Behind Hazel Eyes

Adam

Theme: Dust

The cigarette dangled from the corner of her red-smudged lips, its burnt and ashy tip sending up thin trails of smoke into the already stuffy air. The young man watched idly for a moment, noticing that they made slow whirls before vanishing completely. With practiced ease, the older woman counted out the crisp bills, her lips moving silently as she made the mental calculations. Between them was a low table, grimy with years of served meals of soba, snapper and sushi. Once in a while, the swinging wood doors, reminscent of Western salons, would open to reveal a wandering passerby or idle tourist seeking a quick drink or reprieve from the scorching heat.

Today was one of the more quiet days. Only two men - Miroku and Hanada-san, in their late sixties or early seventies and perpertul customers to the drinking parlor - sat huddled in their usual postion, bent over a game of shougi. The empty tables and chairs were a painful reminder of how slow business had gotten over the past few months. He could see that several layers of dust had gathered between the un-used tables and chairs and he had the feeling that they'd never be cleaned again for as long as they were still in business - however long that would be.

"You're a hundred yen short," she suddenly said, jerking him out of his reverie. Her Kansai accent was thick and even he had to admire how she was able to talk without dropping the cigarette from her lips. She placed the money upon the table and stabbed at one of the clean notes with a chubby finger, a brilliant diamond ring (fake he was sure) adorning the pale flesh. "I can't open the doors for you until you get me the rest."

Sighing softly, he pulled out his wallet and placed the appropriate amount. This was seriously cutting into his budget for the week but this was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Mrs. Oda, had been the caretaker for so long now, but he knew that he was finally ready to take back what was his.

"Is that good enough?" he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Don't get testy with me, young man," she replied, her plump features breaking into a grin. "You know that things are hard these days. I just have to make ends meet that's all."

He held back a retort and watched as she shoved the money into her cream-colored blouse in a greedy motion.

"The keys?" he asked, now more than impatient to leave the room. The thick smell of whiskey, sake, and of course smoke was beginning to stifle him. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Impatience, impatience. You young people," she grumbled as she rose to her feet. "You remind me of your father you know."

He stiffened at the reference but kept his silence, watching as she made her way behind the counter to rummage through several boxes. He watched the dust fly off the wooden objects and wondered just how long she had actually taken a look at the items. He felt something hot fill his throat and he swallowed it quickly, telling himself that it wasn't unexpected for people to have little care for things that were of no real concern to them.

"Ah, here it is...knew I had it in here somewhere." She straightened up and held the two keys attached to a small red plastic keyholder which he snatched out of her hand quickly.

"Thank you," he mumbled as he began to walk out of the restaurant.

"You just come see me if you need anything else, okay, Adam?" She pronounced it as Ada-mu and he had to fight the sudden urge to laugh at the butchering of his name. He was used to it, of course, having lived in this country all his life.

He got onto his motorbike, an inexpensive Honda model he had gotten for himself last year, and placed the black helmet over his head. Smiling softly to a group of teenagers, who hailed him in greeting, he revved the engine quickly and made his way down the narrow streets enroute to a place he had never thought he would get to see in a long time.

At twenty-eight years old, Adam Hayakawa, could consider himself one of the luckiest men in the city. In a time when unemployment was at its highest, he had a steady job as a teacher at a local elementary school, something he was rather proud of. So yes, he had grown up wishing he could become a fighter jet pilot, thanks to his obsession with their planes and all the movies he watched as a little boy. He could still remember saving up enough money to catch the Saturday matinees at the Regal Theater, making sure he always sat in front with eyes glued to the large screen as he became lost in a world of daring sky dives and air battles. He had hung on to that dream until the...

HONK!

"Goddamn it!" He barely managed to swerve out of the way as the large delivery truck rushed by him. He stopped to catch his breath, glaring after the vehicle, whose driver stuck his head out of the window to yell at him. Good grief! The streets were narrow enough already, why did these guys have to make driving even more difficult?

He continued on his way, his thoughts now drifting towards his years in high school and college. His dreams of becoming a pilot had quickly been replaced with a reality so harsh, it had taken him years to recover from the shock of it. He had managed to get through those awkward teenage years just fine, making friends, having girlfriends and doing quite well enough to get admitted to a small community college. He realized, after a brief stint as a volunteer teacher for a group of elementary school children, that he was made for that job. He genuinely enjoyed sharing his dreams with the bright-eyed boys and girls, who came from homes where reading and writing was a rarity in itself. He could almost see himself in their eyes, many of them coming into the classroom for the first time with trepidation and wariness soon to be replaced with happy smiles of joy and pleasure whenever they were able to read their first sentences or write their first words.

He smiled softly to himself as he made a turn around the corner. The pay wasn't all that great, but he was able to survive and that was most important. Besides, his reward came in the form of all the pictures his students drew for him. He had a pile of folders filled with them and they were his pride and joy.

Things hadn't always been so rosy to be honest. Due to his roots - having a Japanese father and an American mother - his features were not very typical and had garned him attention that wasn't really appreciated...most of the time. He had often been mistaken for a gaijin, but it was only when he opened his mouth to speak, were they stunned to hear the fluent Japanese that spilled forth. Thanks to his mother's teaching and schooling, the English language did come quite easily to him as well. It was good to be multi-lingual. It made things so much easier all around. He had inherited his father's thick jet black hair, his jaw and build - slender but well-toned, thanks to his daily walks or jog around the neighborhood. From his mother, he had gotten her beautiful blue eyes and height. She had been a rather tall woman and Adam assumed that was one of the reasons his father had fallen for her.

As the motorbike began its descent along the narrow stretch of road, he could feel his mouth begin to get dry. It was amazing how he could still remember the directions to the place even though he had carefully avoided coming here all this time. How long has it been now? Ten, twelve...no fifteen years?

(Eighteen)

And yet, he could still remember the familiar up and downhill slopes like it was just yesterday. He had run along these streets as a little boy after all, had played with his dog, Tiger, in the meadows on his right. He bit his lower lip and rode a little faster, the hot afternoon wind whipping against his t-shirt as the house began to loom in the horizon. It wasn't a surprise to see that the other houses in the neighborhood looked just the same. It had always been a quiet place to begin with - the neighbors were friendly and nice and he did believe that there were a few other 'real' foreigners there as well. He wondered if they were still around.

He came to a stop before the wrought iron gates, his heart thumping wildly as he stared at the house before him. He could still see their name plate ingrained into the brick wall - 'Hayakawa' - written in kanji. For a moment, his vision swam and he could see himself - an eight-year old kid running towards the house with his mother smiling and waving at him from the gate.

"Mamma! I'm home!"

"Welcome home, Adam. Welcome home!"

"Welcome home," he whispered to himself as he opened his eyes and stared at the empty street. He reached into his pocket and brought out the keys, hands trembling slightly as he let himself into the home he had not seen in so long.

As expected, the once loving gardens - his mother's pride and joy - lay in ruins. Overgrown weeds, knee-high grass and twining vines filled the driveway and wound its way around the two-story building. The windows were no longer visible as they had been covered with plywood. He glanced towards the window which had led to his bedroom and could almost see himself sitting on the window seat with his growing collection of fighter planes. With a heavy sigh, he took a few more steps and almost jumped out his skin as a rabbit...at least it looked like one...jumped out of the bushes and hopped away. He blinked once and shook his head rapidly before slipping the key into the lock and pushing the door open with his heart in his throat.

"Mom...Dad...I'm home," he said quietly, and then promptly choked as the heavy and musty smell of dust, decay and age filled his nostrils. He wiped his eyes, not surprised to find it a bit wet as he stared at the emptiness before him.

Nothing.

Not even a single chair or piece of paper to show that anyone had once lived in this place. He stood in the middle of the once living room, and saw his father reading his newspaper in that large overstuffed sofa.

"Daddy!"

"Here, here, boy. Come give your daddy a hug, hmm?"

And he'd do so, running into his lap and wrapping his tiny arms around that strong neck while mother watched from the kitchen with a warm smile and a bowl of dough in her arms.

"Shit." He took a deep breath as the vision passed away again. He had almost smelled the baking food at some point...and then promptly assumed it was a neighbor's doing.

He walked up the stairs, wincing as the unused floorboards protested the weight of his steps. The dust was heavier here and little sunlight flooded into the rooms as he walked towards his bedroom. He pushed open the door slowly and almost fell at the sight of the handsome boy sitting on the bed and smiling at him.

"Wanna see my fighter plane? I just built it!"

He grinned widely at Adam and the older man could feel a smile tugging at his lips. It was the best damn fighter plane he had ever built but like everything else, the image began to fade slowly as if melting away with the tiny shards of light that flickered through the plywood. His shelves filled with toy models, his comic book collection, typewriter and books were all disappearing and he took a step forward as if hoping they'd return.

Suddenly and with no warning at all, the tears came. Heavy, fast and unstoppable, they flooded down his cheeks as he sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself in a tight hug.

They had died suddenly.

The other car had been driving too fast around the corner.

It was the rain...all the rain's fault.

They had been rushed to the hospital but it was too late.

They were supposed to come see him in the school play. He had been practicing for months for his role as Robin Hood and he had waited for them to show up.

But they never did. They would never make it to the school.

He hadn't even cried. He couldn't cry.

The doctors had said it was due to the shock and had made him live with his grandmother.

And for two long years after the incident, Adam never opened his mouth to speak.