Pink Rainforest
Part 2 in my serialised short story. For those who haven’t read part 1, or want a recap, I’ve attached a link below. Hope you enjoy.
Steam from the boiling cauldrons filled the convenience store with the aroma of oden and tickled my grumbling stomach. I salivated at the promise of boiled eggs, chunks of radish, fish cakes, deep-fried tofu squares, whole sausages, and bits of octopus all in a hearty, soy-flavoured broth.
But I held an egg salad sandwich.
Under the fluorescent light of this convenience store, the egg was as bright a yellow as the sun. I’d already eaten three since the morning, but it looked as if I might have to make that four.
I pulled out the bills from my back pocket: fifty thousand yen. Who knew how much I’d have tomorrow? I had my heart set on getting drunk, an absolute and foolish drunk.
But the question remained: an egg salad sandwich or a bowl of oden. A couple came in and bought a portion of oden to share, the smell trailing them as they left out the sliding doors.
I wish I had someone to share, I thought.
I left the convenience store carrying a plastic bag with an egg salad sandwich and a beer, telling myself it was the smart decision. The cheaper meal amounted to three extra beers, and in the spell of a Friday night, three extra beers can make all the difference.
Some office workers were going home, while most everyone else scrambled into local izakaya or bars to begin their night. I saw every type of inhabitant of this city on the jam-packed streets: giggling students full of vitality; horny tourists and foreigners a head above the rest; sexless couples who’ve forgotten how to hold each other’s hand alongside short skirt prostitutes with indifference in their eyes; salarymen with loose neckties after a week of being strangled at work; cab drivers who’ve been awake for endless hours; golden-haired boys touting for bars and those with money and pearls, dripping in mink.
And all the rest of us.
Construction workers, security guards, waiters, cooks, factory bees, and truck drivers. It’s easy to spot us as most of the time we’re in a distinct uniform. I hadn’t taken mine off since a job a couple of days ago, my baggy trousers beginning to reek, but I didn’t care. I’d wash them in the coming days, I promised, and opened the can of beer to wash down my sandwich.
I wandered for a while, trailing a group of university students: two girls and two guys walking in formation, the girls up front and the guys behind, snickering with a nervous edge like they were compensating for a lack of conversation. After strolling past cafes and restaurants with bleeping and blooping billboards, they turned the corner onto a quieter, darker street.
I kept a distance on the other side of the street until they stopped.
“We were following you two, I thought you knew which way to go when you decided to walk ahead,” one of the guys said, voice tinged with an arrogance feigning confidence.
“Are you serious?” one of the girls retorted, “We were leading because you two seem to have no idea what to do — Aren’t men supposed to take control?”
As I listened to the argument, I toyed with the idea of going over to see if I could help.
“Hi,” I’d begin, effortlessly. “I noticed you seemed confused about where you were going and I thought I could help, I know Shinjuku like the back of my hand. My name’s Shota Sakai, I’m twenty-eight so I’m guessing not much older than you guys. I’ve lived in Shinjuku for a while now, and know a couple of places that play good music or even a theatre if you want to watch that new film, ‘Storms in Summer’? Apparently, it’s quite good… Or, have you heard of QT? I’m sure you have, ha-ha, that’s all they play on the radio nowadays, right? There’s a bar which plays that kind of music…”
They were still arguing when I got the courage to go over, but as I stepped forward, a guy with golden hair appeared out of nowhere, approaching them with open arms.
He was a catcher, and his job was to convince people to go to the izakaya or bar he worked for. He spoke to them for a bit and had little trouble convincing them to accompany him.
The catcher led them back the way they came, chatting to the girls while the guys followed, quieter now. They passed me by, unaware of my existence.
“Well, you tried,” I muttered, standing on the darkened street, looking from one end to the other. I decided to head for the red gate marking the entrance to Kabukichō, Shinjuku’s red-light district.
The gate was a torii, the type you’d find in Shinto shrines throughout Japan. They were usually painted red and in the shape of two posts connected by a straight upper lintel, the idea being that when you pass through, you’re leaving the mundane and entering the sacred. I believed this to be true for Kabukichō. The very act of entering Kabukichō is like a religious experience. My mind settled as I admired the streets filled with catchers who were like golden-haired missionaries reciting parables about their houses of worship, temples promising ablution through alcohol, purification through sex, your every prayer answered through fantasy.
I stood by the gate and bowed slightly. The billboards sang, tinkled, and chimed like bells signaling the hour of prayer. Ethereal red-blue-green lights stacked one upon the other so that when I looked up toward the sky, I only made out holy neon, radiating with pure intensity. I stood there, basking in its warmth until a powerful flow of people pushed me forward. I lost my footing in a whirlpool of bodies.
