cool mint gum

It happened a long time ago, but I once saw a young woman driving a charcoal grey Volkswagen. She was wearing a pink summer dress, and her nicely shaped breasts were sticking out like jet engines. Also, she was wearing white sandals. The reason I knew about the sandals was because she stopped her car in front of the bench where I was sitting, rustled her sandals against the floor of the car as she put them on (she must have been driving barefoot all this time), and walked right past me as she went to the store to buy some cool mint gum.

I was staring at her through all of this. Her dress fit tightly, so -- how can I say this -- it ended up being a very enjoyable stare. Her shoulders moved gracefully, and her belly seemed as flat as a sheet of drawing paper-- she was that slender. In short, she was the girl who single-handedly embodied the summer of 1967. I imagined that on a shelf in her room she had a collection of everything having to do with the summer of ‘67, neatly placed there like organized pairs of underwear.

She opened the gum wrapper and tossed a single piece of gum in her mouth. Chewing on her gum in a way that was downright charming, she walked right past me once more.

And then her charcoal grey Volkswagen drove off into the flow of summer, like a river trout gracefully swimming upstream.

It’s been 14 years since then, but every time I see a charcoal grey Volkswagen it reminds me of her.

-m

cutlets

Speaking of the cutlets in Kobe, how in the world do they decide the price for beef cutlets? I’m not talking about wiener schnitzel or cordon bleu here, I mean plain old beef cutlets.

               I think it’s a real shame that you can’t get them in Tokyo. A capital city without any beef cutlets? It’s like we’re in 1942 Stalingrad.

                You know, whenever I start thinking about them, I immediately turn into a beef cutlet fanatic like I’ve been swept along by a bullet train.

                Beef cutlets and bread are a truly delicious combination. I like to take beef cutlets and slather them with some mustard and butter, placing them between pieces of bread that are sliced just a little thin. Into the toaster oven they go for a light toasting, along with just two slices of watercress. To drink, maybe a glass of unsweetened ice tea, or perhaps a bottle of Märzenbier. Oh... oh yes...

Plain beef cutlets are best when they’re as large as the soles of size-9 sneakers. The meat can’t be too thick or too thin either. Meat that’s too thin just makes you look poor, and having it too thick is a let-down as well. Above all, the meat mustn’t have any gristle. The crust should be fried until crispy; its texture slightly firmer than that of pork cutlets. Also, you have to make sure that the breading isn’t too thin.

                It may be just a side-dish, but you definitely need shredded cabbage as well. Adding shredded cabbage to a plate of beef cutlets is like adding a Playboy bunny sticker to a Rolls-Royce. Noodles that are lightly boiled in salt water, kidney beans, watercress, and other simple sides are OK, but if it comes with a carrot demi-glace, you might as well throw it in your ashtray.  

                Now for the rice. A mix of barley and rice would be ideal, but since most restaurants don’t carry it, you’ll just have to settle for white rice. Something like a bread roll wouldn’t be proper at all.

                The way to eat a beef cutlet is around the same as how you eat a pork cutlet. The only difference is the sensations you get when you put a knife to it. The crispness of the breading, the meat’s tenderness that’s normally obscured by the characteristic firmness of beef, the breading again, and then finally the clack of your knife against the plate: it’s to die for!

                When I was a child, my father would take me to the movies, and on the way back we’d always have beef cutlets. From the window of the restaurant I could see the harbor, and the peaks of mount Rokko standing out in all directions.

                In the guide books for Kobe, all you’ll see are restaurants serving beef steaks (and if you just want that, there’s no point in going all the way to Kobe when you can get it at restaurant 10 minutes away in Tokyo!), with no mention of beef cutlets. Why is that?

-m

kama sutra

“Happy birthday,” she said, handing me a small, beautiful box tied with a green ribbon.  We were in a nice restaurant on the 32^nd floor of a skyscraper, having roast beef for dinner as we drank scotch and water. It was my birthday, after all.

            “Hey. Do you know what I’m thinking about? Try and guess!”

            “Hair clippers?” I asked. Of course, I was just joking with her.

            I removed the wrapping paper, unveiling a shiny, ruby-colored box with a movie ticket sized piece of paper inside. Written on it were the words “Pleasure Ticket.”

            “You can use it whenever you like!” she said.

            Returning home, I opened up the highest drawer on my desk. Inside of it were 78 “pleasure tickets” in a variety of colors, each from 78 different girls. I pulled out the whole thing and added my new ticket, making it 79. A fairly reasonable number.

In my backyard I dug a hole with a shovel, burying the 79 “pleasure tickets” that I had packed into an empty can of Grape Drops. Afterwards I pulled out a hose and watered it. I guess I’m just that kind of person.

-m

onion soup

Following the guidance of mother nature, we went and had sex. An hour later, we made love for the second time, all while under the guidance of mother nature. Whew!
           
            The first round of sex was... well, there was nothing bad about it, but it wasn’t that great either. How can I explain it? You could say it felt like there was an elderly lion in the other room, and he was gingerly brushing his teeth.
            The second time was amazing though!

It’s hard to explain exactly how amazing it was. Just the fact that we can experience something with our bodies that’s impossible to describe is simply incredible. I really don’t think there would be much meaning to life without it.

At one o’clock in the morning, after having had sex for the second time, the two of us lay in bed smoking. In the next room, the lion was warming up some soup for dinner. The nostalgic smell of onions wafted toward us through a gap in the door. She and I were completely enveloped by the pleasant mist, and it felt as if we were sitting in the middle of a giant cartoon speech bubble. With her tiny hand, she laid her palm on my chest.

-m

oil sardine

Hey umpire,
what game were you watching?
I ate some canned sardines yesterday
who could’ve made a better call than that.

4/10/1981

*[Yakult Swallows Poetry Anthology]

-m

elevator

"Please tell me what floor you would like," said the elevator girl.

"176th" answered the middle aged man.

"Floor 176. Alright sir."

"The 328th," said the young woman. She had really nice legs.

"Yes ma'am, floor 328."

"413th," I said.

"I'm very sorry," said the elevator girl, sounding genuinely apologetic. "This elevator only goes to the 390th floor."

“Lame," I sighed. "I left 3 pairs of socks up on the 413th."

“You’re welcome up to my place,” the young woman with nice legs softly whispered to me. “It’s on the 328th, but it’s much better than some old socks.”

It’s where I truly wanted to be.

She had an amazing room. Everything, from the lighting to her taste in furniture, the music playing in the background, the degree of air conditioning, even the softness of the carpet: all of it was perfect. Every little bit of it was exactly right for me, as if she had gone and figured out my tastes beforehand.

If I were James Bond, this is the part where I would have started getting suspicious, but lucky for me I wasn’t James Bond. Neither was I Mike Hammer, Lew Archer, or Philip Marlowe for that matter either. Isn’t it great being an ordinary citizen?         

As we sipped some well-chilled champagne, we talked at length about things like music, literature, sports, and the tending of tropical fish. The only thing still bothering me was the fact that I still had those 3 pairs of socks back up on the 413th floor.

“Oh right, the socks!” she said, as she took my hand and led me into another room where she smoothly and soundlessly opened a large, mahogany wardrobe. Inside of it were close to 2000 pairs of socks of various colors, all of them neatly rolled up into balls and stacked as if they were precious jewels.

“Do you like them?”

“They’re... wonderful,” I breathed with a sigh. “Oh so very wonderful.”

“If you want them, they’re all yours!”

           
            I drew her towards me, putting her lips against mine. Her nightgown fell gently to the floor.

And that’s why I now own 2000 pairs of socks.

-m

indians

This friend of mine has been making a ton of money. So much so that even he has no idea how much it is exactly. He owns a number of different companies, and each and every single one of them is tightly bound to the others like they're all part of some kind of jealous, many-legged beast. For example: company A makes loans to company B, company B exploits company C, company C skillfully double-crosses company D... you get the picture. So no matter what he tries, he just can't figure out the combined earnings of his businesses.

His accountant, a man who resembles Yoda wearing thick spectacles, would come along once a week. He'd punch away at the computer keyboard, write down a series of numbers with his fine ball-point pen, draw out some intricate line graphs, and run through the business records.

"I'm transferring these funds over to there," said the accountant.

"Uh huh," said my friend.

"But this is just on paper."

"Uh huh."

"Well, it's just on paper but transferring the money gives us an issue with taxes."

"Uh huh."

"But if we don't transfer it, the discrepancy in revenue between the last fiscal year and the current one looks too artificial."

"Uh huh."

"So we'll tabulate our reported net income at the same time that we transfer the money."

"Uh huh."

And that's how it goes. It's like running around hitting trees in the forest with a stick. In the end, you can't tell the trees you've hit from the ones you haven't. Even so, he still makes a profit.

No one knew how he had become so wealthy. He wasn't a remarkable man, and his grades weren't that good by any means. It wasn't like he was gifted with incredible foresight or quick thinking either. His character wasn't that exceptional. In fact, it was next to nothing. 

So nobody could believe it when they heard that he had gotten rich. No matter how hard they tried to wrap their heads around it, it seemed like a bad joke.

"You're kidding me," said one friend. "If that guy's rich, then I can fly."

But facts are facts. He's making more money than any of us... no, more than all of us put together.

"A long time ago, I saw this comedy western movie," my rich friend told me one day. "What was it called... It had this train that was being chased by Indians. And so the people on the train are burning as much coal as they can to try and get away. But they've used up more than half of it, so they're running out of fuel as they go."

"Hmm."

He and I had met for the first time in years, completely by chance at the bar of some hotel. I had just come from someone's wedding ceremony (I can't recall who now), and he was returning from a company party.

"Once the coal runs out, they start throwing stuff like the seats and sections of the roof into the furnace chamber. And when all the seats and roofing have been used up, they take off their clothes and burn them too."

"I see."

"It's like a slapstick movie. You know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"So, everyone burns their clothes. And after that, there's nearly nothing left. But the Indians are still in pursuit. There's no way out."

"Seems that way."

"Well, there's still one piece of luggage remaining. It turns out that it's filled with money. Right there in the train is the whole of the army's salary, packed away in bundles of cash. These bills could've filled Santa's sack five times over."

"So they had an easy time burning it?"

He nodded impassively. "Money's no substitute for staying alive."

"You're right about that."

"Well, it doesn't really matter. It's just a movie after all." He held a cigarette up to his mouth and the bartender swiftly lit it with a lighter. "The thing is, it's the way they go about burning it."

"How do they do it?"

"Well, basically they scoop the bills into the furnace with shovels. They shovel it in huge heaps right into the middle of the flames. Just try to imagine the sight of it. The fire's not important, but the shoveling itself!"

"I'm imagining it."

"How does it make you feel?" 

"I don't feel anything at all."

He slid his empty glass about 10 centimeters forward, and 20 seconds later a new glass with a fresh drink in it was placed down in front of him with a satisfying clink.

"What's your annual income?" he asked me.

I told him the honest amount.

"Before or after taxes?"

"Before," I said.

"It's really that little?"

"Yes," I admitted. It was a frank question, but for some reason I wasn't that put off by it.

"Aren't you a writer though?"

"I am according to my tax agent."

"Why is your income so little then?"

"Well, it's just a job that's not very financially rewarding." 

"It seems that way," he said, sounding bored. He looked to me like a golf singles player who just found out that he had been teamed up with a beginner. I almost felt like apologizing.

"Scooping up money with a shovel: when I think about it, it's almost like I finally understand it all," my rich friend said. 

"And how does it feel?"

"I feel like I'm being chased by Indians!"


-m

interview

May 12, Shiseido parlor of the La Floret, Shinjuku. The young female interviewer is 30 minutes late.

"Well, Mr. Murakami, I'd like to ask about the kinds of things you like to eat every day. So let's begin with what you have in the morning."

"First of all, in the morning–"

"Wait, sorry. I forgot to turn up the volume on the recorder. Excuse me, please go ahead."

"First of all, in the morning I eat some vegetab–"

"Interesting. What time do you wake up in the morning?"

"I get up at five. And then–"

"Five o'clock? Five o'clock in the morning?"

"We're talking about mornings right now, aren't we?"

"I suppose we are... But what are you doing, waking up at five in the morning?"

"I'm running! It's not like I'm out stealing panties or anything like that."

"Hahaha.... So, around what time do you go to bed?"

"Nine thirty or ten. Anyway, isn't this interview supposed to be about food? I'm sorry, but I'm keeping people waiting and I don't have a lot of time."

"Right, right.... I apologize."

"I eat breakfast after I'm done jogging, at around six. I have a bowl of rice with plenty of vegetables, a roll of bread with two cups of coffee, and then two eggs, sunny-side up.

"How healthy!"

"It's really just because the vegetables near where I live are so cheap." 

(Cups of coffee are served, clattering against the table.) 

"And then that brings us around to lunch."

"It certainly does."

"What kinds of things do you have for lunch?"

"For lunch I usually– hey, the tape isn't moving!"

"Ah, ah, ah! You're right... Darn. What happened?"

Click, click, click....

"The switch isn't on. See, it's set to 'OFF.'"

"Ahhh! I thought I had turned it on..."

"What should we do? Do you want me to repeat everything?"

"No, it's alright. I'll be able to remember it all. You wake up at five and go jogging, have a bowl of rice with salad on top, a roll, and some ham and eggs."

"Fried eggs."

"Yes yes, fried eggs."

"And two cups of coffee."

"Two cups, coffee."

"Can you remember that?"

"It's fine. I've got an incredible memory!"

<The Article>

Mr. Murakami has an early morning. He wakes up at 5:00 AM, and then goes jogging. "Actually, it's like I'm a panty thief, hahaha!" he laughed with embarrassment. His daily menu consists of a salad with ham and eggs, and of course two cans of beer... 


-m

antithesis

In a corner of the menu marked "Tonight's Special," I found a dish of antithesis.

"Fresh Normandy Style Antithesis in Garlic Sauce." is what was written there.

As I stared at the menu, I tried asking the headwaiter. "The antithesis, is it actually fresh?" 

"Ah, there's no doubt about that, sir." answered the headwaiter, as if he was offended by having been asked.

"Even after being in business for more than 30 years, not one customer has ever been disappointed by what is printed on our menu. When we say 'Today is Monday,' you can be sure that it is 100 percent Monday. And when we say 'Today's antithesis is fresh,' you can be sure that it is 100 percent fresh. Literally they've just been harvested, and they're lively as well. Even now they're still snapping away." 

"I apologize then. I was just being careful because I've hardly been able to find fresh antithesis nowadays."

The headwaiter narrowed his eyes and nodded, as if in affirmation.

"I agree with you completely. Certainly in the last 10 years all of the large fresh antithesis have been depleted, and in most places you're getting frozen Indian dwarf antithesis. Except you can barely call the ones from India antithesis. They're lacking in juices, and there's no character to their bitterness."

"Yes, certainly..."

"However," said the headwaiter, interrupting my words. "However, you shouldn't be worried. We only take in the real thing. Tonight's antithesis is a once in a year delicacy. The price is a bit high, but trying it is worth it. We quickly peal the skin, score it with a knife, and then we pour our scalding hot garlic sauce on top in order to preserve the antithesis's natural crispy firmness. The skin is deep fried and enjoyed with a salad."

"Then that's what I'll have. Along with a dry white wine that goes well with antithesis," I said.   

I felt that the price was a little too high, but what else could I do? I had no idea when would be the next time I could eat real antithesis.


- m

asparagus

Out of all the things that could have happened, we had gotten ourselves lost in the middle of an asparagus field. Our plan was to arrive in the next town by the afternoon, so we had started walking early in the morning. By the time we had realized that we were in the dead center of a gigantic asparagus field, the sun was almost setting in the West. The wind blowing around us carried with it a distinct chill, and the ominous smell of asparagus began to fill the air. 

I took out a map and compass from my rucksack and tried to figure out our current location, but ultimately I had no idea what had gone wrong. There wasn't an asparagus field listed anywhere near here. 

"At any rate, let's figure out which way the town is. If we know the right direction, we can make it through this field no matter what happens," I said.

The lightest of us, my younger brother, swiftly climbed up one of the towering asparagus trees. Clinging onto its trunk one-handedly like a monkey, he surveyed the surrounding area. 

"I don't know. I can't see a thing. I can't even see a single light," said my brother, shaking his head. 

"What ever will we do, big brother?" asked my little sister, her voice sounding as if she could cry at any moment.

"It'll be alright, don't worry," I said, patting her on the shoulder. "We'll gather plenty of firewood. Enough to make a fire lasting overnight . I'll dig a trench near here." 

Following my words, and covering their mouths and noses with towels to prevent paralysis, my brother and sister gathered dead asparagus branches with as much strength as they could. I dug a ditch around 1 meter deep with a shovel. The dry 1 meter ditch was nothing more than a consolation, but it was better than nothing. At least it would help keep my frightened brother and sister feeling safe.  

The full moon stood out clearly in the sky, and its light threw a blue cast upon the cloudy fumes that were spraying from the asparagus roots.  A number of small birds that had escaped too late had fallen to the ground, and were thrashing their wings about in agony. Very soon, the moon would be overhead, and they would probably be ensnared by the asparagus tendrils. Out of all the things that could happen, it just had to be a full moon tonight.

"Put your bodies lower; even though the gas is above your head, it won't get in. Whatever you do, don't fall asleep. If you sleep, the tendrils will come," I said. 

The long night was only just beginning.

- m

eisenhower (or: "A view on postwar history from 1958")

On the evening of September 21, 1958, Sonny Rollins was alone on the Brooklyn Bridge, practicing away at scales on a tenor saxophone as it slowly grew dark around him. 

"Hey mister, what'cha doing?" asked a passing boy.

Sonny answered, "I'm fighting an atomic monster." 

"You liar!" said the boy.

At precisely the same moment, President Eisenhower was right in the middle of the New Mexican desert, commanding the troops as a heroic battle to the death unfolded against a horrible atomic monster with four gigantic claws. The Secretary of State explained the ground situation in an exhausted tone: "Mr. President, at this rate the Earth will be annihilated. Our weapons are simply no match for it." 

"May God forgive us. For we have brought forth unto this world that which was never meant to be," muttered the President.

The atomic monster snapped its claws as it advanced, trampling tanks and artillerymen alike.

My 9-year-old self yelled to my mother's back while she was in the kitchen. "Hey, are the donuts ready yet?"

- m