NHK ni Youkoso! Vol 1 Chapter 3

Chapter 03
The Meeting
Part One
Despite everything, I had come back to life, my depression deeper and
direr than Lake Baikal or the Mariana Trench from yesterday’s
confrontation.
For the first time in months, I ventured outside in broad daylight
and headed to the lively city. It was such a brave and heroic act, it truly
deserved a shower of applause from the whole world. I wanted to praise
myself.
But everything was in vain.
All that remained was hopelessness. I can’t go on like this!
Returning to my apartment, I holed up in my room and started
drinking to erase the painful thoughts. Seated at the kotatsu, I tried
shouting, "Sake! Bring me more sake!" That itself, however, was nothing 
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more than an empty phrase spoken to myself, and in the dim evening, in
that six-mat room, it echoed in dreary misery.
Several empty beer cans already were rolling around on top of the
kotatsu. Increasingly irked by the anime songs blaring from the room
next door, I rashly indulged in even more alcohol.
My head spun terribly, and I grew dizzy.
Just a little more. I'll forget everything after just a little more.
That morning, having picked myself up after the previous day's low
spirits, I had decided to escape my hikikomori life as quickly as possible.
That's when it hit me. I'll find a part-time job today.
Why not? If I couldn't begin a career, I could start with a part-time
job. If I did that, my tide would s.h.i.+ft from "hikikomori" to "freeter."15
Both terms implied being useless, but freeter sounded far healthier than
hikikomori. So, I decided to search for a part-time job right away.
I headed to the convenience store and bought a part-time
employment information magazine. Walking home quickly, I started
seriously perusing the material.
Which one? Which part-time job would suit me best?
I dismissed the idea of heavy labor. After all, I wouldn't want
anything that would make me tired. Furthermore, the idea of working at
a convenience store made me recoil, too. No way could I qualify for that
sort of customer-service job.
Then… oh!
"Manga café, 700 yen per hour." 
Welcome to the N.H.K.
36
There was no mistake: This job suited me perfectly! There shouldn't
be too many customers coming to a small-town manga café, after all—
and when I was bored, I could read manga at the register. It seemed like
a really simple job. This would be the best thing for me.
With that in mind, I wrote up a resumé and triumphantly left my
apartment.
The manga café was in front of the subway station, behind a
McDonald's. Heading there, I plodded and stomped through a
residential area in the cool April air. And as I walked through the city by
day for the first time in several months, I again was interfered with by
"them." The N.H.K. interference operatives mocked me cruelly as I
walked, my shoulders slumped, trudging along the sidewalk's edge.
These were fierce interference measures.
"Hey, look at that. It's so gross."
"It's an unemployed hikikomori. The worst kind."
"You should go back to your apartment. This town is no place for
people like you."
The pa.s.sing housewives, high school girls, and older women all
murmured these things each time I pa.s.sed. I turned completely pale.
Oh, I want to go home.
I wanted to go back to my dim, comfortable, six-mat, one-room
apartment, to sink into my warm bed, dose my eyes, and not have to
think of anything. But I couldn't. That would be no good. After all, if I
did that, it would just go to their heads even more. I must bear it. This is a
battle in which I must do my best.
In reality, I had some idea that this would happen. I knew from the
start that there was no way they would leave me alone once I began my 
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return to society. That's why I couldn't lose. Forcing myself to suppress
the anxiety that grew with every step, I approached my destination at a
brisk pace.
Finally, I reached Break Time, the small, cozy-looking manga café
behind the station that would become my place of employment from
now on. I resolved to work here every day, starting tomorrow.
My escape from the hikikomori life was imminent.
While it troubled me that I had become this anxious just from
walking around the city during the day, I probably just needed to get
used to it. If I could become a freeter, my overabundance of neuroses
should disappear in moments.
Yes, it was finally time.
I had to be brave and take my first step inside. Forcefully, I banged
open the door and entered the shop. I visualized offering my resumé to
the girl at the register, announcing energetically, "I heard you're hiring
part-time workers here."
I began to speak, but my sentence broke off, midstream.
For behind the counter, where ashtrays, hot pots, and coffee makers
were lined up in an orderly fas.h.i.+on, a lone female employee sat in a chair,
reading manga. Her profile and the intent look in her eyes as she flipped
through a shoujo manga brought back a strange feeling of having seen her
before.
Actually, I had met her just the previous day.
Standing before the register, the words "part time" dying on my lips,
I felt my body stiffen. She lifted her face from the manga in her lap,
sensing me.
Our eyes met. 
Welcome to the N.H.K.
38
It was the young religious solicitor, Misaki.
Unlike the day before, she was dressed in jeans styled like what other
young people wore. She didn't have a recognizably religious aura.
The second I recalled her true ident.i.ty, my heart started beating at
ten times its normal rate. A swirl of thoughts circulated wildly through
my brain.
Why would a religious person work at a manga café? Wouldn't that
violate some sort of religious precept? No, no, that's of no concern to me—
does she remember who I am, though? If she did, that meant I was
completely ruined. There couldn't be anyone where I worked who knew
my secret. There was no way I could ever work with someone who
knew. If she does remember, what should I do? I have to run! As this It a
reasonable and logical conclusion, for now, I should just run!
However, right as I began to turn tail, the religious girl called me
back. Dropping her harsh expression, she looked at me, the same smile
of derision as the day before flitting across her face. In a small voice, she
asked, "Do you work part time here?"
Clearly, I could see the vast difference between how she questioned
me and the way she probably dealt with normal customers. Evidently,
the girl had realized that I was the crazy hikikomori from yesterday.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I wanted to run. I
wanted to leave that place as quickly as possible.
Even so, I had to answer her question and properly retract the words
I had spoken earlier. As casually as possible, as utterly natural as
imaginable, I had to say something.
"Bi-bi. . . "
"So. . . you like. . . bikes and stuff?" 
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What the h.e.l.l am I saying?
"Oh yes, I really do. . . like bikes—motorbikes, that is. You can fly
like the wind." A few of the customers sitting in the back began to pay
attention to me. "I just love the pulse of the engine! Well, what do you
think? Would you like to come riding with me some time?"
I'm done for!
"That is. . . I mean, I've never actually ridden one before! Ha ha ha ha
ha ha. . . ! Okay, see you."
I couldn't leave the store quickly enough.
On my way home, I stopped at the convenience store and bought
beer and shochu.
Let me die. I'll just die right now.
Except I won't die. The weather is too nice. Instead of dying, I'll just drink
a whole lot of alcohol to forget everything. Just forget.
Alcohol. . . I'll drink alcohol. . .
I tried shouting, "Sake! Bring me more sake!" That itself, however, was
nothing more than an empty phrase spoken to myself—and in the dim
evening, in that six-mat room, it echoed in dreary misery. I wanted to
cry.
Everything was her fault. Because of her, my great plan to escape my
hikikomori life had ended in miserable failure. At that moment, I wished
for the power to bestow deadly curses. That b.i.t.c.h. . . that b.i.t.c.h! G-GG.o.ddammit!
I imagined them laughing at me right about then. I was sure
that I'd become a laughingstock. 
Welcome to the N.H.K.
40
"Boss, today, a crazy hikikomori came to the store."
"Huh, really, Misaki?"
"It seemed he planned on working here part time. But for G.o.d's
sake, he's a hikikomori. Like, know your place!"
"Absolutely. There's no way an unemployed, disgusting, hikikomori
college dropout could join society."
They were using me as the punch line for their sardonic comments.
Argh, how can this be? It's hard to forgive. No, I can't forgive them. I need to
take my revenge. . . must take my revenge now! I swear I'll punish you. . .
As a hikikomori, however, I couldn't think of any really effective
ways to get back at them. Thus, I decided to give up momentarily and
think of something different, something to make myself feel better. I
wanted to forget the bad stuff and just think of good things.
Speaking of fun things, there was still the N.H.K.
Yeah, if I were feeling pain or suffering, I had merely to think of the
conspiracy that the N.H.K. was engineering right beneath the surface. If
I did that, I might feel at least a little better.
N.H.K., N.H.K. . . .
"I see! I understand!" I shouted. "That girl is a special operative for
the N.H.K.!" I kept making these declarations loudly.
Despite my earlier resolve, I didn't feel better at all.
"Dammit," I cried before I finished my beer and shochu.
My head hurt, and the anime songs ringing from my next door
neighbor's apartment were fiercely annoying.
Before I knew it, I had somehow ended up violently drunk. My
mood was headed, full tilt, toward negativity. Once again, the future
held no hope whatsoever that I could detect. I suspected that, at this 
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rate, I was just plummeting toward death—isolated, lonely, and looking
like an a.s.shole.
"That's it. This is the end. This is the end!" I chanted.
And still, the anime songs echoed from the room next door. In the
lyrics, words like "love," "dreams," "romance," and "hope," recurred
continuously—ironically. For someone like me, having lost my
optimism, it all sounded very much like mean-spirited sarcasm. The
words racked me with rage and self-pity.
For one thing, this was the first night my neighbor had played anime
songs at such a loud volume. Usually, he played them only during the
day, but it was already the middle of the night.
Then, it occurred to me: Might this not be some new hara.s.sment
meant for me? Hara.s.sment toward me! Someone so pathetic and stupid
that he couldn't even become a freeter!
If so, I couldn't allow it. I tried punching the wall. There was no sign
that the songs would stop. I kicked at the wall. No reaction.
How dare you make a fool of me? They're all—every one of them— making
a fool of me. Dammit. Just watch, I'll make you regret this.
I drank, got even drunker, drinking to deaden my senses. . .
I'm going, and I'll show you! You're the ones at fault.
Rising unsteadily from the kotatsu, no doubt looking like I was
about to fall on my a.s.s, I stumbled to open the door.
I tottered to room 202 and repeatedly attacked the doorbell. "Ding
dong, ding dong, ding dong. . . "
No answer.
I tried punching the door.
No answer. The only sounds from inside were anime songs. This 
Welcome to the N.H.K.
42
particular number was the theme song to Fancy Lala: "I am Fancy Lala. . . "
In my anger, blood rushed to my head.
I twisted the doork.n.o.b. The door wasn't locked, and I no longer
cared what might happen.
"Hey!" I shouted, losing myself in fury. Flinging open the door, I
screamed, "It's too loud!"
At that very second, I saw him. A man sat at a computer desk in the
back of the room, facing the speakers against the wall. Acknowledging
the surprising arrival of a visitor, he slowly swiveled around in his
spinning chair so he could look at me over his shoulder.
He was. . . crying.
Tears silently streamed down his cheeks.
On top of that, and even more unbelievable, I knew exactly who he
was. Speechless, I couldn't believe my eyes.
Wiping his own eyes, he gazed at me in disbelief. Thrusting himself
forward, he stared into my face. Finally, after a momentary silence, he
stammered in a trembling voice, "Sa-Satou?"
There was no mistake. It was Yamazaki.
After four years, this was an incredibly unexpected reunion.
Part Two
In high school, I had been in the literature club.
Even so, that didn't mean I liked novels or anything of that sort.
Rather, during the new-member recruitment fair, an awfully cute 
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uppercla.s.sman had invited me. "You there, join the literature club."
Without thinking, I had nodded. There was really nothing else I
could have done. Despite being a member of the nerdy literature club,
and despite being a year older than I was, the girl was as cute as a pop
idol.
Unsurprisingly, having joined the club for such a stupid reason, I
ended up playing solitaire through every meeting. And during any group
free time, I played cards in the crowded office with the uppercla.s.sman.
What in the h.e.l.l were we doing? Obviously, we could have been focusing
on other, more important things.
Well, that doesn't matter at all anymore. The past is the past.
Anyway, it happened after school on one of those club days. My
cla.s.smate and I were walking along the first-floor hallway that faced the
central courtyard. Suddenly, she pointed at one of the corners of the
courtyard. "Over there!"
"Hey, that's bullying, isn't it?"
Several students had surrounded a boy wearing a middle school
uniform. They were punching him in the stomach.
A weak smile appeared on the face of the boy being bullied. The
ones doing the bullying, too, smiled broadly. It was the kind of scene you
often saw.
"That's terrible." The cute girl broke the silence. A very empathetic
person, she made a face as though she honestly felt sorry for him—at
which point, an amazing idea flashed through my mind: I could show
her how cool I was.
"Shall I go help him?"
"You would do that?" 
Welcome to the N.H.K.
44
I nodded. I figured that middle school brats shouldn't be any
problem at all. Of course, that ended up being a huge miscalculation.
It was fine when I yelled the slogan, "Bullying isn't cool!" and waded
into the fray. Not only did I get beat up, the group of bullies also got
away. The girl looked at me in disgust, and the victim continued to be
bullied for the entire year, so my actions were completely fruitless.
Nevertheless, Yamazaki, the boy who had been bullied, seemed to
respect me—though I didn't know what kind of mistaken impression he
was under. He even joined the literary club as soon as he moved up to
the high school division.
By that time, I was already a third-year student. Since the older girl
had graduated, I had absolutely no desire to do anything. Thus, I set him
up as the president so I could focus on my entrance exam studies. Then,
just like that, I simply graduated.
Except for talking to him two or three times at the graduation
ceremony, I hadn't heard from Yamazaki at all since then—at least, not
until this moment.
In the middle of his own six-mat, one-room apartment, Yamazaki was in
exaggeratedly high spirits. He hadn't changed at all since I had last seen
him. He remained slender, with hair as light as a Russian's. At first, he
seemed to have become somewhat more masculine; that turned out not
to be the case, though. He appeared to be a weak young man, with little
combat potential.
"You? Is it really you?" 
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Though his eyes were swollen and red from his recent tears, he now
smiled widely. The anime songs had stopped playing.
Rooted to a spot by the door, I asked hesitantly, "Why are you here?"
"What about you, Satou?"
"I. . . " I started to tell him that I had just happened to move into this
building because it was close to my university; but unconsciously, I
hesitated. I didn't want Yamazaki to learn my true status: unemployed,
dropout hikikomori.
Not noticing my difficulties, Yamazaki voluntarily explained his
situation. "This summer, I entered a technical school. When I looked for
a cheap apartment close to school, I happened to like this one."
It really did seem to be complete chance.
"Anyway, please come in. My room is dirty, though."
The unbelievable coincidence still confused me, but Yamazaki
warmly urged me inside. Obediently, I took off my shoes and stepped
into the room.
Of course, the layout was no different than my room.
But. . . what was this? I stood frozen in place.
There was a strange atmosphere to Yamazaki's room, an extremely
faint air that I had never before experienced. The room contained odd
posters stuck haphazardly to the walls, two gigantic computer towers, a
mountain of manga that nearly reached the ceiling, and various other
kinds of furniture and decorations. Everything combined to create a
peculiar, troubled ambiance.
"Please, have a seat there." Yamazaki's voice brought me back to
reality.
Following his directive, I unsteadily ventured deeper into his room. 
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46
Suddenly, something shattered at my feet with a loud crack. I
jumped nervously.
"Oh, that's just a CD case," Yamazaki said, "Don't worry about it."
Manga, novels, videotapes, DVDs, plastic bottles, empty tissue
boxes, and other rubbish littered the entire floor.
"My room is rather dirty."
This was an understatement. I had never seen such a filthy room.
"Still, I'm really happy. I never would have guessed that I lived next
door to you, Satou." Seated on the edge of the bed, Yamazaki spoke with
a faraway look in his eyes, paying no mind as I trampled something
different with each step.
Finally, I reached the computer desk and sat in the revolving chair.
My drunkenness had worn off. It had worn off completely.
Not knowing what to say, I stared at his seventeen inch monitor. It
displayed a wallpaper for an anime I didn't recognize.
"It's strange that we've never run into each other here, even though
it's been half a month since I moved in."
I half listened to him while examining the figurine displayed on top
of the monitor. The model was an elementary school girl carrying a red
schoolbag on her back.
Meanwhile, Yamazaki droned on. "This must be what they mean by
urban disinterest in one's neighbors."
One poster affixed to his wall showed a naked girl who couldn't be
older than elementary school age, drawn, predictably, in anime style. I
looked back at his computer desk.
"What's wrong? Satou, you're so quiet. Oh, I guess my music was too
loud, right? I'll be careful next time." 
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On top of the desk, there were piles of square boxes that appeared to
be some kind of computer games. They were decorated with loads of
intimidating labels—stuff like "torture," "wet," "abuse," "lewd," "tie,"
"academy," "confinement," "rape," "savage," "pure love," "training,"
"adventure"—things one didn't typically see. And of course, above the
piles, was the nude drawing of the elementary school student. A sticker
on it advised, "Not for those under 18 years of age."
Once again, I hurriedly looked away, this time toward the mountain
of manga next to the wall.
Yamazaki continued his monologue. "Anyway I'm very happy,
Satou. I never thought I'd get to see you again, and I really respect you.
Did you know that? You did, didn't you?"
Picking up one of the manga, I flipped through it. Naturally, I found
the nude form of a girl, who could be nothing but elementary school
aged, along with a yellow mark for "Adult Comics."
"Have you heard of the school I'm attending? I'm sure you've
probably seen it in a TV commercial. . . "
I returned the book to the pile. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I
asked, "What school are you going to?"
At my question, Yamazaki puffed out his chest and started to reply.
Without intending to, I rolled my eyes toward heaven.
It was several years earlier. We had been dreaming. It was the effect of
the dim life in a dirty school building, beautiful young girls, and boys
laughing despite the gloom. I, and everyone else, had been dreaming. In 
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48
the midst of that surreal time, we all had been dreaming of a wonderful
future.
Those were the days when we were always in the club offices after
school, spending the slow time with the uppercla.s.smen. We nervously
smoked cigarettes behind a shabby, old prefab hut that looked as though
an earthquake would flatten it instantaneously. We didn't have parttime
jobs, we didn't throw ourselves into our clubs, we had bad grades,
and we had no motivation at all. Even though I was a high school
student headed absolutely nowhere, I was always smiling.
On one day, something happened: In our club office, where trash
and a.s.sorted sc.r.a.ps littered the floor, the cute uppercla.s.sman and I had
been s.p.a.cing out. "Satou, what're you going to do in the future?" she
asked.
"First, I'll attend some college. . . I don't really know what I'll do, but
I should be able to find something I like while I'm there."
"Hm. . . "
She looked away. Suddenly, she murmured, "Remember your recent
plan to rescue that kid being bullied? It was so stupid, but you looked
kind of cool. You'll be fine, Satou. You'll definitely be fine."
I was embarra.s.sed.
Time pa.s.sed. She graduated. Later, in the same club office,
Yamazaki and I sat there. I glared at my math book. Yamazaki said,
"Satou, you'll graduate this year."
"That's right, so you'll be the president from now on. Work hard."
"It'll be lonely. Everyone's getting older."
"Don't say that kind of stuff while you're young. Want a smoke?"
Taking a cigarette out of my pocket, I offered it to Yamazaki, who took 
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it.
Cautiously, he lit it. He launched into a magnificent fit of coughing.
Eyes watering, he said, "I hope it goes well."
"What goes well?"
"All kinds of things. I hope that I can continue this kind of happy
daily life. You should work hard, too, Satou, and so will I. I'll leave with
high spirits, and everything will be okay, somehow."
Yamazaki was filled with both hope and anxiety. In that shabby club
office, filled with the light of the setting sun, we laughed as though we
were dreaming.
Then, I went on to college—but I dropped out. Frightened of my
futureless life, scared by my foolish anxieties, unable to see ahead and
aiming nowhere, I continued ceaselessly living my ridiculously idiotic
life. I was beset on all sides by invisible worries.
So, I shut myself in and slept. I slept until sleep exhausted me.
Spring pa.s.sed, summer ended, fall came, and then winter arrived. Then,
it turned into another gentle spring.
My forward progress to the future had stopped, and I was at my
wit's end. The cool night breeze felt good, and I continued to sleep.
And then, one day, we met again. Yamazaki and I had met again.
He'd been a weak, bullied boy, but Yamazaki was still a pretty good guy.
All this time, we'd been inhaling the same city air.
Although neither of us could see anything concrete in our futures,
we still were looking forward.
Even now, I could remember it clearly—us in the club office that I
missed so much, the setting sun s.h.i.+ning through the narrow windows
during our innocent conversations. "What's going to happen to us?" 
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"Whatever happens will happen."
"I guess so."
That pleasant, gentle time after school.
We had been young and stupid. We were worthless, helpless, and
couldn't even have imagined ourselves four years in the future.
Having run into Yamazaki again for the first time in several years, I
asked, "Where are you going to school?"
Yamazaki proudly puffed up his chest at my question and answered,
"Yoyogi Animation Inst.i.tute."16
Life was so strange. . .
"What are you doing now?" he asked me.
"I dropped out."
Yamazaki looked away, and an uncomfortable silence pa.s.sed.
Finally, in an unnaturally cheerful voice, I said, "By the way, why
were you crying?"
"I haven't been going to school lately. I didn't really blend in with the
other students, I didn't have any friends, and I just started living alone.
In despair, I was playing my CDs as loud as I could. . . "
"You've been shut in here all the time these days?"
"Th-that's right"
I stood up quickly. "Wait just a second," I said, and I went back to
my own room.
I returned to Yamazaki's room, carrying beer cans in both hands.
'Let's drink!" 
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"What?"
"It's fine. Let's just drink." I handed a beer to Yamazaki. "It's okay.
The day when you can escape from being a hikikomori definitely will
twine."
Truthfully, I was noisily professing my own desires. "It's okay,
Yamazaki. I'm a professional when it comes to being a hikikomori. As
long as I'm with you, your situation can't get any worse!"
With that, we drank. We turned the anime songs back on and got
drunk enough that consciousness evaporated. Our party continued late
into the night. Once the anime CD ended, we started singing our own
songs. Because we both were incredibly inebriated, we might have just
dreamt that these were wonderful songs.
Even if it was a dream, that's fine. I sang with vigor.
The Hikikomori Song
Lyrics and Music by Satou Tatsuhiro
The freezing cold, six-mat, single room—
Oh, this apartment:
Even though I want to leave, my escape is still distant.
I lie on the bed, even while awake, and sleep sixteen hours a day.
Near the shadows of the kotatsu,
A c.o.c.kroach is hiding.
When I eat, I have one meal a day.
And I lose weight every day. 
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52
Sometimes, I head to the convenience store,
The gazes of others frighten me, though.
A cold sweat even springs forth,
Telling me how hard it is to escape my apartment.
N.H.K., which seems like a fantasy—
There is emptiness in searching and not finding it.
Today, when the sun sets, I go weakly forth
To lie down in my damp bed.
My tired and heavy brain—
Oh, I can't go on. I can't go on!
Because I had used the p.o.r.nographic comics as a pillow when I fell
asleep on the floor, I woke up with a terrible headache. Yamazaki had
dozed off, resting his head on his desk.
I gently shook his shoulders. "What about school?"
"I'm taking today off"
Saying this, Yamazaki closed his eyes again.
Returning to my own room, I sprawled across my bed. I swallowed
an aspirin and went back to sleep.