impress Mie, I now shiver in the chill of an early spring night.
A half block down the street a young man in a crisp white shirt and a black apron tied around his waist passes out discount tickets for a karaoke bar.
Across the street on the corner, two young women, who are dressed to kill, fuss over a middle-aged businessman. He scratches his balding scalp, vacillating between options: going home to a frigid wife, or blowing money he doesn't have drinking with the hostesses. He scratches his head again, and then nods. The women c heer and lead him away by hand.
Several men and women, company freshmen judging by the uniformity of their simple black suits, huddle around a fallen co-worker, who's splayed out and unconscious on the sidewalk. They try to lift him, but he's g one all rubbery from the drink.
And then there’s a darling girl in a ponytail and a tight fitting red and white outfit emblazoned with the CABIN logo across her chest. She stands in front of a cigarette vending machine attempting to dissuade customers from buying other brands. Hell, it works for me. I'd give up Hope —my Hope cigarettes, that is—to share a cabin with her any day. And I mean it. She looks my way and waves. I look around to see who's she's waving at but find no one. She waves again. I wave tentatively back and she smiles.
A customized van with tinted windows, spoilers and bright blue lights under its low-riding chassis rumbles by shaking my fillings loose. The angry music blasting from the van competes noisily with Mister Donut ’s cheerful playlist of Golden Oldies. As the van turns off of Oyafukô, a b ô sôzoku motorcycle gang rumbles into the narrow street, zigzagging recklessly and revving their engines until they caterwaul like tigers in heat. A patrol car follows lackadaisically behind, protecting and serving none.
Some minutes later, a clapped-out pick-up makes its way down the street. A miserable ditty crackles out f rom a dirty speaker lamenting, “ Warabi mochi . . . Warabi mochi .”
The first time I ever heard this mournful song, I was moved by curiosity to look up the meaning of its enigmatic lyrics in a dictionary only to be further confounded by what I found: bracken-starch dumplings. What the hell is bracken and why is the s ong selling them so depressing?
I check my watch again. 8:45.
C'mon, Mie. Where the devil are you?
Fifteen minutes is nothing, though, considering I've already been waiting a half a year for her. Six long, lonely months. I never gave up hope. Doubt may have gnawed that hope to shreds, but I haven't given it up.
You'd think I'd know what I would want to say to Mie after having waited so long to see her again, but I don't. What will she say to me? And how will she act? What are the odds of my getting her back? Do I even want her back after all this time? Now that I am finally here, it occurs to me that I never considered that. It has been too far beyond my limited imagination since she left me to think of the break up as anything other than my having been robbed of a profound and rightly deserved happiness. If only my future self would journey back to this present moment and tell me to open my eyes and take in all the beautiful women passing by, and, with a gentle elbow to my ribs, convince me of the very thing that has been nagging at me since my move: that, maybe, just maybe, I am better off without Mie, and that, starting at this very moment I should take the first step towards moving on with my life by standing the bitch up. Should the future me indeed pay myself a visit, I seriously doubt if I would be very convincing. Aga in, I'm not much of a salesman.
I step inside Mister Donut to get out of the chill, and am greeted by a clo yingly aromatic mélange of the “world's best coffee,” month old frying oil, and cigarette smoke. Through the unhealthy miasma a small table in the furthest corner comes into view. It’s the very same table at which Mie and I waited out a sudden
A half block down the street a young man in a crisp white shirt and a black apron tied around his waist passes out discount tickets for a karaoke bar.
Across the street on the corner, two young women, who are dressed to kill, fuss over a middle-aged businessman. He scratches his balding scalp, vacillating between options: going home to a frigid wife, or blowing money he doesn't have drinking with the hostesses. He scratches his head again, and then nods. The women c heer and lead him away by hand.
Several men and women, company freshmen judging by the uniformity of their simple black suits, huddle around a fallen co-worker, who's splayed out and unconscious on the sidewalk. They try to lift him, but he's g one all rubbery from the drink.
And then there’s a darling girl in a ponytail and a tight fitting red and white outfit emblazoned with the CABIN logo across her chest. She stands in front of a cigarette vending machine attempting to dissuade customers from buying other brands. Hell, it works for me. I'd give up Hope —my Hope cigarettes, that is—to share a cabin with her any day. And I mean it. She looks my way and waves. I look around to see who's she's waving at but find no one. She waves again. I wave tentatively back and she smiles.
A customized van with tinted windows, spoilers and bright blue lights under its low-riding chassis rumbles by shaking my fillings loose. The angry music blasting from the van competes noisily with Mister Donut ’s cheerful playlist of Golden Oldies. As the van turns off of Oyafukô, a b ô sôzoku motorcycle gang rumbles into the narrow street, zigzagging recklessly and revving their engines until they caterwaul like tigers in heat. A patrol car follows lackadaisically behind, protecting and serving none.
Some minutes later, a clapped-out pick-up makes its way down the street. A miserable ditty crackles out f rom a dirty speaker lamenting, “ Warabi mochi . . . Warabi mochi .”
The first time I ever heard this mournful song, I was moved by curiosity to look up the meaning of its enigmatic lyrics in a dictionary only to be further confounded by what I found: bracken-starch dumplings. What the hell is bracken and why is the s ong selling them so depressing?
I check my watch again. 8:45.
C'mon, Mie. Where the devil are you?
Fifteen minutes is nothing, though, considering I've already been waiting a half a year for her. Six long, lonely months. I never gave up hope. Doubt may have gnawed that hope to shreds, but I haven't given it up.
You'd think I'd know what I would want to say to Mie after having waited so long to see her again, but I don't. What will she say to me? And how will she act? What are the odds of my getting her back? Do I even want her back after all this time? Now that I am finally here, it occurs to me that I never considered that. It has been too far beyond my limited imagination since she left me to think of the break up as anything other than my having been robbed of a profound and rightly deserved happiness. If only my future self would journey back to this present moment and tell me to open my eyes and take in all the beautiful women passing by, and, with a gentle elbow to my ribs, convince me of the very thing that has been nagging at me since my move: that, maybe, just maybe, I am better off without Mie, and that, starting at this very moment I should take the first step towards moving on with my life by standing the bitch up. Should the future me indeed pay myself a visit, I seriously doubt if I would be very convincing. Aga in, I'm not much of a salesman.
I step inside Mister Donut to get out of the chill, and am greeted by a clo yingly aromatic mélange of the “world's best coffee,” month old frying oil, and cigarette smoke. Through the unhealthy miasma a small table in the furthest corner comes into view. It’s the very same table at which Mie and I waited out a sudden
Similar Books
