"My wife is getting a job, she has been nagging about the finances all year so I suppose she is just getting fed up and taking it into her own hands." The older businessman stared at his black coffee, the steam was being sucked up by his nose hairs and he seemed more interested in smelling the coffee beans than actually tasting them. Mr. Takayama has visited the listening lounge every night for the past couple of months, and he seems to always give just enough information about his home life that I'll inquire but not enough to come off as complaining.
"I suppose three children are incredibly expensive." I lean back against the bar counter and take a sip of my own coffee, I stare at the shelves of worn vinyl records with their dusty jackets sparkling in the amber light of my mother's lamps. I nod towards the vintage record player sitting in the middle shelf of the bar behind me doing a little dance as I browse the wide selection of vinyl records.
"You have asked for Frank Sinatra recently, is that what you listened to growing up?" My skirt plays around my ankles and I love it so much I sway more intently in the hips to rustle them even more. I start pulling out some Queen and David Bowie before turning to look at his eyebrows furrowed above a playful smile.
"Oh come on, I'm not that old." He sips his drink and as he opens his mouth to give me the answers I shake my head with a wag of my finger.
"No no, let me guess. This is the fun part." I put my finger to my lips and searched for a decade earlier. I pull out Nirvana and display it to him between both hands and a tilted head but he shakes his head again with a smile.
"Try Biggie." He says sheepishly and leans to check if I have any rap albums behind me. I put Nirvana back and reach for my sliding ladder, pulling it to me. I climb up to the highest shelf and pull out Biggie, Tupac, and Boys 2 Men, but he says to me, "Just B.I.G."
I climb down and hop off before the last two rungs, and read the list of songs before I gently place it under the needle of the record player. "I can't say I've ever listened to this one, it was a donation from a young man who finished studying abroad and didn't have the space to take with him something as big and heavy as his record collection."
"Study abroad? Out here in Morimachi? He should go to Tokyo, that's where all the young people are." Mr. Takayama's phone was buzzing loudly in his pocket but just spoke louder and fidgeted with his drink. After too long, he discreetly slips his hand down to silence it, just in time for the record to catch and the deep bass to fill the tiny little lounge where just the two of us sat and drank anything but alcohol. It's easy to tell from someone's actions when they don't want to go home.
When people hear songs they love, they relive the images brought back to life by the soundtrack of their memories. Biggie was a notable rapper in America, but his voice was just the backdrop to young Takayama driving late at night to the arcade with his friends and going on his first date. It was the anthem of his adolescence before the music stopped playing and made way for marriage, children, and inescapable debt. Some people continue to dance to the different seasons of their life, finding new and different songs to accompany the evolution of a human life cycle. But some, like Takayama san, just stop dancing.
"Sometimes we would drive almost 10 hours all the way into Tokyo, with all the lights and people we thought we could be anything." He speaks over the sound of the record, I lean against the back bar and fiddle the knob to turn it down.
"Like Biggie? Did you want to be an artist?" I nod along to the beat.
Mr. Takayama just before this question was animated and boisterous, recounting his high school years listening to rap from America and discussing with his classmates his dreams of moving out of this tiny little town. But now, he looked at me quite seriously and before he said what he really wanted to, he said, "No. It's a dangerous life you know, getting caught up in gangs and drugs. He was killed. A terrible thing."
"Yes, good thing we don't have much of a gang problem here in Japan." I stare at him with smiling eyes, as the next song begins.
"But Japan has its own problems." Mr. Takayama stirs his coffee with a spoon even though there is nothing to mix.
"And every decision comes with its own risk." I walk over to the register and reach my hand into the money tray. My fingers scratch the top side of the register until they feel a paper thin bump and I slide out a small business card. It feels like it's my last one.
"Le'a san?" Mr. Takayama points to the radio next to the record player. He even attempts to reach over the counter to stop the music himself, but even with the arm's reach, his belly wouldn't allow his fingertips to make contact.
"Do you want me to turn off the music?"
"Yes, and turn up the radio. They're talking about a district in Tokyo where my sister lives."
I pull the needle up off the record and turn the volume dial on the radio up, the voice of the reporter sounds distant and almost drowned out by the shouting voices of groups of people.
"In Japan it is not uncommon for people to be 'hidden by the Gods' vanishing without a trace, but here in Setagaya district crowds of people have come together to demand answers to the whereabouts of Sayaka Fujino a very popular JPOP idol who disappeared three months ago. The very popular label company Castle Records's CEO and her other group members are at the center of the investigation. Hundreds of groups of volunteers are conducting searches in rivers and mountains close to the city. She may be spirited away, but not forgotten. We are here with her parents who hope to at least find a body and have closure for what has happened to their beautiful young daughter."
"That's weird." Mr. Takayama states, finishing off his cup.
"It is. But there are many logical reasons why a person would disappear, after this long it is likely she doesn't want to be found. Or maybe her parents are right. " I pull the record from the player and fit it into its sleeve, sensing that Mr. Takayama is ready to go home.
He pulls his phone out to check it then stands up to put on his jacket. "No, it's weird that her parents would hope for a body, when they don't even know what's happened to her. It's like they've already given up. Some people just love the attention that tragedy brings. It makes me really sick."
I smile at Mr. Takayama, a gambling addict but a loving father. I imagine the scene of Mr. Takayama walking his children to the elementary school down the street before taking the bullet train down to Tokyo for work. Since I live in the back of the lounge and my windows face the schoolhouse, I get to see kids pour out into the playground after lunch.
"A parent's feelings about their children is a deeply complicated thing." I finger the business card that is sitting in the pocket of my apron. His kids are still young. Maybe Mr. Takayama won't need it after all.
Mr. Takayama stands up, fumbling in his pockets for money to pay for the coffee but as usual I wave him away. "I'll put it on the tab." I wink to him, and he bows but doesn't turn away to leave immediately.
"Uhm. Le'a san."
"Yes Mr. Takayama."
"I have a lot of debt, and I'm afraid the only way to protect my family is to not burden them with it."
I nod, and pull the business card to set it on the counter in front of him, this way he can still refuse it and just walk away.
"It sounds like you need help moving then."
The 4 by 6 cardstock with a moving truck and "The Midnight Moving Company" has no phone number on it. Just an address of a bus stop in Tokyo.
After silence and a deep sigh, Mr. Takayama reaches his hand out to take the card.
I start to clear his coffee and wipe down the counter. "Your moving date is October 31st, a week from now. Be there no later than 2AM."
"How will I know which bus to take?"
"It will be pretty obvious."
"Thank you."
I bow and repeat my usual greeting knowing I'll never see him again.