Photo by Landon Nordeman
Photo by Landon Nordeman
When you’re alone in Tokyo and you need someone to talk to, do as the locals do: Rent a friend.
It's muggy and I'm confused. I don't understand where I am, though it was only a short walk from my Airbnb studio to this little curry place. I don’t understand the lunch menu, or even if it is a lunch menu. Could be a religious tract or a laminated ransom note. I’m new in Tokyo, and sweaty, and jet-lagged. But I am entirely at ease. I owe this to my friend Miyabi. She’s one of those reassuring presences, warm and eternally nodding and unfailingly loyal, like she will never leave my side. At least not for another 90 minutes, which is how much of her friendship I’ve paid for.
Miyabi isn’t a prostitute, or an escort or an actor or a therapist. Or maybe she’s a little of each. For the past five years she has been a professional rent-a-friend, working for a company called Client Partners.
Then there are the fake boyfriends. At 35, “Hayato” had been facing intense pressure to find a wife and start a family. But it wasn’t happening, so he started a charade instead. A visit to his parents’ home was coming up, and with Miyabi’s help he concocted a whopper: that she was one of Hayato’s employees at his company and they had fallen in love. The two hunkered down in cafés to practice. Biographical details were learned, romantic quirks rehearsed. (As long as she was telling lies, he decided some general flattery wouldn’t hurt: Hayato’s so great and kind at the company, everyone there loves him.)
The day of the visit came, and lo, the parents bought it. Soon the fake relationship fake-graduated to a fake engagement.
“It was embarrassing,” Miyabi told me about the lying. “But watching his parents feel good when I said these nice things about him—it’s not all bad.” But all pretend-good things come to an end, and eventually a finale was written. In time, a heartbroken Hayato informed his parents that Miyabi loved her career more than she loved him—she’d transferred to a different branch, and that was that.
After lunch we walk out into the afternoon, our friendship nearly done. We stroll north, toward the cartoonishly packed intersection near the Shibuya subway station. Smiling young people pop into department stores. Schoolchildren huddle and cackle and retreat to phones and then re-erupt. Every other shirt shouts a bright, nonsensical slogan—I’M JUST BEING EMO YESTERDAY—capitalist exuberance overpowering sense. The whole scene looks like a promotional video for Japan. I believe Miyabi when she says her job is satisfying because of the personal connection. But I have to ask her why there’s such a demand for it on the clients’ side.
“Why?” Miyabi asks. “Because this is all a lie.”
Inherent absurdity and all, the rent-a-friend industry holds for me the perverse promise of elucidating something real about friendship.
There’s a word in Japanese, gaman, that translates roughly as stoic forbearance in the face of the unbearable. It’s a deep-seated Japanese value, this idea that you suck it up no matter what’s happening. A lot has been happening. Anxiety and depression spiked after the Fukushima nuclear disaster, according to the World Health Organization. The country itself is shrinking, its population plummeting and aging rapidly. And there’s the apparently growing problem of people who literally work themselves to death; a third of suicides have been attributed to overwork. All of that, Yumi and Taka say, but you act like everything’s fine. I gather this is the lie Miyabi was referring to.
Enter the rent-a-friend. Not a miracle cure, no. But maybe a pressure valve. “With us,” Yumi says, “people can talk about their feelings without worrying what their real friends think.”
After lunch we roam a warren of 100-yen stores nearby—100 yen for a dusty old mug, for a weird cat statue, for a pouch of dried plums. Before parting ways at the subway entrance, we ask someone to snap our photo. That funny kinship that forms in front of a camera—the arms around each other, the shared self-consciousness—seems to happen for us, too. Yumi writes her address in my notebook, draws a cartoon of herself in her fedora. “Send me the picture,” she writes beside it. It’s almost as though she really means it.
Maki attributes some of this to World War II. Spiritual consciousness was widespread before that, she says. “Harmony and helping each other was the national spirit. Now we’ve got selfishness instead. Not even people looking out for their own families, just themselves.”
I don’t know. I’ve yet to encounter a country without a similar narrative: Things were better, now they’re worse. Maybe the CEO of a friendship rental company can’t help but see fissures in the psychic landscape, or maybe the crisis is real. Regardless, Maki wants to fix it, one synthetic relationship at a time. Before we part, she stops me. Am I aware of Client Partners’ ultimate goal? I am not. To render itself unnecessary, she says.
With that, I head back out to the street, where the morning’s gentle rain has exploded into great lashing sheets. I watch for a while from under an awning, then decide to just get wet.
Nearly two decades in, I’d say we’ve avoided taciturn and reclusive, slipped a little on the boring and open front. But keeping friendship truly central? That’s a tall order. When you’re young, friendship is pure, a perfect and drunken snowflake. But as you get older, you see it can be complicated. Are my decades-old relationships truly superior to the commercial variety? OK, yes, duh. But they’re also more problematic. Even with one’s dearest friends someone invariably feels slighted or underappreciated now and then. Say what you will about rent-a-friends, but they bypass that whole dynamic. You don’t wonder about such a friend’s real feelings about you because you know them—in fact, they abide by a clearly delineated rate. With the matter of intention taken off the table, you’re free to focus on just having a nice time, on connecting in that very moment.
The rain lets up before I quite decide to trade my dearest amateur friends for platonic prostitutes, but I suppose I could put a few on notice.
My friend Yusuke is a guy. He stands out with a big mop of hair, a goofy laugh, and old-soul eyes—but when I meet my final friend tonight, it’s his maleness that distinguishes him most in a sea of female rent-a-friends.
By day, Yusuke sells furniture to corporate offices—a job, he concedes, that involves similar moves to being a friend. (“Express curiosity, open up about yourself first. It’s a show.”) But artifice and all, he’s a sweet and unguarded sprite of a fellow. He lived in various countries as a student and honed that easygoing adaptability common among kids who bounce around. He expresses curiosity and opens up.
We meet at the subway station in Yoyogi, and soon he’s leading me down a dark, wet street to a rickety okonomiyaki joint. Within a few minutes he’s showing me how to cook our own savory pancakes on the tabletop stove between us.
Like many Japanese people, he works 10-hour days, then often spends the rest of the night with those same colleagues, eating or drinking till all hours. Tonight, I gather, is a welcome break from that routine. We talk about childhood and relationships and aging. Because our temperaments align, or because I’m comfy in Tokyo by now, or because we’re both guys, conversation is easy. At one point the waiter offers us drinks. Yusuke says no alcohol on duty, and I realize I’d forgotten this was duty at all. I’ve paid for every word Yusuke has uttered, but I’m also certain we’ve forged something genuine. I have never hired a prostitute. Maybe it’s easier to believe their professed affections than I’d imagined, even as the money is right there in front of you. Maybe life is complicated. Maybe affection can be paid for and real at the same time.
Toward the end of our meal, Yusuke and I find ourselves discussing our grandfathers. It was meant to be a conversation about how social life evolves with age, but it becomes one about World War II. Both men had served, ostensibly, I suppose, trying to kill one another somewhere in the South Pacific. Each, we agree, had been deeply affected by those years. The sins of our respective countries could have plunged the meal into awkwardness, but in fact the opposite happened. In clumsily assuring each other of our good intentions—thoughtful questions! sympathetic nods!—we plunged into a funny sweetness instead.
When later we part ways, we’ll agree to stay in touch, and though we won’t, we’ll mean it in that moment. In the weeks ahead it will occur to me I’m grateful for all the elements—the smell of the pancakes, the talk of grandfathers, the wet pavement outside. Years from now, those things might just remind me of another wacky cultural phenomenon that took hold in Japan. Or they might summon the memory of this nice furniture salesman named Yusuke, a mop-headed guy who, for a couple hours one night in Tokyo, started to become a friend.
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