A lover, not a writer

Minami-ward, Kyoto, Autumn of 2003. Standing outside the city’s favourite son, Nintendo, the monastic headquarters cast a shadow on the alsoran preparing for his grand entrance. The brilliant white, cube-like building took on an imposing nature even on that sun-baked day, a nervous fear beginning to grow as he envisioned the genius inside that gave birth to timeless classics such as Mario, Zelda, Donkey Kong and Metroid.

In a bid to gain composure, he ducked into the nearby noodle-bar for a drink but was chased out by an yelling, anti-western owner. If he couldn’t even order noodles here, how could he possibly impress the Big N? Quickly, the initial shock quickly gave way to a new determination. Emboldened, he marched up to the entranceway guardhouse armed with the two most important phrases he’d learned before embarking on this pilgrimage. “Kyu-shoku”, “Anime-ta” and a flash of his showreel CD were enough to gain entrance for this “job-seeking animator”.

Beyond the dual white doors of the entrance lay a palatial foyer. Polished white marble flooring spread out before him, lined with equally pristine marble pillars that led up to a desk seating two identically ivory-clad receptionists. His determined footsteps echoed in the vast space as he approached, but upon asking was dismayed to find that, contrary to the advice given by his Tokyo inn-keeper that all major Japanese businesses employ bilingual receptionists, Nintendo’s welcoming party’s command of English only extended to”Do you have an appointment”?

His negative answer preceded an incomprehensible phone call, then the alsoran was directed to a collection of leather sofas off to one side of the foyer – a holding pen for young hopefuls, invited or otherwise. The area was shared with one such hopeful, clean-shaven and donning a black suit and tie that complemented his black artwork folio. He glared disapprovingly at the arrogant westerner. How dare he assume he could just waltz in here with his ten-day beard and tourist attire and be granted an audience! Yet despite the scorn the alsoran waited patiently, and granted an audience he was.

The broken English of the junior HR representative led the alsoran down the hall to a windowless grey room. After selling his showreel, his unrehearsed questions quickly gave way to the realisation that, as with the noodle-bar, he was equally unprepared to penetrate the grandmaster Nintendo. Again, however, this realisation manifested itself in an unexpected way. The sheer futility of impressing these Ancients of the Artform proved too much to contain, and the alsoran surrendered to laughter with the Nintendo Rep amicably following suit – so farcical was the situation. Upon returning to the foyer the alsoran decided to play up the “Foolish Westerner” role by committing one last social faux-pas. Foregoing the customary bow, he violently shook the still-laughing HR guy’s hand, in turn causing the Siamese receptionists to giggle with delight.

At any rate, while employment was never on the cards, this visit would not be forgotten by any present.