Upon
waking this morning, I was so overwhelmed by such an urgent need to
pee that I nearly wet myself. It was the kind of urgent need that
can only result from a combination of factors: too much beer; too
much whisky mixed in with that beer; several
hours of said booze fermenting in one's tummy; and several hours of
fitful sleep in a strange place with an unavailable bathroom.
I
don't even see my friend before I go. I leave a note. Thanks, it was
fun; and I stumble down the steps, out the door, into a rare, crisp
August morning, for last night's typhoon has scrubbed the air clean
and washed away every living soul. The streets are deserted. The sun
is up.
I
remember: last night, there was a party. Forty or so, and pizza and
beer. Someone's brought sake; someone's brought wine. But the beer
is enough for me. And a slice or two, but not the one with all the
mayonnaise, love, the other one with the corn, cheers, bless you,
kampai.
10pm,
the party splinters; one group goes one way, and I go too. To an izakaya,
so remove your shoes, and take care not to fall over. Up the slippery
wooden steps in your stockinged feet. Onto the tatami. Pitchers of
beer. Little bits of fish in tiny porcelain bowls. Who ordered the
unagi? Why is she crying? When is the last train? I adore Sex Machine
Guns.
The
last train is soon. The group splinters again. Two will go one way,
eight will go another. I debate going with the eight, toward the trains
station that promises the possibility of a productive day tomorrow.
Catching the last train is for wimps, I decide; staying out all night
is where it's at, two turntables and a microphone.
But
first a call: Kayo, I'm not coming home tonight, I'm staying out and
I've a place to stay. Love you, see you, and did the Yankees beat
the Mariners? Time's up. Let's go!
Into
a snack with two new friends. One owns a building, which is good,
because snacks are expensive, so if we drink too much we can just
give them the building. The mama-san in her fading pink kimono fetches
some good scotch whisky after welcoming us in. She is old. There's
only one other customer. Oh, he used to be a famous baseball pitcher
-- now he's a company president? Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you
too. A billion yen, someone whispers, that's how much he's worth.
Mama
replenishes the drinks; the bartender fellow laughs at the customer's
jokes. So do I, because the drinks are on him, and I feel obliged,
and also I'm having quite a time. The ice cubes each seem to have
been carved by hand, and they're clear -- made from hot water, not
like your everyday ice that has the white lumps inside. And the glass
is never more than half empty, but you never see it being filled,
and you never see it taken away. You know only that you drink from
it, and drink from it, but the poison's never gone.
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