Cast Stones, and Other Ni-Chome Tales - 4. IV. Right Hand Left Hand

IV. Right Hand Left Hand

 

There can be no peace of mind in love,

since the advantage one has secured

is never anything

but a fresh starting-point

for further longings.

Marcel Proust

 

Love consists in this,

that two solitudes protect,

and touch, and greet each other.

Rainer Maria Rilke

 

The greasy food bloated its little draining paper; Frank had had enough. He looked at Makoto sitting by his side. The sideways glance, casting all the way down the counter, unintentionally showed Frank a number of eyes quickly turning their interest away from him. Frank was used to that, Japanese were always looking at him. He figured they were trying to get an eyeful of his 'foreignness,' but to the boy is where his eyes were going. Frank reflected on what he saw with a quiet inner thought – the kind similar to one that comes when a dirty joke is remembered – that this eighteen-year-old, who had picked him up in a 7-Eleven one week ago to the day, was just about perfect. Frank's original estimate that the young man had middling looks, had grown more generous with each of his three meeting with the kid during the week. Now he savored Makoto's looks – even the oddly indistinct sideburns and slightly protruding ears – he loved the kid's energy, and that sweet naughty naïveté that permeated him like body spray does the surface of an ordinary man. Frank thought he really liked him, but he went no deeper than that; wouldn't let himself go deeper.

Makoto chewing, turned to the American. "What are you doing?"

"I'm finished."

"Don’t you like it?"

Frank scuttled a fleeting glance on the skewered and deep fried tidbits of meat and vegetables. It made him feel the grease clogging his tummy. "What do you call it again?" he tried to deflect the question.

"Kushiage."

"Yeah, it's good, I'm just full." Japanese were always ready to concede that not eating something was the same as saying that you hated it. Frank didn’t like it, but he wasn't going to let Makoto know.

Makoto knew, and dropped the subject with an all-accepting grin. He asked brightly: "What are we going to do this weekend?"

Frank was not in the mood to discuss it. Makoto was much too secretive with his time. All day today, when from Frank's perspective, a Saturday means you kick back and hang out with the people you like, like Makoto, the boy was mysteriously out of pocket. He wouldn’t say where he was or what he was doing. This dinner too was destined to be short, maybe that's what really churned his stomach. His answer came out on the tense side of things: "Does it matter? We only have one day."

Makoto crushed Frank's pessimistic tone with optimism to spare. "We can go on a picnic!" Makoto was suddenly excited.

Frank saw the young man momentarily levitate off his stool as his leg muscles jolted in the joy of the idea.

Makoto continued: "We can go to Mount Takao, it's beautiful!" And he smiled like he was adding a secret: "We'll have fun there."

Frank weakly returned the grin. "OK, we'll have fun."

The boy suddenly held up his watch. He excused himself by tapping on it. The boy moved his head, and Frank's sight didn't follow, so his gaze fell off Makoto and onto the scene just behind him. Any number of Japanese eyes were looking at him. He made a circuit, and found many more looking back. At the end of the line was the boy's inscrutable smile. It seemed to Frank that Shakespeare had possessed a time machine to travel to this day and see a boy so balanced by the malicious and the benevolent that he instantly named him Ariel and put his love for him on stage for all times to adore. But Frank was mad; the cause and expression of his brusque mood coming without cognition, but it all had to do with that damn watch-tap. He snapped at the smile: "Why the hell do they have to stare at us?! Haven't they ever seen a Japanese with a Gaijin before? What are they, fresh from the sticks? Tokyo is full of us round-eyes – what's there to gawk at?"

Makoto wasn't biting. He crooned coolly: "They're just wondering about our – " he grew a little lecherous twinkle "...Connection. And they're jealous as hell." He stood, grabbed the bill; his body movements telling Frank not to sweat it.

The boy's disregard deepened Frank's anger. He rose too, came close to the young man's face. "What if I kissed you, right here? What would the looks raining about us look like then?" His carriage of voice let it be known just how serious he was.

         

The bill was paid, and the elevator door closed. They were alone, and the boy moved. He backed Frank into a corner. "So you wanted to kiss me, in front of the whole restaurant. And, what stopped you? Certainly not me…" Then he pushed himself full force into his twenty-three-year-old American. Frank's hands roved, going around the young man's waist, lingering in the small of his back, and their eyes closed as their lips touched. His anger continued to simmer, but up through it, relief in the form of pleasure rose. 'Water cools not love.' He found this in his head, and thought: 'damn Shakespeare again.'

They were down in the night. Before the building with the kusiage place, was a plaza. At their backs was the noisy traffic of Shinjuku-dori, while before them spread the wonders of Ni-chome on a Saturday night. The boy again tapped his watch and started to run towards the invisible but magnetic pull of Tokyo's Gay Mecca. Makoto's glib voice called back to Frank: "I'll see you at 1:02, in the station – on the platform!" He jogged off into the urban darkness, and his retreating form was spotted by murky streetlights.

'I know why,' Frank thought 'he doesn't want his friends to know he's involved with a Gaijin. He's ashamed to be seen with me. It's all an act he puts on, like in the restaurant. He says he doesn't care who sees, but he must.'

A hand clamped onto Frank's shoulder. Involuntarily his head swung around to the face of an acquaintance; an Australian with brassy vowels and brass-rimmed glasses.

"Evenin' mate," Willy said with a booming basso "what ya doin' here? Waiting for a bus?" he laughed like he had said something funny. "You're doin' a pretty good impression of a Roman statue, but if you're trying to be Antinoüs, you'd better strip."

"Anti-who?" Frank knew, but he didn't like Willy.

"Antinoüs – Emperor Hadrian's rock-solid husband. Frank, how've you been? I haven't see you at either BB's or Whitman's lately. Did you get hitched?"

Frank examined the face of this nosy, gossipy – and worst of all – callous, popinjay. "Well Willy, it's only been a week, but yes, in a manner of speaking."

"So where is he? Powdering his…'fill in the blank.'"

Frank forced a sigh through his nose. "He went off to be with his friends."

"Oh," Willy said as if a lot had been explained "one, let me guess, he's young – and two, he's local. Tisk, tisk, he'll get over his youth, the other – well – to each his own. So what are you doing standing here! Where are you going?"

Frank instantaneously vowed to have fun. "Nowhere. Any suggestions?"

"Yes. Let's go to a fine little 'kiddy bar' I know of. If you're over twenty-five there, you're part of the gallery."

"Let's get the hell out of here." Frank sighed again through his nose, the sight of Makoto's Puckish smile and lips flickering across his mind.

˚˚˚˚

Kozo walked to the center of his bar. He spun around the gyroscope of his torso, sending arms out, books in hand. "Karaoke time! Singing people, show your hands!" The books – lists of songs – were distributed evenly about the clientele in spite of any show of volunteerism.

Kozo was in his early forties, though those who asked invariably were told to guess, and then had to say 'twenty-five' whether generally thought so or not. Kozo would laugh, slap the person on the wrist – he never missed – and say seductively: "Flatterer, but if you say so, I can believe it too!" Kozo was lithe, graceful, and his motions were effortlessly weighted to always sway to the proper side of elegant. His eyes would look out a bright respectfulness; a certain deference that Westerners couldn't pull off without showing an element of commingled fear, but it was a look which Japanese needed to master for business. And Kozo was a businessman, a good one too. He hated short hair, but once he found out how youthful it made his face, he always wore it that way – it was business. To have a bar, here in Ni-chome, meant he had to play many rôles. There were the gangsters and punks, and people from the local government insuring the liquor didn't wind up wholesale in the hands of gangsters or punks, and the landlord with his endless demands of more 'gift' monies. It never ended, and most insidious of all were the petty officials from the Ministry of Justice who 'unofficially' wanted to keep tabs on the coming and goings of big shot 'homos.' And Kozo was the right person, because the large stash of customer bottles on his glass shelves boasted some very big names indeed; names from the worlds of finance, sports, politics and showbiz. They all fancied the younger clientele Kozo also worked very hard to draw, and many of these youth eyed the names on the metal tags suspended around bottles of Scotch and Cognac with a desire to be kept by these men too, as long as it was in some form of luxury.

The bar was a single room on the third floor of a narrow building of bars; six floors, six bars. Unlike a typical mama's bar, where the bar itself dominates the available space, leaving only room enough for a row of stools – all facing the host, who is expected to act as matchmaker – Kozo's was open despite it's long and narrow setting. The bar proper was a stout affair, offering only two stools, while the rest of the place was ringed by armless leather seats. These white chairs formed long sofas on three walls, and had chrome tables in front of them. This pattern only breaking in the back, where a large monitor was attached to the wall. Here was some open floor space, a microphone stand and speakers. At the other end was a nondescript void that served as the bar's single adit and exit. On the exterior side of the door was a narrow landing. These slender buildings had an open stair facing the street, an elevator core columned in the center, and several landings and half landings. These mezzanines overhung Naka-dori and served the respective bars as larders or coolers; people coming up would have to maneuver around the cases of beer, or step over the fallen cleaning equipment.

Kozo would wind up his inner gyroscope, and he would spin all night.

He sat himself down at a table where a regular group of young men had assembled. "Tetsuya, would you sing?"

The shy boy turned away, a soft brush-off being spoken to the tabletop.

"How about you, Shigeo?" Kozo grinned, knowing he was goading the 'leader' of this gang.

Shigeo flicked quick, sideways glances to his companions, a rude leer spreading across his cruel lips. He tapped the list of songs on the table, and said to his host with affected cockiness: "We have the book."

Kozo smiled all the harder; a professional rebuff to chide a boyish retort. "Well, I'm here to serve." He was hot for this twenty-three-year-old bluster boy, and knew he could teach him a thing or two. "How about drinks, everybody…?" they were fine, so Kozo distracted himself to another table.

Shigeo's hand butted a flicking motion up at the turned figure of Kozo departing. "He thinks he's so smart." His torso pivoted nervously, his face sneered as only youth can; half cynical, half sweetly. "But, he's just a booze-pusher."

His companions tried to emulate the look they saw. The two younger men – Tetsuya, the shy one, twenty; and Hideki, referred to unkindly by both friends and detractors of the group, as the 'ugly one,' nineteen – looked at each other and tried out their newly acquired sneer.

Tetsuya had shortish hair, which he moussed up when on the job. Tonight he let it flop about his brows in bangs. He had glasses, which only seemed to bullseye the rather blank look coming from behind them. For those who got close enough to appreciate it, the teenager had a hard upper body and a backside and thighs made of steel. He had been a fine gymnast in high school, and on his way to the Olympics, until he was caught holding hands with his gymnast boyfriend, and blackmailed into turning his back on his first love. He got his revenge though, and on a spring trip to Tokyo, he ran away and left the school and his parents holding the bag for his presumed turn of foul play. He smiled inwardly, justified, every time he lit upon the pain they must have felt, and maybe still feel today.

Poor Hideki was cross-eyed, had a slightly bulbous nose, and ears that stood out rancorously. He, though unlike most of his compatriot nineteen-year-olds, knew his limits and built on his assets, namely his physique. He was a gym-boy. Where other teenagers relied on their faces, he built his body. Blessed by height, he had added a chest to match, and arms sculpted four-quarters round that exercised exquisite taste in the proportioning of triceps to biceps, and forearm muscle to shoulder muscle. The shirts he wore to publicize his work were boyishly bright and skin-tight; sleeveless – always – and always calculated to lead his clients into an easy admiration of the way neck became body, and body formed head and face.

Tetsuya, the professional working boy, occupied a specialty niche. His naturally reserved demeanor gave the allure of greater youth than was his by years. When he bashfully stood in a doorway and eyed his mark, he undoubtedly targeted a type of necktie-wearing and haggard looking soul, the schoolteacher. While working the streets, he'd wear a disheveled jacket from a uniform he picked up in a thrift store and looked as 'mean' as he could. The teacher would be instantly drawn to the lose cigarette hanging off of the boy's lower lip, and perceive it as an invite to scold. Yes, Tetsuya was popular with his market, he who wished to pay for a the taste of the forbidden fruit which passed in and out of his life with each new semester, and with each new boy.

Hideki – the 'ugly one' – was unconventionally cute, and very popular with the gentlemen. He, like the rest of the gang, were working boys supporting each other, and their mutual dream, a dream that meant everything to them. Hideki played his part in emulating Shigeo's sham hardness, not knowing his biggest assets were the rosy cheeks that burnished him beautiful, even as he attempted to scowl.

He said: "I wonder where everyone is? They were supposed to be here by 10:00."

Tetsuya lilted a low singsong: "I think Masa has a new boyfriend."

"Who?" Shigeo's suspicion was couched in amused disinterest.

"Remember," Tetsuya started timidly, he hated telling stories "remember that trick he told us about, the one who beat him up, then wanted to kiss him, or something."

"No, no," chimed in Hideki "the guy pushed him off the bed, Masa cracked his head on the mirror, and then the guy wanted to hold him."

"Weird." The leader shook his head "And that's the guy he's into now?" a worried paternal tone crept into his glibness.

Tetsuya ventured again: "Masa told me he's seen that guy several times since it happened last Saturday, and he's really falling for him. He says they're so alike, it scares him."

This was news to the leader, and cut him to the core. They were supposed to be a team, and Masa had confided to two of them what all should have known.

Hideki propped his elbows on the table and leaned in to assume greater intimacy. "He told me, he's so into this guy, he's considering moving out and giving up hustling. And, that…that…" He stopped, and looked up as if the devil had just cleared his throat. Masa stood there, his professional blankness resting on his face.

Shigeo and Tetsuya turned and looked over their shoulders: "Masa." they cried.

He didn't warm to them. He sat down stiffly, and then did not move, instead he swallowed once and locked onto Shigeo's gaze. "I have something important to talk to you about."

The leader tried to turn it into a joke: "As if you have anything important…"

The intent young man cut him off: "I'm getting too old to believe in fairytales any longer. I can't believe in the dream anymore. I wish you guys the best of luck. I hope your big chance comes, and all goes well. Man, someday I hope to be buying your albums, but I've got to get out for my own good. Things have changed. I've packed my things and moved out."

Suddenly music erupted. Someone was going to sing, and the gang practically jumped in tandem. Over the blare of synthesized strings that added great melodrama, Masa said: "This should cover my obligations for the rest of the month." In a split second he stood, and a fat bank envelope thudded on the table.

Stunned, Hideki blurted: "Is it a guy…"

"Is it that guy?" added Tetsuya.

The leader was silent. His surprise had re-found its composure. He folded his arms, securely saying in loud boldness: "He's in love. He doesn't know that a whore in love is always the butt of some guy's joke. He'll be back, and back more humble." He laughed like it was funny.

Masa's professional demeanor cracked, slightly. He glared into the leader's eyes. It was no joke to him. He took a step back, bowed and formally said: "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

A hand came slapping down on his shoulder. Masa jumped, a wild ready-to-fight leer spun around into Makoto's mischievous smile.

The singing had started, and a loud and off-key voice bleated out a pop tune. Makoto's happy glance turned off kilter. "What's going on here?"

Masa pushed him away. "I'm sorry." he said, and his will to fight caused him to run.

Instantly the leader was up, his face wide with significance. "He is in love." rolled off his lips with the shock that follows the revelation of a fatal illness. He went after him, grabbing the envelope in a deft scoop. He leapt down the first half flight in two steps. Masa was on the other side of the landing. Standing still, the humidity of the night made both young men begin to sweat.

Shigeo inhaled deeply and decided to drop all pretense. He fingered the envelope at his eyelevel. "Do you think this cancels your obligations? Money, Masa? Is that what you think I want. Is that what the group needs of you. What about love? – Not that mushy Western, 'I'm so in love' crap – but real, duty-bound love? Koi is Japanese at it core, it’s what keeps people, families, communities together, not that foreign notion of being spacey for someone, and acting a fool because of it. You know that as well as I do."

Shigeo walked towards Masa, a softness creeping into his voice as he went on: "How? How can we replace you? We are a family, and you can’t leave your family. You can’t expect a father to go and replace a son just because he's run from him." There was both reasoning and authority in his tone. He saw that Masa was hurt, and he knew he would be. Family was what their little group had built, and to forsake it was a general act of destruction on every member.

"You don’t understand," Masa pleaded "I don’t believe in the dream anymore, so if I don’t have that to keep me motivated, what am I doing on the street? I don’t know how things will work out for me, no one ever does, but I know I have to try. Don’t you see? There's no hope for me to help you reach your goal. You have to let me go."

Shigeo closed in, his hands out to grab the young man's shoulders; shake some sense into him. "Our chance is coming soon, I know it, I have to believe in it!" He latched on.

Masa looked with horror at the hands on him, he felt the magnetism of the leader draw him in, and he resisted it, as if he had to, to live. He pushed Shigeo by the chest, and the leader's heel caught on the edge of a case of beer. Shigeo stumbled a moment, but his eyes stayed trained on Masa as he saw him whisper: "I'm sorry."

Masa ran and disappeared down the steps.

The leader froze, paused in balancing himself as if nothing had sunk in yet. In righting himself he saw the envelope in his hand. He was suddenly angry. The sweat beaded over his upper lip. He licked it, the saltiness confronting his fury with a direct sting of the reality he wanted to murder. He stood looking over Naka-dori, and in a moment the still jogging form of Masa came running out into the middle of it. He turned up to the leader and walked backwards a few steps, then turned and disappeared in the spotty murk from the streetlights. Shigeo's grip on the envelope tightened, his only wish was to throw it – like nothing would be better than seeing Masa's money swallowed by the night, like sparkles of snow in the breeze.

He rolled it in his hand, estimating the content while his conscious mind followed back to the dream, to the reality of a future possibility, and slowly he didn't want to throw the cash. Slowly he knew his place was with the others – reassuring them, fostering in them, and in himself, the dream that held them together as a family; held them taught in duty-bound love.

 

The elevator door opened to the sound of Willy's big-voiced laugh. He stepped out, and Frank followed unamused. On the narrow landing, Frank caught the name of this 'kiddy bar' over Willy's shoulder. Kozo's it said rather plainly; no cutesie attempt at English or French. Willy swung the door out and stepped in, but just as Frank took a step to grab the closing door, he felt the presence of someone behind him. He turned and saw one of the 'kiddies,' a good-looking twenty-three or four-year-old Japanese young man.

The instant turned into a warm and bright smile for the boy. Frank stood out of the way and held the door open for Shigeo. The leader brushed past the American, and Frank for his efforts, got the most contempt-ridden look he had ever seen. The Japanese young man made him sick, the bright, warm feeling constricting in thought, and moved like a rock down into his gut.

Kozo was a flurry of arms and hands greeting Willy. Kozo couldn't stand the loud-mouthed foreigner, resenting the fact that he made his clientele uneasy, but over the near-melodic drone of a karaoke patron, one could never tell the host dreaded his guest.

"Arama! Irasshai." Kozo exclaimed "Long time no see."

Willy laughed: "But I was here last Saturday. Oh," he bemused "not long enough, is what you are saying, eh?"

"Oh!" one of Kozo's hands slapped Willy's wrist "Now, let's find you a table. Alone..?"

Shigeo pushed passed them. Willy half turned to see where Frank had gone. "Two." he said.

Kozo's back walked away from them, but his extended hand led them as he said: "This way."

While the leader returned to his group, all eyes were on the new arrivals. Makoto jutted his head back and let out a low gasp. He slumped his shoulders and watched the host lead his party past them without turning his head. He thought about running for the door, a quick 'I'm sick' excuse, but everything staying frozen, and everything seemed too dangerous to attempt.

The two foreigners were tactfully seated at the table closest to the bar, and farthest from the other, real patrons.

Kozo disappeared. The two talked about the room. The place was almost full, and as Willy promised, the clients were mostly twenty-five or younger, with a sprinkling of distinguished men dominating tables with small groups of them.

"Well, what do you think?" Willy wanted to know.

"They're all pretty cute, but some are sure rude."

Willy didn't have a chance to get clarification because Kozo was back. In his kinetic hands he gripped a small tray, on top of which jostled a bucket of ice, a bottle of Scotch, a flask of water and four glasses. One glass held folded cocktail napkins and a crystal swizzle stick. Kozo sat himself down and proceeded with the mizuwari ceremony.

While Kozo was doing that, Frank asked if he knew that group of boys over there, especially the unhappy-looking one.

"Oh," Kozo hinted salaciously "they're a little group. The one you mean is called Shigeo, and he's their leader."

Suddenly Frank saw Makoto there, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning. He barely heard Kozo continue: "They work the streets to support each other. Ah, they're all so young." Ice clinked into a second glass. It still hadn't penetrated Frank fully.

"Oh no," chimed Willy "you know better, why don’t you make one for yourself?" Willy knew the ceremony well. The host or hostess was obliged to drink whether he/she wanted to or not. Ice clinked into the third, waiting, glass.

Frank interrupted the pleasantries. "Do you mean…" there was real urgency in his voice "...that they are…"

"Boy-whores, for hard-up businessmen." Willy put it as crudely as he could.

"The way I heard it," Kozo gossiped as Scotch went into the first glass "they share everything they make, and living arrangements, and hustle here and there – but Saturday night is their day off; the pudgy-faced uncles have to stay at home with the wife and mother-in-law. It's the weekday nights, after about 10:30, that their red-faced sponges roll out of their 'drinks with coworkers,' and seek out sex." By the end of Kozo's monologue, each of the three had a whiskey-water in hand.

"Kampai!" he led the cheer.

"Kampai." the others followed.

They drank. Suddenly, Kozo needed to hear: "Why did you want to know about them?"

Frank, still shocked to see his boyfriend among the group, explained thoughtlessly: "The sour one and I came in together – I held the door open for him, and he thanked me by looking like I had just raped his sister."

Willy broke in: "I hear they have some interesting terms for foreigners."

"Terms of endearment?" asked Kozo.

"Terms of estrangement!" asserted Willy.

"Like what?" Frank had a morbid curiosity.

"Well they call us hairy barbarians, that you should know, but they also say that because we eat red meat, we stink. So a typical exchange might go like this…" Willy sniffed the air, and supplied voices for all the roles

"'Do you smell that? It's like burning lard.'

"'Yeah, like rotten gristle.'

"'Oh,' they'd explain and laugh 'there's a Steak-stinker over there! That's why.'"

Frank blurted out: "But that's stupid. Japanese eat more steak than anyone back home I know of." He turned to their host for verification: "Is it true?"

Kozo fought it, but answered by turning red. Before he spoke, Willy continued.

"Or Butter-stinkers, or Gristle-chewers, Bone-suckers – and my personal favorite – Sour cream-apes." He laughed.

Both Westerners rested their attention on their red-flowing host. Kozo was reluctant to explain at first, but started with grudging acceptance. "You know, we Japanese are polite, gentle, at peace within ourselves – at least that's what we all tell each other, until we have to believe it's true. But in fact, many of us Gays feel threatened by Western things. It's a little complex we have." Kozo searched the faces of his audience to see if they understood; they did not, so he swallowed and continued. "Look at it from our side. Western culture is so homoerotic. If you don’t believe me, then just look at any at any American hero movie – the plots are all the same. The honest man is robbed of his wife and kids and goes to get revenge; that's simple enough, but why does he have to go through the rest of the movie shirtless? Why do we need to see that sweaty flesh, beautiful but hurt, constantly in our sight to feel sorry for him? Because it's homoerotic – that's why. So too with Calvin Kline ads, catalogs with Bruce Weber models, cigarette billboards, surfers selling Kentucky Friend Chicken: all of it glorifying the Western male form, and in Japan it’s so completely lacking – nothing is about male sex here – apparently, everything is about it over there. So for young Gay men growing up today, there is absolutely no glorification of the Japanese male form, no reinforcement that male-male attraction is valid here among us, while there is a constant barrage of it in the form of the European man, and it causes a complex. It makes them feel, 'never good enough.'"

"So, the messed up ones…" pulled Willy like a dentist "…get pumped up and go after every Westerner they see."

Kozo was instantly maddened, upset to the degree of truth in the statement. "Not every Westerner they see." a sly insinuation showed that Willy for one would surely be excluded. Although he partially knew Willy's broad-brush statement was true, but felt comforted in the act of defending his 'Japaneseness.' And he got even very easily. "You're going to sing." he told Willy, his fingers pouting over his glass.

 

On the other side of the room, the group of young men had watched the foreigners intently, not collectively, but furtively as individuals, embarrassed had they been caught.

Willy's gruff handling of a Japanese fast-paced pop song suddenly filled the room with an awe-struck tension. The Australian's clunky manufacture of the syllables were correct, but the intonation was wildly off; he sang like a person who'd studied musical theory, but had never practiced.

Tetsuya ventured: "Not completely right, is it?" His bashful blinks darted from boy to boy.

The leader leaned into the table. It looked like he was going to relay covert intelligence, instead he cracked a smile. "How often do Gaijin bathe?" He cast about to see if anyone had heard this one before. He concluded with a laugh: "Every time it rains!"

They erupted into rowdy laughter, all except Makoto, who only lowered his eyes onto his hands in his lap. His head filled with the sight and pressure of Frank holding onto him.

Still laughing, Shigeo's sight squinted as he leaned back to the center of the table. "What's the best was to get a Gaijin to take medicine?" Tetsuya and Hideki's eyes grew large in mirthful expectation. "Tell him it’s pot-flavored!"

Again, laughter spilled out from their corner. Makoto, not looking at anything, heard Willy falter in his song, and this time a surprising offense welled in him; the joke wasn't funny, what they were doing wasn't considerate in the least.

In anger he pounded the table, their still laughing faces turning on him. "Shut up." he demanded. "There's someone singing!"

The leader, astounded at Makoto's lose of cool, said: "What for? Do you want to hear that Butter-breath sing a Japanese song?" Shigeo's voice was suddenly bitter. "Like dogs gargling, that's what they sound like."

"Hey, that's from Mishima…" Tetsuya broke in, he liked to read.

The leader did not hear him. His anger sharpened, he hit the table himself and glared at Makoto – the weight of Masa's loss coming out in a bitter accusation: "I didn't know you did foreigners!"

Hideki, somehow missing the intensity of the exchange, burst in joking: "Makoto, do you have a hairy boyfriend or something?" His crossed eyes smiled, and appeared to look at both the leader and the boy at the same time.

"No." said Makoto.

"No, what?" demanded the leader. "No, you don’t have a Butter-stinker boyfriend; or no, you don’t even like them." His voice let it be known it was matter of loyalty.

"Just, no." whispered Makoto, eyes down. He thought about Frank's hands, the soft hair sprouting on his chest, the way he rested on that chest with Frank looking at him as he drifted off to sleep, his hand stroking his hair. "Just be courteous," he said, the secret thought questioning himself: 'Am I in love; is there no hope beyond that?'

Willy stood in the clear area before the monitor. Many Japanese will inevitably leave the microphone in its stand and move slightly right and left around it, but the Australian lustily removed it, and with one hand held it like an ice cream cone, close to his lips. With his other hand, he whipped the cord along the floor as if led by the hand of Cher herself. His song continued to drone alone, and Kozo kept company with Frank at their table.

The American pulled his host's ear to him, gesturing with his head to Makoto's group.

"Are you sure you know what they do to make money?"

"Frank-san, it's not hard to guess. If you ask, they'll probably tell themselves. You see, many boys like them in Ni-chome are runaways. They left more than childhood homes behind; they left inhibition. Most of them come here and find it's best to go for what they want, whatever it is."

"You said they have a 'dream' of some kind?"

"They're singers; dancers. A boy band, who call themselves Nicho. Get it?"

"That's a nickname for Ni-chome…"

"…Also Spanish for some sort of icon. So, you see they like this place, because they can make a little money with some of my big shots, and hope to meet someone in the music biz."

"But, you're sure they also work the streets? All of them – even," Frank paused to swallow, Kozo immediately caught his seriousness "that cute one; the youngest?"

Kozo's eyes scanned the American's features. He proceeded with more caution couched in greater flippancy: "Arama! What do I know? Except, you like him, don’t you?"

The music stopped.

Kozo clapped. "Good singing!" and slyly said to Frank, out of the side of his mouth: "And don’t you go spreading rumors."

"But you said…"

"Arama! Who ever listens to me?" He shot out a hand like a gecko's tongue, and it stung Frank's wrist for a brief instant.

The singer was coming back to the table. Kozo winked at Frank, his hand came down on the songbook, and he was gone.

Willy sat, a little flushed from his vocal exercise. He saw the odd expression on Frank's face. "Was it that bad?"

Frank was deep in his own world. He stumbled out: "What..? OH – no. You were good. I was thinking about what Kozo told me. Those boys…"

"The group of fantails?"

"Right – they're a boy band – called Nicho. Can you believe it?"

"Yes, mate, I can. When you were a kid, didn't you play that board game 'Life?' Remember the career choices we in the West had: doctor, lawyer, nurse, fireman, housewife. Well, over here, the kids grew up with 'Life' choices like: supermodel, TV chef, geinojin – or fulltime media celebrity – pop star, or talent agent. These kids were trained to dream in Technicolor – like Dorothy swishing down the road! So, yes. I can see that those kiddies want to be a boy band."

At the boys' table, all was quiet. Shigeo had shaken the group's collective center by not showing any grief over a member's loss. And now that the leader had excused himself to the john, they tried to bolster a solution amongst themselves.

Tetsuya glanced over his shoulder, towards the restroom. "Are you guys OK with losing Masa?"

Makoto and Hideki offered mutual head shakes.

Hideki said: "I can't understand Shigeo's 'dead-to-me' attitude."

"Me neither." chipped in Makoto.

"Good." concluded Tetsuya. "I'm going to text him." He dug for his phone.

"Good idea." Hideki leaned into the table. "Tell him to get back here."

"Right," Makoto also leaned in "there's nothing that can’t be worked out – tell him, Shigeo is sorry, and has to talk to him."

"Yeah!"

As Tetsuya thumb-punched the pleading message, the others kept an eye out for the leader's return.

There was a stir at the door. An unaccompanied gentleman in his mid to late fifties walked in. He politely stood and waited to be greeted, while many young eyes glanced off of him.

"Arama!" exclaimed Kozo. He rushed towards the man as a whirlwind of spring-wound arms and hands. As he got close, he asked with applied concern: "Kagemura-san, are you well?! I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays. You must be busy with work."

"Um." Kagemura grunted low, then slightly moistened his lips as he surveyed the room.

"Well…" Kozo inspected the seating options "…as you can see, we are busy tonight." He caught sight of Frank and Willy. "Let me seat you with those two gentlemen. I'm sure you'll have lots to talk about."

"The foreigners?"

Kozo reassured in a singing lilt: "They both speak Japanese." He took the guest by the elbow and led. "Right this way." He moved close to the man's chest: "You can inspect the boys from a distance. Tell me which ones you like, and I can re-make the seating arrangements."

Kagemura grinned.

As they passed the boys' table, Hideki elbowed Makoto, and both eyed each other as if recognizing a celebrity.

Kozo stopped a few paces before Frank and Willy's table. He put up a finger and said: "Wait one moment, please."

Hurrying on, he informed the Gaijin in hushed tones: "I have company for you. Kagemura-san is a very interesting person. And, he's a big shot. OK?"

Willy was nonplussed. He glanced at Frank, who consulted his watch. He had about two hours before the inevitable confrontation with Makoto at one. He shrugged, a little pissed at the world.

Kozo ushered the man over. "Drinks?"

"Scotch and water; bring my bottle."

As Kozo spun off, he urged: "Introduce yourselves."

"Kagemura. Nice to meet you."

Frank touched his own chest, then Willy's: "I'm Frank; this is Willy."

The man pawed his suit pockets. He extracted a pack and lighter. As he watched the man light up, a little nagging itch grew in the back of Willy's brain. There was something strangely familiar about this man's name, maybe even his face too. He tried to reach the spot and scratch it, but it was just beyond his grasp.

Kagemura held up his pack of cigarettes, offering them to the foreigners. They declined. "Ah," he said, a slight grin creeping into his tone "I heard that Gaijin-san don’t smoke anymore. Is that right?"

"Well…" Willy ventured.

"What is your country?"

"Australia."

The man looked at Frank.

"America, and smoking is not popular in the States, except with the young, and with the old."

Willy shifted in his seat. He gave a mean glare at Frank. Somehow, although he couldn't say just how, this man was someone not to slight with insinuation. He smacked the side of Frank's thigh under the table.

Kozo arrived with another tray, and chattily forced his way into their conversation: "Getting along? I knew you would." As their host proceeded with the mizuwari ceremony, Willy cast furtive looks on the tag around the bottle of Glenfiddich: 'Kagemura, Takaya,' and suddenly Willy's itch got a good hard scratch. He leaned back smiling, realizing exactly with whom they sat.

When Shigeo returned, his lost-in-thought malaise was greeted by expectant faces. "What?" he asked.

Makoto, Hideki and Tetsuya exchanged glances then all of their eyes drifted over the leader's shoulder and onto Frank and Willy's table. Shigeo rotated on his seat. A moment later, he returned to his companions with a startled and nauseated pall. Seldom do dreams receive a calling card, one saying: 'Here I am. Come and get me,' but one had just done exactly that.

"It's him," insisted Hideki with a question "right?"

"I…" Shigeo started, but was interrupted.

"It's got to be him." Makoto was adamant and Tetsuya nodded.

Stunned, Shigeo grasped at reality. "Where's Kozo..?" He looked around, and saw the host taking Frank and Willy's initial tray back to the bar. The leader emphatically waved him over.

"Yes, boys?" Kozo said a bit peevishly, knowing exactly why he was there. But his pretense melted in the near-tear stained eyes Shigeo turned on him.

"That's him, isn't it: Kagemura, Takaya-san?" Kozo was still for the first time in the night. Just as centered he told them: "Yes, boys. That's exactly who it is."

"You have to introduce us!" a surprisingly firm Tetsuya asserted.

Kozo sighed: "Sorry. It's the man who decides who will be introduced, and whom he leaves with. It's out of my hands." Kozo departed.

A slowly sinking notion plumbed Shigeo's thoughts like a lead weight. A momentous opportunity had presented itself, and the entire struggle to build the group, and to keep Nicho together, could pay off before the night was done. Shigeo swallowed down his panic: the dream could also die once and for all, and split his family up forever.

Without the slightest bit of acrimony, he wished Masa were there. He'd know just what to do.

Frank tried to watch Makoto with the smallest bit of observable intent. He felt like he stood on quicksand, that the tiniest little struggle would only sink him deeper and faster. 'Why?' he wondered. That half-gestated concept in the restaurant returned. 'Do I like him?' he thought 'No, damn it – one week, and it's like I've never been down this road before, but no – I already love him. Now what am I to do?'

Kagemura tapped his ashes, taken by the fact that the young American looked morose. "Why so glum, Frank-san?" He laughed: "Is it love?"

Frank blinked: was it that obvious? "No," he said "it's living in Japan."

Willy shot him a sharp look of warning.

"Ah," the older man inveighed with sham ire "crowded trains, weird food – raw fish – that sort of thing?"

Frank inhaled sharply and put his elbows on the table. "I don't like that Japanese are never honest."

"What?!" Willy exclaimed in English.

"Never?" Kagemura was far from insulted; in fact his mind was on the feast for his eyes as several young men were busy walking around the bar.

Frank went on: "If a Japanese person tells me: 'Let's have dinner sometime,' I know it really means: 'I wouldn't mind having dinner with you, if I ever see you again in my life.'"

"So?" demanded Willy.

"So. Why say it at all? It's no more a commitment that a handshake is."

"You don't understand," said Willy "that's the way things are done here."

"It's not honest, that's all. We have a saying in English: 'the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing.' It means keeping your mind from knowing what your heart wants and vice versa."

Willy forcefully tried changing the subject: "What do you do, Kagemura-san; for a living?"

The man's eyes stopped roaming and fell purposefully on Willy.

From the Australian's vantage, the middle-aged man's gaze probed his features for intent. Willy knew what this man was, what he did; he half grinned in spite of himself, and belied confidence he didn't have. Just what made him, he pondered, feel he could be the intimate of a mogul?

The grin was seen, telling the man who he was to himself: powerful. He took the foreigner's smile as flattery, and said in a timbre that seemed to drip espionage: "I'm in the entertainment business."

A gloating 'I knew it' spread across Willy's face and it drew an intense dislike from Kagemura.

Frank leaned back and sighed. Now he openly watched his boyfriend, so near, but never farther away.

Willy informed the American: "Kagemura-san is too modest. He personally represents most of the biggest male singing talent in Japan. He makes unknown groups stars for breakfast."

Frank nodded, and his very disinterest drew the talent agent closer to him. The man was suddenly interested in Frank, the sullenness of his glower intrigued him, and thinking back to the young man's earnestly felt comments about Japanese social issues, he was stirred. For one, to have such command of a culture one was not born into is impressive, and two, he agreed with Frank. But he was getting tired of Willy.

"Kozo." He called out, and the host spun up to him. "I suggest you entertain our Australian friend – at another table – for a while."

Shigeo gathered support from his young charges. The leader was nervous. He had to do one of the most frightening things he'd ever had to do: face the possibility of a dream coming true, true only if he was good enough. He was honest to them: "I wish Masa were here."

Makoto spoke for everybody: "So do we. I'm going to call him right now. Tell him what’s up, and that he has to get here posthaste!"

As he found the number and raised the phone to his ear, a heavy sigh passed between him to his companions. A raised finger and a moment later, he said into the air for Masa to hear: "Our big chance is here. It's do or die."

At their table alone, the talent agent had made inroads into Frank's solitude, and the American confessed like he had nothing to lose: "See that group of boys over there," he gestured with his head, and the agent glanced "that cute one, with the little sideburns, he's my boyfriend, but he's embarrassed to be seen dating a Gaijin, and it’s killing me. I found out only tonight, he's keeping another big secret, and I'm frustrated. All I want is a little honesty between us."

"I can understand." Kagemura bit his lip and decided he had nothing to lose either. "Thirty years ago – yes, before you were born – " he chuckled "I got into showbiz as half of a duo. We were young, and deeply in love, and struggling, but we broke through and had some minor hits. Then he left me to sign with a different label as a solo artist. He dumped me too, because his new agent forced him into a sham marriage. His single was a flop and his huckster agent turned him loose. We were on our way, then…well, it changed my direction, that's for sure. I was facing the same sort of dishonesty, and I decided that Gay kids needed an advocate in the business who would never ask them to be dishonest to themselves, to the public, or to me. I've thought my career as such was blessed, but I stay humble, remembering where I started. Times are a lot different now, but the pressures never change."

Frank leaned close again: "I want Makoto to be happy, and he'll never be content until he confronts how he feels about me – and that I don’t quite know how he feels at all. You see," he laughed quietly "Makoto goes after want he wants. He picked me up in front of a 7-Eleven magazine rack, and it was one of the best days in my life. That kid doesn’t seem to have a drop of hypocrisy in him, and that thrills me – yet – he didn’t tell me how he supports himself."

"Oh."

"So, you know?"

"I can assume I know."

"Yeah – well, I didn’t. But, really it's not that I care, other than he kept it from me. Look, I make good money as a journalist. He can follow another path and I can be there to help him – but it's so soon in our relationship. It's a lot of trust to ask from him."

Kagemura reflected a moment. "You mentioned honesty versus self-protection – how did you say it?"

"Right hand, left hand."

"But that means more, doesn't it?"

Frank blinked: "It's from the bible. Jesus said not to pray in public so everybody sees you. He said to go into your room, lock the door, close the blinds, and talk to God so that your right hand doesn't know what your left hand is doing."

Sagely, the agent asked: "And what do you think he meant?"

Frank thought more with his instincts than his brain: "Don't let the love you have in your mind interfere with the love you have in your heart."

"Exactly. No hypocrisy. Just truth." Now Kagemura grinned ear-to-ear: "And I know just the way to bring it to a head." He looked around, an emphatic arm beckoned with a resounding: "Kozo!"

 

After the host resettled Willy into a newly vacated table, he was suddenly taken with the Australian. For one, it was refreshing to spend time with someone of his generation, and someone who had about the same life-experience from which to draw upon.

With fresh drinks; he cheered his guest. "Kampai!" their glasses clinked.

Willy surveyed the roomful of good-looking youth. It made him want to philosophize about the nature of beauty. "Kozo-san, did you intentionally start out this place aiming at 'kiddies?'"

"Well, truth is – and don’t let this get out – "

Willy felt his wrist sting.

"But…" continued Kozo "…they're not really my type. I like guys with some meat on the bones, both physically, and with the thoughts they think."

"I think," ventured Willy "that what you say is true. Kids pass through events without pausing to reflect on what it means in a broader context. It's like seeing a beautiful rose and not linking it to the people, places and circumstances of all the other beautiful roses you've ever seen before. Youth seems so sad in that regard."

"Willy-san, are you prone to the sentimental?"

The Australian snorted a laugh through his nose: "Most people label me as cynical; you'd be the first to call me 'sentimental,' but maybe you'd be closer to the mark than the rest."

"But sentimental is not bad. It just means you are in tune with what you feel."

"Yes. I guess the heart of sentimentality is one man doing something from the depth of motivations without letting the rest of his conscious mind fully understand. It's like a dream acted upon and comprehended without it ever passing into a cogent thought."

"Are you sentimental over 'kiddies?'"

"I generally go after them – but, maybe, I've just learned what a mistake that is." As a bashful round of cow-eyes passed from guest to host and back again, suddenly Kagemura was there. He stood with a peevish hand coming down on the table in front of Kozo: "I have to talk to you a moment, alone."

 

Frank watched Willy drift back to this table. He sat down with a far-away look on his face. "So, you and that boy are dating?" Willy asked blankly.

"Oh. So, he told you."

"He didn't have to."

"Willy," Frank whined in deep pain "if I love him, which I do, don’t you think I have a duty-bound obligation to ask him to change for me? Even if it's best that he give up being a hustler?"

"Sorry, mate. I don’t have an answer for you." Their collective sight drifted over to the table to watch as the next-stage tableau built before them. The agent drifted back to their table, and sat with a Machiavellian smirk permeating every nook of his countenance.

Now the three watched as Kozo, in the best of his gyroscopic fashion, turned on the hustler's table. Kozo spoke with the leader, and the young men turned almost disbelieving eyes back to them. In an instant, as Kozo's sweeping hand gestured to Makoto, Shigeo's gaze clouded. He exchanged a sullen word with the host. But Kozo was adamant: only he and Makoto were invited.

From the boys' point of view, the drifting away form of Kozo was cold comfort.

"But he has to see all of us." insisted Hideki, his well-built arms plodding flat on the tabletop.

"Yeah – all of us." chimed in Tetsuya.

"You heard him." Shigeo informed them "just me and Makoto – but I don’t want those Gaijin to hear us discuss business. We need Kagemura-san to come to this table."

Deep in the stillness of Makoto's mind, utter panic was setting in. If he went over there, if he got close to Frank, what would happen? Would Frank 'out him' as his lover; and would that be bad? 'But no,' he thought 'Frank is too decent. He won't do that, so go over there and have some fun with it.' And yet, how close to his boyfriend could Makoto get without wanting to be closer to him; and does the American know his secret?

Shigeo let out a ponderous gasp: "I wish Masa were here!"

"I'll call him again right now, but you two get over there! Go."

Kozo had deftly made the new seating arrangements, and no one had a choice: Shigeo was put next to a lecherously beaming Willy, and Makoto at the side of a morose-seeming Frank. Then Kozo spun off and left them.

The leader desperately ignored the foreigners by making a much too strong opening play for the agent's attention. "My group, sir – we are a boy band named Nicho – and we have a lot of great songs we wrote, and we can dance like the wind…"

Kagemura put up his hand, chiding: "Young man. Do not be so rude to your guest." The raised digits formed a kind sweep over Willy.

The boy's Adams apple bobbed as he turned a horrified glance at the Australian. It looked like he wanted to vomit.

The agent pushed the drinks tray towards Shigeo.

"Mix drinks, boy – for your guests."

The leader grew internally irate – being subservient to a pair of Westerns was the last thing he had the mental room to accommodate. As he pulled the tray to him, he flushed red with anger. 'So close' was all he could think. As he started the mizuwari ceremony, he was vaguely aware of his young charge sitting across from him.

Makoto and Frank sat side-by-side, and both found it hard to look disinterested in each other – Frank wished to hug and say that all would be all right; Makoto wanted to explain the hustler thing, and thought Frank would hate and dump him because of it. As Makoto's knee bounced nervously under the table, Frank casually put his hand on it, and the boy instantly stopped. His hand went to Frank's and grabbed on – and without making eye contact, both released their misery in matching slow-motion slouches. Somehow, that touch had reassured the other that things would work themselves out.

As the leader finished the first three drinks, he placed one before the agent with a deep head bow, but simply pushed glasses before Willy and Frank.

Kagemura extracted a cigarette, and Shigeo dove to get to the lighter first. While he slowly raised the filtered end to his lips, the agent offered the kid some advice. "Talent," he blew out the leader's light with hoary breath "is not enough. I've seen scores of boys over the years who could sing and dance and do it all; but they lacked that certain intangible which acts like the glue of a band. It's a mysterious thing, like an erotic charge running through the various members when they're performing – a vague notion that appeals deeply and subconsciously to the young people watching – right deep in their hearts – that the boys are able to love each other, maybe even be in love with each other. Do you understand, boy?"

"Love, sir – " Shigeo almost wanted to cry from understanding "Yes – koi, duty-bound love holds our group together. We've been working every spare moment to build not only our skills as performers, but have done it by building a family. We look after each other, because – well, because we're all we have."

Kagemura nodded in a non-committal way.

Shigeo went for it, do or die: "Hear us, sir. Let us perform for you right here and now. We're ready to show you – right, Makoto?"

"Yes, we're ready!" The boy's eyes practically begged.

Kagemura's 'agent smile' flashed wickedly: "No. I never mix business with pleasure, and right now…" he licked his lips "…it's the pleasure of my friends that's on my mind."

Shigeo's heart sank. What did the older man mean, but he knew. He blinked a sad volley at Makoto. Suddenly, Frank raised an arm and draped it across Makoto's shoulders.

The leader made a stealthy glance across Willy's scowl, and felt revulsion. Then his mind hit upon a way out. "Business," he glowered at the agent "is business. We don’t offer our services without recompense. I'm sure you didn't get ahead by giving your 'talent' away, did you?"

Now suddenly, Kagemura liked this kid. He could make a hell of an agent one fine day. But his nascent smile of admiration was shut down, as it would naturally be at any negotiation table. "Name it. It's yours."

Shigeo quietly gulped, he hadn't thought that far ahead. "A million Yen for me to entertain this Australian."

The agent laughed viciously. "You!? Who said that he has any interest in bedding the likes of you? No, boy, I was talking about your associate, and him." He gestured to Frank.

The leader felt himself sink into a cloying moment of consideration, but then he pulled himself up with a strong parental instinct to protect. "No." he said, genuinely amazed "If you're talking about me, that's one thing, but…" Shigeo stood, his ire rising within him, the table rattled and threatened to topple. "…leave him out of it!" The leader grew more and more irate; his voice louder and louder. "Don't force him to do what he doesn’t want to do. You'd blackmail us with the prospect of an audition – to force a kid to be molested by a hairy, stinky, fuckin' unwashed barbarian!"

Makoto had had enough. He rose too, only he did so with slow intensity. He reached out an accusing hand to his leader: "You – idiot, raciest. What the hell's wrong with you? Come on, people are people. There are good Gaijin, and bad ones; open ones and closed-down bigots too, just like some Japanese."

Makoto laughed, he was getting a lot off his chest. "In fact. Most of those I've met are as nice, if not better than we are. They've got a lot to offer, if we'd only listen – he pulled Frank's hand up, forcing him to stand. "And you know what, I happen to be in love with one, and it happens to be him." Makoto put his arm around Frank's waist.

In Frank's giddy and reeling senses, another intrusion made itself known: 'the boy for trial would needs touch my breast, and thither I hied, his distempered guest.' – Yes, he has touched my heart as if with Cupid's arrow, and I only grow the hotter.'

Shigeo's world was falling in around his ears. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but his voice stayed unmoved. He screamed: "Fuck you. Fuck you all!" He turned and made for the door.

The leader stormed past Tetsuya and Hideki who had risen to stop him, but their leader violently pushed past them and kicked the door open with a slamming ring. Tetsuya and Hideki looked a brief moment at Makoto, then turned and went after Shigeo.

At their table, Frank took Makoto's arm and turned him. "Don't give up on your dream." He told him. "Your family needs you to be the strong one now. And I have faith that you can do it."

Makoto rotated in slow motion to the agent.

"Go," Kagemura said "get your group ready to perform. I'll be down on the sidewalk to watch in a few minutes."

The boy looked to Frank. 'Dreams do come true.' he thought. He grabbed the American around the waist, and pressed his fist into the small of his back, just as Frank had done to him in the elevator. He kissed him, and hurriedly ran after the others.

As they stood there, Kozo strolled up, apparently his spring was winding down. "Arama!" he quietly sighed "All the drinks are flat." He sat everybody down and started a new round of the mizuwari ceremony. The first drink went to Willy with a wry smile. "Such an interesting night it's turned out to be. Willy-san, don't you agree?"

"Yes." He raised his glass and toasted his host. "Very interesting indeed."

˚˚˚˚

The marquee signs hanging over the sidewalks of Naka-dori offered their dim and multicolored light to the uncaring night.

Hideki and Tetsuya struggled to restrain the disconsolate and anger-ridden Shigeo. His misery cried up the side of the buildings, then all at once, left him deflated, with not even strength enough to stand. The boys supported him as he slumped to sit on the curb across from Kozo's building. Shigeo cried. He was devastated, and to the faces above him, he choked out: "I've let you down. I've failed you as a father. There's no hope."

Hideki and Tetsuya blinked at each other. They both descended to squat on either side of their leader. Both supported Shigeo with hands on his shoulders.

"You did the best you could." Hideki was choked up with emotion.

"Don’t you see," insisted Tetsuya "You've done better than any of our real fathers ever did for us."

"There's more than one agent in Japan…"

"Yeah!"

A form hovered around them. Hideki and Tetsuya stood. Masa silently shooed them aside and sat next to the leader. He put his arm around him and pulled him into his chest. He stroked Shigeo's head. "I' sorry about leaving you guys earlier, but things have to change – evolve or die. For myself, it's time I leave home."

Shigeo said: "I understand."

Everyone heard the clacking sound of an elevator door open. All looked up at the sound of Makoto's Converses running across the street; all puzzled at the whoop of triumph his fist raised to the defiant night above his head.

Makoto was before Shigeo like a flash. He grabbed the leader's hands and hauled him to his feet. He kissed him once in a loud smack. "You did it! You crazy, beautiful, sincere bastard, you've done it! Stop those damn tears this instant, 'cause he's coming down to hear us perform." Makoto shouted from the sheer damn joy of it all.

The others instantly had their frowns leveled, then raised in unstoppable recognition that their time had arrived. All hands slapped Shigeo's shoulders in congratulations, and Makoto's fingers boyishly smudged Shigeo's tears off his cheeks.

"You understand?" Makoto demanded of the leader "We're on. Pull yourself together."

And they did, for as Frank and Willy, and Kozo and Kagemura drifted onto the sidewalk with conversational languor, Naka-dori was straddled by five ambitious and talented young men. Suddenly Nicho rent the air like the purple curtain before the Holy of Holies with the force of divine harmony. They danced as one body, arms down at sides, then punched the air in front of them with manly force; feet stepped wide, then hopped to join side of sole with companion, to only a moment later follow the next beat in perfect syncopation. Their boyish, but strong, five-part harmony intoned the timeless notions about the power of love to bind one heart to another.

 

Used to be I'd walk all alone,

And the world is scary when young –

I tried to make it on my own,

And be tough when troubles begun.

But now life is different with you,

Because we walk here together,

And the sun warms us through and through,

As my hand holds yours forever.

 

Challenges exist for us still,

But day-by-day we are learning –

And through the struggle is the thrill,

That day-by-day we are growing.

Because life is different with you,

Now that we walk here together,

As the sun warms us through and through,

And my hand holds yours forever.

 

Who knows what Fate will throw our way,

The future is scary right now –

But our love strengthens everyday,

And we will get through it somehow.

Because life is different with you,

Now that we walk here together,

As the sun warms us through and through,

And my hand holds yours forever.

 

At the end, the boys held their final dance pose and panted with fierce but jubilant faces locked on the talent agent. Around them, a crowd was newly gathered on the roadway, and the many balconies overlooking them. These people erupted into riotous applauds. The boys began to look skywards, as if riding in a ticker tape parade, and then slowly, at each other. They each silently saw in the others' their own belief – that if it wasn't good enough, it was the best they could have done, and that was all they asked from each other – and that was good enough. As they came together, they drew themselves into a collapsing circle centered on the gravity of their own feelings, hands came over shoulders and brothers slapped one another like comrades in arms.

All of a sudden, the agent was standing at the circle's perimeter. Shigeo inhaled deeply and stepped forward. He felt like apologizing for earlier, but as he opened his mouth, Kagemura raised his hand to the young man's face. In it was a business card. He pressed it against Shigeo's sweaty forehead, and said: "I'll expect your call Monday morning. Don’t let me down." Then he turned around and led his cozy party back to the elevator, and to Kozo's third floor bar.

The boys came together again, this time in solemn thanksgiving, and Makoto saw Frank still standing there. He broke free of the group and ran over to him. He took him by the hand and led him back to the group. "Gang, this is my boyfriend Frank." Tetsuya and Hideki giggled at each other, but lunged to be the first to shake Frank's hand. As they fawned over him, Makoto told Shigeo: "Grow up. If l love him, you'll have to love him too. That's how family works." And with that, Makoto took Frank's hand and started pulling him down Naka-dori, towards the train station. "We're going home. Call me in the morning!"

˚˚˚˚

Back at their table, Kozo remade drinks. Yes, it had been an eventful night after all. And the host, like at the end of a Medieval morality play, assumed the role of Virtue personified, to sum up the proceedings.

He spoke of how the boys had their dream come true.

He spoke about how new beginnings appear out of the blue, and offered a bashful glance at Willy.

And –

He raised a cheer to the comforting notion that they will always have their mizuwari.

Kozo, the bar-mama; Kagemura, the big shot talent agent; and Willy, the brassy Australian, sat together. Three very different men raised a toast to love – and somehow, it was their very differences that reached out and touched one another.

 

~