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His father was the stoic type; the perfect Japanese man. Silent, except when exacting rules and punishments. Hard-working; so hard, Arataka felt lucky to spend more than an hour a week in the same room as his father, dinners included.
Tadaima , the first word he’d hear from his father every day. Itadakimasu , the second. Oyasumi , the third and last, though this was often replaced with a grunt instead.
So when his father stayed home for the first time in years, one Showa Day when he was 13, he followed him out to the back porch and sat cross-legged by his side. He’d brought along a tennis ball and bounced it from hand to hand, running a finger along the rubber seam.
Arataka treated the world like his personal diary; running his mouth with almost no filter, like he was paid for every word that escaped his lips. His sister would shut the door in his face when she’d had enough of him, his mother would purse her mouth before asking him more pertinent questions like did you do your homework? and why don’t you go see your little friends? His classmates would snicker behind his back at worst, and say nothing at best. His teachers just chastised him.
So he was no stranger to negative reactions to his natural state of being.
But with his father, his mouth sewed itself shut. Maybe he was subconsciously following his example. Maybe he recognized that his father would most definitely not have an inkling of a positive reaction to his egregious personality. Maybe still he felt such a deep-seated fear at the possibility of rejection that he would rather stay in safe neutral territory. Arataka didn’t know; he was only 13.
Yet on that Showa Day, the first day in years his father had taken a break from work, Arataka mustered up the courage to sit next to his paternal figure. The afternoon had cooled down to a comfortable sixteen degrees and shadows lengthened underneath the slowly setting sun. His father was sitting on the top staircase, left arm leaning against the banister as he smoked. He’d take a deep breath of the cigarette, then blow out the smoke into the air.
Arataka glanced up at him, then turned back to his ball, nails digging into the green felt. He bounced the ball against the wooden stair, thumping it repeatedly to the rhythm of Tank! then to the rhythm of some other song he’d heard out of a random car the day before. Then he thumped it faster, losing whatever beats per minute he’d established, instead focusing on the feeling of the ball escaping his palms and beating against their unnaturally clean porch staircase.
He felt rather than saw movement out of his peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see his father holding out his hand. He was still looking ahead, gaze fixed on the middle distance, but his hand was outstretched towards Arataka, palm cupped upwards.
Arataka placed the ball in his father’s hand, who promptly whipped it into the neighbor’s hedges.
Toy now lost, he clasped his hands together. His nails dug into his knuckles, and he held his elbows close to his sides, bouncing his hands up and down.
“Your mother says your grades have picked up,” his dad stated, breathing out another cloud of smoke.
Unsure if that was meant to be a question or a command of some kind, he stuttered out a “yeah.”
“Good.”
Puff.
“You still collecting those little toys?”
“The–” Arataka paused, sure he was referring to his drawer full of gacha winnings. “Yeah. Sort of. Mom says I should stop wasting my money on those.” His mother had threatened to toss the entire collection out on more than one occasion, and it had been at least a couple of years since the last time he’d spent money on one.
“Tell her I said it was okay,” he said in between two more puffs. “It’s my money anyway.”
His mouth dropped open into an O and he clicked it shut a second later. “Okay,” he nodded. Easier said than done, knowing his mother, but the gesture warmed a spot inside his chest he hadn’t known existed.
“Hobbies are important,” his father continued, flicking the cigarette with his thumb. Ashes crumbled from the butt and dropped onto the wood below his feet. “Don’t let them distract you from your studies.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Reigen nodded and they sat in silence, listening to the sounds of cars driving up and down the road.
“I got a new video game,” Arataka started, the burgeoning desire to talk, to share, pushing him to use his normally well-worn voice. “It’s a fighting game, me and Akemi play it sometimes. When she feels like it. It’s a lot of fun.” He trailed off, feeling like he was losing his footing.
“Your sister’s almost eighteen,” his dad answered. “She’ll be going to college soon.”
“Yeah,” he replied. That wasn’t what he’d been trying to get at, though he had trouble pinpointing the exact reason for his rambling himself. He started swinging his feet to and fro. “She wants to go to the university in Hoisin City. It’s got some stupid dumb test, so she’s freaking out about it.”
“She’ll be fine.” His father proclaimed, and it was law.
“I have to start taking tests next year, too. For the high school entrance exams.” He scrunched his eyebrows together, pouting. “It’s gross.”
“You’re getting to be a man yourself.”
Arataka’s legs froze. A man? Was he a man? Not according to his mother, whose favorite pastime was telling him what to do. Certainly not in Akemi’s eyes, who still pushed his head down anytime he tried getting into her personal space. He’d found the beginnings of stubble on the corner of his lip the other day. Did that count?
His father turned to look at him, and Arataka dared himself not to blink. He couldn’t place the last time he’d been this physically close to his dad. They had the same shade of dark brown eyes, Arataka found, though they didn’t share the bags underneath them.
He sensed motion out of his peripheral vision again, and he glanced down to see the cigarette his dad had been smoking extended in his direction.
Arataka grasped the paper tube gingerly, holding it between his index and middle fingers like he’d watched all the grown-ups do. He lifted his gaze to his father, searching for an emotion on his face, anything to indicate that this wasn’t a trap.
His dad remained as immovable as ever.
Hesitatingly, he brought the cigarette up to his lips and sucked in a breath. Hot smoke scraped past his throat and he tore the cigarette away as he burst into a coughing fit. He bent forward with tear-filled eyes, hacking out saliva and scorching air.
He heard his father chuckle over his coughing. He waited until Arataka had recovered before taking the cigarette back. Arataka wiped his mouth, watching his dad suck on the cigarette again, his usually impassive face now crinkled into an amused grin.
“Good boy,” he commended, patting Arataka’s back. Static flashed through his body from their point of contact, light giddiness at the praise applying itself like a balm to the pain.
“That sucked,” Arataka couldn’t help but say, leaning back nonchalantly as if he hadn’t nearly just lost a lung.
“You get used to it.”
–
Six months later, he came across his sister and her tiresome group of friends outside a Mob Quijote giggling over something surely too feminine for him to understand. What caught his attention and kept him from ducking into the nearest alleyway, forever ready to ignore his sister’s existence, was the thin fog surrounding their gathering.
“Extry, extry, read all about it,” he announced, sliding up to the group and holding open his notebook he’d brought from school. “Dumb sister is a drug addict, more at eleven.”
“Arataka!” she spluttered, face red and eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Are we on the newspaper or the TV?” one of her friends muttered to another.
“Mom told me to buy milk on the way home,” he replied, setting his fists on his hips and tilting his head forward. “Maybe you shouldn’t do this kind of stuff in public.”
“Shut up, it’s not that big a deal,” she argued, though the cigarette remained strictly behind her back. “Seriously.”
“Kay,” he shrugged, tucking the notebook into his backpack and zipping it shut. “I’ll ask mom if we should add some extra cigarettes to the shopping list, since we’ll need it for two family members.”
“Don’t you fucking dare–” she growled in exasperation. “You’re so annoying– okay, listen.” She pointed a finger at Arataka, the one that was holding the cigarette, then quickly switched to point at him with the other hand. “I’ll give you your fucking manga back, just don’t tell mom.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, cupping his chin in his hand. “Nah, not good enough.”
“Taka–”
“I have another idea,” he interrupted, holding his open palm up, then gesturing to the cigarette that was still clearly hidden from view. “Give me one. No. Two.”
“What?” she asked, blinking in surprise. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Just wanna try it.” He neglected to mention that he’d already had one with their dad, but that wasn’t relevant.
She looked to the side, mouth pursed in thought. “Fine,” she finally agreed. “It’s better than dealing with whatever headache you’re gonna try to make happen.” The cigarette reappeared from behind her back along with a small box. “I only have one left,” she stated as she shook open the box. “You got any?” she asked her best friend standing next to her. Arataka held his hands out to Tomomi-san, comfortable with her after having seen (see: pestered) her dozens of times over the years.
“Yeah,” she answered, not bothering to hold back her giggling as she completed Arataka’s request.
“Thank you, girls,” he bowed, reward in pocket.
“Whatever, get out of here,” Akemi waved him away, tendrils of smoke following her fingers.
Arataka waited until his parents were out at work and running errands several days later to pull out one of the cigarette sticks from his overfilled drawer. He flipped the paper tube from finger to finger like a pencil, rubbing a thumb over the tip.
He’d just tenderly placed it between his lips when he came to a very important realization.
He had no way to light it.
“Crap,” he muttered underneath his breath, immediately returning to his obese desk drawer. He gave up after ten minutes of digging through his assorted items before slamming it back shut again – as far as it would go – and making his way downstairs.
Arataka had a lot of dumb ideas, but trespassing into his father’s study to look for a lighter wasn’t one of them. Searching his parents’ bedroom wouldn’t have been a much better plan, either. So he slunk into the kitchen instead, opening and shutting every door, shelf, and drawer.
“Damn it,” he sighed, leaning against the stove then tripping slightly backwards as his elbow hit the knob instead. It turned with the weight of his arm, lighting one of the burners in the process.
“Oh.”
He stuck the butt of the cigarette into the fire and pulled it out quickly, watching the bright embers dance around the tip.
The first breath brought the same amount of retching from his first time and he sank down onto the ground, bracing himself against the linoleum tiles. The second passed through smoother. The third felt rougher, but he’d started getting the hang of when to hold it and when to let it go.
By the time he’d burned through half the filter – or he guessed about as much, finding it suddenly difficult to remember how long the cigarette initially had been – he managed to snuff out the rest, taking care to toss it into the trash and shuffling around the bin so it sank down a little.
Crime completed, he escaped back to his bedroom.
–
“Hey , Reigen!”
“Yo, guys,” he shouted, holding his arm out for a fist bump. Fujita returned it, followed by Izumi, then Sugita. “What’s going on today? Any big–” he paused for Hirano’s lighter, “big plans? For the gang?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna be kicking Mayo High’s ass tonight,” Izumi cackled, elbowing his friend in the side.
“You want to come join us, Reigen?” Fujita asked, ignoring the cacophony the other two were raising. “You’ve never come for our curb-stomping sessions.” He cracked his knuckles as if to enunciate exactly whose curb was going to be stomped.
“Oh, no, you know me, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he dismissed, waving his hand around. “But good luck with that, boys.” He breathed in the cigarette, withholding a grimace. Hirano had bought the crappy brand again.
“Hey, tell us something funny,” Sugita shouted, swinging his legs to and fro from where he was sitting on the wall.
“Um,” he paused for effect – and to think–, pretending to take a long drag before continuing: “I drew a dick on my homework. Then Mrs. Ueda took it before I could erase it.”
His gangster friends paused for a moment, absorbing what he’d just said before bursting into laughter.
“Nice one, Reigen,” Sugita snorted. “Did you draw, like, hairs on it and everything?”
“The whole package,” he confirmed to the continued tittering of the group.
Arataka let out a silent sigh of relief, his position as jester secure.
Despite his initial refusal, he found himself standing outside the entrance to the parking lot of the abandoned hardware store four hours later, serving as lookout. The lot was empty, devoid of cars and located in the corner of two rarely used streets, making it the perfect grounds for graffiti, skateboarding, fisticuffs, and miscellaneous teenage activities.
“ORRRAA!” he heard his friends shout from across the parking space.
“ ORRAAA! ” the kids from Mayo High replied back.
Arataka kicked a pebble while he waited, nursing a second cigarette because he had nothing better to do. He couldn’t make out any words other than their nonsensical screaming, so he kept his attention on the road instead, eyes peeled for any square adults that might intercede their turf wars.
Soon enough, a trail of ants caught his attention, marching in a perfect single file line from their anthole in the sidewalk line to a chunk of mostly melted ice cream.
“Must suck to be an ant,” he muttered to the congregation of mindless insects at his feet. Still, they paid Arataka no mind, continuing on with their God-given role as Earth’s vacuum cleaners. At least there was no doubt what they were meant to do and what they did well. If only Arataka could walk in a straight line for a living.
“You need to decide on your career path, Arataka,” he muttered in a mocking falsetto. “Playing video games isn’t a job, Arataka.” He crushed one of the ants underneath his shoe. “If you don’t get straight 5s, we’re sending you to cram school.” Another ant met its untimely fate. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” He stared down at the dead ants, his hands curled into fists. The ants that hadn’t been smashed crawled over their fallen brethren, either unaware or uncaring.
The stress he’d been carrying in the background of his life flowed into his chest like a burst dam and he blinked through unshed tears.
Red lights flashed in his peripherals and he looked up to see a police car turning around the corner.
“Shit,” he swore, jumping up and hightailing it to his friends. “Code red!” he shouted as he grew closer, waving his arms around wildly. “It’s the cops!”
“Scatter!” someone on Mayo High’s team yelled. The boys rushed in random directions, some pushing past others in their frantic attempt to evade capture.
“What’s going on over there?” he heard a police officer cry out. He froze in place, staring at the approaching figures, a man and a woman, now exactly where he’d been not five seconds ago.
“Reigen!” Something tugged on his sleeve and he looked up at Fujita. The boss was gritting his teeth as he pulled on Arataka’s arm. “Go!” he roared, tossing Arataka’s body ahead. He skidded, nearly tripping over his own feet, hands flailing.
Sugita, Izumi, and Hirano were already gone and Fujita had burst on ahead, wasting no time in getting the fuck out of the scene of the crime.
He spun on his heel, heart bursting out of his chest as he chased after Fujita, diving around the corner of the nearest building, shoulder skimming along the wall of the narrow alleyway. The police officers’ shouting followed him, unintelligible until he heard the very distinct, unmistakable sound of his name.
This time he did trip, barely catching himself from slamming his head on the concrete. He turned to see the female police officer, too far to recognize before, but now the features on her face were as clear as his name coming from her mouth.
“Arataka!” his aunt bellowed, eyebrows creased in inescapable, “I’m-telling-your-mom-about-this” fury.
He leaned his head back against the brick wall, letting out a groan as he waited for his inescapable death.
//
“Fighting! With delinquents!” his mother shrieked, pacing back and forth, hands semi-clenched and gesticulating. “What got into you? Is this what you do every day after school?”
He would have replied had he not been sure that would have only led to an even more furious mother. So he kept his mouth shut and hands firmly clasped in his lap, waiting for the end of his mother’s torrential rant.
“What else are you doing that I don’t know about? Cheating? Stealing? Drugs? ” she slammed her fists against the countertop. He gave a silent thanks to whichever entity was listening that he’d managed to toss the cigarette away before his aunt had caught sight of it. “I’m searching your room tonight! Drugs! In my house!”
“Wh- mom, all auntie said was–” he made the mistake of starting a sentence.
“And your aunt! Having to drag you home in a police car! What will the neighbors think? That our son’s a criminal! Never, I–” she paused, walking around the kitchen again, drowning Arataka in her nervous energy.
Here it comes, Arataka thought, cringing in preparation.
“Your sister never –”
Despite the prediction, his stomach still sank and he swallowed his frustration.
“-did anything like this.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he blurted out before he could even stop himself. His mother’s eyes widened, and he shrunk into himself. To his simultaneous fortune and misfortune, she’d stopped talking, but was now staring at him, expression on her face a synonym for filicide.
“Room. Now. Forever. And you’re going to cram school now– I can’t– have you spending your free time with punks!” she growled, gripping Arataka’s shoulder with razor-sharp nails.
“Ow! Mom–” he winced as she dragged him along in a vice grip falcons would be jealous of.
“Your father will hear about this,” she snapped, pushing him into his bedroom and slamming the door shut.
Arataka made his way over to his bed feeling like his legs were numb. He curled into a ball underneath his covers, anger and shame gnawing at his insides.
–
Arataka ’s greatest possessions were, in all likelihood, his mouth and his hands. From as early as when he’d first started to talk, he discovered the power of words and body language. The right inflection here would earn someone’s trust. The right gesture there would wrap them around his pinky. Arataka’s penchant for sweet-talking and flattery quickly earned him top rank in his department. Customers on the phone would leave anonymous feedback, praising his attention to detail and charisma. Customers who visited their offices would shake his hand profusely, all doubt about the purchase they were agreeing to dissipated into the air. One of them gave him her personal phone number.
All of this was why, at 10:15 exactly , Arataka pushed himself away from his desk, grabbed his wallet and his keys, and headed outside to take his fifteen minute smoke break, and not a second too late.
His lighter stuttered a couple of times before flickering alive and he sucked in a breath of cigarette smoke like his life depended on it.
God, I hate my job .
He drew circles on the patio table surface with his finger, watching the accumulated dirt and pollen get shoved around as he did so.
When’s our next day off? he pondered to himself. Ah , he thought after doing the math, Showa Day .
“It’s a nice day today, isn’t it?” a voice interrupted his inner lamentations and he looked up to see Kimura pulling out a chair.
“Yeah, it’s great, but–” he pointed at Kimura. “What are you doing here? You don’t smoke.”
“Thought I’d give it a try, you know, socially? You all always look like you have such fun out here.”
Arataka glanced around at the two other employees who were also taking their smoke breaks. They were sitting at separate tables, each sitting at angles that allowed for zero eye contact or interaction.
Loud coughing brought his attention back to Kimura, who was now looking like he’d swallowed his cigarette.
“Whoo! That’s a powerful one,” Kimura croaked, wiping his mouth before bringing the cigarette up for a second attempt. “So many of our clients smoke, too,” he continued, handling the smoke a bit better this time. “It’s smart to have some cigarettes and a lighter on hand.”
“What a great idea, Kimura,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know, there are different kinds of cigarettes. You should go do some research on what our clients like best. You don’t want to have the wrong kind and lose the sale.”
“Ohh, that’s a wise idea, Reigen-san,” Kimura nodded so vigorously Arataka felt his own neck seize in pain. “Which brand do you like the most?”
“Err,” he stammered, pulling out the box from his pocket while training his face muscles to keep up the salesman facade, “I have to say I go with the classic. Tried and true. Can’t beat that.” He tossed the box across the table so he wouldn’t have to close the distance between them.
“Seven Stars,” he read aloud, “oh! Yes, I know this. I was going to try foreign brands, I thought those would be fancier.”
“Maybe so,” Arataka acquiesced, “but I still say you need to know your audience. Find out what they smoke, get into their wallets that way” and out of my smoke break , he added silently.
“You always have such great ideas, Reigen,” Kimura effused, “say, do you have any advice for how I can close the sale with Kinka?”
Arataka returned to his desk fifteen minutes later, heaving himself into his chair and resting his head in his arms.
Five minutes, he told himself, five minutes and I’ll pick up the phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose, reciting his company’s brochure in his mind.
The ultimate natural spring water to keep you healthy.
Twice as many minerals in our mineral water!
Stay witty with Clincity.
He opened his eyes, glaring at the phone receiver on his desk. Sticky notes had been pasted onto the side in his boss’s scribbled handwriting. The secret to successful walk-in sales is a smile!!
By the end of the day, he’d packed all of his belongings in a box and left his resignation on his supervisor’s desk.
–
As children went, Kageyama Shigeo was a strange one. Polite, formal, timid to the point of nearly melting into the wall. Arataka supposed Shigeo was a wallflower type of kid, accustomed to actively avoiding the limelight.
Arataka, for his part, hadn’t interacted with a child in at least ten years, since he’d practically been a child himself. So the second day Shigeo showed up at his office, he’d almost expected the kid to not have come at all. But arrive he did, peeking around the edge of the doorway like he was afraid Arataka would bite him.
He welcomed him in with his usual flair, setting down a mug of tea at the table for him – more carefully this time.
“So, tell me,” he started, rubbing a finger around the brim of his own cup. “When did, ah, you start developing those powers of yours?”
Shigeo’s eyes moved around, looking everywhere but at Arataka. “Since as early as I can remember. I don’t think I ever didn’t have them. Was that– the same for you?”
For a moment, Arataka had forgotten about the charade he was playing. He nodded sagely, closing his eyes as if he were trying to remember himself. “Yes, that sounds about right. Onset of the skills of the… spiritual variety tends to start quite young. Almost everyone is at least a little psychic when they’re young, you know.” He palmed the side of his tea mug. Still too hot. “Children often tell their parents about entities adults think aren’t there. Monsters in the closet, imaginary friends, and the like. The difference between the rest of the world,” he jabbed his thumb in his chest, then pointed at Shigeo “and us is that we never lost those powers.”
Shigeo nodded, his gaze now avidly trained on Arataka.
“You showed me your telekinetic abilities last time,” Arataka continued since the kid was unlikely to fill in the empty silence for him. “Which was very impressive, I have to say. And you mentioned you can see ghosts?”
Shigeo nodded again.
“Okay. Anything… anything else?”
“I can exorcize them,” Shigeo clasped his hands in his lap. “And I can teleport. Kind of. But it makes me nauseous, so I don’t.”
“Mm-hmm,” Arataka hummed like he comprehended the kid’s troubles.
“What about you, mister?”
“Ah, see I’m more of a spiritualist. A bit harder to quantify, but if I were to describe it…” he crossed his arms in thought, “...I can see spirits and auras, and I can dispel them, too. But it’s a bit less tangible than yours. It doesn’t come with telekinetic powers, unfortunately.” Because telekinesis certainly wasn’t something he’d be able to get away with faking. “Ah, but my connection with the other world is very strong. Overwhelming, at times.”
“I have a question,” Shigeo stated with a tone that betrayed a surprising amount of bravery.
“Shoot.”
“Do you ever, um, have trouble controlling it?” He frowned, clearly stressed. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt someone really badly.”
“That’s a reasonable fear to have,” Arataka began, pausing to allow himself time to collect his thoughts. “It takes time and practice to hone, like a sharp knife. I don’t have any problems with that anymore, of course.” He waved a hand flippantly. “But I had my fair share of faux pas back in the day.” He picked up his tea. It had cooled down enough now. “But rest assured, Shigeo-kun, those powers that you have, they’re a part of you, through and through. And if you have no ill-will, then nothing bad will come of them. Focus on being yourself and helping others.”
Shigeo’s eyes glistened and Arataka was suddenly afraid he’d start crying. “Which gives me an idea. I had just been considering expanding my company” – a total lie, given he’d been about three days away from shutting down his entire operation – “and I could use an intern. Something like an apprentice.”
Shigeo sat up straighter, attentive. A good sign if Arataka could consider himself any kind of judge.
They hammered out a plan of action for the next couple of months; Shigeo would come to the office twice a week after school, and Arataka would provide him with opportunities to apply himself. At a pay rate of 300 yen a case, Arataka had struck gold. He’d set the price with the expectation of negotiations, but had forgotten how timid the kid was.
He traveled home on the train with a vague feeling of hope and satisfaction. And guilt, but he could easily assuage that. He wasn’t doing the kid any harm, and, in fact – he continued reasoning with himself – was keeping him out of any sort of trouble. Arataka still had yet to experience any ghosts, but if they were real, then he couldn’t say no to the business opportunity that had just dropped itself into his lap.
Of course, he decided as he descended the train and lit a cigarette for his walk home, there were going to be some changes he’d have to make. A more comprehensive advertising campaign. Rearrangement of his clients so the ones with clear non-spiritual issues would come on Arataka-only days. Perhaps some heightened security. The business didn’t always attract stand-up citizens.
He paused outside his apartment door, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he dug around in his pockets for his keys.
“Gotcha,” he muttered, unlocking the door and plucking the cigarette from his lips. It had nearly burned down to the filter. He had half a pack left in his right pocket and another shoved in his kitchen drawer.
How old is that kid? Arataka thought, snuffing the cigarette out and tossing it into a trash can. Ten? Eleven? he guessed, pulling open the drawer.
How old was I?
He frowned. Drummed his fingernails against his counter. Then drenched the packs in water and tossed them before he could change his mind.
//
Shigeo arrived dutifully at four every Tuesday and Thursday, fresh-faced and ready for work. He had the kid sit in the corner and observe the first week, which mostly meant he gave customers their change and watched Arataka perform non-sanctioned shoulder massages.
He gave flimsy explanations for his actions, which were not very different from what he usually provided to his clients. He’d stop and prompt Shigeo on occasion, giving him the opportunity to guess at the finer details, which he would be miraculously right about– except when Arataka needed to fudge some of his answers so as to not be too suspiciously correct.
How is this working? He heaved himself into his seat after the kid left and he closed for the day. That day had run the record for the amount of bullshit he’d spewed, and he’d worked as a salesman. Shigeo was so passive it made Arataka almost doubt his psychic story again, but he couldn’t deny what his own eyes had seen the week before, and the kid didn’t seem like the kind to confidently pull off magic tricks.
He rummaged through his drawer as he pondered his situation, pausing when his hand didn’t meet the stashed cigarette pack.
“Right,” Arataka muttered, slamming the drawer shut and unwrapping a stick of bubblegum instead. The tips of his fingers shook as he slid the gum into his mouth and he shook his hands to still the quivering energy. Dissatisfied, he grabbed his keys and headed home.
He woke up that night at two in the morning, the sheets tangled around his legs and his fingers digging into the side of the mattress.
“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, sitting up and rubbing a hand against his forehead. His hand sank down to his mouth, sucking his index finger in and rubbing it against the side of his teeth.
Frustrated, Arataka dragged himself into his desk chair, grabbing at the stack of lollipops he’d shoved into his pencil holder. He licked one at random – cherry flavored – before flipping his cell phone open and speed-dialing his sister’s number.
“No.”
“Goo’ mor’i’,” he mumbled around the candy.
“No. I’m hanging up.”
“But nee-san ,” Arataka whined, dredging up the full force of his five-year old self that used to get coddled whenever he had a nightmare. “I can’t sleep.”
“You quitting smoking isn’t my fault. Take shit care of your health like the rest of us.”
“You’re just jealous I’ll live longer than you.”
“Bring flowers to my funeral.”
“Corpse lilies. Got it.”
“You’re bringing roses or you’re not invited.”
“You won’t be there to stop me.”
“Asshole,” Akemi said, but her tone rose with stifled laughter. “God, I hate you. It’s 2:15 in the goddamn morning. Can’t you get a boyfriend to bother or something?”
He coughed in surprise and disgust. “I told you to drop that.”
“Waking your sister up comes at the cost of being reminded of your dead love life. Would you like to continue the conversation?”
“I’m focusing on my career.”
“You’re gonna need to focus harder. I’m still not clear on what your career is.”
“Well, get ready to be related to someone with a very well-defined job description.” He crunched on the candy to enunciate his point.
“We have the same dad.”
“I’m expanding. I’ve got a real psychic on the payroll and a city of real ghost problems.”
A sigh on the other line, then: “Well. Good luck with that, buddy.”
“If the old lady next door kicks the bucket, let me know. I’ll give you an exorcism, 30 percent off.”
“30 percent?! You cheap–”
He clicked the end call button, fully satisfied with his sister’s level of irritation. Shigeo was going to be a big boost to his business, he resolved as he twirled the lollipop stick in his mouth. Shigeo , he thought, drawing the characters in the air with his finger.
“Huh,” he muttered to himself, popping the now clean stick out of his mouth and into the trash. “Sounds like Mob.”
He woke up every day for the next week bathed in sweat and with an uncontrollable hunger.
“Fuck,” he grumbled, crawling out from underneath his soaked sheets and into the kitchen. He threw open the fridge door, squinting at the sparse insides.
“Why is quitting smoking more expensive than smoking,” he growled around a mouthful of bread bun, other hand holding a half-eaten sandwich. Snarfing down the oversized breakfast led to an insatiable thirst, which led to drinking a liter of water, which led to nearly pissing himself, before he slammed his sweaty, shaky, exhausted body onto his couch.
The TV provided little respite from his jittery nerves and he listened with half an ear while tapping at his forehead with a closed fist. After forty minutes of what felt like static, he shot up, shut the TV off, and threw on his suit, determined to at least make something of his relentless energy.
A visit to a konbini later, he stood on the Bonito Station platform passing out flyers for 20% off on exorcisms and seances.
“Haunted? Hearing noises at night? Have any creepy old dolls you inherited from your grandmother you want to make sure aren’t going to kill you? Come see a real psychic to help resolve all your spiritual problems!” he shouted, tossing the flyers at hesitant and uneasy-looking passersby.
“First 3 customers next week get a free palm reading!” Arataka continued, holding one of his flyers in front of a young woman who had just descended the train. She avoided his eye contact and scuttled around him, half-running towards the exit.
He was just about to quit and head home to wallow in withdrawal when a ragged man wandered up to him, his arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked into his armpits.
“You’re a psychic?” the man asked.
Arataka looked the stranger up and down. His clothes were tattered, the thread count reaching the bare minimum to cover his skin. He stood hunched over, like he was cold, and he had a sizable beard growing in tattered patches along his jawline.
Homeless? Arataka thought.
“Only the greatest,” he answered with every fiber of charm he could muster.
“There’s a place where we used to hang out– but ever since Tajiri-san passed… there’s been a terrible spirit there.”
Arataka frowned. Chances were, given the context, the man was either hallucinating or some kids were playing pranks on the local homeless population. Worst case scenario, he was about to be mugged.
“Lead the way.”
The man – who introduced himself as Okazaki – guided Arataka down one alleyway, then another, past dumpsters and sealed doorways. Arataka could feel his chances of being robbed steadily increasing the farther they wandered. Finally, they paused outside the door to what appeared to be an abandoned building.
“It’s in there,” he pointed, finger actually shaking, so he definitely seemed to believe his own story.
“Alright. Step back. I’ll take care of it.” Arataka cracked his knuckles, then held his arm out as though to ward off Okazaki and slid into the building, shutting the door behind his back.
A barrage of dust assaulted his nose the moment he stepped through, and he pinched his nose in an attempt to hold back a sneeze. He wrapped an arm over his face, using his cellphone to light the way.
The empty space before him looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades, despite Okazaki’s claims. It was largely empty of both physical and abstract entities, save for a stack of cardboard boxes on the left and a rickety chair and desk combo on the right side.
“Ah! A specter!” he yelled, glancing at the shut door. “You were right, Okazaki-san, I’ll get this settled for you straight away!”
He ambled around the room, digging his toe at scattered metal cans and leftover garbage before pausing at the Tokyo tower trash heap of boxes. Then he kicked it over. They rattled loudly, something inside one of the boxes shattering as it hit the ground. He winced but continued the charade, hands stuffed into his pockets in a confident pantomime of someone who knew what he was doing.
“Give up! There’s no escaping…” Before he could finish, the temperature suddenly plummeted and goosebumps rose up along his arms and the back of his neck. He shivered.
“ Will you shut up? ”
Arataka froze, craning his head around to see a dark shadow out of the corner of his vision. He lifted the phone that was still in his right hand up to his ear.
“Hey, Mob?” he swallowed. “Listen. I know it’s your day off….”
–
Arataka set the lunch order down beside the front stairs to the Spirits n’ Such office building, taking advantage of the moment’s interlude to settle himself on the top stair. It was still sprinkling, and he shook the water droplets out of his hair, grateful for the little cover the building provided.
“They better not have forgotten my fries…” Arataka muttered, shuffling the bag around to check on the contents. Everyone’s food was accounted for, including Tome’s weird soda concoction. Satisfied, he checked his watch, decided five minutes wouldn’t look suspicious, and pulled out a cigarette box and a lighter.
He coughed as he inhaled the smoke, eyes watering but the tension in his shoulders melting. His lungs and throat readjusted after another minute and he leaned against the wall, staring up at the rain pattering from the sky like a thin bead curtain.
The front door creaked open and he moved to hide the stick but failed to do so in time. Serizawa stood at the entrance, the expression on his face creased in a mix of worry and disappointment.
“Are you smoking?” he asked, as if it weren’t obvious by the curling smoke in the air, as if he hadn’t just seen the cigarette itself. Serizawa frowned. “I don’t like that.”
“I know,” Arataka replied, guilt sinking in his chest like a stone. “It’s been a hard week.”
“I’m worried, too,” Serizawa admitted as he sat next to Arataka, pulling his knees up into his tall frame. “I’m scared I’ll be trapped again. Somehow.”
Arataka ran a hand through his hair again, raising the cigarette to his mouth. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll– run a campaign or something. At least, I can use the little fame I have to show we’re – you’re not all dangerous."
Serizawa smiled a thin grin, lips pursed but eyes soft.
“Tome’s already gotten started on picket fences while you were gone.”
Arataka snorted. “Of course she has. That’s exactly what I would’ve done at her age.”
They sat in silence, the sounds of cars and chattering twenty-somethings filling the space left by the gap in their conversation. He drew in another puff, blowing the smoke into the air, but away from Serizawa’s face. Something moved in the corner of his vision and he looked to see Serizawa extending a hand, shoulders hunched in embarrassment.
Arataka crooked an eyebrow, a silent really?
Serizawa shrugged, gaze now dropping to his own hand.
And because that week had been enough of a shitshow already, a real fuck-everything-this-might-as-well-happen, he passed the cigarette over, fingers tangling with Serizawa’s before pulling away. Serizawa twirled the stick in his hand, thumb running over the paper exterior.
Then he hurled the thing into the nearest line of hedges like it was a fastball and all the bases were loaded.
Arataka’s jaw dropped.
“Sorry, I–” Serizawa started.
Peals of laughter bubbled up past his throat and he couldn’t help himself. He began giggling at Serizawa’s continued apology, his partner holding his arms out as he asked for forgiveness.
“--I shouldn’t have–”
Arataka tossed his head back, laughing even harder, giddy with lack of sleep and overwhelming stress.
“--done that… Reigen?”
He tried his best to compose himself, catching his breath like he’d just finished swimming a dozen laps.
“Thanks, Serizawa.” He gathered the bags of take-out, pressing one to Serizawa’s chest and moving towards the door with the other. “We should take these upstairs. The kids’ll be getting hungry soon.”
“Yes– yeah, um, sure,” his partner stammered, hastening to follow closely behind Arataka.
Arataka’s hand found Serizawa’s as they scaled the stairs up to the office. He squeezed with every ounce of gratitude and reassurance he had.
–
Arataka, in more ways than one, was the antithesis to the perfect Japanese man. Blond, talkative, averse to mundane work – a liar, a conman, a surrogate older brother to four teenagers and a loose spirit.
At 30 years old, he stood outside the door to his childhood home for the first time in half a decade. The crushing weight of his family's disappointment returned as it used to whenever he'd visit his parents, and it didn't feel any lighter now.
“The rain’s let up a little,” Katsuya announced, folding up his umbrella and shaking the water droplets off before joining Arataka underneath the awning. “Hopefully it’ll stay that way.”
“Yeah,” Arataka replied, grinning the toothiest smile he could. Then he rang the doorbell.
“Arataka.” His mother answered the door. At least, he was sure she was his mother, though she’d grown substantial amounts of white hair during his absence. Crow’s feet clawed at the corners of her eyes and she was dressed in drab, beige-colored clothing. “Welcome home.” She turned her head to look at Katsuya and bowed. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Ah– the pleasure’s mine,” Katsuya bowed in response.
“Come in. Your father’s in the dining room,” she stated dryly, turning about and heading deeper into the house. Arataka felt a strong hand wrap around his waist and he led his partner into his childhood home, revitalized by the contact.
The interior hadn’t changed in the five years since he’d last visited, but it somehow looked older, out-of-date. His dad was sitting at the low dining room table as promised, hand wrapped around a cup of tea. He looked up at the duo as they entered, bowing slightly in acknowledgement but not making a move otherwise.
“Good evening,” he said, voice low and scratchy.
“Good evening, sir,” Katsuya bowed again, letting go of Arataka and moving to grip at the umbrella handle.
“I’ll take that,” Mrs. Reigen said, sounding more like she was issuing an order rather than giving a suggestion.
“T-thank you,” Katsuya stammered, voice barely audible despite the stark silence penetrating the household. Mr. Reigen gestured for them to be seated and they obeyed, crawling onto the floor pillows and sitting cross-legged across from Arataka’s parents.
“We’re happy to see you again, Arataka,” his mother began. She took the cast iron kettle Arataka recognized as the guest kettle and poured hot water into tiny tea cups while she talked. “And for bringing your…” she paused, her right hand rotating on her wrist.
“Partner is fine, ma’am,” Katsuya piped up.
“Partner. Good. Here’s your tea.” She pushed the cup forward like a chess piece. Queen to 5G.
“What kind is this?” Arataka asked, raising the cup to sniff at the liquid within.
“The high-quality kind. Don’t complain,” his mother cut him off. She clasped her hands in front of her chest and smiled at the both of them. “Well. The weather’s been very pleasant, hasn’t it?”
Arataka gritted his teeth. “Rea–” he started. A glance at Katsuya and he bit his tongue. “Yes. Mom. It’s been great.”
“I have to apologize on behalf of Arataka’s sister,” she said, dropping the weather small talk entirely and addressing Katsuya instead. “She’ll be a little late. She’s still on her way from Hoisin, you see.”
“That’s fine,” Katsuya replied evenly. “I’m happy to be meeting Arataka’s family.”
“You met Arataka at work, yes?” his mother continued, clearly focused on hitting her list of talking points. “That’s interesting,” she answered to Katsuya’s nod. “What does that mean?” she asked, eagle eyes trained on Arataka.
“Arataka hired me because I’m a psychic,” Katsuya volunteered. Arataka’s heart clenched with pride. “I can demonstrate if you’d like…”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” she interrupted. “Well, we’re glad Arataka is at least finally bringing someone home. Akio-san? Do you have any questions?”
Arataka’s father shook his head.
“Alright. If you boys are hungry, I can bring out dinner…”
//
Akemi had finally arrived halfway through dinner and spirits rose enough for everyone to take a breath. They’d started cleaning as soon as everyone was done eating, and Katsuya offered to help, leaving Arataka to wander around his old childhood home. He glanced up from a photograph of himself and his sister back in grade school to see his father smoking outside on the back porch.
He kept silent as he slid the back door open and sat next to his dad, hugging his knees to his chest. The sounds of light traffic filled the empty space between father and son.
“Your mother says your business has been doing well.”
Arataka turned to look at his dad who was presently enveloped in a cloud of smoke as he blew another puff into the air.
“How does she know that?”
“She reads the news,” he tapped the tip of his cigarette. “Especially if your name’s in it. Fix your website,” he added.
Arataka smirked. “But it’s my brand.”
“Your brand looks like cancer.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They fell quiet again. Akemi’s hyena cackle echoed through the thin glass door. Katsuya’s deeper voice reverberated after, but he couldn’t make out any of what they were saying.
Arataka’s hands clasped at each other, desperate for stimulus. He ached to ask his father for approval, for his opinion about anything that had happened during dinner, but the fear of rejection kept his oft-running mouth shut.
“We’re going to be moving in together soon,” he finally said instead, after his father had burned through his first cigarette and lit a second.
His dad hummed. “Don’t rent from the Sesame district. Place is a shithole.”
That hadn’t been what he’d been aiming for, but it hadn’t been a flat dismissal either. Taking the kernel of relief for what it was, he leaned against the porch steps, staring up at the darkening sky.
Something bumped into his arm and he turned to see his father holding out a cigarette.
Arataka waved a hand. “I don’t smoke anymore.”
His father returned the rejected cigarette to its pack, sliding it neatly in with the others. His amber eyes appraised Arataka, his expression as impassive as stone.
Finally, he looked ahead into the middle distance, removing his cigarette from his mouth and extinguishing it on the wooden banister.
“Good man.”