Sunday, November 11, 2007

Separation Anxiety

(I wrote this tale for a short story class. It's based on some ideas thrown about while I was in the Marines and tooling around Japan, though I guarantee that the gentleman in this piece had a much more adventurous time than I. It's also more intense than my previous posts, so if you're easily offended you might want to wait until next week...)

Somewhere in Tokyo, I lost myself. My body throbbed as I sprinted down the sidewalk, drunk but sobering fast. I passed Club 911, Club True, Gaspanic, and The Basement, all ablaze with neon and regurgitating party goers they couldn’t hold. I pushed someone hard and saw them whiplash in the corner of my eye, heard a string of curses fade behind. Maybe if I had gotten to the cab stand, things would have been different. Maybe if I had turned left or right, I could have stuffed the memory away and let it dissolve my insides. Instead, someone’s forearm flew at my throat. I felt a crunch and saw a flash of light, and I floated to the concrete. The sidewalk felt like shag carpeting.

Inside my head, it was like someone was spinning the radio knob. Voices smashed together and ran circles through my brain, and all I could see was the fuzzy outline of my feet bouncing as they dragged me. They took me to a massage parlor and sat me at a table in back.

Half intoxicated and half concussed, I watched as they pinned my hand to the table and shouted in Japanese. A meat cleaver appeared out of nowhere and jerked around in the air like a butterfly. One of the men, the smallest, spoke some English. His voice was gentle, almost timid.

“You see what happen?”

I watched the hand on the table. It wasn’t mine. “See what?”

“Ahh.” He cleared his throat. “You tell, or finger, no more.”

I wondered if the hand on the table would feel the chop, miss its finger and wonder what it was doing these days. The blade fluttered by.

“Yeah. I saw something.”

“Ahh.” The man nodded, or bowed. “You tell.”

“I saw some guy shoot some people.”

The man turned to his colleagues. Their conversation sounded like five men having a seizure.

“Which man did you see?”

I looked up at the faces around the table, crammed together and leaning. One of them had blood splattered down his neck. It wasn’t difficult to guess. “I don’t know. It was too dark to tell.”

He nodded. “You tell police?”

“No. No way.”

Another conversation.

“My companions say you lie.”

Somehow the blade steadied and rose over the plastic thing on the table. I looked from my fingers to the knife and back again. I felt the grips on my shoulders tighten, felt my wrist squeezed so that my hand turned purple. My first instinct was to blame Miko, and maybe even Seth, but as I stared at the hovering metal I caught a glimpse of my reflection, and I knew that it was all my fault.

Sun sparked off of the windows like a welder’s flame, and the train’s vibrations made me feel fuzzy. But then again, so did the twelve pack of Kirin that Seth brought along.

“To Daddy’s bank account.” Seth raised his can, smirking.

I scratched my eyebrow with my middle finger and inhaled. “How about to finally being on our own, you turd.”

“Good enough.”

The aluminum clinked together, and Seth sucked on his beer like he wanted it inside out. His face turned up and became all can, Greek nose, and curly hair. He was out of breath when he finished. “Oh yeah, and to the roommate that kept me from friggin failing out of college.” Seth poked at me with an extended finger and punctuated the remark with a belch.

“All I did was let you copy my homework.”

“Which I never would have done on my own.”

Outside, the landscape changed from forest to river to city and then started over.

“So, what’re we doing in Tokyo?” I asked.

Seth yanked the glossy map from his jeans. “I don’t know. After we get off at Shinjuku we could take the orange line to see the Tokyo tower.”

“Okay. And after those fifteen minutes, then what?”

“Um, look at Tokyo?” Seth scratched his chin.

“I mean tonight. What are we doing tonight?”

“Oh, dude, Roppongi. You remember Todd, from Renaissance? He says it’s insane. He says they love Americans there, in every sense of the word.”

“We’ll have to thank Todd when we get back.”

Seth’s can crunched between his palms, and he picked up another. “Eff yeah. Can’t wait.”

“I’ll bet you can’t, you alcoholic.”

“Beer is good for you, they proved it.”

“Guess I’d better have another then.”

When I first saw Miko at Gaspanic, I was staring through the flames over my drink. As lights flashed and noise drowned out sound, I saw her dancing between the flickering blue wisps, swaying and whipping herself to the music. I swallowed the fiery concoction and traced mental lines over her boots and fishnet stockings, her laced top and slick waterfall hair. When the alcohol finally crushed my inhibition, I made my way to the dance floor.

Her English was bad, but I couldn’t hear her over the music anyways, so I cut the crap and pulled her in. I think there was something in her skin, maybe a hallucinogenic or military-grade pheromone secreted through her pores, or maybe that last drink just hit me in the face like a flying brick, but when I touched her, our surroundings melted together and I could feel the sound. The beat was pounded out by my heart and sent rushing through arteries as we slid over each other in perfect sync. The crowd was a dark, fleshy bubble around us. We drew close and kissed, all lips and hands, pressed together by writhing bodies and overwhelming impulse. I lost all sense of time, and might have let the sun rise there if it weren’t for Miko. At some point she grabbed my hand and cocked her head towards the door. It was still night when she pulled me outside, and our breath crystallized in the fluorescent air.

She introduced herself. I told her that she had me at making out, but she didn’t get the joke. I took a moment to feel awkward before she spoke again. It was getting late, she said, and we should go to a better club. The best one around. I just nodded, so she smiled and led me down the street.

I forked another mouthful of potato salad and leaned back in the lawn chair. Uncle Ray cannonballed into the pool. An enormous banner congratulating me clung to the side of our house, flapping in the wind and loosening its already tenuous grip. It was one of those lazy days, where the breeze was warm and the buzz of insects floated through the sunlight.

“So, what are you planning to do with your Art History degree?” My dad asked this from the lawn chair beside, staring straight forward through dark sunglasses and sipping on fancy imported beer.

It reminded me of the time I was a freshman in high school and tried out for the football team. When I came home, I told him I’d made third string. “Well, I hope you’re not planning to make a career out of it,” he said. I’d been getting that kind of shit as long as I could remember. I concentrated on my paper plate and shrugged.

“Because, you know, we always have a place at the firm. If you ever wanted to get your CPA-”

“I know Dad.” My teeth grit through potato chunks.

I watched as Uncle Ray pulled himself from the pool, tugging at his vacuumed trunks. He wobbled back to the barbecue to check the meat, flame rising, blades flashing in his hands.

“I’m just saying.” He sipped his beer. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” He handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

He shrugged.

Two plane tickets slid into my palm. “Japan?”

“Might do you some good. See the world.”

In other words, take some time, relax, and when you’ve finally got your head on straight and a real life in mind, come back and we’ll talk.

I looked across the pool and saw my mother talking to Dan, the bachelor from across the street. She was smiling too much and constantly touching his forearm. I hadn’t seen her like that with Dad in years, but now, I didn’t care. I’d take their money and run like a fucking bank robber. They didn’t own me anymore. I was no longer part of their family.

Seth gaped as the cab pulled to a stop. It was like Times Square with all the letters rendered in splatter paint. I handed the driver some Yen and stepped onto the curb, cranking my neck to soak in the buildings, lights, and monstrous screens displaying Kodak cameras. Welcome to Roppongi, the High Touch Town. I was eyeing the exterior of a gentlemen’s club when two soft arms wrapped around one of mine.

“You want massagi?”

I looked down at the small Japanese woman on my arm. She was young and cute. “Excuse me?”

“I say massagi. You want massagi?” She freed a hand and made a yanking motion. It wasn’t hard to guess what she was offering.

“Come on, she love you long time!” Seth laughed and clapped his hands.

“No. Thanks. I’m fine,” I said.

“No, you like. I like you.” She began to pull me to a dark green doorway. I had to pry her off and reassert myself.

“I appreciate the thought, but no thanks. Okay?”

She stormed off. I looked over and saw another young woman on Seth’s arm. “You want massagi?”

He wasn’t as polite.

We started off down the sidewalk, overwhelmed by the cultural car wreck. Here, it wasn’t just Japanese, it was Russians and Brazilians, Brits and Americans. It wasn’t just Asian cuisine, it was French pastries, Hard Rock CafĂ© and Freshness Burger. And the flow of cars in the street was nearly as dense as the flow of people. I turned to Seth.

“What do we do if we get split up?”

He grinned. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in the morning.”

“Sounds good. I’ll look for you in the bushes out front.”

“Shut your trap. Let’s do this.”

We walked the strip, noting the locations of the nicer looking clubs. Only when we passed an alley did I see the flames. I tapped Seth’s shoulder and pointed.

We slipped down the dark walkway and found ourselves staring at Club Quest. The red and yellow marquee was on fire. A series of gas lines had been rigged around the words, and flames spurted out to curl up into the night. The stainless steel doors glowed orange in response, and the combined effect made the club look like a walk-in barbecue. We rushed inside.

When the doors swung open, Seth just shook his head and pretended to wipe a tear. The club was packed, mostly with women, and apparently they had forgotten much of their clothing. One of them was getting frisky on the bar counter, and I had to tilt my head to follow her motion.

Suddenly, I was staring into a fat palm. The bouncer had oozed from his dark corner to intercept us. “No Americans,” he said. He had metal teeth, and part of his ear was missing.

“No Americans?” asked Seth. “Are you serious?”

“No Americans!”

We looked at each other for a moment, and decided that this would not be a wise confrontation. There was nothing left to do but nod, and find another club.

I grew excited when I saw the burning marquee once more. Miko pulled me through the steel doors, and the bouncer stepped aside when she spoke in Japanese. I winked at the big man and strutted by. I couldn’t wait to rub it in Seth’s face in the morning, especially after ditching me for an unattractive American girl. It was like going to a sushi restaurant and ordering a hamburger. Still, I couldn’t blame him. At least he knew what he was getting.

We waded into the swarm of dancers and emerged at the bar. Miko ordered drinks and excused herself to the bathroom, so I made myself comfortable. The walls were covered in green tapestries, the bar all oak and brass. The VIP area was in back, and men sat at low, circular tables, wearing sunglasses and smoking. A fog machine spat roiling balls that exploded into mist, and turned the dancers into silhouettes against flashing rainbow beams. The drinks came, and I took a sip of mine. I was sure Miko had ordered paint thinner.

When she didn’t show up again, I searched the crowd for her, holding the small umbrella to the side as I finished off her drink. I thought I saw Miko standing near one of the rear tables, bending down to kiss a man on the cheek. When I stood it felt like the club had been set adrift on the Pacific Ocean, and I had to focus on the horizon to keep from getting sick. The music pushed in on my head with every beat, and as I stepped through the dancers I was nudged and elbowed. I spun about, looking for an adversary, but all I found were more shadows.

Then the strobe started. Intense flashes lit up the partygoers, and I realized that something was wrong. They jerked about me, oblivious, heads lax and rolling on bouncing bodies, their arms raised into the fog. One guy slipped something into his mouth, and a girl ripped open his buttons and licked up his chest before he fed her a pill. I thought I saw another girl bleeding from her nose before she spun out of sight. I tried to keep moving, but was stopped by a firm grip on my genitalia. A young woman slid into view and wedged in close. She had rhinestones glued to her face, heavy eyeliner and pig tails.

“Let’s party,” she shouted, demanding more than asking. During the brief flashes, I could see her pin-point pupils and orange contacts. I looked over and could no longer see Miko, so I slipped behind some people, and shrank away from my aggressor. Twenty feet from the tables, I stopped. The scene was clear now and Miko was not there, but the men were and they were not happy. Through the waving arms, between flashes, the men screamed, acting out a silent film accompanied by harsh techno. They stood, pointing, mouths wide. One man swiped the table and it flipped, spraying white dots into the air. The other man reached into his coat.

I had never seen a real Mac-10 before. I had seen them in movies and toy stores, and knew that the guns were both automatic, and severely inaccurate. At that range, the latter was unimportant.

The flashing light slowed time, and with every pulse, the image changed. The gun pointed. The man raised his arms. The muzzle flashed, and the expended shells hovered above the weapon hot and waiting. A spray of blood jutted from the man’s chest like a frozen fountain, his face clenched. Then the man was gone, and the gun turned towards the crowd. I remember the grimace on this man’s face, the speckles of blood that stretched across his neck and down his suit, the dark glasses that covered his eyes, and that moment when the weapon was pointed at me. The man had spotted in me in the crowd. I was the only one not dancing, the only gaijin gawking at the spectacle. I wondered if the bullets were real, if this distant show could affect a neutral observer. Still the music pounded on; no one else had missed a beat. My legs carried me backwards. My shoulder smacked into the heavy swinging door and I breathed the chilly night air. My feet hurled me around the corner and down the street, never stopping, never stopping for anything.

My eyes focused on the cleaver, poised like a guillotine’s blade. I felt like it hung there all night, just looking beautiful in the lamp light, glinting at its corners and almost glowing along the edge. My face reflected back in the polished metal, a dripping hourglass. I watched the men watch me, and wondered if they wondered why I wasn’t scared. Or maybe they thought that I just didn’t get what was about to happen, which was the correct answer. Because they waited for my eyes to go wide. They waited because they knew it was the exact moment when I realized that this wasn’t a movie, wasn’t a TV show or dumb story, and it was that moment that the big, beautiful blade disappeared. I heard the impact of metal on wood, and my head dropped to see what had happened. The man yanked the blade from the table top, and my pinky flopped to the side. There was little blood, and there was no pain.

“You see what happen?” the small man asked.

But the truth was, I hadn’t. All I could do was stare at my pinky, and wonder how it had gotten there, alone and dying. And I hated my pinky for betraying me, but hoped more than anything that the doctors would be able to sew it back on if I ever got out of there. I wondered what my mom would think of the scar. I wondered if my dad would be ashamed. For some reason, I remembered the time I tried out for the football team, and realized that it was I who quit.

The small man said something, but it might as well have been a muted trombone. I felt my face cool and my tongue swell, and I watched as the yellow grins began to sway and stretch, and dissolve into black and white. The table top rushed up to meet my face, and my thoughts spun away.

1 comment:

Vesper said...

This is another well written story in which I admired the great pacing, your acute sense of observation, the very good dialogue, the powerful images, and the overall cinematographic quality.
The ending is open, which is a good thing, but, if I may, I found it slightly unsatisfying. I'm not able to say exactly why, but to me it feels as if something were missing (not just the pinky! :-) ).

 

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