Chapter Text
The air is dry and chilly during March’s evenings while the heaters malfunction inside 24/7 Amigo’s Convenience Store. The cold seeps into the gaps of the building and enters the vicinity, making the hairs on your skin rise despite being covered by your thick, worn-out sweater, so you hug your arms tighter as you stand right behind the cash register, waiting aimlessly for customers to arrive.
24/7 Amigos is a convenience store stationed at the very center of a suburban neighborhood at the edge of an urban city, and it is a store welcome to all citizens, but a frequent place to only a few customers. The building is painted off-white and detailed with green lines along the upper edge of the building, and right above it hangs letters with a squiggly font glowing in yellow which states “24/7 Amigos.” The lights have dimmed and some splashes of paint have chipped away, falling onto the cement ground over time. It was quite an old store, after all, with it having opened over ten years ago.
Back then, Amigo’s seemed to be the only convenience store within the neighborhood. Children would flock around the area as soon as school ends and purchase popsicles or candy. Some working individuals would feast on ready-made meals at half-past twelve in the morning after particularly grueling shifts.
But that was several years ago, back when Amigo’s seemed to still hold significance until several better—much modernized and more aesthetically-appealing—stores had opened over the years in the neighborhood. Perhaps it was the location of the neighborhood, with it being at the edge of the city; not too far from it that it was inaccessible but far enough that purchasing snacks and simple, ready-made meals were troublesome. This had birthed the opening of several other popular convenience store franchises. Then, at the end of the day, who would need to go to some old, worn-out convenience store that had nothing new to give?
Thus, it was easy to feel as if you were on an isolated island in a place like this. Only the sounds of your breathing and your steps could be heard. Sometimes, if you strain your ears hard enough, you might hear a few dogs barking occasionally or the squawking of birds flying overhead if you stepped outside. Inside the store, on the other hand, was mainly filled with a faint buzzing sound that everyone seems to hear when surrounded by silence. They are like a bunch of phantom crickets chirping together from a distance and entering one’s ears.
Your eyes check your watch wrapped around your wrist.
11:30PM
A part of you feels a strange sense of relief when the chimes at the entrance sound as the door opens at this hour, and the way it happens is like following a routine. The customer heads straight towards the counter, plucking a pack of red Marlboro from one of the many that you had conveniently placed right beside the cash register for this ritual. You tilt your head up, lips set to a smile, and you greet your customer.
“Hola, amigo. How are you? ¿Cómo estás?”
“I still find it hilarious how it’s part of company policy to ask customers ‘how are you?’ twice, and in two different languages, [First Name].” A short, quiet laugh escapes through his nose as he pats his pocket for cash.
You shrug, taking the pack of red Marlboro from the man right in front of you and swiping it against the scanner. “Well, it’s just like you said. Company policy, amigo.”
“Sí, and I’m assuming it’s also company policy to call your customers ‘amigo’?” He hands you a wad of cash and you sigh, eyeing the large bill in his hand.
“Well, not quite, but aren’t we basically amigos now, Girolan?” Your eyes crinkle slightly now, amused. You gaze into the grayish eyes through the orange-brown-framed glasses of the older man right in front of you. His face is set to a pleasant smile. “Also, do you not happen to have smaller cash?”
“Oh, hold on, I think so.” Girolan pats his pocket once before grabbing a crumpled smaller bill out of his pocket and handing it to you.
“Wow, you had the exact amount this whole time and you just tried to hand me your largest cash.” You observe, taking the bill from his hand and inserting it in the register. Girolan sends you another smile in return, scratching the back of his neck with a chuckle. “Do you harbor some sort of hatred for me? If you do, we aren’t amigos anymore from this day forward, old man.”
Girolan feigns a disappointed frown, the lines on his face grow more prominent. “Ahh, but who am I going to complain about my employer now? And now you bring up my age, too. How cruel.”
“Sorry, but I’m afraid you won’t have an amigo to hear you out from now on.” You dip your head down in mock despair before pointing to the general direction of where the other nearest convenience store is stationed. “Look for a tomodachi, instead.”
“And risk losing your one and only customer?” He cocks his brow.
“Well…”
Girolan is someone you've known for a while now. You can’t exactly pinpoint the specific time when you had first seen him in the same way you don’t remember which customers come and go at specific times. Although, you do know when the first time you had known him to be Girolan.
It all happened several months back when you had stepped out of the store one evening after a particularly rough night of doing nothing. Snow fell from the skies, but not enough to block the front doors nor for you to sink into it at knee-deep level. It was just enough to wear thicker clothing and the perfect time to light a stick between your lips and inhale its warmth.
The moment you stepped outside the store, an unlit cigarette balanced between your lips and tugging the sleeves of your jacket down further, you saw a man with brown hair with multiple gray streaks sobbing on one of the round tables reserved for customers.
You faltered. It wasn’t everyday that you would come across a crying man and at the specific place you were supposed to be heading to.
So much for a break.
When you take a step back, something crunches under your foot and you cuss. The crying man snaps his head towards your direction, his eyes wide in surprise and cheeks wet with tears that were likely turning his skin colder. You look down and underneath the snow lies a broken plastic spoon, leaving you clenching your teeth at customers who don’t know proper waste disposal.
You pluck the cigarette between your lips as you begin awkwardly. His eyes follow the object in your hand. “Uh…”
“You have an extra cigarette?” He asks, wiping his face with a sleeve as if nothing had happened. Still, it was hard to pretend everything was normal when his eyes were still pink and he was sniffling.
“Yeah.” You answer a few seconds later. You take a step towards him, taking a whole pack out of your pocket, then reaching it out to him. He plucks one cigarette from the box and you tuck it back in your pocket right after.
“Got a lighter?”
“Yep.”
A few weeks later, after forming some sort of weekly routine of sharing a cigarette with the man you now know as Girolan, you learned that the cause of his previous misery was a mix between homesickness and the stubbornness of his employer. Supposedly, he works as a manager for an important person and working with them tends to be a nightmare and a half, specifically during publicity events. His employer was allegedly “uncooperative,” choosing to state whatever comes to mind no matter how off-putting, rather than following what Girolan had advised him to answer. You had found out that his employer had suddenly walked out of an important interview with a famous journalist.
On the other hand, the second portion of his concern was more personal and consists of his family whom he hadn’t seen in countless months. Girolan supposedly has a daughter who was about to turn eight (during the time he was crying) and he was disheartened over not being able to be present for it.
Presently, Girolan’s concerns seem to revolve mostly around his employer.
“So, what’s it about this time?” You ask Girolan as you step out of the store, both of you leaning your backs against the wide glass windows. Girolan was smoking, but you had opted for just an apple juice this time.
A sigh that seems to come from deep within his belly leaves his parted lips.
“That’s one big sigh.” You comment, sipping on your apple juice.
“Well, his existence is one pretty big sigh for average people like me…” He mutters and you cock your brow, confused.
“What?” You tilt your head at the nonsensical sentence.
“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head. “Okay so, my employer had a photoshoot scheduled yesterday for a brand. Mind you, I had reminded him of this in advance more than a week before it, and I had even reminded him of it again three days before and the day before it. So, I informed him a total of three times, but that’s fine because that is part of my job description. Anyways, I should have known that things were going too well in the morning during the day of the shoot, so when he only made minimal comments on, well, you know—”
“—The ‘lukewarmness’ of the job?” You offer. You have heard the strange adjective multiple times and it was essentially a word that was guaranteed to be dropped whenever Girolan would vent about his employer. Something about that being his employer’s favorite word.
“Yes. Exactly.” He nods his head enthusiastically before pausing, turning to look at you briefly. “Wait, are you sure you want to hear about this? I’ve been going on and on about my problems all the time—”
“Girolan. It’s my only source of entertainment in this deserted convenience store.” You cut him off, shaking your head adamantly. “Not that I’m only listening to you because I’m bored, but it’s a win-win situation here. You get to vent and I get to escape my job for a bit. Trust me, I’m fine with listening to this. Now, go on, continue.”
“Well, if you say so…” He nods his head unsurely. “Anyway, we’re already at the shoot, yes? His outfit, makeup, and hair were already done. We started photographing him, and to be fair, we did get sufficient shots, then about an hour through, his phone rang. That’s fine. That happens. It was no problem, until after getting off the phone, he suddenly decided that he was leaving.”
You raise your brow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. So he gets changed, yes? I was doing my best to appease the director who was becoming angry. And what happens next is just a blur. A supposedly important person from the brand came, saw what was happening, got angry, and well, now Sa— I mean, my employer lost ambassadorship.” Girolan runs his palm down across his face. “Well, to give my employer the benefit of the doubt, it wasn’t really that big of a brand and the creative director was being quite pushy with the ‘sexy athlete’ concept even if that wasn’t part of the concept they sent us in advance. We were even lucky that my employer had gone along with it far enough when he usually wouldn’t, but still…”
You pat his shoulder, sipping on your juice. “I get it. It’s always exhausting cleaning up after any mess, and even if it’s the job you chose, it doesn’t mean that you aren’t allowed to become tired or frustrated over it. Both the brand and your employer were a piece of work yesterday. That’s not your fault.”
“Yes, thank you, [First Name].” He nods his head slowly, giving you a tight smile.
“Hey, you better get some rest, old man, or else all of your brown hair will turn gray.” You joke, crushing your empty juice box in hand and shooting it in the bin about five feet away from you. It enters the bin perfectly and lands inside with a quiet clang!
“Ah, yes, I know.” He touches his hair worriedly. “The top of my head’s growing so many gray hairs. Maybe I should dye it.”
You shrug. “You could, but that’s up to you though. I don’t think it looks bad, but it wouldn’t be bad to try a different color as well.”
“I think I’ll try a darker shade of brown. Maybe it’ll make me look younger.” He ponders, a hand on his chin.
“I wouldn’t go that far, now…” You joke.
“Hey!”
⸻
The Moon is low when you arrive home and bury yourself under the thick comforters of your small mattress right after a short shower, but despite the exhaustion settling over your entire body like an uncomfortable weighted blanket that seemed to simply press down, sleep doesn’t easily come. Your eyes have been closed for countless minutes, and yet you don’t feel the distantly familiar falling sensation of approaching sleep spindles. You shift in your bed, willing yourself not to open your eyes. Perhaps if you pretend as if you were asleep, you might even fool your body into believing it.
Time passes. You don’t know how much of it does and you open your eyes.
Through the window across the foot of your bed, you see light peeking between the gaps of the two yellow curtains. Gradually, though you don’t sense how it unfolds, the room grows brighter. When earlier you weren’t able to see the interiors of your tight studio-sized apartment with how the darkness seeps into every corner, now you are able to see with vivid clarity through the small catches of light.
You turn your head, eyes trailing over to the entrance of your home where your kitchen area is stationed—an unwashed stack of dishes and a ceramic mug were surely laying on the sink from the evening before your shift. Your eyes then trail over to your small dining area just right beside the bathroom that was stationed right beside the door and across the kitchen area where a pile of snacks from your co-worker are laid. Finally, your eyes land on your small dresser between the window and the dining area, its door slightly ajar. Through the gap, you see something glinting.
Your metal lighter. One that used to belong to someone else. A reminder, and a small thing that had changed the course of your life forever.
When you were younger and more naive, you thought you had known all the cruelties that the world had to offer. It wasn’t difficult to see. Horror films and crime documentaries existed. If figments from a person’s imagination could be transformed into something people could easily access and watch, then surely, turning it into reality wasn’t impossible. You knew, and yet you didn’t. What you didn’t know was how far reality actually was from the films.
It was, to put it simply, worse.
In the films, crimes all appear smaller than they actually are. Perhaps it was the distance that makes them seem like they were imagined realities. When you are watching films, the screen seems to serve as a barrier, shielding you from truly realizing that such an event could actually happen. The farther you are from it, the less it feels real, but the closer you are to it—either being the victim, the witness, or the one cleaning up the mess—the more vivid and cruel you realize it actually is.
That is what makes it worse; the concept of coming closer and closer enough to experience it yourself.
And well, you used to be the one approaching its reality head-on.
⸻
Another week passes, then two. You follow the same routine of leaving your apartment at night to head to the convenience store. The employee assigned for the morning shift—a twenty-something-years-old college kid and an individual of a few words—greets you with a single nod before leaving like a ghost. Then in the morning, right after your shift, you greet the employee assigned for the morning shift—another twenty-something-years-old college kid, but this time a livelier one—greets you with a large grin and hands you a random snack before you leave.
This evening, the cold weather continues to persist. The weather forecast on the radio this evening reports that it would persist until the end of March, and when April approaches, the temperature would gradually increase.
You tug your thick jacket tighter.
The front entrance sounds, the chimes jingling softly and alerting you of a customer’s presence.
“Hola, amigo. How are you? ¿Cómo estás?”
Usually, you would expect another joking remark from Girolan, but the bags under his eyes and the way his shoulders are more hunched over tells you that he wasn’t up for many jokes today. This was nothing that hadn’t happened before, but it typically occurred during a particularly rough week.
“What happened?” You tilt your head, taking the pack of Marlboro that he had plucked by the cash register.
He rubs his face downwards. “Honestly, it’s not that bad, just physically exhausting.”
“Oh, I see,” You scan the item and accept the cash from his hand before handing it to him. “Did he make you run or something?”
“No, but close.” He sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “Well, my employer didn’t really make me do anything, and my current state is truthfully more caused by myself. It’s just that…”
“That?” You tilt your head. “This must be serious if you can’t even wait to go out for a smoke, but yes, do go on.”
“Oh, sorry, would you like to smoke outside?” He motions to the door, raising the pack of cigarettes in his hand and you shake your head.
“No, I’m trying to quit, actually.”
He nods his head slowly in understanding. “That’s great, [First Name]. I should probably do that too. It’s not good to be too dependent and not to mention, my employer hates the smell. I didn’t realize how much it clung onto clothes, so I have to change every time we meet. But anyways, I’m going off topic.”
You chuckle. “Yeah, you tend to do that. Don’t worry about it though.”
He rubs the back of his neck and chuckles as well. “Anyways, my employer lost something important. Although he doesn’t tell me, I can see that he’s been agitated over losing it. Frankly, it’s affecting his attention, and we can’t have that when he’s doing soccer drills and practice matches— I mean…”
He blinks, looking at you in alarm after his slip up.
You raise your brow.
Throughout the time you have known Girolan, he has been pretty tight-lipped about the identity of his employer and doesn’t even give the slightest hint about what his job actually was.
Initially, you had assumed that he was a famous politician, but the more you heard about Girolan’s stories through his rants, the less you considered this possibility. Moreover, when Girolan had first vented about a problem revolving around a commercial filming, you had immediately crossed that possibility out.
This brings you to the next thing you considered: a celebrity, specifically an actor or a singer. These individuals tend to be notorious not just for their work, but also for their unique personalities that make it easier to garner attention and even admiration from audiences. Girolan’s employer, after all, struck you as odd. Furthermore, the fact that he does modelling gigs, does brand ambassadorships, and is filmed in commercials further supported this theory.
Both of your theories are incorrect, evidently.
It seems that Girolan’s employer is a famous athlete—a famous soccer athlete, specifically. Now, you don’t know a lick of soccer or anything close to it. You had never willingly turned on the television and watched a single match, choosing to switch the channel to the news or to some random channel playing movies. But, with all of the information you had received through Girolan’s stories, it was easy to narrow down who it is. There couldn’t be many famous soccer players in Japan with that sort of personality.
Still, you weren’t going to do that. Not to your friend.
You tilt your head, ignoring his sputtering. “And then what happened?”
He seems to snap out of his internal panic and continues with a stutter, “W-Well, it clearly means a lot to him, so I’ve been looking for it without his knowledge. I spent the rest of the day earlier searching everywhere at the apartment, which isn’t very easy considering that it’s very large.”
You nod your head slowly. “I see… but what is the object that he lost?”
“An owl keychain.”
When the words leave his lips, you look at him unimpressed. He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment—which you’re not even sure why he is when it should be his employer who is supposed to be feeling that way. His attitude was giving your friend a tough time over a tiny keychain. Surely, there are better things to make other people worry about.
“I see.” You rub the bridge of your nose, annoyed on your friend’s behalf.
“Ah, don’t hold it against him, [First Name],” Girolan smiles reassuringly despite his eyebags evidencing his exhaustion. “It’s important to him as it seems to have come from his younger brother whom he appears to love very much.”
Girolan is actually really bad at hiding things, you realize now after his slip-up. That information alone could already tell you the identity of his employer. That is, unless the majority of famous soccer athletes in Japan have a younger brother and like owls.
“And he didn’t really make me do anything.” He waves his hands in denial. “It was entirely my choice to look for it. The child seems to be very distraught over the keychain.”
“He’s not a child, Girolan.” You frown. “He’s a grown man.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but I can’t help but see him as one. He has been my employer since he was much younger.” He explained, fondness seeping through his tone. It was a tone you always hear at the end of the day even after all of the things Girolan had vented to you about. “It was tiring looking for it all day especially since I didn’t really find it, but it’s fine. I can just sleep it off later and I’ll be fine again.”
You sigh.
Certainly, your friend holds great fondness over his employer which might even cross the borderline of unprofessionalism. Still, you can’t seem to sense much harm aside from Girolan constantly exhausting himself due to his fondness. Girolan just seems to see his employer as somewhat like a son. It would be hard not to if you had been working alongside someone who was much younger than you for several years and had a child of your own who you have been missing. Moreover, Girolan was simply just a kind person.
“... Do you need help finding it?” You ask after several seconds of silence.
Girolan looks at you, worried. “B-But, how could you possibly help finding it? Also, I’m not sure if that’s a great idea…”
Clearly, he was still hesitant over revealing his employer’s identity. You understand—security concerns and all, but it didn’t matter anymore though. With all of the information on the palm of your hands, you would be able to find out who it is in a split second. He had already shared enough.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I used to work in the law enforcement?” You ask.
“What? Really?” His eyes widened in surprise before his face relaxed to a pondering expression. “Well… you rarely talk about yourself, so I guess you could tell me any sort of job you used to do and I would be surprised. Actually, you could tell me anything, and I’d still be surprised.”
You laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. There’s nothing interesting about me, really, after all, I’m just a humble cashier now. Anyways, that’s not why I told you that.”
“Oh, why, then?”
“Well, a friend of mine is exhausting himself looking for an important lost object, that’s why.” You explain and he looks at you in confusion. “I don’t know, but I’m pretty good at looking for lost things—” and people, mostly, “—and you could say that it was part of my job description.”
“I-I see…” He takes in what you’re saying slowly, nodding his head.
“I’m just here to offer help as your friend who has experience with looking for stuff.” You shrug. “If it’s really weighing you and your employer down, I could lend you a hand, but if you think it’s something you can manage, then by all means, you can do it yourself.”
“I-It’s not that I don’t want your help, it’s just that…” He pauses, unsure as he looks at you carefully.
“Yeah, I get it. You’re hesitant about revealing your employer’s identity. Trust me, I understand.” You send him a short, reassuring smile before you add nonchalantly. “Besides, you pretty much already revealed who your employer is. He’s a famous soccer athlete with a stingy personality, has a little brother, likes owls (or his brother does), has recently lost an ambassadorship with an athletic wear brand, and so on. It’s not difficult to narrow down who this is.”
Girolan looks at you, cheeks now dusted pink in shame.
“Trust me, Girolan, even if you didn’t essentially spill his job, it still would have been easy for me to find out who he is,” You tap your fingers against the counter as you continue to reassure him. “But I didn’t try. Why? One, because you’re my friend and I respect you, and two, I frankly don’t give a shit about soccer nor the people who play it for a living.”
He’s silent once more.
“So, if you’d like my help, you can just ask me any time.”