by Jay E. Tria
“I’m helping Jill,” he said weakly. “Or at least trying to.”
“Not much you can do from that corner.” Lala nudged her head to where Jill and Kim were starting their second duet, the bottles on her tray toasting each other as she moved. “Try that direction. Mr. Hot and Brooding sure is getting things done. The burger joint across the street can hear the collective swooning from here.”
“I can’t sing. And I can’t do that thing he does with a guitar.” Shinta wrung his right hand, a sad mimic to the graceful, intimate dance of Kim’s fingers across the Stratocaster’s steel strings.
“Then find another occupation. Sheesh.” Lala thrust a beer into Shinta’s hands before turning her back to him to distribute the rest. “You men always need the step-by-step manual.”
Shinta allowed his weight to sag against the bookshelf as Lala left him, drowning his gut monster with glugs of subzero all-malt. Three-quarters through his bottle, he straightened up, zoning back in on the yellow sphere of light that enveloped Jill and Kim’s show. He felt lightheaded now, thanks to the shot of alcohol zinging through his bloodstream. More cheerful even. Surely he would see Diego coming through the door any second now.
A fresh buzzing lit up his phone, heralding a new text from the DJ: Two blocks away, I swear!
The sweaty bottle almost slipped from Shinta’s hand despite his hardened grip. He took a final, extended swig, emptying it, the dark amber liquid spilling down his chin.
“This should be our last couple of songs.” Jill’s voice broke through the droning whirlpool of Shinta’s panicked thoughts. He caught her gaze, her eyebrows lifted in a question. He didn’t have the heart to shake his head.
“That Hamlet monologue sounds good right about now,” Shinta muttered, swiveling from where he stood to pound his head against the wall of books. Midway through the fifth hit, he opened his eyes, catching the words on the spines. Complete Works of Shakespeare, said one encyclopedic leather-bound volume, speaking to him like an answer to a prayer. “Yes. But dear lord, not Shakespeare. I am not ready for Hamlet.”
His eyes scanned the length and levels of the shelves in a feverish hunt for something familiar, something he could gamble on. He paused on the third shelf, one that housed a colorful lineup of Japanese comics. Shinta muttered a soft plea to the heavens above, and pulled out one volume.
Applause rang throughout the café, bounding across the walls and up the ceiling. Kim was bowing, waving, spreading his thanks to his audience like joy and good fortune. Beside him, Jill had gone stock still, her eyes skimming the packed room again, the furrow in her brow deepening with each unsuccessful scan.
Shinta rushed to the mic stands, pulling one to where Jill stood as Kim exited stage right, guitars in tow.
“I don’t see the DJ,” Jill hissed, one hand covering the mic. “Or Miki. Or Son or Nino. Where did Kim go?”
“I’m here,” Shinta declared, stepping towards her. He took her hand in his. “I got you.”
Jill sighed out, squeezing his fingers. “Yes. Okay.” She bit her lip, gaze flicking back to the converged mob that was watching them with eager eyes. “What do we do now?”
Shinta cleared his throat, flicking the switch on the mic as he pivoted to face the gathered mob.
“Hello, everyone. So we’ve got DJ Diego of Alt Code Rock Radio and Trainman coming up. But before that, we’ve got a surprise for you all.” Jill groaned low and long beside him at the mention of her least favorite word. “My name is Shinta, and Jill and I are going to read a short romantic scene from a manga—a Japanese comic book.”
Jill was shooting him a glare of pure horror, he knew it. But he waited for the crowd to react first. There were hums, and nods, and wary looks. Shinta spotted Lala shaking with silent laughter, and Kim’s mouth agape in what he read as amused shock. Lala motioned to the lights guy and a new, muted color fell over the tables. Ottomans and stools edged forward, chins meeting hands as if collectively saying, well?
Shinta returned to Jill.
“Oh no, you’re serious,” Jill wailed off-mic, seeing the look of rigid determination on his face.
“We’re doing this,” he affirmed.
“We said monologue night some other time. Not tonight. And you and me reading together is not a monologue.”
“It will be fun, I promise. It will be one of those fun things we did together. We’ll tell our grandchildren about it and they’ll be properly ashamed of us.”
Jill spun on her flat rubber heel, back turned to the waiting crowd. She looked up at him, trenches on her forehead, likely searching for the hint of a punch line in his stare. “Just a few pages,” she beseeched him when she didn’t find any signs of a joke on his face.
“Yes,” Shinta vowed, smiling.
“And then we find Diego and destroy him.”
“Yes please.”
Jill did a slow about-face spin, her hand landing on the mic stand. She stole one terrified look at the upturned faces, obscured by shadows and the rose-colored lights, before focusing on Shinta. He lifted the comic book he’d chosen—plucked at random—and cracked it open to the page he’d marked minutes before.
Grip gentle, but firm on her hand over the mic, he began. “For You Among Thorns, by Utada Rui,” he read in his most velvet tones. He nudged the comic closer to Jill.
“‘He kissed me. I can’t believe he kissed me.’” Jill read, her nerves breaking words in two.
Shinta gaped at the page, suddenly freezing where he stood. The black and white drawings sprang out of the yellowing paper, converging into vivid scenes, and on each page there were more of these images than there were words to read. He had completely forgotten that comics had dialogue in abundance, but hardly any introspective narration. His gaze darted back up to Jill.
He caught the look of sheer panic clouding her eyes. There was only one thing to do.
“Mao slumped on her bed, alone in their dormitory room.” Shinta stared at the drawings, summoning all his creative might as he adlibbed, transforming the images to words. “Her roommates were not there, probably out on dates or playing in the basketball courts. Only Mao was sulking under her sheets on a Friday night. And on the day that Jun had kissed her too! She shouldn’t be sulking. She should be happy, after months of liking him from afar. She should be with him, kissing him back, so he’d know for sure how she felt about him.” Shinta grinned, a relieved sigh leaving his lips. He turned to Jill, nodding once.
“‘But he doesn’t know my secret,’” Jill read from the next speech bubble. “‘He doesn’t know I’m a girl.’” She let out a gasp with the last word, the sound echoed by the rest of the room, followed by a shrill tittering of giggles.
Jill went on, eyes going wide with each word. “‘What will he do if he finds out that I’m a girl? He’ll be so angry. He’d hate me! But wait. If he kissed me knowing I was a boy, does that mean that he’s—’”
“‘Open up, Mao. I know you’re in there,’” Shinta read, following through. “‘Don’t you hide from me.’ Jun hammered hard against the bedroom door.”
“‘I’m not hiding from you. I’m right here.’”
“‘There you are, you flighty girl.’ Jun took her face in his hands in a solid grip that was afraid to let go.” Shinta moved with his words, closing the last step toward Jill and cradling her cheek on his wide palm. He read his lines with a gaze that bore through hers.
Jill’s eyes widened in a sharp warning, but Shinta felt her lean deeper against him.
“‘Jun, you—you knew? You knew I’m a girl all along? But how could you have known? I’ve been speaking in a husky baritone since I got here. I chopped my hair short. I even wear these loose shirts and these ridiculously baggy trousers.’” Jill broke off with a snort, coughed once then carried on. “Half the population in this all boys’ school is prettier than I am!”
“‘Oh, dear Mao. How could I not know?’ Jun murmured, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.” Shinta mirrored the motion, wet lips on Jill�
�s hot skin. “Two years you’ve been studying and living here and you still haven’t learned to pee standing up.”
The room exploded in laughter, bottles toasting in the air, backs arching further towards the show. Shinta saw Lala do a one-two clap-jump dance behind her glass counter. Kim was shaking his head and coughing out guffaws, now joined in his small circle of space by Son, Nino, Miki, and Ana, who turned out to be the source of the loudest hoots.
Jill tugged on Shinta’s shirt, whirling away from the mic. “You don’t have to ham it up so much.”
“Why not? Your rock and roll people like spoken romance. How knew? They’re enjoying this.”
“So am I, a little bit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She gave him a sheepish smile, but her mouth turned stern in the next second. “But if you could hold up on the surprises for a little while please. For my heart’s sake.”
“I will try,” was his half-promise, a chuckle moving up and down his throat. “Now come back in here, woman. You don’t rise in this industry by keeping your fans waiting.”
I’m gonna look you up this Saturday night
Walk up your street under the sweet moonlight
I’ll bring a bottle of your favorite gin
We’ll talk and smoke and sin again
Won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in?
I’m gonna spin the dial of this old phone
Burn down the photos of this old sweet home
What is the point again of keeping them all
When you refuse and reuse and we sin again?
Won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in?
Won’t you please say yes, say yes (say yes)
To this tiny little bare request? (say yes)
All I want is a dance, or a look, or a chance
Or a glimpse, or a taste of your hot cherry lips
Oh how I’ve missed your black whiskey kiss
Won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in?
Why won’t you let me in? (Kim)
DJ Diego arrived a solid five minutes before the end of the comic’s marked pages.
Shinta and Jill didn’t destroy him, not just yet. He had turntables to setup and a set list to spin. Shinta thought it would have been a waste of an admittedly awesome dance mix (70s rap, 80s funk, and recent local synth pop hits). The man did know how to get people off their cushiony seats for a good romp on the floor, his lack of regard for the time and feelings of others notwithstanding.
Also Shinta had feelings of his own to process after what he and Jill had done, their impromptu reading ending with revolving applause and piercing cheers from the roomful of strangers and friends. He’d done it. He was there for Jill, and with her. He was present, and he had found an occupation. The sweet rush of that triumph expanded inside his chest as beats and a bouncing rhythm pounded around him.
The phone call came in the middle of Trainman’s set. A silent buzzing against his thigh, stubborn as a fly tap-dancing on his nose. He had to kill it. Shinta stepped out into the cool humid night, hoping Jill was too busy crooning and swaying with seafoam green Julia to see him duck between the horde. Once outside, he pressed his phone against his ear.
“Where the hell are you, boy?”
Shinta pulled the phone away from his face so he could shoot it a proper glare. His father should be reminded that phone calls traditionally began with hellos. He pressed it back against his cheek.
“Ah, Quezon City? I hope you haven’t been looking for me all over Japan. I kind of haven’t been there for four weeks now.”
“I forget that you’re funny,” Akio said flatly. “Thank you for reminding me. I have to get you on a variety show again soon.”
“I missed you too, Father. But I’m on vacation, remember?”
Someone opened the café door to sidle out for a smoke, joining Shinta in the open space of the velvet night and the city lights. Shinta heard the rolling thunder of Nino’s drums escape the gap in the door before it came to a screeching halt. Trainman’s song number 3, down. It was Jill’s turn on the mic again on the next one, and Shinta was out here, missing it as he exchanged snarky comebacks with his father.
“Can I call you back?” he said, grinding a dead cigarette stub on the pavement with an insistent tap of his foot. “I’m in the middle of something important.”
“No need to call me back,” drawled Akio’s voice from the receiver. “I just wanted to congratulate you for getting the part.”
“Oh cool. Yay.” Tap, tap, tap. The stub was all ashes and graying paper now. “Is this for the sock commercial? Or wait. Don’t tell me. The banana-flavored rubber one I told you about.”
Shinta’s head craned towards the entrance, now shut as tight as a vault door. He had to tell Jill the news. She would die of laughter. Or embarrassment. One of those two emotions, or both.
“I’m talking about the movie spin off,” Akio corrected him, tone sharp. “But I am working on that other thing. The contraceptive guys were very happy to hear you’re interested in their products. Apparently they’ve been eyeing you since you’ve turned legal age.”
A loose latch clicked inside Shinta’s head, triggering a thought he had long forgotten, buried beneath happier thoughts and plans he’d spent the last four weeks making, and making happen.
“You mean that TV drama.” The words had to take a few revolutions in his mind before they made sense. Right. Contracts signed and contracts still pending. My job.
He fell back, his spine finding an electrical post to lean against as his father’s words echoed in his ears, reminding him of his real reel life. That TV drama they wanted him on. That role he had to reprise. The calls, all the meetings, culminating in the wait for his name to be chosen. Shinta clutched the phone in a deathly grip, his brain performing fast actor math.
The TV shoot was expected to stretch on for far longer than it took to shoot the movie. Shinta remembered that much from the meetings. The producers wanted longer training hours for him, bigger sets, and grander costumes. The movie turned out to be more successful than anyone expected, and the producers wanted the series to take off from that scale. It would take three months to shoot, maybe four. Plus another month or so for promotions and reshoots if necessary.
I won’t be here for Christmas, Shinta realized, dread heavy in his stomach. But the ham and quezo de bola spread. And karaoke quiz night. Jill and I are hosting and we’ve drawn up categories.
“We leave for Los Angeles in two weeks,” Akio was saying. “I need you to be back here by next weekend to sign off the paperwork. Here, in Tokyo, where you live and work. Not in Quezon City, where you visit.” He could very well have punctuated it with a you smartass.
“Wait. What?” Shinta shook his head, the traffic in the streets before him a blur of light and mad sound. “When have we ever shot in the US? The farthest west I’ve gone for work is Hiroshima.”
“Exactly.” Shinta heard it, the excitement in his father’s voice, potent and mesmerizing, as it always was. “This is the break we’ve been waiting for. The producers pitched a one-time two-season shoot to their sister company in Hollywood. We’ll be in California for about six months. Seven, eight tops.” Akio sucked in a short breath. He wasn’t done yet. “Also, Mr. Yoshida called.”
“Mr. Yoshida.” Rashomon, Shinta remembered. He had worked with the theater director on that play a couple of years back. A small role, and it had felt so long ago—until now. Sharp snaps of memories were spiking in his mind’s eye.
“He wants you to play Aaron in his cross-cultural production of Titus Adronicus in Stratford upon Avon. We fly straight there to meet with him.”
It was the strangest sensation, like a flashing burn from an absurdly mixed drink. That wild zing of excitement, a high he knew very well, that he got from surprises like these—new things he was bein
g allowed to do. It was wiped out in his next breath by a leaden aftertaste he’d never had before.
Eight months and a play added up to a year or more. No less. More details poured out of his father’s mouth as if the contracts were already signed and inked in his brain. Figures, dates, and calendar years folding together into Shinta’s foreseeable future. Things they could seize now, plans they could dare make when they weren’t able to before. None of which, it seemed, was within Shinta’s control. It was all too much math.
“I’m sorry.” Shinta cut through his father’s lively speech. “I really can’t talk right now. I have to go.”
He ended the call and marched back to the door, with half a mind to throw his phone into the gutter. The cheerful, rainbow-colored dog-unicorn prancing above the café’s door mocked his misery.
October 11, Sunday, afternoon
Shinta was 16 years old when it had started. He was standing outside a fast food joint down the hill from his high school’s gates, a rushing stream of people passing him by as he finished his ice cream.
It had been hours since class had let out. He’d spent the afternoon slurping rounds of ramen and overdosing on video games with his friends, their escapades ending with a bacon-egg-burger eating contest. He’d won, setting a new record (burger gone in 55 seconds), and his friends had since left him, running off to chase their curfews. Darkness was clouding the city’s horizon, white-blue skies melting into purple haze when a silver car had pulled up in front of him, but he wasn’t bothered. He had a melting ice cream cone to attend to.
The black-tinted window had scrolled down, revealing eyes that peered out at him. A lady in a crisp cream suit had shot out of the car, bowing and holding out a calling card with both hands. She was a talent scout, she’d said, and she found his face beautiful and the languid way he held his gangly limbs striking. Found something promising in the way he licked the trails of chocolate ice cream dribbling down his sugar cone.