The Meeting
:: Jan 15, 04:26 PM

My dad called a meeting. He had ressurected himself into health and arranged for me, Cindy, my mom and him to talk. The meeting place was set, and from there we piled into the 1981 Toyota Corona blue station wagon. He had stopped the progression of what I refer to as the “melting liver.” It actually wasn’t even midway melted – he was his self before all the melting.

He was wearing the same faded red and blue ski-vest jacket thing he wore in the picture taken of him in 1986, sitting on a Coke bench in front of the MacDonalds in Omotesando, Tokyo. So, it was even before (x2) the melting liver – he was his 1986 body self. Concerned as a passenger of a recently ressurected driver would be, I watched how he was driving. It was normal, steady and probably four or five miles over the speed limit.

For a few seconds, Washi was in the car and they said “hi” to each other – they met for the first time. That was supposed to happen. Then Washi was gone.

My dad continued driving and talked about all the things he wanted to say, do and finish as we headed to a place where Cindy or my mom presumably lived. The discussion subjects were mundane in tone – and I don’t remember the specifics. I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying to my mom or my sister. I also wasn’t really interested. But I was sure the point of the meeting wasn’t to listen to what he had to say. Then or now. Besides, watching him drive was enough to deal with.

We got to our destination and it was a bit drab – like the apartment the “Friends” live in, but now occupied by Sweeney Todd. Cloudy windows. Walls sweating blue. A Hollywood hand-me-down.

The three of them went into the main room, where there were some wicker chairs – from what I could see. But before being able to see the whole room, which one had to walk around a partition, I swung right (“right” as in direction, “right” as in directly, “right” not as in correctly) into the bathroom to wash my hands. The bathroom matched the rest of the apartment in tone – with a porcelin sink yellowing at the cracks and a faucet with a calcified base. My hands were turning red and sausagey because the water was cold.

And I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I was happy with how my hair looked. Unusually shiny and black but so ordinary, with no intention other than to be what it was supposed to be. My face looked opaque compared to the perspirating windows and I was pleased. It was like solid cow’s milk and not like its substitute soy version. Sausage hands. Hair’s hair. Cow’s milk.

There was a knock at the door. The time of ressurection had expired and my dad had checked out while I was making sausage hands.