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  But everything was in vain.

  All that remained was hopelessness. I can't go on like this!

  Returning to my apartment, I holed up in my room and started drinking to erase the painful thoughts. Seated at the kotatsu, I tried shouting, “Sake! Bring me more sake!” That itself, however, was nothing more than an empty phrase spoken to myself, and in the dim evening, in that six-mat room, it echoed in dreary misery.

  Several empty beer cans already were rolling around on top of the kotatsu. Increasingly irked by the anime songs blaring from the room next door, I rashly indulged in even more alcohol.

  My head spun terribly, and I grew dizzy.

  Just a little more. I'll forget everything after just a little more.

  ***

  That morning, having picked myself up after the previous day's low spirits, I had decided to escape my hikikomori life as quickly as possible.

  That's when it hit me. I'll find a part-time job today.

  Why not? If I couldn't begin a career, I could start with a part-time job. If I did that, my title would shift from “hikikomori” to “freeter.”[15] Both terms implied being useless, but freeter sounded far healthier than hikikomori. So, I decided to search for a part-time job right away.

  I headed to the convenience store and bought a part-time employment information magazine. Walking home quickly, I started seriously perusing the material.

  Which one? Which part-time job would suit me best?

  I dismissed the idea of heavy labor. After all, I wouldn't want anything that would make me tired. Furthermore, the idea of working at a convenience store made me recoil, too. No way could I qualify for that sort of customer-service job.

  Then … oh!

  “Manga cafe, 700 yen per hour.”

  There was no mistake: This job suited me perfectly! There shouldn't be too many customers coming to a small-town manga cafe, after all -and when I was bored, I could read manga at the register. It seemed like a really simple job. This would be the best thing for me.

  With that in mind, I wrote up a resume and triumphantly left my apartment.

  The manga cafe was in front of the subway station, behind a McDonald's. Heading there, I plodded and stomped through a residential area in the cool April air. And as I walked through the city by day for the first time in several months, I again was interfered with by “them.” The N.H.K. interference operatives mocked me cruelly as I walked, my shoulders slumped, trudging along the sidewalk's edge.

  These were fierce interference measures.

  “Hey, look at that. It's so gross.”

  “It's an unemployed hikikomori. The worst kind.”

  “You should go back to your apartment. This town is no place for people like you.”

  The passing housewives, high school girls, and older women all murmured these things each time I passed. I turned completely pale.

  Oh, I want to go home.

  I wanted to go back to my dim, comfortable, six-mat, one-room apartment, to sink into my warm bed, close my eyes, and not have to think of anything. But I couldn't. That would be no good. After all, if I did that, it would just go to their heads even more. I must bear it. This is a battle in which I must do my best.

  In reality, I had some idea that this would happen, I knew from the start that there was no way they would leave me alone once I began my return to society. That's why I couldn't lose. Forcing myself to suppress the anxiety that grew with every step, I approached my destination at a brisk pace.

  Finally, I reached Break Time, the small, cozy-looking manga cafe behind the station that would become my place of employment from now on. I resolved to work here every day, starting tomorrow.

  My escape from the hikikomori life was imminent.

  While it troubled me that I had become this anxious just from walking around the city during the day, I probably just needed to get used to it. If I could become a freeter, my overabundance of neuroses should disappear in moments.

  Yes, it was finally time.

  I had to be brave and take my first step inside. Forcefully, I banged open the door and entered the shop. I visualized offering my resume to the girl at the register, announcing energetically, “I heard you're hiring part-time workers here.”

  I began to speak, but my sentence broke off, midstream.

  For behind the counter, where ashtrays, hot pots, and coffee makers were lined up in an orderly fashion, a lone female employee sat in a chair, reading manga. Her profile and the intent look in her eyes as she flipped through a shoujo manga brought back a strange feeling of having seen her before.

  Actually, I had met her just the previous day.

  Standing before the register, the words “part time” dying on my lips, I felt my body stiffen. She lifted her face from the manga in her lap, sensing me.

  Our eyes met.

  It was the young religious solicitor, Misaki.

  Unlike the day before, she was dressed in jeans styled like what other young people wore. She didn't have a recognizably religious aura. The second I recalled her true identity, my heart started beating at ten times its normal rate. A swirl of thoughts circulated wildly through my brain.

  Why would a religious person work at a manga café? Wouldn't that violate some sort of religious precept? No, no, that's of no concern to me - does she remember who I am, though? If she did, that meant I was completely ruined. There couldn't be anyone where I worked who knew my secret. There was no way I could ever work with someone who knew. If she does remember, what should I do? I have to run! As this is a reasonable and logical conclusion, for now, I should just run!

  However, right as I began to turn tail, the religious girl called me back. Dropping her harsh expression, she looked at me, the same smile of derision as the day before flitting across her face. In a small voice, she asked, “Do you work part time here?”

  Clearly, I could see the vast difference between how she questioned me and the way she probably dealt with normal customers. Evidently, the girl had realized that I was the crazy hikikomori from yesterday. Cold sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I wanted to run. I wanted to leave that place as quickly as possible.

  Even so, I had to answer her question and properly retract the words I had spoken earlier. As casually as possible, as utterly natural as imaginable, I had to say something.

  “Bi-bi…”

  “So … you like … bikes and stuff?”

  What the hell am I saying?

  “Oh yes, I really do … like bikes—motorbikes, that is. You can fly like the wind.” A few of the customers sitting in the back began to pay attention to me. “I just love the pulse of the engine! Well, what do you think? Would you like to come riding with me some time?”

  I'm done for!

  “That is … I mean, I've never actually ridden one before! Ha ha ha ha ha ha…! Okay, see you.”

  I couldn't leave the store quickly enough.

  On my way home, I stopped at the convenience store and bought beer and shochu.

  Let me die. I'll just die right now.

  Except I won't die. The weather is too nice. Instead of dying, I'll just drink a whole lot of alcohol to forget everything. Just forget.

  Alcohol… I'll drink alcohol…

  ***

  I tried shouting, “Sake! Bring me more sake!” That itself, however, was nothing more than an empty phrase spoken to myself—and in the dim evening, in that six-mat room, it echoed in dreary misery. I wanted to cry.

  Everything was her fault. Because of her, my great plan to escape my hikikomori life had ended in miserable failure. At that moment, I wished for the power to bestow deadly curses. That bitch … that bitch! G-G-Goddammit! I imagined them laughing at me right about then. I was sure that I'd become a laughingstock.

  “Boss, today, a crazy hikikomori came to the store.”

  “Huh, really, Misaki?”

  “It seemed he planned on working here part time. But for God's sake, he's a hikikomori. Like, know your place!”
r />   “Absolutely. There's no way an unemployed, disgusting, hikikomori college dropout could join society”.

  They were using me as the punch line for their sardonic comments. Argh, how can this he? It's hard to forgive. No, I can't forgive them. I need to take my revenge … must take my revenge now! I swear I'll punish you….

  As a hikikomori, however, I couldn't think of any really effective ways to get back at them. Thus, I decided to give up momentarily and think of something different, something to make myself feel better. I wanted to forget the bad stuff and just think of good things.

  Speaking of fun things, there was still the N.H.K.

  Yeah, if I were feeling pain or suffering, I had merely to think of the conspiracy that the N.H.K. was engineering right beneath the surface.

  If I did that, I might feel at least a little better.

  N.H.K., N.H.K….

  “I see! I understand!” I shouted. “That girl is a special operative for the N.H.K.!” I kept making these declarations loudly.

  Despite my earlier resolve, I didn't feel better at all.

  “Dammit”, I cried before I finished my beer and shochu.

  My head hurt, and the anime songs ringing from my next door neighbor's apartment were fiercely annoying.

  Before I knew it, I had somehow ended up violently drunk. My mood was headed, full tilt, toward negativity. Once again, the future held no hope whatsoever that I could detect. I suspected that, at this rate, I was just plummeting toward death—isolated, lonely, and looking like an asshole.

  “That's it. This is the end. This is the end!” I chanted.

  And still, the anime songs echoed from the room next door. In the lyrics, words like “love”, “dreams”, “romance” and “hope” recurred continuously—ironically. For someone like me, having lost my optimism, it all sounded very much like mean-spirited sarcasm. The words racked me with rage and self-pity.

  For one thing, this was the first night my neighbor had played anime songs at such a loud volume. Usually, he played them only during the day, but it was already the middle of the night.

  Then, it occurred to me: Might this not be some new harassment meant for me? Harassment toward me! Someone so pathetic and stupid that he couldn't even become a freeter!

  If so, I couldn't allow it. I tried punching the wall. There was no sign that the songs would stop. I kicked at the wall. No reaction.

  How dare you make a fool of me? They're all—every one of them— making a fool of me. Dammit. Just watch, I'll make you regret this.

  I drank, got even drunker, drinking to deaden my senses…

  I'm going, and I'll show you! You're the ones at fault.

  Rising unsteadily from the kotatsu, no doubt looking like I was about to fall on my ass, I stumbled to open the door.

  I tottered to room 202 and repeatedly attacked the doorbell. “Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong …”

  No answer.

  I tried punching the door.

  No answer. The only sounds from inside were anime songs. This particular number was the theme song to Fancy Lala: “I am Fancy Lala…”

  In my anger, blood rushed to my head.

  I twisted the doorknob. The door wasn't locked, and I no longer cared what might happen.

  “Hey!” I shouted, losing myself in fury. Flinging open the door, I screamed, “It's too loud!”

  At that very second, I saw him. A man sat at a computer desk in the back of the room, facing the speakers against the wall. Acknowledging the surprising arrival of a visitor, he slowly swiveled around in his spinning chair so he could look at me over his shoulder.

  He was … crying.

  Tears silently streamed down his cheeks.

  On top of that, and even more unbelievable, I knew exactly who he was. Speechless, I couldn't believe my eyes.

  Wiping his own eyes, he gazed at me in disbelief. Thrusting himself forward, he stared into my face. Finally, after a momentary silence, he stammered in a trembling voice, “Sa-Satou?”

  There was no mistake. It was Yamazaki. After four years, this was an incredibly unexpected reunion.

  Part Two

  In high school, I had been in the literature club.

  Even so, that didn't mean I liked novels or anything of that sort. Rather, during the new-member recruitment fair, an awfully cute upperclassman had invited me. “You there, join the literature club.”

  Without thinking, I had nodded. There was really nothing else I could have done. Despite being a member of the nerdy literature club, and despite being a year older than I was, the girl was as cute as a pop idol.

  Unsurprisingly, having joined the club for such a stupid reason, I ended up playing solitaire through every meeting. And during any group free time, I played cards in the crowded office with the upperclassman. What in the hell were we doing? Obviously, we could have been focusing on other, more important things.

  Well, that doesn't matter at all anymore. The past is the past.

  Anyway, it happened after school on one of those club days. My classmate and I were walking along the first-floor hallway that faced the central courtyard. Suddenly, she pointed at one of the corners of the courtyard. “Over there!”

  “Hey, that's bullying, isn't it?”

  Several students had surrounded a boy wearing a middle school uniform. They were punching him in the stomach.

  A weak smile appeared on the face of the boy being bullied. The ones doing the bullying, too, smiled broadly. It was the kind of scene you often saw.

  “That's terrible.” The cute girl broke the silence. A very empathetic person, she made a face as though she honestly felt sorry for him—at which point, an amazing idea flashed through my mind: I could show her how cool I was.

  “Shall I go help him?”

  “You would do that?”

  I nodded. I figured that middle school brats shouldn't be any problem at all. Of course, that ended up being a huge miscalculation.

  It was fine when I yelled the slogan, “Bullying isn't cool!” and waded into the fray. Not only did I get beat up, the group of bullies also got away. The girl looked at me in disgust, and the victim continued to be bullied for the entire year, so my actions were completely fruitless.

  Nevertheless, Yamazaki, the boy who had been bullied, seemed to respect me—though I didn't know what kind of mistaken impression he was under. He even joined the literary club as soon as he moved up to the high school division.

  By that time, I was already a third-year student. Since the older girl had graduated, I had absolutely no desire to do anything. Thus, I set him up as the president so I could focus on my entrance exam studies.

  Then, just like that, I simply graduated.

  Except for talking to him two or three times at the graduation ceremony, I hadn't heard from Yamazaki at all since then—at least, not until this moment.

  ***

  In the middle of his own six-mat, one-room apartment, Yamazaki was in exaggeratedly high spirits. He hadn't changed at all since I had last seen him. He remained slender, with hair as light as a Russian's. At first, he seemed to have become somewhat more masculine; that turned out not to be the case, though. He appeared to be a weak young man, with little combat potential.

  “You? Is it really you?”

  Though his eyes were swollen and red from his recent tears, he now smiled widely. The anime songs had stopped playing.

  Rooted to a spot by the door, I asked hesitantly, “Why are you here?”

  “What about you, Satou?”

  “I …” I started to tell him that I had just happened to move into this building because it was close to my university; but unconsciously, I hesitated. I didn't want Yamazaki to learn my true status: unemployed, dropout hikikomori.

  Not noticing my difficulties, Yamazaki voluntarily explained his situation. “This summer, I entered a technical school. When I looked for a cheap apartment close to school, I happened to like this one.”

  It really did seem to be complete chan
ce.

  “Anyway, please come in. My room is dirty, though.”

  The unbelievable coincidence still confused me, but Yamazaki warmly urged me inside. Obediently, I took off my shoes and stepped into the room.

  Of course, the layout was no different than my room.

  But… what was this? I stood frozen in place.

  There was a strange atmosphere to Yamazaki's room, an extremely faint air that I had never before experienced. The room contained odd posters stuck haphazardly to the walls, two gigantic computer towers, a mountain of manga that nearly reached the ceiling, and various other kinds of furniture and decorations. Everything combined to create a peculiar, troubled ambiance.

  “Please, have a seat there.” Yamazaki's voice brought me back to reality.

  Following his directive, I unsteadily ventured deeper into his room.

  Suddenly, something shattered at my feet with a loud crack. I jumped nervously.

  “Oh, that's just a CD case”, Yamazaki said, “Don't worry about it.”

  Manga, novels, videotapes, DVDs, plastic bottles, empty tissue boxes, and other rubbish littered the entire floor.

  “My room is rather dirty.”

  This was an understatement. I had never seen such a filthy room.

  “Still, I'm really happy. I never would have guessed that I lived next door to you, Satou.” Seated on the edge of the bed, Yamazaki spoke with a faraway look in his eyes, paying no mind as I trampled something different with each step.

  Finally, I reached the computer desk and sat in the revolving chair.

  My drunkenness had worn off. It had worn off completely.

  Not knowing what to say, I stared at his seventeen inch monitor. It displayed a wallpaper for an anime I didn't recognize.

  “It's strange that we've never run into each other here, even though it's been half a month since I moved in.”

  I half listened to him while examining the figurine displayed on top of the monitor. The model was an elementary school girl carrying a red schoolbag on her back.

  Meanwhile, Yamazaki droned on. “This must be what they mean by 'urban disinterest' in one's neighbors.”

  One poster affixed to his wall showed a naked girl who couldn't be older than elementary school age, drawn, predictably, in anime style. I looked back at his computer desk.