He nodded and turned to some boxes behind him.
“Fresh this morning. How much do you need?”
“Two kilograms.”
Genjiro weighed the fish, packaged it, and took Jōji’s money.
“Are you okay? You look pale.”
Jōji swiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Yes. Just a little tired. Thank you, Genjiro. Have a good day.”
He tucked the brown paper package under his soggy armpit and dodged a flood of shoppers. The wave rolled him right out of the market and into an alleyway.
The sudden quiet eased the burn in his belly. An apartment building towered above him, but the concrete was cool and reminded him of a serene mausoleum.
A glow at the end of the alley caught his eye, and he moved toward it, pulled by some invisible force.
A vending machine blinked red to inflame the senses and tempt the curious. Schoolgirls in short, plaid skirts, legs splayed to show their panties, beckoned from the pictures plastered on the machine. Little packets lined the interior. Each plastic bag contained a pair of panties marked with a name. One was called Mari, another Aiko.
Jōji’s eyes settled on a pair of panties called Kasumi. A girl’s picture accompanied the handwritten name card. Dark eyes bore into his soul, and a wisp of obsidian hair flitted against her puffed, nude lips. She made his face hot. A peculiar feeling came over him as he realized the police had been cracking down on these machines lately, and he swung around to see if anyone was watching.
Her panties were scarlet lace. They cost ¥600, and he made a move for his wallet but stalled. Himeko waited for him, and the thought of her finding the panties set him walking back into the crowd.
Four blocks away, he dashed into his building, punched the elevator button, and climbed inside. He shuffled the packaged fish from his armpit to his hand and pressed the button for the twentieth floor. He was jettisoned up. A ding announced his arrival home. He stepped out, unlocked the door, and entered.
His father-in-law turned and faced him.
“Father. Nice to see you.”
The old man’s face melted, his wrinkles drooping to his chin. Jōji bowed slightly, but the gesture was not returned. Instead, the old man went back to pulling articles of clothing from a large suitcase.
Jōji edged around the mess of clothes and luggage to find Himeko and her mother chopping vegetables elbow-to-elbow in the kitchen.
“Mother. Glad you are here.”
He bowed again.
“Himeko, could I see you for a moment?”
His wife placed the knife on a cutting board and wiped her hands on a small towel before following.
In the confines of their closet-sized bedroom, he grabbed her hand.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”
She tugged the package of haddock from his clutch and wrenched her hand from his grip. The edges of her mouth fell into a petulant pout.
“Father is not well. Besides, we should always open our home to them.”
“How long? How long are they staying?”
“A couple of weeks. Father’s seeing a doctor in the city. It just makes more sense for them to stay here until his treatment is over.”
Himeko tossed her hair as she turned and left. He’d lost. A sigh puffed from his throat.
***
Neon splayed itself across the walls as Jōji flopped over again on the futon. Himeko snored on the sofa, her fist curled under her chin.
The photograph of the girl from the dirty-panty vending machine flashed behind his closed eyes. An itch burned under his skin, and he threw the blanket off and sat up.
He studied Himeko’s face. The curve of her cheek glowed blue in the dark. He’d loved her once. Leaving her wasn’t an option. A childless, passionless marriage was bad enough, but he couldn’t bear the shame of a failed one.
He stood and pulled on his trousers and a shirt. He stopped for a moment and considered leaving a note but decided against it.
His guts sloshed with the movement of the elevator all the way to the lobby. He strode past the security guard, who studied a panel of screens without acknowledging him.
The night streets were quieter. Young people swooshed past on their way to the cinema or a new sushi place or a concert, but the energy of the city waned.
Something buzzed inside Jōji. It felt like the electric hum of the vending machine, the flicker of neon, the rumble of the market. His heart fluttered, and he shoved his way past a throng of American tourists toward the alleyway where he’d spied the girl.
The machine’s glow radiated like a vortex against the darkness. It sucked him in. He found himself face to face with Kasumi and her panties.
This time, he fished the money out of his wallet and fed it to the saucy apparatus. The photograph’s eyes followed him, and he wondered if there was a camera somewhere inside. The plastic-encased panties flopped to the bottom of the machine, and Jōji plucked them up.
The urge to rip them open surged through him, but he repressed it. Instead, guilt gripped him, and he stuffed them into his pocket, pressed tight against his crotch.
He froze, the light from the machine blacking out the alley for a moment. He was blind to his surroundings.
That feeling of being watched remained with him as he turned and walked away.
Himeko’s parents slept at home. He couldn’t go back there, not with the panties pressing into his growing erection.
Take me to a hotel.
Jōji spun around but saw nothing but the cemetery stone of the alleyway.
“Who’s there?”
Laughter cracked from one of the surrounding buildings, and the chatter of the city rose around him.
A throb in his pants made it difficult to move. He shifted the bulge through his pocket and edged his way back to the street.
You know you want me.
A numbness spread across his legs. He wanted to move out of the stony alley, but he was anchored to the concrete. Something fluttered within him, beneath his skin. His veins thrummed with strange blood. His ears burned. Breath left his lungs, but he struggled to bring air back in.
A sudden gust ruffled his hair and flooded his body. The feeling returned to his legs. He edged forward on wobbly knees.
A voice whispered into his brain.
The Compartment Hotel. It’s two blocks away. Take me there. Hurry.
His mind wanted to move him back home. He could toss the panties, unopened, unsoiled, in a trash bin and slip back inside the apartment, climb under the blankets of his makeshift bed, and pretend this never happened.
Whatever swam through his veins seized control of his senses. His feet moved not in the direction he wanted to go but toward the Compartment Hotel, a place that used to cater to Asian businessmen seeking cheap lodging. Now it was an oddity for foreign tourists who wanted to gawk at the weirdness of Japanese innovation in an overcrowded culture.
The novelty was even beginning to wear thin for the tourists, and the hotel’s façade showed it. A crimson sign announced:
COM ARTM NT OTEL
The lobby was sleek and mostly clean. The greasy-haired clerk adjusted his dark-framed spectacles and pressed his fist against his cheek as he read something on his phone. He snapped to attention when Jōji sidled up to the counter.
“How may I help you?”
“I need a bed for one night.”
“Do you need help with your luggage?”
Jōji felt foolish at the absence of bags, so he kept his gaze on the white counter.
“No.”
The clerk pressed his lips together and produced a white robe that smelled of mildew and a set of slippers.
“There are lockers down this hallway. You can deposit your clothes there. We do have a laundry service, if you need it. You also have access to the bath. It’s straight ahead and to the left. Your compartment is number twenty-three. Down this corridor and to the right. If you require anything, please don�
��t hesitate to call.”
Jōji bowed and clutched the bed attire to his chest.
The locker room smelled almost as bad as his robe. Water, and perhaps urine, puddled on the floor. A rust-eaten sink dripped incessantly in the corner.
He removed his shirt and shoes. He extricated the packaged panties from his pocket and took off his pants. A thumb hitched inside the waistband of his briefs, but something stopped him from pulling them down.
Not yet. The slow burn satisfies more. Peek-a-boo, baby. Peek-a-boo.
He jerked the robe onto his shoulders and belted it at the waist. He stepped into the too-big slippers and secured his items in a locker before padding back into the hallway.
Number twenty-three taunted him. It promised release. The ache returned to his crotch as he gripped the panties to his pelvis. But the bunk also humiliated him. A man his age, a married, professional man at that, acting like a sex-starved maniac.
He climbed into the compartment, the middle one, knelt at the entrance, and pulled down the shutters.
Could the others hear him? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t back out now. An erection jutted from the folds of his robe.
He fell against the mattress and enveloped himself in the cushion of white sheets and pillows. He pulled the panties from the wrapper. The lace felt silken and scratchy in his palm. He pressed the cotton crotch against his nostrils and inhaled. Feminine moisture prickled on the fabric. It smelled like seawater and musk with a hint of earthy flora.
A moan tickled the hairs inside his ears and licked down his back. His nipples perked into tiny points beneath the thick robe.
A tongue worked its way from his neck along the indentation of his collarbone. A trail of saliva slipped to the fine hairs of his chest and along the black border of his pubic hair. Breath hovered over his erection, just out of reach.
His eyes clenched shut. Behind the eyelids, a face materialized. Dark eyes pleaded for release. Candy-apple lips pouted and the pink tongue ran along the edge of her mouth. The face twisted in pain and a moment later, a scream rang into his ears.
He clutched the sheets and shot up. The panties were wadded in his hand with a fistful of bedding. The clack of shoes on the tile floor outside his compartment perked his ears.
The sensation of being completely alone overwhelmed him, and he pulled his robe together, feeling foolish and guilty at once.
He maneuvered his way to the shutters, pulled them up, and craned his neck out. The hallway was empty to the left. His head swung right. Silken, raven hair brushed his cheek. His heart leapt into his throat, and he scuttled back into the compartment. He pressed his face against the plastic wall and listened to heels click away.
Once the hallway was empty, he descended to the floor and hurried to the locker room.
Water plunked down the drain as he snatched the clothes from his assigned locker and pulled them on hastily. He stuffed the wadded panties back into his pocket. The fluorescent light buzzed and flickered before going black.
The pulse at the side of Jōji’s neck raced. A cold wind swept across the room and rattled the metal lockers. Blue light appeared at the center of the floor. It illuminated red blots. His mouth went dry, and he tried to move his feet toward the door. Instead, his knees buckled and warm liquid seeped into his pants.
The blue glow spread to reveal a hand, palm up, pale and motionless. A limp arm came into view, followed by black hair and a face. Kasumi’s face.
Puffed, nude lips curled into a smile, and she pushed herself to her knees. She crawled forward, illuminated seemingly from within, and gazed up at him. Blood trickled from the edge of her pursed lips.
You’re so curious. Now you get to play with me, just like you wanted.
She reached for his dampened pants, dipped into the pocket, and pulled out the panties.
Do these still turn you on?
Jōji jerked his head side to side. He scampered backward and pressed his back against the wall. She was upon him again in two strides.
Why didn’t you want me back in the room?
Her breath seared the flesh of his neck. The odor of rot and death overcame him.
Everyone wants me. No one ever walks out on me. My last client tried. You know what I did?
He could feel her gummy lips on his cheek. A raspy, ragged breath tickled the fine hairs inside his ears.
I bit off his dick.
Her voice was a whisper, so low Jōji almost didn’t hear the word dick.
He chased me down, though. I’ve never seen so much blood. It was just spraying from him. You know what’s funny? It tasted like rare steak. I can still taste the blood. It melds with my own blood. He caught me and slammed my head into the wall again and again. It was that one, over there.
She indicated the far wall, which was the only bright, tidy wall in the room.
Don’t worry, though. He managed to fuck me free of charge after I was dead. Don’t fight it anymore.
She dangled the red, lace panties in front of his face like a schoolmarm who discovered them tucked away in a textbook.
He watched them move closer to his face, unable to push himself off the wall. The panties scratched against his lips, and he opened his mouth instinctively.
The undergarment tasted like sweet chemicals and the salt of femininity. He chewed at the fabric against every instinct to spit them back out. After a moment, the cloth hung in his throat. Panic gripped him as he tried to suck in a breath. He clawed at his face and fell to his knees into the warm puddle on the floor.
The room dimmed as he wheezed. His body lurched forward, and his head smacked the concrete. Before the darkness claimed him, her face flashed a snarky smile.
***
Hiroshi hobbled into the morgue and halted, pressing all his weight onto his cane. A man in a white lab coat approached him and bowed.
“Right this way, Mr. Takashi.”
The shame of coming down here to identify his gutless son-in-law while his daughter cried endlessly at home gnawed at Hiroshi’s insides. He followed the coroner’s assistant to the metal slab.
The tall, gaunt man lifted the sheet and revealed Jōji’s purple, lifeless features. The dead man’s lips were the artificial raspberry blue of a child’s candy. Fitting, Hiroshi thought. His son-in-law was always an immature boy.
The way he’d been found – in a sleazy hotel locker room with women’s undergarments stuffed so far into his mouth, he’d choked on them – made his face burn with anger and disgust. Himeko deserved better, and a lick of pleasure at his death rippled beneath his skin. She was still young, he reasoned. She could find another husband, one who might be able to bring him a grandchild, one who wouldn’t find himself swayed by the tacky ways of loose women.
At the edge of the sheet, something red clutched his attention. It burned into his head. He clenched his eyes shut, and on the other side of his eyelids, he saw her face.
“Is this your son-in-law?” the gaunt man asked.
Hiroshi jumped at the sound. He nodded once.
The assistant turned to grab a clipboard behind him, and Hiroshi snatched the red panties from beneath the sheet and pocketed them before the man wheeled around again.
“Thank you, Mr. Takashi. I appreciate how hard this must have been for you.”
The man said more, but Hiroshi could only hear vague mumbles. Her voice overtook him.
I need you to take me to the Compartment Hotel.
“Is that everything?” Hiroshi asked
His heart rate raced, and his throat went dry, enticed by the dampened lace secured so close to his pelvis.
“I just need your signature. Right here.”
The clipboard slid under his nose, and he scrawled his name across the bottom line.
“We’ll be in touch about your, well, your arrangements,” the assistant said.
The two men bowed, and Hiroshi clunked his way down the hall and into the human traffic jam on the sidewalk.
He scurried into the crowd and swe
rved into the lobby of the Compartment Hotel, its red neon offering only a fraction of its name.
The greasy-haired clerk looked up from his phone and smirked.
“I need a room for one night.”
That black eyeliner pencil you’re holding has quite a history. Did you know Marilyn Monroe used a similar one to darken her beauty mark? Well, this one here was used by the mortician for Marilyn’s final makeup call.
Southern California author Robert Essig sent this over. He has over seventy short stories, two novellas published, and edited two anthologies.
THE BEAUTY MARK
Robert Essig
HAD she known it was a mortician’s black eyeliner pencil, perhaps Farrah Ward would have thought twice about using it to complete what would prove to be the best Halloween costume ever.
She’d always had a thing for Marilyn Monroe, so it was no surprise to any of her friends and family when she decided to dress as the fifties sex symbol for tonight’s Halloween party. And damn did she look stunning. Filled out the dress nicely. The blonde wig was snug and looked good for a natural brunette.
Farrah dotted the black eyeliner pencil on her left cheek precisely where Monroe had dotted hers so many years ago. Earlier that day Jesùs had told her that Marilyn had indeed faked the famous beauty mark all along. Farrah had been in serious disbelief, but the guy said his father was a make-up artist in Hollywood back in the fifties. How could she argue with that?
Standing before a full-length mirror, Farrah studied herself, mimicking so many famous photographs of Marilyn she’d seen over the years.
The dress was exquisite. It was the white one from The Seven-Year Itch, made famous by the scene where Marilyn is standing over a subway grating and the rush of air blows her dress up. There was quite a crowd watching as she hammed it up take after take, something her husband at the time, Joe DiMaggio, didn’t take lightly.
Over fifty years later it sure was a stunning dress. And this one was far better than that cheap two-sizes-too-small, see-through costume they sold at the local Party City. That’s why she went to Mystical Costume Shoppe in downtown La Mesa. Their specialty was renting out costumes that were tailored as closely to the originals as possible. Rumor has it they have, in some cases, original costumes actually worn by the actors. Not the Seven Year Itch dress, though. The original is far too collectable.
Simple Things Page 20