The Konohazuku Affair

http://maliga.com/jared/konohazuku/

   
    Omar was talking to two girls in matching sweaters, one red, one blue.  There is something so hot about that!  Maybe it was the gin, but he was having trouble deciding which one he would bed.  Maybe both!  Maybe both!

    Then, while trying to explain, um, boggle strategy, he burnt Susan with his cigarette.

    “Ow.” Susan said, grabbing her arm.  She might have heard her skin sizzle.

    “Oh shit.  Wow, did I get you?”

    “Omar, you gotta stop waving those things around,” said Blue Sweater.

    “Sorry babe, my bad.  Want me to roll you one?”  He clumsily reached in his back pocket.

    “No thanks.”  Susan felt flushed.

    “Say…” Red Sweater asked, “what’s your name?”

    “Susan.”

    “Yeah… Susan.  Harrison elementary.  Remember me?  Julia.”

    “Uh… sorry, I never went to Harrison.”

    “Yeah, you always wore that Garfield shirt to school.  I snatched Ms. Lawson’s candy stash and made you pinky swear not to tell.”

    “You’re thinking of somebody else.”  Susan began to wonder if people were purposely trying to irritate her.  Thus far, she hadn’t let any frustration bubble to the surface.  Thus far.

    “Yeah, we had some good times.” Her eyelids half-open, her forehead shone with sweat, floating around on her neck as she took a drag on her cigarette.  Susan was disgusted.  “Looking back, it’s pretty clear Ms. Lawson had some problems.  Eye make-up smudged all over her face, clothes all wrinkly and covered in cat hair.  And she broke down crying in front of the class like a dozen times.  Kids don’t care though.  They’ll let anybody teach kids.  Anybody.”

    “Excuse me, I’ve got to find my friend.”  Susan pivoted and walked quickly away.

    “Hey well, take it easy,” Omar called after her.  “Watch where you’re going.”

    Owls search for food at night, coasting far above unsuspecting prey.  Pushing through the crowd, Susan felt like prey.

    Sometimes Kate would watch people talk at parties and feel it was almost unfair.  Blatant attempts to disguise motivation usually had the opposite effect, yet few seemed to notice or care.  After a few drinks she often found herself surfing through conversations, catching momentum and expertly addressing opportunities as they arose.

    "Pemberton, that’s who invented Coca-Cola.  John Pemberton.  He claimed it treated morphine addiction, but all the while he was addicted to morphine himself, had been ever since he was injured during the civil war.”

    “Really?  Morphine?  Granted, people were probably a bit more naive back then, but I don’t see how anyone could believe a cola drink could treat morphine addiction.” Kate blinked, black hair framing her nonchalance.

    “Well, the job it does on my hangovers, morphine is not too much of a stretch.”  The Coke guy appealed to the crowd with open hands.

    “My hangovers are not so easily placated.”

    “Oh no?  What’s your secret?”

    “Hair of the dog, natch.”  This got the Coke guy wrinkling his brow, nodding his head, and grimacing.  The silence was enough that people began to wander off.  Shifting himself toward Kate, raising a thumb to his chin, the Coke guy considered his response as Kate half-watched a guy in a sweat-stained polo shirt fall asleep on his girlfriend’s shoulder.

    “You have to understand, Pemberton was a pharmacist.  He spent years trying to perfect the drink.  Originally, he based the drink on a French cocawine called Vin Mariani, wildly popular in Europe.  But he wasn’t satisfied with his original attempts and continued to experiment, to tweak the formula.  It became an obsession.”

    “What’s that got to do with anything?”

    “See, Coca-cola wasn’t a success during Pemberton’s lifetime.  He spent more effort experimenting with formulas than on marketing the drink.”

    Kate blinked again.

    “What I’m trying to say is that he was focusing on the formula for personal reasons.  He really believed it would cure his addiction.  I mean, why do you think that so many people still drink Coca-Cola today?”

    “Massive, widespread marketing?”

    “Maybe.  Or could it be that it actually does have the power to displace addiction?  That there is something naturally soothing about the mixture of cola beans, coca leaves and essential oils?”  The Coke guy left the question hanging but Kate refused to answer it.

    “What did Pemberton die of?”

    “Stomach cancer.  Probably from all the morphine.”  He kept looking her over, trying to gauge her reaction, but Kate wasn’t giving anything away.  She turned and calmly looked him in the eyes.  He looked away, then put a hand into his pocket. “Want some blow?”

    “Sure.”  Kate smiled and wondered how close it was to midnight.

    “Hey, pointy shoes!”

    Susan glanced quickly down at her feet.  Yup, she was wearing pointy shoes, but that doesn’t mean stop walking.

    “Pointy shoes?  Wanna buy an owl t-shirt?”

    An owl T-shirt?  Huh, who knows, maybe I do want an owl T-shirt, Susan thought, turning toward the card table set up near the wall.  A scruffy, chubby man sat behind the table in a red-and-black striped sweater.  On one side of the table sat a pile of t-shirts.  The man looked down at her shoes then up at her face and grinned.

    “Ten bucks, special for Miss Pointy Shoes.”  Susan picked up a shirt.  A swooping owl clenched a bloody mouse in its talons.  The caption beneath the picture read “DON’T LET IT GET AWAY!”

    “The name is Susan, not pointy shoes.”

    “I’m very sorry.  You have very nice, pointy shoes. My name is Derrick.  That shirt you’re holding is very popular with executive types.”

    “Is that so?” Susan said, placing the shirt gently back on top of the pile.

    “Yeah well, executive types and disillusioned bird watchers.  I do a lot of business with disillusioned bird watchers.  But… hmm… a pointy-shoed type might be interested in the newest volume of Owl Sounds.”

    “Is this a tape of actual owl sounds?”

    “Mostly, yes.”

    “Mostly?”

    “A percentage are simulated.  I’ve found that most of my customers find the natural frequency of owl sounds unsatisfying, so I add in a few of my own.  My regular customers swear by it as a treatment for insomnia.”

    “How exactly do you simulate owl sounds?”

    “I’d prefer not to say,”  For a moment, the man looked hurt, “My bumper stickers also sell quite well.”

    “Is 1996 the year of the owl or something?” Susan leafed through the bumper stickers: GIVE A HOOT!, MY OTHER CAR IS AN OWL, OWL BE JUST FINE.

    “Year of the owl?”  Derrick chortled, “no of course not, how silly.”

    “I guess I’m just confused about why you’re selling owl merchandise at a New Year’s Eve party.”

    “Oh, I’m an old friend of Omar and Wanda.”  He seemed to believe this needed no explanation.  Susan stared blankly back at him.  He gestured to the party behind her.  “…the hosts… I also used to work with Lily.  They let me set up merch booths at their parties.”

    “I guess I don’t really know the hosts.”

    “How did you get invited then?”

    “I’m here with Kate…”

    “Yes, Kate, she used to date Anders, right?”

    “Um, mayyybe… I vaguely remember the name Anders…”

    “Between you and me, he’s kind of a douche.  Acts like he’s better than everybody.  A couple years ago he freaked out and just took off.  Now he lives alone in a small town in the desert.”

    “Wait,” Susan attempted to reign in the conversation, “just clear this up for me: why are you selling owl paraphernalia?”

    “Well, I don’t like the term ‘paraphernalia’.  I prefer ‘merchandise’.”

    “Why” Susan closed her eyes, successfully suppressing frustration, “do you like owls?”

    A thoughtfulness overtook the face of the scruffy owl man.  He stared past Susan, briefly scratched in the area of both his nipples and blinked a tuplet.

    “I’ve often asked myself that question.  I remember seeing a large Horned owl in the forest when I was maybe four years old and having nightmares for weeks.  The way its head moved and how it silently watched me from its perch; I couldn’t get it out of my mind.  It seemed to know what I was thinking, to force me to question the very nature of my being.  Of course, the owl is known as a wise bird, but it is also a vicious beast, often swallowing its prey whole.  It’s mysterious and cruel, able to see the darkest shadows in even in the darkest night.”

    He scratched at his chin and Susan let him ponder in silence.

    “Plus, these bloody talons are badass.”  He held up the T-shirt for Susan again.  She nodded in unenthusiastic agreement.  “Just imagine a big ol’ Horned owl swooping up a mouse in almost complete darkness.  How crazy would it be to see that, like on a camping trip or something, right?”

    At that moment a clearly drunk woman spilled a vodka cranberry on a man directly behind Susan.  He started waving his arms and shouting “what the fuck!” and Susan moved to the left of the merch booth.

    “I gotta go, Kate’s probably looking for me.”

    “Sure, of course.  You should sign the mailing list, though.  I send out a mailing twice a month, with special events and sometimes free items.”

    “Ooh, free items.  I can’t pass that up, can I?”  Susan gladly wrote down her address, amused by Derrick the owl man, his red-and-black striped sweater, slightly repulsive facial hair and enthusiasm, feeling just a little sad for him.

    The party was held in what might have been an abandoned warehouse.  The ceilings were unnecessarily high and the square footage was ridiculous, but the hosts had done a good job of filling it.  Along one wall was a newly-constructed bar staffed by three bartenders.  People squeezed around tables of tacos and cheeseburgers set along another wall.  In the center was a mostly melted ice sculpture.  “Think it was an evil Mickey Mouse or Yosemite Sam, but I’m not really sure.”  Anyway, by the time Kate and Susan got there it was just a lump of ice and waves of conversation were nearly drowning out the music.

    A guy in black jeans, a dark green sweater-vest and thin-rimmed glasses stood next to the ice sculpture table and gestured as if he were giving a lecture.  He kept glancing around the room, as if he were trying to invite more people into his conversation.  Kate and Susan joined the group of people who were polite or bored enough to indulge him yet careful enough to seem uninterested.

    “You know what the best hangover cure is, though?”  He milked the question a bit, extracting half-hearted eye contact, “Coca-Cola.  Ice-cold Coca-Cola does it every time.  NOT Diet Coke, though.  It has to be regular Coke, because all the sugar speeds up your metabolism and helps completely flush the alcohol out of your system.”

    “Oh!”  Kate grabbed Susan’s arm, and spoke softly so that she wouldn’t distract the Coke guy, who was gaining confidence from his growing audience.  “So Nina had the kid?”

    “Yup.”

    “Boy or a girl?”

    “A bouncing baby boy.”

    “Plus, the carbonation helps ease stomach discomfort and the caffeine helps wake you up.  Not to mention," fluidly gesticulating, clearly in his comfort zone, "the mysterious powers of both the coca leaf, a favorite of the Incas, and kola nut extract, often included in diet pills.”

    “Do they have a name yet?”

    “Logan.”

    “Have you seen pictures?”

    “I’ve held him.  He’s squirmy.”

    “Is he cute?”

    “No, he’s hideously, hideously ugly.”

    “Ah.  Just like his auntie." Kate paused, "does it make you feel old, being an aunt?" Susan raised her eyebrows and smirked. Kate continued: "I mean, it makes me feel a little old for you.  Or not old so much as maybe I should feel more old, you know, if people I know are having children.  Christ, I couldn’t raise a child right now."

    "Well yeah, actually holding him in my arms, I did sort of feel a newfound responsibility.  Maybe…" Susan trailed off a bit, looking off in the distance momentarily, "maybe it has made me think about things differently.  But what do you mean by ‘old’, anyway?  You’re only as old as you feel, after all."

    "I just… don’t want to start holding dinner parties and listening to jazz, you know what I mean?" It was not clear if Susan did know what she meant. "And I don’t like feeling like that’s what I supposed to do."

    "No one’s telling you how to feel, Kate."

    "Yeah, I know."

    "In fact, Coca-Cola was originally advertised as a cure for addiction to morphine, nicotine and alcohol.  And when the idea of prohibition became fashionable in the late nineteenth century, Coca-Cola was touted as a welcome alternative.  Of course back then it still contained cocaine."

    "Hey," Susan cracked her neck and looked around the party, "do you know where the bathroom is?"

    "Yeah, see that long line in the corner?"

    "Oh fantastic.  Well, don’t wait up for me."  And with that, Susan disappeared into the crowd and Kate edged toward the Coke guy.

    In the winter of 1995, a woman named Kate began to secretly worry that she had become estranged from her once close friend, Susan.  Both had become busier as they glided into their late-twenties and neither had bothered to keep in touch.  The relationship was fast becoming a memory and it was nobody’s fault.  Then, during a particularly cold, dark December morning, Kate took the initiative and called Susan, inviting her to a New Year’s Eve party.

    “Well, what kind of party are we talking about?”

    The measured hesitation in Susan’s voice would have frustrated a younger Kate, especially since she hadn’t yet planned that far ahead.  There’s always choices on New Year’s, she assured Susan.  Trust was a key factor at this stage of the game.

    From her desk chair, Susan stared at the song seeping through the crack in the lone window of her basement apartment–what song was it?  She hadn’t expected to hear from Kate and wondered if it might be better to say she was busy on New Year’s.  As she reached for her nail clipper and removed her right sock, she tried to be rational.  Kate could be difficult and (ugh! what song is that?) it was clear they were fundamentally different people.  Maybe it was best just to let things slowly fade into the cold vacuum of space.  But, truth be told, Susan had no plans for the New Year and it had been months since her last party…

    Don’t Look Back in Anger!  That’s it.  And Susan smiled, imagining the person who would bump Oasis in her alley on a Sunday morning.

    Sure, a few bits of eggshell made its way into the pot.  Yes, there were several inexplicably large pools of olive oil on and around the stove.  Logan attacked the kitchen with a disregard for his own inexperience.  And Harry just watched as the ramen brick was torn to bits and mixed with tabasco, worcestershire, mayonnaise.  The dish began to come together when Logan added the broccoli and spinach.  It bubbled to an enticing thickness and was removed from heat when it began to develop a thin, dark orange skin.

    Without a word, Logan grabbed the large clay bowls and set them on the table with the fancy Chinese soup spoons.  Harry watched the certainty and grace in Logan’s movement, but also noticed how he fought against the smile that was attempting to form on his face.  He spooned the mixture into the bowls with intense concentration.  What a joy to watch him in action!

    The table set, the food ready, Logan sat and placed a napkin in his lap.

    "Well," Harry said at last, "may I taste your concoction?"

    "Dig in, dad."  Logan said, and began to eat with the same messy diligence he brought to the preparation of the dish.  Harry chewed on a spoonful.  It was thick.  There were a lot of flavors competing for attention and the richness was almost nauseating.  But a distant harmony persisted; it tasted right.  He watched Logan methodically consume his creation, then sit back in his chair, satiated.

    "Well, chef," Harry said, wiping the corner of his mouth, "how was your dinner?"

    Logan stared at his father for a few moments.  Then he stood, picked up his clay bowl and hurled it through the kitchen window, sending glass shards across the kitchen floor.

    "It was pretty fucking good, dad."

    And Harry wondered if rock and roll would ever die.

    Harry sat in silence long after the put-together woman pulled out of the parking lot in her neat car with her neat kids.  It would be silly to try to be like her, but he didn’t want to keep being the way he was.  Somewhere in between would be nice.  When you sit long enough, you really hear your breath.  It sort of echoes through your body.

    When Logan opened the door, Harry jumped.

    "Whoa there, looks like quite a haul."

    "Yeah, I did alright for myself."  There’s something different about the way Logan is talking, Harry noted.  He’s speaking clearly for a change.

    "Well, let’s get cookin’ then."  Harry said, as he started the engine

    "Sounds like a plan."  Logan rolled the window down just enough so that it blew his hair around.  There were clouds in the sky, but they were well spaced.  The car rolled along, headed home.

    Most supermarkets keep the produce near the entrance: apples, oranges, lettuce, carrots.  But toothpaste, toilet brush, these came near the end, just before frozen goods.

    Logan had been to the grocery store probably a thousand times.  He knew how it worked.  So why keep trying to explain it to himself?  Remember to open the carton to check if any are broken.  Make sure your cart doesn’t have a bum wheel.  The bright yellow brand is always cheaper.  None of this got him any closer to figuring out what he was cooking for dinner, did it now?

    "See, there are rules, there is a way things are supposed to work."  Logan really only realized he was speaking out loud midway through his sentence, but luckily, no one seemed to notice.  So what if one of these soccer moms did notice though, Logan thought, and chuckled to himself.  And just at that moment a stockgirl, maybe a couple years older, turned down his aisle and gave him a grin and she definitely noticed the chuckling, Logan, way to go.  That was a definite pity grin.

    And he walked quickly now, long strides, turning down abandoned aisle 7.  Could be worse, he thought.  At least she doesn’t go to school with me.

    Back in the car, Harry was watching at a woman loading food into her Volvo.  Her two children were strapped safely inside, but she talked to them cheerfully as she loaded the brown paper bags carefully into the trunk.  She was clearly from a world that operated under a different set of rules.  As she
carefully bent her knees, she lifted bottles of seltzer from the
bottom of her cart and looked satisfied after she shut the trunk on the neat rows of bags.  Yet she couldn’t be any older than he was.  Probably younger even, he thought, and switched off the stereo.

    Logan held a package of pork ramen in his hand, blanched.  On the label a cartoon owl exclaimed Delicious Taste!  He had seen such an owl once before, at aunt Susan’s, the night when he had run out of bed crying. He had been staring at the ceiling for two hours, thinking about what it must feel like when you die.  But you can’t feel anything, that’s the point.  You don’t feel ever again.  Never ever.  You just sit underground and disintegrate, except it’s not you because there is no you anymore, you’re gone.  There’s no more you; you’re over.

    Then he ran out of bed and into his aunt’s room, hyperventilating.  What’s wrong, she said.  I’m gonna die, he said, I’m gonna die.  And she didn’t say anything for a long time, she just held him as he forced his head into her sweater.  Eventually, she made him sit up, made him some tea and tried to explain why life needed death.  But Logan sat staring at the drawing of the owl on the wall, at its uncaring eyes.

    "Hey, look who it is!"  Charlie slapped Logan’s shoulder.  Where did he come from?  Must look strange, standing here.  Looking at a package of ramen.  "What’s up, Logan?"

    "I’m okay.  Just grocery shopping."

    "I can see that.  Whatcha got there?"

    "Some ramen."

    "Ah yes, ramen. You a big ramen fan, Logan?"  Charlie said, maybe half-sincere, vaguely aggressive.  Logan looked him in the eyes.  They were semi-kind eyes.  Half-sincerity was better than nothing, when you got down to it.

    "You know, Charlie," Logan said, smiling big, making eye contact, "I love the stuff."

    Suddenly, Harry stood, picked up his towel and motioned for Logan to do the same.  The beach got old, Logan could see it in the lines in his forehead, in the way he kept glancing toward the clouds.  Bare, sandy feet were shoved into ratty Reeboks and they headed to the car in silence, Harry a few paces ahead, determined, Logan with his head down, hands in his pockets.

    It’s not so bad, Harry thought, don’t be a sore loser.  Sure, I could use a burst or two of sophistication, we all could.  Who couldn’t use an injection of maturity now and then?  Lonnie’s note wasn’t so much targeted toward any individual as it was a commentary on our society as a whole.  And nobody could deny that Harry was still behind the steering wheel of his aging, but perfectly functional, hatchback.

    "Do you mind cooking dinner tonight?  I’ve got a bit of a headache."  Harry put the car in neutral and let it wander gently into the crosswalk. Logan looked back at his father, startled.

    "O-okay."  The only thing he had ever cooked besides mac and cheese was that multi-colored bread he made when he was like four.  But if Harry really wanted him to…

    "There’s a grocery store a few blocks ahead."  An injection of maturity.  We could all use one, really.