The Round People - a Novel - 3. IV. Eleven o'clock

IV. Eleven o'clock

The space behind the bar was as well organized as the galley of any ship of trade, meaning everything had a place where it posed the least threat of spill.

Beyond the menace of loss, there was a worn groove of use. When an item was needed, a hand going to an accustomed spot, found it outside the realm of sight, and could as easily return it without the customer's seeing.

Down at the end of the aisle stood a little refrigerator. Inside were the strawberries, the overripe bananas, milk, cream, and every other cocktail etcetera; the top was left bare for the sometimes-tired backside of a bartender. Next to that, and under the bar, was a deep stainless steel sink. In it floated icy water that levitated four-dozen bottles of golden Mexican beer. The washcloth used to swipe the ordered bottles dry, was laid over the rim, neatly folded twice, while on the counter above them was a pint glass filled with cut and waiting lime wedges. At the left side of the sink were three brass columns that shot up to bend their necks into black-handled spigots. As they sank through the bar, the showy brass quickly ended, replaced by working plastic tubes that unceremoniously dipped themselves into the kegs of supply. These aluminum barrels sat on the floor, different colored rubber bumpers indicating the brand of the contents. On the other side of these was another steel sink, off to the flanks of which were large drying areas. On the left, the dirty glasses got set, then, whenever a bartender had a spare moment, they were one-by-one plunged upside down into the whirl of motorized brushes that lived in the sink. One tall slender brush stood in the middle of the apparatus; when it span, it swept countless bristles over the inside of the glass, while a brother closed to brush the outside. All the time sprays of soapy water shot in and out to cut what the grooming could not. Clean glasses were set on the right to dry and be stacked.

Mark's hands were wet, the bubbles of detergent breaking across his skin like clouds, while the moment he took his foot off the lever, the whirl of the machine in the sink slowly died down and eventually stopped.

The Australian's body was frozen in the glass-washing position. It was only his head bending forward to the young man who had just seated himself at the bar that altered.

"What can I get you?"

Andrew smiled up to the bartender. "Give me a Corona."

The blond American had sat on the open side of Ichiko, who dared a look at his face. She was not disappointed, for her decisive action had rewarded her with a glimpse of her 'type.'

Mark noticed this little glance and the wave of a thrill spreading over Ichiko's silence; he marveled at the Japanese shyness that concealed a Japanese ferocity. He reached for a cloth to wipe his hands, and because he knew right where the cloth would be, his eyes were free to watch how Ichiko reacted to this guy she obviously, in a subtle way, liked.

"Here ya go, …Andrew… right? eh? – Am I right?" Mark remembered this guy from a few weeks back.

"Yes, that's right. Good memory!"

Mark sauntered to the register with the Yank's money, proud that someone at least could acknowledge one of his many talents.

˚˚˚˚˚

"So then," Emmy beamed, "I told my boyfriend he was stupid to think Arnold Schwarzenegger should have won an Oscar for…for that movie, you know, where he's supposed to be a guy in the future who really wants to take a trip to Mars…" She looked calculatingly to Jonathan's eyes, but only got the side of his head. "…So, he goes to a dream factory kind-o-place…" She laughed a little bit as an excuse to lean forward and see what Jon was looking at. "…To get a memory of a trip to Mars…" She could see he was peering across Ichiko and up to the young blond man. "…But when…" she slowed down so Jonathan would turn to her.

"I know the movie," he said apathetically. "And then he goes to Mars disguised as an old woman, but when he gets there, the people at the space-port Customs make him take off his head, I know it, I know – and I thought Japanese Customs was bad."

Emmy laughed, mainly because she thought she should. Deep down she felt Jonathan was not interested in her story, a slight she would have to punish.

She asked, not caring that it suddenly changed the subject, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four." He added with suspicion, "Why?"

"I'm twenty.

"So..?"

"That means I'm younger than you by four years."

"So?" He was getting annoyed and formal. "Every child is younger than I am by some degree."

"Well, I just hope that when I'm your age, I'll still have some…Oh – " she flipped her hair pointlessly, her lips parting, but blocked by an index finger. "No…I shouldn't say that."

Jonathan, clueless as to what the whole thing was about, clenched the toes in his shoes. 'That,' he thought, 'is really annoying.' He grinned to mask his growing anger. "Don’t start and then say…" he mimicked her with bitter energy "…'OH! I shouldn't say THAT!!'" He looked her coldly in the eyes. "Say it."

Emmy controlled her feelings of hurt; Jonathan's curtness had only martyred her more. She said as calmly as she could, but nonetheless genuine emotion crept in, "I hope I have passion, and can remember what it's like to be young – "

"And you think I'm both passionless, and over-the-hill at twenty-four?"

"Passionless, yes. Because when you have a pretty girl to talk to, your mind wanders all over the place."

Jonathan laughed a hard little broken chortle. "Is this a conversation? Sounds more like an argument to me."

The immediate vicinity of the bar thought so too, for each in turn looked over to Emmy and Jon.

Mark saved the day. He maneuvered the conversation around to: "Andrew, do you know everyone here?" His hand surveyed the row of people.

Andrew looked and shook his head. His expression was warm and eager to meet, his eyes soft brown. The shape of Andrew's face was round, and in which those eyes were set firmly like two points of a triangle, the third point being his mouth that when he smiled summed up the whole of his features into a good-natured fellow. His fair hair was cut short, and accented by a pair of stylish blond sideburns; these would ride up and down on his cheeks whenever his smile broke open into honest laughter.

"To your left is Ichiko, a very lovely girl."

Andrew turned, giving her a smile.

Ichiko's eyes darted over, her head offering a little bow while the sides of her hair hit her lashes.

"Hi, I'm Andrew." He held out his hand.

Ichiko barely grabbed it for a moment.

Moving along from his side of the bar, Mark continued, "This is Jonathan, a very sophisticated Yank."

"Nice to meet you, fellow 'Yank.'" The Americans shook hand in front of Ichiko, momentarily forcing the girl to sit erect.

"And finally, but by no means least – as far as talent and beauty go – the lovely Emmy."

"Hi." Andrew smiled, thinking they were too far away for a more intimate greeting.

"Hi!" She held out her hand, forcing him to half-stand and stretch across two people to get at it.

Once Andrew had a chance to resettle, Jonathan pounced on the opportunity to turn away from Emmy.

"So, how long have you been in Japan?"

Andrew was surprised. "It's funny you should ask me that."

"Really? That's the kind of question I get all the time."

"Yeah, me too. I mean it’s funny because that's the first thing you asked, and today's the anniversary of my arrival three years ago. And you?"

"I've been here about a year."

"What do you do?" Andrew asked.

"Teach English, and yourself?"

"You teach, and I'm a student."

Jon's eyebrows raised: "Oh yeah, what kind of school?"

"A gakuen for Japanese studies."

"Do you like it there?"

"I love it."

"So, I guess your Japanese must be astounding."

"Nowhere even near a startle," the sideburns rode the open tide of his expression, "but I'm learning. Everyday a new humiliation, and a little more learned because of it."

On the sidelines Emmy fumed, but Ichiko in the center of this exchange, was alert to everything the two men said. She had heard gakuen and assumed rightly that this handsome Andrew on her right was a student. She glanced at him timidly.

"So, you study Japanese?" Jonathan vindictively hoped Emmy was getting into a huff that would carry her away from him.

"Language, and general Japanese studies."

"You don’t say!" Jon looked to Ichiko to confirm the interest of what they had just heard. She bowed her head twice in confirmation.

Emmy quietly rose behind Jonathan. She told herself she wanted to visit with Benedict for a while, but she was angry. 'At least,' she thought, 'Benedict won't ignore me; he knows how to treat a lady.' And she was glad in the thought that he would always be there for her to turn to in The Round People.

˚˚˚˚˚

By eleven the mood started to settle, and the alcohol began its effectiveness. People no longer swirled about as they had in the more vigorous hours, but looked for and found places to sit out the night with friends, or someone who looked as lonely as they did. So they sat where they could, or moved chairs around, to gradually homestead.

By this time the Office Ladies, after several Daiquiris – or worse still, Gin Tonics – felt that they owned the place. They relaxed at their table and acted like varsity football boys in any American diner, whistling and gawking at whatever pretty thing happened by. All the week's stress of ineffectualness at the office got uncorked by the booze, and found easy release on the well-shaped foreign bodies of the club's young men.

And by this time, the Japanese boys on the stairs, who had watched every move of the D.J., became swayed by the rhythms and their much-too-strong B-52's, into a yearning to do what he was doing. They watched him with a pain akin to desire to just once change a record. They knew they could do it, they've been watching all night; they knew they could handle the booth if the master needed a break. They were jealous of the disc jockey, but they profoundly loved him too.

˚˚˚˚˚

Nobuko's owl-like glasses shone in the light from the dance floor as Jonathan approached her table. Her calm, knowing lips pressed themselves together into a tight welcoming grin.

"How's it going?" he asked.

She held a lit cigarette by her cheek, while her head behind it shook on its axis. "So, so. I could complain, but I don't." Her constricted smile loosened for a moment, her lashes obscurely flitting under her lenses. "Do you know Patricia?"

"I don't think I do. Hi, I'm Jonathan."

"Hi – I'm Pat from Edmonton, and I've been in Japan for four-and-a-half years, and Yes – as a matter-of-fact – I'm pretty darn good at using chopsticks!" Her fingers fingered the air before she held out her hand to Jonathan.

"Well!" Jon shook it lightly, sitting across from the two ladies. "What a relief to have all the typicals out of the way right up front. And in that case, I'm Jonathan from Illinois; I've been in Japan for about a year, and my turnoffs are sardine-packed train cars, being offered flatware in sushi restaurants, and amazed locals agape at the sight of me eating with chopsticks." His tone and glance at Nobuko changed to a half-serious grumble: "I mean come on, what if I turned to a Japanese person in the middle of a spaghetti dinner and exclaimed, 'My God! You can use a fork?! Amazing!!'" His tone lingered on the last syllable.

Nobuko cinched her pursed lips and patiently tapped on the ashtray. "Many Japanese have never seen Westerners use hashi before, they're just interested to see that. That's all."

"But," Jonathan joked with her, feeling comfortable to be free of Emmy for the first time in the evening, "before I came to Japan I never saw a Japanese person use a tablespoon. Does that mean I have the right to embarrass them in the middle of their curry rice, just for my personal 'interest?'"

Nobuko let her butt drop in the ashtray, and along with it, the topic.

Jonathan saw Emmy across the dance floor. She was leaning into Benedict's booth. He could just barely hear her seductive tone aimed at the defenseless D.J., and pitied him. 'Oh well,' he though to himself, 'you can't choose whom you love.' Suddenly Jon scooted out from his side of the booth whining: "Nobu-chan, let me sit between you guys."

Nobuko looked up questioningly to his rising form, but instantly he jogged over and urged her to rise; he shifted his feet, looking like he was on urgent line to use the restroom.

Nobuko stood and let him sit between them. "What's wrong with you?," she asked coming down again.

Jon pointed sourly towards the D.J. booth.

"Oh," Nobuko got it, "so you know she likes you."

"Well, I'm not stupid," he said unceremoniously. "Besides, I know I'm just one of the many she's got her sights on. Benedict there has a much better chance than me."

Nobuko sneered: "You're not stupid?"

Jonathan replied flatly, "No."

"Then how come you don’t know she really likes you." Her sight drifted past him onto Patricia. "That girl over there…"

"Emmy. I know who she is."

"She told me she thinks this guy…" Nobuko's open palm slapped his chest, "…is the best one in The Round People." She picked up her cigarette long grown cold. "Every time she tells me Jon this, Jon that – she's really starting to bother me about you, and your…" She stopped. "Your – " She asked Pat in Japanese what kudoku was in English.

Patricia regarded Jon; a sly kind of embarrassment enlivening her features. It looked like she was being forced to utter a profanity in rarefied company. "Virtue," she said at last. "But, just because…" she wagged an incriminating finger at Jonathan's sneer "…I know a word like that, don't go getting the wrong ideas." Pat relinquished the reins of the conversation with a mock display of menace.

"Anyway, Emmy is always talking about your ver-chus." Nobuko relit her cigarette, and peered at Jon as if that act of hers was a definite conclusion.

After a meaningless pause where he did nothing but watch Nobuko make a halo all around her knowing expression, he said, "Well, I think she's pretty, and that she certainly has a lot of energy," he glanced at Patricia, "and she also is very intelligent, but – What a child!" Jonathan cranked up his self-righteousness, "That girl cares about people only for as far as they relate to her."

Nobuko knew Jonathan had a lot on his mind, but she wasn't going to let this subject drop. She tried to knock him down a peg with: "So do you, so I. Everybody has to. There's no other way to view people except for how much they mean to us; the amount of importance they hold for us."

"What?!"

"If you're saying that people don't deal with others on the basis of themselves first, you're wrong. I'm saying…" her glasses glinted through the smoke "…there's no way to deal with others unless it's through ourselves."

Nobuko saw Jon was listening, but not quite getting her point. "OK," she said, "here is a classic study:

"Think about it – A man rescuing a suicide jumper. He grabs on; he holds on. But eventually it comes to the point that if he doesn't let go, he'll be pulled over too. There, at that point, Reason tells him he has to let go – the other wants to die anyway – and of course the rescuer wants to live. But he cannot let the other person fall, and the reason for it, is that he does want to live, and that if he lets the other die, he couldn't go on another day of his own life. At that moment, he's come to understand there's no way of seeing his existence other than in the being of another; the two have become one. They either both live, or die together.

"That's like us – we all need a hero sometimes, or need to be hero to another, and it's often hard to tell if we do it for them, or for us."

Without their awareness, Pearl had come up to their table. She stopped briefly, lipstick-dirty glasses in hand, and asked if they needed anything. Jon, as if first awaking in the morning, tried to shake Emmy out of his head like a bad dream.

"Are you hungry?," he looked to his tablemates, but they were not enthusiastic. "Yeah," he said to Pearl, "give me one of those baskets of fries."

"Anything else?," she entreated the girls with a distant and courteous smile. They didn't reply, which she took as a 'no,' and went to the bar. The glasses clinked by the sink. "Seth, a customer ordered a basket of French fries." Cooking was part of his job, yet in Pearl's tone there was something unnecessarily commanding, and he instantly rebelled against it.

He stood holding her leer.

"You're going to do it. Right?," she snapped.

Ichiko and Andrew viewed the scene, the unprofessional tone of the players calling for their attention.

"I'm going." Seth lazily set down a wet, half-washed glass, and dried his hands as slowly as he could. He turned his back on Pearl, and meandered to the kitchen. 'Fuck her,' he thought. 'Just cuz her life is shit, don't mean she's got to drag me down to her level. I'm cool. I've just got to make it to my break – just a few more minutes – and I can be free of that bitch.' At the kitchen door, he turned back for a look. 'Just a few more minutes. If I chill, I'll be all right, but I swear this is turning into a rotten day, and if she pushes me again, she's gonna get shoved back.'

˚˚˚˚˚

Ichiko sat quietly. She had had her drink, and before her, the empty martini glass looked as pitiful as the broken-down pink Strawberry Daiquiri foam that caked the rakishly flared sides. Occasionally she looked at Andrew through the sides of her hair. She really wanted to talk to him, but feared his silence was because he didn't want to talk to her. She resigned herself that it was better to sit and be quiet than make a fool of herself. Ichiko lived in a constant, subtle dread of looking silly. She wanted to be strong, a 'Go-Getter' like the businesswomen she saw on TV, the ones who looked so ladylike, but still stood up for themselves against the stupid men they were forced to work with. And there was her ideal, a yardstick she used in her everyday actions to plumb herself to a better standard. She had to use these role models, whispering secretively on the trains, in the stores, dealing with the pachinko prizeman, because she was deathly afraid of being embarrassed; that one slip back into her old shy self, and all the world would be there looking, would be there laughing.

This was her personality, this struggle of what she was and what she wanted to be: a set of nervous actions, glances, and attitudes that she pitilessly punished with mental lashings at their every appearance. However, unlike a Westerner, whose self-discipline inevitably works itself into guilt, her Japanese approach was harder in a practical sense, because it left her alone with fear, and kinder in that it did not demand shame as tribute to failure.

She swallowed her throbbing heart, almost detachedly seeing herself turn to Andrew and ask: "Do you study Japanese?" She attempted a smile.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Do you study, Japanese?" She started to point, but stopped because there was nothing that could serve as an example, and she didn't want to look silly.

"Yes, I study at ICU. Do you know it?"

She smiled. "Oh, yes. In Mitaka."

Andrew started to speak more quickly, throwing the girl into a small panic. He asked, "So Ichiko, what are you drinking?"

Her English was much stronger than her confidence in it, so she paused to dissect the statement. First she had to establish whether or not what she had heard needed a reply, and a question was sometimes very hard to recognize, so she always paid close attention to the last syllable and the 'going up at the end' as she had been taught. Once she was sure she had to say something, another panic set in as to what it should be. She quickly reviewed the words Andrew had used. She remembered hearing 'what' and then 'drinking.'

"Strawberry Daiquiri," she said.

"Was it good? Would you like another?"

She nodded that she would.

"Excuse me," Andrew addressed the bartender, "I feel like a heel – you remembered my name, and introduced everybody – but I don't recall yours. I'm sorry."

"Mark."

"Well Mark, could we get another Daiquiri over here."

"Sure. What kind?"

The two foreigners looked to Ichiko.

She felt like a celebrity. "Strawberry."

After Mark had left them, she went back to her original thought. "So, you can speak Japanese?"

He used it to answer that he could.

She was greatly relieved, at least she had one way in which she could try and be natural.

"I'll pay for my drink," she said pulling out her wallet.

"No, no."

"No. I can pay for yours too. Why don’t you order?"

He pointed to a half-full glass, "A little later, but this time let me get the Daiquiri for you. You can pay for the next round."

She assessed the earnestness in his face and sheepishly put her money back. She thanked him.

For a time the two sat quietly transfixed by the Daiquiri procedure: the breaking of frozen fruit, the adding of ice and rum, and then all whirling together in a blender.

"What do you want to do in Japan, after you graduate?"

"Well…" he said automatically, as if he were thinking it over. He wasn't, because that was a question he had answered many times before. "…I won't want to become an English teacher, that's for sure."

"Why?"

"Anybody could do that. I want to use my imagination, somehow put my creativity to use."

Ichiko nodded her head in a stream of understanding, and a slight envy at his conviction to be different. A conviction she suddenly thought she lacked, and when she saw it was missing, the addition of someone having it grew into her concept of herself. A little bit at a time, she smiled at him from behind her hair.

Her Daiquiri appeared.

"Anyway," Andrew said, "Kampai!"

"Cheers!," and their glasses touched.

˚˚˚˚˚

Pearl watched them, nodding to herself that they were young and stupid. She especially pitied Ichiko, because Andrew was too good-looking to leave the poor girl any rationale. Seeing these two together, in the very bloom of a beginning, made her unconsciously think of her first date with Hiro. He had said, "let's eat Singapore-style," but took her to a kind of fish market. When she asked him what was going on, he told her the restaurant was upstairs, but first they had to pick what they were going to eat. "From where!" she had exclaimed, and he answered by pointing to a tank swarming with live prawn. Later she saw them again, only this time they were deep-fried and covered in a fruity and sweet tamarind sauce. She again was puzzled as to what to do because they were still in their shells. Then Hiro showed such patience, explaining how to peel and dip them back into the sauce. And all through dinner Pearl was leisurely falling in love. How sweet he had been at their first physical encounter several nights later; she was rendered breathless again and again as his only concern seemed to be her. That night, as it grew to be her custom, she fell asleep holding his hand, never feeling so safe and warm, so loved in all her life, as when nestled against him. That feeling of surrender was new to her, and at first she waited day-by-day for the end of his love, fearing she herself might rebel, yet day-by-day something was moving her along, something closer to him. Soon the smell of his shirts, the caress of his hand, the way he looked and laughed at her stupid jokes – these she began to take for blissful granted, and treasure as the monuments of her nascent happiness.

"Could I get a Heineken?" Andrew brought her brusquely back to The Round People. She blinked wide innocent eyes at him, the one who had taken her from a better place. Pearl smiled briefly and courteously. "Sure thing." But her tone was hurt.

˚˚˚˚˚

"So Ichiko, what do you do?"

"I'm a nurse."

"Oh – " He felt an instant regret. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because in this country it's got to be really hard to be a nurse."

She nodded.

Andrew continued, "I mean, the way Japanese TV treats your profession is revolting – that you do nothing all day long but run around and ogle doctors as potential husbands. In America, nurses wouldn't tolerate that for a second. It's really amazing that such a hard job has to be so belittled here." He explained: "That's why I said I was sorry for you."

Ichiko watched him. She admired his Japanese, she admired his manners, and very delightfully, she admired his face. Asking nearly trancelike, she said, "Did you go back there?"

"Where?"

"America."

"I went back last Christmas."

"Oh, how was it? Where?"

"Minnesota. Everybody's the same. Everything's the same." He was getting restless. "Where are you from?"

"Ibaraki."

"Did you go back there for New Years?"

"Yes." She changed the subject abruptly, "Do you like Japan?"

That's a question he, like every foreigner, was bound to be asked sooner or later by every local. "Of course," he said mechanically.

"Why?"

He paused, not thinking, but putting the list in order he kept filed in his head for just such occasions. "I like the food…" he saw a long tedious line of topics appearing "…I like the people, and I love living in a place where behind every corner lurks something I've probably never dreamed of before. That's the exciting part of living here; it's the sheer fact that Japan is so different from almost every set of experiences I've had before. Here I'm a kid again, learning things all over again for the first time." Andrew wanted to get up and leave, he saw only a prolonged evening of yawns ahead of him here, but he knew he had to stay, he was in too deep to just leave her.

Andrew wanted people to like him. He had been a fat child, smart, but bad at baseball, and always the proverbial last-pick of every team. He slimmed down in high school, but much to the detriment of his self-image and personal growth as a person, he still didn't have any close companions. In college the same lonely pattern continued, he doubted by then that he were even likable, and this wonder stirring in his clinically sharp mind, made him seek out and practice any practical advice on the subject he could find. First, he realized, he had to struggle through his own insecurity of wanting another's love before he could study the ways of even striking friendships. His research in psychology taught him to first make people feel they could trust him. He looked them straight in the eye when they spoke. He used their names when replying, and said in sympathetic tones: 'I understand,' or when a leap of faith was required, 'I can understand.' Tragically out of Andrew's perception though, was the fact that when people heard these things, and saw his unwavering condolence, Westerners suspected a shyster. Their eyes would wander over the visage grave, and plant there in his caring a con of some sort. And yet Andrew, trying as he would, could not see this turn-off of confidence; often in the company of another he would unknowingly be left completely alone.

Ichiko sat still and expectant, her daiquiri floating weightlessly in her hand. When she looked at Andrew she nudged some deeply hidden self-assurance with a poke of hope. She would glance at him through her hair, and secretly smile.

˚˚˚˚˚

"So maybe," Benedict was suddenly shy, his head talking down, his ponytail slipping off the back of his neck, "when we get back, you know to the Real World, maybe we can see each other. On the weekends I usually go down to the city, and you know, we can go out." His heart thumped so loud in his ears, he felt sure Emmy was hearing it too. He blinked expectantly down on her.

"Sure! That's a great idea. Just, give me a call and check before you come out of your way, but I think that'd be fun!"

He was elated. Although the strong contours of his expression didn't move, his rich eyes brightened by growing degrees of rapture. He saw momentary flashes of a potential future; their going out in New York, 'Their' apartment, settling down with furniture, and Benedict's children awakening him with calls of 'Daddy, Daddy' from a sleepy Sunday afternoon couch. He could live through them the kind of childhood he had not; their pleasure would be double-fold in their father's heart.

Benedict was far away from The Round People, his hopes for the future had suddenly, and against his will, intermingled with the past and with the girl in his arms. He saw next to his own children, himself on the night his mother had died. He was only three, but the memory was seared on the grownup man; that memory of keen female wails and grief and bright lights, that in the middle of the night forced him to join in from his crib rails. He was his mother's only child, and from that night on, his grandmother, a woman who never seemed rested up from the strain of her youth, reared him from the Barcolounger of her living room. His father, the boy reasoned, must have never known his son existed; why else would he never visit his grandmother's house? He loved her, but grew mature and away from her lackluster style rather early; she was his immediate family and he saw the need of his being resourceful for the both of them. Thus, he had the nurturing element planted in him while still young, and there it built strong roots for the man he would become.

Oftentimes when he was a boy, lying on the floor in front of the television, as if it were the hearth of old, he would imagine living in a house full of brothers and sisters. When the tediousness of the evening's entertainment overtook him, he would slip his eyes closed and pretend the electronic voices were those of his family. He wanted to belong.

˚˚˚˚˚

Pearl stood behind the cash register, her senses moving listlessly over the things tacked to the wall, and what they reminded her of. Old flyers announcing the opening bash, a slowly yellowing Japan Times write-up on the place. She read the headline, something she did at least twenty times a night: Kichijoji Gaijin Find Home, subtitled, The Round People, a place they can come together. Usually when she read this, her mind passing quickly over it while she did her business at the register, she felt a twinge of pride, even on the twentieth glance. When she read it now, no pride, no feeling that The Round People was hers, there was only an eerie apathy.

She remembered how she and the owner had picked the location on a treacherously hot August day, climbing four flights of stairs because the new building's elevator was not yet up and running. Standing behind the register she could feel the heat again. She remembered how the painter had locked himself in and worked like any man of God; for a private mission believed greater than the common good.

"Here are those fries." Seth slipped them through the slot in the wall that divided the kitchen from the back bar.

She very languorously turned towards him. "Thanks," she muttered.

'What am I doing here?,' she thought. 'Why am I doing this?' Her eyes ran over the yellow plastic webbing of the basket, her hand going up to take it. 'I'm better than they can appreciate.' She picked up the fries, and headed over to Jonathan who had ordered them. 'What am I going to get by doing this? No respect, that's for sure!' She clicked her tongue in disgust. 'I don’t have to stick around this place. Let Saito-san just try and run these stupid boys. He’ll see what a thankless job this is!'

The odor of oil and vinegar annoyed her. She looked down at the salt glinting off of greasy potatoes laying on grease-soaked paper; pepper-red ketchup was globbed in the center of the mess. Her stomach was turning, Pearl was feeling miserable, and the only thing she wanted was for this night to be over. Ironically, she put on a smile. "Here you go." She set the basket between the two ladies and Jon, making sure each and every one of them saw her glowing expression. But as soon as she had given Jonathan his change, her vacuous, pointless grin got shut off.

'I know they hate me. They think I get a thrill, go on a power trip every goddamn time I tell them to do something, well who the hell needs that! Who the Hell needs them!!' The ache in her abdomen became centralized in her ulcer. She thought about trust, how Mark had tried to get away with a false report, about how her boyfriend had hauled off and shoved her down, and about treachery. She wanted to go home, to bed, to nothingness.

Mark passed her in a hurry, a washcloth in hand to mop up a spilled drink somewhere. She watched him vacantly for a moment. 'I don’t know what Saito-san would do without me. He couldn't find anybody else who wouldn't let them walk all over him. If I left, he'd be screwed.' She was still a half-dozen paces away, but her eyes followed through to the back bar. Dean was sitting on the refrigerator holding one of his knees. Seth was talking to him, his arms raised high above him as he slipped them into coat sleeves. Pearl glanced at her watch, her mouth setting determined and fierce; the hardness of her lips showed like a monstrously contorted flower. She felt a shiver that started in her lower back, a pain really, but she blocked it by thinking of only the pleasure she could anticipate by exercising what power she knew she had. She was going to enjoy this no matter what her ulcer did to her in retribution.

Pearl played her cards coolly, instinctively waiting for Seth to make the first draw. She didn't increase her pace; in fact, she decidedly slowed down her gate to increase the savor of the coming vindication. She waltzed into her usual position behind the register, ready at any instant to spring like a bird of prey. Out of the corner of her eye, she could perceive Seth with his back to her still talking to Dean. When he turned, she stepped in front of his path, blocking his only passage out with folded arms. She waited for him to explain himself.

"I'm going to lunch now."

"You still have ten minutes, get back to work."

"We're slow. I better go now."

Mark momentarily intruded on the tension, excusing himself by squeezing past and going to the sink. He started washing the cloth, but stopped when he heard the tone of the exchange.

Pearl opened her mouth, but Dean defended Seth. "He's right, now's the better time to go."

She looked beyond Seth, amazed at the Japanese young man now coming to his feet, rage rising in her along with his form.

She barked to both of them: "I'm not going to waste time telling you not to waste any more time. Now, get back to work!"

Seth stood still while his eyes stoically stared at the near-delirious woman. He put his hands in his coat pockets, in the same movement turning sideways. He swung his head at Mark; Pearl glared sharply at Mark too.

"Tell him, Mark," she said. "Tell him!"

Mark stood erect from his cloth-washing position. He wanted to reconcile them. "Why don’t you let him go, it's just a few minutes, and he can be back all the sooner – when we're busier." His tone was warm, his tone was reasonable, not begging for a truce, but asking both sides to see compromise as something valuable.

Pearl stabbed at him, her eyes growing slowly round in disbelief, her lips sinking back at the corners of her mouth as an omen of the rage about to erupt from the very source of her, and deep within her gut, her ulcer ate away with screeching grief and pain. This was the final insult, the betrayal to symbolize the whole betrayal of her life. Only an hour ago she had picked Mark out for a special honor, nobody but her had decided that he should be assistant manager over Dean, and now, the bastard was turning traitor to her.

Sharp pains radiated throughout her entire abdomen, only hate arrested it from crippling her.

She opened her mouth, fury pressed like a ball of poison in the back of her throat to punish them, but from nowhere but the walls themselves, she remembered a time her stomach had similarly bothered her, and Hiro went out in the middle of a rare Tokyo snowstorm to get relief. When he came back, he stayed the night at her place, just holding her, nursing her the best he could. No one ever held her when she had been a child, no one ever touched her in a non-sexual display of affection before him, and in her heart she came to know what a mistake is. It was wrong for her to yell at Seth, it was a mistake that her boyfriend had showed his anger by pushing her down. He meant more to her than her own family ever had; he was her family, and family members must be allowed to make mistakes.

Pearl felt herself in his arms, safe and secure, but when she looked around for that anger at him, it was gone. She knew he loved her, and that she had to go find him. Oh, she was going to make him sorry for what he had done, but she would extract only a 'reasonable' price, because forgiveness must be pulled like loaves and fishes from a bottomless basket: when needed, given; when hungry, fed.

Over her vaguely aching cheekbone, with its swelling bruise on it, she felt some moisture gather, and then fall unchecked from the back of both eyes, down her cheeks, around her mouth still paused and opened, and then continue down her neck. She never felt anything so warm, and so relieving in all her life – and she was right, things did begin to get better, instantly.

Pearl had absolved Hiro, and in so doing found the constancy of her love through hate. The exhilaration was such, the release so great and sudden, that the mouth initially opened to punish – then stymied in reflection – now giggled. She had a rush of freedom, and this freedom felt like flying.

The young men blinked at her incredulously, not able to believe their senses.

Mark in turn looked questioningly to Dean and Seth. He wanted confirmation that they had heard that brief chuckle too.

But by then, Pearl seemed a lunatic because she was laughing uncontrollably and brushing away the happy tears like a kid blowing soap bubbles. She didn't care who saw or who heard, it was as if she had fallen in love for the first time again. "Wait…" she gagged, calming down, "…just, wait."

"Seth, go. I'm sorry – " she didn't know how to finish. "I'm sorry," she said, "but guys, now I want to go home." She felt her lover's hand; the knowing, reassuring pressure. She flashed how they'd make up. "And I need to ask you guys a favor. Dean, I know the manager's supposed to lock up, but I want you and Mark to be equal." She dug in her pockets for the bar's master keys. "Here," she held them out to Dean, "can you do me that favor?," she looked to all of her staff. "I need to go home and…" she giggled, "…take care of some…personal…needs." Her asking for good will was bright and honestly dependent on their answers. She offered herself powerless before them, thinking of nothing so much as the way Hiro would touch her lips while she lay sleeping that night, her hand in his. She wanted to giggle again.

The three, not knowing they were seeing a woman in love, really thought she had flipped her lid. Dean slowly, cautiously extended his hand to take the keys. He nodded that he would lock up for her. He took them with a slightly unnerving clang from her grip.

"Yeah Pearl," Mark advised, "why don’t you take it easy, no one's going to tell Saito-san."

She smiled at him, the first genuine smile of the evening. "Thanks." She felt like one of them.

"Yeah, I think you better go home and rest," said Seth.

"OK," she shrugged her shoulders to concede everything was settled, "I'm going then." She slipped past Mark and Seth towards the kitchen, but suddenly stopped. She turned to the American with warmth.

"And Seth – I'm sorry I was such a bitch to you on the balcony. You didn't do anything, but try to help me, and maybe you did after all. Anyway, I'm sorry." There was a pause, the two looking at each other. Seth examined her for sincerity, and he found it in abundance.

"Ah – forget it. We all have bad days."

"Or," she confided, "bad lives, but we can change. I believe that, I really believe that." She smiled again and reached out for him. Seth backed away; he was cautious of the messenger, but nevertheless, warm to the message she seemed to have to deliver. She took his hand and held it for several seconds.

And despite his weariness, in that squeeze Seth felt something so pure and innocent. It was a love like rain is to the grass, and he recognized it was for him, but also unspeakably, a love for all.