Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  But I dealt with them. This was never something Eiju and I talked about or decided or anything like that. Shit was just easier that way.

  * * *

  One afternoon, Eiju woke up feeling weak, stumbling all over the living room, kicking away my futon. I asked if he had a problem, and he groaned, stumbling back into bed. He stood to make some tea and changed his mind after he’d steeped it. Once he’d dropped his mug on the tile, I told him to take the night off, to just stay inside.

  You’re drained, I said. Go back to sleep.

  Bullshit, said Eiju. Don’t talk to me like you know how I’m doing.

  And that’s when Eiju grabbed his stomach. I followed as he hobbled toward the bathroom, and my father barely made it to the toilet before he started dry-heaving, knees spread on the tile.

  It’d been happening for a few days now. Sparingly. Just enough to say the tide on his illness wasn’t turning.

  The second time, I’d called Taro in the middle of the night. He showed up like fifteen minutes later. And he stood, watching over Eiju, rubbing his back, asking me if anything else had been amiss. Had Eiju been finishing his meals? Was he having diarrhea? Sudden loss of control in his joints? Or did he ever feel his legs going out from under him or did he—

  At that, Eiju turned around to smile at his friend.

  It’s all of the above, he said, but it’s not as bad as all that.

  And Eiju grinned again before he yakked all over the floor.

  * * *

  We’d already put my father in bed, watching him snore from the doorway, before Taro walked me out to the living room. I asked if he wanted anything to eat, and he surprised me by saying yes.

  There was some udon left in the fridge. I set a pot to boil, salting the water. Taro sat on my futon until I walked the noodles out, stir-frying them, blanketed by some broth-covered tofu, and crowded around some scallions.

  Sorry, I said. This was all we had around.

  You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, said Taro, already chewing.

  All of this is normal, he said. Everything with your father. It’s all expected.

  Expected for death, you mean, I said.

  Expected for a man in Eiju’s condition refusing medicine, yes.

  Cross-legged on the floor, in a hoodie and slacks, Taro was a handsome guy. Most of his hair had slipped into a shining gray. Slithers of black jutted in between. A patch of skin glowed from his waist, by his hip, between his shirt and his pants, and I tried not to stare, and I put the thought away.

  And yet.

  Still.

  It’d been a few weeks.

  I let Taro eat a bit before I asked what I could do. He poked the scallions with his chopsticks, stuffing a fingerful into his mouth, and he looked at me, a little pityingly, I think, with this smile that said, What could you possibly do? But he was gracious enough not to say it.

  He scooped more udon instead.

  Just stick with the usual routine, he said. No big trips. Nothing that’ll exert him too much. But your father should listen to his body, now more than ever. If it tells him to sit, he needs to sit. If it tells him to lie down, Eiju should do that.

  I should tell a dying man to spend his last days in bed.

  You should tell your father to take care of himself, said Taro. That’s what we’re here for. At this point, it’s all we can do.

  Well, I said. Thanks for coming.

  My pleasure, said Taro, grinning, and there was something in his grin, and for a moment, I felt warm, from my cheeks to my toes, and the air in the room felt electric.

  So, I said, and Taro raised a palm.

  I hate to ask you this, he said, but is there any more udon?

  * * *

  The night I convinced Eiju to stay home, I met Tan.

  The bar was mostly empty. It was the beginning of the workweek, and I told Eiju he wouldn’t be missing out on anything. I’d hold down the fort, or whatever, just for one night, because it’s the only thing that made sense—it simply needed to happen—and before Eiju could protest or pick a fight or anything like that, he started coughing on his mattress, and he settled back into his pillow.

  Our cops don’t carry guns, he said, so if you’re robbed give them the money.

  Nobody’s gonna rob me, I said.

  You never know.

  I know.

  If there’s a fire, the extinguisher’s broken. You’ll have to blow it out. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you.

  Fuck off.

  So Kunihiko and I manned the bar. We worked reasonably well together. Whenever I was looking for something, I didn’t even have to ask him, he was already setting it within arm’s reach. He’d taken to rewiping whichever cups I’d dried. I didn’t put up a fight over it, because it’d occurred to me more than once that Eiju had taught him all of this. I had the feeling Kunihiko knew the shitbag better than I ever would.

  Anything wrong, Mike-kun?

  Nah. I’m good.

  We hadn’t seen a customer in hours. Kunihiko talked and talked and talked. But it was all mostly to himself, mostly just for the noise. Every now and again, I’d grunt in affirmation, and he’d take that with a laugh and start in on some other fucking thing. I’d start to ask some questions—about Kunihiko, about his life—before deciding against all of them. And then, before I could open my mouth, Kunihiko would cut me off with some new fucking anecdote.

  At one point, he said, How long have you known Eiju?

  I looked at Kunihiko’s face. He hadn’t looked up, just kept wiping away at the counter.

  He’s like family to me, I said.

  Same here, said Kunihiko. More than my actual blood. He always means well.

  I don’t know if that’s true, I said.

  What?

  Always meaning well. That’s a lot to ask of anyone.

  You’ve just gotta get to know him, said Kunihiko.

  Not if he shits on me the way he does you.

  The last bit made Kunihiko smile. He rubbed a hand over his head. He’d clipped his hair a little while ago into something like a fade, but the barber botched that shit like halfway down his neck.

  Give him a minute, said Kunihiko. You just haven’t seen him in a while. How long has it been?

  Over a decade.

  Exactly. I think he’s been going through a rough time.

  So I’ve heard, I said, and that’s when the door opened.

  The guy in the entrance had a lot of hair on his head. He was a little chubby, and he wore it well, and he wore this hoodie over some jeans. And he looked about my age, and Kunihiko waved him over, asking what he wanted to drink. When the dude answered in choppy Japanese, I ran the same thing back in English.

  That had him blinking. He asked for a beer, and I passed it to him. When he took it, the guy nodded slightly, less out of timidity than certainty.

  I kept my eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. He clearly didn’t want to be bothered.

  So, said Kunihiko, what brings you out tonight?

  The guy turned to Kunihiko, a little warily. He glanced at me before he gave Kunihiko a grin.

  Sorry about him, I said in English.

  Don’t be, he said to me, in English.

  And then to Kunihiko, in Japanese, Nothing really. Just restless.

  I get that, said Kunihiko.

  The guy nodded, taking a sip from his beer. We stood around in silence, until he waved toward Kunihiko for another, and the kid started in on another conversation with himself before I decided that what I actually needed was a smoke break.

  I lit up on the deck. Spied some kids on the concrete below me, through the patch of neighborhood poking around this cluster of trees. It was way too late for them to be out alone, and I thought, just for a second, that they were about as old as the kids Ben
son worked with.

  Ben would’ve been pissed if he’d seen them outside this late. He would’ve called that neglect. But kids were the same just about everywhere, all over the fucking world.

  They bounced their kickball against the wall, flinging it at one another’s heads. It ricocheted between their bodies. Their sneakers squeaked through the silence.

  Eventually, one of them spotted me. They waved through the branches. I waved back. And when I blew a smoke ring, a few of the little motherfuckers actually cheered.

  * * *

  By my third cigarette, Kunihiko called from the bar. When I’d made it out front, he was throwing his shit in a messenger bag.

  The kid said he had to go. He smiled, a little feverishly. Something important had come up. Or he’d forgotten something important. Or something important was on the way, said Kunihiko, waffling a bit, and the guy at the bar looked from him to me and back.

  Then I guess we’ll see you tomorrow, I said.

  Kunihiko nodded, nearly sprinting out the door.

  Which left me and the guy in the bar.

  I found a glass to clean.

  Despite what Ben had yelled a few weeks back, I wasn’t actually someone who went after other people. I wasn’t the best at starting conversations.

  He seems like a handful, said the guy.

  Kunihiko? I said. He means well.

  Everyone thinks they mean well, said the guy, but I’ll take your word for it.

  As soon as you do that, I’ll end up proving you wrong.

  The guy told me his name was Tan. He was Singaporean. When I asked what brought him to Osaka, he said his mother cleaned apartments in the city, and he was here to take care of her.

  She’s been here for decades, he said.

  Does she like it here, I asked.

  Doesn’t matter, said Tan. It’s too late for her to move back now. And Singapore isn’t like here. She’d die of boredom in a week.

  It can’t be that bad.

  You’d be surprised.

  I feel that, I said, wiping at the counter, and Tan asked for another beer, and I poured two more.

  I thought bartenders don’t drink on the clock, said Tan.

  A drunk bartender probably told you that, I said.

  He asked if the bar was mine, and I told him that it wasn’t.

  You’re young, he said.

  You aren’t exactly a grandfather.

  But it turned out he was older than me, by a couple of months.

  Fair enough, I said, and no wife?

  No wife.

  And no kids?

  I could ask the same of you, said Tan.

  And the two of us sat with that silence. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable.

  * * *

  When I made it back to the apartment, Eiju was awake and smoking. Once he spotted me from the balcony, he gave a single wave.

  He asked how the night had gone. I asked how he was feeling.

  Oh, he said, you know.

  But Eiju didn’t say anything else. So I left him on the railing to his cigarettes and the stinking fucking sunrise.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ben moved in a few months after we started fucking. I offered to help him bring all his shit over, but he told me he didn’t need that.

  And anyways, there isn’t much, said Ben. It’s just me.

  You run a tight ship, I said.

  Aye-aye, said Ben.

  * * *

  We’d probed each other about our sexual pasts a few weeks before that. That happened at this bar on Richmond, drinking Modelos on their patio. When Ben asked the bartender for the menu, he told us they didn’t have one, and when I asked if he could tell us what they served, the whiteboy said he’d be back in a minute. Then he disappeared. The next time we saw him, he was serving these two whitechicks by the entrance.

  Was that racist? said Ben.

  Depends on how you look at it, I said.

  On one hand, it was. And on the other hand, it was.

  Then there you go.

  In the end, we lifted two bottles from the cooler. Left some cash on the bar.

  I wasn’t telling Ben about my first, so I started with the phone operator I’d fucked for about a year. Told him about the sneaker store clerk. Told him about the prep cook. And the cell phone guy. And the Apple store guy. And the gas station clerk. And the whiteboys. I told him about the accidental orgy at Numbers, and the grocery store clerk I’d fucked in an H-E-B parking lot.

  How does that even happen, said Ben.

  The guy was ringing me up. I asked him what time he was getting off.

  And then you literally got him off.

  Your words.

  Perpetuating the stereotype about gays as sex addicts.

  Anyone who says that just wishes they were fucking more.

  But I think that’s it, I said. I think that’s everything.

  The two of us crossed our legs under the steel table. I drained the rest of my beer, and Ben fiddled with his.

  We don’t have to do this, I said. I really don’t care about this stuff.

  If you didn’t care you wouldn’t have asked, said Ben.

  I asked because I wanna know you better.

  I don’t mind. It’s nothing.

  I just don’t want you to think I’m pressed over it.

  Don’t lose sleep over what I think.

  Ben took a sip from his beer. We watched our not-waiter scramble off the patio and into the building.

  Sorry, said Ben.

  Don’t be, I said. You haven’t said anything yet.

  There’s nothing to say. And definitely nothing as exciting as your shit.

  It’s your life though. That’d be hard for you to judge.

  Sure, said Ben, but I couldn’t even tell you how many guys I’ve fucked. One too many, obviously. And then I stopped. And then I met you.

  But I’m the best, right?

  Sure.

  Good. That was the correct answer.

  We watched the parking lot’s crowd congest and unspool.

  After a while, I said, Why’d you stop?

  Stop what, said Ben.

  Fucking around.

  Oh. You know why.

  Nah. But I could guess?

  Once I tested positive, it just seemed, like, whatever, said Ben. Like, why even do it anymore? It felt like I’d lost something.

  I think you’re very hard on yourself.

  Yeah, said Ben. Well. You’re the best.

  At that point, the bartender came out. He stopped in front of us, looking like he had something to say. Then, all of a sudden, he slapped the cash we’d left him in front of us.

  He said we’d paid too much. Five more dollars than we’d needed to.

  I started to tell him that it was a tip, but Ben pocketed the money. He thanked him for his honesty.

  * * *

  The first night after Ben moved in was the first time we actually slept in my bed, the first night he actually let himself do that.

  Once we’d settled in, he reached over to touch me. We started to kiss. And then nothing worked after that. At least not for me.

  It’s fine if you don’t want to, he said.

  I do.

  It’s okay, said Ben, but he kept persisting, touching me, and then himself, and then he groaned, and then he was finished.

  When he stood to clean up, I watched his silhouette wander across the room.

  Here was a new situation.

  A new body in my bed.

  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I wanted him to pack his shit and leave. I wanted him to dissolve. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

  By the time Ben came back to bed, I’d shut my eyes. He called my name, but I
didn’t open them. But he whispered my name again, and he wrapped himself around me, laying his legs over mine. And his shoulders sat on my shoulders. And Ben kept murmuring it, Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike, softly and slowly. Even after he’d fallen asleep, until I was knocked out, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  After his night off, Eiju was nothing but energy.

  I told him to cool it. To remember what Taro said.

  Taro’s book-smart, said Eiju, but I know my body.

  He’s a fucking doctor, I said. He knows everyone’s bodies.

  Eiju slapped my shoulder. It was late afternoon. We’d taken a walk that morning, and Tennoji buzzed around us. We’d gelled into the foot traffic around Namba, until we’d made it back to the complex and the little woman living beneath us shook her head as we clattered loudly up the stairs.

  You need to chill the fuck out, said Eiju.

  That’s hard to do when I’m babysitting you.

  No one has to do anything.

  I guess you’d know that better than anyone.

  Are you good? You been laid in a while? Because we’ve got fags all over this city.

  Before I even realized what I was doing, I was already stomping back down the stairs, jogging past the cranky neighbor lady. I crossed the road, took the stairs to the station, and bought a ticket for the local line. But I didn’t actually hop on a train. I watched them stop and depart. Our station never got too much traffic in the afternoon, so everyone was either headed toward Umeda, taking a late trek to Shin-Osaka, or coming back from a day out in the world. Some lines formed and dissolved behind me.

  Eventually, I realized I’d been holding eye contact with a lady on the next platform. She blinked back at me. Had her hair in this bob, with tight black jeans, and this too-large Toronto Raptors sweater. When I waved, her face broke into a grin, and she waved back at me, until a train severed our view. But then she hopped on and smiled through the window. And neither of us looked away. And the train started up and she was gone.