Chapter 1 – Decompression

NEVER LOOK too close, the salaryman whispered, you might not like what you see.
    And so tonight, dreaming in a shadowy bar the size of a decompression chamber, he kept his eyes narrowed and the whiskey flowing.  Until his heart’s most secret reservoir overflowed and a body drifted by.  It had been in the water a long, long time and he snagged it tenderly.
    His eyes closed, a slice of a smile flickered.  He watched with pleasure as he chopped up his section chief and fed the nasty bits to pigeons in Ueno Park.  The remains could be poured into slick black garbage bags and consigned to lockers in Tokyo Station.
    A pair of moon-faced farm girls flanked the salaryman like wings of a vise.  Their cotton-candy petticoats escaped high-bodiced dresses and buried him to the waist.  He looked forlorn, like a man waiting to be dug out of the snow.
    The girls talked over him in staccato Korean, impudently sucking the air out of the bar.  They filled the vacuum with fumes of fermented cabbage exuded from every pore.  He finished his drink and the girl in yellow dumped water and Suntory whiskey in his glass; he snubbed out his cigarette and the girl in pink reached for a pack of Mild Sevens.
    The salaryman sighed and tried not to think about the blue jeans the girls wore under their petticoats or their rough stubby hands.  Instead, he closed his eyes and floated.  Up, up—above the girls with their small breasts and tent-like dresses.  Up, up—and straight through the roof.  The night sky was warm and moist; he kept climbing.
    Below, wedged between Ueno Station and the Sumidagawa, the lights of Asakusa were dazzling.  On Kokusaidori, a Ferrari growled at a pack of college girls digging for smokes inside Yves St. Laurent bags.  Old men in yukata stopped to stare.  Their eyes slid up nylon-shiny legs, their breath hot and smoky.  A breeze off the river lifted spring dresses and offered a glimpse of lace.  With their breasts snugged high and tight in light sweaters, the girls waggled their heads in happy debate and glanced across the boulevard.
    The district offered many delights—renowned sushi restaurants, mind-numbing pachinko parlors—more temples and shrines than anywhere in Tokyo.  The girls marched wickedly tipsy into Mr. Donuts and the old men shuffled away.
    The salaryman floated beyond the boulevard, watching a small tug push a barge up the Sumidagawa.  Its running lights winked on the sluggish black water.  A glossy call girl raced down an alley a block away, her high heels clicking to the tug’s diesel beat.  A cook in a ramen shop licked his teeth as she ran past in her crowded dress.
    The salaryman winced—neon signs topping hundreds of love hotels pricked his eyes.  Sensoji temple’s prerecorded drums rattled his ears.  He felt a migraine coming on and climbed higher, trying to get away from the noise, the light and the heat.
    They’d told him Asakusa was one of the last bastions of Old Japan.  Born in 1976, the salaryman had no experience with such things.  A feeling of disquiet, perhaps of guilt, crept over him.  He decided he’d had enough for one night and searched the eastern terrain for home.
    Tokyo Bay was dark, the cars on adjacent Wangandoro a thick bright stream.  He followed as they bumped down an expressway built on garbage.  His sense of insufficiency disappeared as an institution timeless and wondrous came into view.
    A handful of fireworks—gold, green and blue—painted the night with seashells and feathers.  The man smiled and fell toward his apartment crouched in the lee and shadow of Tokyo Disneyland.