4.01 Shotgun

Sunday morning came faster than I would have liked. After tossing and turning all night, I pushed got up and took a long shower, letting the cool water run over my numb body.

*

I met Yuri and two other friends, Nobu and Mika, at Small Spaces the night before after unsuccessfully trying to contact my cousin for god knows how many times. It goes without saying that I wasn’t in much of a partying mood, but tried to give Yuri a proper shoving off all the same.

Saddling up to the counter, I ordered a shotgun for the four of us. The bartender, nodded and went about throwing the drink together--dropping hand-crushed ice into a crystal tub, then adding a few shots of a 192-proof vodka from Poland called Spirytus Rektyfikowany, Specht Pampelmuse grapefruit liqueur, freshly squeezed lemon and grapefruit juices, and soda. After giving the concoction a good stir, he placed tub before us and four shot glasses. I poured Yuri, Nobu, Mika and then myself a shot.

“Yuri,” I said, raising my shot glass, “when you get to Tokyo, don’t forget us country bumpkins stuck here in Fukuoka. Kampai!”

“Kampai!”

I had known Yuri--and Nobu, too, come to think of it--a good five, six years. Long enough for the two of them to have unwitting bystanders of the collapse of my marriage, my descent into drug use and subsequent recovery, the separation and divorce from Yuko, the financial straits that had followed and rebound, and so much more. They had been with me through all of it, and yet didn’t know diddlysquat about what I had gone through. Talk about poker-faced discretion!

“Why the long face,” Mika asked as she poured me another shot.

“He lost his phone,” Yuri answered for me.

“Yeah, it’s my phone. Good grief, what a hassle,” I said, knocking back the shot. “Speaking of ‘long faces’, Mika, you’ve reminded me of a pretty good joke. It doesn’t translate well, so I’ll tell it to you in English: A horse walks into a bar. The bartender asks, ‘Why the long face?’”

Silence.

There was plenty to be depressed about, the possibility of going jail and jokes falling flat, notwithstanding. So many people I counted among my friends were moving away. My ex-wife had remarried and was now in Tokyo. After being together for more than ten years, her absence was like the sooty shadow on the wall from a painting that went missing. Jean, who had been in my life for nearly as long, was leaving Japan in a matter of months for destinations unknown. And now, Yuri was being transferred to Tokyo. Nobu, too, would be moving to Nagoya next spring, leaving only Mika. The youngest among us, Mika would, by and by, get knocked up by her boyfriend and fade away as young mothers do. I might have sought recourse in that old gang of expats I had once hung out with before Jean if attrition, marriage and kids hadn’t thinned them out. My circle of friends and acquaintances was shrinking faster than a drop of water on a hot skillet.

*

When I emerged from the shower, Azami, who had slept over, grinding her teeth all night, was in the kitchen preparing a breakfast of rice balls with pickled plums, miso soup, tamagomaki, slices of smoked ham and a simple salad. It looked and tasted lovely, but with my stomach full of butterflies, I had little room for food. Azami insisted that I eat up. Twelve years my junior, a full generation of the Chinese calendar, the girl still managed to act like my mother.

What in the world does this girl see in me, I wondered as I nibbled on a rice ball. There’s got to be better men out there. Men who are more handsome, more reliable, more loving, more faithful . . .

Having been told to meet Ozawa at his office in Hakata at nine-thirty, I left at a quarter past eight to give myself plenty of time. 

Azami kissed me good-bye at the door and wished me good luck. With a heavy sigh, I headed for the Akasaka station. 

Had it been a weekday the train would have been packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, with bleary-eyed salarimen, reeking of cigarettes and last night's shochu. There would have been office ladies preening themselves, and school girls in their pressed sailor uniforms thumbing out messages on their cell phones, oblivious to the men who craned their necks to get a better gander at their panties. Today being Sunday, the train was mostly empty, each car carrying a few lifeless passengers, like half-deflated Dutch wives.

Down the entire length of the railcar hanging from clips in the ceiling like laundry drying in the sun were posters, called tsurikôkoku, which advertised the newshinkansen line connecting Kagoshima with Hakata. Each poster showed a famous spot in the Kagoshima prefecture: the sand spas of Ibusuki with the dormant volcano Mt. Kaimon rising like a mossy cone in the distance, the ornate Kirishima Jingu shrine surrounded by autumn hews of maples, Mount Sakurajima, on the other side of Kinko Bay, burping a plume of smoke from its caldera. Each poster featured a sleek white bullet train racing across the bottom and the alluring actress Hitomi Kuroki, dressed in an elegant kimono making bedroom eyes. 

"Next stop Nakasu Kawabata. Nakasu Kawabata," a sugary female voice announced.

I was seized by the urge to bolt the country. I had the cash, not a lot, but enough. I could take the shinkansen all the way to Kagoshima where I could catch a ferry to Amami Oshima, then another ferry to Okinawa. From there, I could sail on to the southern-most island of Yonaguni. It would take two days, possibly more to get that far, a long time considering it was only two and a half hours' flight away. But there'd be no records, no ID checks if I went by ship. I could vanish. 

My friend on Yonaguni could put me up for a few nights. Two or three days would give me more than enough time to think. Then, if I did decide to flee Japan, well, I supposed a fishing boat could take me to Taiwan. It’s only a hundred kilometers away. I could use my Lebanese passport to enter the country and fly out of Taipei, making my way to Lebanon. I could deal with the cops from there. I was still a free man; after all, they hadn't arrest me. 

The screws may have been tightened, but I could still wiggle. If the cops really had anything on me, they would have carted me away with my computers and pee and other flimsy evidence Thursday morning. 

"Next stop Gion. Gion," the woman's voice reminded me. 

Only one more stop, my heartbeat quickened. I still had time to turn around and head back to my apartment where I could call Ozawa and make up some excuse or another, tell him I overslept and would be there by ten-thirty. Better yet, I could tell him that I was talking to my lawyer and that I'd be there at noon. And before Ozawa knew what happened, I'd be on the shinkansen to Kagoshima bulleting my way through the mountains of Kyushu at 300 km/h.

But what would happen if I did manage to escape? Would I be able to return to Japan? Would I have to give up everything I’ve suffered so long to achieve: my home, my permanent residence status, my career--if you could call it one--the few friends I still had and my ex-wife's family? Despite the divorce, they had stayed by my side, magnanimity I did not deserve. Would I ever be able to see them again? What about my rabbit, Pyon? Who’d care for him? And Azami? I know she’d be better off without a loser like me in her life, but would I? 

"Next stop, Hakata. All passengers transferring to the JR Kagoshima main line  . . . "

The train stopped, bells chimed, the doors hissed open.

It was five past eight-thirty in the morning. I had a little under an hour to kill, an hour to fill my head with silly ideas about lamming it.

I still have time to call Ozawa, tell him I was feeling ill, but would be there at eleven. No, tell him I’d be there at noon. That would give me over three hours. Enough time to pack my bags and empty my bank accounts and . . . I could take a taxi back to the station, catch the first Shinkansen to Kagoshima . . . ride it all the way to Kagoshima . . . just me, and Hitomi Kuroki in her kimono, and freedom. All I have to do walk to the other side of the platform and board the train going the other way. All I have to do is take the train back to Akasaka. Back to Akasaka . . .

To read the first installment of No.6, please go here.

To read the remainder of No.6, please visit here.

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.

3.21 The Itch

Smoking yaba till the wee hours of the night with Jean and Nori on Ko Samui would have made a fitting epilogue for my experience with stimulant drugs, one that had until then been rather positive in many respects. Regrettably, it would prove to have only been the prologue.

Not long after returning to Fukuoka, Jean was made an offer the businessman in him couldn’t easily refuse: several hundred grams of crystal meth at a price that tickled to his animal spirits. No sooner had the deal gone through than he was parceling speed out to anyone he could contact, unloading as much of the drug as possible, save a hefty stash for himself and his girlfriend Nori.

I, too, was foisted into buying some twenty g’s.

“Shinji will be in town,” Jean murmured cryptically over the phone. “If you want to meet up, it’ll have to be at ‘twenty o’clock’.”

Twenty g’s! Good god, that was enough to keep me twisted around Shinji’s little finger for the rest of the 2001. I didn’t know if I could be trusted around that much speed.

“Twenty? Can’t we meet earlier? At, say, five?” I offered. Five grams would have been more manageable.

“No. It’s twenty or never. And so you know, our friend won’t be as generous with his time next time.”

“Twenty, huh?”

If only I had said “no thanks” to Jean, the next few years might have turned out differently. I probably wouldn’t be facing jail time today. But, I couldn’t. Something within me just wasn’t capable of saying “no“ to my friend.

*

At first I managed to keep the habit at a minimum, smoking only on weekends, but it didn’t take long for those weekends to start including Thursday and then Wednesday nights, and the occasional Tuesday night, as well. By the time Sunday night would zip around my body would be screaming for sleep. Four or five days speeding, with the pedal to the metal and only nominal catnaps on the sofa, would finally catch up with me and utter exhaustion would drag my listless body into a groggy tomb.

By Monday morning, I would be feeling much better than I had the right to be. My appetite would have returned, too, so I would make a breakfast of miso soup,asazuke pickles and rice. I’d drink several glasses of vegetable juice for the health in it. Today I would eat healthily, I’d declare, and rejuvenate. Yes, rejuvenate! Lots of fruits and vegetables for Rémy’s poor body. And vitamins, yes, vitamins!

I would put the lighter and rolled up 1000-yen note away in my sock drawer and tell myself I won't be needing the paraphernalia today, that I'll be able to get through the day just fine without it.

My confidence would be unshakable: I would get through the day without lighting up, end of story. The itch, after all, is gone. I'm rested and the furthest thing from my mind is smoking.

I would have to remind myself, of course, that this is the case, that I'm okay, that I'm above it, that smoking even a little . . . Nah, I don't need it. I just don’t need it . . . Besides, there are so many other things to fill my mind: my dissertation, the errands I’ve got to run today, the calls I have to make, the dinner I want to prepare, and the date I'd like to arrange.

But, Shinji would be back in no time pestering me, peeking over my shoulder to see what I'm up to. I tell him to shoo.

I would busy myself with work and even make some progress on my dissertation. I’d have a nice lunch, more vegetables, and be feeling pretty damn good considering all the abuse I’d put my body through recently. And yet, I wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that wherever I went, whatever I did, Shinji was shadowing me.

As the day progressed, my thoughts would turn increasingly to Shinji, and I would have to convince myself that I neither need nor want to smoke.

Why, I could smoke whenever I wanted to, especially when you consider how much meth I have tucked away in my sock drawer. There’s no reason to smoke up on today of all days, when the weekend, well not quite the weekend, but Thursday night was only three short days away, and I'd be able to smoke myself silly then. Just think how good it will feel to smoke again after having not smoked for a few days. This argument seems to have gained traction: my head is thoroughly convinced of the benefits of waiting; my body is beginning to understand. I go out to run errands.

All the same, by the time I come home, there would be an itch I’d give my eyeteeth to scratch. And so, straight to the sock drawer I would go and remove the rolled up 1000-yen note and one of the many small Ziploc bags of meth stashed there. I would sprinkle the crystalline shards onto a fresh sheet of foil, light up and inhale.

*

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.

3.20 Gum Tree

“Moshi moshi,” I said, taking the cell phone from Azami.

“This is Yuri,” said the voice on the other end. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“I’m so sorry, Yuri. I lost my phone the other day and I . . . ”

Boy, was I getting tired of lying to everyone. If I’d had my druthers I would have been up front with my friend and told her what had really happened: that my place had been raided by the police, my cell phone, computers and passport confiscated, and that in less than twelve hours I was going in for questioning. I would have also told her what I feared most: that the cops would arrest me the moment I set foot in their office. But this was Japan. You didn't wear your heart on your sleeve here; you put it in a lacquered box, wrapped it up in a furoshiki, and shoved it into a dark corner of your closet out of sight with the rest of your troubles.

We agreed to meet at Small Spaces in an hour. In the meantime, Yuri would contact the others and tell them where to go, and I would return to my apartment and try to reach Naila.

It should have been around seven-thirty in the morning in D.C. If I didn’t get through now, there wouldn’t be another chance until Sunday morning. And that was cutting it far too close comfort.

I dialed my cousin’s number, and the phone started to ring. Fourteen rings later and still no one answered.

“Goddammit!” I shouted into the receiver. Trying the number again, I got nothing.

“She’s not home?” Azami asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s out or if she’s just not answering. The only thing I know is that I’ll be up a gum tree if I don’t get in touch with her before tomorrow morning.”

*

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.

3.19 Out of Luck

Jean had said he wanted to get in touch with nature while on the island, so the next morning the three of us went on a quest for magic mushrooms.

I was still hopped-up on yaba by then, having spent the half of the night wandering around the dimly lit, sparsely populated village in a fruitless search for a party or a go-go bar or a show featuring genital acrobatics--anything that might fight back, if only temporary, the army of ants that were crawling in my pants.

Unfortunately little was open, nothing but a dismal little “Cyber Cafe” with two lousy computers and dial-up Internet. A hippy with blond dreadlocks dressed in what looked like pajamas sat before one of the computers, hunting and pecking at the keyboard, clicking the mouse with the frenzied urgency of a day trader. Watching him reminded me of something Jean had once said: Most hippies today are fakes, poseurs.

Returning to the bungalow, I plopped down on the bed and turned on the boob tube. A Thai soap opera was on. It featured beautiful people with gleaming white teeth and alabaster complexions living lives of such material abundance it made me wonder what the people living in the shantytowns along the train tracks and the stinking rivers of Bangkok must have made of it all. Flipping the channel, I caught CNN just as it was breaking for a commercial. Imagine that. Changing the channel, MTV was showing Crazy Town’s Butterfly--sh’gah babeh--a-fucking-gain. NHK was stultifying viewers on the next channel with its bone-dry reportage of the news--only the facts, ma’am.

“Ah, fuck it,” I said, turning the TV off, and headed out to the beach where I waited for the sun to rise.

*

Walking along the beach several hours later, Nori, Jean, and I happened upon a bar, the walls of which were painted in a wildly psychedelic motif, like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

“Bingo,” Jean said, snapping his fingers.

He sauntered up to counter and asked the bartender, a scrawny Thai, and the only person in the joint, if he knew where we might be able to score some shrooms.

The bartender laughed and in impeccable English told us that five years ago magic mushrooms would have been easy to get hold of, but now?

“Sorry, but you’re fresh out of luck, mate.”

Jean sat down at the counter and ordered a round of Singhas.

When the bartender brought the beers over, he whispered something to the effect that if it was partying we were after, he might be able to arrange for something.

Jean was game and gave him the nod, warning, “Better not disappoint us!”

“You won’t be,” the bartender replied and took off down the beach, giving us the run of the bar. When he returned half an hour later, he produced a small case of pink pills with WY imprinted on them.

Jean and I looked at each other and started laughing.

*

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.

3.18 Crazy Pills

The twin-engine touched down on the tarmac of Ko Samui’s modest airport by and by.

Jean, Nori, and I shambled off the plane, ears ringing, and made our way to an improvised baggage claim area where we huddled with the other woozy passengers. Once we had our bags, we hailed a taxi that took us to the other side of the island where a pair of bungalows was waiting for of us.

By this point, Jean and I had been awake for over forty hours, and high as kites for half that time. Only now were the effects of the yaba we had taken finally subsiding; the rope we had been dangling from all night and all day finally slackened enough to let our feet brush the ground.

After a long trip as long as that, you might think I would have been ready to hit sack, but no, I was still having too much fun--strange fruit indeed--and didn’t want the party to end.

Jean and Nori, however, had the good sense to call it a night. With a toodle-oo, the two retired to their bungalow. The door to their bungalow shut, the curtains drawn, for the next two hours the quiet of the evening was broken every now and then with giggles and moans, and the thud of a headboard banging against the wall, steady as a metronome.

Left alone to my own self-destructive devices, I  took the roll of yaba out of my pocket. There were still five more of those crazy pink pills left. Splitting one in two, I popped half of it into my mouth. Good god, what was I thinking?

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.