Looking for Excitement

  Looking for Excitement? 1471 words ex. title

Haruto stepped out of the elevator feigning a confidence he didn't feel.

Nine young men wearing masks stood in line. As he watched, one of them swayed and fainted to the floor. An older man, wearing a striped, wide-belted, kimono, jerked his head, indicating for Haruto to join the line up, then he dragged the body of the unconscious youth across to the elevator, bundled it in and pressed the DOWN arrow. Haruto took his place in the vacated gap. He studied his feet, balanced his weight carefully and waited. He'd expected excitement - but what now? What would he have to do to get the money?

#

It had all begun after a long, miserable shift in Tokyo's Tsukiji Fish Market - but at least he still had a job. Recently he'd heard rumours of the market being closed to prevent the spread of the virus. What would happen to me and Okaasan then? Haruto couldn't bear to thingk about it.

Fingers numb from cleaning shellfish, shoes covered in bloodied scales, trapped in the stinking job, he yanked off his mask to breathe the evening air. Hs sighed, desperate for a drink and a bite to eat, and trudged off to his favourite tachinomiya, noticing this part of the city was quieter than usual. Despite increased Covid warnings the cramped interior of the stand-up bar was packed so he took his hot sake and kushikatsu outside. A trashy magazine, left on the makeshift piled-crate table, lay open at the small ads. His eyes widened at an image of his own face staring at him. IS THIS YOU?

Yes. No - not with that expression!

But, despite the entitled leer, the face in the magazine could have been his own. The bold print shouted its message.

LOOKING FOR EXCITEMENT?

GLAMOUR?

FILM STAR SALARY?

Apply: info_rrcs@japan.com

Haruto read it again.

As if.

Okaasan always said, one day, her handsome son would be rich and famous. His eyes misted thinking of her.

Mother is a fantasist. A fantasist about my prospects, yes, but a realist too, wise, cautious, hard working. Skivvying at her age. It isn't right. I try my best but it's never enough.

He couldn't take his eyes off the words 'Film Star Salary'.

It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime. Okaasan's drudgery could be over and I could buy us a proper house.

He checked the header of the magazine, January 2021. Still in date.

After snapping the ad. he emailed a message to ask about the job, then started on the kushikatzu, taking tiny bites of the crispy meat morsels to make them last as long as possible. A reply bounced back – no name – just an address, a code and an appointment for the next day. Haruto read the location again, his eyes widening in disbelief.

#

After a night when fear and hope battled against sleep, Haruto travelled across town to the address. The gravel waves and rivers of the Zen Garden at the base of the exclusive residential tower were designed to evoke infinity and inner calm, but his stomach heaved at the raked undulations. Panting shallowly inside his face-covering, he approached the entrance. The door panels slid apart, revealing a vast reception area. He bowed at the konsheruju desk, trying to prevent his hand shaking as he held out his phone with the texted code. Shivering with apprehension - and at the glacial air conditioning, he watched the concierge punch a keyboard. A beat. Two. A green light blinked. The man waved him towards the elevator.

This is it! No looking back now! Conscious of his scuffed shoes, Haruto squared his shoulders as the elevator doors enclosed him. He gulped, taken aback by the multiple reflections of his pallid face and the sickening speed of the ascent to the penthouse floor, where he joined the silent line-up.

After Kimono man had disposed of the unconscious youth he positioned himself beside an antique bronze koro, an incense burner, the only item of furniture to be seen. Haruto examined it, relieved to focus on something other than the tension in the room. An interlocked pair of Sumo wrestlers topped the lid of the koro, but, inside the metal grille, he could see a white box. A sharp command cut the air. He looked up. What now?

A section of wall beside the bronze slid away to reveal a glass panel, behind which stood a man in full Samurai dress - deep-pleated robe, wide sleeved over-tunic, sculpted hair and top-knot. But, surely, a familiar face?

The Samurai examined the group of youths standing in line. Afraid to stare, Haruto's focus returned to the decoration of the koro. Grinning demons writhed in the bronze and the whole thing squatted on three curved legs as if ready to move. He dropped his gaze to the floor but four candidates eyeballed the vision behind the glass, who jerked a manicured thumb at them. Kimono Man herded them into the elevator. Five left. Haruto watched through half closed lids as the Samurai jerked his thumb again to dismiss the tallest and the plumpest. Three left. Haruto held his breath, listened for the hiss of the elevator. Bitten nails and nicotine stains were rejected. He stood alone.

'Look at me!'

Haruto twitched at the voice from behind the screen – from a Samurai version of me!

'Test him. Daisuke. Then bring him through.'

The wall closed. Daisuke, the Kimono Man, took the lid off the koro, opened the white cardboard box of Covid tests and tipped the items onto the inside of the lid. Haruto fumbled his way through the procedure, conscious of the silent scrutiny. He held out the plastic tube. 'Daisuke, Sir? May I call you that? Have I got the job?'

The man took the tube and let two drops fall onto the test pad. 'We'll see.'

'What will I have to do?'

'Wait.'

They waited. Negative.

'Follow me.'

Haruto followed Daisuke, into a study, where the Samurai sat at a desk, behind another glass wall.

'So. You want excitement, glamour?' The top-knot nodded as he inclined his head. 'Money?'

'Y-Yes Sir. - Please.'

'Excellent. I need a stand-in. Always too busy. Receptions. Promotions. Charity work. Concerts. Things like that. Ninety thousand a day, plus expenses. Suit you?'

Haruto's mouth went dry. 'Y-Yes Sir. T-Thank you Sir.' He bowed. The Samurai nodded, waved a hand in dismissal..

Daisuke took Haruto into a bedroom, proffered a blank form. 'Sign here. Start today. Charity visit. Take a bath. Use this robe. Put your clothes in the bin. Make-up and wardrobe will arrive in thirty minutes. The limo comes at three.'

Ninety thousand yen a day! Okaasan will never believe me! She'll be so happy. So proud, He rushed into the bathroom and started to run water into the vast tub. Half an hour later, two pink kimono-ed ladies arrived carrying holdalls. 'Sit here, Sir. Close eyes.' He complied and tried to relax. Scissors snipped. Fingers massaged something cold into his scalp, rinsed, dried. Brushes touched his cheeks, lips, eyelids. 'Keep eyes closed, Sir. Nearly finished.'

Haruto heard someone else enter the room. He swivelled in the chair and opened his eyes as the ladies gathered up their stuff and left. A man, carrying trendy shirts and tailored jackets, held them against him, as if Haruto were a shop-window dummy. 'Undress.'

He dropped the robe and let himself be kitted out. Finally, the man allowed him to see the result in the mirror. Haruto held his breath, looked at his reflection. But - no, not my reflection. Tomohisa Sato's reflection. The most followed Influencer in all Japan!

The elfin pink hair, pale eyes, and famous waifish smile of the Prince of Instagram appeared in the flesh – No in Haruto's flesh.

That's why the face in the photo - the man behind the glass – looked so familiar. I look like him. Now I look exactly like he looks on the screen.

A knock at the door – Daisuke stood in the corridor: 'Car's waiting.' Haruto followed him into the elevator, this time to be confronted by infinite images of the reigning king of Social Media.

Once outside the building, Haruto paused: 'Which charity please, is it today?'

'Hospital appearance. Mr Sato likes to be seen to support the needy and the under-privileged.

Haruto glanced towards the mob of popping cameras across the Zen Garden. All focused on me! How exciting. How glamorous – and the film star salary to come. He touched the unfamiliar softness of his pink hair. 'Will I have a mask to match my hair?'

Daisuke smiled, fitting on his own. 'No. No mask. In these unprecendented times, Mr Sato feels it is more honest to be seen to comfort the afflicted, the dying, face to face.'