Monthly Archives: June 2021

Azabajuban: Overseen in Tokyo

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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.

 

A Tribute to Memory on Father’s Day: Mustache Dad

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Photo by Josh Willink on Pexels.com

It is the season of Father’s Day commercials. When I see Macy’s advertising a snazzy men’s outfit, it bites a bit. My father is long gone. It will always be a difficult loss. But, now, when it is June, and Father’s Day is on the calendar, I turn to the memories and stories of fathers passed. Though I did not know any of my grandfathers in real life, I am full of stories about them, too.  In this way, I celebrate the contributions of the fathers gone in my family.

A favorite story about my Dad comes from the dark mustache he always wore. Well, he almost always had it; there was just this one exception. One day, my younger sister burned her upper lip while waxing. On that day, my father shaved his mustache. While the rest of his plump face shone with a gold sun-kissed look, that tiny space of the upper lip on his face was unusually clean. It was white and looked a bit neglected after years of hiding under a tuft of black hair. His turf of white against a glowing smile was unmistakably odd.  My Dad, in his self-effacing style, created a diversion. When we out to our community gathering that night, instead of focusing on my sister’s upper lip, our friends noticed where his mustache had been. He looked a bit goofy like this, without his mustache.

It was doubly funny, when you compared that space with his eyebrows. While his mustache was normally trimmed and well-groomed, Dad’s eyebrows were like hairy caterpillars on his face. Some strands of hair were much longer than the rest; like silver arms they rose from his face. No photo could ever capture the way those silvery hairs moved as he talked. The caterpillars jiggled with each expression. Those benevolent crawlers contrasted against this smooth upper lip. His smile, that day, held a sweet and mischievous look, knowing that he was carrying away someone else’s embarrassment.

On Father’s Day, I am reminded that there isn’t anything for sale that could meet the vivacity of my memories of the past. When is the last time you actually talked about family memories?

In nourishing these moments, remembering them and reflecting on them, the people from my past can come alive. Those stories which I remember, and those which are shared with me, are living in picture frames inside of my heart. It is in these moments that we can relish and respect the past. These stories are how we can share with the next generation the influences that shaped us. It is in these recollections that the spirit of our grandfathers and fathers can live on.

Happy Father’s Day, folks!