I've heard of this dude who rents himself out to do nothing. Most of us have, though we probably don't recall his name or what he looks like even after watching the documentary. The concept is so simple yet brilliant, inciting a reaction no different from looking at contemporary art we don't understand—I could've done that.
Yet, we didn't. And this man did. Morimoto has been hired over 4,000 times since the inception of his service in 2018. He gained 100,000 followers within the first year of advertising himself via a tweet. You're not alone in finding his success bizarre; the man himself was equally befuddled. Thus, his retrospective purposes to find an answer. So upon seeing his non-fiction title on stands, I wanted to get a glimpse into his mind. What I didn't expect, however, was the insights doing nothing could reveal.
Aligning with his mantra to "do nothing", Morimoto has actually not written the book himself. Engaging a writer and editor to keep an objective angle, all he did was respond to their questions and watch them develop it. Surprising, given his past life in academia and freelance writing.
Besides stemming from demoralising "jokes" his former employer made towards him, his take on jobs itself makes you reconsider the peculiar dynamics we have at work. Japan is infamous for its toxic corporate culture, but there are some aspects that apply to all modern offices. We are largely defined by our occupation, but our performances are often not judged solely based on competency. Rather, how personable we are as well. To the people who matter, at least.
It's more common than anticipated that people rent him purely to tell him something extremely confidential. Sensitive subjects you would share with their loved ones instead. Somehow, the degree of separation—Morimoto mostly sees his clients once—and his lack of advice fulfills seemingly basic human needs to A) voice it out, B) feel heard and not judged. As friend or family, we are inclined to help solve the problem at hand. Yet, many of his clients usually arrive at a solution without his contribution going beyond nodding.
In fact, it's more intriguing when it's not about getting a secret off your chest. Such as clients who just want to rave about their favourite band. It's fascinating breaking down why you can't necessarily do this with a friend. There are expected parameters for conversation; because veering too far from a mutual interest could potentially bore your companion.
This specialisation extends to activities as well. In his words, "When someone asks me to go with them to a restaurant, a computer game tournament or pop concert, I think that rather than having nobody at all they could ask, it's more a matter of not having a friend for that specific purpose. Unless a friend shares a particular interest, inviting them to come along might feel like asking a favour and thus puts you in their debt."
Occupying the liminal space between 'friend' and 'stranger', he liberates the client from these committal customs. Almost like a situationship minus the sex—you get the convenience of company without needing to spend the required time and expenditure to first build a friendship; and no obligations to continue contact. It begs the question: Are we as transactional in our personal relationships?
One of the biggest revelations was the fact that Morimoto does this for free. It is his strategic decision not to invoke a fee to avoid a dynamic dictated by money, where service satisfaction could become based on how "customers" can "get their money's worth". It's interesting to see how involving finances alters the levels of expectation.
Though living off his savings and only charging for travel expenses, he has received remuneration over the years. Sometimes, even for no reason at all. When asked how it compares with being a shrine offertory box, Morimoto is certain about the difference. People who throw coins usually expect a blessing; in his case, the sheer act of giving is what allows people to feel good about themselves. By merely existing as an available recipient, he has done his job.
What Morimoto calls being "zero spec", or having absolutely nothing to offer, is of itself his unique selling point. It prompted him to think: "A baby has a completely zero spec -it can't do anything by itself- but with the love and care of its parents and others, it lives. As I looked at our child, I kept thinking how wonderful that was. And I began to wish everyone could live like a baby does, behaving just as they wanted".
It is true that demands to contribute professionally and personally are ingrained later in life, and the freedom we were born with fades away. In some way, Morimoto has escaped this fate. It makes me wonder how many of us can.
One popular request and logical driver for his business model are activities you can't quite do alone. Or more likely, can't quite be seen doing alone. This leaves us with the questions: Why do we feel conscious of how people we don't know perceive us doing something alone? Or, what makes certain activities weird to be done alone in the first place?
Highly self-aware (probably because it was not directly authored) and funny in deadpan ways, the overall tone of the book is consistent with his branding. The short and easy read is ultimately not so much a book about doing nothing, but why humans need someone to do nothing with.
