Writerings

I was sitting on a park bench when I met Hideo. It was autumn and the trees in Ueno park had begun to diverge from the uniform green into a range of warm colours. The temperature was still pleasant though and as I sat down on the bench, I opened up the only book in English that the hostel had had, a book called The Art of Witty Banter: Be Clever, Quick , & Magnetic.

Hideo approached me and asked if I enjoyed literature. I said yes.

He asked me if I knew Hemingway. I said yes.

He asked me if I had read any Hemingway. I said no.

He called me a philistine. We spent the next hour in frenetic conversation.

On first approximation, I would have pegged his age as 60, though as it turned out he was at least 80. He had a round, smiley face. He was dressed like an explorer from a kids cartoon series. All linen khaki with too many pockets. Nigel Thornberry chic. He had a few possessions in a carrier bag, which was mainly filled with his own self-published literature.

With very little prompting from my part, Hideo told me with absolute certainty that he was going to win the Nobel Prize (I presumed for Literature). The only thing stopping him, in his opinion, was the fact that the publishing industry was corrupt and so had not yet published his genius. This was emblematic of modern society, he said. Did I not agree that all of society was corrupt? This was the first of many puzzling questions that he posed to me. None of which he was really interested in knowing my answer. However, it did lead to a diatribe from him about modern Japan and how everything is bad now.

Salarymen working too long hours for corporations that don’t respect them. Machines being touch-screen and cashless and impersonal. Young people having no time for family or relationships. Rich people hoarding wealth that they can’t take to the afterlife. Foreigners failing to appreciate Japanese culture.

Hideo believed he was different from that though. He was a self-proclaimed recluse from society. Literature was his nourishment. Fiction his sustenance. That and the free food provided by the temple who also let him sleep on their floor. Not that he wanted this charity; he found his own way in life most of the time, which apparently consisted of living in airports. Japanese airports weren’t very good, he told me. With all their cursed technology, they would spot him and kick him out within an hour. Bangkok airport was his favourite. The year before, he and a dozen Russian guys had spent a whole month living there without a bother. Singapore, Toronto, Los Angeles, London, he had seen them all.

At his point, I cut in with a question. It sounded like he had lived in a lot of interesting places?  Perhaps in annoyance at being interrupted mid-flow, he sped up and rattled off that he had lived with the Taliban in Afghanistan in the 80s, the “blackies” in Brixton in the 90s and a commune in LA in the 2000s. He finally slowed down to again extol the virtues of Bangkok airport. He really, really wanted to talk about that.

I interrupted, “no hold on, wait, tell me about the Taliban.”

“Good guys”, he said. “Good times. The Soviets were dropping bombs overhead, but we played cards and had a great time”. Somewhere, later in the conversation, I found out that he had been a journalist, which probably explains why he was there. Probably.

I asked him about London. He enjoyed it, he said. The Big Issue had been the only publication ever to accept his writing. His only sadness was that in this cashless society, he suspected that The Big Issue would have closed down by now. I told him that no, the sellers now have card readers, and that there are more of them than ever. How wonderful, he exclaimed. In fact, he acted like this was the best news he had heard in a while and said he would have to visit London again soon. I began to tell him that I didn’t think the Home Office would particularly encourage flying into London to sell The Big Issue, but he was beyond persuasion. I will go, he said, but first I have to deal with an evil motherfucker in Singapore.

With the gentlest of prompting, he launched into another rambling tale. After cutting out some of the tangents, it goes as follows. A few years ago, he was staying in Singapore airport (very nice, comfy sofas), when he got deported back to Japan. In the process of this, his luggage got left behind. So he asked a good friend of his, “a good Christian man”, to retrieve it for him. However, the man was either unable or unwilling to do so, despite, as Hideo emphasised again, being “a good Christian man”. I asked him how long he and this man had been friends for and he told me that they had been Facebook friends for almost four years. I said that this didn’t seem like much. “Good Christian Man”, Hideo repeated. I asked him what he was going to do. He told me that he was going to sue this man for not helping him get his luggage as he had blocked him on Facebook. Hideo had sought legal advice from ChatGPT which had assured him he would win.

A rare moment of silence passed before Hideo took a deep sigh. He realised, he said, that he was an old man and suing would take a lot of time and money, so he had decided against it. I congratulated him on taking the sensible and mature course of action. Besides, he could now concentrate on his real goal, to win the Nobel Prize. Ah, he said, I’m still going to go to Singapore, I know where he works, it’s in a big fancy office, so I’m going to harass him outside his work.

Eventually our conversation came back around to the Nobel Prize. In a tone that I hoped wasn’t mocking, I asked him how he thought he would feel if he won. 

“It would be hilarious. Imagine that, the Nobel committee delivering the trophy to the floor of the temple.”

“Wouldn’t you go to the ceremony?”

“No, I would go fishing”

“Fishing?”

“Yes, fishing”

“You like fishing?”

“No, I hate it, it’s boring.”

“Then, why would you-” I started.

“Because Hemingway went fishing when he won the award”

“Right. But wouldn’t you like to pick up the award?”

“No, because the whole thing is corrupt. They don’t give it to people who deserve it.”

“Right, but you said you want to win it?”

“Yes, of course, it is the top award for literature.”

“But it’s a corrupt award?”

“Yes, everything in literature is corrupt.”

Despite being one of the most interesting people I have ever met, conversation with Hideo was quite exhausting. I made to wrap up our interaction by offering to purchase one of his pieces of writing (I’m not sure I would go as far as to call them books). With a surprising amount of reticence, he agreed to sell me Ashes Speak First, a solitary tale of his. Picking up the thin novelette which consisted of roughly fifteen pieces of A4 folded over and crudely stapled, I pulled out my wallet. Realising by now that he didn’t like charity, I gave him 1000 Yen (about £5). At that point he took back the pamphlet and turned it over. The price was 3000 Yen, he said, pointing to a scribble in pencil on the back. Despite being thousands of miles from the UK, I apologised immediately and profusely. I paid him 3000 Yen. It was only later that I did the maths and realised that the £15 I paid would be the price for many a hardback book in the UK. 

After a little more chit-chat (mainly about the death of Giorgio Armani), I stood up, thanked him for his time and left the park. 

I later looked up his name on the internet. I found this Flickr post from 2010 from a Polish amateur photographer who had also met Hideo in Ueno park. There were a smattering of comments underneath the post from other international travellers who had had similar interactions with Hideo over the years. Though the anecdotes differ, his stubborn and unique character comes through in all of them. People from around the world have heard his stories now. Maybe that’s better than a Nobel Prize in Literature.