Dead Hours — Sponsored, Page 8
By Suha · Published
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Transcript
Six panels. Panel one: the sliding doors open and a rumpled drunk salaryman staggers in out of the rain — loosened tie, flushed face, suit jacket over one arm — sees the lit rig and lights up. Panel two: he makes straight for the hoop light, arms wide, thrilled, blundering into the shot. SALARYMAN: Is that a camera?! Panel three: he grips Kaito by both shoulders and physically aims him at the centre of the hoop, delighted with his own expertise. SALARYMAN: Look at the lens! Straight down the lens! Panel four: a silent beat. Kaito, aimed squarely at the lens, stares into it with total blankness. It is unbearable. Panel five: Kaito breaks off and turns away, one hand over his own eyes, while the salaryman wanders happily toward the coolers. KAITO: That's worse. That's so much worse. Panel six: the recurring beat again. Sae lowers the hoop a few degrees, entirely mild. SAE: Again. From the top.
Image description
A drunk salaryman crashes the shot, aims Kaito straight down the lens, and makes everything worse; Sae calls another take.
About this chapter
3 A.M., rain on the dead-hours store, and for the first time the store is a set. Sae Kurosawa stands a ring light in the middle gangway, tapes a cross on the tile, clamps her phone at the centre of the hoop and tells Kaito the agency wants one trial video: the shop, the night, and him. The brief is four words — do the thing you do — and Kaito, who has never in his life done a thing on purpose, declares quiet war on being himself to order before the shoot wraps, spiralling over whether a man standing on a mark can possibly be the same man who stands there every night for free. Take after take dies on the tile, each one ending on the identical beat of Sae lowering the phone, entirely mild, and saying 'Again. From the top.' He tries reciting a spiral he has actually had; it comes out hollow. He interrogates the brief and gets nothing back. A ladder of night regulars wander into the shot and hand him contradictory, unverifiable direction: the tracksuit regular says just talk normal; a drunk salaryman insists he look straight down the lens and physically aims him at it; a cheerful jogger tells him to pretend the camera isn't there, which it is, a metre from his face. Rin does not film a single frame all night — she sits at the counter watching a stranger point a camera at the thing she has been pointing hers at for two years — and has one flicker of near-sincerity, that it stops being the thing the moment somebody asks for it, before going flat again. Near dawn, hollow, Kaito takes the mark one last time and says 'Again. From the top' to himself before Sae can. She calls the shoot instead, thanks him, switches the light off and starts breaking down the rig — and Kaito, released, goes back to work, restocking the carton rack and muttering at it with real irritation about a real thing. The light is off. The phone is still recording. That is the take, and it is good: the honest one is the one he could not make, and it belongs to a woman who has been in the shop twice. Sae packs up, says 'Tuesday?' to Rin on her way out, and gets no answer. Dawn fills the store from exactly the angle the night began, the rig gone — and Kaito crouches to peel the tape cross off the tile while Rin, phone finally raised, films him doing it. 'That's the one,' she says. He does not look up.