“Irasshaimase!” the waiter shouted, cheeks flushed and ruddy, his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose. He pulled his tight black fitted tee back down as it crept up past his baby Buddha belly, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the orange bandana tied around his neck, and welcomed the three guests entering the izakaya, seating them at the bar.
Nori, Sora & Shinji came to this izakaya every evening after work. Totokichi was just a few blocks from their office in Shinjuku, and served some of the best karaage in Tokyo- the flesh juicy and flavored perfectly with sweetened soy and garlic, each piece with a fox colored starchy coating that stayed crisp until the last round of beer. It was the kind of fried chicken that left a sweet and salty mix of herbs and spices on each finger, which was always inevitably and delightfully licked off. The trio’s nightly pub routine was a counterbalance to their rigid and regimented daily pattern of employment. From the moment they turned the corner into the alley where Totokichi was, their eyes greeted with the glowing beacon of bright red and white paper lanterns outside the establishment, their white collars were loosened and released. They were no longer loyal salary men, beholden to the oppressive pseudo-familial structure of the financial services corporation they worked for. They entered into a cozy microcosm of Japan, where the energy was buzzing, the vibrations palpable, where warmth teemed. Where waiters, chefs and bartenders jubilantly shouted orders and greetings. Where the entire bar sat shoulder to shoulder and sang happy birthday for patrons as one hive, regardless of whether that person was in your party or not. Totokichi was home in the way that home never was for Nori, Sora & Shinji.
“Biru mitsu o kudasai,” Sora raised his hand, ordering three icy cold draft beers. He lit a cigarette, passing one each to his two friends. “So what’s today’s question?” Shinji mumbled, his lips tight, struggling to form words while keeping the cigarette in his mouth. “Or does anyone have anything else going on?”
“Hmm,” Nori mused. “Last time you cried?”
“Damn, man. It’s that kind of night?”
“Douzo,” announced the waiter, placing the beers in front of the men.
“Two weeks ago, for me,” Sora took a long drag of his cigarette, a swig of beer, and picked up his chopsticks, gingerly tweezing the pickled vegetables that had been served with the beers and placing them in his mouth. “I keep having the same dream where I’m walking alone down the street, heading to meet some friends at Westlight, this rooftop bar in Williamsburg I go to every time I’m in New York. What’s true about my personality in real life is true in this recurrent dream, as well — if I’m ever going to a bar to meet friends for drinks, I like getting there a half hour early. I sit at the bar alone and get a drink or two in my system, to sort of savor those last few moments of being in my own head. I love feeling that liquid warmth course through me. I love focusing on that feeling, before I have to switch on. It’s what I do to charge my social battery.”
The first round of plates had arrived. Smoky whole grilled squid, marinated in soy and sliced into rings. Panko-crusted crab and potato croquettes. Savory cabbage and pork belly pancakes that were flaky and crispy on the outside and gooey and hot on the inside. Silken tofu battered, fried, topped with shredded radish and seaweed, and served in a shallow bath of fish stock.
“This time, I walk in, sit at the bar, and order my beer,” Sora continued. “I look around the bar, taking in the crowd. As I scan the room, my eyes fall on the back of a tall, broad-shouldered guy talking to a girl in a small circle of people. The way he’s standing, the way his fade haircut is cut square on the back of his neck — it’s so familiar. I know this guy. I sip my beer, waiting for the guy to turn slightly so I can see his face. When he finally does, my — ”
Behind them, a glass falls off another party’s table to the ground and shatters, spilling whiskey and soda all over the floor. “Ah, gomen gomen!” The drunk older gentleman sheepishly bends down to pick up the broken glass he knocked over and is stopped by the waiter, who smiles and quickly comes back with a dustpan and mop.
“ — my beer falls out of my hand. Wow, that was weird,” Sora remarks. “Anyway, in the dream, he turns around and I realize immediately that it’s Kouki.”
Nori and Shinji both softy exhaled in unison. Kouki was a close friend of theirs from university. Throughout university, and especially in their final year, when the four of them shared a house together with two other friends, they had been like brothers. In their second year, Kouki’s mother died after a long battle with ALS. Over time, she lost all motor function and eventually lost the ability to breathe on her own. Kouki took the loss of his mother extremely hard. He began drinking heavily, using drugs, and was constantly running into trouble with the university and with the police. He never graduated. After university, the friends lived in different cities around the world, but always organized gatherings at least once or twice a year when they were home in Tokyo, at Totokichi. Kouki moved to Okinawa for work and picked up surfing. He had always seemed happy — and Kouki always wore his heart on his sleeve. He was always full of pure joy and love; he brought an energy and warmth to any room he entered. It was such a shock when he took his own life.
They had reached the shochu segment of the night. Shinji ordered karaage and poured each of the men a small shot of the distilled spirit. This particular shochu had that distinct grain and barley taste typical of shochu, with a hint of sweet potato.
Sora went on. “I walk up to him slowly, in disbelief. As I approach, he turns toward me, his face lighting up in that classic Kouki way. He laughs mirthfully and gives me the biggest bear hug I’ve ever received, tears streaming down his face. ‘Where the hell have you been, Sora? I’ve missed you!’”
‘Me?! How are you here? You…’
‘I know…I know. But one day a year, I’m allowed to come back. The rules are — I can’t contact, in any way shape or form, anyone I knew on Earth. I can’t stay for longer than 24 hours, and I can’t choose where that day on Earth will be spent. I just get dropped in a random place. I’ve had some really interesting days — been places I never dreamt of going when I was alive. The one time I ended up in Japan, I traveled all day and spent the entire evening in Totokichi, in hopes that I would run into you guys. But I never did.’
‘I can’t believe…I’m so happy you’re here, man.’
Sora teared up. “And at that point in the dream, still hugging Kouki, I always wake up, my eyes puffy and wet from the tears. I’m always filled with such a mix of joy, sadness, and relief. It’s just so surreal…I really miss him.”
“I’m jealous that you got to see him and talk to him. I miss him too,” Nori said.
Shinji, taking a generous bite of the fried chicken, juices dribbling down his chin, lifted his shochu, the ice clinking against the glass as it shifted — “To Kouki. Kampai! ”
“Kampai!” The men replied.
“Kampai!” The teenage boys seated next to Nori, Shinji and Sora raised their drinks.
“Kampai!” The old man at the table behind them joined in, along with his companions. Soon, every table in that room of the izakaya had their drink in the air. Even if no one else there knew Kouki; even if no one with their drink up had even heard Sora recounting his dream…the hive buzzed together.
“Tsugi no raundo, o kudasai!” Sora called out to the waiter, ordering another round of drinks and lighting another cigarette.
“Hai, sugu ni!”
