☪ What's Up?
★ ★ ★
Who: Travis Harley
What: Just got to Japan. Time to unpack.
Word count: 914
★ ★ ★
Who: Travis Harley
What: Just got to Japan. Time to unpack.
Word count: 914
New soil, new country, a new life. Moving to Japan was Travis’s chance to get back in the game of life and head ahead. This was his time to turn his life around, one which he ruined twenty-seven years of in as few as five, or more specifically one day; the day he dropped out of college.
As he pushed the key into the brass lock on the door marked “34”, he had thought about his past, and what he could do now to change it for the best. He turned the key and the lock clicked open and he pressed inside the musty room. The strong smell of cleaning products masked any other smell that may have inhabited the room, and made the man cough upon entering. He could have opened a window and went to explore the new town, but he was tired, and still recovering from sea-sickness, and decided to bear the attack on his sinus. Instead, he lied down on the bed after throwing down his bags and stared at the white wall.
It was blank, just like his life was now.
What did he have? His family was back home in the United States; his Grandparents in Russia. He had no job, no post-secondary education, no real grasp on the culture or language, and many other small problems that kept stacking.
But what did he really lack? What was missing in his life, aside from a job or education?
The love of his life.
It pained him to think about her, and her passing is what had made him into such a player in clubs. He had loved her with all his might, even overcoming many hardships from their families and the gangs to be with her during high school; the hardest time of anyone’s life.
Though, it was not just that he missed her. He had no one coming into this new country. No friends, no co-workers, no teachers… He knew no one. Upon realization, he second guessed coming to Japan. Why did he pick someplace so exotic and foreign? Why not go back home to his Motherland, or at least someplace where he did not have to learn a new language?
He sighed and sat up in the bed. All this thinking hurt his head. He didn’t like dwelling on his problems, which currently he had many of. It was either that, or the chemical cleaners.
To ease his mind, he started to unpack the belongings in his suitcase. He lifted it onto the bed and unzipped the side. He packed lightly, only a few pairs of clothes, some little things to entertain him, and a few toiletries. He felt poor unpacking his few belongings, but he knew he wasn’t. Money was all he had; but what’s a couple of whores but cheap, dirty entertainment? He wanted to feel that thing he felt with her back then; a need, a belonging. A reason to live. He loved to protect her, to love her, to care for her. He wanted to feel that again. That feel of being needed, to have someone depend on you. Genuine caring and love…
He waved his hand in front of his face to swat away these mushy, lovey-dovey thoughts, and to clear his nose. He cast aside his thought, the thought that made him into a whore himself in the first place. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t want to commit. He didn’t want to get attached and fall in love; he didn’t want to lose someone so important to him ever again. Leaving his family in America? So he wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed when they died of old age later on. He was afraid to lose someone dear to him, he couldn’t fall back in love, he couldn’t become someone’s reason to live. He couldn’t. But he wanted to.
He set up photos of his family on the dresser beside the TV. He may not have wanted to care for them so much, but it was a different story on being able to remember someone. He wouldn’t want to forget them, that was cruel.
When the contents of his suitcase were tucked neatly away into drawers and set up on table tops he saton the end of the single bed and ran a hand through his greasy hair. It was seven in the evening. It was still early, but there was no such thing as ‘early drinking’ when you lived alone.
He stood and grabbed his fedora off of the TV and made his way to the door. When he put his hand on the door knob, he stopped. Instead of leaving just then, he turned around, marched to the other side of the room, and opened the window. He would not tolerate sleeping in this chemical factory. When all was said and done, he went back to the brass knob and merged into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He took out a small pocket book from the inside of his coat and opened it up to a page with a note sticking out of it. The page was all about how to ask for beer in a bar, as well as slang commonly used.
“Something, something, something,,, biru. Seems easy enough.” He put the small book back into his coat’s pocket and repeated the phrase, mostly the most important word, trying to get it to sound right.
And off he went to drink. Can’t stay sober for long.
