Outside the Brixton auditorium, I shuffled my papers and checked my notes. Only a few minutes to go, and we could go in and get on with the event. I had been dreading it all week, but the crowd seemed to have the right mix. A few kids, a few fans, a few Japanese people; I hoped they’d get along and not throw things. One drifted nearer, and I realised she was going to ask me something. That’s what you get for being tall and holding a clipboard in public places.

“What’s the movie again?” she asked.

“Er… It’s called Tomorrow’s Joe,” I said.

“Not Akira then?” she pressed.

“Er… no,” I said. “Not Akira.”

“I was hoping for Akira,” she added, helpfully.

As best as one can in a crowded cinema, I tried to explain that no matter how much she pouted, Akira was not on the menu this morning. Instead, the cinema was going to be screening Tomorrow’s Joe, the most famous anime based on the most famous manga by Tetsuya Chiba.

“Never heard of him,” she said. “Is he famous?”

“Yes! He’s famous!” I said. “He drew Tomorrow’s Joe! It’s been one of the top ten manga in Japan for the last thirty years, and we’re talking about a story that finished before you were born.”

“Oooh!” she breathed. “That sounds impressive. Is there a lot of fighting in it?”

“It ends with a fifteen-round boxing match,” I replied.

She curled one side of her lip and thought for a moment.

“Doesn’t sound violent enough for me,” she said. With 20/20 hindsight, I wish, I so wish I had asked her what could possibly have sounded more violent than that.

“But,” I said, knowing I was going to regret it. “The reason this cinema is showing Tomorrow’s Joe today is that Tetsuya Chiba himself is here. He’s going to do a talk, and a live drawing demonstration, and answer questions from the audience and all that kind of stuff.”

“Meh,” she said. “Let us know if you show Akira again.” And with that she was off.

“What was that all about?” asked Tetsuya Chiba, who had been standing next to me all along, the conversation bellowing about him in super-fast English. An affable man, wearing a baseball cap over his white buzz-cut hair, he’d been studying the language for years, but nothing had quite prepared him for the staccato argot of South London. I thanked the Lord for small mercies.

“She was looking for a friend,” I said diplomatically.

“Was his name Akira?” he asked.

This article originally appeared in Newtype USA, #208, 2003. I reprint it here now with the real names restored.