Yongen Jaya, Tokyo. October 2005.
Let me paint a picture for you. A large individual with a bountiful bosom cradles a much smaller person, swaddled only in a towel, in their arms out of a bath.
If you pictured a mother carrying out her fresh new baby from the shower, then you'd be as far off as my dangling feet were from the ground.
[Local celebrity and legendary sumo wrestler, Konishiki, heretofore known as paw-man as per his credits title, gripped me under my arms and held me at full arm's length as he casually walked me out of the bathhouse.
Knees kicking, arms twisting, I wriggled in his grasp like an unruly pet.
The soft cloth of the curtain doors wiped my back as I stumbled when he deposited me barefoot on the asphalt.
Dipping into the waistband of his robe, paw-man pulled out a wad of cash and tossed it at an amused Han while throwing me a dirty look. "Shoganai-na…"
Cash pocketed, Han returned my scowl with a smirk.
He chucked his keys, and I jerked reflexively to catch them. I just as quickly had to grab the hem of my towel as I felt it slip from my hip.
"I'm not sure I want a job that leaves my butt blowing in the breeze."
Han hopped off the hood of his car. "You act like I'm giving you a choice. You're my delivery boy, now. I don't care if you're taking a test or in bed with Beyonce. I call, you pick up before the second ring." He opened the passenger side door and made to enter it. "Now get back in there and put your clothes on. I don't want your raw skin touching my seats."]
Mouth open, and next dialogue on the tip of my tongue, the world suddenly went dark. I felt the fabric of a dark piece of cloth thrown over my head and body.
I heard the urgent rattle of the side door of a car open, when a burly pair of arms pushed me in.
What the fuck? Was I filming Tokyo Drift or Taken?
Slam! The door slid shut. Tthpth! I spat out some lint that invaded my mouth as I ejected my head from the rumpled cotton. "Oi, mate!" The British in me popped out, too. "I know taekwondo!"
When my vision cleared, I saw the slimiest human being imaginable. I felt a shiver of pure fear race up my spine. Thwack! "Don't think for one moment that I can't read your mind like an open book!" Anita, my agent, beat me up.
In all the bustle, my towel had slipped clear off, leaving me in only my skin tight underwear.
"Assault, abduction - of a half naked minor no less. Quite a wrap sheet you're building. I wonder what the police would have to say about our current predicament."
She rolled her eyes and pointed a slender finger out the tinted window. "They look a little busy."
True enough, two police officers were putting one of our local Japanese crew members in handcuffs. He was the substitute director, which was our tongue-in-cheek way of saying the guy the studio had hired to take the fall if the cops ever caught us filming outside. Justin Lin would get to taste another day of free Tokyo air.
A permit to shoot within private premises was one thing. The Japanese government was not keen to grant us public filming rights.
"I know I'm stripped down to my skivvies, but the cops wouldn't book me unless I'd set up the full fruit stand outside. Why am I getting the human trafficking treatment?"
"Justin is… nice enough. But there's a distinction between a no-name director getting his face on the back pages of a regional newspaper, and an international star getting his scrawny ass plastered all over the front cover of every tabloid you can think of."
"Easy way of getting attention, though, eh?"
Cadbury, who had stealthily been sitting shotgun, reached down and handed me my lost towel. "Cover up, Mr Rhys. Your shame is showing."
–
Kichijoji, Tokyo. October 2005.
[Han and I rocked up to the back streets of the bar district during broad daylight - in my blue Silvia this time.
"Time to earn your ride, delivery boy." He jutted his chin at the food cart parked a few metres ahead of us. "There's the customer." He bent down between his legs and picked up a white packet. "Here's the grub." He plonked it on my lap.
I shot him a suspicious look, spread the bag open, and peeked inside with the camera to find three white plastic bowls with clear covers littered with Japanese characters. "Tofu?"
Han turned away from me with a shrug and focused on the pair of graceful legs poking out from below the curtain. "Not what I would call it."
I squinted and brought the box closer. "Wait, is this spe-!?"
"Tofu. You said it yourself."
"Wouldn't it be safer doing this at night or something?"
"Police don't look for drunks at mid-day." Funnily enough, that was the same reason we were filming at this time, too. "I don't pay you to ask questions."
"You don't pay me at all!"
"Get going."
Contraband in hand, I approached and ducked under the yatai.
Neela greeted me with a sarcastic remark. "Seems like someone's learned to turn a corner."
"And maybe someone might wanna learn how to drive a little straighter." I passed her the bag. She used a single slender finger to pry it open and confirmed the contents.
"Aww. So sweet, worried about me?" She was being facetious.
"Yes." I wasn't.
She looked taken aback. "Well…" her tone softened. "Don't be. I have a strict soybean allergy."
"Then why all this?"
"Debts don't pay themselves. You think I do what DK tells me because I like him?"
"Then why not just ask Han? You and I both know he'd do it without a thought. For you especially."
She reached over and pinched my cheek again. "That's not clearing a debt, it's shifting it. You're not from here, so you don't understand. In Japan we take responsibility for our own actions." She slid from her stool and stood up. She pressed up against me. The camera zoomed for an extreme closeup of her lips ghosting over my ear. "Your reward only comes through your own risk." And with that, she walked out.
I watched her retreat for a while, then readied to leave as well. A throat clearing caught my attention.
"Okane." The cart owner had his hand out, waiting for payment.
She'd left without paying. Son of a bitch!]
Scene done, the crew wasted no time in packing up and shipping out before the authorities had any inkling we'd been here.
I was happy with the scene, but that last line of dialogue struck a chord with me and kept repeating in my head.
"My risk, my reward, huh?"
–
Anita's Hotel Room, Tokyo. October 2005.
What a view.
Anita stood in front of her ceiling height window and just stared at the shimmering chaos of Tokyo's skyline that blinded even the stars.
She tugged her bathrobe around her tighter and sighed.
When she'd started at Endeavor just a scant few years ago, she'd had big dreams. But like milk, when left out too long, sometimes it turned sour.
Straying hands, poison tongues, backbiting, and even a little frontbiting, if such a thing was possible. It was a lonely, stressful fight for survival.
There had come a point where, if Anita Specter wanted her name known as more than just another lowly mortal in the city of angels, she'd have to go more than just ankle deep in the mire of sleaze that was Hollywood.
Knock knock knock. "Room service!" Then he'd come into her life. Nothing was the same.
She marched to and opened her suite's door. "Don't insult the lovely housekeeping staff and their impeccable manners."
There he was. Even cut shorter, his hair was stylishly ruffled. Those glittering green eyes that used to glance up at her so mischievously now pierced her head on. His full lips stretched across his sharp jaw into a smile wide enough that she could see her reflection in his bright white teeth. He always smiled at her. It never failed to make her warm.
When had her clever boy turned into this charming man? At least his cheeks were still a little chubby and ripe for a good pinch.
He whistled. "That's some avant-garde style." He pointed at the coiled towel drying her hair on her head. "Wrong part of Asia to wear a turban, though."
He always ruined a wonderful moment by opening his mouth. "Get in here!"
As soon as the door shut, his feet were out of their shoes, off the floor, and hopping on the freshly made sheets of her once pristine bed.
"One more crease on my bed, Bas, and I swear I'll cancel karaoke." Immediately, he folded his legs and sat like a yogi; maybe she ought to make him a turban, too.
On second thought, no. She thought better of it. The little bastard would happily wear it out in public - immune to embarrassment as he was.
"Mind telling me why you're here so early? We weren't supposed to meet everyone for another hour." Anita moved to the bathroom and began putting her face on.
"You see. I was thinking…" uh-oh. It wasn't ever good when he did that.
"How many times have I told you to leave that to me? That's my job, not yours."
"Do you wanna hear me out? Or should I just go ahead and do what I want without filling anyone in?" Oh, and he'd do it, too. No such thing as an idle threat with Bas.
Her mascara done, she stomped back into the room and planted herself in front of him. "Lay it on me."
"You know how I don't have a morality clause in my contracts?" Well, wasn't that just the most auspicious start to a conversation?
She felt one of her brows rise. "So, how exactly do you want to take advantage of that?"
"Not gonna ask if I've already done something insane?" Her Bas was stupid, but he wasn't dumb.
"No. I trust you." there's that smile again.
He took a breath. Not even a blink, but something in his face changed. He looked…real. No mask.
"I want to do something that might put my current image in jeopardy."
"Why?"
"Because I can't stay young forever. I've gotta admit, I'm scared that neither Goblet, the subsequent Harry Potter films, or even TD won't get the reception I feel they deserve, and it'll be my fault they don't. The movies are growing up, but the image people have of me isn't."
It was strange seeing the effortlessly confident Bas Rhys so suddenly unsure of himself. "How precisely does the morality clause factor into this?"
"It's my way of throwing a bucket of water on the collective awareness. Just look at Macaulay Culkin. You couldn't turn the TV channel twice before catching something he was on when he was a kid."
His train of thought was easily picked up. "But as he got older, the public couldn't reconcile his new image, and now he does shitty little cameos and commercials."
"I don't want that to happen to me." She didn't see fear in him anymore. Just determination. "The only way I'm gonna die is mid-take; preferably during a sex scene."
Nevermind.
"I hear you, Bas."
"You're on board?" She'd only give up the day he does.
She ran her fingers through his soft waves. "The only way you're getting rid of me is if that scene is in a porno and not an Oscar bait movie."
"Awesome! We'll call Heyman and pen the deets when we get back home. For now, it's time for karaoke!"
Ugh. "I don't understand why you're so eager. Besides Mariah Carey and some Celine Dion, the track list is all local. Your voice isn't hitting those high notes."
"We're in Japan. Not hitting up a karaoke party is as much of a sin as skipping out on sushi. Plus, don't worry, Keiko told me she'd help me pick songs with English in them. There's this singer that she loves, Miki Matsubura."
"Oh, yeah? I bet that singer isn't the only thing she loves. No doubt she wants to help you."
She shut the door, and they strolled down the hall. "Gotta get practice for those sex scenes somehow." Yuck.
"Is it too late to back out of our deal?"
He laughed, snatched her hand, and raced them down the corridor. "I know just the song that'll cheer you up."
"Is this also by Miki whoever?"
"Yeah." He squeezed her hand tighter. "It's called Stay With Me."