by R W Sowrider
She giggled.
“I’m Rowen.”
“I’m Sera.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Sera. Can I offer you a drink?”
“Only if you promise not to sing.”
***
“Dudes, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” Rowen said upon returning to Trevor and Francesco.
“Yeah, talking to a hot girl sucks,” Trevor replied, sarcastically.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to a girl in my whole life … except maybe Jessica Alba who refuses to respond to any of my telepathic love letters, warnings, or threats.”
“But she rejected you?” Francesco asked.
“No. She gave me her digits. That’s the problem. I’m here to research my masterpiece, which means getting paid to party and sleep with tons of Japanese cuties, you know, for the sake of literature, and it just wouldn’t be fair to that poor girl.”
“That’s too bad,” Francesco said, leaving the two and heading for the bar.
Rowen looked at Trevor in desperation. “What am I gonna do?!”
“Well for starters, you can stop being a douchebag.”
“You know that’s not possible. ”
“Then you could quit chasing waterfalls.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t cause I don’t even know what that means. Sure, the water itself is always moving, but the waterfall is always in the same place. How the fuck do you chase a stationary object?!”
Trevor’s tone suddenly turned serious. “Well, there’s at least one thing that you definitely should not do, and that’s trust that Francesco scumbag.”
“Why not?”
Trevor simply pointed across the room where Francesco was approaching Sera with a couple drinks.
“Oh, he’s not doing anything. Just saying hello is all. Besides, I just told him that I can’t have a relationship with her so technically…”
“The dude’s a scumbag.”
“Yeah, but so are you. You say so all the time, to anyone who’ll listen.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows and looked Rowen square in the eye. “I’d never nail your girl.”
Rowen countered with an I’m-calling-bullshit look.
“Okay, yeah, I guess I shouldn’t say ‘never.’ But if I did nail your girl, I’d tell you about it like 30 seconds after nuttin’ on her, cause I care about you!”
***
“Are you seriously here to write a book about the host world?” Trevor asked Rowen as he handed him a freshly poured pint of Guinness and took a healthy gulp of his own.
The duo had fled the ‘international party’ and trudged back through Shibuya Crossing to one of Trevor’s favorite drinking haunts.
“Yup,” Rowen replied.
“Didn’t you get that shit out of your system with that diary business? ”
“Nope.”
“That’s not good man, cause I hate writers.”
“What?! How can you hate writers?! They bring us nothing but reading and viewing pleasure. Except all the crappy ones out there, which granted is the vast majority.”
“All writers are either liars or simpletons. Or they treat their readers as simpletons.”
“How so?”
“Almost every character is so one-dimensional it’s sickening. Human beings are nuanced, bro. Every single one of us experiences every single emotion and trait there is. Yet writers pigeonhole characters as either good or evil. Even the ‘critically acclaimed’ writers do this. Sure, they might show a character as good at first, then later reveal that that character is actually evil, but that’s still portraying the character as one-dimensional. Like good people can’t do bad things. Like bad people can’t do good things. Like everyone can’t do everything. It makes me sick.”
“I guess you may have a point there.”
“And they’re so obvious and trite in their audience manipulations. Like, do you know one of the most common ways they get you to hate a character on screen? To show us that he’s a villain?”
“…”
“They just have the cocksucker chew with his mouth open.”
“I hate that.”
“Me too. Everyone does. It’s low hanging fruit.”
“Well, you clearly have a point there. And seriously, I wholeheartedly believe that anyone who chews with their mouth open should kill themselves.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve ever said that was cool.”
“Thanks, man!”
Trevor took another pull off his Guinness while stewing in his disgust for writers. Rowen did likewise while basking in the glow of what might have been the first ever compliment he had received from his mentor.
“Hey,” Rowen said, abruptly. “I don’t think you’ve told me yet. What is it that you’re up to now? Still teaching English?”
Trevor’s eyes darted left and right. Then, out of the corner of his mouth, he made a series of electronic beeping sounds and picked up his cell phone. “Oh shit, I gotta take this.”
Rowen nodded as Trevor turned his head to the side.
“What’s that you say? There’s a thing that I’ve got to get to right now? Is it that important? … A life or death thing? … Okay, I’ll just polish off the rest of my beer without any time for further conversation and get out to the thing right away.”
Trevor put his phone into his pocket and downed the remainder of his Guinness. “Sorry, dude. There’s a … thing.”
***
Rowen blissfully made his way down a winding path in Kabukicho, a green apple chu-high , his favorite Japanese alcoholic beverage, in one hand and a menthol cigarette in the other.
The path was nothing but a walkway to those who traversed it each day, but to Rowen, it was a cultural heritage hub.
He couldn’t help but marvel at the ragged, dilapidated low-rise buildings to his right, oddly known as Golden Town, which housed hundreds of tiny bars in an area roughly the size of a basketball court.
At the end of the trail was the infamous red-light district that was home to the most prestigious host clubs in Japan.
But Rowen was most grateful for the public toilet at the head of the trail. While on reconnaissance missions, no less than a quarter of his time was spent going back and forth to this lifeline. The rest of the time, he wandered the streets admiring club facades and billboards, as well as the hosts and patrons themselves who were constantly spilling out into the street in merriment.
“Do you mind if we hit a convenience store, first?” Francesco asked upon meeting up with Rowen at the end of the path.
“Sure, no problem,” Rowen replied, cheerfully. “The chu-highs are on me since I appreciate you helping me with my research.”
After purchasing a bagful of strong chu-highs, the duo had a seat on a concrete parking bumper at the edge of the host club area.
Smiling down upon them was Angel, the No. 1 host of Tokyo’s premier host club, Club Cirrus.
On the top of a seven-story building was a billboard so massive that Rowen assumed it was visible from Osaka. Framed by neon pink lights, Angel was surrounded by a bright blue sky with streaks of heavenly clouds. His long hair was dyed blond and teased, his eyebrows were tweezed, and the fingertip resting on his lower lip managed to convey to potential customers that not only was he considerate and intelligent, but he was also a total fucking party animal.
Rowen stared at the billboard in awe. “That dude is the spitting image of Bret Michaels from his Look What the Cat Dragged In days.”
Francesco cocked his head. “If Bret Michaels were Asian.”
“Yeah, of course. If Bret Michaels were Asian. The important thing is, those dudes from Poison uncovered the secret to getting hot chicks: Dressing up and styling their hair exactly like the hot chicks they’re trying to get.”
“Not to mention the same makeup.”
“Yeah. Exactly. It was genius. It completely paved the way for the host club industry in Japan 20 years later and now all these guys here get to reap t
he rewards without all the bother of having to learn to play instruments and perform songs and whatnot. These guys are even more genius.”
“Yup. It’s the American dream,” Francesco replied.
Rowen couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not, but after a long pull off his chu-high, he continued. “That’s my dream, man.”
“Yeah, you keep telling me. You wanna be a host and write a book about it.”
“No,” Rowen said, turning to Francesco, passion burning in his eyes. “I wanna be up there. I wanna be the No. 1 host in Tokyo. I don’t just wanna be paid by a few girls to party and make earth-shattering love to them, I wanna earn the respect of my fellow hosts and work my way to the top.”
“That’s really cool, man,” Francesco replied. “I respect that you have a dream that you’re doing your best to live out.”
“Thanks, bro.” Rowen pulled out a couple cigarettes and a couple fresh chu-highs and handed one of each to Francesco. “And I respect that you’re doing the same thing. Especially since a lot of people would say that becoming a doctor is even more commendable than becoming a host.”
“Thanks man, that means a lot.”
The two puffed their cigarettes and had a few swigs of booze in silence as Rowen contemplated his dream of becoming the world’s greatest host and compared it to Francesco’s dream of becoming a doctor, which he was already living out. To Rowen, it wasn’t much of a comparison, but he still found a few aspects of being a doctor that might be enjoyable. “It must be cool to have patients come up to you after you save their life and be like, ‘Thank you so much for saving my life.’”
“I don’t deal with patients. I’m a research physician.”
“Research? Really? I didn’t know that. What are you researching? ”
Francesco paused for a moment. “We’re searching for a cure for cancer.”
“Cancer?! Wow. Yeah, a cure would definitely be useful. Keep on keepin’ on, good sir.”
Francesco nodded.
“So what made you decide to do that?”
Francesco paused yet again, deciding how much information he wanted to share. Then he took a deep breath and turned to look Rowen in the eye. “My baby brother.”
“I didn’t know you had a little brother.”
“Well, apparently, there’s a lot about me you don’t know. But let’s just say I don’t talk about him to too many people.”
“Oh, I getcha,” Rowen replied, winking to emphasize that he was fully picking up what Francesco was laying down. “He’s the black sheep of the family, is he?”
“Was , Rowen,” Francesco replied, biting his lip. “He’s gone now. Leukemia.”
“Oh shit, man. That’s really sad. I’m very very sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, thanks. And he wasn’t the black sheep. I was.”
“Oh, c’mon. Black sheep don’t become doctors, they become promoters of bum fights.”
“Yeah, well this black sheep did. Not that it will ever make a difference. Fen – that’s my little brother’s name – he was the golden boy. Everybody loved him. He was always happy, always active, always fun to be around.”
“Ew. Sounds a little too upbeat, huh?”
“No, he was great. Even though I’ve always been a little less happy, a little less active, and hardly ever fun to be around, I always loved him. He had a spark in his eye that would just lift you out of whatever funk you were in. Just one look from him would cheer anyone up. He was so adorable, with his big eyes and pointy ears like Fox McCloud.” Francesco smiled, wistfully. “He actually wanted to be a pilot like McCloud, too.”
“Sounds like a great kid.”
“He was. And he was tough, too. He actually beat cancer.”
“He did? … But I thought …”
“The first time.” Francesco sighed as his head sank. “But the fucking cancer came back.”
“Fucking remission.”
“You mean recurrence, Rowen.”
“Yeah, sorry. Fucking recurrence!”
“But the kid stayed strong, bro. He was a fighter. He was so positive, so upbeat, so optimistic. But it was too much.” A single tear streamed down Francesco’s cheek which he wiped away with a sniffle.
“That really sucks, man. I’m really sorry.”
“But that’s why I’m here. That’s what’s made me. I’m gonna destroy the disease that destroyed my baby brother.”
“That’s wonderful, man. I didn’t know there was a cancer research place around here.”
“There is. One of the best in the world.”
Rowen and Francesco fell silent as they had a few more swigs of chu-high and finished off their cigarettes.
“Wait a second,” Rowen exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing smoking?!”
Francesco smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. But it’s the only thing that calms my anxiety.”
The guys continued to drink and smoke, and gradually, the conversation lightened, turned back to the host world, and as Rowen finished his last chu-high, he felt sufficiently drunk to take the next step.
“Okay, I’m going for it,” he said, spiritedly. “I’m fucking going to Club Cirrus and I am gonna explode their heads. They’re gonna get down on their hands and knees and beg me to work for them. Without even saying a word, they’re gonna recognize that I’ve got it. I’m talking about It , bro! They’re gonna call me the Great White Host! ”
Francesco smiled. “You go, girl!”
“C’mon.”
Rowen staggered to his feet and led Francesco into the heart of the host district. A den of dreams and debauchery. Neon signs, lit-up billboard ads, and intoxicated merrymakers everywhere.
He stopped in front of the glitzy semi-circular building that housed Club Cirrus on the second floor. The building itself was constructed of shimmering, gold-plated bricks while pink neon letters floated on a cloud above the sleek marble steps leading up to Paradise.
Just before taking the first step, Rowen turned back to Francesco. “Wait here for me, bro. Time to make this dream a reality.” He slowly lifted a leg above the first step. “One small step for man … one giant leap for male prostitutes.”
At the precise moment that Rowen planted his foot on the first step, a wave of hosts cascaded down the steps in an inebriated frenzy.
Rowen’s jaw dropped as he gazed upon the group of charismatic hosts. With their perfectly coifed glam metal hair, custom-tailored suits, and fashionable accessories like silver necklaces with diamond-studded skull-and-cross pendants, they were full of confidence, charm, and revelry.
What’s more, each host had at least one gorgeous, equally stylish woman hanging all over him.
Rowen watched in awe as the group swept by. So full of audacity, amusement, and alcohol. Clearly, they were way out of Rowen’s league.
Speechless and dejected, he turned on a heel and headed back to Francesco who was watching in astonishment as Rowen’s soul was crushed.
“Maybe tonight’s not the night,” Rowen whimpered.
“Holy shit,” Francesco exclaimed. “I have never seen someone pussy out so hard in my life. You could actually see the confidence you started with deflate like a punctured tire and be replaced by pure, unadulterated pussiness. My God, bro. What the fuck?!”
Rowen just stared at the ground and sighed. It was bad enough to chicken out, but to have it thrown right back in his face by a friend made it all the more painful. He felt as if he had been stabbed in the gut.
“Hey, man,” Francesco said, softening his tone. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s just not your thing. The hosting or the writing. I mean, seriously, who’s gonna pay $7 for a book written by you?!”
The knife was now twisting.
Francesco tried to backpedal. “You know what I mean, man.”
Rowen’s despondence quickly morphed into indignation. “Fuck you, man! It’s not that easy for me, okay? But I still fuckin’ believe in myself. Maybe not tonight and maybe
not tomorrow, but one of these nights, I’m gonna walk up those stairs and start living out my dream. And I’m gonna write a kick-ass book about it. I don’t give a shit what you say, or what society says, or what my stupid parents say, it’s gonna be awesome. And you’re gonna feel like an asshole for not recognizing it earlier.”
“Okay, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, alright?”
“And fuck your fucking $7. That’s less than a fucking pint at a bar, which lasts for like 15 fuckin’ minutes. I’m talking about a book, bro. That’s like two months of unbridled entertainment. A Goddamn bargain, bro!”
“Okay, calm down. I honestly didn’t mean it. I’d definitely buy your book for $7. Hell, I’d pay 7.50. I was only trying to help.”
“Well, you’re fuckin’ horrible at it.”
“I just meant that if you were to give up, here’s a rationalization for you to do so. I was just trying to give you an out.”
“Well, that out sucks.”
“I got another one. ”
“No thanks.”
“No, man, hear me out. Translation. You could use your Japanese skills to translate kick-ass Japanese books into English. That way, you can leave all the hard work up to someone else and just take a proven commodity and bring it to a wider audience.”
“You’re still not helping. I can write my own damn books.”
“Yeah, of course you can. But maybe as a way to break into the industry…”
“Plus, my Japanese probably isn’t as good as you think it is. It takes me around an hour to read a short paragraph.”
Francesco was shocked yet again. “Oh shit, dude. That’s horrible. How are you gonna hold a conversation at a host club if your Japanese is such garbage?!”
Rowen glared at Francesco who quickly returned to damage control mode. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But it sounds like you’re in a bit of a pinch. Maybe you should ask your friend Trevor for some help.”
“Huh?”
“Your friend Trevor. I heard it through the gaijin grapevine that he’s a big deal here.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, here. In Kabukicho. He’s like the most successful gaijin host ever or something.”