of: Murakami ^^

Spring 2000

When I first saw the Japanese businessman walking on the seawall, I was engrossed by his receding hairline.

In the afternoon sun, the curvature of his balding head looked like an egg – freshly boiled and perfectly peeled. His long hair wisped around as a comb-over from the right side reaching the curve of his left ear. The wind fought with it and I thought it's a good thing he didn't wear a toupee, since he would have lost it in this weather, anyway.

His white button up shirt was likely crisp in the morning, but at this point midday it was creased anywhere he could sweat and was lazily tucked into his ill-fitting slacks. Working near the Galveston Convention Center at a small popsicle stand with a clear view of the murky Gulf, I see all sorts during the lunch rush – island natives, Houston parasites, out-of-towners and the occasional business-person trying to walk in their polished shoes on the sandy sidewalk.

The Japanese businessman looked like he had had a few drinks at lunch and was trying to walk off the buzz before returning to the convention center, where he would need to look at least semi-composed. In his condition, he looked barely composed, his palms glistening with beads of sweat. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe off the back of his neck.

He kept looking at his mobile phone, then out at the oil barges on the horizon, then back to his phone. During the day the barges are just rust-colored obtrusions in the distance of the brown-water, but at night they look like elegant cruise ships anchored to the reef - every light glistening off the water, like stars falling from the vast, vast sky.

The man was stout, maybe 5'4”, and probably weighed close to 220 pounds. He was pudgy – and looked like he was made of clay. He kept pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the knuckles of his left hand. Every time he did this, he would scrunch up his nose as if to bring his whole face back into the center. His black slacks were too loose at the bottom, but too tight at the top - they needed to be taken both in and out.

Normally conferences at the convention center last for about 2 or 3 days, although some can go through the entire week, just depending on the itinerary. It was a Wednesday, so it was hard to tell if the man was just about to leave, just coming in, or in the middle of his stay. At the time, I had no way of knowing and, really, no interest – what people do has little to do with me, just watching them fight with the gusts from the gulf is enough for a drop-out selling popsicles (like me).

Even with the sun high, the Japanese man squinted up at the pelicans soaring in a diagonal line, so I looked up at them too. When you watch someone long enough, you start to watch the things they watch. Having lived near the ocean for so long, I never really noticed the birds anymore. But looking at them then, I thought about that thing Haruki Murakami wrote.

I tried to remember what it was. I remembered liking it, maybe even loving it - but it still eluded me. The pelicans flapped their wings slowly - making me restless. You couldn’t count a beat with that pace. I looked back over at the Japanese man, his hair completely undone now - twisting like a small hurricane - a black wisp around a freshly boiled egg.

Then, with only the warning of abruptly raising his left arm - like a robot quick to wake - the Japanese man chucked his phone into the water.

Or tried. It’s a far distance from the seawall to the actual sea, so it hit the sand. There was a weight of resignation on his shoulders and for a few seconds, I thought he would go pick it up. Watching tourists trudge through sand in well-kept shoes is another hobby of mine, so I wasn’t opposed to that sight either.

But instead, he pivoted on his heel, and scurried towards the convention center. His phone remained lamely in the sand – far from its target by a longshot.

I couldn't help but think that Haruki Murakami would've had a better overhand throw.

When you watch someone long enough, you start to wonder about the things they wonder. 

So, of course, on my 15-minute break, I went to retrieve his phone.

Excerpt from an untitled, unfinished short story - 2018
Alluded to / inspired by: “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” by Haruki Murakami