Pure Writerly Moments 2 (Short Stories, Essays, Book Reviews, and More)

December 4, 2004

December 4, 2004

Sixteen years ago, a universe ago, I lived in Nagasaki, had a Welsh roommate who drank and talked into the morning hours, had a little job teaching English. I would take walks from my little apartment next to Kwassui High School (the Catholic high school) up the hill to Max Value for my shopping. Every walk in this very walkable city was a lesson in history, nostalgia, and romance. The best romances were the romances that never happened.

No Nicole. No Sayaka. They were both better off without me, but not me without them. I met them, and then they were gone.

December 4, 2004 means that I would have been exactly 22. Four days before my birthday and feeling frisky. Full of optimism and classroom learning -- at the time, I absolutely treasured my newly minted Bachelor's Degree. Though I feel the shine has faded on my intellect (street-wisdom and hard-knocks have worn down that shine), I still hold those four years of education in high regard. 

For the first time, I had money in my pocket.

I sat there with the street performer for hours. I bought him another bottle of water and listened to him play. A drunk salaryman came along, asked the street musician for his guitar, and started playing. One of his friends spoke to me in good English and explained to me that he was her boss; I told her she had a "cool fucking boss" and tried to translate that as "totemo kakui" which is probably like saying he is really handsome.

I told the street performer all about my troubles with Nicole. He told me all I needed to do was propose to her. I told him "She didn't like me." Which is really a bit better than the reality of the situation which is something like she is indifferent to me—which is a million time worse.

I'd at least want her to hate me. It's closer than love.

December 4, 2004 shows me that in sixteen years the facade of all things changes but the essence of who you are doesn't. You can't step into the same river twice, but the thing that steps is essentially the same with the same types of problems.

I remember getting a magazine in the mail with an essay of mine. Leading Edge Magazine carried an eight-page essay of mine. I was only 22. Anything was possible. Read, write, submit and the universe would reward. That was my mantra. Greatness was just around the corner. I was only 22...I knew older ages would come quickly. I had to work to survive. I couldn't spend all my time chasing greatness. How many more Nicoles and Sayakas would come my way? Would it be possible to place an essay in a magazine ever again?

The salaryman strums his guitar semi-drunk before handing it back to the street musicians. He knows that he is a burden. His younger coworkers pick their boss up and lead him away with reassurances that he is cool. That's what the foreigner had said, right? But he knows in his heart something else...what does he know?

It is December 4, 2004, so I don't know what he knows.

2020, maybe I do.

The Hamanomachi shopping arcade was different then. Just outside the shopping arcade across from the streetcar stop, next to the pachinko parlor is Veloce coffee. The place I loved to go to read and study Japanese. That coffee shop is gone now. So many things are gone now...

It's sixteen years in the future. 2020. I know why I can't write a memoir. Because there are no stories. My life is replete with memories, but there were no stories. Nicole and Sayaka can only exist as fictions now.

In 2020, I now live just outside Nagasaki. I rarely go to the Hamanomachi arcade, but I'm still facing the same problems. With graying hair and a little money in my pocket, somehow, someway, I'm still living in 2004. If I were to pick up some street musicians guitar, hopefully, some young man would tell me I'm cool.