Out West

…

…

Three weeks in, after joining forces with the Journalism club from Kaihin Sogou, I was grinding my teeth. Every meeting, I have to put up with Kaori Orimoto. It's bad enough that I once fell in love with this girl, but with her always sitting across from me, it was just plain maddening. She never missed an opportunity to laugh at me or pick apart my work and articles. She also soon found out about the people I associated with. What did she think of it? Complete disbelief at finding that I was actually on relatively good terms with fellow students like Yui Yuigahama and Yukinoshita-san. I don't blame her - I myself would be surprised.

After that unexpected crossing of paths, Miura said to me afterwards, "So that's her? The first girl you had a crush on? I thought she'd have bigger tits."

I stared at Miura.

"I didn't mean anything by that," Miura retorted, annoyed at my disapproving look. "I'm just being honest. It's not a good thing or a bad thing, it's just a thing that I thought."

I shook my head at the thought and faced my laptop screen. This Friday, we were going to receive our school's official commission to go to Tokyo, beginning next week. Half an hour had passed since Yukinoshita went out of the room to handle something in the Student Council office up the next floor. I watch as Orimoto-san saunters up towards me again.

"I've got a good feature for you- "

"No you haven't," I cut her off.

"Harsh! You haven't even heard it yet, Hikigaya-kun."

"No need." I slumped back in my chair. For the past two weeks, the digital articles I've written had been singlehandedly blowing Kaihin Sogou Highschool's entire Journalism Club off the water. The approval rating of my narrative columns never went below ninety-four percent. Either I was always sitting on the main nerve of whoever reads these amateurish school papers, or I had found something I was actually good at (I had hoped this was the case) or maybe that Sociolinguistics classes I'd been taking as an extra actually worked and proved useful. Yesterday, one of our professors shook my hand, impressed by my commentary on the current economic crisis. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to reveal that it took a massive amount of sugarcoating to stop my bleak foreboding from making itself present.

Now, since Orimoto-san was her club's representative, I'd been seeing a lot of her these days again.

I say to her, "I've listened to you carry on and on for a while now. The things you want to write about? They are utterly mediocre."

Orimoto ignored me. "This new church, Happy Science- "

"Yes."

"They perform miracles."

I grinned incredulously. "They're bullshit," I chuckled.

"You're so narrow minded," she moaned. "You don't believe in anything."

"Yes I do."

"You're an atheist."

I laughed for the first time that day.

"You're assuming. Since when did you know me this well? And besides, that doesn't mean I don't believe in anything. It's just that I don't believe in any gods, much less organized religion."

Orimoto was puzzled. She stopped like a laptop that had frozen momentarily, as she went over her words. "But… but! How can you not believe in God?" She asked loudly, scrunching her eyebrows.

"Which one?"

Again, Orimoto Kaori was stumped. That should hold her off for a couple of minutes, give or take.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Well, let's say Zeus?" I said slowly.

"Who?"

"He's a Greek god. Or maybe Ra? Or Amaterasu?" I suggested.

"No, not those ones. I'm talking about the real ones - the ones that are in the Bible."

"Oh, I see you're of that kind. Do you mean Jesus or the Holy Spirit or his dad- "

"Just God!" She snapped impatiently.

I sat back again.

"Well, look, Orimoto-san. You know how you don't believe in all those other gods I mentioned?" I said eloquently. "Flip it around. That's also how I don't believe in yours."

"How can you not believe that someone created all of this stuff?" Orimoto reasoned, throwing her arms out open, pertaining to the world around her - which did not amuse me. I looked around as well.

Watch the television for a while these days. War, famine, disease, rape. War, famine, disease, rape. Repetitive, like a broken tape record. Several weeks ago, someone was circulating death threats on the Prime Minister on LINE, the Big Media people were ramping up the fearmongering, and more and more people were killing each other, and themselves, as usual. Everything was the work of a higher being, eh? If you ask me - not the work of a benevolent higher being. This is the work of a bureaucrat with a bad attitude.

On the other hand, I recognized that sometimes, I actually found it fun to banter with Orimoto-san so casually now. The Hikigaya Hachiman of six years ago could never strike up not one conversation with any girl, much less Orimoto Kaori. I wondered if it was because all those days were so far away, like watching a horror movie for the sixth time and knowing what to expect, and no longer being intimidated by anything.

I laughed and asked Orimoto-san, genuinely curious, "Why do you believe that someone created it at all?"

"'Cause it's so good!" She insisted. "It can't be just by chance, can it? What, you believe the Big Bang theory? Everything materialized from nothing, out of a singular point? That's impossible," she muttered.

I think at that moment, I remembered why I fell so hard about her. Orimoto-san's naïveté, and her shit-eating smirk.

I smiled condescendingly at her.

"Fine, you're right. God did it."

Orimoto thought she had won the argument and was momentarily surprised, until I of course hit her with a follow-up. "So, corollary to your theory, if something is so good that it just has to be created by a higher being, then who created god?"

Orimoto thought hard for a few moments, her eyes travelling upwards to the ceiling, but her answer was already predictable to me.

"Nobody. He's always been around," she answered coolly.

I grinned. "There you go."

Orimoto pursed her lips and stared at me, before turning away. It hadn't been more than a few seconds before she got up, placed her hands on the table and leaned towards me determinedly.

"Right," she began sarcastically. "Mr. Funny Man. If you're so intelligent, Hikigaya-kun- "

"I am."

"That you don't believe in God- "

"Not necessarily."

"If you don't believe in an afterlife and a heaven and hell and all that," she continued persistently, "then why don't you just go around murdering and raping people as much as you want?"

"I do."

I gave her a wicked smile, like Tommy Udo from the Kiss Of Death - some noir film the other waiters and I had watched in the kitchen of the Angel's Ladders café the other night - complete with a throaty, guttering laugh following it.

This succeeded in making everyone stare at me, horribly confused. What does any healthy person make of such a confession? They looked at me like I've sprouted Jeffrey Dahmer's head out of my shoulder. Even Yui flinched and leaned away from me.

"I do go around murdering and raping people as much as I want," I answered. "Which is, fortunately for you, not very often. Not at all, even."

"Because Hikki has a conscience," Yui suggested anxiously. "I-I mean, you'll go to hell for it, right?"

"Exactly!" I patted Yuigahama on the shoulder. "And we all know conscience is independent of one's beliefs, right?"

"W-Well, if death is just the end then what's the point?" Orimoto continued.

I was amused at her segue. "What's the point in what?"

"What's the point in living? You might just as well kill yourself."

"Life doesn't need any reasons to make it worthwhile. And you know, death doesn't have to be the end of everything. It's what makes life beautiful. A party that goes on forever becomes unspeakably ugly. So just smile, and enjoy the party until it's over."

Everyone was silent. Yui, who had been watching our heated debate from the sidelines beside me was staring at me wide-eyed. She was the first one to break the silence.

"Um, Hikki… you're awfully optimistic with what you've just said," she gasped, almost suspicious. "Is this some sort of 'mee-a-cupa' you had overnight?"

"It's 'mea culpa', Yui. And no, this doesn't mean I changed into an all Mr. Nice Guy with butterflies and flowers," I said disgustedly, shaking my head to clear the blush on my cheeks. "In fact, I can kill myself right now. I'd do it. Quite happily. Just jump out the top floor window and make sure I land on some asshole television man. Or maybe strap myself with grenades- "

Yui realized she was mistaken. "Ohh!" She jerked back disdainfully. "He hasn't changed one bit… if anything, you're even more twisted now, Hikki."

I wonder why everyone always thought I was a cynic, when in reality, I was just a disappointed realist. Was it so difficult to tell the difference?

The clubroom doors slid open again, and like usual, it was Miura who walked in. "Did I miss anything again?"

Orimoto instantly recognized the blonde girl as the supposedly most popular girl of Soubu High. "Hi, Miura-chan," she giggled. "It was nothing. We were just questioning this creepy guy over here about why he doesn't believe in God."

I eyed Miura in that second. She winced, then moaned. "Uhh… look, he's not that creepy…"

"If you say it that way, it makes it seem more plausible!" I complained.

"So, what? He doesn't?" Miura asked again.

"I don't think that's the issue here," I said.

Orimoto cut me off. "No," she accused. "Hikigaya-kun says he doesn't believe in God or anything else! For that, he's going straight to hell~. Isn't that right? What about you, Miura-san?" She said in a menacingly sweet tone.

"'Course, I believe," Miura quickly answered. "I-I mean if you don't, you'll go to hell…"

"Ah, yes," I muttered, scrunching my nose. "Hell." But I knew how sensitive Miura could get when it came to subjects like Hell and death. For how tough she'd like others to think she is, those were the few things that managed to rattle her down to her spleens. Yes, the fire queen of Soubu was a god-fearing Christian girl. It was laughable. If this was any other time, I'd be all over her, tormenting her mercilessly over it. Her dread was highly amusing to me. But today, I feel more agreeable about Miura.

Yukinoshita returned to the room finally. We all fell silent. She said, "alright, Hikigaya-san. It's final. You're going to Tokyo."

"F-For what?" I said. Then I hastily remembered: "Another journalist coverage?"

"This one is very important," Yukinoshita shook her head elegantly. "So you'll have to put out your utmost best. Yui and I'd go along with you, but I don't trust Isshiki-san's council, who for the most part are all composed of juniors, and their handling of the expenses. We'll send you your group's allowances. You'll get real press passes, and there will be a hotel reservation for you three. Soubu is counting on you; meet up with Orimoto-san's group as well when you get there in Minato on Monday."

I noticed Miura discreetly giving a dark look at the ice queen. She seemed irked that Yukinoshita mentioned her. I'd picked both Kawasaki Saki and Miura Yumiko for this journalism project. The three of us made a group, our school's competitive bet on winning the prestigious Youth Intelligentsia Award in Tokyo, one of the most sought-after distinctions that could guarantee those who win it entry at practically any university they wanted. And if a student like Yukinoshita seemed to fiercely covet it, that she gave me the cold shoulder after Hiratsuka-sensei backed me in the decision to make me the school's covering journalist, then I figured it must be something. Yukinoshita was furious when she found out who I picked out as my group.

But it wasn't all on a whim. Kawasaki had proven to be a very good photographer, and she was bringing her own equipment. And Miura Yumiko, I chose her for her unrivalled powers in… well, I simply figured it was prime investment to bring along a cosmopolitan riajuu with me. It was like having a Swiss army knife - you never know if you need a tool for something unexpected. We were covering a variety of events, and while the student journalist groups were now given the freedom to cover practically any event or thing they wanted in Tokyo, they had to come up with a publication that was outstanding. An article that would win and let them be crowned award. We were after all graduating this year, and I was enthusiastic for the first time in a long while. Maybe I could use a doctorate in journalism, I thought then.

Later, Miura was beside me with an arm resting on my shoulder. "I knew you'd need someone like me," she beamed. "Someone trustworthy, with beautiful qualities like capacity and reliability. Don't worry, Hikio. You've made the best decision of your whole life."

We received our 200,000 yen allowance that Saturday. On that same weekend, all of it was spontaneously expended Miura. Allow me to explain: I, being the sane thinking man, saw this trip as just another school gig no different from the annual sports festival or career trips. But Miura Yumiko was a visionary. She saw it as the ultimate opportunity to salute all the fantastic possibilities our youth and this country has to offer. With two hundred grand in her palms, she saw it as a ticket to affirm everything good, hopeful and romantic before we left high school life for good. Leaving it to Miura to fetch our allowance at the office was one of the nastiest surprises I ever got in life.

I met her at the parking lot down at Inagekaigan station where she usually took the train home that Sunday morning. I was dressed in a gray suit and slacks, so I could break it in to be worn comfortably tomorrow. Miura was dressed in a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses, a reddish jeather jacket I'd seen her wear on rare days, and she was sitting on the fender of a bright, baby-blue colored, dated-looking muscle car.

"What the hell is this?" I shouted, staring at the gleaming car.

"This, is the only way of doing it right," Miura said, popping a pink bubblegum and chewing mightily, with an air of conviction I've only seen from famous fascist leaders.

I thought she had gone completely mad. This was her nature now, since that day I pried her from her clique, now that my own attitude had rubbed off on her to create a strange new character. For Miura, if you had a few screws loose in your head, or if you were already set on a wild ride, the tendency should be to push it as far as you can. She decided that if we were covering the turmoil in the big city, the dirty election season, the aftermath of the worldwide flu, the limitless perspectives of this year, we had to match that energy. Unfiltered hedonism. Thus she proceeded to rent a baby blue 1971 Dodge Challenger convertible, with a milk-white vinyl top that made it stick out like a neon lamp when cruising down the E4 highways.

"This babe has got a four hundred twenty-six cubic inch Hemi V-8," Miura smiled happily, smacking the hood of the car. "This is my first time seeing something like it in person. Jesus, I think I came in the seats when I first drove it. It clocks in at 425 horsepower. You know what that means? It's the perfect equipment for this project assignment of ours."

"Miura, we're covering for a high school paper," I said exasperatedly. "What the hell do you think we're going to be doing? Outrunning cops? Racing the dragstrip?!"

She made a pitiful face. "I had to fight the manager for this," she reasoned. "Heck, they were skeptical of even renting out a fuckin' Accord to me! But with my charm, my class, who could resist me, eh? I told 'em, 'what do you think I am, a miser? I need a proper American masterpiece of machinery!' Shit, you should appreciate my financial abilities, Hikio, securing a downpayment of only one hundred grand, and daily fee of ten grand, and I didn't even need to suck any dick…"

"You're crazy," I repeated. "Take it back," I ordered. But I knew it was no use. Miura was in tears at the idea of carrying out our journalism trip in, in her words, 'a fucking minivan'. The deed was done. After an hour of her buttering me up and trying to squeeze me, I relented furiously. The three of us would have to make this trip on an ostensibly souped-up, uncomfortable manual car. We agreed to carpool on the way to Tokyo, as we all already had our brand-new driver licenses.

That wasn't the end of it. We spent that whole Sunday gathering up the equipment for what Miura declared would be the greatest memory of our youth. I was frightened by her bullshit. This was a gamble we had gone all in. At the end of the day I had realized that the three of us would be throwing in our own pocket money just to sustain this whole antic. For me it meant it was all or nothing - either I win the Youth Intelligentsia award with whatever article we were going to art out, or we'd be staring at a hill of debts.

I felt sick most of the day, so Miura was behind the wheel of the car, driving us around. We were hitting up department stores, malls, cheap second-hand mix and match places, looking for things we 'might' need along the way, and scaring pedestrians with the Challenger's dirty booming exhaust.

I saw that Miura was genuinely having a great time.

"Sound! Music! What are we, crazy?" She shouted at me. "We've got to get one of those stereo sets they use inside cinemas, so we can have some proper music while on the road. We're not old people. The car happens to have bad frickin' speakers and a shitty radio." Then we pulled up madly in front of an appliances store. I pushed her out of the car and waited for this chaos to be over as fast as possible. But what felt like hours was in actuality only twenty minutes into this crazy drive around town.

I watched as she strolled up to the store. Eight-thirty on a Sunday morning was not a sensible time to go shopping, she knew it as well, and though there were a few shopkeepers in the building, it was labeled closed. After kicking the glass doors a few times like a psychopath, the staff cracked the door open a milimeter. It looked like the terrified staff were talking to Miura through the little gap in the door. She was ordering something. Then I heard her yelling.

"Of course this gentleman has a major credit card," she fumed, and pointed back at me sitting in the clear-windowed muscle car. "Do you realise just who the fuck you're talking about?"

She continued arguing with the staff until after ten minutes, they pried the door open big enough to push out a big cardboard box. Then the staff locked the door and barricaded it with a bar of steel. Miura waved for my help, and we hauled the box back to the car.

"We'll be back," Miura stopped to shout at the store angrily as we carried our purchase away. "One of these days I'll toss a bomb through your fucking window! I know where you live! I have your names on this invoice slip, boy! I'll find your house and burn it down!"

Then we had lunch at a Denny's, one of Miura's favorite places. Afterwards, we went to find our friend Kawasaki.

Kawasaki Saki nearly fainted when we pulled around her house in Masago district, stunned when she saw us with the baby-blue Challenger. Tomorrow would already be Monday, too late to back out.

Equipped with a powerful muscle car, a Bose theatre sound system crammed in the rear window, a cooler packed with beverages sitting beside Kawasaki Saki, pocket wifi, travelling bags, our swimsuits - which we brought at the behest of our fiery-headed friend - the bags containing our formal wear, a carbon fibre tripod and camera stick and a shotgun mic, and the three premium press passes given to us by Hiratsuka-sensei, Miura announced that we were fully ready for the week-long journey. This was the proper way to go. The only thing we could possibly lack is spirit, she said, and that could be helped later.

The first thing next day we got on the E4 highway at around 5 AM, so it was pretty early. We were packed up and dressed. Then we drove out west, away from Chiba where we'd lived all our lives, and up the long stretch of foggy road leading to Tokyo metropolis.

.

.

.