Jeremy O. Harris Recounts His 23 Days Imprisoned In Japan
“Jeremy! Oh my God! They let you out?”I didn’t recognize him. He was tall, he was gay, and he knew my name, so the probability of us having a mutual friend was high. He also had the unmistakable upspoken whine of a California gay, so I had to also imagine he could be a coworker of my partner, an agent, or worse, an overfamiliar film exec.I had been invited to the W Hotel in Aspen for Aspen Gay Ski Week and it was my first outing in America since the infamous Reuters headline.When my phone was returned on December 8th, it lit up with so many messages I threw it across the table. Friends, friends of friends, mothers of friends, reporters, politicians, my niece’s middle school principal; they all reached out to ask me (a person they thought was in jail) what they could do to help? Or what happened? How was I? I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.I called my mother. My fiancé. The six friends my fiancé told, and I spoke to them for three days straight while locked in a hotel room in Okinawa until my voice went out. I then traveled throughout Japan for two weeks. First Fukuoka, then Beppu, a ferry to Osaka, then Kobe, Kyoto, and finally Tokyo. I didn’t respond to any of those messages. I knew when I returned I would have to respond somehow. I figured in the mountains of Aspen with gays high on altitude, testosterone, G, and cum, I might be able to safely audition what responses might look like.“Hi you! Let me out, they did…” I thought this would be enough to sate the curiosity of the man standing before me in denim cut-offs and a long faux-fur coat covered in snow along its hem. Unfortunately, I forgot that the gays of Aspen Gay Ski Week are in attendance because they are insatiable. This led to the question of “Why did they let you out?” “Are you allowed to go back?” “Was it horrible?” “Did someone make a call?” “Someone must have made a call!” To which I responded simply: “They didn’t have enough evidence.” “Yes.” “No.” “No.” “Who the fuck would make a call?”
