Azabajuban: Overseen in Tokyo


On the rooftop patio, a lady in a hot blue dress stands at the bar. There she is directing a boy bartender; his face attentive to her specific demands. The blue lady looks off into the distance, a tight blonde lock of curl hovering over her eyes. She needs two drinks, one for herself and another for Kristen, her ever-present yet invisible drinking buddy. After the attendant boy empties the remains of a bottle of champagne into two prissy girly drinks, she saunters off to the high-rise views of the Tokyo elite. She sips her fizzy boozy friend thinking about the stronger drink in her armoire. Alas, that is for a bit later. First, let’s get through this nest of Tokyo Expat Moms.

Lady in Blue: Azabajuban

While Blue drinks in her maternal angst, Mrs. America shows up. Her tall athletic frame is wrapped snugly in a floral skirt, exposing ripped musculature through slits on the sides.  Her keto diet bans any form of light indulgence. Her bubbly-virgin soda water topped off with a lime plays the part of a costume. She slides back into conversations about schools, tutors, and everyday complaints. 

CJ steps away from the bar. He needs a few moments to breathe in clean air and release the toxicity seeping out of these women. He climbs up the stairs to roof access above the building. He takes a seat on the warm concrete under the bright night lights of the big city. Azabajuban. AH! ZA- BA JEW BA N.

A strange name for such a posh place… 

CJ works at a number of the ritzy bars in the area. He amuses himself watching the fancy women constantly in need of a drink. Mainly they are clothed in entitlements and freeing their imagination with a night on the town. These beautiful, cursed china dolls. CJ knew getting too close to any of them was a bit like losing your footing on the rungs of a rickety ladder. 

Putting their temptations away, CJ opens up his LeSac for a rich, short 20 minutes break from the bar. Inside, a pack of loose tobacco strands, rolling paper, and a special gift from Tim. Pulling together a magical pixie stick, he leans back and extends his legs into the air, and brings a respite to his lips.  He tilts his head in, shielding his smoke from the breeze, and lights her up with a steady flame. 

The smell of butane, burning papers, and a few threads of tobacco release all the pent-up concerns into the air. A stillness falls over the rooftop. There are cicadas singing in the night. A warm breeze carries muted conversations upward into the sky. CJ is content with the knowledge that everything will be just fine.


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