christopher bundy

Illustration by Max Currie

Kent felt a surge, as if his story, his whole path to this mountain retreat, made more sense now. Here before Chieko and Hideo, his audience of two, as if he were chasing the dragon again. “There were some busted up parts of my life I didn’t know how to fix, a whole other story I’m done with, that made me behave like an ass, I suppose.” He’d read an article in the weekly Asahi Geino about the actor Mickey Rourke. Rourke had been  popular in Japan and a regular in Japanese commercials, shilling for many of the same brands Kent had once represented: Suntory whiskey and Lark cigarettes. Rourke’s own impressive comeback was widely chronicled in magazines and on entertainment programs and seemed to get much more press in Shukan Gendai, on Star-Gazer.com, and other media outlets these days than Kent. So he borrowed the line about “busted up parts.” And a few others. Rourke was staging a comeback and the Japanese loved it. Kent thought a couple of moves from Rourke’s playbook might help. He’d risen from the bottom, from obscurity, poverty, and drug abuse to win awards and get meaty movie roles once again. “I didn’t know who I was when I got here and then I had this persona imposed on me. Hey, hey RI-CHU-MAN-SAN! Pretty stupid name.” Kent put his face up to the camera lens. “No offense to your Japanese sensibilities, but it’s a pretty stupid name.”

Hideo and Chieko both nodded. He shouldn’t be talking like this, he knew—Renzo would whip him good for such recklessness. But this night, this moment, left him carefree. He wanted to make an impression, tell the truth for a change.

Illustration by Max Currie

“Richman, it’s Renzo—what the hell took you so long?”

“I was meditating,” Kent said, understanding how stupid it sounded before he finished his sentence.

“Honto?”

“I can get deep,” Kent said. In fact, he’d been napping for the first time in days, blessedly so.

“I figured you might put on a good show for the cameras, but real meditation?”

“It’s a documentary. It’s supposed to be real.”

“You don’t want to show them the real Kent Richman. At least not what you keep showing on the internet. YouTube should pay you.”

“Now I’m responsible for every jerk with a cell phone?”

“I tell you to keep it low. And what’s the first thing you do? I saw at least two photos from Azuma alone. You were there two days? Then this craziness at a rest stop. Not cool, Richman, not cool.”

“Bad days, I know.” Renzo was right.

“So, do me a favor—do—not—fuck—up—any—more, and stay away from cameras, except for one. Just let this Hideo guy do the good work for you. Let him shape Kent Richman the way we want to show Kent Richman.”

“But he keeps talking about cinéma vérité—”

“Cinema what? Listen, directors are all a bunch of tyrants, you know that. The only way good movies and TV are made is to be a control-freak. Just nod and pretend you love it. Then, give them what we need.”

This was not what Kent had imagined, some graduate student telling him how to be himself, Renzo pulling strings behind the scenes. “And thanks for not telling me this whole charade is about Ozman. You knew all along—”

“Coincidence,” Renzo said.

“They’re just waiting for Ozman to show up and beat the hell out of me on camera, aren’t they?”

“What do you want me to say, Richman? I didn’t want you to freak out on me. You do have a habit. When the news about Ozman hit, the guy from Waseda called and it seemed like a good idea—”

“I wouldn’t have freaked out,” Kent said.

“Are you freaked out now?” Kent heard Renzo take a deep drag on his cigarette.

“No—” Kent sensed Renzo was about to counter his claim. “Can you blame me?”

Renzo exhaled noisily. “He’ll never find you up there. I’m not sure I could even find you right now. And when you look like he does, how far can you go in Japan?”