Have A Nice Day.
…
…
I don't have nice days anymore. I don't bother with that. I'm beyond the nice day; I feel like I've outgrown the whole idea. I've already had my share of nice days, since four years ago. So why should I be hogging them all? Let someone else have a few!
Naturally, everyone still wants me to have a nice day. In fact, nine out of ten people I meet want me to have a nice day. Especially shop cashiers.
"Have a nice day."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You wanna give me my goddamned change now, please? My sister is about to kill me!"
Do you get the point?
Some of them are really insistent:
"I said have a nice day! DO IT!"
Fuck you, Tobe. "All right, all right! Get off me, you imbecile! I'll give it a shot!"
That's the trouble with 'Have a nice day'. It puts all the obligation and pressure on you. So now, I have to go out of my way and somehow arrange a positive experience course for myself. All because of some loose-lipped idiot.
Have a nice day indeed! But what if I don't feel like having a nice day? Maybe - just maybe - I've had twenty-nine nice days in a row, and I'm ready for a much-needed crappy day. You never hear that, do you?
"Have a crappy day!"
"Why thank you, Miura. Right back at ya! And to your wonderful family as well!"
Take notes, gentlemen: A good friend is one that wishes both good and bad luck to you. Ironic.
A crappy day… that would be easy. No trouble at all, no planning involved—well, maybe a little. Just get out of bed and start moving around.
"Onii-chan! You look like you're in a good mood today!"
"Yes, Komachi-chan. Now don't ruin it for me." I'm going to have myself a crappy day!
I think what bothers me the most about the whole "have a nice day!" thing is that word, 'Nice'. It's a weak word. Source: me.
It doesn't have a lot of character. 'Nice'.
"Isn't he a nice guy? He is so nice. And she's nice too! Isn't that nice? How nice they are!"
I'll bet you cringed a bit. Yeah? That's right. It's some shit, right?
'Nice girls': I don't care for it. It's like "Fine." Another weak word.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
Bullshit! Nobody is fine! Hair is fine.
"How does my hair look, Hikio?" Miura would often ask me, in her present vanity.
"Fine."
That makes more sense to me.
Some guys are "Great"! You ever meet those guys?
"This is great! Hayato-kun... isn't he great? Goddamn, he is great!"
Look! They're gonna kill that guy! Isn't that great?
Now, sometimes me and the fire queen of Soubu High would find common ground:
"I enjoy watching people fuck up. It's funny. How 'bout you, Hikio?"
"Somehow, I enjoy watching people suffer." Of course, we're not on the same level—yet.
"Hoh! Shit! You sadistic motherfu- "
Folks, the key word is 'Somehow'. After all, life is a show to be enjoyed. If they find entertainment in my mishaps, why shouldn't I find amusement in theirs?
Not me. I'm not fine. I'm not great. And most certainly, I am not nice. Did you ever think about it, the difference between "Nice" and "Good"? I'm not nice, but I'm certainly not a villain. That makes me a bit of a "Good" guy. In fact, one of my 108 loner skills is becoming the good guy in later arcs!
People ask me how I am, I don't give them any superlatives; nothing to gossip about. I tell them I'm "fairly decent" or "relatively okay." I might say, "I'm moderately neato." And if I am in a particularly jaunty mood, I'll tell them "I'm not unwell, thank you."
"Hey, Hikio. How are you?"
"I'm not unwell, thank you."
"Hoh? That doesn't, like, make any sense."
Keep rolling your eyes, bitch. You might just find your brain back there.
That one always pisses them off. Because they have to figure it out for themselves.
…
It was a sweltering afternoon. Two of us were out here under the sun. Miura and I played tennis on the reddish cemented court. Singles tennis. Who named it that? 'Singles' tennis, yet ironically you've got to have a partner to play it. I call it bullshit. Now, it was not a typical sight to see me matched against the most popular girl of Soubu in a game of tennis, but nowadays it was nothing out of the ordinary. Meanwhile on the bleachers and under the cool shade of the white canopies, Kawasaki Saki quietly observed us both, pleasantly sipping on a cool drink.
The elusive yellow ball once again touches down on my side.
Set two. Four to four.
"Deuce," I say.
"You're getting good at this," Miura remarked.
"That… tends to happen."
"Especially when you're up and playing with a pro."
Her emerald-green eyes watched me carefully like a bird of prey preparing for the kill. A small smile evident on her lips. I knew this kind of look. She'd always give me that death-glare before finishing the game off.
But not today. The sun was on my side - literally.
How do you defeat a superior enemy? If not in skill, if not in strength, and certainly not in luck; then you utilize nature to your advantage. She can't be beaten head on, but here, at such an hour the sun is coming down on my side of the court. Utilize this advantage.
My serve. I line my body for the shot, ready my limbs for the leap. This was the difference between victory or defeat.
Now.
I throw the ball high up into the air and leap after it. Miura had her vision locked on the ball, but when it flew directly in front of the blinding glare of the sun, she knew something was up.
Disoriented. Stun tactics. Allow the enemy to fall into a state of tunnel vision, then take advantage. It's good the sun is on my side. When that ball reaches the zenith of its trajectory, it would eclipse the sun behind it. And because she has her eyes on it, Miura will be temporarily dazed by the harsh light. Calculated time window before recovery: 1.8 seconds, give or take. She's good.
But not today.
Fire.
An audible cracking noise could be heard, as I whipped the ball with a force that propelled it down to Miura's side of the court, leaving her little time to intercept it. When she looked around, the tennis ball was already hopping around behind her.
"Advantage in," I say.
"You clever bastard."
I nod. She smiles.
Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.
Yet, I thought, von Einstein! make this one an exception. I need to win this game!
Now it's Miura's turn to serve. Who made up the rules in this game? I was going to lose this one now. Probability is critical. We'd been playing against each other for several weeks already and I'd gained considerable knowledge and skill from the queen of the tennis court.
However, I was still no match against her. In attack, she is like fire. In movement, she is swift like the wind. Her form, close as stone. And she'll hold her ground like the mountain.
A fierce exchange began between us. I was nearly always on the defensive, only returning fire before the edge of defeat. This went on for several seconds, and by the seventh exchange, I found a window.
The ball flew no more than an inch above the white lapel of the net, which forced her to strike it upwards.
I strike.
"That makes one on one," I say this time, seeing that I'd scored.
"Third set!" Miura says, now wiping off her forehead with the back of her hand.
"I think we should call it a day," I say, exhausted.
"You underestimate my power."
I chuckled at her. Seriously? That reference? "Don't try it, Anakin."
She is not going to give up. Typical Miura.
"I have the higher ground!" she shouted.
"We'll see."
Fifteen minutes later, she had indeed turned the game around.
I was running, heaving with sweat. "Oh shit!"
"Love, forty! Motherfucker!"
No dice—Miura gave no let ups. She whacked the ball across to me. I waved a hand.
"Timeout!"
Well… that went by fast. Miura cleaned the clock with ease. Even that was an understatement. So you can see how overpowered she really is; it was a level 79 pro versus me, an amateur. But considering I'd challenged and beaten her in chess that morning, this only evens out the score between us.
"You look like you're gonna croak soon. Need backup?" she says.
"Naw… I think I can still do this..."
"Bullshit. I'm calling in the backup." Miura waved out to a certain silver-head. "SakiSaki! Now's your cue! Get that ass over here!"
"Miura, tone it down, will you?"
"Heh," Miura shrugs and walks over to the shed.
Kawasaki appears beside me. "So. She wants to do that thing again?"
"Yeah. Are you game?"
Her cheeks seemed a bit red. "Yeah. sure."
Miura comes back with two extra rackets. She throws one at Kawasaki and wields the other on her left hand.
Seems like it's going to be two versus one. Miura was so skilled, occasionally she'd play with two rackets just for kicks. This was our itinerary. When did this start? Well…
"Oi. Hikio, move! You play tennis like old people fuck! Slow and sloppy!"
"Grr… This is not my area of expertise, so don't expect me to go all Novak Djokovic on your ass!"
"We'll see!"
Miura looks to her side, apparently setting her eyes on a certain Kawa-something.
"What's her name again… aha!" Miura points at her. "SakiSaki! Git over here!"
The poor girl. She had the expression of a burglar caught red handed and red faced.
"If this woman plays better than you, I will be very disappointed!"
Three plays later we decided to call it a day. "Good game guys!" Miura gives us a beaming smile.
"You played well, Saki."
"T-Thanks."
"You two are good. But not good enough."
"Is that a criticism or an appraisal?" I say.
"Consider it both!"
We three share a hearty laugh. It was time to pack up.
It was half an hour past four and the sun already vanished behind the urbanized horizon. Only the yellow and orange hues of the sky provided mellow light to our surroundings. The air was still warm, but not as sweltering as before. If you've played any sport that demands plenty of energy, you will understand that peculiar sensation of heat inside your body. What is that? It's like a residual feeling that remains for as long as several hours. As any rational being subjected to an uncomfortable rise in temperature, the obvious course of action is to cool off.
So you could imagine my surprise when Miura suddenly pulled off her blue polo shirt without warning.
Well… this is unexpected.
Fortunately, she wore a white tank top underneath. But still, it does not relieve the shock that came with it.
"What are you two looking at?"
"Huh?"
The sweat made her skin glisten, emphasizing her curves and… body. Like those marble sculptures I see in museums, here is an example of beauty and—okay. THAT tank top was clinging onto her like a suit! Leaving little to the imagination…
Kawasaki shrugged nonchalantly. I shook my head. Fuck me! I thought. That had to be the stupidest response I ever came up with! Screw you, instinct!
Unknowingly, I was still staring like an opossum playing dead. Who wouldn't be? See a beautiful voluptuous woman, hot and moist with sweat, only a tight white top to separate decency from degeneracy…
Not even noticing Kawasaki beside me, crossing her arms in disapproval.
Not even realizing Miura was already glaring at me with a slight frown, while tying her hair into a ponytail.
It had to be said. No fashion can compete with nudity.
"The fuck you muttering to me, Hikio?!"
Esper! Alarmed, I spat, "What?"
"Idiot!" Miura's face was red from embarrassment. No denying it. Kawasaki was shaking her head, the way a mother would to a troublesome child.
"Fine. Let me lay out my cards on the table," I put up my hands. No good denying now. Might as well throw at them their assumptions. "I think you were expecting me to say something between the lines of 'I wasn't looking!' and 'I've seen better,'" I shrugged. "But goddammit, Miura-san. I have eyes. All I see is a sexy woman in front of me."
Here is a very interesting phenomenon in psychology. I call it processing delay. When you say something that incites the attention of another person, there is a certain window before they realize and react. In this case, the calculated processing delay before the volatile reaction is five… four… three…
"Hikio." She gives me a sweet smile. Too sweet. "I will kill you."
"Calm down. This mustn't register on an emotional level - Oh shit!"
"Get back here!" Miura shrieked at me in irritation. I'd dodged death by an inch.
Women like her, they are like jewels. Everyone will want to steal the other hand, women will try to physically harass you whether you compliment them or otherwise.
Because the thorns on a rose symbolize a woman's ferocity.
"I think we should celebrate this. It's Friday, and you know the place."
Miura had an iron grip on my shoulder. She gives me one of the few smiles I wanted to recognize. This one says "I go my way, and you go my way."
"Yeah sure. It's on me," I offered this time. At Least she isn't going to cook up a deadly meal for me.
"Excellent! SakiSaki, you should join us!"
"Err… I think I should go- "
"Nonsense! I insist!"
So the three of us, two loners flanking a blonde fire queen, headed off into the evening.
You see, this is one of the trademark qualities of the fire queen of Soubu. Imperious and imposing. Take note: When a woman tells you "I think we should" that, when translated, is "I think I'll do this, and you will too."
And by god, when she insists, there is no saying no. Because you have to remember, fire cannot be tamed.
Maybe that's why I admire her.
"Thank fuckin' God it's Friday!" she shouted.
I glanced at her warily. "Oi. Language, woman."
"This is prime beef!" Miura gave me an elbow enthusiastically.
"Yeah. Knock yourself out," Kawasaki sighed.
We walked across the front park to the restaurant. T.G.I. Friday's is your typical high-end American diner, and in Chiba it's one of the few. Ironically, there's not many people inside tonight. Miura Yumiko, being the chic riajuu that she is, loves these kinds of western restaurants. It's a real good steakhouse, or so she says. Not too long ago when Miura got a hold of my email address (originally for academic purposes), as a way to break the ice in our convo, she sent me an e-mail with T.G.I. Friday's menu. The subject heading was titled, "F-day" and the body simply said, "This is fucking prime beef! Let's go!"
There was a subtle tension between the three of us - it seemed very unusual to see Miura in this kind of good mood. Maybe I was just paranoid that she might knock me out with a tennis racket the moment I turned my head around. It has happened before… I let Kawasaki sit in first, followed by me. Miura sat in front of me, just like when we would play chess.
I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that this whole affair seemed alarmingly similar, being in the company of two girls. Kawasaki Saki seemed like a more passive, cool Yukinoshita and Miura Yumiko was like a twisted Yuigahama-chan with ADHD and a coked-up affinity for cursing. Yui's punchline was always "yahallo!" but Miura's way of greeting me was "hellow, bitch~!"
When we got our drinks she immediately called for a toast. Quite silly, but alright. Between us two, Miura and I, silence was usually tolerable. But with Kawasaki around, it was a different story. She looked like the odd one out - actually, every one of us is the odd one out. The three of us are like apples, oranges and pears in the proverbial fruit basket. Very OCD inducing.
In an attempt to start a conversation I tried, "What kind of fruit do you guys like?"
"The fuck are you getting to?" Miura stared at me.
Goddamn. "Well, sensing that there is a suffocating silence between us, I thought I'd be the gentleman to break the ice," I say.
"Hoh. The answer is strawberry. End of conversation."
I shrugged and sipped my iced tea. "Fair enough."
Both of us turned towards Kawasaki, who had an amused smile on her lips. That was rare. She was giggling.
"Do you two always act like this?" she asked.
Miura looks at me, as if to hand me the responsibility of answering. "Not quite," I say to her.
"I didn't know you two were such close friends."
"I know right? Who would've thought Mr. I-hate-people here would be my partner in crime?" Miura pointed her thumb at me, smiling.
"Forget that last one. I'm not your 'partner in crime'," I interjected.
"You see?"
Like pushing a rock boulder; now that my duty of getting the conversation rolling is done, I'll peacefully sit back and relax. Tuck into a little book I brought with me, 'Gulliver's Travels'. Shit, anything but small talk with Miura.
Still, I admit. Now this is good company. It wasn't long ago that Kawasaki Saki joined us, since that day Miura befriended her. And I think, maybe since Miura isn't exactly the "most popular girl of Soubu High" anymore after that incident with me… maybe she's mellowed up particularly to us.
I myself am sometimes surprised the three of us stuck together.
It does sadden me a bit and causes me to reminisce about my former times with a certain sweet airhead and ice queen.
The waitress covering our table was a brunette, with charming blue eyes. Even in the ill-fitting Friday's uniform, she looked very attractive. Careful evaluation tells me this woman is a 9/10. Still, I wouldn't lay my hands on her. On any woman, actually.
As usual, Miura went into full Riajuu mode and started socializing with the unfortunate waitress, asking her every conceivable question about T.G.I. Friday's history, the fire-grilled pork ribs, even the goddamned seasonings. If that wasn't enough, she followed up with questions about her personal life - where she lived (Narita), what she did (obviously, waitering!) - and so on. When I made the mistake of ordering the only tempura dish on the menu, Miura used the opportunity to crack a joke.
"Aw, Hikio. You're killing me. Killing me. This is Friday's. This is prime beef. You can't come here and order seafood," she said, a little too enthusiastically to Kawasaki. "Am I right or am I right?" she added, giving the waitress a bright grin.
Though Miura likes to say she isn't a flirt, her way with people and generally every other youth is a big running gag between us. Hell, Miura uses girls like target practice for when she's ready to flirt with guys. She used to tease Yui mercilessly by throwing her offensive pick-up lines or remarks out of the blue. Whenever I call her out for it, she always replies with, "Oh please. I'm already taken. I'd never cheat on him, he'd never look at me if he finds out I'm hanging out with a loner like you."
I think I know who he is.
Poor you, Miura. It seems like old dogs don't learn new tricks after all.
In addition to loving children, Miura has always had a great affection for waiters and waitresses. She thinks they're hard workers who often get treated poorly by customers, so anytime she eats out, she tips 20-30 percent, no matter what. When you're in Japan and you literally look and behave like a stacked gaijin with blonde hair, people tend to remember you the next time around. The waiters here treated Miura like she was the King of Saudi or something.
Now, I don't know where she gets the money, but that sure as hell is a lot of money blown away to some stranger. So when I saw the bill, which was in total, 8,000 yen, I nearly fainted. Suddenly, those delicious, buttery tempuras seemed to induce nausea. This will knock my allowance back a month! I never go out for fancy meals, not of my own volition at least. As I stared down at the bill, I noticed Miura jotting down 2,000 yen for the tip.
"What are you doing?" I hissed at her.
"Why, I'm being a good fellow!" Miura smiled back.
"No, no, no. Listen to me, woman. You do not tip out two-thousand yen."
"Says who?"
"Not on my watch."
"Try me." she smirks.
Two thousand yen scares people around here. Try it—give that sort of money to a Japanese waiter, and when he takes it after an hour of refusing, he'll bow deeply to you like he's apologizing for fucking your wife, then leave; and everyone in the kitchen, even the garbage-boy will look at him like he's some kind of water-rat walking back through the door.
I look to my side. Kawasaki is cringing. Being the ever-so diligent person she is, who secretly works as a part time bartender at the Angel's Ladder cafe to make hard-earned money, I could empathize with her. This blonde riajuu was too liberal with money as expected of every typical blue blood.
Kawasaki and I look at each other. And nod.
"Split bill?"
"Yeah."
The two of us lay our cash on the little tray, alongside the fire queen's generous tip.
Miura throws money like a damned gambler. Now, I can tell you from experience that waiters operate on the same principle a stripper does: "Give them money, and they'll pretend they like you." After our waitress saw the tip, she sashayed back to our table and began chatting us up even more. When Miura found out that she was single, guess what she did:
"That one is single too, and he lives up here in Chiba. You two should get together!" Miura directed the waitress's look towards me.
Right.
Because if there's any indication that two people should begin having sexual intercourse, it's that they live in the same city.
Source: Miura Yumiko.
Ten minutes later, we finally got up from our table. My good friend Miura, thanked each and every employee she saw on the way out as if she were walking offstage after winning an Oscar award. Then she grabbed several toothpicks from the dispenser at the hostess desk, handed one to me and Kawasaki, popped one into her mouth and strolled out the door.
Picture me in a disheveled white shirt, Kawasaki Saki in her gray hoodie and dark undergarment, and Miura Yumiko in a tight white tank top, purple straps visible on her shoulders and an army green jacket tied around her skirt. The three of us, chewing mint-tipped toothpicks. Walk out into the night. Straight out of a western rom-com movie.
Miura put her hand on my shoulder. "My man, that waitress, she was sweet on you. She was chatting you up for ten minutes."
"No. you gave her a huge fucking tip, so she was being nice." I retorted. "You asked her to describe in-depth the American steak preparation, and that took eight of those ten minutes. You menaced that girl. Hell, she probably felt like a prostitute," I said.
"You don't know shit! I know when a girl's being sweet to someone, and that girl was sweet to you, Hikio."
"You're wrong."
"No, no!"
Our argument escalated, with Miura insisting that she liked me, and me refusing to believe that, while Kawasaki was grinning and chuckling at our banter. Just like old times…
It finally ended with Miura yelling, "Fine! She thought you were a jackass! You're right, I'm wrong!"
A good twelve seconds of silence ensued. Until Kawasaki walked right up beside me and said, "I think you're… personable."
"So there you go!" Miura throws her arms in the air. "Kawasaki thinks you're handsome! This should be an exciting night for you!"
"I didn't—" Kawasaki was red.
"Don't mind her." I gave her a light pat.
Miura was throwing her hissy fit at me, walking ahead of us with a pout.
Only now did I realize that her outfit made her look like a certain movie character we saw. Blonde hair tied messily in a ponytail? White tank top? She looked like…
"Hey, Rita Vrataski," I called out.
Movie references never failed to turn her mood by 180 degrees. Miura was a film nut, though she never admitted it, not once to anyone, though we knew.
She looks back at me with a smirk, though her brows are still furrowed. "Is there something on my face, soldier?"
Both of us burst out laughing. Unfortunately, Kawasaki was left out of our in-joke. "What does that even mean?"
"Have you seen Edge of Tomorrow?" Miura excitedly asks the silver-head.
"No..."
"Well, have you read the manga All you need is Kill?"
Kawasaki shakes her head.
"Well damn it, we three should watch that!"
"Hold on there, Miura. Another day, another time," I say to her.
"Next week?"
"Hmm. I'll think about it," Kawasaki decided.
"You know, this is nice. We should do this more often."
Miura looks at the two of us with a smile. Kawasaki nodded in agreement.
"Yeah."
"What about you, Hikio?" They both look at me.
Odd one out. I shrug. "Sure. I guess."
No—that wasn't supposed to be my answer. Naturally I was sheepish. Just another strange psychological phenomenon at work; crowd mentality. When the majority agrees on something, more often than not you are also coerced into agreeing. This situation is no exception. That answer was involuntary. We call it influence.
We three keep on walking into the night and eventually, we reach the intersection at Kaihinmatsukaze-dori avenue.
"Well, this is where we part ways," I say.
"Hold it right there."
Miura holds up a finger, as if an idea had struck her. "You know what we need?" she says.
Kawasaki and I looked at each other.
"World peace?" Kawasaki tried.
"Yes, yes," Miura frowns and rubs her temple. "That shit can wait." No, Miura, you do not make world peace wait!
"Let's take a selfie- three of us together."
Miura pulls out her hot-pink iphone, holds it in front of her and beckons the two of us to come closer.
"Hoy, Hikio. Show some teeth!"
I face-palm myself, as I feel my cheeks flush up. Miura and Kawasaki laugh, to my expense. Finally, we manage to keep it together and she snaps a picture of us.
The trio.
"Hmm… good, good." Miura nods repeatedly. "I think this will do."
"You think?" I say. She looks at me and gives me a smile. A different kind of smile.
Happiness?
"Alright! Let's get a move on!" Miura turns around hastily. If she didn't, I would've seen a definite blush on her face.
"Yeah. Have a… good night?"
"Was that a question or what?" Miura looks back at me with a smirk.
I raise a hand. "Or what."
"What a smarty! See you, Hikio."
"Take care, you two."
And so we part ways. Looking back one last time, I watched those two classmates of mine. Their silhouettes walked down the avenue slowly disappearing. One of blonde, the other of bluish silver. The former drapes an arm over the other's shoulders, much to the silver-headed girl's exasperation.
Just like old times? I think. I thought of the other two people who I used to consider friends. Or could still have been. But since this quixotic and fickle thing called friendship… well, it's hard to keep, at least for me.
I'm sorry, Yukinoshita. I'm sorry, Yuigahama. I hope not to make the same mistakes again.
…
…