Asleep in Nara (Short Story Series, Pt. 8)

Note: This entry continues the short story series about Sebastian, an American abroad and in over his head in Nara, Japan. The story will likely be ten parts long. (And to think I once believed I could wrap this up in five… Oh, I was so young and naive back then.)

You can find the previous chapters here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

Upon parting ways with Persephone, Sebastian’s absolute first order of business was to march straight to the 7-Eleven konbini, present his passport to the clerk, and purchase eight packs of cigarettes. He left the store, regretted his decision, thought better of it, went back inside, and bought another six packs. Now he felt prepared.

He had never so much as taken a single drag from a cigarette in his life, but between the hours of 4 and 5 AM, as he paced back and forth outside his university, he chain-smoked his way through a pack and a half. After the first dozen cigarettes, he expected to feel relieved, but instead he was just jittery and anxious.

As the child of light, rosy-fingered dawn, crept over the horizon, Sebastian shook the half-empty second pack and watched the cigarettes tumble side to side. To hell with it, he thought, and smoked through that pack, too.

His smoking technique was terrible, of course, more filling his mouth than his lungs with smoke. The few good drags he did get made him cough so wretchedly he stopped inhaling deeply.

He had class in just a few more hours, and he contemplated returning to his room, but feared waking up the others on his hall. Besides, despite his exhaustion, he wasn’t convinced sleep would come or that the inevitable dreams would be a welcome addition to his life. Instead, he waited, his fingers contemplating opening a third pack of cigarettes.

His long indecision was rewarded by the opening of Plain, a local coffee shop bearing a random English word as its name. Sebastian had never heard any of the employees or the owner speak a word of English, and he wondered if the name weren’t some failed attempt at metaphor, lost in the interstice of cultural missed connection.

“Ohayō!” Sebastian said as he entered the coffee shop, effecting his brightest smile. He had never been there by himself before, and he felt the need to play into a cheerful Japanese stereotype to make up for his lone American presence.

“Ohayō gozaimashita,” the elderly woman at the counter replied, bowing a bit, with just the corners of her mouth turning upward, but without her eyes smiling.

Sebastian was a bit put off by her tone, but decided he wasn’t interested in navigating cultural subtleties, especially as tired as he was. He walked to the counter.

“Kōhī kudasai,” Sebastian said, scanning the menu, although he already knew exactly what he wanted.

“Hai,” the woman said before turning to retrieve his coffee.

Coffee was immensely popular in Japan and available in many forms, particularly in bottles or cans. Unlike in America, though, people were less likely to hang around for hours in Japanese coffee shops. What Sebastian liked so much about this place was how much they tried to emulate the American-style coffee house. It was still a little off, of course--short rectangular tables rather than inviting couches, too bright artificial lighting unconducive to long conversations, no underappreciated writers lounging around banging away at keyboards--but it was close enough to home. At least they served brewed coffee.

A few minutes later, the elderly woman brought Sebastian’s coffee to his table. He was shocked to see the enormous mug on a tray. It looked like a giant soup bowl with a handle. Sebastian objected, fearing she was going to retroactively charge him for a large--or, rather, a super size.

“Ie, ie!” He waved his hands in front of him, back and forth across his chest. “Chisai kōhī kudasai.” Sebastian pinched his fingers together to indicate he wanted a small coffee.

The woman shook her head. “Ōkina kōhī. Hai, dōzo.”

“Demo…”

The woman shook her head again. “Amerikajin desu.” She bowed again, hands flat at her sides, and walked away.

Sebastian sat there dumbfounded. Clearly, the woman felt she had made her point, but Sebastian couldn’t for the life of him figure out what his nationality had to do with anything. Or maybe she meant the nationality of the coffee? Even as he had the thought, he was aware of how stupid it sounded.

Sebastian shook his head, sipped his coffee, and immediately remembered why he liked to come here. He slurped down the rest of the beverage as quickly as he could. The caffeine, of course, did nothing to help his jitters.

Sebastian passed a few students on his walk back to his dorm. Completely spent, but still on his feet, he was dreaming of sleep. Seeing his haggard face and drooping eyes, one concerned student came to a halt right in his path. He knew the girl and had gotten stuck in more than one conversation with her throughout the last semester. Annoyed, Sebastian stopped, unsure which way to go around her.

“Daijōbu no?” she asked, her mouth hanging in a wide O, eyebrows raised in concern.

“Ee. Genki desu,” Sebastian assured her, absently waving her off as he stumbled around her.

The student stood in Sebastian’s wake, watching him shamble away, uncertain if she should follow or find someone to report to. In the end, despite all her concern, she decided maybe this time the American was better left alone. She went to class and tried to convince herself not to worry.

Sebastian, meanwhile, should have gone to class, but chose sleep instead. He made it back to his room and was thankful the dorm rooms were all single-occupancy, which was one quirk he couldn’t quite reconcile with Japanese communal culture. He wasn’t complaining, though; it was nice to have his own personal space.

After an hour of fitful sleep and nightmares, Sebastian regretted his decision and was back out of bed before noon. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might have been better off dead. It wasn’t a nihilistic thought--exactly the opposite, actually. He was convinced he would be in heaven right now had he died. Instead, he was stuck in a ten-year deal with a demon who seemed rather cavalier about his well-being.

Because he had skipped class, Sebastian really should have at least turned to studying, but he opted to ignore that responsibility, too. His mind was simply too preoccupied.

He recognized what a disadvantage he was at in his deal with Persephone. She had all the power and knowledge. He didn’t stand a chance of overpowering her, but perhaps he could outsmart her. That task, however, would require research. So he turned to the resource of first resort for every great researcher of his generation: YouTube.

A few minutes later, he was engrossed by some low budget paranormal investigation video. The investigator, a bald white guy with a pockmarked face, could have been anywhere from 25 to 45 years old, depending on how much meth was typically involved in his paranormal investigating. He was on a mission, he informed his audience via voice-over, to summon a demon and sell his soul.

The opening voice-over, backed by somber organ/synthesizer music, narrated the man’s trek to an abandoned mansion that the investigator insisted on calling a “derelict manse.” After the third time he repeated the phrase, Sebastian’s interest began to wane. Once the guy produced a 1980s-style AM/FM radio, a “spirit box,” according to the investigator, Sebastian had completely lost interest. He watched the rest of the video, anyway, hoping for some nugget of wisdom.

The rest of the clip mostly showed the guy walking around various rooms of the house as the sun set and the ambient lighting decreased. In each room, the guy dialed through radio stations, and every time he landed on a scratchy frequency, he pretended the garbled words were spirits giving him snippets of advice. Apparently, the demons simultaneously wanted him to “Get out” and to also “Offer soul.” All Sebastian could make out was shitty old-timey music hidden in all that white noise.

The video was pure trash with a clickbait headline, and Sebastian felt stupid and duped for wasting ten minutes of his ten remaining years of life. Still, it had given him the idea of willingly selling one’s soul to a demon. He punched “how do you sell ur soul to a demon” into the search bar and smashed the Enter button. Some much higher quality videos populated his search results.

He fired up the first clip. The production value was slick, the stars were compelling, and the music was incredible: old school rock set the tone--much better than that jazzy ballroom crap buried in between the hissing of a radio. Sebastian realized the clip was a trailer for a show. He was hooked.

Three days later and halfway through Supernatural season three, Sebastian had been reduced to a dehydrated, drooling mess. He hadn’t meant to get sucked into a TV show at such a time, but he was desperate for both some knowledge, any knowledge, remotely related to deals with demons and for some good old-fashioned American culture. The show met both of those needs. Meanwhile, he had largely ignored other needs: eating, drinking, sleeping, urinating.

The cigarettes helped prop him up. At first, he had opened his dorm window to exhale the smoke out, but by the middle of the second day, he had given up on such fastidiousness. He pinned a blanket over the window to blot out the sunlight, chain-smoked to his protesting heart’s content, and dove deeper into binge-watching.

Finally, on the third day, his body could take no more. He passed out for fourteen hours straight. The dreams were vivid and terrifying, but his body’s need for sleep outweighed the terror.

Sebastian was awoken by a knock at his door, quiet, but insistent. It grew louder as he tried to ignore it. He finally crawled out of bed, still wearing his tee shirt and jeans, all wrinkled. His boxers had twisted around his hips far enough to cut circulation to his right testicle. That took another minute to sort out, as the knocking only became more frantic.

“Chotto matte!” Sebastian yelled, making no effort to conceal his irritation.

The knocking ceased. Sebastian at least had bought enough time to make sure he wasn’t going to lose a testicle.

When Sebastian opened the door, his dorm resident assistant started to speak, but then choked and coughed. Cigarette smoked wafted from the room as if escaping a pressurized chamber. Sebastian hardly noticed.

After a brief exchange, the RA established that, despite how emaciated and wan Sebastian looked, he was, in fact, not sick. Sebastian had to promise to visit the doctor anyway, although he had no intentions of making good on that promise. The RA also pestered him about taking down the blanket and letting some sunlight back into the room. Finally, after much badgering, the RA left.

Sebastian fit in a couple more episodes of Supernatural before deciding he really ought to leave the room for some food and at least a modicum of exercise. He sniffed his armpits and realized he should get cleaned up first, though.

About an hour later, showered and refreshed, Sebastian greedily slurped noodles from a bowl at a small restaurant chain. The sun had set just as Sebastian left the dorm. He had seen probably only a couple hours of sunlight in the past several days. What concerned him most was how little the lack of sunlight bothered him. He had always enjoyed the outdoors: hunting, fishing--not exactly nighttime activities. But the darkness was fast becoming a welcome friend.

Persephone would have been able to explain exactly what he was experiencing. It was the first stages of addiction. He had claimed his first kill with the katar, even if he had only been semi-conscious at the time, and now the blade was singing to him. The song was soft, inviting, at first. If he didn’t listen soon, however, that siren song would transmogrify into a cacophonous screech. Insanity followed soon after. Persephone wouldn’t let it go that far, though.

From across the street, Persephone, wearing a long skirt and with the katar cinched to her thigh, watched Sebastian as he ate his dinner. He had entered the restaurant looking weak, drained, famished. After eating, he didn’t look much better. No matter. There was work to be done. The blade was hungry, as well, and what did Persephone care about Sebastian’s life? If he died that night, she would just find someone else to assume the mantle of Charon.

Sebastian left the restaurant. Persephone followed. The demon she intended to hunt was just outside the city limits. They were in for a long night.

***[The photo is my own, taken along the entryway to Wakamiya Shrine in Nara Park]