we sat across from each other in the dingy izakaya, ice already melting off the frosted mugs. a group of businessmen's chatter at the next table grew louder and louder in their drunkenness. the salt clung to the soybean pods set out before us as a libation snack. i raised my mug. "kampai. to....."
well shit, i thought. what exactly do you toast to when you're sitting across from a guy who'd been threatening suicide all week?
when you'd spent 4 hours in the police station a few days before trying to track down someone who refused to answer any call, explain where he was, except in riddles and rhymes that the cops called a "cry for help" if he were actually going to do it he wouldn't have told you he would've just done it obviously he trusts you why do you think he called you? well goddamn it if it's help you want, you need to answer your fucking phone and tell me where the hell you are.... what do say a toast to?
he had a shopping bag with him, full to the brim of travel brochures weighed down by a hardcover Japanese copy of La Nausee.
i know why he called me. he called me because i get it. i'm not going to die over it, but i get it.
finally i had my kampai. i raised my glass, "to existence."
"to existence."
because really, it sucks and it's futile sometimes.... and the only thing that sucks more is the alternative....
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