Ever get that feeling where it seems like everyone passing you by on the street is laughing at you under their breath? That pretentious snicker that says 'you have pigeon shit in your hair,' or 'you've got a big kick me sign taped to your ass,' or 'dude, your fly is open.'
Yah? Me too. I hate the city.
Granted, the city has its ups. Like the convenience. It's true what they say about the city never sleeping. Every building has a blaring neon WE'RE OPEN TWENTY FOUR SEVEN mounted on the side. You know, for the people who need to get their nails done at three in the morning. And as far as aesthetic purposes and inspiration sources, the city does provide an adequate amount. A walk down the shady block will yield a handful of disturbing conversations and draft ideas for an award winning science fiction thriller. There are some seriously freaky people in the city.
Of course there is also the inescapable fact that if you desire even a million in one shot at becoming somebody, especially as a creative professional, you have to live in the city. It comes with the package. Basically, live in the city or perish.
Not that I had a choice to begin with. I'm sort of disowned by my entire family and excommunicated from... oh, everyone I know. Yah, being gay might be fashionable and trendy in other parts of the world, but not in my town. Coming out was probably one of the smartest ideas I've had next to sticking my hamster in the microwave and shaving my head. Would not recommend either of the above. I pretty much had to move to a place where nobody knew who I was and nobody cared who I was. Figured the city was my best bet.
That and I'm a writer. What better way to kick off my career than to move to the city, rent a little studio above the dry cleaners, and write my little stories on my little laptop by my little window. Very entrepreneur. Very adventurous. Very Sex and the City. Very poor starving artist trying to list every single purchase as a deductible on my tax form. Not to mention cutting and collecting coupons for everything and anything imaginable. It's very time consuming, and when one has several over flowing drawers filled with thousands of coupons, that can kind of put a damper on one's view of self worth. I work three jobs and I'm still a couple weeks behind on rent. When you're so poor you're scraping the gum off the bottom of your sneakers to melt and use as cocking for your leaky ceiling... the city and it's laugh-behind-your-back policies start to get to you.
I wish I could move to the snowy peaks of some mountain terrain or an uninhabited spit of island in Bermuda, and not have to deal with anything except spam mail and writer's block. Unfortunately you kind of have to be in your fifties and a billionaire with a Pulitzer sitting on your mantel to be able to pull that hermit writer shit. I don't have a trust fund and I did not write To Kill a Mockingbird.
I'm Shindou Shuichi, twenty years old, part time student, part time waiter, part time deliver boy, part time dairy product tester. Yes, that IS a real job. My mode of transportation is a skateboard, and I have negative three hundred yen in my bank account. Which is currently accumulating as I speak because who the fuck knows why banks charge you for NOT having money. I hate banks.
Though it's mainly my own fault for being broke off my ass in the first place, I guess. Instead of going to college after grad I took a year off and flew away on the first flight to New York, just me and my duffle bag. It's an amazing place but I believe it's in the Big Apple that I developed my hatred for cities. After all, I did get jumped by a five hundred pound Samoan.
I finished my first novel last January. Fifteen rejections later I have yet to find myself a publisher. Yup, it's juuuust a matter of time. Juuuust a matter of time before some intelligent individual finally comprehends the intricate sagacity of my plot and truly empathize with the character's provisional allusiveness juxtaposed with intense spiritual turmoil. At least that's what I keep telling myself. In the mean time, I need to go put on my redder-than-any-red-you've-ever-seen delivery uniform, and skate ten blocks. I don't actually need to adorn that wonderful little piece of communist China until I get to the store, however, having to juggle as many obligations as I do, even the best of my time managing efforts still result in me showing up late to everything. So I came up with the ingenious idea of wearing my uniform while traveling. I've never understood why people have such a great fear of skateboarders. I'd be skating along the sidewalk and they just part like the red sea. It's funny, the minute people hear wheels they immediately pull a matrix move and fly-leap across the road like I'm going to just come up and roll right on over them. When I'm wearing a delivery uniform that just further solidifies the idea that I've got places to go, and yes I will kick flip over your head if I need to. Nobody gets in the way of a delivery boy on a skateboard.
People. I hate people. Actually, I hate stupidity for that matter, but the two come hand in hand. And speaking of hating people who is there to greet me at the store but the person I hate the most.
"You're late, Shindou."
Aizawa Tachi. Claims he can crush a cinder block between his ass cheeks. Gayer than Richard Simmons' booty shorts and every member of N' sync combined, and not in the homosexual way. Has an IQ of 75. That's 5 points above official mental retardation.
I looked at my watch. "...One minute and thirty five seconds, Aizawa."
"Late is late is late."
"You know, not everyone's life-long dream is to become employee of the month at a pizza joint."
"Eat me."
"You wish."
And punctual as ever, our manager sticks his head out from the kitchen to deliver the daily threats of corporal and unusual punishment.
"Aizawa! Shindou! One more word from either of you and I'll make you both polish the toilets with your tongues!"
He never really means it though. Expect that one time when I set his toupee on fire... he made me engage in acts so unimaginably horrible that I refuse to speak of the incident. So don't make me.
"Yes sir, I wasn't trying to start no trouble, sir! Shindou was late, sir, I was just reminding him of company policy and the importance of arriving on time because there could be a delivery waiting for him, sir, and he could not make it in time and cause customer dissatisfaction, sir!"
Get what I'm saying now about how he's gay and stupid? The manager shoots us both a glare then pulls himself back to his business.
"Ass kisser."
"Butt plug."
... And so begins another usual Tuesday.
Tuesdays are the worst. You always think Monday is going to be the worst day of the week, but the truth is everything lands on you Tuesday, when you least expect it. Tuesday is the day I wished they hadn't cut government funding to cloning, and I could just whip up a couple of mes and send them off, one to deliver pizza, one to class, and one to smile at the assholes who complain about their salt being too salty and why the goddamn hell don't we serve bread at Chao's Cantonese Cuisine. Seriously, I don't know how I do it.
My phone rang while I was moping up the kitchen floor. There's only one person who calls me at absurd hours like nine in the morning. Actually, he's the only person who calls me besides my landlord, the bank, and televangelists. I put the phone up to my ear.
"Make it short, talk fast, and if this call lasts longer than a minute and a half I'm hanging up."
"Is that how you answer all your phone calls, Shuu, cause it's kinda rude."
"Seriously Hiro, I'm not allowed to talk at work, plus I'm roaming which means I'm paying for these minutes so spit it."
Hiro sits behind me in World Literature. Bright kid, kind heart, smells good and has nice hair. Currently my one and only friend in all of Japan.
"Okay, okay. What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"If I'm not working, I'm sleeping. Get to the point."
"I set you up for a blind date!"
"... Are you fucking serious."
Never mind, I take back that friend comment.
"I heard he was a really nice guy!"
"Nakano Hiroshi. There are only two types of people who go on blind dates. People who dated back when disco was hot and polyester was cool. And the people who are so desperate to get married that they honestly believe matchmakers dot com holds the secret to eternal love."
"I'm just trying to help you out. You're so tightly wound dude, you need to get laid."
"And you think that sending me on a blind date will accomplish that?"
"I just thought it'd be different, I mean, you're both guys so you'll both just want to skip the formalities and get to the -"
"I'm hanging up."
And I did. I'll see him in class tonight, so that's plenty of time for him to think up a proper apology.
Later on in this plain old usual Tuesday, I received a very unusual order. When I first got the address I kind of just fed it into my system without a second thought. That's right, years of servitude has turned me into a pizza delivering machine. However, when I found myself holding a medium cheese pizza standing at the back of a wholesale market... I knew something was wrong with this picture. I took the address out of my pocket and read it again, very carefully. I looked up at my surroundings. I looked down at the address again. I was at the right place.
Which meant someone had ordered a pizza to be delivered to the frozen foods storage unit of Costco.
... I swear. This city gets stranger and stranger everyday.
I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? Knock? Workers were zooming all around me, and nobody seemed particularly bothered by the fact that there was a pizza delivery boy standing in their midst. It took another couple of minutes of just standing around feeling stupid before I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and went in. And immediately wished I had worn another jacket.
So there I was, wandering around between large slabs of pork thigh and mounds of frozen carrots, probably trespassing and breaking some law, completely clueless as to what I was looking for. Strange things like this tend to happen to me. A lot. Could be some sort of cosmic sign. Like Jesus telling me to be wary of my choices because the items in my sin column are numbering dangerously high; a couple more faulty steps and I might not be good enough for purgatory anymore.
Back and to the left, somebody whistled. The kind of super-sonic shrill whistle that is needed in order to hail a cab in New York city. I whirled around, and from behind a steel rack I saw a cuff-linked wrist giving the 'come-hither' motion.
I rounded the corner... And came face to face with the devil himself.
I mean, if Satan existed, I believe the antichrist would look exactly like him.
Impossibly beautiful; the ultimate epitome of sex.
Not that I'm a fan or anything. Pop music hurts my brain and makes my internal organs move in ways they really shouldn't.
He lifted his chin, and gestured towards the pizza in my hand. "One order of medium cheese?"
Quick thoughts flashed by in the form of first impression schematics.
Brilliant. Sparkling. Dazzling.
And really, really blonde.
Like, ten times blonder than he looks on screen and in print.
Sitting on the floor, under a row of turkeys, in a full Armani suit complete with matching shoes, tie, and sunglasses, was the man who is second only to Michael Jackson in the number of people he can cause to faint/cry/go completely insane upon contact...
And my choice of greeting was, "...Are you sure you're allowed to be in here?"
To be continued.
For you, you silly punk. Happy Valentines.