"Somebocchi to Love"

For the second time during my trip to Yoshiaki, I’m subjected to a performance by the guerilla actors out of Tsukamoto. I got a pretty good view of the midrise and see that the troupe has expanded their arsenal considerably since last time; a couple of stage lights they've brought illuminate the Bookworm and the Girl, still dressed in their anime girl Guevara shirts. They have microphones in their hands and amplifiers off to the side. On the stage, Takeuchi grips his own microphone so hard that he’s about to crush it, metal and all; he goes to yell into it, but music erupts from the rooftop first. It’s something quick, its players out of sight - just a short jazzy intro played a bass.

And then the acting begins. With the President still nowhere to be found, the Girl speaks first.

“So, Jiro, what’s it like being a manager now?”

Jiro - played by the Bookworm - is dressed in a neat suit and tie. He wipes his face. “You have to make tough decisions. For the good of the firm. We have this part-timer, a real head in the clouds kind of guy. I was supposed to tell him today that we weren’t renewing his contract.”

The Girl tilts her head. “What happened?”

Jiro sighs. “Well, we had a work event last night, and the drinks were flowing. And this part-timer, his face is all red. He’s been boozing hard. And you know what he says? He says, ‘I’m glad to work for you, Oto-san!’”

The crowd laughs; the Girl guffaws. “He called you Father?”

Jiro rolls his eyes. “How can I fire this guy after he calls me Father in front of everyone? But I found a solution - I’m going to hire another part-timer to fire the first part-timer for me.”

The plaza erupts in laughter; Takeuchi just shakes his head and paces with thunderous steps. But then a vein bursts in his skull when the President of the Troupe arrives on the rooftop - he’s dressed in a crisp brown suit and walks with a slight crouch. The kid, his man-bun gone, is playing none other than Takeuchi himself. When he arrives on the scene, he makes a dramatic gesture of taking off his tie.

“Rough day, Takeuchi?” the Girl asks.

“Rough day,” the President repeats. “You know those safety inspectors in Tokyo? They actually came to my factories for a safety inspection!”

Jiro speaks in an amused tone. “It’s in the name, you know.”

“I just thought it was one of those bureaucratic things! They send me a letter asking if the factory’s safe, I send a letter back saying the factory’s safe, and that’s that! But they actually came.”

The Girl pokes her head in. “Isn’t the head of the safety inspection department your dead wife’s father?”

“Dead fiance,” President Takeuchi corrects. “It’s rigged against me! So they get to the factory, and when I started my company up, I had to choose between either luxury lunches or proper waste disposal, and the answer’s obvious on that one. The inspectors asked to see the waste treatment site, and all I have is pipes spewing gunk into rivers! I tried to stall them - I walked them around the whole factory, but there’s only so much factory to see. Finally, we get to the pipes.”

“What happened?” Jiro asks.

The president shrugs. “They demand to know where the waste treatment machines are. I told them I forgot where I put them. And that, if they came back again, I would’ve found them by then.”

The Girl stares at him. “You thought that would work?”

President Takeuchi falls to his knees. “I was desperate! But they weren’t having it. To get them off my back, I had to hand them a couple thousand Yukichi-sans.”

“You bribed them?” Jiro asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I donated,” he corrects. “And you know what money I had to use? The one for my amusement park fund!” He hands his head low. “Takeuchiland is no more.”

“Couldn’t you have used that fund to build those pipes in the first place?” the Girl says. “And you’re saying you’re still spewing industrial waste into rivers?”

President Takeuchi just sighs and ignores the latter. “I bought a priority pass for the amusement park in Tokyo once. I can’t go back to waiting in line. I don’t need to wait in line when I own the park itself!”

As President Takeuchi rubs his eyes in defeat, Mayor Takeuchi has blown through two stress balls. His face is bright red, even his ears, and he’s shaking and shaking. “Do something!” he barks at Daisuke, who sits there with an amused face.

“My prefectural police are on it,” Daisuke answers. His cops are currently laughing at the rooftop production.

Despite it all, the trio of Kentaro, Ayako, and Shizuko look worried. “They’re improv-ing now,” Ayako realizes. “Yuka still hasn’t given me the signal that the screen is ready.”

I cut in. “What’s going on? Was this all planned? You guys know about Yuka?”

“We couldn’t tell you,” Ayako simply answers.

I fume. “Why not?”

I look at Shizuko, who gives me a sad smile. “You would’ve objected.”

Before I can answer, Kentaro speaks into his phone. “We’re on to the emergency phase of the plan.”

Two new people join the troupe on the rooftop - none other than the duo of pop culture references from earlier. The drunk one, her black letterman jacket billowing in the night breeze, points with her bass. “Jiro, this is a load-bearing amp!”

She hooks up her bass in one fell swoop and gives it a hard strum. The sound echoes through the plaza, the crowd’s eyes going wide at the impromptu concert (guerilla concert?). The girl in the pink tracksuit joins in, and now bass and guitar are going at each other, playing fast and loose, the night sky behind them. The troupe moves some of the lights around to illuminate the two musicians, while some get maneuvered downwards, where a circle of space is rapidly forming in the center of the crowd.

Kentaro stretches his fingers and looks back at me. “There are more ways to save a prefecture than just writing about it,” he says with a determined grin. He steps into the center of the circle and starts busting out the dance moves from before, this time in-tune with the psychedelic rock radiating from the top of the midrise. The crowd starts cheering, many of them taking videos on their phones, others watching and laughing, a few even stepping in and out, joining him in his dance.

Ayako films him with the proudest look I’ve ever seen on her face and starts up a chant. “The whole world is watching!”

The cheer soon cascades across the crowd, who raise their fists in time to the rolling thunder coming from the guitar and bass. “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”

The cheer stops at the stage, where Takeuchi is certainly not joining in. “Hawk, do something!” he commands. The Hawk grunts and leaps down from the stage; the crowd parts before him as he approaches the dance circle, the ground trembling with each of his massive steps.

The chant starts to quiet down as the Hawk walks slowly and methodically toward Kentaro. The future Proust isn’t stopping his dance moves though, and it’s not like he’s alone in this. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on anymore, but I step into the circle, my fists raised. It’s time - I’m ready to channel my inner Bruce Leo. I can’t fight inflation, I can’t fight depopulation, but I can sure as hell fight the Hawk. The lights of red lanterns flash across his shades and solemn expression as he steps into the dance circle.

Another person comes to support me - the young cop from yesterday, fresh out of high school. He has his nightstick raised and won’t back down, and neither will I.

Girls in yukatas slink away from the Hawk as he raises a beefy hand. He removes his shades, revealing a scar running through one eye. The references continue to play, Kentaro continues to dance, Ayako continues to film, but despite it all, everything feels incredibly still, as if I stand on a knife’s edge.

The Hawk points to his scar. “I got this while minoring in Interpretative Dance at Stanford.”

The asphalt below us cracks and breaks as the Hawk breaks out the Charleston. His legs and arms are such an energetic blur I can no longer separate them. His transition into a one-man Lindy Hop is smooth as butter; his movements are crisp, well-planned, well-defined, graceful and artistic. He doesn’t let loose, he’s in control of every motion - this man is a professional. He follows it up by pinning both his arms to his side and twisting his head back and forth, then raises his arms above his head and tilts his head side-to-side while tap-dancing.

“He’s referencing Christmas specials!” the young cop cries out. We simply can’t compete with that kind of firepower, so we retreat behind Kentaro, who’s been observing the Hawk’s moves. This is a clash of old and young, ancient and new - the Hawk’s techniques hail from a time of formalized dancing, when dancing was a science.

But, in one of those rare occurrences of history - dancing has transitioned from science to art. Dancing isn’t something with rules - dancing just is. And Kentaro knows this. Who the hell can Lindy Hop anymore? But Kentaro, the way he dances, his arms and torso and hands and legs and feet and neck and head twisting and turning to the rock music - anybody can do that. Anybody can dance with him. And they do. The circle starts to fill in - nobody’s afraid of the Hawk anymore, because everyone can dance together, while the Hawk can only dance alone.

As the crowd swirls around him, the Hawk slowly stops his movements. The jig is up. He falls to one knee and places a hand across his heart. “I…I see now,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

The Hawk passes out, falling onto his back, a crater forming upon impact.

“Oh, goddamnit!” Takeuchi screeches from the stage. But then, there’s more - with all the Daisuke cops either sympathetic to or enthralled by the music and dancing, nobody notices as Shizuko slips through them, arriving topside of the stage.

She stands in her yukata, facing down Takeuchi. And I’m starting to understand why she didn’t tell me about all of this.