We have once again survived a massive hangover, I noted with satisfaction. Toshiya and Die were not hit over the head and kidnapped as we thought; they came back with arms full of every sort of breakfast I could think of. It seemed like Toshiya and Die had scoured the corners of the world for the foods they brought back.
At current, Die was involved in an intense staring contest with Toshiya. Apparently, the blue-head had woken up a bit groggy and spent his journey to the front door trampling all over Die. Die had a few bruises and was now seeking to sue. Die broke down when Kyo screamed that his piercings were going to get infected if someone didn’t help him dabble a bit of disinfectant on them.
I ran to the scene and assisted. When I came back, Die was smoking and Toshiya was whacking the cupboard doors closed and snapping them open really fast. I nearly got hit in the head. Then I noticed the food on the table, and the food on the kitchen floor, and the food he was putting in the fridge, and the food he was putting in the cupboards, and the food on the counter.
“I didn’t know what you guys all wanted, so I grabbed a little of everything. Hell, I don’t even know what I want.” Toshiya grinned, still a bit flushed from the trip out in the cold. “My eyes are all flowery from the choices.”
All flowery from the choices? What a strange expression. His voice had descended into a lisp, and I could see his teeth as he flashed me an unusual smile. But there was so much food; was the leftovers going to even fit in the fridge? The house? But I love food; I eat and drink whatever. It’s just the practicality of the whole situation that concerns me.
Toshiya reassured me of his knack for swallowing food, “I have strange urges for strange foods at strange moments. There are four blood B persons in the room, and then you.”
And I suppose I’m a blood type A person?
“Yes,” he replied. “I can tell; who else would have arranged 5 glasses of boiled and cooled water for aspirin? I mean, hell! You organized who was having the shower first and dug out my towels! The ones I haven’t seen in like years! I would have offered a jug of tap water, a handful of aspirin, washed myself, leaving them to squabble and used the bed sheets to dry myself.”
He laughed, “Just imagine it! Jump into the sheet and YAH! Rolling between them and rubbing yourself dry. Sorta like dressing under the covers in the middle of winter, only there’s like other people. Argh, terribly embarrassing.”
“That’s fine in a way –”
Die grabbed a sheet from the cupboard and ran around. He squealed and pretended to be Toshiya drying himself in bed. Toshiya grabbed the nearest umbrella, chased and whacked him a good one. He put the umbrella back and brushed back his hair. He grinned at me and apologised.
“You were saying? Excuse Die, he’ll just recover on the floor.”
“Uh . . . well, you do end up dry. Traditions are hard to follow.”
“It’s not the making of a fine host, contemporary or traditional.” Serious as he spoke about responsibilities and crap, but then he kicked Die in the shins; the illusion shattered.
I agreed but I wasn’t about to say that. He pilled the bags up on the kitchen counter and started ripping open packets. I stood there and watched him, not knowing where to put my hand or feet. Die tried to help him while keeping as far away as he could, and offered me coffee, juice, smoothie, milkshake, bottled water and tea, asking me to pick.
“You can have coffee; cappuccino, dark or with milk.” Toshiya held up 2 foam cups.
He bent down and disappeared behind the wooden counter, “There’s always juice; I bought apple, orange, tropical and blackcurrant.”
He appeared again, rising with 4 heavy bottles of coloured water, it seemed. Where do you know all about these fruit juices? He sounded like a tour guide, except instead of giving me the history of Tokyo, he was rattling on about the choice I had between green tea and black, coffee and apple juice, offering chocolate milkshake and banana smoothie.
I picked tea, juice and bottled water.
Toshiya frowned, standing behind the kitchen counter covered in food with a blue apron on; he reminded me of an adorable anarchistic child playing in the kitchen, making a mess smashing all the eggs. He did have the meat softener in his hand. I was grateful that Kyo wasn’t there; he’d probably think the kitchen was a torture room.
“Is that green tea, black tea or other, like jasmine or chrysanthemum? Apple, orange, tropical or blackcurrant? Do you want chilled water or room temperature?”
Green tea, jasmine tea, orange juice, tropical juice, chilled. He picked them up and placed them on a lacquered tray; I’m surprised he has trays. He prattled on and I just sort of frowned, the words going in one ear and coming out the other. Die nudged me.
He laughed, “Even your drinks are sensible. I picked black tea with banana smoothie, chocolate milkshake and blackcurrant juice.”
Tea with smoothie and milk based drinks? Banana with chocolate with blackcurrant? Juice and milk? Gross.
Kyo and Shinya joined us at the table. Toshiya twisted his hair up and acted like a frustrated babysitter; but he was always smiling. He offered the drinks. He set it all down; the cutlery, the spoons, the chopsticks, the napkins, the hot towels, and the plates. He tried to be a good host, or whatever that was suppose to be.
“Like a blood type A.” He pulled a face and broke down into cackles.
He pointed at me and turned red laughing, choking out that I should see my weird expression then. At least he was doing a good job, defining the foods and drinks specifically with animated descriptions. I would have made a stuff up of pretending to be a blood type B. I was having a hard time understanding where the hot towels came from.
“That was easy; I boiled hot water, dunked them in, wringed it out and then steamed them. Isn’t that correct? Oh, well stuff it. If it isn’t correct, I’m not doing it again.” He sucked air into his mouth and pretended to be a blowfish.
How typically blood type B. I asked for my tray, and the permission to eat. He pushed my hand away and had me seated; he had to fill up the tray first and accused me of being an impatient guest, all the while laughing. He offered me his slippers; I tried to decline; he offered his slippers; I tried to decline. He stole my shoes.
“The other slippers aren’t as good; mine’s been broken in and you are the eldest. My grandmother would be horrified if you don’t accept, now would you want that?”
I took the slippers off him and he ran away with my shoes happily.
He jumped on the balls of his feet, “Now, what do you guys want to eat? There’s rice, fried rice, there’s canned fruits, and I’ve got apples, pears cored and cut if you want some, and I could always throw together a fruit salad. There’s pancake and I even bought sausages, bacon and eggs – cold, sunny-side up or otherwise etc. You get the gist. Here’s the bread and the toaster is under there. Do you want butter? I got jam in the fridge. I have noodles, fresh and instant ones if anyone’s got the urge. And Shinya, I’ve got jelly; peach! Come on, be a little excited!”
Toshiya held up the little plastic cups triumphantly and waved them about before throwing them at Shinya. I looked at the kitchen counter; my eyes kept on flicking from one stop to the next, each packaging brighter than the next. He’s right; your eyes do go all flowery from the choices. I felt my headache coming back.
“Pancake flavours come in strawberry, pear, peach, French vanilla, apple, and blueberry; marshmallow, ice cream, jam, cream, lemon juice and brown sugar, cinnamon, fruit and syrup are all optional. You guys know all about sushi; flavours are tuna, yellow tail and salmon roe. The soy sauce and wasabi is in the fridge.”
“Seems like lunch and breakfast.” Shinya frowned, “Just how are we supposed to decide?”
“Consider it ‘brunch’. Hey, I bought white pizza too! Die, want some? Forgot to tell you.”
A million different things were coming out of his mouth; colourful and lavish descriptions, spitting out the names I didn’t even know of, much less understood. He knew the history of them; maybe he really is a tour guide for the stomach.
“Does anyone like Korean noodles? I’ve got ‘soy bean noodles’. It’s really yummy; has a nice thick sauce mixture that comes with it. I’ve got this weird flavour called chacharoni, which is a soy bean paste. Anyway, this is served in Chinese restaurants in Korea, so I guess it’s actually Chinese-Korean. Hey, does anyone like ‘Sago Pearl Tea’? Surely you guys have had it, haven’t you?”
It sounded like a gushing running commentary. This was Toshiya, who probably did have a running commentary on whatever subject you brought up. But he was mind-boggling at food commentary; if he wasn’t our bassist, he’d probably be a food critic. Or maybe an artist; I could just see him painting with spaghetti and wasabi, with the odd little streak of mustard.
“I like food but don’t know how to cook.” He said, embarrassed. “Just give me the bloody kettle! Stop laughing, Die, it’s not that funny. You know I’m too impatient to stand at the stove; so what if I rather instant ramen, it’s the only thing I’m good at cooking. And – wow! – it’s instant!”
But Die couldn’t stop laughing. Toshiya grabbed the miniature pizza and stuffed it in his mouth.
“As my guest, you are obliged to try everything.”
Kyo was bright red as the dam of his lips threatened to break. Shinya didn’t know what to do and buried himself behind his fruit salad, his jelly cups and his cups of juice and tea. I watched the insanity, noting the little eccentricities of my dear friends.
“You like Italian food right? This is ‘white pizza’, an Italian breakfast item. They sell them fresh in Rome at these stands in the morning markets. People can shop for fresh ingredients, eating breakfast as they do it. Doesn’t that sound fantastic?”
“This Italian breakfast item was also made to be chewed and digested, not swallowed whole.”
Kyo was waving his hands madly now. I jerked at Toshiya’s sleeve and pointed at Kyo who was near convulsing, stuck sitting in the small space of the corner; he couldn’t move.
“I think he’s trying to say that he’s about to laugh or spew, I don’t know since I can’t read his mind, but would you please get a bucket.” I dryly pointed at the balloon in the corner.
We had all survived another massive hangover; we were all washed, aspirin-ladled and liquid-filled. Satisfied that we were all seated, that Kyo wasn’t going to die (does the guy not understand wasabi is wasabi?), and our trays were filled, Toshiya finally announced that we could start eating. We took spent the rest of the day off watching videos, eating everything in Toshiya’s apartment.
Toshiya scratched his head and laughed, a tad embarrassed. “I honestly didn’t realise I had so much instant food in my cupboards . . . swear . . .”
I stayed behind to help clean up while Shinya offered his sincere apologies and bowed again and again till Toshiya practically pushed him out the door, tearing the borrowed slippers away. The other two just attacked Toshiya with a hug and said their goodbyes, abandoning slippers so hazardously at the door. I ordered them to go home and stay home.
“Don’t you trust us?” Kyo held a shrimp fork to his chest.
“Shinya, maybe, but you and Die, no.”
He narrowed his eyes, “I don’t think I like you very much today. Maybe I’ll send Flora after you.”
Toshiya was curious, “Who is Flora?”
“My scorpion.”
“You have a scorpion!? Flora? What kind of a foreign name is that? Kyo, I thought you promised me that wouldn’t be extreme even after you moved to your own place.”
“I’m not extreme; it’s manmade and computerised, like everything else in the world.” Kyo frowned, “What would people think if I didn’t practice what I preach? I’d be ashamed of myself. Flora is Roman, I think, you know, Italy. I think it means flower.”
“Oh, I see. Kyo, why are you trying to steal my shrimp fork?”
“It’s for protection and I like it.”
“From what?”
“Big people. I can stab their eye with it, you know.”
Toshiya laughed; his imagination was fixed on the dry comments of the police officer as he stared at the little plastic evidence bag with an eyeball and shrimp fork (‘Um yes . . . I see . . . so Mr. . . . Kyo? Can I call you that? Yes, why were you running around with Mr. Hara’s shrimp fork terrorizing the streets of Tokyo?’).
“Kyo?” I called.
“Yes?”
“Try not to bump into anyone on your way home.”
They disappeared, disillusioned by the idea of cleaning up and doing the dishes; Toshiya stored the extra slippers away. I started the dishes. I don’t mind the dishes; it’s just the simple and calm movement of my hands, a bit of detergent and some water.
I washed and Toshiya rinsed. Why didn’t he have a dishwasher? He could afford one, and there was an empty space under the kitchen table for it.
He hopped on to the bench for a break, “Thanks for helping me clean. If it were just myself, I’d probably just dump the whole thing in the trash and buy a new set. Maybe I should buy disposables, eh? Hate detergent. You know, you’re still a guest. I’m feeling pretty guilty here making you help clean up.”
“It’s okay. I’m volunteering, besides, I miss washing dishes.”
“I don’t know how you can miss washing dishes. I would get a dishwasher, but I’m too lazy to go hunting for one, so . . .”
“It’s domestic, and it’s good when you do it with someone else.”
“Oh, you mean me? How sweet! Yeah, well it’s still pretty shitty.”
“It can be; I use to wash dishes and make up stories. It’s a normal activity, like one that you wouldn’t do when you’re in a band, and you tour a lot, so it’s like reaffirming yourself.”
“Really? Yes, I suppose; my mother and I use to sing to each other or put on a duologue.”
“I hate singing. You use to sing with your mother?”
“Not very good at it. Well, okay, she’s the one who mostly sang to me but yeah, I did if you count screaming as singing. You’ve heard my tragic attempt at karaoke. Swear, Kyo’s enthusiasm for coughing is inspiring.”
He arranged the glasses neatly on the drying rack, dripping wet and turned the tap on again.
“I don’t like drying. The cloth leaves these funny stringy things on the glass.”
Only he would be concerned about the state of the glass and it’s crystalline appearance, while not knowing the name of his enemy that marred it so. He was right in the end; there was almost no food left in the house after today.
“How did you manage to buy so much food? How do you know what to get?”
“I don’t know; I eat so I am? I just know?”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, but without food, people die, and my senses are tickled by taste.”
Practical, I like that, but food was transformed to something likened to glittering magic potions under his tapered fingers. He was a bit teary telling me about starvation, and then chirpy. Instant joy; can that be bought? I want it from him. I wanted his vitality, the loveliness contained in that feeling that attracted me once upon a time; but optimism can’t be bought.
He was dreamy, “I like different foods. My mother said that even if in life you couldn’t enjoy things, there was still food. If you couldn’t taste, you could always smell it. Food and music, she said. If you couldn’t hear, you could always eat. If you couldn’t taste, you could always listen.”
“Your mother sounds great.”
“Oh, she is! She is wonderful, really, and my father. Both my parents are wonderful people, strict but they were such nice people that you wanted to listen to them.” He stared at the ceiling, “Um, to think that something like one in seven people are over 65 years old in Japan.”
He frowned, “We have to pay taxes . . . uh . . .”
He told me about his bizarre eating habits.
“Sometimes, I’d just go to the Shinjuku area expecting to go shopping. I’d spend an hour buying one item, and then I’d just get tired and go looking for some eatery. I’d sit down telling myself that I was just resting for a moment, so I order. But then I’d see someone else eating something and I’d want to try it, so I’d order it. Then I see something else, so I order that too. And then, I end up sitting there for the whole afternoon trying everything!” He paused, “So now I know so many shopkeepers!”
He bit his lips and then almost glowed, “But I have a lot of fun.”
“I’m surprised you don’t get fat.” I expected him to hit me.
He just kept on talking. “It goes right through me . . . heaven knows why.”
It was peaceful, standing together at the sink doing something as simple of washing the dishes. He didn’t try and bath me in detergent water, like Die. He didn’t try to poison me with the detergent, like Kyo. He wasn’t silent, distant and full of disquiet, like Shinya. He hopped lightly on the balls of his feet, bouncing up and down constantly. I wonder how he manages the slippers and if he ever gets tired.
“Of course, but then I just go to sleep for a few day and all better. The slippers come with practice.”
“You seem to be back to your normal happy self.”
“Happy? Define happy for me.”
“Okay, so you’re not back to your normal happy self yet.”
He laughed, magnetic in his charm. “Oh, I’m high. That doesn’t mean I’m happy. And funny you should think that happiness is my ‘normal’ self. I must have said a hundred times that I’m a pessimistic and introspective person when I’m on my off days. It’s not like I’m depressing, just . . . um . . . subdued, you could say.”
“What would you say about your happiness then?”
He looked thoughtful, “I’m satisfied . . . for the moment. The band is well. Everyone is well. But I want to find my michi, you know, know my purpose, my path in life . . . I guess I don’t yet so I’m looking . . .”
He turned away and continued rinsing. I watched him for a silent moment, trying to see into him. I had to decide between the Toshiya that I knew to be playful and the Toshiya that was looking for his michi. The drying rack was full; he laid out these cream tea towels and pilled the dishes and utensils on them. So western, his tea towels and the way he cleaned the kitchen. He handled the towels carefully.
“You’re wrong about the typical me. I like to have fun, be light, but dark things have always held me; I feel . . . like an outsider. When you met me all those years ago, you really were catching me at a moment. If I was always like that, I’d send myself insane thinking, which is why I just wanna turn off and be mindless most of the time.”
I nodded, listening. I continued washing the countless dishes and utensils, one sink of water and another. The last utensil was rinsed and the water was an ash grey. It was already 12 AM.
He threw the last spoon on a pile, “Would you like to stay?”
An invitation reciprocated in kind; I said yes. He nodded and skipped off to organise sleeping arrangements. I followed him; his apartment had lonely rooms, filled with no one. I wonder how he survived surround by the emptiness. He glanced back and I can’t help but think about how utterly devious and cold he looks sometimes, like a calm snake watching me.
His bedroom was dishevelled. It smelt stuffy, of lavender, clover and lingering jasmine. The bedcovers were undone, sagging to the floor and draping across one corner of the large bed. It was bigger than my bed; it was big enough to fit three people. Red, red and more red; it wasn’t so shocking now, but it was the first time; the walls awash in a bloody glare.
“I like the width of it. It’s a king, you know.” He said, and opened the window.
There were books everywhere, littered like tiny satellites to the monstrous centrepiece bed. Little books of foreign poetry; traditional haiku; translated texts of Shakespeare, and myths and legends of every religious tradition; philosophy; the Bible; a science fiction book; a dictionary; more manga books than I had fingers or toes. I didn’t know who he was anymore.
He picked up a stray book and patted the cover, “It’s a bit messy.”
I noticed it was in English; he doesn’t even know English; he hated English in school; so why does he have English books lying around? Did he read Goethe in his spare time? Why does he have Leo Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’ in Russian as well as the translated text? I didn’t ask. Multifaceted gem, glistening in the dark, telling me a hundred and one stories.
“I like the way they smell.” He explained.
He could have just bought all Japanese books. A Banana Yoshimoto title lied neglected on the dressing table. A few bottles of perfume and make up, lots and lots of little compacts. Little lipstick cases, ebony, blood red and royal blue. Mirrors, little mirrors. A candle. Little bottles of nail polish. A dirty pair of joggers on the dressing table. Floss. The conflicting images were strange. Was Toshiya in a dress the same as Toshiya in jeans?
He took out a new pillow and a blanket, “You can have the bed. I’ll be fine on the sofa.”
“No, let’s share; your bed is much bigger than mine.”
He nodded and placed the pillow and blanket on the bed. I picked up a pile of books and set them down in a corner. He pulled the bedcovers away and stuffed them in the laundry basket. We didn’t get to sleep until 1 AM. His scent was the dryness of paper. Just as ice is water, and steam is ice, he was somewhere between saliva and snow.
+
“Kaoru . . . are you still awake?”
“How can I not be when a herd of elephants just ran through the room?”
“A herd of . . . oh, sorry, didn’t realise I was so loud.”
“No problems. Sorry, didn’t care to mention that I’m a pretty light sleeper. What were you doing anyway?”
“Snack. You are?”
“Um . . . yeah, insomnia from my earlier days.”
“Oh . . . then, can I talk to you? I’m trying to go to sleep and I can’t.”
“Sure, about what?”
“Chocolate.”
“WHAT??”
“Just kidding. You really believed that, didn’t you?”
“Well, I’m a little out of it.”
“Oh, ye of little faith in my reasoning capabilities.”
“Oh, ye of little sleep next to me who won’t shut up.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven. We have a meeting to attend tomorrow.”
“Boring?”
“Probably, but that’s not the point; we still have to turn up.”
“I knew having you stay wouldn’t be good for my pet comforts.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna drag me up in the morning, aren’t you? Fuck.”
“Yes, so go to sleep.”
“Okay, okay. Sweet dreams from the Sandman, eh?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
“Is it just me or do you find this ironic? I mean, you’re the insomniac and you’re telling ME to go to sleep? I’m the one who just zones out and yet I’m the one trying to stay awake. Isn’t that funny?”
“Haha, it’s hilarious. Now be quiet.”
“. . . goodnight.”
Arna.