Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

  Still mentally processing my “howdy,” the woman smiled uncomfortably. “Do you have a reservation?”

  I shook my head.

  “I see,” she said. The woman tilted her head slightly, her pen poised over the reservation book. “How many are in your party?”

  “Just me, ma’am. Just me.”

  “Regular dining or sushi bar?”

  “Oh, the sushi bar will do nicely.”

  During this whole banal interchange, I couldn’t help but stare at the woman. While her face betrayed no inkling of recognition, I felt that somehow I knew her. But from where, I wasn’t exactly sure. Before I could ask, another kimono-clad waitress appeared and led me to the sushi bar. There were three empty stools, so I took the one in the middle to give myself plenty of elbow room. Before long, a glass of tea was placed in front of me and a wet towel was in my hands. After checking out the menu and doing some calculations in my head, I found the food to be surprisingly inexpensive. Even better, the place had a number of my favorite dishes on the menu. As I soon discovered, the service proved to be swift as well, as the waitress brought my dinner almost immediately after I ordered. After saying “Itadakimasu” to no one in particular, I dug into my meal.

  When I was about halfway through my salad, a man took a seat to my right. I acknowledged his presence with a nod, a gesture he politely repeated in turn. Like me, the stranger wore a suit and tie. But unlike me, he was probably wearing Armani or Brioni or some high dollar brand like that. Hell, I wouldn’t know myself; all my suits come from JCPenney.

  To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t help but glance over at him from time to time. The stranger looked to be about my size. He was tan, possibly of Asian descent, although from where exactly, I couldn’t tell. Maybe he was a mutt like me. His shaggy black hair was parted on the opposite side of mine, and some careless locks fell in his face, obscuring his left eye. The right one remained uncovered, and something about it—just for a second—made the man look as feral as a wolf. After the waitress took his order, the stranger pulled out a pack of Marlboros and turned toward me.

  “Got a light, pal?” he asked.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty Zippo.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving me a slight wink.

  As the stranger took a drag on his cancer stick, I noticed something on his left middle finger. A silver ring. It looked like a high school class ring, only much, much bigger. In fact, it looked like one of those special trinkets they hand out to football players at high school all-star games. I should know. I have the same ring at home. I stopped wearing it years ago, but there it was, on this stranger’s hand.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Sorry to bother you, but I couldn’t help but notice your ring.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s mighty big.”

  He gazed at his hand absently. “I guess it is.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was forged in the fires of Mount Doom by the Dark Lord Sauron,” he replied in a booming voice that caught the attention of some nearby diners.

  I laughed and did my best Gollum impression. “So does that make it your preciousss?”

  He smiled. “Somethin’ like that.”

  I finished my salad and wiped my mouth off with my handkerchief before picking up the conversation again. “Funny thing is, though, I got one at home just like it.”

  “Is that so? I got this playing in a high school bowl game back in Oklahoma.”

  “Southwest Senior Bowl?”

  He nodded, but was unsurprised.

  “I played in that bowl, too,” I said. “Starting quarterback.”

  “Really? I got this ring back in ’97 playing wide receiver.”

  “Well, that’s a little before my time, but it’s the same ring, the same bowl. I’m from Marlow, by the way.”

  The stranger didn’t say anything at first. His face twisted into an expression that I can only describe as quizzical. Then he paused, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to finally let me in on a joke he’d been keeping to himself all this time. “I grew up in Rush Springs,” he announced proudly.

  “Watermelon capital of the world? No kidding?”

  “No kidding,” he said.

  “Damn, man. Two guys from Oklahoma towns less than ten miles apart, and we meet up in a sushi bar at the other end of the globe. What’re the odds?”

  “Small world.”

  I extended my right hand. “Sanjuro Jones.”

  The stranger gripped my paw firmly. The man had a good handshake, I’ll give him that. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied.

  I narrowed my eyes when it became clear that he wasn’t going to state his name, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he simply motioned for the waitress to come over.

  “Excuse me, miss, a bottle of your best sake for me and my friend.” He turned to me. “You like sake, don’t you?”

  “Is the Dalai Lama Buddhist?”

  The stranger grinned.

  “But still, that’s gotta be expensive,” I said. “I really can’t let you pay for—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s on me. I got plenty of what you might call ‘disposable income.’ No point in living if you can’t feel alive, am I right?”

  “Fair enough,” I said, noting the James Bond reference. “So what brings you to Singapore?”

  “Vacation,” he replied. “You?”

  I told him, and soon the waitress brought a bottle of sake. The stranger poured me a drink, and I returned the favor. And that’s when we started talking. Really talking. When I think back on every genuine friendship I’ve ever had, they’ve always started the same way. On some level, I instantly knew I’d have a friend for life, and this guy, well, he was no exception. We had a lot in common: same mindset, identical interests, even similar experiences.

  “Brothers from a different mother,” the stranger joked between gulps of sake.

  Oddly enough though, as much as he and I had in common, it always seemed like I had gotten just a little bit farther in life than he had. For example, while the stranger was an all-area honorable mention in football, I was awarded the Oklahoma All-State Player of the Year Award. On the academic side of things, the stranger excelled on the ACT exam, but I actually got a perfect score on my SAT. And perhaps most notably, the stranger mentioned that he was a state finalist for the Rhodes Scholarship, but in my case, I damn near won the whole thing a few years back. And so on. Needless to say, the “not quite” nature of our similarities was kinda eerie.

  Truth be told, I didn’t think about it too much. Our paths diverged after college; he went off to grad school, and I ended up entering the police academy. From there, we just kept talking, trading jokes, and having a helluva good time. Strangely, I felt more focused with each passing drink. As clear headed as I was, I have to admit that my tongue did loosen up quite a bit. A lot of stuff that I had been keeping inside… well, it came out. It wasn’t long before I started talking about Sakura. I don’t know why. After the funeral, I refused to even say her name. I had made my peace.

  Or so I thought.

  But now I was pouring my guts out to a complete stranger. A kindred spirit, perhaps, but he was still someone I had just met. Hell, I didn’t even know his name!

  As comfortable as I felt with the stranger, my eyes sank low when I began talking about Sakura. I just sat there and told the whole sad story of how we met, how we fell in love, and how it all fell apart. When I finished and finally raised my eyes to meet his, I saw the damnedest thing. The stranger had tears in his eyes.

  Hell, I thought I was torn up about it. I lived it, after all. But apparently my story had left the stranger shaken up as well.

  “I’m sorry,” he said flatly, before clearing his throat. “So very sorry.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s not like it’s your fault. That’s just life, I guess.”

  He put on a plastic smile and nodded before finally coming out with it. “No, it is
my fault.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Everything,” he said, not looking at me. “It’s my fault.”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “I think you had one too many drinks there, partner.”

  “Sadly, I’m completely sober, Sanjuro.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth, looked at it, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I don’t even really smoke.”

  “Oookay,” I said, looking around. “Well, I appreciate the sake. Really, I do. But maybe I should—”

  “Could you wait just a moment, please?” the stranger asked, before sighing loudly. “Well, I guess this is as good a time as any.” He fidgeted in his seat then looked over his shoulder. “See that woman that greeted you at the door.” I turned to look. “You thought you recognized her, didn’t you?”

  “H-how did you know that?”

  “She reminds you of Yi Ling, that girl you dated several years back. Quite the femme fatale, if I remember correctly. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the answer was there, lingering in the back of your subconscious. I put it there, just as I put that girl right here in this very restaurant.”

  “Why?” might have been a wholly illogical response, but it was the only thing I could think to say at the time.

  “To prepare you. Call it déjà vu with a twist.”

  “All right,” I cut in. “Stop yankin’ my chain, man, and tell me what this is all about.”

  “Hmm, I think you need to see some more proof so you’re fully ready to understand what I’m about to tell you. See that waitress over there?”

  I craned my neck in the direction the stranger had indicated. There was a short waitress carrying a tray of food that seemed far too heavy for her small frame to support. Even so, she seemed to be handling the precarious balancing act rather well, all things considering.

  The stranger spoke in an authoritative tone. “Overwhelmed by the heavy load, the waitress slipped, spilling her tray on an unsuspecting elderly customer.”

  In seconds, the stranger’s minor prophecy came true.

  “The elderly gentleman, however, was not upset. In fact, he found the whole thing amusing.”

  And just as the stranger had said, the old man didn’t make a scene at all. He didn’t scold the waitress. He didn’t even ask to see the manager. In fact, I’ve never seen a man so overjoyed to have a plate of teriyaki chicken dropped on his crotch.

  The stranger smiled and finished off his sake, before refilling his own cup. “Sorry,” he said. “I have a flair for the dramatic sometimes.”

  “How did you do that? How do you know about Ling?”

  “Oh, I guess the same way I know that you like the color red or that your favorite movie is Casablanca.”

  “Just who in the hell are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Thanks, but I got enough friends. What’s your name?”

  “I have many names.” He reached into his pocket and took another cigarette from the pack and placed it in his mouth. I watched as he snapped his fingers and a small flame emerged from his thumb. After lighting the cigarette, the stranger shook his hand and the flame was gone. He took another drag then blew a perfect smoke ring in my direction.

  “Oh, I get it,” I replied, totally unfazed by his little magic trick. “You’re supposed to be Satan, am I right?”

  “I’ve been called worse. An angel with broken wings to be sure, but nah, I’m no devil.”

  “God then?”

  “I’m certainly a god. I’m not the God… I don’t think.”

  “So now you’re quoting Groundhog Day?”

  “Good catch,” he said, obviously pleased. “I knew you’d get that.”

  “Of course you knew,” I said. “You’re a god.” I squinted at him for emphasis, but the stranger just let the silence hang for a bit. Guess it was up to me to figure this out. “Okay, all this double-talk is super swell and all, but who are you really? Is this some kind of practical joke? Did somebody put you up to this?”

  “Nobody put me up to anything. It’s no joke. And to address your first question, I should tell you that who I am is not as important as why I’m here.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’m here to help,” he assured me. “I know all these things about you because I’m the one who made you. In my own image.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Well,” he mused. “I gave you a few enhancements here and there.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Provided I’m not hallucinating right now, why are you even telling me this?”

  “Before I get to that, can I just say that it’s an awfully strange feeling to be at once in control of a situation yet also be so totally out of control. I’m ‘writing’ this scenario as we speak, yet it’s happening quite differently than I envisioned.”

  The stranger made air quotes when he said “writing.” I really hate air quotes.

  “I have no idea what’s going to happen next,” he said. “You’re really throwing me for a loop here, Sanjuro.”

  “It’s what I do, pal. It’s what I do.”

  I popped some spicy tuna handroll in my mouth and mulled things over, while the stranger waited patiently. When I finally swallowed, I resumed my friendly interrogation.

  “Okay,” I began. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You’re a god.”

  “Well, yes and no. For all intents and purposes, I am the creator of this universe. I’m an author, you see. You’re just a character in my stories.”

  “By ‘just a character,’ you’re suggesting that I’m not real?”

  “I didn’t mean ‘just a character’ as a negative, but yes, you are a character. As far as reality is concerned, you’re as real as I am, I suppose. But then again, I’m technically a construct.” He stopped and sucked air in through his teeth. “Um, maybe that’s not the best—that is to say… well, you know what? Try not to think too much about that one. I mean, what is ‘real’ anyway?”

  “Skip the Philosophy 101 bullshit. I’ve taken the class, I’ve seen The Matrix, I know what’s up. Just give me some straight answers.”

  “Always the comedian, Sanjuro.” When I didn’t say anything, the stranger took a deep breath, as if pondering not only his next move, but each potential outcome. Finally, he asked, “Do you really want to know?”

  “I think I’m entitled.”

  “Do you believe you’re real?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly, although between you and me, I was beginning to wonder.

  “Then that’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “What do you take me for, an idiot? Say what you’re holding back.”

  “Maybe you should just finish off your unagi, chum.”

  “And maybe you should just tell me what the hell is going on!”

  I think I actually frightened ‘God,’ because he recoiled, ever so slightly. “Hardheaded as ever,” he replied. “Fine. I don’t know if this proves or disproves whether you’re real or not, but it’ll give you something to think about. Remember that birthday party you went to at that teppanyaki place in Stillwater? The one that occurred not long after you and Yi Ling broke up?”

  “Yeah, so? What of it?” Where was he going with this?

  “What happened at the restaurant?”

  “I excused myself from the party a bit early and walked home.”

  The stranger let out a smug little laugh. “That’s not the whole story, but I’ll take it. What happened afterwards?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you got home, what happened?”

  “It was a long time ago. Probably went to sleep. Who remembers things like that?”

  “But you can recall leaving the restaurant and walking home, right? Why not what happened next?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Sanjuro, it’s not a foggy memory that’s preventing you from telling me what happened. The reason you don’t know is because I don’t know. I never wrote that part. I never even thought of what happ
ened after that. When I know, you’ll know. Or perhaps you’ll know when I finally get around to writing it.”

  “So is that how the universe really works?”

  “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure, but at the very least, that’s how my universe works,” the stranger replied, before tipping back another cup of sake.

  I, on the other hand, just stared at my cup. It was then that a long forgotten line of poetry entered my tiny little fictional brain. “All that we see or seem…”

  “Is but a dream within a dream,” the stranger said, finishing my private thought aloud. “That Poe guy was a kooky fellow, wasn’t he?”

  “That he was,” I said, gripping the cup tightly. “That he was.”

  “Tell me, though, what’s the next memory you have? I’m curious.”

  Without hesitation, I replied, “The tornado. Happened about two weeks later.”

  “And then what?”

  “I remember going to Texas to check up on my uncle. He had disappeared.”

  “Well, the reason why you have two weeks unaccounted for is that my first novel—Ronin on Empty—ended with you walking out of the party. The sequel, A Man Called Sanjuro, begins with the tornado.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” I retorted. I’m not sure why I was fighting so hard. I’d already lost. “There are gaps in anyone’s memory,” I continued. “Besides, I remember some things in between.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. But I won’t push you on that point. This has all been quite a lot to digest in one night, I’m sure.” The stranger held up his hand. “When I told you I got this ring in 1997, you said it was before your time. So when is your time exactly? When did you get your ring?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know the reason why you’re drawing a great big blank right now? Because you’re a fictional character meant for an ongoing series. You exist solely in the present day, thus your history can never be pinned down. You can’t isolate the actual time period because I haven’t set that down in writing. I bet if you think hard enough, you might just have multiple memories. Different versions of the same event having equal weight in your mind, perhaps even blurring.”

  He was right.