STORY 2
Cry Your Tears
On an ordinary wooden desk sat a picture of a cute young woman, dressed in a yellow beret and pleated yellow culottes. She posed flirtatiously in the picture, not a personal snapshot, but rather a collectable photo for her fans.
Every bit as commonplace as the desk at which he sat, a man stared at the photograph. His expression was deeply intense, to the point of ghoulishness.
Soon, the veins at his temples began to visibly throb. The large box cutter knife in his hand trembled in synchronized pulses. He ran the fingers of his other hand through his bristly, hedgehog-like hair and rustled it about. His face was broad and pudgy; his small, cowardly eyes seemed out of scale in comparison.
Now those eyes flashed with anger.
He raised the box cutter high. In the next instant, its tip sliced through the air and embedded in the photograph with a metal blade’s characteristic twang.
Though no one was there to hear him, he whispered, “This time—and I mean just this time…” He trailed off, as the anger in his eyes built to a boiling rage, then said, “I’ll forgive you. But never again.”
He pulled the box cutter free and touched his pointer finger to its edge. He pushed the blade into his flesh. Flecks of blood sprayed out from the wound, speckling the woman’s picture.
Despite the pain, the man gave an enigmatic smile. He looked back and forth between his sliced finger and the girl moistened with his blood.
Was it the forced smile of someone sad, holding back their tears? Was it one of frustration, of anger? Or was he happy?
No one but him could understand what emotions lay behind that smile.
With his bloodied hand, he reached for a small envelope at the edge of his desk. The paper was decorated with the kind of cutesy designs that would be right at home atop one of the desks at an all-girls’ school. On the reverse side was a hand-drawn heart.
Suddenly, the man’s expression turned grave, and he crushed the envelope in his hand. His eyes were those of a man in prayer.
Perhaps without knowing it, he repeated, “Never again.”
Kawasaki Yuma entered the studio dressed in a geeky Minky Momo vs. Godzilla T-shirt and faded denim jeans.
A slightly aged hair stylist greeted her with a high-pitched “Good morning, Yuma-chan!”
Yuma returned the woman’s greeting with a smile. “Morning!”
“He’s here already,” the stylist said. She patted the top of her head and showed a teasing grin.
Yuma dropped her voice. “You mean baldy? He beat me here?” Her prematurely bald manager’s perpetually grinning face popped into her mind.
The stylist nodded. “Bando-san is in high spirits today.”
“Really?” Yuma said. “Is it really that surprising that I got a commercial gig?”
“It’s the first he’s had since he started working with you. I don’t think he could help being excited about it.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Yuma gave the stylist a quick wave and went to the green room at the rear of the studio.
Bando, Yuma’s prematurely bald manager, approached her. “Good morning, Yuma.” He beamed so broadly that the smile brought creases to his face. “You look as adorable as ever. First-class idol singers like you are in a whole different league.”
Yuma thought, Always with the over-the-top flattery. She found his silver-rimmed eyeglasses and sweaty forehead depressing. And his hair is getting even thinner, too. Her eyes landed on Bando’s scraggly beard, and she smiled back at him uncomfortably.
“Yuma,” he said, “this could be your big break. A commercial. A TV commercial!” Bando spoke so fast little bits of spittle flew. “Sure, it’s only going to play in Tokyo, but this is Sanshin Denki. They’re planning a huge promotional push with you representing their new line of electronics.”
Inserting coins into a vending machine, Yuma muttered with disinterest. “I’m just there to get eyes on the ads of some local retail chain. We don’t need to get so worked up over it.”
“Yuma-chan, don’t be like that. This is a commercial. A commercial! It’s a lucky thing the company’s president is a fan of yours.”
Yuma took a gulp of her soda and shouted, “I hate that bald creep!” She made sure to put an emphasis on bald.
With a hint of a scowl, the stylist said, “President of a company or not, the guy’s tastes are a bit creepy.”
“Right?” Yuma said. “You think so, too—don’t you, Makki?” She waved a pink costume in her hand. “Look at this awful thing. It’s basically a cheerleader’s outfit.”
The stylist, Makki, said, “Wait until you see the hair style.” She offered a photo for Yuma to see.
The photo was of a cute girl with pigtails.
“Seriously?” Yuma groaned. “That hairstyle, with this costume—that bald president is a total perv.”
“Whatever the case,” Makki said, as she braided the idol’s shoulder-length hair, “his tastes are certainly…less than decent.”
Yuma was seated in front of a full-length mirror. She watched as Makki’s experienced hands transformed her hairstyle in no time at all. Looking at her new pigtails, Yuma had to admit she did look cute.
Makki said, “Yuma, you’re adorable. With that pink mini on, you’ll drive that old man wild.”
“I just can’t believe I turned eighteen, and now this is the costume I have to wear.”
“Well, think of it this way. Not many grown women who want to dress that way could make it work even if they got the chance to try.”
“That’s a good point,” Yuma said, as she stepped behind the curtain that separated the small dressing space from the hair and makeup room.
Alone behind the partition, Yuma smoothly discarded her T-shirt and jeans. Wearing only her underwire bra and bikini panties, she appraised herself in the mirror with a smile.
Her body had good proportions. Aside from her breasts, which were a little on the small side, her body curved in and out where it was supposed to. She put her hands on the sides of her waist. There was more give than she would have liked. It wouldn’t do for modeling.
Darn it, she thought. That’s my only flaw.
She remembered her boyfriend Yukio saying, “You’re not getting enough exercise, are you? You’re starting to get some fat on you.”
She hadn’t seen him for a little while now. Between rehearsing her new song and a string of nationwide promotional events, she hadn’t the time to get together with him. Not long ago, in her hotel room, she watched his supporting-role performance in a TV drama and realized how much she missed him.
I think I might be falling in love, she had thought.
Still dressed only in her underwear, she smiled bashfully at the memory. Then, reining in her distracted thoughts, she said, “All right!” before quickly putting on her pink mini dress and stepping out of the dressing room.
Yuma twirled, sending the hemline of the pleated dress precariously high up her thigh.
Thoroughly impressed, Makki said, “You look super cute!”
With the nervous eyes of an herbivore, the man readied his finger on the VCR’s record button. On the TV screen, three male pop idols performed an energetic choreographed dance. According to the program guide, she would be on next.
The trio’s song appeared to be reaching its conclusion. The music swelled, and the three struck their final poses.
The man pushed the button.
There were a few seconds of silence, then a young woman appeared on the screen.
She wore a cowboy hat, wild bangs peeking down to touch the tops of her eyebrows. Her wide eyes shone, dreamlike. A cowhide vest covered her white blouse, and jean shorts accentuated her rowdy charm.
A star-shaped brooch, placed near her shoulder, served as her only adornment. Though simple, there was something inexplicably flirty about it.
The woman kicked up a slender leg that stretched all the way down from her high-cut shorts. Then she threw her microphone toward the camera.
She pulled back the mic’s cord with her left hand, causing it to twirl in the air before returning to her grasp.
The move had been specially choreographed for this, Kawasaki Yuma’s new song, “Lariat of Love.”
As he watched her perform, the herbivore-eyed man grinned sloppily and bobbed his head up and down in time with the beat.
Under his breath, he said, “Yuma is putting everything into this song.”
His face said that he knew all there was to know about Kawasaki Yuma. On the bookshelves behind him stood tightly packed rows of recorded videotapes. The spines were labeled with dry-transfer letters that read Idols I, Idols II, and so on, but most bore the same name: Kawasaki Yuma.
The wall beside the bookcase was covered floor-to-ceiling with overlapping posters. Most of those featured Kawasaki Yuma, too.
On the TV, Yuma finished the song’s second chorus and moved on to the big finish.
I’ll snare you with my burning love.
Oh, my lariat of love.
As she said the last word—love—Yuma again performed her microphone lasso trick. After the mic had finished tracing its arc through the air and she’d caught it firmly in her grasp, she held it like a pistol, then gave a wink and shouted, “Bang!”
And the song was over.
The man stopped the recording and hurriedly turned on his radio because Yuma’s Happy Talk was to start at ten.
As he listened to the radio, he reviewed Yuma’s schedule for the day in his head.
Her radio show was pre-recorded today, which means her live performance on Golden Music was her last job for the day. After that, she’s free. Tomorrow, she has a live appearance on another radio show at eight in the morning, which means she should be going straight back to her home tonight.
The man imagined her out chatting happily with some guy instead of going home on her own. The thought of her with a man, even imagined, filled him with pain, followed by incredible rage.
She isn’t seeing anyone, he told himself. She couldn’t be. Look at her charming face. A girl that innocent, that adorable, couldn’t be seeing anyone.
Big, fat tears dripped from his diminutive eyes.
I love her too much for that. I devote all my time to loving her. She wouldn’t betray me with another man. Other women would, but not Yuma.
The man picked up a photograph from his desk. It was the collectable photo of Yuma from her early days.
He gazed into the grinning face of the yellow-bereted teen. He sighed and whispered words that came from the bottom of his heart. “Yuma, tell me the truth. There isn’t any other man. There’s only me.”
Yuma didn’t reply. She simply kept on smiling brightly back at him.
The man hugged the photograph to his chest. Then, slowly, he raised it up to his face.
“Yu-Yuma…”
He pursed his ugly lips into something uglier and gave Yuma’s face a wet, sloppy kiss.