Story by Liam Langan
​​Illustrations by Karolina Isabel Roga

Mikako

​I stopped by a convenience store for a can of beer and two packs of cigarettes before entering the hair salon next door.
 
“Mikako! Welcome! Cold, isn’t it?” Gloria said as I walked in. The other girls, dressed in their skin-tight outfits, glanced up. Gloria was a stylist, mid-forties, and according to her, the only talent she had was making other people beautiful. 

“Here, sit,” she said, taking my coat. “Now, I know you like a simple ponytail, but I wanted to try something different, you see this?” Gloria continued, taking strands of my hair. “You could look so much more beautiful if you let your natural hair work. Men love that.”

Men don’t care about hair, I thought.

“Do what you think is best,” I replied, forcing a smile. I lit a cigarette and scanned the other girls in the salon, recognising a couple though I didn’t say anything. Gloria was one of the few people I spoke to, and I think she pitied me, even though she claimed respect. 

“Anyways,” Gloria began, spraying scented liquid onto my hair, “I’ve been hearing good things about Pink Rainforest from the other girls, they say the pay’s better?”—she peered at me through the front mirror—“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, I’m only being nosy.”

I smiled and sipped my beer. Gloria got the message and took to her work with a silent focus, fingers moving expertly through my hair. I closed my eyes and sighed, drifting to the soft elevator music playing on the speakers. 

I could be somewhere else: the beach, the beach, seagulls in a languid swoon in the sky, waves lapping warmly at my feet…

RIIIING

I jolted back to reality.

RIIIING

My younger sister was calling.

“Mitsu? What’s wrong?” I said. “Again? That shithead… I can’t, no, I can’t get out right now I’m about to work. Don’t you have anything? Just for a night? Ok. Then get something ready-made from the convenience store. Ask them to heat it in the microwave. I’ll be around later to give you some more money, alright? Ok. If you see dad tell him—never mind… I’ve got to go now, okay, go to the convenience store, alright? Okay, bye, I’ll see you soon, love you.” 

I put my phone face-down on the counter in front of the mirror. Some of the girls were looking my way, but they turned back to their magazines and phones when I met their gaze. 

“Is he out drinking again?” Gloria asked, lips pursed as she studied my reflection.

“It’s nothing,” I assured. 

“You are something, Mikako. I don’t know how I’d ever do it”—she shook her head—“You shouldn’t be the one to clean up his mess, it’s just… Sorry, I shouldn’t speak bluntly, I know it’s none of my business.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, searching my handbag and taking out some makeup. I started applying blush to my cheeks, following along the bone while Gloria stood behind me, her wrinkles showing under the salon’s bright fluorescent lights. 

“Here, how about this,” she began, sounding like she’d made up her mind. “You don’t have to pay for tonight, keep the money.”

I lowered my hand and looked at Gloria thorough the mirror. “You don’t have to,” I replied, feeling a little obliged. 

“I know I don’t,” she insisted, “but I want to. You need it more than I do, at least for now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mikako, won’t you let me do something nice?” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “It’s a one-time offer, take it while you can.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Thank you, Gloria-san.” 

​She smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder.

---

Shota

Steam from the boiling cauldrons filled the convenience store with the aroma of oden and tickled my grumbling stomach. I salivated at the promise of boiled eggs, chunks of radish, fish cakes, deep fried tofu squares, whole sausages, and bits of octopus all in a hearty, soy-flavoured broth. 

But I held an egg salad sandwich.

Under the fluorescent light of this convenience store, the egg was as bright a yellow as the sun. I’d already eaten three since the morning, but it looked as if I might have to make that four. 

I pulled out the bills from my back pocket: fifty-thousand yen. Who knew how much I’d have tomorrow? I had my heart set on getting drunk, an absolute and foolish drunk. 

But the question remained: an egg salad sandwich or a bowl of oden. A couple came in and bought a portion of oden to share, the smell trailing them as they left out the sliding doors. 

I wish I had someone to share with, I thought.

I left the convenience store carrying a plastic bag with an egg salad sandwich and a beer and told myself it was a smart decision. The cheaper meal amounted to three extra beers, and in the spell of a Friday night, three extra beers can make all the difference.  

Some office workers were going home, while most everyone else scrambled into local izakaya or bars to begin their night. I saw every type of inhabitant of this city on the jam-packed streets: giggling students full of vitality; horny tourists and foreigners a head above the rest; sexless couples who’ve forgotten how to hold each other’s hand alongside short skirt prostitutes with indifference in their eyes; salarymen with loose neckties after a week of being strangled at work; cab drivers who’ve been awake for endless hours; golden-haired boys touting for bars and those with money and pearls, dripping in mink. 

And all the rest of us. 

Construction workers, security guards, waiters, cooks, factory bees, and truck drivers. It’s easy to spot us as most of the time we’re in a distinct uniform. I hadn’t taken mine off since a job a couple days ago, my baggy trousers beginning to reek, but I didn’t care. I’d wash them in the coming days, I promised, and opened the can of beer to wash down my sandwich. 

I wandered for a while, trailing a group of university students: two girls and two guys walking in formation, the girls up front and the guys behind, snickering with a nervous edge like they were compensating for a lack of conversation. After strolling past cafes and restaurants with bleeping and blooping billboards, they turned the corner onto a quieter, darker street. 

I kept a distance on the other side of the street until they stopped. 

“We were following you two, I thought you knew which way to go when you decided to walk ahead,” one of the guys said, voice tinged with an arrogance feigning confidence.

“Are you serious?” one of the girl’s retorted, “We were leading because you two seem to have no idea what to do—Aren’t men supposed to take control?” 

As I listened to the argument, I toyed with the idea of going over to see if I could help.

“Hi,” I’d begin, effortlessly. “I noticed you seemed confused about where you were going and I thought I could help, I know Shinjuku like the back of my hand. My name’s Shota Sakai, I’m twenty-eight so I’m guessing not much older than you guys. I’ve lived in Shinjuku for a while now, and know a couple of places that play good music or even a theatre if you want to watch that new film, ‘Storms in Summer’? Apparently, it’s quite good… Or, have you heard of QT? I’m sure you have, ha-ha, that’s all they play on the radio nowadays, right? There’s a bar which plays that kind of music…” 

They were still arguing when I got the courage to go over, but as I stepped forward, a guy with golden hair appeared out of nowhere, approaching them with open arms. 

He was a catcher, and his job was to convince people to go to the izakaya or bar he worked for. He spoke to them for a bit and had little trouble persuading them to accompany him. 

The catcher led them back the way they came, chatting to the girls while the guys followed, quieter now. They passed me by, unaware of my existence. 

“Well, you tried,” I muttered. I stood alone on the darkened street, looking from one end of the street to another. I decided to head for the red gate marking the entrance to Kabukichō, Shinjuku’s red light district. 

The gate was a torii, the type you’d find in Shinto shrines throughout Japan. They were usually painted red and in the shape of two posts connected by a straight upper lintel, the idea being that when you pass through, you’re leaving the mundane and entering the sacred. I believed this to be true for Kabukichō. The very act of entering Kabukichō is like a religious experience. My mind settled as I admired the streets filled with catchers who were like golden-haired missionaries reciting parables about their houses of worship, temples promising ablution through alcohol, purification through sex, your every prayer answered through fantasy.

I stood by the gate and bowed slightly. The billboards sang, tinkled and chimed like bells signaling the hour of prayer. Ethereal red-blue-green lights stacked one upon the other so that when I looked up toward the sky, I only made out holy neon, radiating with a pure intensity. I stood there, basking in its warmth until a powerful flow of people pushed me forward. I lost my footing in a whirlpool of bodies.

Mikako

My first destination was a bar owned by a couple of yakuza, an exclusive joint that only admitted Japanese with ties to their organisation. Cheap chandeliers hung from the low ceiling, illuminating the floor stained with what, I didn’t want to imagine. One long counter with ten stools faced a well-stocked bar. In the back room, there was a cigar lounge but I’d never been inside. 

“Mikako, beautiful as ever,” Akiyama said, an all-white suit draped on his twig-like build. His slight frame never stopped him from dressing so outlandishly, his membership with the yakuza lending him a brashness that kept me on my toes as much as it made me sick.

Akiyama took my arm and guided me to a booth along the mirrored wall. He raised two fingers at the bartender who proceeded to fetch glasses. 

“So, tonight,” he continued in his slow, almost melodic voice, “you’ve got a client who wants to meet at the love hotel by Sega. He’s booked for half an hour but we know he’d want more of you, right?” He chuckled and kissed my hand. “You’re popular, you know that? All the men fall in love with you, and it makes me sad sometimes. I know you’ve got this debt to pay and all, but I’m starting to think I might keep you for myself.” He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled slightly, bringing my ear close to his mouth and adding, “Then again, you do really do know how to rake in the money.” 

A waiter brought us our drinks, two whiskeys on the rocks. 

“Once I pay off my father’s debt, I’ll be done with this,” I said, having a sip. 

“Will you?” Akiyama grinned. “Well, thanks to that pig, you’ve got another five hundred thousand left.” He glanced at a party of men and women by the bar. “How is he anyways? He never comes to say hello anymore, makes me wonder if he doesn’t like me.” 

I forced a smile.

At the bar, one man bragged about how long he could last in bed. 

Akiyama downed his whiskey, stood, and told me, “Finish your drink and head to the hotel, room 505. Afterwards, go to Pink Rainforest.” 

I took my cue and left, heading back towards Kabukichō’s torii. Outside, people had reached a critical stage of tipsiness and swayed, as if dancing. The salarymen were laughing and the sound disgusted me, reminding me of my father. 

“Aren’t you a pretty one? Come here,” one shouted, wobbling in my direction. He was younger than his co-workers who trailed behind, giggling like spoiled children. When he got closer, he reached for my wrist and tried to pull me towards him. 

“Fuck off,” I snapped, my voice drowned out in the bustle as I passed under the torii, immediately jostled from the side and pushed towards the trash cans. I regained my balance against a vending machine when I turned and saw a man in sweat stained construction clothes staring at me. 

“You too?” I snarled, regarding his lost and confused expression with venom. He remained frozen.
​
“Cat got your tongue?” I sneered and walked away.

Shota

Several large foreign men with tasteless tattoos had charged down the street and shoved me to the side where I almost toppled an unsuspecting girl. She looked at me with a disgusted expression as if she thought I’d tried to grope her. 
We faced each other for a few seconds, and I noticed her hair, long and flowing like a black river. As I looked at her, I became flooded with the overwhelming sense that she was all alone. I understood it like a sixth sense and it made me want to protect her against all the pain and sin in the world. People crowded around on the Kabukichō street, but I was wrapped in a blanket of isolation with her. 

“Cat got your tongue?” she said before walking away, heels clacking against the concrete. I reached out but she was swallowed in the crowd. 

Shaken by the encounter, I wanted another drink. I headed to an izakaya called Sauna off Kabukichō’s main street. Testuko and Fumio, the old couple running the place, claimed that when you left, you felt fuzzy, warm and refreshed. 

“Shota-kun, good to see you,” Tetsuko smiled as I entered. She sported a funny afro which added to her otherwise short stature. “There’s a table over there. Give me a moment and I’ll clean it up for you… Fumio! Shota’s here!”

An old man popped his head from behind the kitchen wall, a white towel wrapped around his forehead. He spoke as if he were trying to get all the words bubbling in his head out at the same time.

“SHOTA! Take a seat, take a seat. Beer? You want beer? Hold on sir, I’ll be with you in a minute—Or sake? Sake? We got our hands on some good sake recently, cheap too. Everything’s on sale around this time, Christmas, New Years and all. You look cold, take a seat, take a seat… Tetsuko! Clean Shota’s table he’s shivering. Can’t you see?” 

Some of the other customers stopped eating and looked at me, wondering why I received special treatment. Their gazes burned and I felt like the most hated person in Shinjuku. I took a seat and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, convinced I might pass out from their attention until Tetsuko came over.

“Shota-kun, what can I get you started with?” she asked, her voice slow and dissolving in my ears like drops of honey. “You look a bit tired, have you been getting enough rest? I worry about you Shota-kun, a construction worker needs to keep as fit as possible, especially in such cold weather.” She placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing for a second. I smiled at her touch, feeling protected for a moment.

“I’m okay, Testsuko-san, really, I’m used to the cold,” I replied, before glancing at the handwritten menu, asked, “Can I get a bottle of sake?”

Testuko nodded, jotted something down on a pad, then looked up. “Nothing to eat?”

“I’m okay for now,” I replied. “I had something earlier.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. “You can never have too much.”

“Really, I’m fine, Tetsuko-san.”

“Okay, just a bottle of sake then,” she replied, though she sounded unconvinced. She went to the kitchen.

After taking a long drag of my cigarette, I closed my eyes and felt like I was floating in a dream. The girl with black hair swayed and pointed her fingers in my direction, coaxing me to come over. I moved towards her but every step I took, she stepped further away. I grew frustrated and ran at her, but like a matador she took a step to the side and made me trip. 

“Shota-kun?” 

Tetsuko stood over me, puzzled. I wiped the spittle from my lip with hasty embarrassment as she placed a bottle of sake down, along with a bowl of oden.
“We had some left over,” she explained. “I know you said you had some food before you came, but I know how much you like oden, so have this bowl, and don’t worry about paying—it’s on us.” 

I sat upright, staring at the steaming bowl of oden. “Are you sure?” I said, feeling my mouth begin to water.

“Oh, don’t you worry about it,” Tetsuko replied, “you’re a good boy, let me at least do something nice in return. Now, don’t hesitate to tell me if you want another bowl, okay? We’ve got enough left and you need to eat well if you’re going to keep working.”

Steam rose from the oden, kissing my lip. I swallowed the saliva in my mouth, then turned to Tetsuko, whose body seemed to catch the warmth of Sauna’s lighting and gave her a saintly look, as if she were the holy Mother. 

“Yes, uh, thanks, that’s very kind of you,” I stammered, blushing a little. “Please tell Fumio-san thank you as well.” 

“Don’t you worry about it, Shota-kun, now eat up before it gets cold,” Tetsuko said and shuffled away. 

I stared at the oden for a moment, wondering at my luck and whether I actually was dreaming. But no, the smell of the oden caused an all too real grumble of hunger. 

The first spoonful burned my tongue but I was ravenous and I ignored the pain. I shovelled mouthful after mouthful down my throat, slurping the last bit of broth before finishing the meal with a healthy gulp of sake. I sunk into my seat and placed a hand on my belly while I watched the other customers. That all-too-familiar sense of separation washed over me as they chuckled, smoke lingering above their heads as I sat alone.  

“Good? Glad you enjoyed it,” Fumio started, suddenly pulling a seat across from me. I turned to him with a startled expression, trying to smile to appear cordial, though I felt a chill run down my spine. 

“Been sitting there for a couple days now,” he continued, oblivious to my discomfort, "Oden, like an Italian ragù, tastes much better a couple days AFTER it’s been made, that’s the secret, yeah, yeah…” Sweat fell from his temple to his damp t-shirt, which smelled strongly of pork. Fumio once told me it was his favourite cut of meat. 

“Anyways, anyways, how’s work going?” he asked, hands placed on each knee. “Must be tough in this damn cold. Some nights I feel it inside the kitchen, even with all the fire--THAT’S when you know you’re getting old.”

“Yes, uh, work is good,” I replied, looking away. “I’ll have to start looking for more opportunities next week, I’m running low. Again”—I placed my chopsticks atop the bowl and bowed—“Thank you for the oden, it was delicious. Please thank Tetsuko-san as well.” Searching for Tetsuko across the room, I found her speaking to some customers at the other end. She seemed so far away then, almost fading amidst the cigarette smoke. 

“No, no, not at all Shota,” Fumio replied, “don’t worry about that. You’re our favourite customer, HA! Tetsuko says that, it’s true. You come in alone, are polite, never cause a ruckus,” Fumio glanced at the others in the room as he said this, pausing with what appeared for an instant like disgust before continuing, “Still, you’re a bit of a mystery, if I’m honest—I can be honest, can’t I? I’d like to think I can. I know you might feel differently, but we’re alike, you and me—Anyways, anyways, any plans for the evening?”—lowering his voice, he leaned in—“I hear there’s a new place, have you been yet? It’s great, let me tell you, there’s a—”

“Thank you, Fumio-san,” I said with a cough, pushing the bowl towards him before finishing the remainder of my sake, adding, “Is there any chance I can have another bottle?” 

Fumio narrowed his eyes, seeming to peer into my head. He got up with a grunt, then relayed my order to Tetsuko. 

I finished two more bottles of sake before leaving. Tetsuko checked on me a couple times and commented about pacing myself, but other than that, I was left alone. 

I slouched into the wall as the alcohol made my eyelids droop, listening to the laughter of other’s without being in on the joke. Both a part of the group and invisible. It was a safe space to be in and one of the reasons why Sauna was my favourite joint in Shinjuku. 

I eavesdropped on a pair of salarymen beside me. They wore identical suits but one was clearly older, cheeks sagging like a bulldog. The younger one had a sharp, triangular face, contributing little to the conversation apart from when he agreed with what the other said.

“You see,” the older one began, tapping his bloodshot temple, “there’s only one way of making it as a salaryman. You need respect. Respect for others and respect for the rules. You respect others and the rules, you’ll get along with everyone. You don’t respect others and the rules, everyone will hate you. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the younger one replied, and added with urgency, “I respect you.”
Their conversation continued, revolving around the older salaryman imparting what he called, “Secrets to Success.” Some were practical. For example, when he said, “Keep extra undershirts at the office, you’ve got no idea how sweaty you can get on a rush hour train,” I felt he wanted the best for the younger salaryman. 

Only, the drunker they became, the more outrageous the secrets became. Finishing another slurp of beer, the older man pulled out a cigarette, waved it in front of his face and explained, “These cancer sticks save a salaryman’s life.” He went on to recall previous times he’d felt crushed by the pressure of work and if it were not for the relief of nicotine, he joked he would’ve killed himself.

“And that brings me to my next secret,” he paused, holding up his left hand, “What do you see? Don’t think about it too much, just what do you see?” 

The younger one stared at the hand in front of him with a frown. “Your hand?” he faltered, sure this was some trick question he’d failed. 

“That’s right,” the older salaryman tittered, “my left hand. But not just my left hand—you see? My left hand without my wedding ring… My next ‘secret to success’ is the secret of sex. I don’t know how long you’ve been married, but there comes a point when you’ve got no energy. You’ve smoked too many damn cigarettes and are too damn tired from being at the office all day, you’ve got no energy to fuck—if your wife’s anything like mine, neither does she. Ha! You still respect me?” He laughed, revealing a set of discoloured teeth. 

The older man continued, “You can talk to me all about romance and how she’s your Juliet, but I’m telling you the truth.” He held up his empty glass to Tetsuko who fetched another. At that point, I wanted him to stop talking, but no matter how hard I focused my attention elsewhere, I still heard him, like he was addressing me directly.

“Men like you and me, working in a place like Tokyo, we need something to keep us going. We work too damn hard not to be allowed it.” He took a hearty gulp of beer and slammed it on the table, spilling the amber liquid. “That’s why we smoke and drink and why sometimes we visit women for company. Think of it not like you’re doing it for yourself. Think of it like you’re doing it for others. You understand? Your wife, kids, co-workers, company, strangers… HECK! The girl you pay! She’s got to make a living, doesn’t she?”

The younger salaryman hesitated as if he didn’t understand. Then, he cleared his throat, “If my wife and I ever stop having sex, I will consider it,” he replied, smiling lamely. 

The older salaryman slapped the younger one of the shoulder, “HA! I like that kid, maybe she is your Juliet,” he teased and raised his glass. “Here’s to love,” he said, finishing the rest of his beer, dribbling some down his chin. 

​They left shortly after, talking about where to go next. By then I’d approached the state of drunkenness where my nights took a turn for the better. I was no longer anxious about talking to strangers, I could talk about anything, I didn’t need an icebreaker. I could say, “Hello, how are you? Good? Sweet, let’s go!” And we’d go, wherever and with whoever I wanted. Go and laugh because I’d be drunk and I loved it when I lost sight of myself and only saw blurred neon.

I turned a corner into a backstreet, stopping outside a drab love hotel. After smoking another cigarette, I walked through the sliding doors and went to the reception where a bland, middle aged man glanced up from his phone, rubbing the bags under his eyes with the slow movement of someone in a permanent daze. 
The type of man perfect for this job, I thought.

“Room 505,” I said. 

The man glanced over a monitor and replied in a weak voice, “Someone’s already there.”

“My boyfriend,” I said. 

The man didn’t seem to care. He pointed down a hallway and returned his attention to his phone.

 I walked down the red carpeted hallway, passing doors outlined in a velvet mesh, imagining the girls inside and wondering how many of them were paid. I came to the elevator, pressed the button and watched the numbers on the monitor descend. When it reached the ground floor, it opened with a jolt. 

I stepped inside.

The doors closed. 

I applied chap stick to my lips, dabbed perfume on my neck, had a gulp of whiskey from a flask I kept in my handbag, and popped a breath mint. My palms began to sweat and a tightness crept into my chest and around my neck, making it harder to breathe. How long could this elevator ride be? I wondered, watching the rise to the fifth floor.

“You’re okay,” I told myself, wiping my palms on my dress. I removed my coat and folded it over my arm, the elevator finally coming to a juddering halt. 

“Hello,” the man said, opening the door seconds after I’d knocked. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and I immediately knew he was rich. 

He stepped aside, bidding me in before closing the door with a click. Moving to the centre of the room, he inspected me with a stone-like seriousness. I stood with my arms limp at my sides, unsure what to do. Finally, seemingly satisfied, he removed his blazer and put it on a hanger.

“Fifty-thousand yen is on the table. I was told that was for thirty minutes—Am I correct?” he said, speaking without ever looking me in the eye.

“Yes,” I replied, taking the money and stuffing it in my wallet. 

“Good,” he said, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a tanned, athletic body. With his shirt off, he folded it and began stretching.

“There is gin and vodka in the refrigerator if you wish to have any,” he told me. “However, I do not have much time and would need to begin in five minutes. Be ready by then.” 

I closed the bathroom door behind me, sighing, relieved. I preferred this type of man. They were the easiest to handle, even if they appeared cold. They only wanted sex and I only wanted my money, not some slobbering loser moaning about how much he loved me. I looked in the mirror and brushed a strand of hair from my face before returning to the room.

It was over in fifteen minutes. 

The man dressed, said, “I will be going now,” then left. 

I always felt repulsed after each encounter, but it varied in scale. On this occasion, it wasn’t so bad. The man seemed more concerned with getting a workout, flexing every now and again, barely paying me any attention. I understood that I was nothing more than an object to him and felt no need to satisfy him. I lay motionless and thought of places that were warm like Hawaii and all the beaches where I would wear a bikini instead of my coat, which lay creased on the floor.

I lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling before pushing myself up from the hard mattress. The digital clock on the bedside table read a little after midnight. I went to the bathroom where I showered, scrubbing my body in the hot water and cloaking myself in the warm steam that filled the room. I dried off with a towel and slipped into my dress, wrapping into my coat before I left. 

The hallway was eerily quiet, the corridor extending in both directions. I headed the way I came and took the same slow elevator down, down, down to the ground floor. The man at reception didn’t look up when I passed.

Outside, the night cold chafed. I put my hands in my pockets and started for Pink Rainforest.

 “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!” chanted a group of teenagers outside a convenience store. They chain-smoked and passed around a bottle of vodka, but looked underage, betrayed by baby faced cheeks.

They were an unusual group, a couple of them Japanese but dressed like rappers with chains and baggy hoodies. The other two were foreigners, one with hair like the end of a mop, the other neater. 

I eavesdropped as their conversation flowed effortlessly between English and Japanese. They kept passing the bottle, and unlike many in Shinjuku who seemed to be getting drunk out of necessity, they did so with youthful enthusiasm.

“Hello,” I said, introducing myself before realising what I’d done. For a moment, my voice got caught in my throat. Part of me considered walking away, but in the face of their stares, my feet were rooted on the spot. 

The Japanese guy holding the vodka passed it to me, and one by one they began chanting: “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!”

They were teenagers from a private international school, explaining their mixed-race makeup and bilingual speech. With the vodka finished, the one with the mop top dropped the bottle on the curb. It broke into pieces.

They usually visited Shibuya, they said, but it was the birthday of one of the Japanese guys, who was a virgin. They came to Shinjuku to get him some experience.

I felt conflicted. I knew this was my opportunity to make them like me, but had a strong urge to deter them.

“Hey, you know,” I started, warily, “I can show you guys around. I know a few places, depending on what you’re looking for?” 

“Question is, what do you want Ken? You’re the birthday boy,” one with his hair tied back like a samurai’s asked his friend with a suggestive grin.

“How am I supposed to know, man? What are the options?” Ken replied, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity passing his face.  

“Well, basically,” I answered, regretting every word, “a pink salon is where you pay for oral sex, and a soap is where they bathe you… in soap.” 

“I dunno,” Ken began, scratching his head and looking at his friends. “I dunno man, I definitely don’t wanna be bathed—I can do that shit by myself.”

“Pink salon, pink salon,” they agreed, starting off. 

This was my only chance.

“Hey, guys,” I called. They turned back with questioning looks which made me stammer. “I—I—I know it’s none of my business, but you guys are young… I, just, I—I don’t think you should be going to that sort of place. I’ve, uh, met people there I wish I hadn’t, but once you do, you can never really look at them the same again. It’s not worth it, even for a birthday. How about a bar? I know a place that plays music by QT? You know, that group? There’s usually some girls—” my voice trailed off. I held my arms out, feeling hopeless in the face of their frowns, any friendliness vanishing in their haughty looks. 

Clearing my throat, I continued, knowing I’d come too far not to carry on. “I didn’t want to say because you all seem like nice guys, but it’s a sad sight inside… A bunch of men, a lot of them married, paying girls for their time. All of them are just,” I looked around, struggling to find the words, “trying to make up for something they don’t have.”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” the one with hair like a samurai asked, turning to his friends, lip twitching on the verge of laughter. “You’re the one telling us about these places, you making up for something, man?” 

“Yeah, screw that, which way we going?” another said, muttering seconds later, “And fuck QT.”

I led the way, feeling like I had no other choice. 

We came to a street with several pink salons, located behind a mall with boutiques, restaurants, a movie theatre, and a game centre. While the buzz of drunks remained in the background, the area was quieter and seemed to lead nowhere, the buildings lining the sidewalk appeared empty. 

“I don’t see anything,” Ken said, a little impatient. It seemed like now he knew he’d be going to a pink salon, he wanted to get the ordeal over and done with. 

“You guys sure about this?” I asked. “There’s other—”

“Where is it, man?” the samurai-haired one demanded. 

Just then, a pair of men exited one of the buildings, walking intently and quickly disappearing down the street. It was a sight I knew all too well. If you stopped and waited long enough, you’d see groups of salarymen, students, rich suits, and all other types heading in and out of these buildings in a steady flow like a pilgrimage. 

They no longer needed my directions, bounding across the street, shoulder to shoulder with a nervous energy. 

Alone. 

Again.

From beyond the mall, I heard laughter, warm and happy, but the more I listened, I felt the laughter was aimed at me. Like I was the brunt of someone’s joke and everyone pointed their fingers, sneering. 

A lamppost flickered.

Where to now? I wondered. 

​Then I froze.

Pink Rainforest was said to be better than the other pink salons.

That wasn’t true. 

They all served a singular purpose despite their fancy names and themes.

“Good evening, Mikako,” the short, stout bouncer said. I nodded and boarded the elevator, applying more chap stick, spraying more perfume, taking another swig of whiskey, and popping another breath mint. I raised my palms to my eyes, then wiped them against my skirt just in case.  

The doors hissed open. 

As its name suggested, Pink Rainforest was themed around a rainforest. Plastic trees and vines decorated the rooms, while bird and insect sounds were piped in through speakers.

“Good evening, Mikako. Nice coat,” another bouncer said from next to a potted shrub. Across the room, a receptionist attended to a group of guys. I guessed they were underage from their excitement. 

“A customer asked for you. Can you be ready in ten?” the bouncer said. “Room Four.”

“Sure,” I replied, heading past the shrubbery and into a waiting room for the girls. I placed my coat and handbag in a locker, then headed to room four along the corridor, which ran the perimeter of the pink salon. As I made my way there, I became overcome by the stench of sweat permeating the salon. It was a smell I could never get used to, one that seemed to fester within the walls, as if from the moment Pink Rainforest had opened, the smell was already there. I steadied myself like someone on a rocking ship, taking a deep breath before going on.

Inside room four were more plastic plants, a shower, bed, and speaker playing the sound of running water. A ring of pink bulbs glowed in the middle of the ceiling. 
The door opened and the man who always reeked of pork stumbled in. 

“I’ve missed you,” he started, a white towel stuffed in his pocket. “I’ve been so busy it’s been hard to get out, but I had to see you.” He grinned, breathing with that hunger. 

​“Let me clean you before we begin,” I said, taking his hand and undressing him, then leading him to the shower. While I washed him, he stared into space with a gratified smirk. 

 “Is everything okay sir?” the bouncer asked as I approached.

“Yes, yes,” I stammered, fumbling in my pockets for a bill which I handed over. The bouncer slid it in his jacket and pressed a button for the elevator.

I remembered first laying eyes on the girl with the river of black hair. In the commotion of the crowd stampeding into Kabukichō, we faced each other and it was like there was no one else in the world. She was as lonely as I was. I knew it.

The elevator doors opened with a sound like someone exhaling. 

Another bouncer next to a pink plastic bush directed me towards reception. I was relieved to find the guys I’d shown here weren’t around, unsure how I would’ve explained my coming up. At the reception counter, a man wearing thin-rimmed spectacles gave me the once over.

“Here is your choice of girls.” The man pulled out a sheaf of laminated papers and handed them to me, then continued his explanation, like someone reading a manual. “Some may be presently occupied so there’s a chance you’ll have to wait. If that is the case, the wait will be no longer than half an hour, you can sit in the lounge until then.”

There were four pages, each with pictures of five girls and information about them—birthplace, age, hobbies, as well as some details like their favourite films and food. 

Some had blonde hair with large, cartoonish eyes that made them look younger than stated. Others attempted to hide their wrinkles by caking their face with makeup. 

I turned a page and there she was. Mikako.

She liked reading, swimming, and being on the beach. Her favourite film was Waterworld and she loved eating sushi.  

“Is Mikako available?” I asked. 

“She is servicing a customer but will be finished shortly. If you wish, you can take a seat and wait,” the man replied, taking the sheaf and placing it in a drawer.

I wanted to scream. Images of disgusting pig-men flashed in my head, laughing and groaning, saliva spewing from their mammoth mouths onto Mikako’s hair, ruining its sheen. 

I fell into a chair, resting my head against the wall and zoned out to the sound of recorded bird-calls. 

“Excuse me, sir?” the receptionist said after a while, “Mikako is ready.”

My legs were like jelly as I walked to the counter. 

“Eighth door on the right, she will be with you shortly.”

I pushed some bills into the man’s hand, heading off as he said to wait for my change. 

“Keep it…” I mumbled.  

The hallways had ten doors on each side. At the end of the corridor, a man was heading for the exit. His back was to me, but from the smell of pork trailing behind, I knew it was Fumio. A flash of anger stopped me, and I grimaced, feeling the oden from earlier rising up from my stomach. I waited until he was out of sight before stepping into my assigned room.

A circle of pink bulbs threw a dim light in the room. Feeling for a light switch on the wall, I kicked over a portable speaker playing the sound of streaming water. I scrambled to put it back in place, but bumped into a corner of the massage table. Pain stabbed at my hip. 

Minutes passed. I began to think they’d forgotten me, growing irritated as I paced the floor, wondering what to do. I considering leaving when the doorknob turned. 

Mikako walked in with her head down. “Please come here,” she said, walking to a closet-sized shower cubicle and turning the shower head. “Let me clean you before we begin.” She didn’t look at me, holding the shower head in one hand as she checked the temperature of the water with the back of her hand. I moved towards her, pulled by a sense of obligation. 

With the water warm, she held out a hand. “Please undress,” she said, her voice metallic. 

“I—I’m Shota,” I stuttered, feeling like a little boy. 

“You don’t need to tell me your name,” she replied. “Please undress.”

I started to pull my hoodie over my head, then stopped. “Do you remember me? We met earlier.”

“Sorry, I don’t know any Shota’s,” she replied. “Most clients don’t tell me their names. It’s sort of an unspoken rule.”

She looked at me, head cocked to one side, squinting. “Ah, wait, you… I did see you earlier on the street, I thought you were trying to grope me. I’ll let you if you pay extra… How many times do I have to tell you to undress?”

Knowing she recognised me, I became hopeful. “No, no, that’s not why I’m here,” I began, reaching to turn off the faucet but Mikako swatted my hand away.

“You don’t have a choice,” she growled. 

“Okay, okay,” I stepped back, raising my palms. Mikako hesitated before turning the faucet off herself, returning the shower head to its holder and crossing her arms. 

“Do you know who that man was who just came from this room?” I asked. 

“Like I said,” she replied, “most of my clients don’t tell me their names. They’ve all got wives and girlfriends to go home to. Anonymity is paramount in places like this”—she frowned, a mixture of repulsion and interest—“What do you want? You know you’re wasting your time?”

I felt invigorated, my mind as clear as it was drunk.

“And you’re fine with that?” I questioned, almost demanding. “That man does have a wife, her name’s Tetsuko. You can’t be fine with that?” I locked my gaze onto Mikako, surprised by how unconcerned she appeared. 

“I don’t know any Tetsukos and I don’t know who you are,” she replied with a sigh. “You know there’s places to go if you just want to talk?”

“We met—just now,” I said. “I came here to see you.”

Mikako rolled her eyes. “We didn’t meet. You bumped into me. Are you telling me you followed me all the way here?”

“No, I saw you. When I was out there…” I pointed to the door. “Tetsuko is one of the few people I can say has a good heart. You can’t do that to her. Not with
someone like him… He’s just, he doesn’t have a good—”

“What are you talking about?” she snapped. “This is how it works. People pay a price for thirty minutes. It’s a simple transaction. The rest isn’t my business.”
She waited for me to answer, seeming genuinely confused as she scanned me up and down. Slowly, a look of understanding passed across her face and she almost appeared to grin. 

“You think this is real…” she said, nodding to herself. “You think this is real, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think this is real, don’t you? If you didn’t you’d be naked by now,” Mikako replied, stepping back to the shower. “Are you going to undress or not?” 

“Don’t you get it?” I said, "I’m only trying to help. I don’t want your body.”

“Then why’d you come?”

I hesitated, taken back by the simplicity of her question. I studied the dress she wore, her figure, which seemed cramped inside of it, then the makeup on her face. She used so little.

“This isn’t a job for someone like you.” 

Mikako scoffed. “And who is someone like me?”

“Someone like you?” I started, struggling to find the words until they started to flow. “You’re someone who will be in a room full of people but you’re not a part, you’re not in on the joke. I knew it when I first saw you. I knew you were alone and didn’t want to be—That’s why I’m here! Everything led to me seeing you walk into Pink Rainforest—You don’t have to be here! I know you don’t know me but you can know me! We’re the same, we’re both lonely—We don’t know why we’re here, but we are, right?” My voice had turned high-pitched, matching the sound of water playing on the speaker which now sounded like a waterfall. It washed over me and I couldn’t stop shaking, convinced I could punch through the walls and rescue all the girls working right now.  

Mikako stared back, then spoke with a slow and bored tone. “You think just because by some coincidence we bumped into each other, I’m as lonely as you?” Her look turned to scorn.

“Let me make a few things clear,” she said, “I do this because I don’t have a choice. I’m not here because I’m as lonely as you.”

“That’s not—”

“So, you’re the type of guy who comes to pink salons thinking you can have a relationship with women? Get it in your head, none of the girls here want a relationship with the likes of you,” she spat the word, glaring.

“If you want to help me, give me all your money and leave. But,” she tittered, looking me up and down, “judging from your clothes, you barely have any money. So, how are you going to help me?”

“What do you mean?” I replied, a lingering smell of fried pork clouding my head and making me dizzy.

“I mean,” Mikako continued, “you don’t look like you have any money. So, how are you going to help me? By talking?” 

 I fumbled through my pockets and took out all the money I had. “I have this,” I said, holding it in up, “But this doesn’t matter, that’s what I came to tell you! You shouldn’t be working here! There’s other things, there’s other ways—”

Mikako took a step closer. 

​This was the closest I’d been to her. I smelt the other men in her hair.
She took another step, looking at my money and then right at me. 

He resembled a corpse, gaunt with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. His clothing gave off an odd smell.

“Your time’s up,” I said. “Pity. You at least could’ve gotten a shower—You need one.”

“What about this?” he whimpered.

“What about what?” I demanded, hating his expression of defeat. Weak, was all I could think, he is a weak man. “I don’t know who you are or why you came here, but your time’s up. I’ll call one of the bouncers if you don’t leave. Now.”

He looked at me with an emptiness before lowering his gaze to his feet and dropping the cash. Bills floated like feathers while coins clattered on the ground, rolling away. 

“I see,” he said, in so low a voice I only heard it because I stood so close. “Well, I tried,” he added, as if speaking to himself. 

He left without saying another word. When the door closed, a stillness expanded in the room. It seemed like a desert. I picked up the money and counted it, noticing then how much my hands were shaking. I rubbed my palms desperately against my skirt like I were trying to get rid of a deep stain.

A drink, I need a drink, I thought, deciding to go to my locker for my bottle of whisky.

A knock came on the door.

“Mikako,” the bouncer said, “you’re wanted."

---

By the time I left Pink Rainforest, the crowds had thinned. Those remaining sang drunken songs and stumbled around in some sort of lost dance. The trains had stopped running, so it meant paying for a taxi home or making a bed of the concrete. Overhead, neon signs glared down, still trying to attract customers and swindle the remaining cash out of their pockets. I was tempted, having nowhere else to go, but I didn’t have any money.

I swayed toward a traffic pole and slid down to rest my legs.  

From where I sat, I made out Kabukichō’s torii, solemn and solitary, an eerie fog around its base. It seemed to belong in a different era. I imagined it’d stood for hundreds of years, and that once, a strong, proud samurai stood beneath it to swear allegiance to his lord. 

I remained slumped against the pole, exhausted. Shinjuku had smoked me like a cigarette; nothing left of me but ash amongst the puke on the sidewalk and crushed beer cans. 

​I had nothing. But looking at all those on the street, I knew they had nothing as well. We were collectively all empty, no one with anyone. Yet they all think they’re part of some group. Bound by ideas of friendship or romance or tribe, when all they want is someone who’ll tag along and tell them they deserve whatever pleasure they seek. We were all empty together filling ourselves up with more and more Shinjuku in hopes of feeling less alone. In hopes of some sort of feeling that would make us forget about tomorrow and yesterday and the fact that at the end of it, this was all we had and it more resembled hell than heaven.

Liam Langan is an English/Japanese writer of novels, poetry, and short stories. His work is influenced from his time growing up in Tokyo, a city he calls home. Aside from writing, Langan like cooking, scuba diving, and drinking at izakaya with friends. Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/langanliam.

Karolina Isabel Roga is a fashion illustrator currently based in Tokyo. After professional education in fine art and fashion she gained international experience spending several years in Italy, Poland, UK, and Japan. Apart from illustrating fashion, she designs theatrical costumes. Her works have been shown in several exhibitions in Tokyo, New York, and London.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/high.street.drawing/   @high.street.drawing

Photo at top of page by Linda Gould

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