maybe I should get another

[08.21.01] » by tim rogers

It is shortly after eleven o'clock on Saturday, December 22^nd,  1987, and I am waiting for Ryo Hazuki to call me.

I've trimmed my fingernails, brushed my hair, and even put on new earrings, a fresh white sweater, and the plaid skirt I' m guessing Ryo likes – he's kindest and most caring to me when I'm wearing it.  Then again, I hardly wear anything else these days, since Grandmother is  getting so old she hardly notices me if I don't wear this sweater and skirt.

Grandmother is asleep, and I'm all alone in the darkness of the genkan above her flower shop in Dobuita.  I've pulled a chair out of the dining room and into this entrance hall, s o I can sit near the phone, and pick it up on the first ring.  I don't want to wake Grandmother.  

Every day, these days, I feel like this, like I'm sitting in front of a phone, waiting for it to ring.  I know that, soon, the phone will ring, late at night , and it will be my parents, in Canada, calling to discuss travel plans with me.  I know it's my duty to them as a daughter to go where they tell me to go.  Still, I can 't help feeling terrible about going to Canada.  

I can't leave Ryo here, alone.  Now, more than ever, he needs someone.  Ryo' s been in a daze since that Chinese man killed his father.  All the citizens of the neighborhood here in the port town of Yokosuka have been talking about it, saying horrible things.  Some of them think Ryo just imagined the whole thing with the Chinese gangsters.  He goes around, asking them questions, and they humor him.  He walks by the place where I stand in Dobuita , every day, and hardly says a word.  I feel terrible, like he doesn't even acknowledge that I could possibly help him.  Today, I asked him to call  me tonight.  He closed his eyes, nodded his head, and said, " Okay.  See ya."

I can't see him like this, not anymore.  I can't stand watching him wander around that way, headphones in his ears, cassette player   playing the Feel Tired Song at full volume and on auto-reverse.  I mean, really, how many times can he listen to that one song?  How many times can he kneel in front of those toy machines, paying one hundred yen after one hundred yen for worthless little  plastic capsules?  How many times will he whisper, deliriously, to himself, "Maybe I should get another" ?  This has to stop.  Ryo needs to take his mind off things, and I think I have just what he needs.

The phone rings, and I pick it up before the first ring is finished.

"Hello?"

"Hi.  Nozomi?"

"Oh, hi, Ryo."

Ryo is silent for a second.

"Nozomi, can I ask you a question?"

"Ryo?"

"Nozomi?"

"What's going on, Ryo?"

"Nozomi?"

"Are you alright, Ryo?"

"Nozomi?"

"Ryo, I want to meet you.  In Sakuragaoka park."

"It's late."

"I don't care, Ryo.  Come to meet me, at the playground.  I'll be waiting for you, on the bench."

Ryo doesn't say anything.  His end of the line is quiet.  It feels like the silence on Ryo's end is sucking my ear into the phone.  I change the rec eiver to the other ear.

"Ryo?"

"Sure, Nozomi," he says.  "I'll see you soon.  Bye."  

Ryo hangs up the phone with a click.  I take a deep breath.  I've accomplished something – I've made him agree to meet me.

I wait for Ryo on the bench at Sakuragaoka par k for close to a half an hour.  I neglected to put on a coat, because I thought it would compromise the perfect matching of my outfit, and now I feel kind of stupid.  It' s absolutely freezing.  The static air smells like cold, wet rice, and a few dirty-looking snowflakes hang all around me.  The bench is cold.

When I've just about given up hope, I hear the crunching of Ryo' s sneakers against the snow and the gravel.  I look up, and, surely enough, there he is, wearing those same jeans, that same white shirt, that sa me brown leather jacket with that same indiscernible logo on the back.

"Ryo?"

"Nozomi?"

"Come sit here, Ryo."

Ryo stands for a second, looking about to shift into karate fighting stance.

"Okay."

"Sit with me, Ryo."

"Okay."

"On this bench, here, Ryo."

"Okay."

I don't say anything to him for a second.  Stiffly, he walks to the bench, sits down, and places his hands on his knees.

"So, Nozomi…"

"Ryo?"

Neither of us says anything for close to a minute.

"Nozomi, can I ask you a question?" Ryo says, just as I begin talking.

"Ryo, you need to talk to me.  You need to tell me what's bothering you.  I know you' re under a lot of stress, following what happened with your father.  Still, that doesn't mean you have to take all this responsibility upon yourself.   The restaurant owners have been telling me about you, Ryo.  They say you don't eat anything, even when they offer you free food."

"It's late," Ryo says, seemingly to himself.  "Ine-san must be getting worried."

"Ryo, listen to me!" I say, trying to hold back my tears.  "You're not taking care of yourself!   You're wasting away.  I see you, every day, leaning  against that same wall in Dobuita, drinking cans of Fruta Orange, one right after another.  Quite frankly, the way you close your right eye whenever you take a sip is creepy, Ryo."

 Ryo closes his eyes, probably thinking of the sweet taste of a cold, bubbly Fruta Orange.  Somehow, even in this cold weather, a Fruta Orange sounds refreshing.  I feel my face flushing, my skin heating up.  "Maybe I should get another," Ryo whispers.

Ryo is quiet for ten seconds.  The dirty flecks of snow hang in the air, waiting for one of us to say something.

Ryo speaks first, saying, "Okay."

At this, I involuntarily burst into tears.  I throw my right arm around Ryo's shoulder and rest my face on his chest.  His jacket smells like it' s covered in sweat.  I wonder when the last time was Ryo took a shower.  He's always practicing his karate in the park, always getting so sweaty, and, according to the people who've been close enough to him, he hasn't been showering.

I cry into Ryo's chest for close to ten minutes.  He sits perfectly still, hands on his knees.  He blinks every six seconds, on the dot.  I can hear him blinking, I don' t know how.  I'm only sure he's blinking, every six seconds, like an electric doll.

"Nozomi…" Ryo says, softly.

"Please, Ryo."

"Nozomi…"

"Please, Ryo, can we stay like this?"

"Nozomi…"

"Please, Ryo, can we stay like this, a little longer?"

"Nozomi…"

A weak wind picks up at just that second, and replaces the silence with a quiet howling.  I stop crying.  Ryo doesn't even know I' m here, I sense.  He's still looking out at nothing, still blinking rhythmically, hands still on his knees.  Ryo is determined in many ways, and, most of all, he seems determined to ignore me.

"Nozomi…"

"What is it, Ryo?" I asked, my face still pressed into his chest.

I'm utterly silent, waiting for him to ask his question.  The weak wind dies down, and I feel alone, waiting for a telephone to ring, waiting for Ryo to speak.

"Nozomi, do you know where I can find some sailors?"

Hearing this, I sit up straight.

"What?"

"Nozomi, do you know where I can find some sailors?"

"Ryo, why are you looking for sailors?"

"I need to find some sailors."

Suddenly, I find the way he puts a firm downward intonation on the ends of his sentences to be loathsome and disgusting.

"Why, Ryo?"

"I'm looking for sailors."

"Why are you looking for sailors, Ryo?  What do you  want with sailors?"

"I need to find some sailors."

"Ryo, you live in a port town; it shouldn't be too hard to find sailors."

"I've been looking for sailors," Ryo says.

I feel my teeth clench.  "Ryo."

"I've tried all the bars."

"Damn it, Ryo."

"Someone said they like motorcycles."  Ryo reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a little memo pad.  A pen is  inserted into the spiral binding.  Ryo removes the pen and poises it above the  pad.  "Do you know anything, Nozomi, about sailors?"

I grit my teeth, and, speaking through them, I say, "Of course I do, Ryo.  Why, the people are right.  They hang out at motorcycle bars."

Ryo scribbles something on his memo pad, and then slides  the pen into the binding.  Shifting his position on the bench slightly, he fits the bundle into his pocket.  "Thanks a lot, Nozomi."

"Yeah, don't mention it."

"It's getting late."

"Yes, it is."

"Ine-san's probably worried."

"Yeah, she is."

"I'll check out the motorcycle bar some other time, okay?"

"Yeah, you do that."

Ryo is still looking forward, hands on his knees.  I'm mimicking him in a way, looking ahead, hands on my lap , trying to blink when he blinks. 

"Well," Ryo says, just as he blinks a final time, "it's getting late.  Ine-san's probably worried."  He stands up.

"Yes," I say.

Ryo takes a few steps toward the gate of Sakuragaoka park.  When he's just about to leave, he says, without looking back at me, "Nozomi?"

"What is it, Ryo?"

"Thanks for your help."

I grit my teeth.  "Yeah, you're welcome."

"Well, okay, see ya," Ryo says.  Ryo steps between the gates of Sakuragaoka park.  The mist rising off the streets c louds his form to the point where I think he might disappear into nothingness without the slightest warning.  I decide, then and there, that I wouldn't even care if he did.

As the indiscernible logo on the back of his brown leather jacket fades into the night, I mutter to myself:

"Maybe I should get another."