IZAKAYA 居酒屋
It’s cold as shit, even with two pairs of gloves. My boots dig crunchy pits in the virgin snow. It sticks to everything, like someone above spilled a whole bottle of White-Out. The sun is going to set soon, so I pick up my pace. I’m heading to a small wooden shack sitting precariously on the edge of a snowy cliff ahead. Thick streams of white smoke billow from the chimney like clouds. I can faintly make out shadowy figures safe inside.
It’s dark by the time I finally arrive. The fire-red chochin blows violently in the winter wind. Laughter and voices come from behind the heavy wooden door. I’m not afraid. In fact, I’m late. I shove open the door and enter the bar.
A decrepit grandma in rags is serving drinks of various colors and ingredients to thirsty customers seated on creaky barstools. A short goblin man greedily slurps down his beverage while dropping red beans into a circular wooden tray. An wrinkled rabbit talks excitedly with a beautiful and bored-looking fox in a dress. Two pitiful women with long black hair sit in the corner comforting one another: one cries, holding a dead child in her arms; the other one, much paler, chews on a red wedge-shaped piece of meat. She looks like icy death. In another corner, a massive black cat with a bifurcated tale laps up a saucer of amber. A large macaque wearing an ill-fitting hat argues with a lengthy snake coiled around a glass bottle.
I take off my soaked outerwear in search of a coat room, but a meaty hand from above takes them from me gently instead. Turning back, I see the huge hairy shape of a creature in a loin cloth. I bow and he returns my gesture with the noise of a cow.
Taking a seat at the bar, the hum of conversation stops. Every head and eye turn to face me in unison. To my delight, all guests break into cheers—even Ms. Dead Kid in the corner.
“Welcome b-back! Let me buy you a d-drink!” Squeaks Rabbit.
“My my, you look so good,” purrs Fox. “Do you have plans for later?”
Monkey takes off his hat, places it on my head and mumbles like old tires, “It looks better on you.”
The old woman behind the bar grips an emerald bottle from a bucket of snow by her feet. She pours clear liquid into a small ceramic cup and places it in front of me.
“It’s on the house, deary. You’re on fumes,” she croaks.
They all patiently wait for my command.
“Kanpai!” I shout, bringing the cup to my mouth.
“Kanpai!”
We all share this moment together. Icy Death begins to sing an old tune and soon we all join in. Arms around shoulders. No one gets left behind. I seem to know all the lyrics.
The voices swell and I feel a pulsing in my head. Swirling lights and faces twist my vision like a pretzel. The pain is blinding. I pluck out my eyes and put them in my pocket. Before I lose my balance, I climb on top of the barstool and finish the last chorus with the crowd. I fall for miles and finally hit the bottom, exploding into a thousand pieces.
