on the same couch I knew firsthand.
Ushio gazed into space for a moment to think. “I wouldn’t say there was any particular reason… It just sort of worked out this way. I suspect it’s simply the one thing I’m good at.”
Personally, I couldn’t relate to that. I was Kunieda Kei—I could learn to master just about anything I tried, even work I didn’t especially like. Because Kunieda Kei was good at everything…and passionate about nothing.