How do bathrooms in old homes manage to start out so incredibly hot and stuffy, right from the beginning of the day?
The bathroom in our house was built underneath our narrow little staircase. Every time you walk in, it feels like the walls are just waiting to squeeze in on you. The bathroom does have one tiny window, but it hardly manages to bring any fresh air inside.
That was how I found myself sitting on the toilet, feeling like a Christmas roast, even though it was the height of summer.
A calendar from a local travel agency hung in front of my face. Its current photo showed a scene of tourists frolicking in the ocean along the coast of Moshimo Beach. The only problem was that Moshimo Beach hadn’t seen crowds like that since at least before I was born. I wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that the photo was decades and decades old, but I did suspect that it wasn’t taken during the current century.
I sighed as I traced the tiny image of a woman in a bright-red, high-legged swimsuit with my finger. I was lost in thought about the babes of another era when I heard rapid knocking at the bathroom door.
“Norimichi!! Hurry up and get out of there!! Dawdling isn’t going to change the fact that you’ve got school today!!”
My mother’s hysterics reverberated throughout the tiny room. The already sweltering air seemed to shoot up another three degrees.
Geez. How are moms able to scream that loud first thing in the morning?
I rolled my eyes as I answered, “Leave me alone! I’m not done yet!!”
She seemed to have already walked away without waiting for my response. I heard her call out from the other room, “Breakfast is on the table! It’s last night’s curry!”
I clutched at my stomach and quietly groaned, “…Come on…”
✦ ✦ ✦
The TV in the living room was reporting on all the big fireworks displays scheduled around the country. I listened as I carefully passed the yolk of a raw egg back and forth between the halves of its broken shell. Once the white had all run off, I plopped the yolk on top of my bowl of curry.
“Eat the white, too! It’s good for you!” I felt my mom smack the top of my head with a rolled-up sheaf of newspaper ads. Not a moment later, the room was filled with the blare of the vacuum cleaner.
“Oh, come on. Do you have to do that while I’m eating…?” I wanted to scream each word of my response, but I released them under my breath instead. If I bothered to shout, I’d only get twice the earful back. In a token of defiance, I pointedly left the white untouched and stirred only the yolk into my curry.
Man, if someone manages to invent yolk-only eggs someday, I bet people will buy those things up in droves…
With that thought, I started scooping up mouthfuls using the little scratched-up spoon that had been my favorite since I started elementary school.
Mmm. Delicious!
What was it about curry from the night before that made it so good? There had to be some kind of chemical reaction going on when it sat in its pot overnight or when an egg yolk was mixed in.
“We’ll be seeing fireworks all across the nation again tonight! Now, for those of you wondering about the weather…”
The image on the TV switched from a listing of fireworks events to a shot of the weather girl. She stood in front of a map of Japan dotted with an absolutely ridiculous number of little sunshine marks.
The calendar in the bathroom flashed back into mind. Under AUGUST 1 I’d seen the words FIREWORKS DISPLAY… Not that a fireworks display was a big deal to me. I mean, I was in seventh grade. But still, it seemed like kind of a special day.
Wait a sec. The weather’s on? Crap, I gotta get outta here.
I shoveled the rest of the curry down my throat. When I was finished, I left the bowl on the table and rushed through the door to the storefront. I slipped my sneakers on and tied the laces.
“What a pain… Why do they have us show up for one day in the middle of summer break…?” I grumbled to myself, working my tongue around the inside of my mouth as I tried to pry out a piece of chicken stuck between two molars.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
The reply came from my dad, who was cleaning some fishing rods in the shop. He wore a tank top, shorts, and sandals—not exactly the attire you choose when expecting customers.
My family had been running the Shimada Tackle Shop for generations… Or more bluntly, my grandpa had set it up on a whim after he retired as a fisherman. It had been in business for some twenty-odd years, stocking fishing gear along with general household goods, nonperishables, pet food…you know, just about what you’d expect at a tackle shop. Dad took over from Grandpa, but I didn’t have any plans to carry on the trade.
“Huh? Why’s that?”
“Because you don’t have t—”
As if she’d timed herself to drown out Dad’s words, my mom’s voice erupted from the living room. “Norimichi! Put your dishes in the sink when you’re done eating! Also, we’re heading out in the afternoon, so you’re on your own for dinner! Find something to eat in the fridge!”
I’m right here! You don’t need to scream!
…is what went through my mind. The words that left my mouth were those of a well-behaved son: “Got it!”
I looked back at my dad, who was still working on the rods.
“You’re going somewhere tonight?”
“She’s got a bunch of junk she wants to take over to the flea market at Moshimo Shrine.”
“The one at the festival? Who’s gonna come to that?”
“Not to mention it’s hardly worth closing the shop for a whole d—”
He stopped himself short and turned back to his work on the rods. Confused, I swiveled my head—only to find Mom standing right behind me.
Her expression was flat. Now it was time to be scared.
“…You were saying?” She angled herself toward Dad.
“Well, I’m outta here!!” Sensing trouble brewing, I dashed out of the shop and onto the street outside.
“Junk, huh?! Well, if it’s so much trouble, you don’t have to come!”
An image of my dad anxiously shaking his head back and forth floated to mind as I hopped onto my worn-out bicycle, which was parked just outside the shop. I began pedaling down the sloped road that led to the sea.
I knew I’d probably be drenched in sweat soon, but that brief downhill stretch would bathe my entire body in a cool ocean breeze. It was a treat that left me feeling happy—just a little bit, mind you—to have been born in such a small seaside town.
Moshimo was made up of an old fishing port and a short stretch of coastline. Beyond that was the Pacific Ocean. Moshimo’s population was…about 2,800, if I remembered right. Most of its residents lived along the foothills sloping up from the port to the mountains, and the way the houses were built made them look like they were clinging desperately to the mountainside.
“It’s like a run-down version of Onomichi. The slow, quiet atmosphere is nice, though.” A young tourist from Tokyo had said that about the town. He’d come to Moshimo to do some fishing.
I didn’t know much about Onomichi, but it seemed like a pretty rude thing to say. Still, it was hard to argue with the fact that things had slowed down around Moshimo.