If
that gook hadn't dropped it, things might've been different -- at least,
no blood spread all over his room -- Ron's, I mean -- here -- in the
Kimi Ryokan. Well, the cops have it now, the blade, a tantou, ninja
style. They'll get me soon enough, too, I don't care. I’ll just wait.
People
thought he was a bad-ass, and yeah he looked it. Biker beard, leather,
studs, beer-gut with a long history. He kidded around, but I was cool. A
young’n, he called me, Davey-boy. Told stories like my old man used
to, only hardcore, about his time in 'Nam, the crap that happened. Got
me wanting to be like him. Really fucking did.
The
damn cunt.
Once
he left a note at the front desk. An envelope with my name on it, marked
confidential. Said if I came to the lounge at 10:30, that girl of his,
Shawna, the tall one, would meet me, let me do it with her. Okay, so I
never screwed a girl before. He got that much out of me.
I
didn't take it serious, and sure enough, the gang was there, the three
of them, laughing their heads off.
These
two girls, Shawna and Trish, he kept ‘em on a short leash. Trish was
tiny, Shawna a real amazon here in Japan. They did anything, mainly
boffing Japanese clients, men with yen. Easy money. Easier than swinging
a hammer on construction sites, which is what I did back home. Before I
hit the road and ended up here thinking I could teach English or some
crap. Man was I wrong.
Another
time, Saburo at the front gave me a message my old lady called. Urgent,
he said. I thought, she's coming to see me, which she once said she'd do
cause she was lonely what with the old man and his heart kicking it last
year. I left soon after. Had to break out, you know, see what I could
find in the world.
Well,
no surprise, I bought it, hook 'n sinker. I phoned and I knew. Another
practical joke, but not fucking funny, not at all. She hadn’t called
anyone, wasn’t even going to. Had a new life, she said. Already a new
guy, with money this time, planning to re-marry, move up the coast.
Really sorry, David, hope you can be here for the wedding. Yeah, she
sounded so sincere, always the actress, like she thought I’d really
want to meet the asshole who was gonna take my old man's place. I wished
her well, I'm a good son, but she got no promises from me. So fucking
what if she thought my dad was a no-good coward and good-riddance.
Shawna
and Trish, when I ran into them, were laughing, but they saw I wasn't
and told Ron to leave me alone. Shut the fuck up, I told 'em. Bitches, I
thought. I can take care of myself. But he shouldn’t have done it,
screwing with my old lady. I let him know to his face. He was just
whack, the kind who does crap to his friends, no clue at all.
The
funniest thing, though, was this last Saturday morning I was lying in my
room and Ron came over, a favor he wanted. He was going to the coin
laundry 'cause his women hadn't come home yet from the night before.
He'd be gone all day, would I take the clothes out of the machine later,
put them in the dryer for an hour, then leave 'em in a basket. Sure, I
said, whatever.
In the
afternoon, I walked into the lobby, heard his voice booming. Hey Davey-boy,
he says, how's the laundry? Did you handle it well? Looks like
Shawna’s pretty little panties have been handled too well, know what I
mean? Take them back to your room, did ya? Enjoy sniffing 'em, did ya?
What's this stain I see here?
Guests
were standing around, Shawna and Trish were busting up, and I needed a
comeback. I turned, and that's when a pair of tiny, satiny red things
flew across the room, hit my head and fell dangling down the side of my
face.
Ron
says, thanks for doing our laundry, Davey-boy. Small token.
Hey, I
have a sense of humor like the next guy. I picked them off, held them
spread out stretched wide, laughed out loud and said, anytime Ron,
thanks. I'll take 'em to my room now.
We
watched Road Warrior that night here in the lounge. A crowd came. Not
often we got a movie in English at the Kimi. Trish and Shawna like Mel,
but they had clients, so had to miss the real action -- end-of-the-world
holocaust battles, chase scenes. Cool stuff. Ron sat slumped right in
that big chair there looking more blank than bored. I knew he was
thinking about 'Nam -- the real thing, not this movie crap.
From a
bluff, down below, tiny on the TV screen, fire and smoke. Leather and
mohawk-hair punks kill a family, rape the women first, pounding them
into the sand before the slaughter. Machete hacking, crossbows -- very
messy. Mel the hero, the big man, just watched. People in the room
say, oh my god, looks of horror on their faces. One wimp says, that's it
for me, then leaves. Ron sits, no reaction, but speaks anyway: It’s
true. Raping makes 'em easier to kill. That's what you do. Just one
thing. 'Course, killing once makes doing it again easier, too, you're
over the hump. Offing a guy is nothing really. Do one, flush your
feelings -- after that it's cake.
Pride
deep there, or he wouldn't have said it. Like he's Mel on the bluff.
Nothing new to me, he'd told it all before -- village raids, women and
kid gooks, whatnot. But the others in the lounge? Their jaws dropping,
eyes popping, man he blew 'em away. They didn't know life, how shitty,
how it is, the reality. In the dark, the lot of them, I thought. Ron
oughta take ‘em on his journey, learn like me, I thought. The movie's
a damn fantasy. Put me there to face the fuckin' gooks, I'd rip 'em
apart!
After,
I followed Ron to the Kalifornia next door. Typical dingy, fake America,
full of ex-pats, dusty flags and cockroaches. Entered and saw in the
seats at the back as usual, the Australian, what's his name. Too bad, no
Australian bars in Japan. The guy worked for Japan Rail, fluent in the
lingo, thought himself more Jap than the Japs, but always showed up
here. Christ, maybe he's there right now. B.J. was with him, a true
red-white-and-blue American, full of self-pity, the only foreigner
besides me who hadn’t ever boffed a Japanese chickie.
A few
others I knew the faces of, too. And sitting along the counter near the
door, I thought they were Jap toughs, Yakuza lackeys in nylon track
suits, flip-flops on their feet. But they looked different, the three of
them, no style to their hair or something, no swagger, something
protective in the way they hunched over. They spoke and it was Chinese.
I slid past them to the back, sat down with the regular gaijin.
A bit
of chit chat and before long it's the Australian saying, we don't let
Chinamen boat people into our country and, what're they doing thinking
they can pass for Japanese? Shut up, I was thinking, and threw back
another shot of Suntory. Not that I thought different, but he was too
fucking loud! Ron sat there quiet, blank, like he was still watching
Road Warrior.
The
Hong Kong triad left, but they came right back with knives. One had a
sword, a Samurai type, held in front with both hands, one the Tantou.
The Samurai charged forward, straight to the back. We were out of our
seats, lemme tell ya, pushing ourselves smack against the wall. A guy
said, what the fuck, and Samurai stopped, waggled the sword, gave each
of us a stare. His buddies fell in behind. I was shittin', man, but
tried to hold on.
He
screamed in English, where is he? B.J. said, who man, whaddya want, for
fuck's sake?
We
knew. The Australian. The asshole was already through the door of the
can behind us, for sure trying to squeeze through the puny window.
Samurai's face got redder, now he was shaking, sputtering, slicing the
air, a fucking madman. Even his buddies were freakin'.
I
heard a whimper from someone in the crowd. Blown fucking away when I
turned and saw him, Ron, his body scrunched like a baby in a crib for
chris'sake, blubbering tears, arms up shielding himself. I thought,
screw it, man!
Someone
begged, put the thing down, put it down! Off behind the bar the master
on the phone, dialing. The cops are coming, I yelled.
The
buddies were pulling back. The one with the knife grabbed at Samurai's
jacket, but Samurai shook him off. He lunged forward. Fuck everybody, he
yelled.
That's
when I grabbed the chair. Samurai waved his sword once, and I swung the
chair up at his face, thrusting, swinging, thrusting. No thoughts at
all, and screaming my face off. And he backed away, not striking, like
something wouldn't let him. A siren screeched outside, and the buddy
grabbed at him again. Samurai whipped himself around, whipping the
sword, and his buddy jerked back, slammed himself into the wall, and his
knife flew to the floor.
They
scrambled to escape, yelling at each other in Chinese, crashing through
the door. I dropped the chair, looked quickly at the others, then at the
knife. I wanted it. I wanted to hunt the gooks down, kill 'em. Do one,
just one. I dove for it, ran, kicked open the door, but outside was
quiet, the air smoky. I gripped the knife, a glint of steel hitting my
eye. A taxi whizzed past. No cops, nothing. And I slid the blade into my
jacket.
Inside,
the others were still cowering, Ron his face in his hands. The bar
master dabbing his forehead with a cloth said, thank you, thank you,
over and over. The others pulled themselves up. Ron wiped a sleeve
across his face, put on his empty look, raised his glass, said, his
voice shaky: A medal for you, Davey-boy. Yeah, fuckhead, I thought, lay
it on me!
The
pimp gave me Trish that night. Go at her, he said. Fuck your brains out.
Serious. Your big night. Sure, it was serious all right. We did it on
the tatami, in Ron's room. She's little, kinda bony. Tore her underwear
right off. Trish's a whore but a no-good actress. I drilled her hard,
but she didn't thrash or moan or feel nothing, not even pain. No show,
just nothing. So I pounded harder, right into the floor. I came hard,
too, a good come, real intense, and Trish walked out, down the hall to
the can.
Ron
came in grinning, so satisfied, like he’d been off screwing himself. I
just had my pants on. Hero, he said. My man, you can fight and fuck with
the best, he said. Shoulda been you and me in 'Nam, he said. We'd have
been a team, yeah, yeah, in the jungle, gunning down Charlie, then in
town, the dope, the whores. A total blast, man!
His
grin got wider. He shook his head low. But geez, Davey boy, he said,
what would your mother say? Then he roared with laughter and raised his
hand for a high five. Funny how I felt after doing Trish -- no emotion,
feelings flushed, just raw power. And now rage coming from nowhere, and
no fear, no high five either -- pure auto-pilot: just picked my jacket
off the floor, reached inside and stuck him in the neck with the Tantou.
Left it there, his eyes bugging like a squeezed fish. As surprised as I
was. He gurgled, wriggled, choked all over. Blood gushed and sank into
the straw. Right through the floor. See the stain, on the ceiling,
spreading like ink. Up there, all black now. I did that.
Now,
I’ll just wait. Until she sees it -- my old lady -- when she gets
here. She'll come by. Then she’ll see what I did. Yeah, and it was
cake, goddamn it. It was.
Copyright 2007 by
Alan Girling
Alan Girling’s
short fiction has appeared in such venues as Hobart, Underground Voices,
Dark Recesses Press, The MacGuffin, The Menda City Review and Smokelong
Quarterly; his non-fiction in The Grist Mill, Sage of Consciousness and
on CBC radio; his poetry in Open Wide, Snow Monkey, and Wild Thoughts.
His first play,‘Whatever Happened to Tom Dudkowski’ was produced
this year..
