Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Headhunters are really flash. They have nice cars. They have leather shoes. They are good with the ladies. Most people would say that they have it going. Do they? I investigate further. The work enslaves them with promises of one more big deal, a few more million yen. And the pressure and the monotony and the sheer boredom of making 50 to 100 phone calls a day trying to find the guy, trying to find the guy, trying to close the deal. They tell me it’s the bomb, but I see it drive them into the bars of Roppongi most every night. It drives them to drug and drink fueled conquests of girl after girl. The noise, the bars, the toys, the girls, the drink…This is not freedom, is it? But it is…it is their brand of freedom. And I have to remember that it’s not my definition of freedom I’m looking for. And there is no such thing as THE definition of freedom. There are as many as there are people.
We took that long bus from Narita into central Tokyo…into Shinjuku. I haven’t been here in 2 years, but it feels like yesterday…like I’ve fallen back into a recurring dream. Every building, every electric wire calls to me: “You are home” they say. “Okaeri” they say. Now that I’m here, I’m not quite sure why I came back. Something about freedom, something about dreams, something about this place that’s like an illusion. I’ll figure it out. My plan is to start with the headhunters. They know everybody in this town…Japanese and Gaijin alike. They can tell me a thing or two.