storytelling should be an act of recollection. too close to the event and it’s sequential, event-based. too far and it’s cloudy and mostly indecipherable. i wish i had written more; there’s a lot of stories i might no longer have. one year later seems to be the sweetspot.

i remember the realization, the sudden change of plans. i wouldn’t be making it home that night. i remember also falling towards a spinning room, downing the complimentary water. absolutely shloshed. i remember the pounding headache and not trying to vomit on the hakushin-sen, the minute maid orange juice from a corner store vending machine on my way home. there was a reason i had to be back early—piano lesson. i suppose i had thought that going out for a goodbye dinner with the shibata minami staff would be tame.

“oh not yet—i’ll get one next round.” i said that when they were on their 3rd or 4th round of drinks and i still hadn’t finished mine. there must have been a highball somewhere in there. don’t think i’d get drunk off namabīru, not in those little glasses. after we’d left the restaurant it was decided that the men would head to a nearby irish pub. “NEXT ROUND!!” shouted in chorus, gleefully, red-faced. i remember when it was time for goodbyes some day later and i said—as a knowing joke, i’d thought, comraderie—”i’ll get the next round.” his response seemed to be to leave the room as quickly as possible. embarrassment? maybe you aren’t supposed to bring those things up. what happens in nomikai stays.

“when i heard alex-sensei was leaving, i thought, why?” plaintively, keening. “ma, but, i understand your feeling.” “they don’t tell you anything,” i remember chris saying, front seat of zac’s car, maybe that time we went to toyosaka. i guess you just had to get them drunk first to receive your performance review. we talked about banff. he loved to travel, and he loved to ski.

at dinner there had been a silence. it came to be filled by the new-arrival teacher, and stories about how she had known tom cruise. how he would come to japan for the press junket and he always remembered her. i guess she would somehow find him, each time he came back. she did speak that big-city english. worldly.

and thank god for apahotel. you can reserve on your phone at 1:11am and stumble in and if you fall it’s fine because the floor is mostly covered by bed.