“Good morning.”
Nami, the care manager, turns toward me energetically as I walk into the store, her eyebrows perked up. “I’m in soooo much trouble!” she wails. Same as usual, then.
“Cherryyy,” she says, waving her hand. “I know you just got in, but…” She puts her hands together and bows in an apologetic but strangely playful manner, her fluffy blond pigtails swinging. She must be six or seven years older than I am, but she seems so young to me.
“I think Fujiyama’s gone on one of his expeditions again. He’s probably somewhere in the mall.”
I knew it.
“Namiii!”
Akiko, a junior staff member under Nami, comes over from the back of the room. She sports a carefree, short haircut and a ton of ear piercings. The juxtaposition always amazes me. Both she and Nami are former delinquents, I heard, but they aren’t the slightest bit scary; they’re nothing but kind and friendly to the regulars at Sunnyside and me. Their lighthearted banter is sometimes a bit too much for me, but I appreciate that they give me my space, communication-wise. They never get too deeply involved in my life.
“What’s Mr. Fujiyama always looking for?”
“He said something about looking for his record.”
“Record? Like, this kind?” Akiko made a big circle with her hands.
“Yeah, probably that. Something like a really big CD.”
“Probably?”
“He didn’t give me much detail.”
“Ah…”
I listen to their conversation in silence. Then, with a quick, “I’ll go search for him,” I turn and leave Sunnyside.
Mr. Fujiyama is a quiet old man who frequents Sunnyside. He has shaggy hair, like a dandelion’s fluff, and reading glasses that always seem to be slipping down his nose. He’s also my haiku mentor—not that he’s teaching me techniques or anything. We just chat about haiku, is all.
I learned only recently that Mr. Fujiyama’s hobby is haiku. I still remember how moved I was when I first saw his work on a wall-hanging scroll at Sunnyside—New year in morning, life exploding only when golden years arrive. Exploding? And was the word only implying that’s what Mr. Fujiyama felt? What does aging feel like?
I was filled with questions and curiosity, so I mustered up the courage to talk to him, and that’s how things began. Mr. Fujiyama is a man of few words, a lot like me, and we’ve come to spend a lot of time together.
Recently, Mr. Fujiyama had started wandering—or strolling—around the mall alone, looking for a record.
I go up the escalator, looking down at Central Court as I do, hoping to find Mr. Fujiyama. He isn’t around. Instead, I see a group of students my age, along with some children who look like elementary school students. The permanent sofas in the mall corridors, where groups of elderly people and housewives often sit and chat, are currently being occupied by these kids, who are turning it into their personal gaming space.
An arcade, a food court, cafés, movie theaters, clothing stores, homeware stores, free Wi-Fi, air-conditioned comfort, and comfy sofas. No wonder everybody comes here when they’re free.
When I reach the food court on the third floor, I find it so crowded that I can’t believe it’s just after noon. The sound of happy chatter and clinking dishes violently assaults my eardrums.
So noisy…
I look all over the food court, but I can’t find Mr. Fujiyama. I found him here last time, but no such luck today. So I go out to the adjacent outdoor terrace, but I don’t find Mr. Fujiyama there, either. Instead, there’s only a group of lounging old men and some disorderly students.
The terrace is shaded by a roof and lined with metal tables. It has a wide-open feel, and the view is pretty nice. But it’s basically outdoors, and the summer heat and humidity sticks to you like duct tape, so there aren’t many visitors out here during this season.
I take in the countryside view from the terrace. The farm road that I usually walk down is glistening in the reflected light of the irrigation canal. Nearby, a mass of white dots flies into the sky, undulating and changing shape—a flock of egrets.
I follow them with my gaze, focusing on them as they move farther and farther away from me. The green plains stretch on forever. The ridges of Mt. Oda cut a zigzag line across the horizon. Against the deep blue of the sky, the iridescent clouds resemble a sort of giant flying fortress. Having a high vantage point like this makes the vastness of the area really apparent.
…I’m leaving this area next month. The reason is a pretty common one: My dad got a job transfer. I have no regrets or attachments to this town, so I don’t mind. No real sentimental feelings toward this familiar scenery, stuff I’ve been looking at since I was a child.
Maybe Mr. Fujiyama left the mall, I think as I look at the rice paddies.
As I search the mall’s second floor, I hear a voice calling out, “Cherryyy!” with this weird, cutesy intonation. I turn around and see a life-size cutout of Hikaru Amanogawa, aka Hikarun, a very popular pop star, peeking over the railing of the stairwell. Hikarun’s cute pose and smiling face seem to say, “Look at me, look at me!”
“That doesn’t sound like her voice at all.”
“What? Seriously?”
A boy’s head pokes out from behind the sign. He’s half Mexican and half Japanese, with almost wheat-colored skin, blue eyes, blond hair like Nami’s—he cropped his, but anyway—and a mischievous grin on his face.
“…Beaver…”
I’ve known Beaver since before I started kindergarten, even though we’re a few years apart. He’s always restless, and sometimes he gets on my nerves, but I don’t hate him. He lives across the street from me, by the way, in Building No. 4.
“That Hikarun cutout is from Toy Box, isn’t it?”
“Bingo!”
Toy Box is a trendy shop on the second floor of the mall; I bought my phone case there. It’s characterized by its chaotic mishmash of everything from pop-idol goods to books on various subjects for serious fans. The life-size cutout of Hikarun, part of some collaboration between her and Toy Box, was on display at the shop as of a bit ago.