Chapter 04
Road to the Creator
Part One
The exit was blocked. I could see no hope. There was nothing I could
do. And because of some stupid daydream about the N.H.K. as the evil
organization that controls the world, I had lost even the means to divert
myself.
It was a spring of unending, depressive anxiety for me—the kind of
spring that made me want to imitate Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66.
Entering the bathroom, I grasped my head and moaned, "I just can't go
on living."
I need to die.
Today was already different from every other day, though.
Something surprising had happened earlier.
After waking up at one in the afternoon, I found an unfamiliar slip
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of paper in the mail slot. Picking it up, I examined it.
It was the resumé that I had written several days earlier for the parttime
job at the manga café. I had written it for that particular job
application, a memory that I now wanted to forget completely.
Why? Why was it in my mail slot?
I hurried next door to Yamazaki's apartment.
Yamazaki was taking the day off from school again. Seated at his
computer, he was playing some sort of game.
I asked, "Did a religious solicitor come by today?"
"Hm. . . they came about two hours ago. I got some of those
pamphlets. I just love the word-for-word translation. Why? Didn't they
go to your apartment, too, Satou?"
I suddenly saw the frightening truth behind Yamazaki's testimony.
Apparently, I had left my resume behind in the manga café. I could no
longer remember if it had fallen from my pocket or if I automatically had
handed it to Misaki. Because of the massive shock, my memories of that
moment were muddled.
Only one thing was certain: While making her religious rounds,
Misaki had gone out of her way to bring me the resumé. In other words,
when I had asked, "Do you like bikes?" in a clumsy effort to conceal that
I had, indeed, come to apply for a part-time job, I had failed utterly.
Realizing this, nothing at all seemed to matter anymore. When humans
run into an extremely embarrassing circumstance, it seems their
emotions go numb.
"Who cares?" I whispered, heading to the trash can to throw away
the paper. As I did, the back of the resume caught my eye. A message
was written there in black ballpoint pen: "You have been selected join my
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project. Please, come to the Mita Fourth District Park tonight at nine o'clock."
Eh? My mouth had fallen open as I squatted in front of the trash can.
Now, objectively considering it, I saw that this was an earthshattering
situation. I had received a mysterious letter from a girl I had
met twice. Really, it was so incredibly incomprehensible that I had no
idea at all what was going on. So, I obediently went along with it.
The park was only a two-minute walk from my apartment. It was
already night. The roadside trees grew at even intervals. There was the
old jungle gym, the bench with flaking paint, and the towering
streetlights in front of the swings, illuminating everything with a dim
blue glow. I liked this park.
On my weekly, nocturnal supply trips to the convenience store, I
always made sure to stop here. Empty, the space belonged to me alone.
I enjoyed the cool night breeze. Seated on the bench, if I looked up at
the sky, I could see the faintly waving branches of the trees and, through
them, the moon and the stars. It was a place to relax and release my
worries.
Tonight, the park wasn't just my personal space, though. Someone
else was there.
I didn't call out. In fact, my stomach felt hollow.
What are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Who on Earth are
you? These questions accompanied a growing rage, yet my mind
remained clear for some reason. I was even calm, my thoughts moving in
an orderly manner, with no threat of spinning out of control.
This may have been a form of resignation. Perhaps I had finally
accepted my current situation. It was wholly possible I had quietly
admitted to myself that I was a hikikomori, a person with no future,
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someone who should just die. Yes, that had to be the explanation.
Lately I had been living in the past. Every night, I dreamed of long
ago: the hometown I yearned for, friends, family, things I hadn't liked,
things that had made me happy, other various memories—fragments of
all these things. My nightly dreams were gentle and melancholy.
Indeed, the future had ceased to be a problem. It already had been
decided, which was precisely why I needed to exist in the past—in my
wonderful, comforting memories. While this was obviously an extreme
form of backward escapism, I didn't care anymore.
Yes, that's right. I am a hikikomori, a worthless person with a weak spirit.
Is that a problem? Just leave me alone, and I'll disappear quietly. I'm fine! It's
all over!
"No, no, no. . . " I sat on the bench, head in hands.
"'No,' what?" the girl inquired. She was rocking in one of the swings
near the bench. Her almost shoulder-length hair blew lightly in the
wind. Tonight, too, she was dressed like an average teenage girl—no
parasol, no pamphlets, and no discernible religious atmosphere.
However, I forbade myself to let down my guard. More than
anything about her, the very strangeness of the situation spoke vividly of
how truly odd she was. I had to deal with her calmly, but with total
caution.
Right then and there, I decided to think of her as an ASIMO, the
bipedal robot developed by Honda. If I did that, it would keep me on an
even keel. Why not? Nowadays, robot technology is really coming along. No
matter how I examine it, it looks exactly like a person.
Rocking slightly back and forth in the swing, the robot asked, "Why
did you run away earlier? We're short-staffed right now and could really
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58
use the help. We would have decided to hire you right away."
Wow! The voice output was perfect, too. The joints moved smoothly, legs
extending flexibly from its skirt Japans technical skill truly is the best in the
world, isn't it?
"Seeing as you're a hikikomori, did you get scared of working in the
outside world and reconsider halfway through your application?" She
drove right to the heart of the matter—in the end, though, they were just
a robot's words. No matter what a machine might say, no one would get
that angry.
The robot continued to say even more mysterious things. "Don't
worry. I know how to escape from being a hikikomori."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I finally reacted to her words.
"Satou, right? Well, you're really a hikikomori, aren't you?"
Instead of immediately answering her question, I pointed at the sign
hanging over the park entrance. It warned, "Beware of perverts! Young
girls have been continually targeted," in caustic red paint.
I said, "Are you sure it's all right to meet a shady person like me at
this time of night? I could be dangerous."
"It's okay. My house is right over there, so I know all kinds of things.
For instance, you're always spacing out in this park on Sunday nights,
right? I saw you from my window."
Having come this far, I was pretty anxious about all this. I couldn't
figure out what she wanted. Her real motives remained a mystery, and
nothing seemed normal. Could it be some sort of roundabout religious
solicitation?
"No, it's not. I'm just going along to help Auntie Kazuko."
“Huh?"
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"Because I'm always troubling her, I figured it's the least I could do
to repay her."
I didn't understand what she was talking about, but she continued
our awkward conversation as we both stared at the streetlamps.
"Anyway, none of that matters. Satou, don't you want to know? About
how to escape from being a hikikomori?"
"Don't call me Satou. I'm older than you."
"You know my age?"
"Well, you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen."
"You're absolutely right!"
Gathering momentum from the swing, she leapt off lightly. The
display of energy seemed intentional. It might have been my
imagination, though. After she landed, she came over to where I sat on
the bench and looked straight at me. Crouching, her hands resting on
her knees, she said, "You want to know how to escape, right? I'll teach
you."
Once again, the same unnecessarily cute smile that I'd seen before
floated across her face. I was unable to think of her as a successor to the
ASIMO model any longer. Looking away, I whispered, "I'm not a
hikikomori."
"Liar. How can you say that even though you completely gave it
away when Auntie tried talking to you the other day? Even though you
ran away when you realized it was me at the manga café? Normal, people
don't do stuff like that."
"Hey!" I sputtered.
"You're scared, right? Of other people?"
As I lifted my head, our eyes met. She had big eyes, with large pupils.
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Gazing into those eyes, I was at a loss for words.
In the end, without saying anything, I looked away again.
Suddenly, I realized that somewhere along the way, the wind had
started blowing harder. Over our heads, the branches of the trees were
stirring. It was a chilly night.
I decided to go back to my apartment. Standing, I turned my back
on her. From behind me, she tried to stop me. "Wait!" she called, "You'll
regret this."
"What are you talking about? For starters, who are you, anyway?"
"I'm a kind girl who helps worthless hikikomori."
'And what's this 'project' that you mentioned in your letter?"
"At the current juncture, details of the project are top secret.
However, you can rest assured that I won't do anything bad."
I started feeling sick, so I decided to tell a suitable lie and just get
away from that place. "I'm not just any regular hikikomori, you know.
It's true that I shut myself away, but it's for my job. I have to."
"What's your job?"
"S-SOHO. . . "
"What's that?"
"It's short for 'someone who works from home.' I work from my
apartment. . . or rather, my home office. I'm not a deadbeat. Although
I'm definitely a shut in, it's part of my job description, and I can't do
anything about that! Trying to get a part-time job was just a momentary
miscalculation on my part. . . "
"Huh. Really? What kind of work do you do?"
"D-don t be surprised when you hear this. I'm a creator!" That's right,
I thought, marvel at my job title! "Because I do creative work, I may act a
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bit psychologically unusual, but that only proves my incredible talent!
I'm not just some good-for-nothing, jobless guy!"
Misaki grinned and casually asked, "What are you creating?"
"That is. . . you know, what do you call it, the latest, revolutionary
information technology. I can't really explain it in one word. . . "
"Well, let me know when you've finished what you're currently
working on, okay?"
"N-no, I can't do that. It's privileged information that I can't divulge.
Not to mention that we have tons of money invested in this project, so I
can't just give it away so easily. . . "Just as I had begun to wish for death
due to the thorough stupidity of the lines I was giving her, Misaki turned
away.
"It was a waste, huh? I did offer to show you how to escape, after all."
She really seemed to think this lost opportunity was unfortunate. In a
low whisper, she said, "Even though you'll never have this chance
again. . . "
Only her outline was faintly visible against the backlighting
provided by the streetlamps.
I was a little. . . no, fairly excited.
My bad habit prompted me to keep gushing. "It seems you doubt
what I'm saying; I am actually a really amazing creator, though. A young
girl like you probably wouldn't be aware of this, but I'm sort of well
known within the industry. Yeah, when I see you next time, I'll tell you
all about it. About my work. You'll be really surprised! You'll respect
me!"
Why did I say, "when I see you next time"? What did I mean by "my
work"? Why did I always broadcast these lies, all of which easily could be
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disproved? I could just be honest and say, "I'm a jobless hikikomori!"
Why was I indulging in this strange pride over such weird things?
Whatever. It didn't matter. I should just run. I should just get out of
there fast before I dug myself in any deeper. "W-well then, see you!"
Uncertainly, I headed toward the park exit. Behind me, she might
have muttered something, but I couldn't hear the words.
Part Two
Back at my apartment building, I interrogated my neighbor. "Yamazaki,
how can one become a creator?"
"Huh? What's this, all of a sudden?"
"I have to become a creator right away. You're a student at the
Yoyogi Animation Institute, aren't you? Don't you know a lot about that
kind of stuff?"
"No. Well, I guess I do. Are you serious?"
"I'm serious. I'm completely serious. Anything will do. Just tell me
how I can become a creator right away! Please?"
"I'm hanging up. Come over."
The shock of the situation had been enough to force me into calling
my next door neighbor. It was the first phone call I'd made in months.
"When I see you next time, I'll tell you all about my work." Only a few
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63
minutes earlier, I actually had said this. I had inflated my chest with
pride and preposterously said this aloud. When I see you next. . .
I suspected that this would not be far in the future. Misaki seemed to
live nearby. I might even run across her in town, completely by chance.
By that time, I had to change my huge, incredibly stupid lie into reality. I
needed to become a true creator. What was a creator, anyway? What is
it?
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