Waiting for the Man (23 page)

I returned to the table. Dot was hovering, her phone in hand, obviously waiting for a photo. “Well, hello there,” she grinned. “Everything go all right?”

I didn’t say anything. I smiled, which is all I imagine anyone can do when asked about a trip to the toilet.

“No repeat of Indiana in there?” Dot asked, laughing.

I should have been angry. I should have, but I couldn’t find the energy. Angie put her hand on mine. To check my blood pressure, I’m guessing.

I sat down and Dot took a few steps back until she bumped into the serving station. Ketchup bottles rattled. She laughed and leaned backward. The blond Japanese waiter appeared with another phone. Takeshi’s head was still on the table. Dot turned around. “Oh, Kenny,” she said to the waiter, “could you take one with mine, too? Thanks.” She scooted behind me and put her hands on my shoulder. With that she transformed our group into a family.

Kenny aimed Dot’s phone at us. “Say cheese!” he ordered in the exaggerated baritone of a game show announcer.

We said cheese. Kenny took the photo and put Dot’s phone down and picked up his and aimed at us. “Say Dot!” he ordered.

We did. We all said Dot. Even Dot said Dot. Kenny snapped the picture. “Thanks!” he smiled. He walked away.

“We’re so honored you’re here,” Dot said, walking back to the station to claim her phone. “It’s not every day that we have celebrities in here. We get some of the Broncos sometimes. The older ones. But that’s it. We are a family restaurant. We’re not hip, that’s for sure.” She smiled again, hard, a smile that hurt me as much as it should have been hurting her. In her Charlie Chaplin getup, Dot looked like the winner of a struggling mall’s Halloween contest. I was craving an empanada of all things. And Hunan dumplings. I had a deep craving for Hunan dumplings smothered in a mildly spicy peanut sauce. “Emma will be your waitress this evening and she’ll be with you shortly,” Dot announced. “I’ll check up on you folks later.” She waved and walked away, slipping through the crowd like a happy puppy. She was Chaplin with the film rolling faster than usual.

Takeshi was witnessing his own funeral. That was obvious. “Shit,” he said, an appropriate word given the look on his face. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Angie finished her drink. She finally opened the menu. “Maybe I’ll stay,” Takeshi said. “Forever. Maybe I’ll ride around with you forever. Or I’ll work here. Like Kenny. Become blond.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You come from a technologically advanced culture. You knew you’d made the news.” I allowed him to wallow in his self-pity, fearing the wrath of a father who was handing him his future. I ignored him because it would be simple for me to feel the same kind of self-pity. And because I didn’t want to believe that I would be driving across the country “forever.”

“It’s not like we’re not being followed by a bus full of media,” I sighed.

I sipped my Coke and imagined it filled with Jamaican rum. Appleton’s. Something that would have pleased Angie. Takeshi dropped his head to the table again. The theater of the restaurant was getting to him, I figured. “They have burgers here,” I told him.

“Order me one,” he said without looking up. “With fries.”

“What can your father truly do to you?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.

“I am embarrassing him,” he said.

“This is what we do to our parents,” I said. “We embarrass them up to the point we make them proud.” Takeshi was unmoved. “You’ve made it seem like you didn’t want that job anyway.”

He lifted his head. He shook it slowly at first and then with increasing speed. I thought it would fall off. “That’s not true,” he said. He stopped shaking his head. “Not excited. That’s true. OK. Yes. But I want the job. The company is mine when my father retires. He’s built this for me. This is my future. I’ll have a good life with this job. A very, very good life.”

I had no right to argue this. I knew that. But Takeshi didn’t. “Good money doesn’t mean a good life,” I said. “Does it?”

“Good money gives you a good chance,” he said. “A better chance.” I wasn’t going to argue that one either. Since I was so unsure how true this was myself.

“So call him,” I suggested. “Call your father and tell him what happened. You haven’t called home once. Call him. Pick up your phone. I’ve never met a Japanese person who used his cell phone less than you do. If he watches TV, at least he knows you’re OK. Right? He knows you’re healthy and safe and that nothing untoward is going to happen to you, right?”

Takeshi leaned back in his seat and took a giant gulp of his beer. “I have to go back,” he mumbled. He stared off into the restaurant, into nothing, and he rocked back and forth. “I have to go right now.” He chugged his beer and slammed the bottle on the table.

“You’re panicking,” I said.

He stood up and started for the exit. “What the — ?” I said. Angie studied the menu. She was indifferent to this drama. I ran after Takeshi and got sidetracked by a little boy struggling to tie his shoe in the middle of the aisle. He had no idea what he was doing. I bent down and tied his shoe, ran through the restaurant, and raced past Dot. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back,” I shouted and left the restaurant and found Takeshi in the parking lot, pacing beside the Odyssey. He was breathing heavily, sweating. What was this if not a sudden panic attack? “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, edging closer to him.

Takeshi stopped pacing. He leaned back against the minivan and put his hands to his face. “I’m scared,” he mumbled. He dropped his hands. “Suddenly. I saw my life and I got scared. I saw the whole thing.” He calmed down and pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. He pulled a severely bent cigarette out of the pack. He lit the cigarette and drew in deeply. He exhaled and relaxed some more.

“Are you afraid of your father?” I asked. I pictured Toshiro Mifune in full samurai regalia. It was a stupid image.

“No, no,” Takeshi said, shaking his head. “He’s a good man. He works too hard. Shouts. He shouts a lot. But everyone’s father is like that, right?” He inhaled some more of the cigarette. “When I go back to Japan, my life starts over. I’m going to work my whole life. I’m going to learn the business and then one day it will be mine. America’s my last chance to do nothing.”

America’s good for that, I thought. “And that’s what we’ve been doing,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

Takeshi looked up at the sky and breathed deeply. “I must go back to Japan and become a man,” he said gravely. “I’m very lucky. I have a good job in a good company. Fast growth. Cell phones. Ha ha.” He mock-laughed, remembering what I had just said inside the restaurant. “Big success story. Everyone wants to know how he did it. He’s been on the cover of business magazines.
Asian Wall Street Journal
. Everywhere. When it was all very bad in Japan, with the recession, with layoffs, people like my father became heroes. He showed the country we can still do good things. He wins prizes and gives speeches. Even now.” He sighed. He turned and tried to open the door to the Odyssey. He looked at me and I threw him the keys. He opened the door and reached in and took his backpack out.

“What are you doing?” I asked, dumbly. “Japan’s always there. Your father, your job, it’s all there. It doesn’t sound like it’s going away.”

“L.A.,” he said. “I must go to L.A.” He fit his backpack on his shoulders. “I’m going to fly to L.A. and then go home.”

“Don’t do it,” I said. I said it for purely selfish reasons, I knew that, but the thought of driving alone, at this juncture, was terrifying. Especially with the Man playing a determined game of hide-and-seek.

“I have to,” he said. “What’s the expression? Face the music? I’m going home to face the music.”

Angie strolled into the parking lot, a new drink in hand. “What’s going on?” she asked. She saw Takeshi encumbered by his backpack and her question was answered. “Why?”

“Takeshi’s going home to claim his millions,” I said, dejected.

“To work for my father,” he said, as if this corrected me.

“Dan’s going to love this,” she said. “I think there are Japanese media meeting us tomorrow morning.”

“Please call a taxi,” Takeshi said.

I wanted to hug him but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “Everyone has to go home sometime,” I said. Except for me. Only then did I realize I was cold. Dot came out and asked if everything was all right. Takeshi asked her to call a cab. “Of course, it’s ironic you never use your cell phone,” I said.

Takeshi smiled, finally. “I lost it,” he said. “And I didn’t care. It reminds me of home.”

“Let’s wait inside for the cab,” Dot offered and we followed her inside. We sat on a bench next to Dot’s station under posters of Charlie Chaplin movies. On the far side of the room was a cane in a glass case and without walking over to read the plaque I knew the real Charlie Chaplin had used it. That impressed me. “Is it always there?” I asked.

Dot looked at the glass case. She nodded. “It was my father’s,” she said. “He worked in film.”

“So it’s really Chaplin’s?” I asked.

“It is,” Dot said. “And that’s why every once in a while I get all dressed up. The kids like it. Their parents seem to like it more.”

I looked through a small window across the street at the black bus in the parking lot of the Italian restaurant. I could picture Dan lunging into his veal. I could imagine the amount of wine the reporters were drinking. The cab pulled up and we returned outside. No one said a word. Takeshi got in. He rolled down the window. He looked at me and smiled. He held out his hand and I took it. “Good luck,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I’ll watch on TV.” He laughed. We looked at each other and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

He shook Angie’s hand and closed the window and the cab pulled away and just like that he was gone. We watched the cab disappear into the Denver night and walked back into the restaurant. We entered and walked past Dot and sat at our table. We ordered our food. We ate our meal in silence. The corned beef was an abomination. Angie ate a southwestern-style grilled chicken breast with a salad on the side. She drank another rum and Diet Coke. We shared a piece of key lime pie for dessert. We drank coffee. I felt tired again, suddenly; I felt tired and closed my eyes, cupped my head in my hands. I was ready again for sleep.

And I heard the Man.
North
, he said.

I shuddered awake.
Go north
, he said again. I looked around the restaurant, expecting to see him but everyone was so blond. Angie looked as if she were ready to fall asleep as well.

“Maybe I should have another coffee,” she said.

There was no time. Dot came to the table. “And how is everything?” she asked, looking even more ridiculous to me now.

“I need the bill,” I told her. “I’m in a big hurry.”

Angie perked up. “Why?” she asked.

“No more coffee?” Dot asked. “Free refills!”

“Please,” I said and I grabbed her hand. “I have to leave. Now!”

Dot looked into my eyes and an enormous smile came over her face. “Did you hear him?” she whispered. “Did you hear him? You did, didn’t you? Right? Here? In my restaurant? What did he say? Is he here? Can I see him?” She scanned the room, looking for the Man, her wigged head and bowler hat bobbing up and down. “Is he here?”

“Joe?” Angie asked.

“Please!” I roared, tightening my grip on Dot’s hand.

She stared down at my hand on hers and the smile left her face. I was hurting her. “It’s on the house,” she said, trying to read me for signs of lunacy.

“Thank you, no, I should pay,” I said. I released her hand.

Dot shook her head. “Just tell me what he said,” she squealed.

I reached into my wallet for Dan’s credit card and now it was Dot’s turn for some hand grabbing. “Please,” she said, her voiced tinged with desperation. “I need to know. I’ve followed your story since the start and to think it’s playing itself out right here in my restaurant . . .” She put a hand to her mouth. She was going to cry. “Was it important?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“Is he here?” she asked again, her voice creaking.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “He’s anywhere he wants to be.”

A tear fell down Dot’s heavily made-up cheek. Charlie Chaplin was crying.

“Let us pay,” I asked again, stupidly. The thought of paying somehow made sense.

Again, Dot shook her head. “Can you ask him to bless my restaurant?” she asked.

I stood up and stepped away slowly. I thanked her some more. I shook her hand and then ran out. I got in the Odyssey. Angie waited by the passenger door and I let her in. “Call Dan,” I told her.

She did and handed me the phone. “They have a marsala that’s quite something,” he said.

“Gotta run,” I said.

“And the calamari fritti is crunchy and light and not at all oily,” he continued.

“We’re heading north,” I said. The background noise of happy reporters came to a sudden stop. I could see Dan with his hand in the air. I heard people shushing each other.

“Where?” Dan asked.

“North,” I repeated. I didn’t know what else to say. “We gotta go.”

“Wait!” Dan pleaded. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing,” I said, losing patience. “He said, ‘Go north.’ That’s it. Oh, and Takeshi went home.”

Dan relayed the news to the media. I could hear chairs moving. “Take the 25,” he said. “Return to the highway and follow the signs for 25 North.”

I hung up the phone and Angie pointed out some reporters running for the black bus. I could not imagine why they still cared but they did and that was their job and it had to be done, just like Takeshi had to return to Japan and do his job, just like Dot had to wear the silly Charlie Chaplin outfit and greet customers with the kind of smile that in its insincerity was sincere.

Some of the reporters stood in front of their cameramen and bright lights and filed their reports for the news. I waved at a camera pointed in our direction. We drove away, past the park with the zoo and the museum again, to the highway and soon found the 25.

“Notice how the public isn’t around?” I asked Angie. “Doesn’t their lack of presence here indicate diminished interest?”