Chapter One: American Beauty
He was cold.
The alarm started chirping, and while he'd set it to a nice harpsichord tone, he hated it all the same, and almost more for how pleasant it tried to sound. Grunting, he pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted at the screen on the smartphone. Of course it was six in the morning, which meant he still had three more swipes at the snooze button until it was 6:15 and he really had to get out of bed.
He pushed his head into the pillow and huffed. He'd slept terrible again. For about the last week or so, he'd been having weird dreams, but could never recall them upon awakening, which he figured was a good thing. But it left him feeling dead tired when he woke up in the morning, almost as though sleeping was as rough as pushing the good old nine-to-five.
The alarm again. Another swipe. Ten more minutes. These were the quickest fifteen minutes of his day, every day.
He thought about what he would do today. Work, and then nothing after for once. Maybe he'd break out the X-Box and play Warframe for a few hours on Live. Maybe Matt would be online and they could just blitz a few levels. He'd ask at work.
Again the alarm. Six-ten. Five more minutes until he had no choice but to rise.
His cat, Steve, was whining on the other side of the bedroom door, and he thought about just getting up and opening it to keep him quiet, but decided against it because of the frigid air beyond the dirty down covers.
This time he couldn't avoid the alarm. No swipes left.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and shoved the blankets off. His apartment was always cold, and now that fall was on its way, even cooler. He rubbed his face in his hands and reached for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. It was the same thing every morning. Three alarms, a cigarette, and then a shower.
He thought he lived his life like a movie, and thought of his favorite, American Beauty, every morning as he woke up and started his routine. He lit his cigarette and thought to himself, 'My name is Lester Burnham. This is my neighborhood; this is my street; this is my life. I am 42 years old; in less than a year I will be dead. Of course I don't know that yet, and in a way, I am dead already.'
His name wasn't Lester Burnham, but Akira Kawasaki. After he would introduce himself, he always followed that with, "But I'm not Japanese. I'm adopted."
It was true, he was adopted, and his adoptive parents were Japanese. He was born in America, raised in America-and hated his given name. Akira usually suffered strange looks upon introducing himself, because whoever his birth parents were, they definitely weren't Asian.
Akira was tall, six feet and then some. He didn't have black hair, but instead it was long and brown and fell past his shoulders. Every month he dyed his hair to cover up the fact that it was naturally white, and this was a ritual started by his parents. It'd been going on for as long as he could remember. No one knew where the white hair came from. He was just born old, his parents told him.
He also wasn't forty-two years old. He was twenty-five going on eighty, at least it seemed to him. Life had seemed so full of promise once he graduated college. He'd graduated third in his class, top honors, head of the honor society, and editor for an online video game magazine. The joke was on him though—when he got into the real world, the printed paper business was dying. Despite his success and impressive background, every job he was interested in required experience he didn't have. He wasn't willing to relocate to a big city, or even to nearby Chicago, just for the sake of being an editor. So, he ended up signing with a temp agency that had set him up doing Inside Sales for a medical device company, and he'd been at the same place ever since. It had been a few years now, and he'd lost that young ambition he once had.
Akira was good at his job and had racked up some impressive feats in his time there. He now managed the company's key accounts and handled over eight million dollars a year in sales. He had a good group of work friends, and while his new boss was nice enough, he'd started off on a bad foot.
The guy was Japanese, and of course, the first thing out of Akira's mouth to him was, "Name's Akira Kawasaki, but I'm not Japanese." His boss didn't think it was very funny, and Akira figured that made sense, since Taka was proud to be Japanese and Akira clearly was proud of not being Japanese.
Life was one fuck up after another. He took a drag off his cigarette and picked up his phone. There were a bunch of texts. He scrolled through them and found they were all just Keith from work being Keith drunk. Apparently he wanted to play Call of Duty at one in the morning, which Akira thought was pretty funny considering Keith had to be up and working in dispatch at five. Sucks to be dispatch.
There was a can of Coke he'd left on the nightstand last night and he took a sip from it. It was completely flat, but that didn't matter. It was more important to save money and drink the whole thing. He rubbed his shoulder and crinked his neck. Smoke got in his eyes. Time to start up the shower.
He always let it run for a few minutes before stepping in, because he could not stand a cold shower. Shuffling from the bathroom over to the bedroom door, he let Steve into the room. If he didn't keep the door shut, Steve would be walking up his body and craving attention at four in the morning. It was the one thing he hated about Steve.
Just like his hero, Lester, the shower was the high part of Akira's day. He'd let the warm water splash his face, then he'd jack off righteously, and then all downhill from there.
The cigarette was done with and the water was probably hot by now. He flipped the light on in the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.
Akira always got a boost looking at himself, which made him wonder if he was just an asshole, or if everyone else felt the same way about themselves. He figured they didn't. He knew he was lucky.
One of the few things he never doubted in his life was that he was good-looking, and he thanked whoever his birth parents were for that. A smile reflected back in the mirror. A goofy, crooked, and somewhat sexy grin. He put his hand on his hip and started at his own chest. Rock-hard and chisled, just like a pro athlete. The joke of it all was that he was nowhere near an athlete and really had no claim to his own Grecian, statuesque physique—for all intents and purposes, he was a homebody and couch potato who drank maybe a little too much beer and ate more than his share of Pizza Hut and Kraft Mac-n-Cheese. In no way did he deserve this body he'd been blessedwith, and he knew it would catch up to him at any time, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. The linings on his stomach like armor would turn to dough, and that would be the end of his morning-mirror-fun-time. But his time hadn't come yet, and he was still rapturing in the gift that good genetics had given him. He loved telling people he used to be a model, which was in fact true. When Akira was eighteen, a talent scout at the local mall had gotten him a gig, but it turned out he was horrible at it. In front of a camera, he was completely clumsy, and it showed. But it was nice to have bragging rights just the same.
A finger ran along his chest muscles where his tattoo started. Ah yes, the tattoo. It was an impulse that he'd indulged when he turned twenty-one, and at first he'd flaunted it, but now kept it hidden. It was a blue Chinese dragon that wrapped from his pecs to his back and around his stomach, basically encasing his entire upper body. It'd taken months to complete and hurt like a bitch to get, but he felt very badass getting it at the time. While his other friends were getting tribal armbands, he was going all out dragon-style.
In retrospect, it was kind of stupid getting a huge oriental tattoo when "he wasn't Japanese".
Just another one of life's little fuckups, but this one was permanent.
Well, weren't they all?
After finishing his shower and toweling off, Akira wandered into the kitchen to start his pot of morning coffee and feed Steve, and then he came back into his room to settle back onto his bed, light another cigarette, and read CNN on his phone. He couldn't afford cable—the TV in the living room was just for the X-Box and the occasional Netflix binge.
A text message popped up. It was his best friend since childhood, David. He was wondering if Akira would still be going with him to the gym tomorrow after work.
It was stupid and kind of expensive, but Akira had agreed to go with him anyways, mostly because he felt sorry for his friend. David was already starting to get heavy, and his wife was nagging on him about it. To appease her, David signed up for the local gym, but refused to do it alone and had guilted Akira into going with him. Only David would dare to text Akira this early in the morning, knowing what time he woke up for work. Well, David, and maybe his mother.
"The things I do for love," Akira muttered to his phone. David was such a worrier. This wasn't even going on until tomorrow night, for Christ sake. Akira figured Susie had asked his friend again to make absolutely sure he was going, and maybe David was having second thoughts and needed reaffirmation that he wasn't going to be all alone and scared at the place where all the manly men sized each other up.
Akira grinned to himself. Of course that was the reason. Being built like he was, Akira already looked like he would have been a regular. David never could stand being the new guy, nor being alone.
Traffic near Chicago was a bitch, and it was something Akira dealt with twice a day. It took about half an hour for him to get to work, and most of that time was spent sitting in gridlock. It could have been worse, though—Akira liked his car, he liked his stereo and singing along with it, and he especially liked smoking. He had a bad habit of it and did it everywhere he could whenever he could. He'd hadn't started smoking until college, where at the time you could still smoke in restaurants and he stayed up smoking and drinking coffee and writing with his colleagues until three in the morning, and it had stuck with him. Besides, it made him feel like a tough guy, and he liked being the tough guy, even if he wasn't really.
Lights started flashing red in front of him and he realized he'd caught the freight train again. It was seven fifty-five. He was definitely going to be late and would probably hear something from Taka about it. Fucking lovely.
He shifted the car into park and decided to text David back. "Yes, I'm still going to the gym with you tomorrow, you fat pussy." No shortcuts in the text—even with text Akira still considered himself a writer.
Ten minutes had gone by and Akira had his head out the window with an exasperated sigh. He figured he'd better call and let them know he was going to be late. Unlike most of the other people he worked with (and probably against an unwritten company protocol) he didn't set an out-of-office reply when he was gone. He didn't like people to know whether he was coming or going—he just liked knowing that people knew he got shit done. What time he did it didn't matter to him. It always got done quickly, correctly, and if he said so himself, with some very superior service.
"Tiger Medical, this is Taka, how can I help you?"
Akira grimaced and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Jesus, look at the fucking caller ID for once.
"Taka, it's Akira, I caught a freight train and I'm running late."
There were a few seconds of silence, and then, "You were late twice last week."
"Yeah, well, it's the first time for this week, so I'm ahead of the game."
"Alright. We'll see you when you get here."
He huffed and threw the phone onto his passenger seat. Man, his boss was a dick.
There were usually about a hundred emails waiting for him when he got in, and his co-worker against the wall next to him, Julie, joked that she knew when he got there every morning because she could hear him furiously start clicking away at his keyboard. Julie drove him nuts because she was almost three times his age, acted like she was his mother, and seemed to think he fucked every cute little thing he came across. Akira made sure to give that impression, but he still didn't like her opinion of it.
It was actually the opposite. Despite his model looks, Akira had never had sex once in his life, but nobody but David knew that. It was his deepest, darkest secret.
That wasn't to say that he hadn't messed around here and there and dated his share of girls. Of course he had-he was a man in his twenties. But as soon as things ever started to get serious, he found a reason to break it off. Being physical with girls was nice and all, but he wasn't a fan of being sweaty and hot and stifled with some foreign body that close up. There was something about being that personal with anybody that just turned him off—maybe it was just too real for him. Going all the way was something you could never turn back from, and too real to be a lie for the great liar and former fiction writer named Akira.
He'd gotten down to twenty emails in the inbox when he saw Taka calling him on his line. Great. Here we go.
Because he knew it would piss Taka off, he pushed up the rap music on his speakers just a little bit. Taka hated it when he played it and Akira hoped Taka could hear it through the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Could you come back here a minute? I'd like to talk to you."
It was probably about the freight train.
"Sure thing, boss." He wheeled around in his chair and found his cube-mate Jennifer smiling back at him.
"Looks like you're in for some shit," she grinned. "Akira just got called into the ooooooffice," she sang to their fellow co-workers. Her song was met with uh-ohs and giggles—Julie was especially excited.
He frowned at Jennifer. "You're such a bitch." She wasn't, though. Jennifer was good at her job and he genuinely liked her. There were much worse people to share a cube with. Not only that, she never tried getting into his pants because she had a decent husband and two kids, despite being close to him in age. For that, she had earned secret props from him. He'd even met the husband and kids. Good people, all.
Matt popped his head up from the short cube wall behind her, his brown and shaggy hair apparently not even combed this morning. "Suck his dick and I'll bet you'll get off easy, Fabio."
Akira glared back at him with furious golden eyes. Fabio was the worst nickname he'd ever gotten in his life, and Matt didn't just use it at work, but on X-Box Live, which was even worse than using it in the workplace. The fact Matt knew he hated it meant he just used it all the more. It was well known that people at Tiger Medical who disliked Akira called him Fabio behind his back, and when Akira found out about it, he'd actually considered chopping his hair off just so it would stop. In the end he couldn't bring himself to do it. So Fabio he remained.
He sunk into the chair across from Taka's desk, awaiting a lecture. Taka loved to lecture.
Even though they didn't get along, Akira still respected him. He'd had worse managers. Taka didn't like Akira's wing-it and cocky attitude, and Akira didn't like Taka's Asian stiffness, but they'd come to peace with one another after a rocky first few months. Akira knew he'd gotten in trouble with Taka right off the bat with his "not Japanese" introduction, and at first Taka had been really hard on him. It was weird for Akira because they were about the same age, and he'd never had a manager like that before. It was just another reminder that some people had achieved more in their short life than he had, and it made him bitter.
As much as Taka was both respected and a little bit feared by everyone at work, Akira viewed him as more a rival than a boss. It wasn't just the age, but the fact that they both had Japanese names and were considered handsome people in their own rights. But the similarities ended there. Taka was married, Taka made good money, Taka was serious, and Taka was polite. Akira was none of those things.
"So, what's up, Taka?" Akira leaned back, crossed his arms around his chest, and wrapped one leg over the other.
Taka reached over the side of his desk and handed Akira some paperwork. "The Schnider deal is set to come through today and the order needs to be entered at the ten percent discount once approved. Management just needs to sign off on it first."
Akira took it and gave Taka a suspicious glance. "So why are you giving it to me? Seems pretty cut and dry."
Taka leaned forward on his desk and crossed his hands together. "I'm taking Miaka out to dinner tonight and I can't stay late if the approval doesn't come in until this afternoon."
Akira shrugged. "So why not just do it in the morning then?"
Taka frowned at him. "There's a surgery on Friday that they need this set for."
Akira looked down at the pages and frowned back. It was an eighty thousand dollar order. Not bad. "I'm going to have to give dispatch a blowjob if they think this thing is going to ship by noon tomorrow if I don't have it entered by this afternoon."
Silence. Akira realized what had just come out of his mouth. He looked up and saw Taka glaring at him with icy blue eyes.
"Please make sure this is entered correctly and ships tomorrow for delivery in California by seven AM Friday morning. I'm not going to repeat myself, Akira."
"Sure thing, boss." Akira got up to leave.
"And also, cut it out with the foul language. You're not in high school. This is a workplace."
"Yep. Got it. Ten-four, captain." Akira saluted the man across the desk.
"And I've about had it with this freight train nonsense in the morning. You need to be at work on time. If you're at risk of catching the train, you need to leave earlier and risk getting here earlier. I'm going to write you up the next time you pull this stunt—train or not. Life is not a fantasy and you are not the hero who gets to stroll in whenever you please."
Akira sank into his chair and threw the papers into the bin on the side of his desk, knowing that everyone was wondering what had happened and if he'd been yelled at. He chewed on his lip, crunched his shoulders, and started whipping out another email. He could feel Jennifer looking at him.
"So how'd it go? What happened?"
"He needs to get fucked by his wife," Akira grumbled.
"But she's imagining Fabio the whole time, and Taka's pissed," Akira heard Matt whisper over the cube. Then louder, "Hey, Akira, you up for some Warframe tonight?"
Akira hated his life.
While stuck waiting in his car for yet another freight train on the way home, Akira smoked and considered what to do with his afternoon. Matt didn't get off for two hours after his own shift today, and he needed to kill some time.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. It was driving him mad that life had become this demeaning and mundane. What had happened to his dreams?
"If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There's no way around these two things that I'm aware of, no shortcut." Stephen King's words rang into his dull mind. King used to be his rock star, his idol. He wanted to be King. King certainly had a cooler name than he did. In fact, Akira had named his cat after his favorite author. He did the cat the diligence his parents hadn't given him and gave his child a name that wasn't totally fucking bizarre. So, Steve.
It occurred to him that it had maybe been a year since he'd actually sat down and read a book. Over time, and as his friends from college married off and moved away, he had started to read less and less. He could still type like the wind and was still a great liar, but his inspiration and sense of adventure were totally gone.
Maybe I should go to the library. The train gates lifted and he considered the idea, but he didn't have a library card. He'd never even been to the library since they'd rebuilt it a few years ago, and not only that, he had no idea what he felt like reading. He no longer kept up with the latest fiction like he used to.
Got nothing better to do. He turned up his stereo as the traffic in front of him started to move again.
He'd gotten some looks as he waited for his new card. There weren't many young people in the library, and nothing irked him as much as older people checking him out. Patience was not once of his virtues, and he started sweating while fidgeting around and waiting. The woman at the front desk had known him since grade school, and she hadn't liked him then, and apparently still didn't. She could tell he was uneasy and probably made him wait longer just because of it. Gotta love living in a small town. I need to get out of this shithole.
When she was finally done, he wandered to the fiction section and started running his fingertip over the covers. He was overwhelmed, bored, and clueless.
Something caught his eye.
It was a small, red book with a tan spine that looked far different than the rest on the shelf, and even though the side and cover were in either Japanese or Chinese characters, he thought he'd pick it up and peek anyways. The book opened with a puff of dust and he was relieved to see it was written in English on the inside. He turned it over and couldn't find an author on the cover, but figured that maybe it was included with the writing he couldn't understand. It was kind of intriguing to have a book with no mention of what was on the inside—no cover to tease him with, no famous pen name to make comparisons to. If his parents saw him reading it, maybe it would impress them to think he was trying to learn their native language. They'd never pushed it on him—he'd never tried.
"The Universe of the Four Gods," he muttered as he flipped open the first page.
Just how did this book end up here? It looked like it was falling apart.
Well, hell, he was falling apart too. He clapped the book shut and stuck it under his arm. He could handle a story about what he assumed were gods and ninja warriors. Why not?