7:25 p.m.
Mitch smelled rum again. Then he heard voices. Men, speaking Japanese.
Then there was the pain. A sharp, stinging discomfort on his forehead accompanied by a dull and throbbing ache on the back of his head. Mitch vaguely remembered Tak throwing the bottle at him. That would explain the smell of rum and the soreness on his forehead. But why would the back of his head hurt?
Mitch tried to reach his hand up to check the sources of his pain, but he couldn’t. He tried again. His arm wouldn’t move. It took incredible effort to open his eyes, but Mitch was determined to figure out what was going on. Although they appeared blurry and out-of-focus, he could see Johnny and Mike hovering above him. Mitch tried to sit up, but they shoved him back down. He again tried to lift his arms, this time in protest, but he couldn’t. They were tied down.
What the fuck?
Mitch smelled rum again. Tak was leaning over him. What was he saying? It was in Japanese and Mitch couldn’t summon the concentration to translate the foreign words. He was too preoccupied with trying to figure out why his arms would be tied down. Had Tak said something about giving him a drug to make him relax? That didn’t make any sense.
Mitch struggled to focus on what Tak was trying to communicate. It was challenging to follow; Tak was speaking rapidly, saying over and over what a bad man he was. Mitch was confused. Who was the bad man Tak was referring to? It was a lot to take in, and Mitch gave up trying to understand.
There was a prick in his arm. It made him twitch slightly, though it didn’t really hurt. Was it a needle? Mitch hated needles. He was terrified of getting shots.
Warmth—Mitch experienced a rush of warmth, like he had been wrapped in the softest, most wonderful blanket.
Then he was sick. Horribly sick. He threw up in his mouth.
Someone held him up. Was it Johnny? Mitch vomited violently, convulsing in agony.
Then he was warm again—floating, completely and utterly relaxed, in a state of contentment he couldn’t understand. The throbbing aches in his head disappeared.
Mitch was back in his childhood home in Iowa. He was in his twin bed, in his favorite pajamas—the one-piece zip-up ones made of fleece and decorated with Star Wars characters. He loved these pajamas.
Everything in his room was the same way Mitch remembered, down to the American flag needlepoint his mom had made in celebration of the Bicentennial hanging on the wall. Only now, Mitch was no longer a confused and lonely little boy. He was calm and incredibly peaceful. David Gilmour was kneeling next to him in bed, rubbing his forehead softly and singing “Comfortably Numb” directly into his ear. His voice was divine. So very beautiful, every note exquisite in its clarity. Mitch was perfectly in sync with the song. He could feel each guitar chord coursing through his veins, a part of him.
Mitch soared, transcendent. He was music.
Mitch was experiencing such an unparalleled sense of the sublime that he didn’t wonder why his pants were removed. Or his underwear.
Then he heard Japanese voices again, this time telling him not to move. Then it was English. Broken English. “Mitch! Mitch!” Tak was shaking him.
Mitch didn’t want to be disturbed. He heard Roger Waters now, warning about a little pin prick. Or was that Tak? Mitch couldn’t be sure. Either way, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to leave his twin bed or this feeling of bliss.
Tak vigorously shook Mitch. “Listen to me. Very important, you stay relaxed. You no move. Understand?”
Mitch opened his eyes and nodded. Move? Why would I move? He was suspended in the air. He closed his eyes, grateful to return to the twin bed in his Bicentennial room. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but David Gilmour’s gentle, soothing voice and the feeling of utter contentment, understanding, and belonging.
Then came the pain between his legs, so excruciating Mitch immediately lost consciousness.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Big Audio Dynamite II: “Rush”
June 6, 1994
10:03 a.m.
Mitch
Mitch second-guessed his plan. Maybe he should still go with his initial idea: a jump into Tokyo Bay off the Trans-Tokyo Bay Highway. Would that be better?
No, this was the way to do it. Who knew how long it would take his waterlogged body to drag up on shore and be found? And what kind of condition would he be in? Would the salt in the water preserve him? What if he became grossly decomposed? Whoever found him should be spared from that type of unpleasantness.
This way was less traumatic. Things would be resolved quickly and neatly.
Mitch removed the heroin from the plastic bag inside a small red balloon and emptied it onto a spoon. As fucked up as it was, considering the circumstances, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of gratitude toward Tak. Of course, what he had done to Mitch was beyond reproach—the work of a complete sadist and sociopath—yet Tak had given him the heroin to get the job done. Not out of guilt—Tak didn’t have the capacity to feel guilt. No, Mitch supposed it was because Tak had understood his intentions and wanted to help him, believing it was the honorable thing to do. A Japanese samurai performing hara-kiri.
Was it honorable?
It didn’t really matter. Honorable or not, it was the only choice Mitch had.
There were those people who, when faced with extreme adversity, found an inner strength and drive they never thought possible. The news loved to broadcast these types of stories: the paraplegic who started a wheelchair basketball league; the refugee who escaped political persecution and established a foundation for his homeland; the amputee who donated prosthetics to children who had lost limbs walking into land mines.
Mitch wasn’t one of these people. He was too weak to overcome the hand that had been dealt him. Sure, he would heal physically—at least Tak had known what he was doing. Perhaps Mitch wasn’t the first person he had castrated—but he would never get over the shame of what Tak had taken from him. Bitterness would color his every waking moment.
Then there was the heroin to consider. Mitch’s life was forever changed the moment Tak had chosen to anesthetize him with the drug. Heroin had gifted him with such a sublime sense of contentment—the feeling was too damn good; the sole antidote for his tortured soul. Having experienced it once, Mitch wouldn’t be able to go on without accessing that place of joy again and again. He needed the sense of belonging heroin gave him. He couldn’t live without it, nor would he want to.
Mitch would become an addict. He would lie, steal, do whatever it took to obtain the incredible high again. Mitch couldn’t let that happen, he was smart enough to recognize there was no silver lining to heroin addiction. No graceful exit. Better to leave now, on his own terms, before his hedonistic dance with the drug became his everything.
Mitch was confident in his decision. Still, as he added water to the heroin with a syringe, his heart ached over leaving Kenji. Sweet, adorable Kenji. Mitch could fall in love with him. Perhaps he already had.
Having your lover gets his balls chopped off the very day you have sex with him for the first time. What a way to start a new relationship. Poor Kenji—he couldn’t have been more attentive to Mitch over the past few weeks, taking great care of him and even offering to change his disgusting, blood-soaked bandages. But it couldn’t last. Kenji would stay merely out of a sense of obligation and pity, and Mitch couldn’t abide that.
He regretted that the beautiful bartender would be the one to find him. It seemed a rather morbid good-bye, but Mitch couldn’t think of any other way to assure the money from the Mitch and Elle’s Adventure Jar got into Kenji’s hands. There was a shitload of yen in the jar—the equivalent of almost $10,000. Mitch certainly had no use for it and there was no way of getting it to Elle. Kenji deserved the cash, a sort of payoff for all his trouble.
If all went per Mitch’s plan, Kenji would arrive at the apartment around six o’clock and find a note next to the jar instructing him to take the money and to call the police. Kenji would be confused and knock loudly on t
he door, shouting for Mitch several times. When no one answered and he discovered the door was locked, he would have little choice but to do as Mitch directed. The police would come and break down the door, and all Kenji would see was Mitch’s body covered with a sheet.
Would he be sad? Perhaps a little, but Kenji was young and attractive, with his whole life ahead of him. Mitch would be remembered as nothing more than an asterisk in his story. The American he lost his virginity to. A nice memory but, in the bigger scheme of things, a teeny tiny piece of his life.
And what about Mitch’s family? How and when would they find out? How would they feel? Sure, his mom would cry, but her tears would be accompanied with profound relief. She wouldn’t have to worry about her son anymore. His dad and brother would simply shrug their shoulders, spit out their chew, and concede, “Welp, he always was diff-rent.”
They would accept casseroles and Jell-O salads, pray for his soul, and life would go on.
It was more complicated to think about Elle. Mitch had asked Tak about her several times, and all he would say was that she was safe in another country. Maybe she had gone back to the States? Or off to London? Wherever she was, it was better she was gone. Elle desperately needed to escape Tokyo.
She had gotten in over her head with Tak, with the drugs, and likely at the Big YAC. Mitch was suspicious about how she could afford first-class plane tickets and suspected the money was from a client at the Big YAC. Had it been payment for an exchange of services? Was that why she had quit her job? Mitch hadn’t had the courage to ask Elle about it; he worried it would be too humiliating for her to admit the truth.
He could only hope Elle was doing well and was happy. How would she find out? When? She would be crushed when she heard the news. She would feel responsible.
Mitch couldn’t leave Elle with that guilt. It was imperative that she know he was not desolate and in need of rescuing. To this end, Mitch had written her a note explaining his decision. To convince Elle that he was in a good headspace, Mitch purposefully used paper he had stolen from English First and even slipped in a reference to his balls. Elle would get it. She would understand that he knew exactly what he was doing, and that there was nothing she could have done to prevent his death.
To further drive his point home, Mitch had signed the letter with his given name, Wayne. Elle would take this as confirmation that he had accepted who he was and what his fate must be. Over time, she would forgive him and understand that he had had no choice.
Mitch didn’t have any regrets. He would do it all over again if given the chance. Protecting Elle from Tak was an honor. She was the first person to love him unconditionally. Without Elle and her friendship, he may have never fully recognized his sexuality.
The sacrifice was worth it.
A happily ever after wasn’t in the cards for Wayne Mitchell Carpenter; he had always known it and understood it would come to this eventually. But it was different for Elle. She was destined for great things. She would be happy for both of them.
Mitch was at peace with his decision. Life had granted him a few moments of pure joy. He had experienced the ecstasy of physical intimacy with a man. Elle had given him the gift of unconditional love. It was enough—more than he ever expected.
Mitch took in the apartment one last time. All his belongings were in three cardboard boxes carefully stacked on top of each other. He wasn’t sure why he had bothered with this extra step—everything would probably be trashed—but it seemed important that he leave things as neat and tidy as possible.
Have I forgotten anything?
Mitch considered spraying himself with some more aftershave. He was worried about the stench of death and had taken the extra precaution of not eating anything for the past two days. The last thing he wanted was to shit himself. He considered peeing one more time but knew his bladder was empty. He had tried to go about five minutes earlier.
Mitch decided against more aftershave. He was ready.
He flicked his red lighter on and placed it under the bottom of the spoon, lamenting for a moment that he couldn’t use a match to heat the heroin. He would have enjoyed the sound and smell of a match striking one more time. That, and perhaps the taste of one more Burrito Supreme with extra hot sauce. He would miss Taco Bell.
Satisfied with the consistency, Mitch soaked up the heroin from the spoon with a cotton ball and extracted it with a syringe. He used his favorite tie—a purple and black paisley designer one he had splurged $100 on—as a tourniquet around his left arm. Tak had explicitly warned Mitch that the heroin was pure and extremely potent. Still, for extra insurance, he swallowed a handful of prescription sleeping pills, choking them down with his saliva.
The final step in Mitch’s plan involved music. It was key to have precisely the right song for the occasion. He put in his earbuds and pushed play on his Walkman. U2’s “Bad” was queued up. Mitch loved this song. He always had a visceral reaction to it that was so intense it was beyond understanding.
Mitch now understood why. The song explained everything. It just had to be “Bad.”
Mitch put the needle in his arm. Why had he always been so afraid of getting shots? It really was no big deal. He lay down, pulled the sheet over his head, and closed his eyes. As the heroin explode through his veins in concert with his favorite song, Mitch was content. After a lifetime full of want, he was perfectly, sublimely, exquisitely at peace.
At last.
How very underrated.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
U2: “40”
June 6, 2017
11:24 a.m.
Elle sat in the corner of the shower, her head between her knees. She had turned the cold-water knob off, allowing only hot water to come through the large rainfall showerhead on the ceiling. The scalding hot water burned her back. Elle welcomed the pain.
Kenji’s story had gutted her. What Mitch had endured was beyond comprehension.
And for what? For me? She wasn’t worth the sacrifice.
Elle banged her head several times against the wall of the shower. Not again! How could she be responsible for the death of another person she loved?
Kenji had also blamed himself. If only he had told Mitch right away, when he first saw her kiss Gustavo. Mitch would have interceded. Elle wouldn’t have gone into the cloakroom. None of this would have happened.
Elle knew better. What happened to Mitch was solely on her shoulders.
Let them burn.
Her actions were unforgivable. Worse even than they had been with Jimmy. With her brother, there was always the smallest possibility—the tiniest of chances—that maybe, just maybe, he still would have died, even if she hadn’t brought him into bed with her or placed the blanket and all the stuffed animals over him.
But there was no question with Mitch. He would be alive if it weren’t for her stupidity.
Elle sobbed. She was the one who should have been punished. Why hadn’t she insisted on talking to Tak when he called her apartment that fateful day? She could have explained the truth. Mitch would have been spared. Elle had been so wrapped up in her own troubles, she hadn’t considered the danger Mitch would be in.
So selfish. And she still was. Elle hadn’t even lived up to Mitch’s dying wish.
Kenji had given her Mitch’s suicide note. He had presented the folded square paper to her in a very Japanese way, solemnly, with outstretched hands. It was faded, and fragile, and so very small—too small for something delivering such profound news. Curiously, it was written on paper from an English First notepad. Elle noticed the date: June 6th—right around the same time she had first met Win in the laundromat.
June 6, 1994
My darling Elle,
Thanks for my b-day present. It was fucking awesome! (Literally.) In a word: UNDERRATED. I would have never had the balls to pursue Kenji on my own. For your help in this endeavor, I am eternally grateful (as is my penis). I know you’re sad, confused, and a bit pissed off at me right now, but don’t be. This was the in
evitable end. I have always known it would be this way. There was nothing you could have said or done to stop me, to change this outcome. Really. I mean it. If you were here right now, nothing would be different. Not a single fucking thing, so absolve yourself right now of any feelings of guilt or responsibility. You have been the best friend I’ve ever had. You loved and accepted me for who I am, which has meant everything to me, you must know that. It’s your time now. I am commanding you a happy ending. Go on that adventure. Live a life of unadulterated joy. You owe it to yourself. And to me. I have no regrets. Don’t you. (And by this, I mean, for the love of God, ditch the grannie panties!)
Time for the Scooby Doo ending.
XOXO
Wayne
The letter was classic Mitch. Wry and sardonic to the end—he had even made a joke about having “balls.” Elle found it strange he had chosen to sign it as Wayne. He loathed that name. Signing it that way was purposeful. Why would he do that?
Why did Mitch do anything he did? Why did this have to happen? Why?
In his suicide note, Mitch spoke of Elle’s unconditional love for him. He had given her the same gift. Mitch was the one man in her life she had allowed to see the full truth of Michelle Simpson, and he had accepted her wholly for who she was.
And look at how I reciprocated.
Elle had boarded a plane and left Tokyo while Mitch was castrated. She flirted with Win in a laundromat, relishing her chance at happiness, while he sat broken and alone in their apartment—a needle and some drugs his sole companions. Elle had forsaken her best friend at the precise moment he needed her the most.
She couldn’t live with that guilt. Something had to be done.
Elle willed herself out of the shower. She wished Duke could be with her; he would understand. Feeling weak and unsteady, it took considerable effort for Elle to dry off. She wiped a towel over the fogged-up mirror and looked into it, closely examining her face. She considered every line and each wrinkle.
Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Page 27