Looking through the window of the old thrift store, I remembered walking through those aisles. Various ephemera sat on its shelves with their unspoken narratives. In the corner, an oak chair collected dust. It had the rigidness and refined qualities of a veteran. The missing back spindle, like an amputated limb, added charm. However, people only saw the chair through a lens of sympathy; it's old, and no one was willing to pay any attention even with the big yellow sticker that read “20% off”. As others passed by the oak chair, they saw a veteran and appreciated its services, but only for a fleeting moment. I stared, remembering gliding my fingers on the top rail, the unpolished surface rubbing at my skin, desperately trying to splinter it. Sitting on it was embarrassing. Kids stared and chuckled as their parents hushed them to not look at me. What an uncomfortable chair. I got up and moseyed down the aisle, abandoning it like everyone else. I like this store. It sells the most random items. That day, there was a vintage coca-cola fridge right next to a tacky leopard coat hung on the wall by a rusty nail. There is a romance in picturesque stores like this, always having warm ambient lighting that matches the hue of a golden hour. These stores never have A.C., and warmth puts me in a muddled state, time stagnant, a bubble from reality. Cupping my hands on the window, I looked for the oak chair, but the veteran had retired from its corner.
The familiar scent of urine and liquor hit me in the face with the winter breeze passing by, snapping me out of the warm memory. Glancing at my phone, it read 10:58 P.M. 1 new message.
Head back now. Your clients are coming in 20.
Okay, will be there soon!!
I had terrible punctuality, and as always I had to pick up my pace as I jogged back to the bar. It was a strange hour unique to Kabukicho. As I started losing my breath, I dropped to a walk. It was strange how the desolate the streets were, feeling as though I had accidentally walked into a mirage of time. The shutters down for most stores on the street, it was eerie how quiet it was; even a pin drop would be deafening. The harsh, white street lights illuminated a path along the asphalt, shadows of moths over the cracked paint designating the bike lane, towards the red lights. I had four thoughts while walking towards the light:
I could turn back right now,
I could run to the station,
I could catch the last train,
I could be home.
Stopping in the middle of that desolate street, I was right in front of the entrance to the red light district and its neon arches. I wanted to look back to the street behind me, but my nerves were shot and my body did not allow me to consider what choices lay behind me.
“Oh, sorry.” A stranger bumps into me, propelling me forward. I barely caught myself as the first wave of pleasure seekers engulfed me in motion. The silence, the emptiness, all gone, those four thoughts were long forgotten.
This district was my home.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m back.” I said, jogging back into the bar with performative urgency. In the half an hour or so I was gone, a dozen guests had already gotten comfortable in the booths, cozy with the hosts and hostesses. Slow jazz music filled the room, accompanied by the thick layer of tobacco in the small, poorly ventilated space.
“Lin, hurry the fuck up, Terano-san is already waiting for you in the back booth.” Manager is always stern, but even with this tone I know he is fond of me, at least more so than he is of the others. All the girls in the bar call him “Papa '' while the boys call him “Oji-san”, which means uncle. Those words always made my stomach churn, so I just called him by his name, Akira-san, or simply Manager. I quickly ushered myself into the locker room, grabbing my slippers, changing outfits, and reapplying blush, all at once. Finally, fixing my hair, I walked out to the booth.
“Terano-san! So nice to see you again!” I always feel bad for his long-suffering dress shirts trying to contain his protruding stomach. His suit was well-aged but clearly expensive, probably designer or maybe even tailored.
“Sorry I have not been able to come as often! I was on a business trip till last Tuesday.”
Sighing, I could tell he had already had a few to drink. I sat squarely next to him, looking into his eyes with as much genuineness and charisma I can muster.
“I missed you so much…what would you like to drink?”
“Hibiki, 12 years old.” A smile spread across his face.
“On the rocks as usual?” Asking in submission. It took me a long time to remember how my clients liked their drinks. I made flashcards that would sit in my school bag next to those for my Intro Biology class. Terano-san liked Hibiki whisky on the rocks, and the beaker is different from a graduated cylinder. I had one set of cards for each client. It was crucial I reviewed what weird hobbies they enjoyed chatting about, horse gambling or golf. If someone were to eavesdrop on a conversation between a skilled host and client, it should sound as though two old friends are catching up after being apart for sometime, a steady tone and no hidden undertones. Truthfully, it was no different from two strangers sitting with one another.
“You know me so well, get one for yourself too.” He had a perverse tone to his voice, but there was no doubt in my mind Terano-san was one of the nicer clients. I've had instances where clients would get forceful, but Terano-san was always rather pleasant. I ignored the tarnished silver wedding band that adorned his ring finger, seeing it when he first walked into the bar a year or so ago. I wondered what his wife was like; maybe he had a kid not much younger than me. Closing my eyes, even just for a few seconds, I could imagine Terano-san's household. He comes home late, telling his wife, maybe a Saori or a Mizuki, that the office kept him late, paperwork undone. His kid, Aoi or Yuka, would jokingly scold him for his working habits. A warm meal, grilled salmon with rice and pickled plum, miso soup a must, beer poured sweetly in a glass from a cold bottle. Dinner is followed by a bath, one with a citrus bath bomb, not stripping away but masking the sin of being here with me.
"Hey! Are you there?"
I opened my eyes. "Sorry, I must be tired, you were saying?" The rest of the night was filled with a thread of small talk; what I liked about Terano-san was that he would take most of my time slots for the night, a costly endeavor, and all for just conversation. Terano-san never once tried to sleep with me. Today was an insightful look into a love scandal in the bank's office he worked at. Something about how Akira in accounting made a move on the boss's secretary. By the time he was done talking about the politics of people who mean nothing to me, he was through half a bottle of Hibiki whiskey and had downed two bottles of beer. I had a "cup of sake," but I always filled my glass with small ice cubes, the type that melt quickly, diluting drinks the moment they're poured in. Keep the client drunk, never yourself, a holy rule the best abided by. The biggest illusion in this industry is that the hosts are drunk with clients, but either they can hold their liquor or give the illusion they can. Losing a clear conscience can make you lose out on cash or, worse, get raped. One of my mentors once told me, "The booth makes us equal to a client." I had nodded, but I always disagreed with this idea. We hosts had an overwhelming advantage; it was our playing field, but even one drink could make us the losers of our own game.
"I best be getting home." Slurring his speech, struggling to stand up, like his shirt struggling to hold back what was contained, he left a dull brown envelope on the table.
"Have a safe trip home! Please visit again soon." That sentence was the last of my charisma for that night. Self-amazement always filled me; how I survived through hours of conversation I cared so little about while being sober was a mystery. I peeked into the envelope after the light cling of the brass doorbell as Terano-san walked out. Making sure the Manager wasn't around, I slid exactly eleven bills into one of my slippers. Take twelve and it's too much. Twelve gets you caught. I bring the rest to the Accountant in the room behind the bar.
"Terano-san's bill," waving the envelope in the air.
"Okay, put it in your cubby." Not looking up, she throws my cubby key at me; it has a yellow tag attached, "Lin" written in faded ink. I unlocked my narrow steel cubby, wrote "Terano" with the ballpoint pen inside my cubby, carefully placing it down after. Lock the cubby, throw the keys on her desk, an unchanging routine.
“How’s school?” She asked, still looking deeply at an excel sheet with absurd sales numbers. The simple question was oddly unsettling. Not once before did she take interest in my life outside the bar. It was taboo to talk about our personal lives. Being strangers to the other hosts made it easier for the necessary betrayals. That, and whenever adults ask how school is going, it really isn’t a prompt to actually talk about school. It’s an indirect way to ask about who’s dating who, why she’s not talking to her, why he is so popular. In all honesty, they probably don’t care for the stories but are chasing memories of the days they didn’t have the responsibilities of adulthood. I didn't know what to answer, at that moment, I was out of the loop of most “hot” topics.
“Fine. Lots of tests.”
Finally she looked up from her screen. She locked eye contact with such efficiency looking away was not an option. Hazel eyes are uncommon in Asians, but her eyes were piercing almonds.
“Hmph.” She replied, looking away from me finally. I didn’t like that feeling, that I was being analyzed and understood by someone better than I knew myself.
How irritating.
Most of the clients had started to pay their checks and were making their way out like balls on a mini golf course, bouncing against every wall possible. It was an interesting perspective, standing where I was, seeing all the expressions of the hosts smiling with purity only to grit their teeth as soon as the clients looked away, not allowing the malice to fully pour out.
“Oiii, come here!”
I looked at one of the corner booths where the shout came from. Sophie was motioning for me to come sit with her. As much as she was a sweetheart, I wanted to leave as soon as possible.
“Sophie, you're here? Don’t your shifts start later?” I slid into the seat beside her, hugging her in the process. I could feel her ribcage through her cheap rouge slip dress. Her 13 rings pierced the back of my shirt with a sense of much desperation.
“Didn’t you hear? I classed up!” She could barely stay seated in all her excitement. Bar Saikoro had a ranking system like most host bars around the area. Our top 20 earners got to work the “early” shift, 11PM to 3AM, while the rest suffered the slow low-paying hours from 3 to 8 AM. I couldn’t imagine how the pay from the latter schedule paid for a roof and enough money to feed two stomachs. I remember Sophie talking sweetly about the little sister she cared for, how she loved the round fruit candy that came in cans.
“See? I told you Manager was gonna move you up, you're too pretty to be in that pile,” I smiled earnestly, but I lied looking straight into her eyes. It was nothing but surprising that she had been moved up after all this time. I thought she still belonged at the bottom of the ladder, with all the rest who are too old, too ugly, too fat. She had scars on her legs and belly, I’m not sure from what, but it didn’t matter. Clients did not pity the fact that she was undeniably damaged goods. I wondered if her appeal lay in this fact; clients had varying tastes, and playing into her innocence and scars might have sadistic appeal.
“I’m gonna head out, I am exhausted.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow!” she laughed with a sense of humble achievement.
“Yes!” dragging the “s” in “yes”, I quickly slipped out of the conversation.
2:07 a.m. Every so often, my shift ended early, leaving me with an awkward amount of time to spare before I hitched a taxi home. When a shift ends, most hosts have a sense of urgency to leave, away from this place. Wearing masks, hats, glasses, all sorts of adornments just to even slightly alter who they were here when they left, making themselves strangers to this district. For me, it seemed as though after a little time passed my resistance to this place faded away; maybe I didn’t really want to leave. Changing out of uniform, my honed hunger made me pull the push door instead. The front door felt heavier than it had a few hours ago, cling-cling.
Kabukicho is truly a nighttime playground. The sky of the narrow street has no stars even on clear days. Through clouds from the chain-smoking businessmen, the stars here are the bright lights of the signs. To the foreign eye, it must be glamorous, but residents here know the lights are nothing but a facade. An array of personalities meet here, from the dominatrix to the maid; they all hand out fliers, desperately calling out exclusive deals that are the same every day. Winter air in Tokyo bites, but their pale legs and arms have no refuge. The street drunks are serenaded, adorned with fliers, the middle-aged men's foul smiles growing with each flier.
Even though this street was filled with my people, it was a sickening sight I avoided looking at for too long. As I briskly maneuvered through the crowd, a shaking hand reached out: a small girl — maybe 15? — in a pink and white dress with a short princess skirt, she could be Strawberry Shortcake. The shaking hand grasped a flier for Libertas, a small but popular girls bar.
"First drink plus 30 minutes for only 1,600 yen." Almost croaking. I could tell she was new. Probably the orphan kind. Before I could say anything, a skeezy voice resounded behind me.
"Lin-chan, shift done a little early today, no?" He was the assistant manager of Libertas and a pariah in the district, but he sure knew how to take advantage of the lost and abandoned. All bars had high turnover, but Libertas was perhaps the worst, using new hires and disposing most in a month.
"You know how Terano-san likes long talks, always booking odd hours, anyways can I borrow her for a little?"
"You sure like teaching newbies. Fifteen minutes just for you."
Strawberry Shortcake followed me silently like a duckling the entire walk to 7-Eleven. Telling her to wait outside, I walked in to no acknowledgement from the cashier. The singular donut packet left amongst the unpopular packaged breads. Plain rice balls. 7-Eleven at this hour is truly depressing. I would feel bad if I was stuffing my face with fried chicken as she just sat there and watched, but I couldn’t get her the same thing. She’d feel sick after the greasy fried chicken. I walked down each aisle in a hurry, no this is too heavy on the stomach, no this flavor isn’t good. Defeated, I walked down the miscellaneous aisle towards the cashier. Shampoo, notebooks, and batteries all in one section. Next to the batteries was the last pouch of hand warmers. That’s it. Hand warmers. I immediately snagged the pouch and approached the cashier, satisfied.
“Is there anything else you would like to purchase?” A forced politeness from the 30-something-year-old.
“One fried chicken stick, please,” I mimicked his tone by accident, the remark going unnoticed or ignored. He walked over to the hot food display. moving the chicken out of the case and into a paper bag in one calculated motion. He put both chicken and hand warmer into a small plastic bag he forgot to ring up. I handed him the exact change, and he smiled a little with no remark of “thank you” or “come again”.
As I walked out of the door, I saw Strawberry Shortcake sitting on the curb, staring sentimentally into the busy streets. Even away from the epicenter of Kabukicho's rot, her shoulders were tense. Her short bob pointed to her neckline, a purple hue peeking out over her collar a heavy contrast to the innocent white lace.
"Here." Tossing her the hand warmers. She smiled lightly. Behind the bristles of her obnoxious lashes, her eyes were still alive, flickering with both denial and desire. It was evident from her look that she still believed that where she was now was only temporary, and as spring rolled around she too would be gone like the suffocating air. I remembered being where she was. I also remembered when I looked around me and realized that time had passed quickly, leaving me behind. Looking into the mirror now, I only saw acceptance in my eyes.
"Thank you," she answered in a sweet voice, unwrapping and sticking one of the hand warmers in her pocket. We both sat as if waiting for something.
Advice. I should give her advice.
"It's not too late to leave."
Looking down, she said nothing. From that angle, she was indistinguishable from Mariko-san despite her age. My mentor, Mariko-san, was an intelligent and beautiful woman. She became an orphan of the streets when she was twelve after her parents died in a car crash. Always by my side when I was a rookie, when the glasses felt ten times more slippery and the pay was in coins. I always knew this life was not a life I had to live. Mariko-san truly never understood why I chose that which she fought tooth and nail to escape. "It's not too late to leave." It's the right thing to say. I know this for a fact, but the exact words always pierced me with immense pain. Cling-Cling it was a random day of the week. Staff surrounded the locker room, whispering, and girls sat in the booths with quiet tears. Mariko-san’s last lesson for me was that people did really die.
Sitting in silence once more, she giggled a little, covering her mouth the way kids do.
“All my sisters at Libertas push the unwanted chores like passing fliers on the new girls. Thank you for giving me a break, you are very kind.” Was I being “kind”? Thinking back at it, “pitying” would have been more fitting. There were always new faces on the streets, all similar, all lasting for a few months before being replaced. There was a day when, walking to my bar, I accidentally bumped into a girl. She had fallen over, and I’d hastily helped her up. I had similarly pitied her and had given her some hot cocoa. She had reeked of sickness, and her skin was sunken. Muttering something of apologies, then quickly disappearing into the crowd. I never knew her name. However, I remember eyes that lacked any shred of remaining character.
"I must go back; thank you for the hand warmers, Lin-san.” Quickly standing up, she bowed with grace. She was out of view within moments. As a few minutes passed, there I was on the curb, tears welling up, falling quietly on the pavement. I had lost track of how many girls I had sat with on this same curb. I never saw any of them again. Each time, my tears would end sooner, indifference replacing any sympathetic emotion.
About the Author:
Born and raised in Japan, Kazumi Hayashi is currently in Hawaii, continuing his secondary education. Kazumi has been selected to present poetry at the Keables Night by Naomi Shihab Nye, and since then, He has been driven to elevate his writing to a new standard beyond a hobby. Kazumi is a winner of the 2024 Iolani Writes competition as well. Kazumi's experiences as a person of Japanese-Chinese descent, as well as his exposure to American culture, allow him to explore various narratives through a unique perspective.
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