8,226 words.
Takeshi stared at himself in the mirror. He moved his head closer. His cat was meowing for food outside the bathroom door. He kicked the door. It slammed shut. He turned on the second light, making it brighter, moving closer again.
He dropped another white hair in the sink. He stepped back and shook his hair, letting it flop down in his face. He wiped it back into place, staring at the mirror again. He shimmied his hips and bobbed his head forward hard. The hair came back down into his eyes. He pushed it back into place, looked at the mirror and started dancing again. He smiled a little wry smile. He’d perfected it in his 20s.
Five nights before he was giving a guy a blowjob in his car. The guy ran his hands though Takeshi’s hair and groaned. But it was fake. Takeshi knew it and the guy knew it. They were both 42 and bored. And at different times during the evening, they’d each wondered what the other was like when he was a little younger.
They’d met online. Their ads were similar. Mid 30s, and though they didn’t say it; clearly looking for something more long term than a blowjob in a parking garage under a Safeway. Yet, after dinner and a movie that’s just where they had found themselves.
They’d eaten at a trendy new Malaysian/Mexican fusion restaurant one of Takeshi’s friends had recommended. They’d gone to see “Jules et Jim,” both secretly hoping the concept of friendship transcending a love triangle might inspire something special and lasting between them. Mostly it made them miss love triangles, or more specifically the ability to have them. They’d each seen the film years earlier at the same theater. Neither had revealed that fact though.
Takeshi took his mouth off the guy. He needed a break and the man didn’t seem to be coming any time soon. The guy gasped for air and clumsily muttered something about it being so nice. He looked down at Takeshi who was looking at the pattern of the guy’s pants. Feeling eyes on him, Takeshi looked up. But by then the guy was looking at the clock on the dash. Takeshi smiled anyway.
Then he started again. He’d remembered those pants being on sale at the Gap. When was it? Five, six, seven years ago? More? He’d thought about buying a pair, but he thought they looked a little cheap. Than again, Takeshi had been making a lot more money then. He wondered if he could even afford those pants now if he wanted them. Back then he was working at Blowfish, which at the time was the hottest Sushi restaurant in San Francisco. It was during the height of the .com era. Everything and everyone in San Francisco was hot and making money.
The first time he saw the Golden Gate Bridge from Fisherman’s Warf Takeshi started to dance. He was 22. He wasn’t even listening to any music. He just started to sway his hips. Before he knew it he was fast dancing, right there on the grass. He’d been in San Francisco less than 24 hours. He’d met a guy, done cocaine off the glass table in his mansion on Jackson Street, fucked him, did more cocaine, got fucked, grabbed a quick Thai dinner, did more cocaine, and headed out to watch the sunset. He hadn’t even showered since he’d left Japan.
He was living his dream for sure. He’d been practicing English at a cram school in Osaka since he was 16. He used to ride the elevator from his parent’s apartment on the 21st floor, down to the school in the 3rd floor, dreaming of such a day. Get the fuck out of this repressive country. Forget that family hierarchal bullshit. Get to San Francisco. Do cocaine. Fuck and get fucked. Buy records. Go dancing. Stare at the ocean as the sun came up. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Takeshi had called the guy the next day but he didn’t return the call. It might have stung a little, but Takeshi had known this could very well happen. After a day or two he could only recall the memory, not the guy himself. Couldn’t even remember what he looked like. He mostly liked the guy’s money anyway. Before Blowfish, he worked at Sebu in the Castro. There, he had his choice of whatever man he wanted. Rich, poor, young, old, black, white, stupid, smart; as a cute, young and somewhat exotic sushi chef speaking broken English, he was in high demand.
Just then the guy in the car came. His entire body became stiff as a board and his pelvis flung forward in one clumsy thrust. Takeshi hit the back of his head on the steering wheel. The guy looked like he was being electrocuted. He raised his hands in the air over Takeshi’s head like it was a crystal ball. He was shaking and he let out a sharp cry that eventually turned into a prolonged and fairly silly moan. Takeshi settled back into the passenger’s side seat as the guy tried to make eye contact. Takeshi fumbled at his jacket for no reason. He ended up checking that his wallet was still in his coat pocket. As if there was any threat of it being stolen.
Not that he really wanted to suck the dicks of people who wanted to steal his wallet. Not anymore. But looking for something more…truthful. He’d wanted to tell the guy this, but it didn’t seem worth it. Was truthful the word? No. He knew the word in Japanese, but couldn’t translate it. Meaningful? No, not quite. Takeshi shook his head as if to shake the debate from his mind. He looked back at the guy cocked his head to the side and gave a half-smile.
After a couple minutes, and without meaning to, they started talking about the weather in San Francisco. It was March and the weather was just starting veer toward spring. But the guy argued that the setting in San Francisco seemingly encased it in a perpetual spring. Takeshi knew exactly what the guy meant, and the two shared a kind of connection. But then, simultaneously, they each realized they were talking about the weather a red flag went up and they shifted into talking about living in San Francisco. They’d each lived there in the past but had moved away for practical purposes. They both missed it and wished they could live there again. Although for both of them that dream became more remote as time went on.
The guy had moved to the city during the .com era. Like Takeshi he’d rode the wave of money, possession, and the expanse of sexual experimentation that often comes with security. When the company went under he’d been lucky enough to snag a job and seek refuge in the Silicon Valley. He hated the Silicon Valley. For the most part he hated the East Bay. Especially Livermore, where he was currently trapped. But it was close to both work and San Francisco. Though not close enough to warrant driving to both in one day. Hence, he only made it to San Francisco every month or so.
Takeshi was listening to the guy, but he couldn’t help but worry about his cat. He’d seen it sparingly during the past week. When the cat didn’t get enough attention it got angry. It would begin carving up Takeshi’s apartment. He might start with the furniture or the carpet. Takeshi had bought new drapes recently. Takeshi was worried about his drapes.
As the guy continued his story Takeshi let his eyes drift toward the clock. It was 10 p.m. It would take him an hour to drive to Santa Rosa. At least an hour. He still had to cross back over the city before he left it. He tried to not stare at the clock. The guy was fully involved in a story about his San Francisco State University days. He and his friends would do methamphetamines all weekend. Study for exams early Friday night, suck and fuck in and around the bars around 6th St. until the early morning, get home, do more speed, study through the afternoon, head back out that night, repeat, repeat.
Takeshi wasn’t listening closely. But he noticed the guy was truly in rapture recalling the stories of his youth. Takeshi recognized the expressions and gestures. The smile. Speaking in grave and serious tones, even questioning moments that were actually momentous and life affirming. Suggesting maybe they shouldn’t have happened, yet desperately longing for them now. It was a kind of nostalgia tied to the sadness of life’s decay. Someone who was now on the outside looking in. Perhaps wishing these things had never happened was the proper course. He nodded his head as the guy talked, agreeing with his own theory. He had wished they hadn’t happened. If they hadn’t happened before he wouldn’t miss them now. He wouldn’t know any better.
Takeshi looked around the car, trying to find some other indications of the guy’s personality. There were some breath mints near the shift. He realized the guy had finished his story. He was nodding with a small smile; his hands clutched the steering wheel. He looked as if he were looking out at an ocean. Not the gray wall of an underground parking lot.
“You know, I should probably get going,” Takeshi smiled big and shrugged his shoulders. “I have a cat.”
“Oh. Of course. Let me drive you to your car,” the guy put his hand on the keys and then paused in a way that indicated he had no intension of pausing. “But first, I think I need to give you some return on your investment.” He smiled and looked at Takeshi’s crotch.
Takeshi would have protested. He really did want to get home to survey the destruction by his cat. But he hadn’t been with anyone for six months and knew he’d be finished by 10:15 and home by 11:30 and Takeshi would get to come someplace other than the towel under his bed. He settled back and stared at the guy’s back, which was rather big and table-like. He imagined it being covered with hair. A hairy table.
As they parted the guy shook Takeshi’s hand. It was so formal. Had he shaken his University friend’s hands when they finished a 48-hour meth suck and fuck fest? “It was very nice to meet you,” Takeshi said politely. The guy smiled and pretended to wipe come from his beard. They both chuckled politely.
The guy asked Takeshi to come spend the weekend in Livermore. Not expecting to ever hear from the guy again, he was surprised to receive such an invitation. Takeshi’s head swirled and he didn’t know what to say, finally uttering something about checking his schedule. That he’d been working hard to get his sushi catering company off the ground. He explained this knowing full well he averaged one catering job per month.
The guy drove off toward the Bay Bridge. Takeshi was sure he’d never see him again. He didn’t want to. The guy had done his best make it seem like there was something more to pursue. He’d sold it well, Takeshi thought as he drove toward the bridge. But, no.
Takeshi was sad. Driving out of the city at night was always a bit somber. He watched the skyline bounce and disappear in the rearview mirror. The giant orange pillars running in the wrong direction. The Golden Gate’s power of introduction was unlike anything else, Takeshi thought. It was the tuning of the orchestra before La Traviata. The first slice cut from the belly of a salmon on a boat in the ocean. The mouth of a young boy sucking your nipples fumbling his fingers down to your cock. Going the other direction was sickening. Seeing the lights of the city disappear into the darkness of the highway. The endless stream of big box stores alternating with grazing livestock.
As he crossed the bridge took one last look at the city over his right shoulder. He used to own the place. He used to dance without music. He used to discard people like fish entrails. He used to get fucked in the bushes under the Golden Gate sticking his middle finger toward the ocean and poor repressed, workaholic Japan. Now he begged at the cities alter for one lukewarm evening of dinner, movie, blowjobs, handshake, and goodnight.
“Fuck you San Francisco,” he said, taking his eyes off the mirror as his car disappeared into the tunnel.
“It was nice to meet you.” Sounded like a fucking English textbook. “So nice to meet you,” Takeshi said dramatically out loud in an overemphasized Japanese-speaking-English accent. Big smile. So ridiculous. It was a disastrous date. They blew each other like it was part of a script. “Blowjob here.” Like a little blowjob bell had rang.
“I need to give you some return on your investment.” What a crime. Like a sitcom. It’s a fucking blowjob! It’s daring by nature. It’s smelly and obtrusive. It craps bleach in your mouth when it’s done. It’s not a handshake. It’s not the interest on your monthly bank statement. It makes you choke and want to vomit and want to shit and come in your pants at the same time.
Takeshi shook his head. What a ruse. What a shit life. Nothing but failed promises and disappointment. Nothing but heartbreak. And now on top of it all; falseness. “I’ll call you this week.” Why would he call? What reason was there for the two of them ever speaking again? Another date like that? There was no excitement. No passion. No direction. Just two guys mechanically blowing each other in a parking lot. Two guys wishing they were 15 years younger, that’s what it was. Two guys make believing they still have some hope in life. That they are what they were. Fooling both themselves and one another.
A car honked at Takeshi. He looked in his mirror. He’d been drifting into the other lane. “Fuck you,” he automatically said to the mirror. “Fuck you.” The car sped up and was quickly at his side. “Fuck you!” Takeshi screamed. He could see the outline of a small bald man. He watched Takeshi with surprised interest. “Fuck you!,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, sticking his middle finger at the man. “Eat shit motherfucker!” He hit his steering wheel with his hand and a sharp honk sounded.
Some saliva had gathered on his bottom lip. The man sped past Takeshi looking confused, shaking his head, and even smiling a little. Takeshi felt like he might cry. He ground his teeth together and peered into the mirror. He was breathing loudly. Almost hyperventilating. He screamed at the top of his lungs. The sound hurt his own ears, but made him feel slightly better. Less tense. He wiped at his mouth. He rolled his window down part of the way to get some air. The clock said 10:53. It was quiet again.
Takeshi hardly ever thought about moving back to Japan. But he did at that moment. He needed peace. He needed to be around people who understood him. Nobody understood him in America. They said yes when they meant no. Everything was about success. Winning. Win the peace in Iraq. Win the war in Iraq. It’s a war. People are dying. Thousands. Still, the president says: “We will win. We won’t run away until we win.” Look what it does to the people. He was breathing heavier again. Look at these people! They don’t know what is or isn’t. They don’t know if it’s good or bad. They can’t judge anything but their own level personal comfort.
“Fuck,” he said out loud. “Fuck this country.” He spotted a cup of half full lukewarm Diet Coke he’d bought at Taco Bell earlier that day. He rolled his window down more and tossed the cup out the window. Total isolation. Nothing but positive thinking, isolation, and winning. He pushed his foot down on the gas. He didn’t care what happened. If he got a speeding ticket he’d be on the first plane back to Japan tomorrow. Find him there. Track him down and make him pay it there. He’d never look back.
“Let’s do it again!” He remembered the guy’s false enthusiasm. “Why don’t you come to Livermore?” Huh? Do it again? Do what? Enjoy another ceremony of the dead? Another ode to old washed out gay men everywhere? How about another idea? How about we get together and kill each other? That would be true love. Save each other from the misery of growing old and dying alone. Takeshi could bring his sword and they could perform Seppuku. They could prop it up so the point was stable and straight up in the air. They could strip their clothes, hop up on a chair, and leap onto the blade together. They could fuck while doing it! Now that would be beauty. That would be true love.
Takeshi took a deep breath. He was getting carried away. Relax. As he did he got a large whiff of cow manure. He was getting close to the dairy farms in Petaluma. He rolled his window back up. The clock said 11:07. He eased his foot from the gas pedal. Maybe don’t want to get pulled over. Too many redneck cops in these parts. The people here, oh, they want to be liberal. Sure. But they still have a little hate in their hearts for the Japs. Just a little hate in their hearts for the fags and Japs. Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to fuck over a small faggot Jap, would they?
Takeshi took a deep breath. He would have to figure something out. He had to go back to Japan or get a new start. Maybe move to New York City. He had friends there. Chelsea. They need Sushi chefs in New York. Plenty of rich suckers there willing to pay any price for rice and raw fish if you tell them to. They don’t know up from down either. At least then he wouldn’t have to sell Sushi from a rented kitchen in a damn Elk’s lodge while he prayed to get more than a single catering job a month. What devil had possessed him to think of that? Start your own lunchtime restaurant in a fucking Elk’s lodge kitchen. He needed to get out of Santa Rosa. He was so lonely. He needed to meet people. Not people like Mr. Intel Return Favor Blowjob Motherfucker. But real people. People with style. With flare. Who can care and nurture. Who can hold him after a bad day. Someone who won’t walk out of the house and fuck someone else every chance he gets.
Indeed his cat had shredded the new drapes. He gave him some food, looked at some online dating profiles, and went to bed. He didn’t even wash his face. What did it matter? Why did he try so hard to not get old? Who cared? His cat? The cat jumped on the bed and nestled in beside his leg. It was warm and Takeshi liked the feeling. He wasn’t crying himself to sleep. No. No. No way.
Takeshi immediately got out of bed and went back to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and got out an old bottle of Zoloft he had in his medicine cabinet. He’d taken anti-depressants on and off for a few years. He pulled the bottle open and without hesitation he took one. He peered in the bottle. He only had three left. He hadn’t felt the need to tap into his dwindling Zoloft supply in some time. But he wasn’t about try to withstand the bullshit of any inability to sleep.
He got back into bed and his cat snuggled back up to his leg. After a few minutes his mind began to calm. He was never sure if it was the pill actually working or his expectation of the pill that allowed him to sleep. But he wasn’t about to extend the night anymore than necessary figuring it out. He’d endured long enough. A few minutes later he was asleep.
He woke up the next morning with a light fuzzy feeling. He’d slept well. Overslept even. He rushed to get ready, not even checking for grey hairs before rushing out the door to the Elk’s lodge.
He’d started the lunch business in the kitchen at the Elk’s lodge to supplement his income because his catering company had gone nowhere. The lunch business had gone equally bad. Now he had two failing businesses instead of one. Still, between the two he managed to scratch the surface of a living wage. Or a non-starving wage at any rate.
The fish delivery was late and Takeshi had to turn away two customers. Normally, Takeshi would be angry at this. But as he stared at his knife, looking at the light above him in its reflection, he still had the furry feeling from the Zoloft he’d taken the night before. He only had a few more. A little tragedy, he thought. Other than buying it direct or online, there was no way to get it. He didn’t even have a prescription. He shouldn’t be taking it anyway. He promised himself he wouldn’t take it that night.
He moved the reflection in the knife to his own eyes. They were calm and soft. He blinked several times. Did he really consider going back to Japan the night before? The idea seemed silly now. Though, over the years in gnawed at him more and more. While he’d never wanted to go back to Japan he could never imagine dying in anyplace other than Japan. How could he die in America? He imagined himself, lying on a recliner chair in a small apartment. Nowhere to walk to and too tired to walk. Surrounded by carpet, a remote control under his right hand. A cat somewhere in the background. Endlessly searching through directories of channels. Shuffling into the kitchen to get water. Maybe it was time to go back.
He closed up at 1:30 p.m. He’d only had two customers. He tired to pack the fish as tightly as he could. He’d have to make it last the entire week.
As he got ready to leave he got a text message. It was from the guy. “Had a great time last nite. How about that invite?” it said.
In reading the message Takeshi realized he hadn’t once thought of the guy, or even the previous night, since he’d woken up. It was as if it had been erased from his mind. He figured he would deal or not deal with the message later. He shoved his phone in his pocket and drove home.
Later that night the guy messaged again. “No good sushi in Livermre…bring some here baby.” Takeshi couldn’t help but laugh. Baby? He stared at the message and smiled a little. What did this guy want? The guy obviously liked Takeshi, which felt nice. But what a fool. Just wrong. They had no chemistry, it had been clear.
But later Takeshi was pacing around his apartment. Was the guy that bad? He tried to recall his face. Hmmm. He couldn’t get a clear picture in his mind. Did he really like Takeshi? What was his thinking? Had Takeshi missed something? After some thinking it became clear to Takeshi that he was unable to evaluate such matters. He didn’t even trust himself. This depressed him. Had he become so dulled, so desperate in life that he’d lost his power of decision?
The answer was clearly yes. How sickening, he thought. How disgusting had his life become. He was emotionally crippled. He’d hurt and been hurt so many times he was dull to everything. Had he lived in America too long? Maybe it was too late.
His heart began to beat fast. He went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror. He wouldn’t take an antidepressant. There was no reason. He wasn’t unhappy. Was he? His legs felt like jelly and he started to sift through his hair, looking for silver hairs. He needed to focus on something else. He’d pick every hair out of his head if he had to. He inspected the roots closely.
An hour later Takeshi had taken another Zoloft and typed “See u Sat” into his phone. Now he had two Zoloft left. He stared at the phone, wondering what he’d done. He wondered if he should have taken half a pill instead of a whole. He pushed the send button on his phone.
The guy called immediately. Takeshi groaned, but was a little excited when he saw who was calling. What was he doing? Why is he calling right away? Takeshi almost giggled. The phone vibrated in his hand again.
Maybe the guy really did like him. It felt good to be wanted so directly, anyway. He hadn’t felt much for the guy but as he’d confirmed moments earlier, maybe his instinct wasn’t to be trusted. Maybe the guy was to be trusted. Maybe Takeshi needed to be led. And what about the pills? He couldn’t get more. Maybe if he went to Livermore and really fell in love he wouldn’t need them. Maybe if someone could break through his damaged outer crust he could just be who he really was, again.
After six vibrations Takeshi answered the phone.
Somehow Takeshi did allow himself be led. Over the phone it was easier to put his trust in the guy. The guy seemed more appealing. He’d showed some sense of humor. And clearly the guy was smart. If there was anything Takeshi had noticed from the beginning it was that the guy was smart. Takeshi tried to forget that he’d taken another antidepressant.
That was it. He’d ride out the next couple of days. Take one pill the next day. Then half the next, half the next, then go to Livermore and let it ride. Bet on love. His heart surged a little. He was betting on love! For the first time in years he was betting on love. Takeshi nodded his head and turned back to the mirror. He was going to do it. He was out of antidepressants, but he had someone there to catch him. It wasn’t a sure thing, by any means. But Takeshi was betting on love for the first time in years. It felt wonderful. He wouldn’t disturb it. He wanted to sing out.
He did sing. Three days later he was smiling that wry smile, looking in the mirror. He bobbed his head forward and was dancing a little. “He’s betting on love,” he sang. It became his mantra. It wasn’t any particular song. He just sang it and swayed his hips. He wasn’t completely convinced actually. But it didn’t matter, because he was betting. Rolling the dice. “Rolling the dice,” he sang in the same tune.
Takeshi grabbed the map he’d printed along with his container of sushi supplies. He told his cat to keep off the new drapes and drove off. He sang a little again, adjusting his rearview mirror. Swaying his hips in his seat.
Back up Highway 101, he thought. Like a xylophone, he giggled. Up the road and down the road. Seemed like when he wasn’t working he was driving, usually on Highway 101. It would take about 90 minutes to get to Livermore he figured. Takeshi turned on some music and rolled down his window. Sometimes he loved driving in California. Sometimes it matched every one of those Beach Boys clichés. He took a deep breath. Betting on love/Rolling the dice. What a great little refrain, he thought.
As he pulled into the guy’s driveway he was overwhelmed by the size of his house. For a split second Takeshi imagined himself gardening in the front yard. He scowled a little at his excitement. That was silly, he thought. Don’t start that.
The guy came out from his house. Seeing him waddle forward made Takeshi think of Hugh Hefner. In fact, the guy was even wearing slippers. He reconnected the dots and remembered him. In fact, a good bit of the horror from the night before came crashing back into Takeshi’s mind. He tried his best to let it flow away.
They hugged, and the guy went for a kiss. But Takeshi turned his cheek. The guy didn’t flinch, grabbed Takeshi’s bag, and headed for the house. As the guy walked off Takeshi muttered betting on love to himself. Don’t forget you are betting on love. But the tone was stern. Not a song.
The guy gave a tour that ended on the back patio with a glass of Chardonnay. The guy started talking about the property his house was on, that it wasn’t far from some of the best wineries in Livermore, in all of California, really. Takeshi tried to focus on what the guy was saying. He smiled most of the time. But it was difficult. His mind would drift and his eyes followed. Occasionally to the vineyards off in the distance, occasionally to other things altogether.
The guy was boring, but Takeshi had been with boring men before. He’d let them talk and talk while he would smile and smile. He’d just think about something else and wait for something exciting to happen.
Takeshi started to recognize the guy as a composite of other men he’d been with in his life. His look was very average. He was wearing a similar sweater to the first night they’d met, but a different color. The guy had no distinguishing features much like his personality. At some point he started talking about his youth again. How when he had been young he just liked to fuck. Fuck whoever and whenever. But now he was looking for something more. Okay, he’s trying to introduce his agenda Takeshi thought. So predictable. So predictable because Takeshi felt the same. Yet there was no connection from this. In fact, he had an indication that no matter what the guy had wanted to do at that moment; Takeshi would very likely want the opposite. Not because of their individual character or desires. But simply because Takeshi did not love himself. On the phone, 100 miles away it was possible to trick himself. But now, with the guy’s heart just a few feet from his own, it was unthinkable.
As he realized this Takeshi’s face fell. The guy noticed and quickly tried to change the scene. They went inside and the guy pulled out a Merlot that he said he’d been saving for a special occasion.
“This winery is right over there,” he pointed in the general direction of some vineyards. “Used to be owned by one family for about a hundred years, but one of the big wineries snapped it up a few years back. But this was one of the last batches produced by the old family.”
The guy poured two classes. Takeshi pulled his fish and knives out. It was all he could do to not plunge the knife into a throat. Either the guy’s or his own, it didn’t matter.
Takeshi made small slice on the hunk of fish, carefully trimming a piece of tuna by turning it in a circular motion. He twisted the fish below the knife. Takeshi was thinking about the fact that he had no more Zoloft and was facing a long night in the company of someone he wasn’t attracted to. He wasn’t conscious of the fact that he had “bet on love” and lost. He stayed far away from his former mantra. It would very possibly make him abruptly emotional. Japan. He was headed back to Japan. He had to get out. He packed rice together and rolled it with his bamboo mat. It was time to go back. He brushed soy sauce across the seaweed to seal the roll shut.
Takeshi looked up to find the guy suggestively eating a banana. He stretched his mouth wide and eased it into his mouth, finally biting it off and chewing with a silly grin. It was getting worse. With every word, every movement, the guy was less appealing. Takeshi wanted to slap the banana out of his hand. Instead he excused himself and walked into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. What could he do? He couldn’t touch or be touched by this man again. He’d driven all the way to Livermore! Now he was trapped. He looked at the window. He even looked out the window. That was silly. Running away. Plus, all of his expensive knives and equipment were in the kitchen.
Instead Takeshi began to drink. He walked back into the kitchen and downed the glass in one gulp. He put the glass next to the bottle, asking for another. He drank several more glasses before dinner. The guy seemed to like the idea and started drinking heavily himself. By the time they started dinner they were on their 3rd bottle. Takeshi thought if he drank enough he would pass out on the floor. Or at least numb himself to whatever the guy would have to do to his body before rolling over and going to sleep.
But soon Takeshi was losing control. Laughing and muttering things that didn’t make sense. He broke a glass making a toast. The guy seemed a little angry; although as he ran to the kitchen to get a broom Takeshi could see the guy had an erection.
Seeing this made sent Takeshi’s mind into a panic. For a moment he recalled a similarly bad date. He was 23. He’d drunk in defense, much the same way. He woke half naked on another stranger’s floor; his ass throbbing, various bottles of alcohol, and dildos and other sex toys strewn about. Even then he sprung to his feet like an unbreakable doll. Bounding out the front door like a child. Sprinting toward the next adventure.
But now. Thinking about going back to Japan. The place he’d swore he’d never live again. His graying hair. His failures. The lack. The lack of something. Of anything. The lack of love. . The lack of adventure. The lack of feeling.
Takeshi quickly drank another glass of red wine. When they finished that bottle they switched to Vodka cranberry. “Something sweet…before something sweet,” the guy said as he made the drinks. The guy made a few more verbal passes before finally sidling up next to him on the guys couch. But Takeshi beat him back, sometimes playfully, sometimes out of fear. As midnight approached Takeshi’s mind wandered. Driving home was out of the question. As was letting this bearded zero have his way with him. Zoloft. Most of all, he needed Zoloft. If he could just calm down a little. He yearned for that fuzzy calm feeling. He needed perspective.
Takeshi tried to forget about the pills. He looked around the room, and for 10 or 15 seconds, tried to engage in a conversation with the guy. But soon he was excusing himself, and half-running/half-stumbling to the master bedroom. He hardly knew where he was going. The guy must have antidepressants. He knew they were somewhere. He could sense it. Look at the guy. He had nothing, just as Takeshi had nothing. Of course he had them. It was just a matter of finding them. Where were they?
He went in the bathroom and turned on the water to block the noise. But he’d already crashed down the hallway and bumped into several things. He opened the medicine cabinet. It was filled with a cornucopia of bottles, tubes and boxes of varying sizes and colors. But as he picked up each bottle, squinting and inspecting each closely, he found the only prescription bottles were various pain killers and allergy pills. He looked in a couple of generic looking bottles, but the pills inside didn’t look like antidepressants.
He stumbled out of the bedroom, leaving the water on by accident. He opened the drawers of a table next to the bed. They were full of junk. Condoms, mints, an old hair brush filled with the hair of an animal that didn’t seem to be around, and photos of the guy with an old boyfriend.
By now Takeshi had lost track of time and space. He paid little attention to whatever noise he was making. A couple photos and some change had fallen on the carpet. Finally he found a white prescription bottle. He held it up and turned around the label. It said “Zoloft” in bold type. He didn’t pause in disbelief, because he’d convinced himself it would be there. He smiled broadly and paused. But when he shook it, there was no sound. Disbelieving that his luck, and his life, could be that bad, Takeshi struggled to remove the top.
“It’s empty,” the guy said.
Takeshi jumped and even made a startled sound, like the beginning of a scream. The guy was standing in the bedroom doorway with a wine glass. As he looked over at the man the cap came off the bottle. The lid fell to the carpet with a small thud. Takeshi looked down into the bottle. It was indeed empty. He looked back up at the guy. They said nothing. The only sound was the water running in the bathroom.
The next morning Takeshi left before the guy got up. He wasn’t even sure what had been said the night before, if anything. But Takeshi woke up fully clothed on the couch in the front room. He folded the blanket neatly and fluffed the small couch pillows he’d slept on. He tried to be silent as he left.
As he drove away he still felt a little drunk. He burped and an awful white/red wine/ vodka taste came from his stomach. It in itself almost made him throw up. He needed green tea and he needed some kind of aspirin. He thought of the pain relievers back in the guy’s house. It was the last time he’d think of the guy again. He briefly pictured him sleeping in his bed, his lonely beard lying against his pillow, the Zoloft bottle’s cap still on the floor. For a second he felt a little sorry for the guy, just as he felt sorry for himself. He drove, trying to remember the way he’d come. He was too busy trying to focus to remember much of the night before, let alone the conclusions he’d drawn when he was drunk and drinking more.
Not far from the entrance to the freeway was a Wal-mart. Takeshi pulled into the parking lot. It was still early in the morning and it looked as though it was just opening. He briefly wondered if Wal-mart was 24-hours, not that it mattered one way or another.
He parked and walked in the front. An elderly man greeted him at the door. The man looked vaguely Asian. Takeshi half expected him to bow, as people at stores do in Japan. Takeshi nodded with his head. Like a small bow. Why did he do that? He made a point to almost never bow, except when it would lead to a big tip or sex at Sebu or Blowfish. It was a rebellion against the culture he’d left behind.
Takeshi got a cart, even though he didn’t need one. He started rolling down the aisles. Somewhat aimlessly. It was Saturday and he hadn’t planned on going home until Sunday. It was kind of a relief. Just wandering down the aisles, looking at soaps, brooms, stereos and garden equipment.
He found the drinks section and looked for green tea in a can. Green tea was more popular in America than when Takeshi had arrived nearly two decades before. You could buy it in a can in most grocery stores. Of course, it wasn’t good tea, usually made by Pepsi or Coke. But it was green tea nonetheless and he still had a taste for it, even if it usually disappointed.
Was it time to go home? Back to the land of green tea? This idiotic phrasing made Takeshi chuckle to himself. He imagined himself in Japan. Just another elderly man. Was he an elderly man? In 10 years he would be. Walking with his hands clasped behind his back, wandering through public gardens, ramen shops. Would he even try to be friendly with his parents? They’d nearly forgotten him by now. He called once or twice a year. They’d be dead soon anyway. Maybe not his father; that domineering bastard. He hadn’t even been to Osaka for eight years. What was the point? He knew what was there, and he lived here. He lived in America. Could he exist as a gay man in Japan? Surely it was different. People had told him as much. Osaka now had an entire queer community. A section part of town full of bars and rainbow flags. It was impossible to even imagine when he was younger.
But that wasn’t why he left. It wasn’t because there was or wasn’t a gay community. He didn’t want a community. At the time he had wanted America. He wanted everything he’d seen and heard of America. The glamour, the violence, the indulgence, the helplessness. Whatever. He’d left because he didn’t want Japan. Did he want to go back now? Not really.
But there was no true peace in America. Maybe it was time for it to all end. Maybe he’d give the businesses a couple more years. A year. He imagined himself amongst the uniform wearing school children, the city temples, the closet sized bars and eateries, the flashing lights, the attention to fashion detail. Did he want it? What did he want?
As Takeshi stood there, he felt uneasy. At first he thought it was still the wine forcing its way out of his body. But this was something bigger. An emotion he didn’t really have control of. A new theory arrived in his mind. He began to think he had no country. He wasn’t Japanese nor was he American. He’d lived half his life in each country and as a result he was half a person. He spoke neither language perfectly. He liked neither more than the other. He was indifferent to both. He often hated both. He wanted to be in neither.
Takeshi prepared himself for the worst. As unhappy as he was, he still realized that he was coming to some dark conclusions. Even the unstable have some view of normality. He stopped and braced himself. He let his eyes wander through a section of chips. He stared all the different colored packages and wondered if he were sinking into a deep depression. His legs felt strange. He stopped walking and held tightly to the shopping cart. He looked around him. He saw a young man, about 17 or 18, collecting carts at the front of the store. Takeshi watched him. The boy was obviously bored. Mired in the sad routine of boring, meaningless work. He pushed the carts aggressively. He’d walk away, get one more cart, push it within several feet of a row of carts and thrust it toward the others from a distance of several feet. Then he’d stop and grab some sort of candy from his pocket before going to get the next cart. He was so filled with boredom and angst.
What a lucky young man, Takeshi thought. That was what he truly missed. He wanted to be young and free. Free to fritter away his time working a meaningless job, having no idea he was frittering time at all. To be so simple as to work all day just to have some extra money. For what? Beer? Condoms? Fast food? Takeshi smiled as he looked at the young man. He sighed. When had he last felt like that? Perhaps his early days in San Francisco when he’d work. Sebu; from 2 p.m. to 2 a.m. He didn’t care. In those days he didn’t have time for sleeping anyway. Takeshi continued to smile at the young man.
He noticed Takeshi was staring at him and scowled. He looked away and then back again, disbelieving that Takeshi was still looking at him. He angrily shook his head and stomped outside.
Staring at the boy had made Takeshi forget his depression. As the young man walked outside the darkness came back, swallowing his body quickly. Small movements became labored. He looked in his cart. A long can of green tea stared up at him like an orphan. He pulled it out and opened it, drinking several large sweet gulps at once. As he expected it tasted awful. But he was desperate for something. To get some momentum. Make his blood pump a little.
Without thinking Takeshi gravitated toward pharmaceuticals. Knowing full well he wouldn’t find it, he half-heartedly scanned the aisles for Zoloft. He knew it wouldn’t be there. But what else could he do? He had no health insurance and none on the horizon. That was one positive about Japan. But he’d convinced himself some time ago he didn’t need that sort of crutch. Antidepressants. That’s all they were, a crutch.
Still, Takeshi searched for it. That kind of drug was impossible to buy over-the-counter. He knew this. But he looked anyway. He scanned the various boxes. There ware rows of aspirins and pain killers. He picked one at random and threw it into his cart. Hoping to get some form of comfort from it. Some numbness. Still, he looked for Zoloft. Maybe it was there. Maybe someone had put it there by accident. Maybe someone had come, looking something else, and had misplaced their own bottle there on the shelf.
Takeshi started moving boxes around. Looking behind other pills. Rechecking places he’d already looked. He heard a noise behind him. It was the young man he’d seen pushing the carts earlier. He wasn’t attracted to the boy. But he did he felt some friendly affinity toward him. Like old men sometimes do for youth of any kind. As the young man approached Takeshi half-smiled and quickly nodded his head, turning back to his search.
“Faggot,” the boy muttered as he walked past.
Takeshi didn’t look up. In fact he pretended not to even notice. He’d been called a “fag,” “queer,” and much worse. He’d been harassed, smacked, and all that nonsense. This was nothing. Yet, it hurt him. He began to feel his hangover much worse than before. On top of it he felt dizzy. He was sinking lower and lower. He felt like someone had taken a bat to the side of his head.
Takeshi stumbled and would have fell down if it hadn’t been for the shopping cart. He slid forward down the aisle, bracing himself on the cart. He had reached the nutrition/organic section. Rows of vitamins of all sort of letters and colors stretched for what seemed like eternity. He clutched the shopping cart. He’d forgotten the hunt for stray Zoloft. Now he was just hunting. For what he had no idea. He was propping himself up, making an effort to breathe in and out, not sure what emotion might strike him next.
He tried to focus on the labels, hoping that reading might distract him. Focus on letters, he told himself. “Vitamin D-1,” he said aloud. “Centrum, Iron, Vitamin H Biotin.” He didn’t care if anyone heard him. He was surviving. It didn’t matter what it looked like.
Takeshi saw something he almost didn’t recognize. It was Japanese writing. Simultaneously it looked both foreign and welcoming. It was a bath salt. He remembered it from when he was a child. He used to bathe in it as a child. “Cool” it was called. Takeshi smiled, barely recalling his mother shaking the salts from the box into his family’s bathtub. The water splashing into the tub. Sunday nights before school. After dinner. Throwing his clothes carelessly outside the bathroom door where his mother would gather them. He would dip his toe in the water. He’d get in while it was too hot. Trying to sit down and withstand the scalding hot water, sadly feeling the pangs of a new school week encroaching upon him.
In amazement he pulled the box off the shelf. It slipped form his hand and fell to the floor. Unaware of anything Takeshi sat down. He even crossed his legs, like he was sitting down at the dinner table. He held the box in amazement. He’d hadn’t seen or thought about “cool” in years. He’d certainly never seen it in America. It hadn’t crossed his mind since he bathed in it as a child.
He didn’t realize it but the boy gathering carts was staring at him from down the aisle. He waved one of his co-workers over. They started laughing. They debated if they should call the police, agreeing they should tell the manager first.
Takeshi sat on the ground, holding the soap in his hand, running his hand over the surface of the box as tears started to roll down his face.