Chapter Text
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“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
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Business is always slower in the Summer months. No getting around that. Idjits think they don’t want to eat stew when it’s hot out. But that’s just because they’ve never even tried it. They’ve got another thing coming, dammit.
Still, you gotta ease them into the idea slow. So you start with something your average schmoe thinks of as Summer-y, then wham, that’s when you sock ‘em, pow, right in the kisser. What is this delight of A-grade gourmet, they think, as happy memories come flooding back to them all at once. With shave-ice and oden brought together at last, I have known true happiness. Thank you. That’s what they’d think.
He could make them all so, so happy.
This was Chibita’s thought process when he bought an old-fashioned ice shaver machine for 3000 yen from a warehouse store in the San’ya district. An impulse buy? Maybe, but sure to be a solid investment for the lean months. It was heavy, and it made the pushcart a little harder to drag into place when it was time to open up shop for the day. But iced-oden was an idea whose time had come.
The handsome piece of equipment glittered all chrome and blue and crimson in the late afternoon sunshine behind the oden cart. Chibita beamed with anticipation and turned the crank.
But the central blade got stuck on a chunk of daikon in the block of frozen broth. He tried wedging it through with the blunt end of a cooking chopstick, but that just jammed it in further. And great, now the chopstick was stuck. Maybe turning the blade backwards would help - no, now that way was jammed up, too. Dammit. Maybe if he took the whole hopper out? But with one more turn of the crank the whole machine fell down, broke apart, and burst into inexplicable flames.
Goddammit, how he wanted to smash the stupid thing now. He hastily tipped a bucket of water over the improbable fire, which had the improbable outcome of making it worse. It had cost the equivalent of about roughly 52 squid rolls. Chibita grabbed the fire extinguisher from the supplies box under the cart. No, actually, more like 87.3, after accounting for overhead costs. Then there was the cost of replacing the fire extinguisher. So he'd need to sell something like 220 squid rolls, all told. He felt like he was about to cry.
But he wasn’t gonna. No, because that was the old Chibita. And the new Chibita was going to count to 10, and use his skills. He ran through the memory of what the nice social worker in the argyle sweater said you should do when feel so angry you want to break things.
Mind you, he’d bitten the social worker and got sent back to the squat-house behind the tuna cannery back then. But her words rang true, and in times like this Chibita would cast his mind to them. Thoughts are just that: thoughts. They won’t hurt you. They’re just like passing clouds. Just like those clouds of chemical foam from the fire extinguisher. Clouds of disappointment and failure.
OK, so the cloud imagery wasn’t working. Instead, he took shallow breaths and kept working until the fire was down to a few half-assed embers. Then he set the empty fire extinguisher on the ground and gently kicked the whole smoking mess behind the cart.
“The hell, dammit,” he said, slumping dejectedly on the beer delivery crate he used in place of a chair. Then he looked over both shoulders to make sure no-one was looking, and added as softly and sincerely as a prayer: “Goddamn, bitch-ass, cock-slurping son of a motherfucker.”
A cheerful voice rang out from across the counter: “You kiss your mother with that mouth, Chibita?”
“GAH -- ”
The customer’s voice startled Chibita right off his perch.
“Yo!” There stood Osomatsu Matsuno, backlit in the late afternoon haze, scratching his stupid nose like a jackass. “Sun’s gotta be past the yardarm by now, right?”
“No one says that anymore, idjit.” Chibita took some leverage against one of the beer growlers and hauled himself back up to eye level with the customer. “Getting pretty sick of seeing that stupid face of yours all the damn time.”
Osomatsu scooched onto the bench and made himself comfortable. “Got nothing doing until next season.”
“Season, huh.” Chibita slid a rolled damp hand-towel and a glass of water over the counter and got the serving utensils in order. “What, still doing that lame baseball thing?”
“Nah, just until the Fall, I mean,” Osomatsu clarified. “What can I say? It got boring. Stick-to-it-iveness was never my strong suit.”
“You ain’t kidding,” said Chibita. He began plating up the the usual serving of white radish and fish cake.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” said Osomatsu cheerfully. “Everything gets boring eventually, but lately something’s just kicked it into overdrive. I don't know what to do with all this spare time.”
“Howsabout you get off your ass and get yourself a job like a normal person, then."
“I appreciate the suggestion, but I’d rather get a blowjob from Iyami than waste a nice summer afternoon waiting in line to be rejected by some bean-counter at the Hello-Work office.”
“Don't be crude.” Chibita growled and pinched at the space between his eyes while Osomatsu kept on laughing at his own joke. It wasn't even that funny.
“See, it's funny, ‘cause his teeth are all messed up, so it'd --”
“I get it,” said Chibita. “Shut up and eat, already.”
“Thanks for the meal,” said Osomatsu, using the standard formal expression, and he began to eat.
A handful of ugly children were still running about in the playground in front of the public housing commission above the embankment. The late afternoon sun cast long, moving shadows down to the sidewalk below. Their voices echoed against the concrete walls.
“Um, hey, by the way,” Osomatsu began haltingly. ”Can I get an ashtray?”
“Seriously?” asked Chibita. He pulled a little glass plate from under the counter. “You smoke, Osomatsu?”
“Only when I feel like it. Thing is, when I get bored, I start feeling like it lot.”
Osomatsu took a packet of Lucky Stars from a metal cigarette case and set it down on the counter. Then he picked up the soft paper packet of cigarettes and tapped it hard against the palm of his hand. Finally, he took a heavy brass lighter from his pocket. It was one of those expensive ones that make a satisfying ker-schwip sound when they click open and burn at the wick, just like in the movies.
“Man, I never get to do this at home,” said Osomatsu. The nicotine head-rush hit him and he looked like he was about to melt with joy. Then he folded his arms against the counter and rested against one elbow, like a sleepy kid, and watched the hot grey tendrils of smoke spill upwards and dissolve.
“Eldest son’s gotta be a good influence, after all,” he continued.
“Ash anywhere near the food and I’ll kick your ass.” Chibita faked a cough. “It’s a sick habit. Those things are gonna kill you one day, y’know.”
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re worried about little ol' me.”
“Like hell I am. Do what you want to yourself.”
“But still, you’re not gonna go blabbing about this to everyone, right?”
“Not as if anyone’d give a damn even if I did.” Chibita took an Akatsuka Ale from the icebox, popped the cap, and set it down on the counter with a ker-thunk. “Still holdin’ your next of kin to your share of the tab when the clock runs out, idjit.”
“Thanks,” said Osomatsu. “I owe you one.”
“More like 172 thousand ones if you wanna put numbers to it,” Chibita said, doing some quick math on the fingers of his left hand. "Not counting what the rest of you idjits owe me, of course.”
“That could take a while in this economy,” said Osomatsu. He took a swig of beer and then a happy idea struck him: “I got it! How about instead of that, us guys up a reverse-tontine, and the winner pays you up in full. What do you say to that?”
“I say get the lead out, cheapskate.”
Chibita smiled with just a hint of irony. He rubbed at his cheek with the heel of his palm. He had no idea what a tron-teen was, let alone a reverse one, but at least it seemed to involve money.
Just then, the sound of high heels against concrete came clicking down in in a gentle cascade from the stairs leading down from apartment complex. A soft-faced girl in a pretty sundress was walking hand in hand with a young man.
“Look, honey! A real oden hawker!” The lady clasped her hands in delight. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid!”
“Oh, cute,” the man agreed. “Pity it's a bit hot for oden, though.”
“Like hell it is!” Chibita clanged a ladle against the steel rim of the bain-marie to get their attention. “Siddown, ya couple idjits, we got all kinds!”
Osomatsu stubbed out his cigarette and leaned up against the side of the cart so the potential customers could get a better view. Chibita gave a brief run down of the menu, spruiking each ingredient in the partitioned stockpot like a carnival barker. Today’s ganmodoki tofu were handmade fresh from the famous Ataro’s Wholefoods downtown, for instance; the hanpen were a whole-sardine recipe like they do down in Shizuoka. The mix was, he explained, perfectly adjusted for Summer to out balance the heaty yang and cooling yin foods.
“Not literally hot and cold, you know,” he explained. “It’s all about balancing your body and spirit and junk. That’s what keeps you healthy, you know. Like how you can’t eat eggplant if you’re having a baby or it’ll catch a cold. Not saying you look pregnant, lady, just trying to give an example.”
A bright smile beamed on his face: this was what people talk about when they talk about being in the zone.
“Uh, hey, Chibita -- ” said Osomatsu.
“So there’s more stewed konbu in the broth this time of year. And what’s more -- ”
“They’re already gone.”
“Ah…”
So they were. By now the happy couple were a shrinking smudge in the middle distance, walking off into the sunset hand in hand like a couple of gay cowboys. Chibita peeled the folded hand-towel off his neck, rubbed his damp forehead with the the dry side, and growled.
“Wouldn't know oden if it came up and bit ‘em in the ass…”
He balled up the greasy yellow towel and threw it on the ground. It made an uncomfortably wet sound as it hit. It had been a very long, very hot day.
“Gross,” Osomatsu observed.
“Shaddup.” Chibita pulled the beer crate into place and sat down with his face in his hands.
“Hey, hang in there,” said Osomatsu. “You’re pretty good at this whole oden gig, y’know that?”
“I know that, idjit,” Chibita snapped. “Not like I needed their approval anyway. Oden is art. Not everyone gets that, y’know.”
“Yeah, that’s the spirit! Hang in there. Van Gogh never sold a stick of oden in his life, right?”
“But you still gotta make rent. Ever heard of that stuff? ‘Rent?’
With that, an uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Voice by voice, the sounds of children playing began to fade away with the darkening sky. The evening air carried the faint, sweet scent of mosquito coils smoldering on the balconies of the housing projects.
“Anyway, hang in there, man,” Osomatsu said again, just in case Chibita hadn’t heard it the first couple of times. “Worst comes to worse, at least you’re a weed guy, right?”
Chibita froze. “You think I’m a what?”
“You know, a weed guy!” Osomatsu insisted with rare sincerity. “You know! It’s that thing where you get stomped down a million times, but you get up again, like a weed growing back in the Spring. So that’s why they call it being a weed guy.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.” Chibita made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh and pinched at the space between his eyes. “You’re thinking of ‘weed spirit’, blockhead. That’s yasou-seishin.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, weed spirit,” said Osomatsu. "Been that way since we were kids.”
Chibita rolled his eyes. It would’ve been easier to pretend he hadn’t heard anything but he smiled. Moron, he thought. Total friggin’ moron.
Osomatsu took a long swig of beer and finished it with a sharp, exaggerated sigh.
“Man,” he said, setting the empty bottle on the counter. “We used to be real jerks.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘used to be?'” Chibita snickered, just a little darkly.
"Point taken." Osomatsu took out a second cigarette and let it burn. “Seems like you turned out alright, at least."
“Wish I could say the same for you, idjit.”
“Well, I guess that makes two of us.”