Saturday in Shibuya

Guest Post by: Stewart

       I finish my second glass of  Glenlivet single malt, 15 years, at Hobgoblin in Shibuya and then look at my watch and it’s twenty till four and I have almost an hour and a half to kill before I meet Aaron in Daikanyama to, hopefully, get drugs for tonight.

I swirl around what’s left of the drink, smell it a bit and enjoy the deep, robust aromas in my nose before I swallow it all down.  The finish is long indeed and I appreciate it as I check out the girl behind the bar tending to the register.  She’s exactly what you would expect to find in a place like this; one catering to expatriates and the people who want to rub shoulders with us.  Top of her head coming right up to around my chest height, tanned, obviously Japanese, she still has jet black hair, a pretty common trait amongst the types that have gone abroad, they dye their hair less than J-girls that are still on the “native” side of the fence.  She has tits and I stare at her, taking in the curves under her red polo-style work shirt which has a ridiculous looking emblem of a goblin on it, brandishing a dagger and smirking, right over her left tit.  When she looks up and catches my gaze she smiles at me, so I flash a broad, genuine grin back at her and imagine my cock in her ass.

Outside on the street people flow by in the Saturday traffic.  Its cold out but the wind is oddly warm, the remnants of a brutal Indian summer that didn’t end till a-couple-of weeks before.

I turn left into traffic and start walking to no place in particular.  I cross under an overpass and across the street to my right I see Hachiko and the Hachiko exit to Shibuya station and the entire plaza near the exit is nothing but wall-to-wall people.  Despite the warm wind flowing down the streets and alleys and up out of vents on the side walk people are still shivering and I flip the collar up on my overcoat and hunch my shoulders into it as I walk.  At the stop light, I look across the street to the swarms of people waiting to cross onto my side.  Where are you all going?  What the hell do you think the point of your life is?  How many of you have ever had sex with a blood relative?  Can any of you speak English?  Who’s not wearing panties under their skirts? What in god’s sweet name am I going to get Michiko for Christmas?

Inside Tsutaya I look through racks and racks of CD’s.  I pick up and look at a special edition “Cold Play Christmas hits” and I get a bad taste in my mouth simply holding it so, as I turn around, almost without thinking at all I deftly drop the album into some girl’s shoulder bag who is standing next to me.  As the CD disappears smoothly into her bag I notice this general, overall, pudginess about her which for some reason excites me then suddenly depresses and subsequently enrages me- all within a matter of a second or two. Inspecting closer without being too obvious about things I can see it’s clear that her over-ripe puffiness is made all the more obtrusive by the massive, ridiculous, Christmas sweater she has on. I sneer at her and mumble “Dopey bitch” under my breath.  Then I turn and casually walk away from her.

Across the store, still on the first floor, my iphone vibrates and I absently reach into the pocket of my Burberry overcoat and pull it out.  Aaron.  I press the button.

        “Tell me you have Drugs,” I say by way of greeting.

       “Tell me you just didn’t say that on your cell,” Aaron sighs on his end of the, um, “line”?

       “Oh, I’m sorry Agent Aaron.  Is the uh, government or something, tapping your phone there?”

       “If this was a movie, I would tell you to use a land line.  Fucking Canadian.” He says into the phone, his voice somewhat muffled by back ground noise I can’t quite make out.

       “Where are you anyway? Are we still on for four?” I ask realizing now how desperate I am for some kind of chemical adjustment.  Ecstasy, Coke, a fucking bottle of Nightquil for god’s sake, anything to take the edge off.

       I then spot the dumpy girl in the stupid Christmas sweater make her way to the register to check out, an arm full of CD’s with titles I cannot even begin to imagine.  This makes me stop grinding my teeth and inside I start to smile.

       “I’m in Cohiba,” I hear Aaron say and confused I snarl into the phone, still staring at the girl “You want a… Cohiba? Fine, man. We can get you that. That is gettable. Jesus I will buy you a Behike if you can simply hook up some dope for this evening. Hell, I’ll buy you two.”

       “What? No, dumbass, I’m in Chiba. On my way back now.  Jesus, Stew you need to relax.  And stop saying D-words on the fucking phone, yeah?  Use that Finance Manager education and intellect you’ve got and be smart.”

       I roll my eyes and cut him off. “Oh god, spare me Aaron, and don’t call me Stew. I hate that shit. You know that.”   My eyes now closely track the dumpy shoplifter’s movements as she takes her change in one hand and her plastic bag full of shitty music, a Christmas tree emblazoned on the side of it, in the other hand and heads for the exit.

“Yeah, right. Look I’m getting on a train. La Hacienda in an hour. See you then.”

“OK. Hey do me a favor and don’t be late?” I say but the rude bastard has already hung up so I slip the phone back in my pocket, then have second thoughts, pull it back out and click the video option on and as subtly as possible hold it up to record my little victim right as she passes in between the magnetic sensors set up in front of the doors.  She moves to walk through them and a blaring, high pitched alarm goes off and the entire, packed CD store freezes and looks directly toward the exit where the goofy moron has now frozen in place;  a look of utter shock, embarrassment and distress plastered on her face in the most satisfying manner possible.

A skinny, pimply-faced employee in a blue polo Tsutaya t-shirt approaches her carefully and asks to see her plastic bag and checks it thoroughly, noting that all the magnetic security devices have been removed.  He then asks her, ever so politely, to go through the sensors again and yet again the squeal pierces the air telling everyone that this little happy-holiday’s-munchkin is in fact, a criminal.

Awkwardly, with another customer service employee approaching, the zit faced skinny guy asks if there is “any chance” she might have “forgotten” some merchandise in her bag.  The girl shakes her head “no”, and I gradually zoom my video in to capture both of them, chubby the shop-lifter and pizza-face, slowly turning their heads to gaze at her shoulder bag.  They stare at it heavily, intently, like it’s going to jump off her arm and prance around the store doing a jig at any moment.

I move the camera from her round face with the deep red blush creepy up her neck, to his skinny, zitty face with the lock of greasy hair hanging over one eye and then to the bag. Then I zoom out slightly and wait, holding them both in the frame.  A full, heavy, uncomfortable minute passes, and finally the girl hands her shopping bag to the guy and unslings her shoulder bag, glancing inside. Next, the look of abject horror that slams onto her mug is one of a kind. Obviously she sees the stolen album in her bag now, and I hold the video on her steadily, barely stifling a surprise giggle.

I zoom in on the bag slightly, and carefully film her trembling, chubby hand, as she pulls the album out and holds it up in front of her face. “Cold Play Christmas hits.” It no longer matters if she stole it or if some evil fuck slipped it into her tacky bag.  In the eyes of the shop staff, both staring at her but not, in the eyes of the other customers all pretending not to look at her, in the eyes of the world, she is a dirty little thief.  She knows this now. We all know it.

Tears.  They start by pooling in her almond shaped eyes and sit their momentarily glistening, almost puppy-like before freefalling down her burning red apple cheeks.  The video loses its focus as I aggressively attempt to zoom in to the maximum level to capture her emotional collapse and this technical problem upsets me and I curse under my breath.

It’s then, that I realize I am leaning forward, almost over a rack of Inca CD’s, camera out, breathing erratic and heavy-completely invested in my little project and that two girls, fairly hot looking early 20-somethings with dyed hair, in jean shorts and black tights and Ugg boots and mismatched “hip” scarves and sweaters, are both staring at me with uncomfortable, slightly disgusted expressions.

I look sideways at them, then quietly snarl “Go fuck yourselves, whores,” as I save the video on my iphone. Then, I walk straight up toward the exit with the Christmas criminal at it, actually smiling and winking at her as she looks toward me (For some kind of, what? Help?), stunned, her face wet, red and swollen and then I push by her rather roughly with my shoulder and walk back outside into the crowds of people as I aggressively hum “Deck the Halls” to myself and stride purposefully up Dogenzaka.

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