Welcome to Osaka

fiCTion

WelCome To osaka

by TrisTan Carr

“Hi, welcome to Osaka! Would you like a table or hibachi today?” Adam noted the man’s greying hair, thinning at the temples, and the hard look in his eyes as he smiled and said a table would be great. The woman to the man’s side—though not quite at it—shared that hardness, with her permed brown hair framed over a dull face and thin lips. As Adam walked the two over to their seats, the ostentatious earrings on the dull woman jingled against themselves. Overcompensating for an unwanted night with an unwanted man, the woman dressed up. A tight dress and shiny things would distract people from the way she gritted her teeth as her husband asked for the drink menu. These two were long overdue for a divorce–or maybe a coroner’s report, judging from the daggers the woman stared at her husband. Oh, Adam liked that idea. He laughed silently to himself when he saw the woman white-knuckling the chopsticks despite no food being in front of her. The man ordered a bottle of cheap sake, surely thinking he was getting the fanciest thing on the menu. “Absolutely sir, I’ll let them know.” Adam loved this stupid job. It paid just enough for him to get his textbooks and some McDonald’s from time to time, which was fine for living in the dorms. But the main thing he loved were the people like the hard man and angry woman he just met. He would sit them in their seats, then lean back behind his little counter and work out the details, filling in the gaps. A little flip pad emerged from his apron pocket, along with a charcoal pencil. It worked faster than pen or graphite, important for only having maybe a few minutes for each sketch. He made sure to get the greying man’s broad shoulders, the way his eyebrows furrowed when he tried to read the anglicized Japanese. But his favorite so far today was the woman, so he gave her due diligence. She

seemed to have a vise for a hand; Adam nearly expected her iced water glass to shatter from the way she gripped it. So angry, so tense. The story Adam would write that evening was already fumbling around in his head. He defined the sheen of her dress in his pad, imagining her viciously zipping herself up while her husband struggled to tie the tie (which, Adam observed, was slightly askew). He imagined her name was Carolin, and her husband Steven—she always called him Steven, never Steve—was maybe ten years older and helpless without her. In the beginning she had tied his ties for him, and would pull down on them whimsically to get a kiss. Now, she liked watching him struggle. Show the bastard what’s due, even if in a minor way. What had he done, Adam wondered. Returning to the table, Adam carried the man’s sake with excitement, scanning the couple for more details. The man habitually tucked his collar deeper into his wrinkly neck despite already being fully buttoned, and that was when Adam saw it: the little mark of red, only visible looking down at the sitting Steven. He had a mistress! And wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her as he seemed to think, smiling and gulping his booze. Tonight, Adam decided Carolin would murder Steven. They would arrive home and find his mistress Shandra in their bed, naked and waiting (the man ordered teriyaki, the woman only the soup and salad). Steven would curse and stutter over his words, and, as Shandra chuckled shamelessly at being found out, Carolin would pick up her husband’s bowling trophy from its prominent place on their dresser and crack his skull open with a single swing (no problem, if you guys need anything just let me know). Steven would fall, Shandra would scream, but, Adam decided, Carolin would be smiling (the man smiled a stiff thank you and continued reading the drink menu he had already ordered from). Adam was excited to write that one. He returned to his counter and finished off his little sketch of Carolin and Steven with a little flourish of his hand, drawing a dramatic line from her eyes to his shirt collar to drive the visual narrative home. He heard the door’s bell jingle-jangle as more patrons arrived, and he put on his airliner smile as he tucked his work back into his apron. “Hi, welcome to—” the words lodged in his throat with a white panic. Adam hastily threw that panic into the crook of his elbow as a cough, but still struggled to recover. It was Monica. Monica Vicci, New York Times bestseller four years in a row. She was a prolific writer and Adam’s greatest inspiration. Her focus was the psychological, the traumatic. So visceral, you’d be shocked to hear she in fact was not an expert in the field. She merely knew human behavior. She observed it. Monica knew what made people tick: what they thought, how they felt, why they felt it. Even in real life, she could control a room and lead the thoughts of everyone there like a carrot on a stick. Reading her work felt shameful, like a voyeur peeking out from a closet at a person’s naked heart.

She was the whole reason Adam wrote how he did. It was all about the character, the dramatization about the human mind. He got the idea from her. She was also Professor Vicci, Adam’s teacher, and, he liked to think, his colleague. Some found that idea strange, what with Adam only being an undergrad, but he was comfortable with her. He’d picked this school just to hear Monica lecture and had ended up taking her three years in a row. She was a friend to him, hours spent talking about the craft in her office, discussing where all their ideas

came from. She was amazed at what he could do, this little strategy he had devised. She encouraged people-watching, but there was something about the way Adam did it that blew Monica away. She had always joked about coming by his work one day, seeing what story he’d tell of her. When she walked in with a tight-waisted black dress, the leg-slit all the way to her hip exposing an uncovered olive thigh, Adam knew she wasn’t here for dinner. The way she sauntered, as though a loyal procession were at her heels. No, Adam noticed, not heels but sandals, nearly barefoot. Steps so soft, Adam expected the floor had been white beach sand this whole time. With a jolt, Adam realized he had gone through his whole script. Monica was seated, menu in hand. Had she asked for the drink menu? No. Adam turned as calmly as he could manage. The man that had followed her in had. “Of course, sir. Here you are.” Short and built like a lightbulb, this man’s yellowing fat stacked on top of itself like cake layers, each marked by a distinct seam that surely had frosting in between. Hair so fine and grey and absent, the combover seemed perhaps meant as a joke. His nose was a painful red, like it had been slapped repeatedly, and wobbled when he spoke. Some form of dry wine, he had said. Not one for the restaurant’s theme, it seemed, though still willing to spend the money. “Of course, sir. I’ll get those drinks and have them right out.” Adam turned and caught Monica’s eye. She hadn’t said his name once. No, she had hardly looked at him until now. But in that moment, that passing glance, the glint in her eyes was a fire. She knew it was him. Why hadn’t she said hello? Who was this man? Was Monica biting her lip right now? Was Adam standing here too long? “Was there something you needed, ma’am?” “Oh no, I think I changed my mind.” Her voice was soft, the usual breathiness dangerous, as she hid her face behind the menu, though she couldn’t have been reading with her eyes still on Adam. With a nodded very good and an I’ll go get those drinks, Adam all but ran from the table, his mind racing. The drinks long forgotten, Adam retreated to his little stand by the door and stared at the back of Monica’s head. Why had he sat her back to him? How was she reacting to the grotesquely large man with her? How was she able to maintain eye contact with that? Adam wasn’t aware he had produced his sketchpad but was already halfway through their table setting. His hand simply moved while his mind bent to explain what was in front of him. Monica was single, had been for the past two years, she had told him. To be friendly, Adam had asked what her weekend plans were just the other day: nothing. So, she wasn’t dating (the charcoal hazily caressed the playful bun that tied her loose curls to the back of her head) and that dress was not a first date kind of experience (it was certainly silk, but so smooth the reflecting light made it seem like polished stone). She was here for attention. Was she here for the muffin man in front of her then? His whole being undulated with every p, w, and h that came out of his mouth, which seemed full of food despite the empty table (idly, Adam recalled the drinks and found himself behind the bar pouring water glasses). Something about his assuredly diabetic face seemed so familiar. He was no author; Adam would have remembered one that offensive to the eyes (his hands found the bottle of dry wine and a tray, and he approached the table with surprising speed). It wasn’t until he was pouring the glass of wine for the creature, tearing his eyes away from Monica’s giggling stare, that it clicked. The soulful green eyes of the large

man, then the brilliant white smile, so honest even through the arrogance. The university president had put on weight since Adam had last seen him. She wasn’t dating and wasn’t on a date; Monica was here to seduce something out of her boss. From the way he stuttered (they needed a few more minutes to order, okay take all the time you need) and the way he stared at Monica’s breasts (Adam struggled not to stare himself as he made his way back to his stand) it seemed to be working. It made sense. Why would anybody be around the president by choice, otherwise? Well, the man was nice enough. Just when did he gain so much weight? There was just one thing Adam couldn’t deduce. Why was she staring? What was with that playful look? (When Adam returned to his counter, his hand continued to draw without his regard and found itself depicting Monica side-eyeing him from her place at the table before she excused herself to the restroom.) Why had she acted like a stranger? Why had she picked here for this situation? (Adam finally found the finished drawing clenched tightly in his hand and met Monica’s wicked, grinning eyes.) When he had asked her plans, she’d returned the courtesy. “Just work,” he had said. “Can’t wait to read your next piece then,” she’d replied. Maybe… was she here for him, too? Before coming, she had known she must seduce the president but never touch, as his wedding band was proud and prominently hoisted on his left ring sausage. The dress, the look, it was all for show. She had picked the restaurant; it suited her boss’s tastes (expensive) and she would have someone else, Adam, she could show her dress to (Monica returned to the table and sat down slowly, leg flourishing out, exposing her inner thigh so far Adam could feel the sweat on his brow). It was all a game, Adam decided. But which one was she here to play it with? Adam would work backwards; he was brainstorming, right? If he knew the ending, he could find the motivation, surely. Monica would return home (Adam was taking their order, he vaguely understood, hearing nothing, writing everything down perfectly), alone, remove her makeup with two swipes of two cloths, slip out of her dress and into pajamas and sit with her cat. It was a simple ending, but not an unexpected one. She wouldn’t be taking home her boss, a married gelatinous heap (the president ordered five whole sushi rolls, surely you will have some, Monica he said, oh perhaps a little, thank you). So being accompanied home was out of the question. Unless she was here for him? What if Adam was with her, throwing open her bedroom door? What if they didn’t bother to take the dress off? No, how would he even get there? Ride in her passenger seat? How utterly romantic. Unless this was the beginning of the night. It was only seven; the sun had just gone down (the food had arrived; Adam crammed it all precariously onto the table, which should not have been too small). Maybe they went for a dance, or drinks somewhere. Not dinner, obviously. She would grab his arm and lead him through the city nightlife, and he would follow close at her heels; he was the procession she had been expecting. Then, after a long night, they would be drunk. Would it be a long night? Perhaps not. They

would be drunk, either way. How they got there didn’t matter much, did it? They would take a cab and she would breathe in his ear, grabbing him. Her aggression would match the fire in her eyes. They’d be inside before he realized, her sandals off, his shirt unbuttoned (Adam’s eyes were wild as he brought them the check, which the president gleefully produced exact change for. No tip for Adam). It was moving so fast. How did they even get here? Adam would go up to her table at the end of the meal and pull her away. No. After the meal, Monica would get up (Monica got up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress). Monica would thank the president for a lovely evening, say they had discussed a great deal and it was very productive (it was wonderful, she said. Yes, we should do this again, Ms. Vicci). She would excuse herself once again as the president was leaving to go to the restroom (are you sure? The president seemed concerned. Yes, yes, I can make it to my car just fine, thank you, sir. Goodnight). She was planning it all along, of course. The president would leave, and she would emerge from the back. She would catch Adam’s eye as she left (he was sure she was looking at him when she walked out), and Adam would freeze. She would walk up casually (Adam tensed as her silent steps carried her closer) to his little stand by the door and grab his collar, not hurtfully, and lead him out the door. Into her car. Of course, she had been planning this all along (Adam heard the sound of the opening door’s bell, and somewhere far away heard a reply). “Hi, welcome to Osaka.”