Scribbler's Cafe

To forget myself, without losing myself

I can no longer name my desires. I know that my mind and body pulse twist and pulse with want and hunger – but I cannot imagine the filling dish to dine on.

To forget myself, without losing myself, I dress up in pretty girl clothes and climb into the city crowds. Now that I have lived in Japan and learned to move and breathe in dense hoards, I wonder if the cities in the states will forever disappoint me. I cannot lose myself sufficiently with all that empty space to breathe in.

My usual table at Absinthe is occupied by an optimistic couple, conversing with their hands and demonstrating positive body language. I hate them. I shoot them an unnoticed look of death and then turn my glare to the waitress. OK, so I’m two hours later than usual, but I always come on Thursdays. She should have kept my table clear.

I choose another seat and toss my shopping bags down with a fat thump. The waitress makes amends by bringing me a Hemmingway without me asking for it, pours the green, lights the sugar and tips the champagne. She leaves me with my usual and my new view. My back is to the wall and I can see the whole café. Every other Thursday has found me at the table by the window, pressed close to the glass, hidden by the large potted plant. This spot has a totally new jive.

The waitress asks me what it is I am always writing. I blush and stammer an evasive answer. I could have been smooth. I could have been cool. I could have purred: stories, articles, porn, novels, whatever…

All my empire for two minutes ago.

I watch the gaijin men flock here with their sleek Japanese girlfriends. None of these LHAs (Large Hulking Americans) belong to me. I can’t help but wonder if my pen and journal will always by my loyal café companions.

The boy from last Thursday sits at the bar next to the trendy Euro-trash. With one self-satisfied glance, I can work them both up. Yet, people sit at the bar if they want to talk and be social. I never sit at the bar. I sit at a table – often hidden by a large potted plant. I keep my focus on the lined pages. That is much safer these days.

I drink the pernod quickly.

An American, overweight, of course, takes the table to my right. He orders a beer and starts to smoke. I roll my eyes and retreat back into myself. Then he takes out a notebook filled with carefully inked pages and I pause and smile. To each their own, dear comrade.

If I press lips to the rim of the absinthe cocktail just after conception, I can still feel the lingering heat of the flame. Lovely.

The new waiter’s name is Kazuo. He’s cute and young. Too young. He uses his left hand to shake mine and waits two moments too long before pouring the champagne over the flame.

Anata wa atarashi desu ka?
Hai. Three days. Kazuo desu. Doozo yoroshiko.
Kelsye desu. Nice to meet you, too.

The American enters our chat. He tells me about the plot of his television pilot. It’s good. Or, maybe I’m drunk. It’s hard to identify the greater truth.

Three men take the table on my left. They talk marketing plans in English. They can’t decide where to place their product ads. I begin to channel my father and can’t help jumping into the conversation.

“Please excuse my unsolicited, absinthe drenched comments, but I can’t help but offer this: Kansai Scene is respected and well-read and so will your ad be - if it isn’t lost in the chaos of all the other advertisements. The Japanzine isn’t even second-rate crap, it’s third rate crap. It’s only redeeming quality is its English advertisements read faithfully by those that can’t stand the crowd in Kansai Scene. Therefore your ad there is as good as gold. As for the Foreign Buyer’s Club catalogue, while the readership is small, they are fiercely loyal as they are the people who refuse to let go of their home countries and cling like urchins to English-based companies. Your ad placed there is not only as good as gold; it’s like God’s divine word.”

The three man look at me with unblinking eyes. The man closest to me reaches out his hand and drags my table across the floor until it is flush with theirs. “I think we found our new marketing director. What are you anyway, like 20?”

I spend the next hour and a half talking target audiences, product markets and ad campaigns. I can play this game very well. It’s in my blood. I make my exit in time to catch the trains home, laden with stiff white business cards. Yes, yes, I will check out your sites.

How strange. One little variance in routine and two months of not talking to strangers is broken without any adieu.

posted by Scribbler @ Sunday, October 30, 2005