2.15 The Zoo

It wasn’t until The Zoo opened down the street from my apartment that Jean and I finally got to know each other. Although he had been living in Fukuoka for nearly as long as I had, the two of us seemed to be running around in concentric circles and all I knew about the man was a few salacious rumors.

In the dark, too, about Jean’s nationality, I resorted to greeting him in English, with a "Hey, man" here, a "Whassup?" there, whenever our paths happened to cross. And so it was in English then that we spoke for the first time when curiosity compelled me to stick my head into The Zoo on its opening night.

A row of massive bouquets stood on tripods before the shop bearing congratulatory messages from companies that did business with Jean. Inside, the shop was crowded with businessmen, friends, staff, and not a few customers who, like me, had been attracted by the festive commotion.

Jean walked straight over to me, hand out and grinning broadly. “Thanks for coming.”

"Quite a store you've got here," I said.

The Zoo was deep and narrow. At the front of the shop, harmless fashion accessories were displayed: racks and racks of rings, bracelets, bags and hats. The deeper you ventured into the shop, however, the more degenerate the merchandise became. Outrageous graffiti covering the walls and ceiling pulled you further into the trip, where body modification equipment was on offer. Everything you could possibly want and more to pierce, cut, implant, stretch or tattoo your body was for sale. And, in the very rear, in The Zoo’s Holy of Holies, dissipation reigned: every kind of paraphernalia imaginable vied for space on the crowded shelves: pipes, bongs, rolling paper, scales, turbo lighters, and so on. And there in the glass case below the cash register was a smorgasbord of psychedelics, many I had never ever heard about.

"You’re so conveniently located,” I said to Jean, giddy as a boy in a toyshop, “I don't know whether to be thrilled or worried."

"You cannot believe what I have been through in the last three days to make The Zoo a possibility," Jean said excitedly. He was standing before a row of dildos, one of which wobbled and churned on the shelf. "Four days ago my realtor found this property, the next day I got the loan and signed the contract. Yesterday, we painted the place and then moved all this stuff in last night. I have not slept a minute for four days."

"Sounds like a rough week."

"No, sounds like a good week! A great week for business! There was a chance, I took it, and, boom, three days later, here I am and here you are and here is everyone else and now it's show time. You saw the sign?"

"The sign? The one out front? Yes, I . . ."

"There's a reason for that," Jean said, giving his temple a self-congratulatory tap.

Rather than hanging a shingle out front that gave the business hours like every other shop in the world, there was a board that said:

Show time: 11am to ?

"The Zoo is not just a store," Jean enthused.

"You can say that again."

"This is going to be my showcase. This store. This is but merely the beginning, my friend."

There was no way I could have known it at the time but Jean was full on, pumped up with enough amphetamines to kill a horse. I was under the naive assumption that the man bouncing before me had the stamina of Napoleon who famously functioned on as little as three hours' sleep a night. And, like le Petit Caporal, Jean was short in stature, even for a country like Japan. What he lacked in height, though, he more than compensated in his physical presence: he had the broad shoulders and powerful arms of an ape.

"Pardon me, but I don't believe I know your name," Jean said, presenting me with a business card:

Jean-Baptiste Marcel, President.

"Rémy."

"Rémy?" he said. His piercing blue eyes studied me. "You're American, no? Or am I confusing you with some one else?"

"I am American, American by birth, but I'm half French. My old man's from Avignon."

"Avignon. Interesting. And the other half?"

"Lebanese."

"Ah, Lebanese!" His eyes widened as if his suspicions had been proved correct. "You're only the second Lebanese I have ever met, and you both party. That must be some country."

"It is. You should visit it some day."

"I would. I would very much like that, but I am Jewish."

"With a name like Jean-Baptiste?" I said, pointing to his business card.

"I assure you I am as Jewish as the prophet himself."

"You've got a point there."

Jean's hair was strawberry blond, cropped militarily short. On his chin he sported a narrow beard, tinged with orange. He looked like the Devil himself.

"Now that we're neighbors, we ought to get together and party."

"Sure, anytime,” I replied, pulling my own business card out of my wallet. “I usually finish work late . . ."

In a broad gesture taking in the whole of his store, he said, "And you take me for some nine to five stiff?"

© 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.