Since I was young I have been seeking permission to exist. This I have sought from a variety of sources. And not just any permission to exist, it had to be formal permission, perhaps an official document, or permission bestowed from an authority figure, some behind-the-scenes wizard who would present me with an all-access certificate. The permission couldn’t come from a friend or lover, that wouldn’t stick or hold, wouldn’t “take” as the saying goes. The permission had to come from someone who wouldn’t easily grant that sort of permission, their permission-giving had to be issued with a high degree of reluctance, stinginess, they had to be parsimonious when dispensing permission. I always imagined there was document floating out there somewhere with my name on it, and the header, Permission to Exist, printed in bold block letters. Why do I seek this permission? What does it mean, or entail? Is it somehow connected to a deep down need for ultimate forgiveness? Forgiveness for what? Being born? As if some gremlin voice had told me at a very young and impressionable age—You shouldn’t have been born, but since you were, you’d better do everything you can to earn your right to exist, though you will never be granted that right.

I’d say this plague of permission-to-exist was one of the main reasons I became a stand-in. I encountered a professional stand-in when I was visiting Tokyo. I was out walking with my friend, Saki, who saw one of her girlfriends, Mai, sitting outside a café, eating ice cream with a man. Mai and Saki chatted a bit, introductions were circulated (the man was Kenta), and later, when Saki and I were alone and I referred to Kenta as Mai’s boyfriend, Saki laughed and said Kenta wasn’t her actual boyfriend, but a stand-in playing the role of her boyfriend, as Mai was going to meet a high school friend of hers and her friend’s fiancé, and Mai didn’t want to show up alone. She had hired Kenta to play her boyfriend for the occasion. I knew about the concept of the stand-in through Japanese films, but it was the first time I had ever experienced it in person. And immediately knew this was the job I wanted, or that was best-suited to my disposition. I was not interested in living my own life, or trying to assemble and construct a life and identity that I was responsible for managing and maintaining. It was too hard, too exhausting to hold an identity together in its compact bundle of existential components, and to convince others of that identity, to have that identity mix and mingle and become part of an endless interplay. And it was especially difficult when you have little to no conviction that such an identity is real or lasting. As I saw it, an identity was a trap with lots of built-in advertisements and slogans trying to convince you that it isn’t a trap, but something essential and necessary. Having to do something to confirm, substantiate, and continually prove to myself that I am this so-called identity, or that I am these things, but not those things, this dishonest calculus of affirmation and negation being leveraged … to what end?

   I have been a stand-in for a little over a year now. Mostly through word-of-mouth, my gigs have grown, both in number and variety. I’ve attended funerals on behalf of absentees, delivered packages, appeared as a delegate at parties. Recently, I was a stand-in for a break-up. I met the woman at the café, and explained to her that I was there to break up with her on behalf of her boyfriend. I had memorized the finer points of what he told me to express in ending the relationship and delivered a choppy monologue, but it wasn’t long before I was speaking freely and spontaneously based on the woman’s reactions and engagement. It amazed me how she went from being completely shocked and dismayed by my role, to not only accepting but embracing who or what I represented, as she poured out grief, anger. disappointment, and emotional backlog in a nearly one hour session. I was a receptable who took none of it personally. Without any intimate attachment or investment, I found it surprisingly easy to fulfill the role of target and scapegoat. In this cherished role of stand-in, I no longer seek permission to exist. I am beyond grateful to have no life to call my own.