Tokyo SF Club #1

Remember being a small child? Remember the nurturing cocoon of Home, of hearth, of family and wee friends? Not only were you virtually never exposed to the brutish realities of reality, of adulthood, of shit like paying bills and taxes and ugh responsibilities and dreariness and shitty bosses and stress and looking after those damn kids, you were virtually unaware of their existences. Your life was filled with friends and playtime and high adventure and a bit of schoolwork admittedly and what seemed like the hobnailed boot of Authority stamping on your fun and making you do cruel cruel shit like go to bed at 7 rather than 7:30 and miss Star Trek. Oh the humanity! Oh the cruel injustice! You’d be sent to bed with decades of taunt-worthy sunlight still streaming through the curtained window, calling to you, saying what the hell are you doing in bed ya moron? There’s stuff to do, bugs to catch, fun little mud canals to dig through river banks, brooks to dam, rafts to build, trails to run along, another ridge on the horizon to explore, friends to josh and tease and do incredible shit with, bikes to ride, sticks to fashion into medieval broadswords and do righteous battle with, shoots of bamboo with which to create epic longbows, fun and glory and Adventure. Hmph. Damn and fuck and wank. Instead you’d do a sub-blanket pout for a few seconds, maybe have a wee cry, then steal away and get a torch or, knowing kids these days, an iPad, and get your favourite book and read for a couple of hours before dropping off to sleep and being woken by in adult retrospect caring and well-meaning but at the time seemingly Stalinist parents, insisting you move your arse out of bed and get to School. Hurry up! Rinse and repeat.

That’s our childhood. Most Western kids have it amazingly easy. But what of ‘30s Japanese kids?

Time for backstory, of novel character creation and early mindset. We’ve got a group of kids. They’re urbane and have sophisticated wealthy Tokyo families. Families who are well-connected, who by and large pay only lip-service to the Kokutai-good-gaijin-bad groupthink mentality so strong in Japan since the Meiji Restoration. Well. Some do, some don’t. There’s a fair bit of variation, the better with which to concoct and mould the same plot-rich Gaijin variation within the Club kids.

Picture one, the archetypical SF club member. Too soon for names, let’s call him A. A is introverted, has self-imposed isolation. He grew up in various places - the family mansion in what then was the outskirts of Tokyo, mainly, but also in summer on the country estates deeper in Honshu’s interior. His grandfather, head of household, is a wealthy, bombastic sort of bloke, cheery and a bit aggro, generous to his friends and happily terrifying to his rivals. This rubs off on the family in general, and most are the outdoorsy type, riding horses by day and their spouses by night. They picture themselves, very definitely, as right amongst the cream of Japanese society, the leading citizens.

A, on the other hand, feels isolated and alone. Sure, he feels mildly proud of simply being that high up in Japan’s social hierarchy, but cannot relate to most of his family. Charging everywhere outdoors? Ugh, what for? It’s smelly and sweaty. And besides, there was that time they dragged me out to the stables, Grandfather harrumphing the way he does, shouting that no grandson of mine will waste his life cooped up indoors with silly books, not when there are Koreans and Russians and Manchurians to conquer, and he ripped up my comic! Frightening Stories 19! I’d waited months for it! Stomach curling and cramping with nervous anticipation every day, staking out the mailbox, week in and week out, finally it arrived and I burst with excitement and joy, scrabbling off the wrapping paper in joy and exhilaration, got cracking into it, reached page 7, and the next thing I know Grandfather stomped into the room, saw the comic, turned ragey red, whipped it out of my hands and tore it up! I felt like he’d punched me in the guts. I’d prefer that! Bruises heal. Books don’t. My world stopped and I could feel myself turning inward, to my “happy” place, away from ol’ G. The servants dragged me out to the stables, plonked me on a horse, still crying bitterly, and oh what fun and fucking joy, we all went riding. The family glaring at me like I was at fault, the whole whole way.

Then the beggars. Somehow they’d got on the estate. The groundsmen are a bunch of bullies, sweaty and reeking of tobacco and with forearms like gorillas, I can’t stand them, but they usually do their jobs pretty well. They keep out the riffraff. Or so Grandfather tells me. But not today. Today several hundred ragged people, people with xylophone chests and outstretched hands, made it onto the estate and kowtowed to Grandfather all at once. They begged for food. Grandfather set the hounds on them. Most survived.

Who are these “people” who call themselves Family? No family of mine. They genuinely sicken me. But books. Comics. Adventures. Full of people, heroes, men and women of honour and decency and morality, they’ll swing from chandeliers and pick fights with the baddest bastards in town, they’ll raid the treasuries of despots and vanquish evil and fight baddies and get the girl, make friends and fight henchmen. They’re noble and wise and educated and see the good in everyone, they’ll bring smiles to a small child’s face, take tea with the village elders, kiss the hand of a beautiful woman so tenderly she swoons in happy bliss, they’re toasting to wine, women, song, camaraderie, friendship, honour, civilization, intelligence, romance, happiness and love. Incredible! I’d love that! Why isn’t the world like that? Why isn’t Japan? Why aren’t my family? Why isn’t Grandfather?

I want to set the world right. But I have NO IDEA how.