takeout

We stood around, underneath the twinkling lights of Tokyo Tower waiting for tonight's dinner. It was a humble one this time, not the usual 2-train-stops-away ramen, nor the once-a-week karaage(fried chicken) that we always look forward to at the end of the day. Instead, tonight we set our palettes to simpler tastes and more practical appetites. We dine on take-out bento this evening, the one in front of our office, the one you eat when you're in a hurry, too much rice and too little meat, pedestrian.

But we have to since we started running low on funds, a direct consequence of an unscheduled project extension and unforeseen hotel charges. This 390 yen bento meal will be the first and last thing I'll be eating today. The excessive rice should fill me right up after the long, productive day we had today.

I've been dreaming of the tender, succulent meat I'd bite into since I sipped my budget McDonald's milkshake this morning across a man biting deep into his steaming Big Mac. The wafting smell of the precisely cooked patty would keep me going while we tried our best to comprehend our boss' rapid, but still polite, requests.

The freshly prepared vegetables would be crispy and tell my tastebuds of the green fields where they were picked and the morning dew that would collect upon their leaves. I'd feel them burst in my mouth while I concentrated on finishing the assigned test items I should complete quickly, and precisely.

The katsudon's golden shell would easily break open between my teeth and from them escape flavorful juices and an aroma of the fires of the kitchen and the richness of the earth. And on I rapidly got everything done and headed out of the test site for home, stopping by this bento place to catch our breath and realize slowly the day is over.

We stopped by the office with our boss and bento to wait for tomorrow's instructions. We sat around our desks and I carefully pried upon my dinner. The rubber band twanged brightly with a pull and as the clear lid came off, an invigorating aroma freed itself and settled in the room. It was beautiful, the golden breaded fish slathered in its teriyaki sauce would be a joy to sink my teeth into. The vegetables were cheerfully placed on the side while a layer of fresh nori covered the rice underneath the fish. And, oh, how the rice glistened.

Hasegawa-san, our boss, stooped over the table and suddenly dropped a sizable chunk of karaage and said he was watching his weight. I wondered if this was a Japanese custom first, then bit into the tender chicken and knew it also embodied gratitude for a job well done. Unlike all the other nights I spent so much and travelled so far to find the culinary delights that Tokyo promised and our overworked bodies deserved, tonight my stomach will dine a pauper, but inside me now dwells a heart that knows the satisfaction of kings.

Let's Pretend

The solace of the night is something I seek often. A good friend of mine who shared this fascination put it simply that we're "night people": heightened productiveness and an unearthly wakefulness as the moon climbs through the sky. "Something biological," he says, "and nothing more." when we were once kids stealing a few more hours before sleep to do things I could only justify as youthful exuberance then.

Thoroughly enjoying a plane flight is also one of my unexplained quirks. Most people would get all giddy at simply the thought of arriving, but I enjoy the journey more than the destination in this case, as the old adage goes. The first few times, it was simply because I've never ridden a plane before, and then it was because I've never ridden in this particular plane before, or lately, I've never ridden a plane this often before. The novelty didn't die as it should once I've memorized the flight protocols and that funny hand gesture the stewards always use for exits. It didn't.

And being older has a habit of unmasking those parts of us we forgive as idiosyncrasies. There is a root to all things, it says somewhere, one must simply have the nerve to dig deep and live with what he's buried and forgotten for himself.

I dug, all those nights that I holed up in my room, and all those red-eyed hops among clouds, and somewhere in the linens and the trails of stars, I understood but had yet to confront why. But tonight is a night for revelation. I'm 24 and the world as I know it is changing, is darker, stormier(literally), and pretty much no play-land anymore. I can't afford to be ignorant anymore. I can't afford to pretend anymore. Because that's what I've been doing all along, in the 4 walls of my room or on the gilded wings of airplanes.

I play this wonderful game in planes, you should try it. You can get away with a lot when your anonymous, and it's easy to be nobody on a plane full of passengers. What you do is, you pretend to be yourself on plane. Not just you right now, that's boring. You, for the extent of the trip, are the richer, successful, all-around bad-ass version of yourself you hope to be soon. Dress up, be pompous. Frown at the overly enthusiastic kids with the camera at the back row if you're snooty in your head. Read a thick book and leave the personal light on when you want people to consider you this smart, young thing that's going places. Grab your bags and hand-carry's like you're going somewhere like Europe, like you're important, distinguished, a necessary member of society. When people talk to you, feign an effected humility the accomplished wear around themselves when they know they've done it all and there's nothing more to say.

Pretend in the middle of the night, in the loneliness you share with only yourself, that the world is only here in this room and that unreasonable place outside your door is unimportant, irrelevant, moot. You watch the world through the eyes of your computer monitor and you are but a spectator, a critic. Your opinion reigns here and the night wind whispers no refusals. With only pillows as your mute witnesses, you can be whoever it is you really are when no one is looking, when all things are forgiven, when the shape of this temporary world curves upon your own.

The moon will descend and the plane will follow suit. All things must end and no darkness, no dizzying altitudes can escape the truth of the world. I look forward to it, the day I am who I am and that guy's one helluva guy. And just as much, I dread the end of my innocence. It's soon, I'll grab my luggage from the conveyor and walk out the airport, I'll step out for breakfast and rub my sleep-crusted eyes, and realize, I haven't changed at all.