Chapter 10: A Temporary Worker
Murakami Iori wore a beige trench coat today, though it still featured exaggerated shoulder pads—a style that might have seemed imposing had she been taller than her modest 160 centimeters. After exchanging pleasantries with Chihara Rinto, she led him inside, smiling as she explained, "Today, we have two main tasks. First, we'll finalize the contract. Second, you'll meet Director Fujii to get acquainted. How does that sound?"
She'd already secured a director—a perk of Japan's production bureau system. Once a proposal was approved, assembling personnel and resources became relatively straightforward. Most individuals within the network were loosely considered colleagues, fostering a baseline of trust and long-term collaboration without excessive negotiation.
Chihara Rinto nodded thoughtfully. While he wasn't overly concerned about the contract, he was curious about the director—the linchpin, alongside the producer and screenwriter, in determining a show's quality. Actors came second.
With genuine interest, he asked, "What projects has this Director Fujii worked on? How were the ratings?"
Murakami Iori hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He directed a morning drama once, but you've probably never heard of it. The premiere didn't perform well, and there were issues with pacing midway through. Ultimately, it… didn't recover."
Chihara Rinto understood immediately. The director's debut had flopped—poor initial ratings likely worsened over time, leading to premature cancellation. The series probably hadn't even made it to home video release, resulting in a catastrophic loss for all involved.
In short, Fujii was a washed-up director whose project had been unceremoniously axed.
But Murakami Iori continued diplomatically: "From what I've heard, the failure wasn't entirely his fault. The subject matter and script weren't ideal. He's said to be quite skilled, particularly in on-set coordination. After that first setback, he spent two years directing infomercials. When I submitted my proposal, the programming committee recommended him. I met with him yesterday after calling you, and I think he's solid. He just wants to meet you before committing fully."
"That's fine," Chihara Rinto replied, nodding agreeably. Given the low production demands of Tales of the Unusual, any competent director would suffice. Talent wasn't a prerequisite here.
Still, the lineup was telling: an inexperienced producer, a rookie screenwriter, and a failed director. Clearly, Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) had low expectations for this program. With satellite channels expanding, the network likely needed filler content to occupy time slots—a situation reminiscent of his original world.
As they entered the premises, Murakami Iori helped Chihara Rinto register at reception. Coincidentally, he exchanged brief greetings with Maegawa Kenichiro, who happened to be on duty. Finally stepping into TEB's compound for the first time, Chihara Rinto felt a flicker of excitement.
Murakami Iori played the role of tour guide, pointing out various departments within the headquarters complex—the legal department, human resources, radio broadcasting, and more. As they walked, Chihara Rinto noticed a group of people bowing solemnly in one corner of the courtyard. Curious, he asked Murakami Iori, "What are they doing?"
It almost looked like a memorial service—had someone died from overwork?
Following his gaze, Murakami Iori responded nonchalantly, "They're performing gassho."
"Gassho?" Chihara Rinto repeated, puzzled.
"It's 8:30 now. Before their shift ends, the Broadcast Supervision Department performs this ritual to pray for no broadcasting accidents today."
The Broadcast Supervision Department's duties were self-explanatory. They ensured compliance with laws, ethics, and societal norms. Since many programs aired live, pre-screening was impossible. Their primary task was to monitor broadcasts vigilantly, ready to cut problematic content and replace it with advertisements to minimize damage.
If they failed to prevent serious broadcasting incidents, they bore responsibility. Some scenarios were ambiguous—for instance, deciding whether to interrupt an overtime baseball game to air the next scheduled program. Cutting off fans mid-match invited complaints, but delaying the subsequent program angered other viewers. Balancing these demands wasn't easy.
Known internally as scapegoats, members of this department dreaded broadcasting mishaps above all else. Hoping for smooth operations, they adopted rituals like this daily prayer—not just superstition but tradition ingrained over years.
To Chihara Rinto, witnessing such openly feudal practices within a modern institution like a TV station felt surreal yet fascinating. Japan truly was a land of contrasts.
For Murakami Iori, however, this was mundane routine. Continuing toward the main building, she introduced Chihara Rinto to the environment, eager to foster goodwill since they'd be working together for several months.
Soon, they arrived at the Legal Department—a vast open-plan office bustling with nearly a hundred employees. Murakami Iori ushered Chihara Rinto into a small meeting room, then fetched two suited men from the department.
One tall, one short, both greeted Chihara Rinto warmly. After exchanging pleasantries, the taller man handed him a contract, saying politely, "Chihara-sensei, please review your contract."
Flipping through the pages, Chihara Rinto found the salary terms better than expected.
A signing bonus of 300,000 yen, a four-month temporary contract running until early April, with a fixed monthly salary of 225,000 yen—not bad for a recent graduate, considering entry-level salaries in Tokyo averaged around 180,000 yen.
Additionally, all intellectual property rights, including derivatives, belonged to Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB). However, Chihara Rinto would receive 2% of copyright royalties—a standard arrangement under Japan's production bureau system.
Take television dramas, for example. Networks typically funded productions, owning 70-90% of copyright revenues. The remaining 10-30% was distributed among key creative personnel: producers, directors, head writers, episode writers, lead actors, supporting cast, composers, special effects artists, editors, etc. Shares varied based on seniority and contribution. This incentivized excellence, rewarding creators if their work succeeded commercially.
Support staff like assistant directors, script assistants, production coordinators, camera operators, sound engineers, prop masters, costume designers, and interns earned fixed wages from the production budget, excluding profit-sharing.
Though 2% seemed modest, it wasn't negligible. For instance, when selling episodes to regional affiliates or overseas broadcasters, prices ranged from 50,000 to 100,000 yen per episode. At 2%, Chihara Rinto would earn 1,000 yen per airing, totaling 12,000 yen per season. With 30-40 affiliates potentially airing the show, earnings could reach 400,000-500,000 yen. If ratings soared, resale prices might climb to 200,000-300,000 yen per episode, multiplying his share accordingly.
While shows usually peaked during their initial run, reruns persisted for years, generating steady income protected by copyright law for 25 years. DVD releases, rentals, and merchandise also contributed incremental revenue. Though rare, hit franchises yielded additional streams—all subject to Chihara Rinto's 2%.
Satisfied overall, Chihara Rinto appreciated the offer. As an unknown newcomer, securing such terms amid staffing shortages due to new satellite channels launching reflected confidence in his potential. Exclusivity clauses assigning copyrights to networks were standard; without funding and broadcast platforms, even brilliant scripts held little value.
The sole drawback was that the contract wasn't directly with Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) but with a company called Enomaru Productions. Essentially, he was being temporarily employed by Enomaru, which then dispatched him to TEB to work on Tales of the Unusual.
In essence, he was a temp worker—a common arrangement despite the convoluted setup.
Still, starting conditions couldn't be too demanding. Finding no major issues, Chihara Rinto prepared to sign. Sensing his hesitation over Enomaru's name, Murakami Iori interjected, "This is a standard temporary contract. Any concerns, Chihara-san?"
Temporary contracts universally followed this format—it wasn't personal. Moreover, this was the best deal she could negotiate. Large networks like TEB weren't afraid of disputes, backed by robust legal teams. Still, avoiding lawsuits remained preferable. These conventions were industry norms.
Though young, Chihara Rinto understood these dynamics, having absorbed internet-era trivia back in 2019. Smiling, he assured her, "No issues. I'll sign now."
Under the suited men's guidance, he filled out personal details—name, age, address, bank account—and affixed his signature and seal. Thus, he temporarily sold himself to Enomaru, only to be rented back to TEB.
After shaking hands warmly, the two men left, leaving Chihara Rinto with a copy of the contract. Concerned he might feel slighted, Murakami Iori consoled him as they exited: "Once you prove your talent, securing a long-term or permanent contract won't be an issue. But for now, this is the best we can do. Please bear with it."
Chihara Rinto understood. In this economic downturn, organizations avoided idle hires. Lacking renown and with unproven abilities, TEB likely feared he might falter under pressure. Only proven results warranted long-term commitments. Offering him this chance was generous enough given the circumstances—ordinarily, production bureaus preferred nurturing in-house talent.
Smiling, he reassured her: "Don't worry, Murakami-san. I find the contract satisfactory. Thank you for your efforts." Pausing briefly, he added sincerely, "Thank you so much, Murakami-san."
Securing employment and breaking into this industry owed much to Murakami Iori's initiative and risk-taking. Mutual benefit aside, gratitude was warranted.
Surprised yet touched, Murakami Iori chuckled. "Should I thank you for the proposal, then? Well, Chihara-san, no need for formalities. Our collaboration lies ahead—let's work hard together!"
Changing the subject to avoid excessive formality, she continued, "Next, let's meet Director Fujii. He insisted on seeing you before finalizing the crew."
Chihara Rinto agreed readily, suspecting the struggling director shared similar concerns about his competence.
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