The Ongoing Diary of Casey Neal

Cough it Up, Dude

(April 2020)

“I don’t understand,” I say.  “Why won’t you tell me what we’re doing?”

“Not yet Wednesday.”

“Okay, it’s Sunday.  Why do we have to wait until Wednesday at all?  Why not do what you want to do tomorrow.”

Ichihara looked confused. “Can’t get cell til then.”

“Yuni?”

“Yes?”

“Do you understand the word ‘proportion’ in English?”

“Proportion?  Like ratio, you mean?  Size of things together?”

“Yeah, close enough, anyway.”

“Why you ask?”

“Because, Yuni,” I say, pointing my beer bottle at him. “I want to make sure you understand it when I say that it seems to me, after knowing you for a couple months now that it seems to me your English gets worse as a direct proportion to what you’re trying to hide.”

He laughs.

“That fair enough.  So here is where I get to say your Japanese is equally non-existence at all times, okay?”

Now it’s Don-o and DK who laugh..

“You’re killin’ me Yuni, you know that, don’t you?”

It’s late afternoon and we’re at a place that’s a mix of a sport bar and a mani-pedi-place, the idea, I guess, being that a couple would come in and the man would do the bar and the televisions set to sports from pretty much anywhere around the world, and the women would get their drink on while someone rubbed their feet and painted their nails.

Yes, proof that this is Japan.

As is the fact that this ludicrous-at-first-blush business plan seems to be working.  There are a row of women seated under drying contraptions, all scanning datapads, sipping green and orange concoctions, and chatting among themselves.

The “we” in the “we’re at a place …” up above, is Yuni Ichihara, and DK on one side of the table, and me and Don-o on the other. We are watching a football game, the Japanese nationals are playing a Korean team.  This is because baseball will not start at 7:05 tonight.

“The deal was full disclosure.”

“Yes. And you will get it.  But not til Wednesday.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Very important.” Yuni makes a twisting motion with his fingers against his lips. “How they say … say Loose Lip Sink Ship.”

“What do you know, Don-o?” DK asks.  DK is clearly on my side, seeing as he knows even less than I do, but it doesn’t take him long to determine something of whoop-ass size was getting ready to go down.

“Not a thing,” Don-o says.  “Really.”

I hit him in the shoulder.

Not hard.

Well, not too hard.

“What was that for?”

“Cough it up, dude.”

But Don-o isn’t budging, either.  Which means he really doesn’t know anything–which I don’t believe for as long as it takes a Suitani fastball to cross the plate, wor he’s just not going to budge.  Either way, but DK and me are out of luck.

“I want picture,” Ichihara says.  He pulls out his phone, and fumbles with it a bit.  Yuni is no savant when it comes to punching electronic buttons on the faces of tiny little phones.  But he gets his camera up and running and says “cheese!” as he points it toward Don-o and me.

A waitress sees him, hears the “cheese” coming from us, and no doubt smelling the opportunity for a big tip, comes to our table.

“You want me take?” and she motions us all.

“Yes! Yes!” Ichihara says.  “Four Horseman. Get all.”

He hands her the phone, and she takes a couple, for “just in special case.”

Then she goes away, and it calms down for a moment.  I sip the beer.  It’s weak, but that’s fine.

I feel strange.

Like I’m sitting on a bomb waiting to explode, but a bomb that I can’t see, feel, or describe.  It’s like birthday and Christmas rolled up into one big ball of “hold on and wait.”  That Ichihara knows what he’s doing, and won’t tell me makes it just that much more … painful.

“It’s odd to not see baseball on right now,” Don-o says.  “They used to schedule games at different times so you could watch a bunch of them every day.”

DK nods.

“Not enough teams now.  Four game per day.”

Yuni drinks his beer.  “All good, right?  Next year, all goes back to same only bigger.”

I look at him.  Yuni Ichihara is feeling good now, and that makes him a different man.  He’s through with the calculations and the studying and the viewing things from a hundred angles, and then finding a hundred more.

“Maybe we watch Edo tonight, eh, DK? Cheer for Homu-Ran!”

“Maybe.”

“Who do you follow, Don-o?” Ichihara looks at my friend, and I admit I wonder what is going to come out of his mouth.

“I belong to the church of baseball,” he says, and his beard bristles with a smile that glistens.

Assuming you believe a smile can glisten, anyway.

Which, if you saw what I saw, you would.