The Round People - a Novel - 1. I. Initiation & II. Nine o'clock

The

Round People

A Night in the Life

of a Tokyo Bar

˚˚˚˚˚

a novel

by

AC Benus

for

ET-CHAN

my own dear Etsuko Ishida-Honorio –

who knows for whom

this book is

really dedicated

Ἦ τοι μὲν πρώτιστα Χάος γένετ᾽, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα                                              

Γαῖ᾽ εὐρύστερνος, πάντων ἕδος ἀσφαλὲς αἰεὶ                                                   

ἠδ᾽ Ἔρος.  

Ἡσίοδος

まずは混乱でした、そして広い地球、
地球は　永久に　生き物の場所、
それから、愛。
 
                                                           ヘシオド

First Chaos came, then our broad-bosomed Earth,

And all that makes it the everlasting seat,

And then, came Love.

Hesiod

Contents

I. Initiation

II. Nine o'clock

III. Ten o'clock

IV. Eleven o'clock

V. Twelve o'clock

VI. One o'clock

VII. Two o'clock

VIII. Three o'clock

IX. Consummation

X. Four o'clock

I. Initiation

A few years ago, I like most of the rest of my generation, was at home. For us that fateful year of 1989 happened across the oceans with our televisions seemingly as the hub. In April I watched students build democracy in the heart of China, by June I was watching them die, betrayed by an army wrought in the people's name, but ruled by the old men who still held one of the world's oldest cultures cowered by the side of the Forbidden City. It was tragic, but who in that summer could have foreseen the way winter would end the year and The Cold War in one swoop, that the next January could possibly show us a Romania without Ceauşescu, East and West German feet trampling a pointless wall, and a Soviet Union who herself was not long for this world. All of this happened while a new emperor in Japan prophetically initiated a new era – Heisei – or the Age of Assurèd Peace. The change that transpired then seemed like the warm days of March, something everyone could feel and believe in without trying. Though the air was still cold, a sense of elation pushed out the possibility of anything but better days. That feeling, unspoken, and yet on everybody's mind, was more than a personal expression of hope, it was on every face you saw. The spring is a communal event, awesome in the way it moves beyond age, race, and privilege; stunning in the unity it works on mankind. The world was going to be different, and we thrilled at the prospect of it happening before and around us – and like the great spring herself, through us – but March inevitably turns to April, and April as always brings showers, mud and war. And we, who may have been at home when everything began to undergo the phenomenon of change, are now out in the world. People my age are in Prague and Budapest, and even a few like myself are still left in Tokyo, but wherever our chances brought us, we are all connected in the puzzlement of what happened to our new world order.

As hinted above, what led me to Japan was just a chance: some college friends would put me up for awhile. The restless urgency with which I left America quickly became a murmuring settlement falling to me within the space of a few months. When I first arrived it was winter, like this night through which I am now walking. Stationed in a friend's traditional house, the days were warm and crisp with sunshine, but the nights there confronted the complacent and complaining American I was, with sharp drafts through the house that helped me grow up. Now, I regard the cold of the cold nights of Tokyo as liberating, for without them I had never been, or shall never be in future times, as alive. For new arrivals find they have time to think like they never had before. In my case, rudimentary Japanese left me the only person I knew I could understand. Because of that, I came to realize what a constant bombardment my whole previous life had been of take-for-granted information. In Japan I had to think, reason out everything I saw and imagine on a new plane of consciousness simply un-required of me, and the way I had lived before. And what a universe to marvel at is Japan, a place, as I think Fitzgerald said: 'commensurate to man's capacity for wonder.'

I am walking tonight feeling that old anxiety return. Seldom are the times when we know the threshold we cross over to get to a place will lead us back out again as a changed person. I will force a change to occur, one that I've been delaying, but no more. There may be few moments in your life that you can anticipate, and point to with a shaky finger and say: 'nothing will be the same after tonight,' but today is one such day. It's the outcome that I cannot guess at. Unlike the events alluded to above that played out on a world stage as well as in the hearts of we who witnessed such sweeping change, my point of transformation is scheduled, and probably will be witnessed by none but me, and one other person.

I am walking through Kichijoji, this leafy college-town suburb of Tokyo, and the February night is my sole companion. It confronts my complacency and moves me on to my destination, a bar where foreigners and locals can gather on equal terms, something they seldom do. I have to go there; there's a reason, namely a something I have to do. I don't know if I'll have the courage to bring it to a consummation, but if not tonight, then never. As I said, I don’t know how this night will end, but I'm hoping by then I will be able to make myself a little less lonely.

II. Nine o'clock

Dean stood there. His arms effortlessly hugged an aluminum keg to his chest and abdomen, but he did not feel the weight. His mind and emotions were rapt to a spot above the door; a spot he had brought to life with his paints.

This Japanese young man and bartender was in the middle of the dance floor, and traces of bright neon-colored pigment still tenaciously clung to his knuckles. His strong hands bulged under the weight of his unfelt charge, but he had to look. So, by slow degrees, his head tilted to one side like a question, his feet carried him to a slightly new vantage point, before returning him again. His gaze went over every detail of his work on the wall with methodical scrutiny: the quality of this paint line, that color choice, the interrelationships of forms, and in the background to his thoughts, music was playing from the bar's sound system – not loud, just playing. Relieved, at last, he let himself smile, and he suddenly felt the weight of the keg.

Dean was alone and silently critiquing the artwork he had just finished. After he put on the last strokes, a quick glance at the time made him hurry to clean both himself and his equipment. He then had to rush out and grab something to eat. As he shivered against the force of the winter air, the ride on his motorcycle had cleared out his head of concentration. He had more on his mind than the mural, or on work at all. When he came back, he had had to scramble to do all that must be done before the first patron arrived. That was why he was holding the keg; the remembrance of his painting only hitting him across the face as he stepped onto the dance floor.

The new work held a very prominent position in the club. There was a lighted green exit sign immediately above the front door, but Dean had painted it obscure long ago. Above that, taking up an area about six-foot square, Dean had painted a gigantic white square. This, perfect of smooth line and unadulterated color, stood in direct contrast to the somber hues of the walls couching it on all sides. On this virgin field Dean had used primary colors to render a human figure, or more exactly, two human forms. For the one on the right Dean had chosen orange, drawing a thick-lined profile. This orange figure had a head, two arms and two legs, but he was attached to, and in fact shared an entire midsection with, a mirror image of himself on the left. This other person was yellow, and where they were but one, the opposing colors fused to harmony. However, accord did not look to be the subject of the work; these figures seemed in desperate struggle to pull apart and complete a separation only half-wrought upon them.

Dean admired it. He glanced to the ceiling two stories up and contemplated some special lighting for his new creation.

This young man had a special fondness for all things 1950's, especially his own appearance. His hair was fairly short and moussed to stand up in a longish kind of crew cut. He had a perfect widow's peak coming down onto the center of his forehead, and symmetrical sweeps of his scalp line shot up from here to again curve around into short, but well-pronounced, sideburns. When looking at him straight on, his cheeks seemed long, but they were balanced by a face blessed with large and expressive eyes. His eyebrows were graceful riding the inflections from the windows beneath them, and his nose descended gradually from the bridge to form symmetrical nostrils. His head rode high above his collar, balanced on a muscular neck that never blushed to show its strength whenever Dean turned or laughed. These exposed parts were well tanned from his bike-riding. He was average height, about five-ten, and still lean in his youthfulness. Now, standing on the dance floor as he was, he yet wore his black leather jacket, the one he always rode his motorcycle in, and that had a series of zippers for pockets and two where the sleeves came to open for the hands. It fit very securely around his waist via an extra external belt and buckle. Under and below this sea of leather, he wore a white tee-shirt, black jeans and square toe boots.

Attached to a front loop on his jeans was a chain that swept back and up to a ring on his wallet. It dangled like a flowing catenary arch – nature's perfect arch made by simply holding a length of string or rope, or as in Dean's biker mind, a chain – to bounce an inch or so above his right knee. With every confident move he made, he loved the feel of that metal striking or rustling over the surface of the soft denim that wrapped his legs. It reminded him how close he was to his own body, and to his own motions. Sometimes the feel of the chain, like when he was on his bike, was enough to awaken his spirit to full-standing attention, right below the zipper it came so close, so often, to touching.

Dean always had the smell of the sun on him, for he always seemed like the guy just arrived, ready and full of fresh fight to do or be anything that the world needed of him, and moving as he did, in an untiring and continually urbane energy – even here at the beginning of a long night of work ahead of him – he carried the impression of just having that very moment come from the open, the more natural, more rejuvenated – and ultimately – the most humane place to be. Like the god Dionysus, this boy ever seemed the fresh arrival who held back his formidable power to destroy, because he'd rather laugh with us than make us fear him. So, Dean paused there, frozen, looking as powerful and graceful as an ancient image – say, a Knossos boy – stepped to our times in leather and Levi's.

The young man roused himself because he had work to do before the Saturday night crowd started to trickle in. He sighed, thinking how busy they were going to get, and half-spiritedly considered there was something he'd rather be doing, and someone he'd rather be doing it with. He shook himself, knowing he had no time to consider complex feelings right now, so he walked with jocular assuredness towards the bar with his keg, but he looked back to steal a final quick glance at his artistic accomplishment, and think about that someone.

˚˚˚˚˚

A bar at nine o'clock is as quiet as any public place an individual can go to be alone and pensive. The solitude is palpable, an atmosphere ripe for the unspoken vespers of reflection on ideas and ideals that are unsuccessfully represented by the iconography. A man or woman sitting in an empty bar can think about the morality of money, greed, ambition, or of all the endless lists of the things they desire. In such a place as this, every act of devotion, though committed in the name of someone else, finally is only the adoration or condemnation of the self. In this particular bar the conflicts rise and settle in more complex ways, because it is here that corners of cultures overlap; the Japanese, understanding outsiders, or failing to, and the foreigners generally bulldozing through the native social structure.

This bar was opened a couple of years ago to get a foothold on foreigners' entertainment money, the ones who live in and around Kichijoji. The owner, Saito-san, found the location and decided to call it Junglelina, and with that intention known, he hired an up-and-coming artist to completely paint the interior. The theme was set, and the young man rubbed his chin thinking of easy money. The only condition was that he had to be finished within seventy-two hours, so he started immediately. There was a wainscot which he was obliged to preserve, but on the walls, and even the ceiling, he set about to create a tropical wilderness.

On the first day he worked from eleven-thirty at night until he fell asleep at four in the morning. When he awoke the next afternoon, he looked at the work he had done with sour consternation. He couldn't have realized the reason was because of a revealing dream where he had seen himself in the finished bar, but the walls were different. He sat smoking in one spot, right in the middle of the unfinished dance floor, and stared. All at once, like an inspired angel, he saw through the smoke the work he had lived in before. From then till his deadline he painted and painted until practically every inch of wall was alive in the vibrant action of a sober-colored mural whose subject was mankind. It was vaguely reminiscent of Blake, or Dalí, or Michelangelo, or all of them together – in fact, of all metaphysically-inclined artists who used the human form to represent the divine and unknowable. These people marched along in a stoic grandeur from five to ten feet above the wainscot, which they traversed as a horizon line. Areas above their painted heads were generally left as fields of sunny or stormy sky.

The owner was amazed. He asked, like the innocent party he was, what had happened to his Junglelina? The young man verged near apology as he explained that this was the way the bar wanted to be, and when he looked around, he knew he was seeing his masterpiece. Saito-san broke into a gruff laugh, and asked with frankly amazed eyes what the painter thought the bar wanted to be called. "Shall I call it People?" He was annoyed and joking, but slowly the young man with paint in his hair scanned the images, and with very tired and earnest ways shrugged, "Why not?"

The owner, having paid and dismissed the upstart artist, was left alone to contemplate his lost jungle paradise. 'People – what a silly name for a bar,' he thought. Another glance around and his mind tried Fat People, Old People, Young People, and even ungrammatically, Let's People, Us Them People, The People People, and finally out of nowhere but the walls themselves, The Round People. He seemed to remember something about 'round people' from a vague school recollection, and so the bar was named.

The club occupied the fourth floor of a small concrete building; in fact it formed the entirety of that topmost floor. As was typical of smaller footprint commercial structures, the elevator and staircase were 'outside.' If a person stepped out from the elevator, the landing and open handrail of the steps going down were immediately before him. To the left was the door to the bar; the only door. A little space between the rail and wall was just enough for Dean to keep several new and empty kegs, for there was no problem of them 'walking' away in Japan. Going in, the openness of the interior would surprise. A more or less cube of open space two stories tall housed the dance floor, a stair wrapping two walls going up to balcony seating, and a DJ booth tucked in the corner where the stairs made a turn to continue up. Under the top landing of the steps, an opening led to the one and only restroom, asexual until occupied.

The door opened, but the still at the front, the visitor would see roomy booths lining the wall to his left, while straight back, and under a lower ceiling, the bar proper sat about twelve people on stools, and several more at 'twofer' tables pushed against the wall. Behind the back bar was a door that led to the catch-all storage and preparation room, or what the staff called the 'kitchen.' The ceiling was low here because of the balcony overhead. A series of crystalline downlights burned over the bar and back bar. Dean had become annoyed with their brightness and clarity of color, so he taped blue and green cellophane lenses over them. The wall behind the back bar was mirrored, and glass shelves held themselves away from it. Below these was a narrow counter of wood the same height as the bar. Here on a series of white towels sat all the beer glasses, rims down, just waiting to be drawn up in a hand and filled with a draught. Above them to the right, shelves contained liquor and cocktail glasses, while to the left, lived a panoply of the liquor itself. Here Dean had modified the light too, but used amber and orange lenses based on the booze. The whiskies and the vodkas sparkled as in no other bar in Tokyo, and nobody could quite put their finger on why they spent more here than at neighboring places. The front bar, from the customers' side, had a continuous brass railing to lean the elbow on, while the wood of every exposed element in this section was rich in espresso hues.

In this back section, the artist had wanted an intensely private mural experience to haunt the memories of those who lingered in this part of The Round People. The inspiration he seemed to find in the female breast, for mammillary figures were clustered together like grapes; pink nipplish places showed where they lingered to join the stems. The background from which they stood out was a dark mélange of pointillistic technique; ladies and gentlemen, and their sundry body parts merged in and out of recognition. There was nothing explicit about any of the young man's work, only suggestions of individuals appearing and receding, but struggling from the matrix, as we live, alone and separate.

Dean had ambitions of his own to paint, and in the blank areas he took the liberty of slow weekday nights to make vignettes of his own, and he often found himself the only person in the quiet hours of the evening, and thus felt himself in harmony with that silent introspection individuals in public places feel.

˚˚˚˚˚

The door swung open abruptly. Behind it, a gloved hand was quickly followed by a young man. The cold air swept around him for the moment he paused, while over the top of his scarf his eyes darted to every corner of the room. The scarf was dark blue and he had wrapped it around his neck, mouth and nose several times. On his head a stocking cap matched his muffler, leaving only his dark eyes and shaggy eyebrows revealed.

Mark pushed the door shut, leaning on it and its closing mechanism to close it faster. He pulled off his gloves, and unwound his mouth. Dean leaned over the bar to see who had come in, and in spite of himself, laughed to see Mark look so cautious and cold.

Mark moved his lips in a pantomime of soundless words. Dean shrugged his hands.

Mark approached the bar, looking this way and that. "Is Pearl here yet?" His voice was no more than a whisper.

Dean mocked him, first looking worriedly around the back of the bar, then jocularly hoisting his upper body onto the counter to search the floor in front of the brass rail. Still resting his chest on the bar top, he peered up at his coworker and said in a tone as low as Mark's: "Not yet."

"Well hell…" Mark was suddenly relaxed, his voice booming. "Why didn't you say that before, then I wouldn't have wasted all this time."

Dean just laughed at him while he jumped back down to stand on his own two boots again.

Mark pulled off his cap, going towards the open hall with the restroom. He turned to the left and ducked under the slashed curtain that put him in the back bar area by the cash register. Mark stopped in front of it. "What are you doing?" He watched Dean squat before the beer taps.

Dean looked up, squarely saying, "I'm changing the kegs."

"Oh." Mark had picked up a clipboard from the cash register wall. "Wow, it's amazing Pearl's late," he said examining it. "How can we sell anything? She's got the register keys."

Dean grunted from behind his work.

Mark called out plaintively, begging for Dean's attention: "Hey – "

The Japanese boy shifted slightly, resting one hand on the floor.

Mark asked him, "You won’t tell anybody if I put down that I was here at nine, would you?"

Dean squinted slightly, first at the clipboard, then back to Mark's nervous hands jostling it. Dean knew he was a better bartender that the other. He knew the Australian was just working his way through Japan, that his next job would be in Bali or Phuket – or some other place to cross off his big-scale agenda. Dean on the other hand had been practicing his profession long before he even reached drinking age. When eighteen, just out of high school, he began to work in a hotel bar. There he replaced his 'school' English for the real stuff, and applied himself seriously to the study of alcohol. When he found the interesting mix of personalities at The Round People, he jumped ship, for this was someplace he found he wanted to work. But Dean was genuinely not arrogant; he knew he was better because he tried, something Mark and his kind simply did not have to do. He liked Mark, even though he thought the Australian's ways were sometimes overbearing and confounding, but he wanted Mark to like him too.

"I don’t see," he said turning back to this task.

"Thanks – I won’t forget this." Mark picked up the plastic pen from the digits of the register, writing next to the date and his name: 8:35 p.m. M.J. He plopped the board back on the wall where it swung in a clicking motion as he pocketed the pen and walked away. He slipped out of his coat, easing past Dean, because to get to the kitchen he had to go to the other end of the back bar. Mark was twenty-four, about six-foot tall, and had an upper body crafted by some studious time in the gym. His hair was dark and fairly short, cut to lay flat and fringe his forehead in neat bangs. His eyes were intense, a trait not well suited to a bartender, who should always look at the customer with at least the promise of sympathy. Under his scarf and coat, he wore a black turtleneck sweater with long bunchy sleeves that nevertheless couldn't hide the strength of his upper torso. His waist was trim, held by a shiny silver lizard-skin belt and a pair of black slacks. He lingered over Dean a moment. "Need any help?" He was laughing, his thin lips pulled back to show the perfect teeth of his fluoride generation.

"No, I'm doing OK."

Mark shrugged his shoulders, continuing on his way to the kitchen, "And, Oh…" he turned with a hand on the door frame. "By the way, good luck tonight on the manager's job."

Dean grunted into his work: "You too."

Mark looked down on him. That night Pearl, the manager, was going to decide whom to name assistant manager. There were three candidates: a guy from Milwaukee named Seth, Dean, and himself. Seth was not likely going to be picked, as he had only worked at The Round People for three months, so it was between him and the Japanese guy. He really wanted the job, but he didn't want Dean to think he did, that's why he made a show of offering a good luck wish. Mark knew he needed all the friends he could gather.

˚˚˚˚˚

The door opened, the February wind biting the bar's warmth. Looking almost compelled in by the night's force, a girl appeared in a long coat the color of a golden green apple. She leaned on the door, just as Mark had done, to make it close faster. Plucked out of the sleeves of her coat, her fingers were covered in knitted khaki-colored gloves with each finger ending in a miniature face. Some of them wore little hats, some had blond yarn for hair, and they were Ichiko's favorite gloves. When she wore them she thought they were cute, and she hoped some young man would think she was cute for wearing them.

Dean, finishing up his work, stood and leaned over the bar to see who had come in. It was a customer, so he called out: "Irasshai" which meant 'Welcome.' She was a regular, so he didn't bother with any more formalities.

Ichiko, still standing against the closed door, put one hand into a listless wave. She walked over to the bar, her coat parting the way for her, her handbag hanging loosely off her shoulder. She moved a bit ungracefully, hindered by a slight shuffle that brought static to her natural elegance. She wore loose fitting flat shoes, snugger fitting blue jeans, and as she tugged off her outerwear, a white blouse with an elaborate lace collar became visible. She was twenty-seven and quite pretty, having gentle longish features framed by chest-length hair. This she parted down the middle with a little decorative flourish at the bangs. Her forehead was not broad, so her attempt to hide it never struck people as an attempt as all. She usually wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but as she walked across the dance floor tonight, it hung by the sides of her face. She had full red lips, and sensitive undaring eyes. If she used makeup she felt comical, so except for a very modest base, she went without. She was pretty, though this often got forgotten in the shy actions she would use to deal with others, for when she was out in public, she felt nervous, and this anxiety kept her from ever really feeling at ease when not alone. Few people had regarded her while she slept, but those who had, knew just how lovely Ichiko could be.

"How are you?" Dean offered with a grin.

"Good, how about you?"

"As always, great! What'll you have to drink?"

"A Kirin."

Dean whipped up one of the waiting glasses, and he playfully hit the spigot forward under it.

Ichiko tossed her coat on one of the chairs at the small table behind the bar stools. On top she folded her scarf, and crowing the pile, she carefully arranged her gloves for maximum cuteness. They were there to lure any boy who might be passing by. She kept her bag, and opened it to pay Dean for the beer that was already awaiting her on the bar. Dean's hand sunk into his own jean pocket to get her change.

Sitting on a stool, Ichiko took her first sip as Mark appeared from the back.

"Evening, Ichiko." Mark smiled at her just as Dean had done.

She wiped foam from her lip. "Good evening, Mark. How are you?"

Dean slipped behind Mark and into the kitchen.

"Reckon I can't complain," he leaned down to her. "Even if I wanted to. You know what I mean?"

Ichiko nodded, she had no idea what he was talking about, but the 'come-on' tone of his voice could not escape her perception.

He straightened up and pulled the sleeves of his sweater back to his elbows.

Ichiko grew intent looking at the dark abundant hair on his forearms. Self-awareness made her again look down to her glass, faintly grinning to her own surprise.

"What are you drinking?" Mark asked.

"Eh?"

Mark's eyebrows went up and he pointed to the glass.

She looked at it, his finger, then at him dumbfoundedly. "It's a beer," she said to them all.

Mark spoke as if there were a child in the bar: "And what kind of beer is it?"

"Kirin."

"Oh – In that case, I think I'll join you." Mark took a glass off the towel, and Ichiko, even after exerting a certain amount of will, was not able to keep herself from admiring the rustling forms under his sweater. He pulled his beer and held it up to gaze at her through it. "Well – Kampai!" he said.

"Kampai!" Ichiko cheered his arms.

˚˚˚˚˚

Each and every night of a bar's life is unique. The place itself is just a stage set where the actors have to pay to use the props, and it's the crowd that makes an evening interesting, or a waste of time. The mixture of life-energies form potentially volatile mixtures when one type grates on another, and yet sometimes the concoction works easily to make a night a pleasure for all, and these are the nights that the regulars look forward to.

In the early hours, all arriving guests inevitably try to gauge the success of the evening, pausing at the outside of the door, even if for only a quarter of a second, to hear the noise coming out to greet them. But the timid ones, the ones more apprehensive about coming to a Gaijin bar, exhibit more extreme precautions. Take the Office Ladies for example – the O.L.'s – who, coming in groups, pause en masse to press ears against the door while straining to judge the types of foreigners within. Past the first trial, tentative hands – ready to withdraw at any moment – push at the portal, eyes grope the interior, and noses – for all intents and purposes – seem to waft the unknown space for danger or pleasure; all of this is not left undone before any dared to ventured in.

˚˚˚˚˚

The door got pushed open with a start. A slender blond woman came in, and the gravely-set expression on her face showed she was no customer. She pulled off her black suede gloves, shoving one into each side of her long black leather coat. She came across the dance floor in great contrast to the way Ichiko had done before. The blond was animated with precision, each move momentarily calculated for the exact needed exertion, and then it was given, exactly that. She was in her early thirties, tall with well-proportioned breasts riding her chest as a means to dignity, and not a hindrance to her physical charms, for she was commanding to look at; her eyes were steel gray, and her lips full and sensuous. Her hair was long and by far the most 'authentic' blond most people admitted they had ever seen. Many fair-haired children are destined to be brunette adults, and others watch their hair brassen or dull, but few can keep that pure milky tone of a six-year-old. Pearl was one of them.

Mark leaned over the bar, in one hand was his beer, his tongue licked away a frothy mustache, while trepidation approached on him in the form of his boss. "Good evening, Pearl."

She nodded perfunctorily at him. "Good evening."

Mark again was helplessly drawn into the odd accent of her – a proper British finishing school girl with sultry Spanish undertones; a good-girl/bad-girl vibe with every resonating note.

In a moment she was in the back bar space confronting the Australian. "Is Seth doing what I told him to do?"

Mark blinked, not knowing what that was. "I…think so, you – "

"You don't know if he's giving out the handbills?"

Mark stiffened, looking straight in her cold eyes. "Like I said, I think he is, but you should check with Dean. You know he's always the first one here."

She pushed a perturbed sigh through her nose, forcing her to remember her cheek as it flamed in momentary pain. Pearl pushed past him to get to the kitchen. She mumbled angrily under her breath: "If you don’t know, why can't you just say so." Then she disappeared.

Mark offered a blushed smirk to Ichiko: "Can you believe that?"

"What?"

"The kind of stuff I have to put up with."

They could hear Pearl and Dean's voices speaking a heated Japanese.

"She's always in a bitchy mood, and such a snob."

"Asnob?" Ichiko asked.

"You know…" Mark put a demurely held index finger under his elevated nose. "An 'I'm just so much Better than All I Survey' kind of attitude – that I can't stand." He leaned down again on the bar exchanging information he thought was covert. "You know she's from one of the richest English families still left in Argentina. She went to all the best schools, but…" he made a sour expression. "She couldn't handle it, because she doesn't have it up here." He tapped his temple at Ichiko.

Ichiko watched Mark with a curious and attentive pause. A quarter of what he had said escaped her grasp, but she enjoyed watching his expressive lips curl up and down. She nodded.

Pearl's voice grew louder; she was coming back. Mark inadvertently straightened. She swept past him, Dean emerging behind her to come to a rest next to the Australian. Pearl's coat being stowed, now showed she wore a dove-gray suit with slacks under her buttoned jacket. It was attire for a boardroom, not a taproom. She went over to her usual station next to the cash register. "Evening, Ichiko." She put on a smile for the customer. "You look nice tonight."

Ichiko quickly bowed her head to one side: "Thank you."

Pearl turned her affected smile on her staff. The two young men, still standing by the bar nearest the kitchen door, looked at her blankly. The boss' smile narrowed into a scant split, but the tone she directed to them was still meant to be heard by the paying customer. It had a saccharine sweet coating, but a core like a rock. "Boys – why don't you get busy?"

Mark looked at Dean; Dean looked at Mark, and they did what they were told.

She lingered a moment more as they found things to do, then she turned and took the sign-in clipboard off the wall. In her other hand she held a pack of cigarettes. The board came to rest on top of the register with a snap so she could read while opening her pack. She read: Dean 20:48; that was followed by Seth's name, with 8:00 p.m. written next to it. At the bottom were Mark's initials, and a suspicious-looking 8:35 inked by them. She stared at this last name a tense minute, knowing it was non-sequential, knowing it was not true, but the trouble was, she had been late too, and paused to confront the matter head-on. She glared at the 8:35, slowly growing angry while she lit her cigarette. With the first inhale of smoke; the decision was made. She blew out a long pensive sigh, calling, "Could you two come over here?" Pearl didn't know what she was going to say, but she was itching to say something.

Mark and Dean looked up at her as she waved her smoking cigarette at them. The two guys thought this was it; one of them was about to be made assistant manager. Dean anticipated reward for faithful service, and Mark knew the job was his because of his head of fresh ideas. They, like hypnotized men, followed the lure of their smoldering enchantress.

She scared the smiles off of them. "Dean, don't let Mark walk all over you. If he's late for work, don't try to cover for him. And Mark," she changed viciously on him. "Who the hell do you think you are? The next time, you put down the correct time you get here. I don't think that's something you'll hear me say again, because if I have to, you'll be replaced."

Dean blinked at her speechless, but Mark stepped forward, his mouth open, his hands held out to defend his denial.

"No excuses," she bit off. "No denials. Let's be adults about this. Fact one: You were late. Fact two: You falsified a report to that effect."

Yet Mark was clever, the mouth he had hastily opened to say: 'But at least I had the common courtesy not be as late as you!' got shut in better reflection; that dangerous point was wisely left unuttered.

Peal pulled a long slow drag, the cigarette parting from her lips, the smoke escaping out her nostrils, but her stare stayed unflinchingly on Mark. Her eyes were begging for a flare-up from either young man, for she was ready for a fight. Here at work she knew she had the power to win.

"I'm sorry. I won't be late again," Mark said, as if that were the real issue, and not the lying and deceit. But Pearl nodded acceptance, blowing smoke to the ceiling. The scene was over, and the young men went back to work.

Pearl's hand went mechanically to the keys of the register. No pen was there. She frowned and glowered at Mark's working back, but pulled a long silver chain from around her neck. On the end of it dangled a Parker pen like a slender sterling lipstick. She crossed out the offensive 8:35, writing 'Late' and her initials next to it. Pearl was not going to let herself be pushed around, especially not by those whom she knew she had power over. The blue stream of ink flowed in relieving satisfaction.

When she first arrived in Japan, all the gaping of Japanese men had deeply upset her. She wondered what they were looking at, but then one day on the train she realized she was staring at another woman with light-colored hair. In that moment it came to her just how rare a specimen she must look amid all the dark-headed people she saw. She further recognized her seeming contradictions frightened Japanese men whose culture never prepared them to deal with a smart, beautiful, foreign woman – but to her, they all seemed like bumbling boys. Like clowns who only redeemed themselves on the occasions they acted businesslike. All men that is, until she met Hiro, until she looked in the mirror one morning and saw a woman in love.

She put out her cigarette, watching unseeingly the twisting motion of her fingers. She hadn't wanted to yell at Mark, she hadn't wanted to yell at Dean, but once she had started, she could only step back from herself and watch like a spectator. She enjoyed it. She exacted a personal contentment in being able to realize even a bit of her fury at men; the humiliation of one brought comfort to her beleaguered emotions in general.

Mark stood facing the back bar. Below his working hands, broad-rimmed and cheap champagne glasses awaited him to polish them. Past his right shoulder he could see Pearl standing in front of the register. After wiping a glass, he put a small paper doily with a slit to accommodate the stem on the foot of it. He'd seen her scratch with her damn lipstick pen, and also saw the little smirk of pleasure while doing it. He absentmindedly tilted a bag of multicolored chocolate chips along another line of glasses standing like hungry chicks. He hated Pearl. Hated any mean-spirited thing, but especially a mean-spirited woman. He finished sprinkling and frankly glared at her, mouthing in mock fury: "We'll see who gets replaced around here!!" She turned; Mark went back to work, just wishing she would go right back out the door that had brought her here.

˚˚˚˚˚

For now Ichiko was the sole patron, but soon the customers would slowly appear. Like players on a stage, clinging, pulling away, they knew their cues well, and dressed to display the visible qualities expected of them and their actions. Boys with wide-brimmed baseball caps, acted coy and aloof because their brims where so wide, and so pulled down on their brows, that they had to walk with heads tilted back to simply see where they were going. These boys brought with them girls who wore all black, and clod-hopped around in thick-soled boots with a hundred tiny annoying buttons running from toe to shin. They also appeared in miniskirt dresses with black obtuse stockings that did nothing but make their legs look stocky and lumpish. They had on dull-colored coats that hugged their breasts and bellies, but flared out extravagantly lower down like tutus. These boys and girls were the college types, the bold ones coming to The Round People to see foreigners in action. The guys wanted to 'hang out' with them, the girls wanting their boys to protect them from the unbeknownst possibilities of the Gaijin – the literal cultural Outsiders.

Mature couples came too: the men hoping to impress the ladies they brought with their English, or with foreign friendships, or with some other thing found nowhere else. These men had a uniform just as standardized as their seasonally adjusted blue or gray business suits – the mizuwari – or whiskey on the rocks with a splash of water. They could never, for appearance's sake, be seen imbibing anything but.

And of course the Office Ladies came, with one invariably acting almost as tour guide. Her responsibilities becoming the finding of a table for their group, then the taking of drink orders, and then eventually the pointing out of the sights, plus all the 'regulars,' or the bar's celebrities. All these obligations done, the collective O.L.'s could hunker down to gawk – and once they found a spot, they were entrenched for the evening – only their eyes moving about the room freely after the handsome foreign young men.

Other Saturday night types included, but were by no means limited to, the expatriate lonely hearts, the Japanese lonely hearts, and all those seekers of solace in the noise, or company, or short memory of a club like this. And gradually, person-by-person, group-by-group, the night's mixture began to form.

˚˚˚˚˚

Ichiko sat alone and pensive, the seats on either side of her position at the bar were empty. She heard the door open, felt the cold air intrude on her solace, but did not look. She held her forearms on the brass rail, balancing herself on the front rim of her stool. Her hands played around the base of her glass, eyes lost in the dull rising amber bubbles. Her hair hung on either side of her head like blinders, and the young lady's thoughts were loose and generally self-pitying; she calculated the fact that she had already been away from her parents for eight years, since she was nineteen, but in those eight years they had done nothing but ask, "Are you ready yet?" "Are you ready yet!" They meant was she ready to meet with the matchmaker – was she ready to get 'Arranged,' settled down, and married? Ichiko rubbed the foot of her glass, she felt a twinge of that parental pressure, and only felt more alone because of it.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Ichiko was brought back to the bar with a jolt, such a jolt that she slipped right off the front of her seat.

"Oh! Hi, Ichiko. Long time no see!"

She turned a startled grin on the smiling face of Jonathan. "Oh, hello." She elbowed her way back with his help.

"Anybody sitting here?" Jonathan pointed to the stool on Ichiko's left.

She paused a moment to make sure she understood the question quite right. Ichiko could either say Yes, that is, if he had asked: 'Can I sit here?,' or No, if he had really asked: 'Is there anybody sitting there?'

"No." She looked at the American ready to change her response instantly if he acted disappointed.

Jonathan smiled. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Another pause. "No."

"Good, then I will!" Jon began to take off a suede jacket that Ichiko admired. She thought the color and texture was poetically akin to clay drinking in summer rain. Jonathan slid fingers through the large buttonholes and undid them. He flung it on top of Ichiko's stuff, his scarf following. She didn't have to look to realize this; she could feel her gloves get crushed.

Jonathan sat down. At first glance he seemed somewhat handsome with large kind eyes and a mouth that was quick to pull up in well-intentioned mirth. His mannerisms and way of speaking were mild as a standard, but became aggressive or passionate when required, or when he was cornered. He was twenty-four years old, and like the Japanese cliché of a Gaijin, he was composed of a medium build and height with light brown hair that bordered between brown and blond. But in the more critical light of sustained inspection, his good qualities lost much to his bad ones. He slouched his shoulders, and walked with a stumbling, unsure way led mostly by his forehead. His hair was always slightly disheveled, as though he never combed it, when in fact he did all the time, even carrying a collapsible brush with him in his pocket wherever he went. His hair had many short strands sticking up along the part, and this gave it, even in its most perfect form, a foggy appearance. Jonathan never looked ready for anything because of it. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in a while."

Ichiko shook her head in a 'don’t remind me' way. "I've been staying at my parents' house."

"Oh yeah, where do they live?"

"Ibaraki."

Jonathan slowed his tone in sympathy: "Poor girl."

"I know. It's very country."

Pearl smoked and watched these two talk. She stood near the end of the bar, partially revolted to see these two having a 'nice' chat. She pitied Ichiko and the vulnerability she perceived in the other woman's nature.

Jonathan glanced up into her leer. "Good evening Pearl. How are you?"

Pearl knew her mood was dangerous. "Hello, Jon. I'm fine." She had on that smile again.

The door opened. Pearl, seeing who it was, put down her cigarette and went through the slashed curtains. Moving to the dance floor she peered at Benedict who was taking off his coat and stowing his gear in the D.J. booth. Benedict was the D.J., and he was not late. The manager and he had an arrangement that the dance music would start by ten o'clock, so he just waved a friendly hand to her nasty eyes.

Jonathan turned a little on his stool to see what Pearl was doing; he knew the situation and felt sorry Benedict had to suffer her bad moods on a professional level. He inspected Pearl's back and thought how unpleasant it was to find such a quarrelsome personality housed in such an agreeable form. He didn't like Pearl.

Dean came from the kitchen to the back bar. He saw Jon's head turned, so he dashed up abruptly to him with mock sternness.

"Hey Jonathan, this is not a bus stop! You have to buy something to sit here."

Jon smiled long before he turned to the young bartender's glinting eyes. He joked: "Bad business to badger the customers, especially us regulars!"

"This is Japanese custom. When we say 'Irasshai Mase!' we don't mean 'Welcome;' we're really saying: 'Buy something, or get out!'"

Jonathan puffed out his cheeks, his elbows went stiff and hands planted themselves on the brass rail to push himself up. Half rising he exclaimed: "Well! In that case…" then he relaxed, and plopped down again like a rag doll. "Give me a Super Dry."

While Dean twirled a glass and slapped it under a spigot, Ichiko watched the scene with concerned eyes. She thought they were earnest. Jon sensing this, reassured her, "Don't worry, we always give each other a hard time..." he was pulling out his wallet. "We like to joke, it's nothing serious."

Dean put a frothy glass in front of the American. "Seven hundred yen, please, dear customer – " Then he added several octaves lower: "Not including the tip."

Jonathan screeched: "Tip! What tip? This is Japan, son. No tips allowed." He held out a thousand yen bill, but when Dean tried to take it, Jon held on, saying, "Now make sure I get the right amount of change."

Dean snapped the bill away. He was in a good mood, for he was soon to be promoted, and glad that the subject of his recent thoughts was now sitting within reach at the bar.

Pearl was absent from the register again, so Dean fished around in his own front pockets for change. He folded the bill over the one he had gotten earlier from Ichiko.

"Here you go sir, three hundred yen change."

Jonathan pretended to count the coins carefully, going so far as to pick one up and bite it.

Like a whirlwind, Pearl was back, saying, "Mark, Dean, I want to talk to you a second." Mark came from the back with a towel drying his hands, and gave a nod to Jonathan. Dean and Mark had a tense exchange, remembering the last time they heard these very same words; both were ready to be made assistant manager.

"Dean," Pearl's tone was completely collected and unemotional. "Did you sell anything before I arrived?"

Dean quickly rummaged in his jean pockets. "Yes. I sold a beer to Ichiko, and one just now to Jonathan." He held up the two bills like a child showing a treasure to an adult, and expecting praise.

Pearl looked coldly, first to the money, then at Dean. "You should have told me earlier." She took the bills and turned the key in the register. It opened and she methodically pigeonholed the cash. She pulled out a five hundred yen coin and a one hundred yen coin, giving them to Dean with a sweep of her steel-cold eyes.

The young man felt the icy metal in his hand, and the twinge of anger building inside of him for that unspoken, but thick as syrup, insinuation she had poured on him.

Pearl turned away, addressing both of them, "I want to talk to you about the assistant manager position…"

Jonathan discreetly tried to eavesdrop, for Ichiko had excused herself to the restroom.

"…As you know, Seth is out of the running because he hasn't worked here long enough to qualify, so it's between you two."

Pearl looked at Dean. He smiled in relief to know the job was his.

"I'm sorry," she said flatly. "I think you're still too young. I'm giving the job to Mark."

Jon watched her hold up a tiny square key before the Australian, who took it, saying, "I'll try to do my best." The obviously feigned humility escaped no one; Mark was even cracking a smile through his thin lips. And Jonathan pitied the poor boy standing next to the victor.

Dean, growing angrier by the moment, could only smile, for that was his defense mechanism. He patted Mark on the shoulder with a nod and a "Good luck." He wasn't angry at Mark, but at the unfairness and foul suggestions heaped on him by Pearl. It was unfair, he thought, Pearl is unfair, and degree-by-degree his temper built a rage on these beliefs.

A group of college-age customers arrived. Benedict from his booth boomed, "Irasshai!" Pearl studied Dean's reaction out of the corner of her eye. She calmly lit a cigarette, and silently begged for the boy to flare up. The group leader came up to the bar with a barrage of drink orders. Mark started to make the daiquiris, and Pearl, less than kindly, told Dean to pull two beers.

Dean's actions were quick. He grabbed a pair of glasses from the waiting towel and brought them over to the beer taps. His head revved with formless yet infuriating feelings of how Pearl had slighted him. His left hand clasped a glass around its base holding it under a spigot. His right hand came up and slapped the lever forward, and then held it there with such force that if it were a living thing, it would have cried out in pain. Little-by-little, the beer filled the glass, and Dean grew impatient with it for mocking the slow pace of his own life. When the golden head neared the top, he slapped the lever back, pulling the glass forward. A tiny ping rung out as the inside rim momentarily met the brass spigot. He grabbed the second glass and subjected it to the same treatment. Dean could feel Pearl scrutinizing him that very moment. He could see her eyes on his back, burning there a brand of hatred. He wanted to do something to her, to quit and see how she could 'manage' without him. Dean glowed, imagining himself walking out right now; he pictured the glass shattering all over the floor, his calm voice announcing that he quits. He bit a smirk off at the thought of seeing how both Pearl and Mark would look as he stormed away a free man. When the beer formed a head, he again slapped the lever off and pulled the glass forward. It broke. A perfectly shaped half-moon shard of glass crashed to the floor and sticky beer washed a torrent over Dean's hand. For a moment he stood still, staring at his wet fingers unintelligibly. He set what was left of the beer down as calmly as he could, afterwards gripping the bar with spread hands to brace himself. He knew what was going to come, he could see it all in his head. Pearl was going to yell. Dean shut his eyes, conceiving how he was going to lose his temper at her first utterance; lose his temper and his job at her first word. He was on the brink of an all out rage. His fingertips dug into the wood.

Jonathan was aware that Pearl was watching Dean, a slight shift of his head and he could see her. He saw some look rising on her face, one of anger, but also one of sadistic joy. In her was the anger at the passing actions of an employee, but under it, and swamping it in significance, was a rage he could not stand; a madness too long hurting the self that will suddenly take pleasure in destroying others. 'The anger of a bully,' Jon thought. A flash of heat rose from his collar, and to his own surprise, he was getting mad too. He spoke to Dean loud enough to make sure Pearl could hear, "Ahem."

Dean slowly opened his eyes. Before him he saw he had set the broken glass on the bar right in front of Jonathan. He looked at the American with an annoyed glare.

Jon said, "Dean, it's not fair. Just because she's in a bad mood, it doesn't mean you have to sink to her level too. Don't." He pointed to the glass, "And if that's a free beer, can I have a straw, please?"

Dean squinted at Jon a moment, the corners of his mouth hopelessly making his eyes smile. 'What did he say?,' he didn't know, but Jon's smile, Jon's tone of voice said it all anyway; said he could sympathize. All the rage generated within Dean suddenly found easy sublimation in a single nasal laugh. He pointed at the beer, his eyes saying that it was funny.

Mark ran up with a washcloth. "Well, stone the crows! It's just a beer glass. Let's not everybody have a fit over it."

But Pearl looking from her side saw something different. She saw Jonathan and Mark go over to defend Dean, the men standing up for one of their own. And Mark, she thought, 'That ungrateful son of a bitch;' betrayal is all she felt. Her cheek pained her again. She resisted all efforts to touch it, lest someone see and question her. She said tiredly: "I'm going to the toilet," as if for no one in particular to hear.

Dean mopped up the spilled beer on the bar. He wanted to thank Jonathan, fearing the moment that they would be left alone was fast departing. "Thanks for what you said – I mean, for what you tried to do."

"Forget about it."

Dean moved a half step away, but came back stumbling with the words, "I like it when you come here."

"What..?" Jonathan looked puzzled; surprised in some kind of unexpected present.

Dean came down close in case Mark could hear, "I mean that when you come here, on the nights that you are here, it's always a good night for me." Dean lifted himself off the bar to move away.

"Wait, Dean." Jonathan halted himself and the boy before him with an overly serious tone. He quickly tried to mask it in a grin, but waited for Dean to lean back down before he spoke. "I hope we can – sometime tonight, I'd like to – just talk to you. OK?"

Dean blinked. He didn't relish his friend's awkwardness, because his conversation last night with their mutual friend had alerted him to what was on Jon's mind. "Sure," Dean said. "I go to lunch at two – if you're still around, we could go together – take a break."

Jon nodded much too seriously, making Dean smile at him. In a moment, Jonathan was left alone to contemplate the warmth Dean always showed him in the generally cool environment of this club.

Ichiko, having missed all the excitement, returned from the restroom. She sneaked up behind the pensive American and rearranged her things on top of Jonathan's. She sat down on her old stool, smiling to know her gloves were free to the general view.

˚˚˚˚˚

Pearl latched the bathroom door from the inside. Somehow the metallic sound was a reassurance to her, a marker of her security. At the vanity she looked at her face in the mirror, momentarily brushing her hair with open fingers. She stopped as her interest became centered on her left cheek. She gradually turned her head to bring it into a better range of light. Her hand came up and lovingly caressed it, tenderly putting fingers across a large swelling that followed the contour of her cheekbone. She knew that under her makeup it was bruising even as she watched it. Pearl lingered her hand on it. She pressed it, wondering not for long, if it would pain her. This was the result of a shove her boyfriend had betrayed her with. He had been angry; the shove forced her backwards and she crashed on the coffee table, her cheek hitting the edge. Half from the force, half from the shock, she sat there, because she loved him. She had loved all the ways she thought he was different from the other men she had known; but betrayal, that is the only thing she should have expected. Now the old ache in her stomach, her periodically troublesome ulcer, began to chime in with its own hurt. She rubbed the swelling bruise growing angry, growing sad, and growing uncontrollably frustrated at her helplessness. She hated men. They, they were the reason for her misery. She pitied herself, and ran the faucet. She liked the noise; she wished it could drown out her own thoughts. Pearl put her hands in the icy water, telling herself, "Cry, just cry, and it will begin to get better." She watched the water swirl in the basin before disappearing down the drain. It felt like she was seeing her life drain away too. "Cry! And it will be better."

She peered at the face in the mirror again, this time coming in so close her nose almost touched the glass. She pondered every sign of age, forcing wet and freezing fingers into every line that wrote the story of her life. The years she read there of despair, when the only hope of survival was hope,

hope for someone who would finally understand her. A hope she had invested all her love in, and rejoiced in when she found Hiro, the one man she thought had loved her as much or more than she was able to return that love. She grew furious that she couldn't cry; she could feel the pressure build behind her sight, but the tears would not come.

With clinched fists she pounded the vanity, with her stomach threatening to rip itself open form the inside.

She gawked up into the mirror again, insisting that she cry.

Pearl pounded again, and then again, and again; with each blow she further drove the pain in her gut closer to doubling her over beyond a straightening up, and each time she looked up to demand that the raving woman in the mirror breakdown and cry. But each time she only saw pained and bone-dry eyes blinking back a slow confusion. Over them, uncertainly had laid itself, and the uncompromising image she was used to seeing was suddenly faint and shattered.