Memorial(43)

Fuck off.

So Kunihiko and I manned the bar. We worked reasonably well together. Whenever I was looking for something, I didn’t even have to ask him, he was already setting it within arm’s reach. He’d taken to rewiping whichever cups I’d dried. I didn’t put up a fight over it, because it’d occurred to me more than once that Eiju had taught him all of this. I had the feeling Kunihiko knew the shitbag better than I ever would.

Anything wrong, Mike-kun?

Nah. I’m good.

We hadn’t seen a customer in hours. Kunihiko talked and talked and talked. But it was all mostly to himself, mostly just for the noise. Every now and again, I’d grunt in affirmation, and he’d take that with a laugh and start in on some other fucking thing. I’d start to ask some questions—about Kunihiko, about his life—before deciding against all of them. And then, before I could open my mouth, Kunihiko would cut me off with some new fucking anecdote.

At one point, he said, How long have you known Eiju?

I looked at Kunihiko’s face. He hadn’t looked up, just kept wiping away at the counter.

He’s like family to me, I said.

Same here, said Kunihiko. More than my actual blood. He always means well.

I don’t know if that’s true, I said.

What?

Always meaning well. That’s a lot to ask of anyone.

You’ve just gotta get to know him, said Kunihiko.

Not if he shits on me the way he does you.

The last bit made Kunihiko smile. He rubbed a hand over his head. He’d clipped his hair a little while ago into something like a fade, but the barber botched that shit like halfway down his neck.

Give him a minute, said Kunihiko. You just haven’t seen him in a while. How long has it been?

Over a decade.

Exactly. I think he’s been going through a rough time.

So I’ve heard, I said, and that’s when the door opened.

The guy in the entrance had a lot of hair on his head. He was a little chubby, and he wore it well, and he wore this hoodie over some jeans. And he looked about my age, and Kunihiko waved him over, asking what he wanted to drink. When the dude answered in choppy Japanese, I ran the same thing back in English.

That had him blinking. He asked for a beer, and I passed it to him. When he took it, the guy nodded slightly, less out of timidity than certainty.

I kept my eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. He clearly didn’t want to be bothered.

So, said Kunihiko, what brings you out tonight?

The guy turned to Kunihiko, a little warily. He glanced at me before he gave Kunihiko a grin.

Sorry about him, I said in English.

Don’t be, he said to me, in English.

And then to Kunihiko, in Japanese, Nothing really. Just restless.

I get that, said Kunihiko.

The guy nodded, taking a sip from his beer. We stood around in silence, until he waved toward Kunihiko for another, and the kid started in on another conversation with himself before I decided that what I actually needed was a smoke break.

I lit up on the deck. Spied some kids on the concrete below me, through the patch of neighborhood poking around this cluster of trees. It was way too late for them to be out alone, and I thought, just for a second, that they were about as old as the kids Benson worked with.

Ben would’ve been pissed if he’d seen them outside this late. He would’ve called that neglect. But kids were the same just about everywhere, all over the fucking world.

They bounced their kickball against the wall, flinging it at one another’s heads. It ricocheted between their bodies. Their sneakers squeaked through the silence.

Eventually, one of them spotted me. They waved through the branches. I waved back. And when I blew a smoke ring, a few of the little motherfuckers actually cheered.



* * *





By my third cigarette, Kunihiko called from the bar. When I’d made it out front, he was throwing his shit in a messenger bag.

The kid said he had to go. He smiled, a little feverishly. Something important had come up. Or he’d forgotten something important. Or something important was on the way, said Kunihiko, waffling a bit, and the guy at the bar looked from him to me and back.

Then I guess we’ll see you tomorrow, I said.

Kunihiko nodded, nearly sprinting out the door.

Which left me and the guy in the bar.

I found a glass to clean.

Despite what Ben had yelled a few weeks back, I wasn’t actually someone who went after other people. I wasn’t the best at starting conversations.

He seems like a handful, said the guy.

Kunihiko? I said. He means well.

Everyone thinks they mean well, said the guy, but I’ll take your word for it.

As soon as you do that, I’ll end up proving you wrong.

The guy told me his name was Tan. He was Singaporean. When I asked what brought him to Osaka, he said his mother cleaned apartments in the city, and he was here to take care of her.

She’s been here for decades, he said.

Does she like it here, I asked.

Doesn’t matter, said Tan. It’s too late for her to move back now. And Singapore isn’t like here. She’d die of boredom in a week.

It can’t be that bad.

You’d be surprised.

I feel that, I said, wiping at the counter, and Tan asked for another beer, and I poured two more.