The place was named simply, the Little Tokyo Theater. It was a small, plain structure, recently built, which held about a hundred people. It was located just off of First Street, walking distance from the many bars, and so John and I stopped for sake and snacks before rushing into our seats just as the lights went down. Perhaps we had consumed too much of the sake, for I can think of no other reason why I behaved as I did, which was, to say the least, uncharacteristic. But when the play began—a work so minor and forgettable I don’t recall its name—it was so awful I couldn’t mask my displeasure. Everything about it was wrong: The writing was awkward, the acting overwrought, the stage direction, sets, and lighting looked like the work of total amateurs. I was so offended by the poor quality of the production, and by the fact that I had squandered one of my final nights in America on such a piece of rubbish, that I unleashed a stream of criticism, pointed but whispered, to John, who suffered beside me. No one, including us, was rude enough to walk out of the theater, but I could tell from the pursed lips and sagging eyelids that other people were as miserable as we. When the play ended, mercifully, a full two hours later, I stormed into the back hallways with a reluctant John behind me and demanded to see the manager. John pleaded with me to stop, but I was not to be denied, and I stood in the hallway complaining until a rumpled gentleman in his fifties finally stepped out of a doorway.
“I am Okamoto, the owner,” he said to us, bowing. “And what can I do for you, young sirs?”
I bowed back quickly, introducing myself, and then forsook the usual pleasantries. “My friend and I just saw the play this evening, and it smells worse than the manure on my family’s farm.”
The man looked stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was terrible,” I said. “Badly written, badly acted, and an utter waste of my time and money. Excuse me for saying so, but if this is the kind of fare you usually offer at your theater, I would not be surprised to see it fail within the year.”
Behind me, I could feel John shrinking in embarrassment. Okamoto’s lips worked madly, and his glasses slid down his nose. “Well, I suppose you could do better, Mr… .”
“Nakabayashi,” I said, “Junichiro Nakabayashi. And indeed I could do better! My friend John and I could put up a play that would keep your theater full for a month. Couldn’t we, John?” I turned toward him for confirmation, but he looked away.
Okamoto, shifting in his too-large suit, considered me as if I were a madman. “What play do you propose to put on?” he asked.
“I have one in mind,” I assured him, although in fact I had no idea.
“And exactly what kind of experience do you have in the theater?”
“None.”
“None? Never acted? Never directed?”
“No. But I have seen enough theater to know what makes a good play. Give me a chance, Okamoto-san. Certainly a play that I produced couldn’t be any worse than what I saw tonight.”
Okamoto’s eyebrows wiggled as if they had a life of their own. “Well, I am searching for another new play this season,” he said, more to himself than to us. “And the last three productions have not been well-attended.”
I sensed my opening, and forged ahead. “You won’t be sorry, Okamoto-san. And besides, you have nothing to lose.”
After another moment of hand-wringing, Okamoto beckoned us to join him in his office. John continued to shake his head in disbelief, and I was fully aware that he had little time to devote to my sudden project, as he was due to start working in his father’s dry goods company the following Monday. But he sat patiently as Okamoto and I conversed. The owner told me about the history of the theater, which had opened two years earlier with the backing of several of Little Tokyo’s most prominent businessmen; and about the daily challenges of running an artistic enterprise with actors, directors, and stagehands who all had regular full-time jobs. Apparently, after sellouts of the theater’s first three productions, attendance had dropped off markedly—that night the theater had been half-full—and Okamoto and his backers were at a loss to explain why. When he told me the plays they’d put up there, I immediately saw the reason. They were all old Japanese dramas, tales that people had seen before, and probably to much greater effect.
“You have to engage people,” I argued. “The people who came to America are the ones who were brave enough to leave everything behind. They don’t want to see the same old stories. You need to excite them, give them something that is both entertaining and thought-provoking.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So what do you propose?”
By this time, an idea had come to me. There was a novel, published ten years earlier, entitled The Indifferent Sea, about a naval officer who falls in love with a girl in the town where he is stationed. The officer is promised to another young woman from his hometown, and to make matters worse,
