Michael looked in the bathroom mirror. He had just turned thirty-two in January, but due to a hectic work schedule of sixty plus hours a week, he felt twice as old. Although it was Saturday, he felt compelled to go into work, at least for a couple of hours as he knew that his best friend, college buddy and partner, Jim Hutchinson would be there as he was every day. Washing his face, Michael felt his chin. He hadnât shaved in two days but, he detected only a hint of stubble and the fact that it was the week end, he would forgo the drudgery of shaving.
Squinting in the mirror his slightly slanted, bloodshot Irish-Japanese eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. He laughed at the phrase, âtwo burnt holes in a blanketâ, which was one of his motherâs favorite sayings. Michael was third generation Nisei as his father had been born in the United States. His grandfather came to the states from Japan, when he was eighteen before the Second World War, and fought the Nazis in Europe, from the cockpit of a P-51 mustang. He came home to his wife and two sons a war hero and a double ace.
Michael sat on the side of his bed, slipping on a pair of jeans, some white socks and Nike running shoes, happy that his Mother was in Japan with his Father and couldnât chastise him about sitting on the bed. She would have said,
âMichael, donât sit on the bed that way, youâll break it.â
He had never heard from any other source; that sitting on a bed would cause it harm. While tying his shoes, he wondered if people seeing them actually thought that he ran. Running was as abhorrent to him as much as eating raw fish, maybe more so. He grabbed a t-shirt, which had been given to him by Lisa, a girl he dated for a couple of years. On the front of it was printed,
âPain in the Ass Club President.â
She had told him many times, âMichael you are a big pain in the ass.â To which he replied, âI guess I must be doing it wrong.â
âNo you do it right. Thatâs one of the reasons that Iâm so crazy about you.â
Michael stood in front of the open door of the refrigerator and looked for something. He wasnât sure what he wanted, but as his stomach was growling he knew that he needed something. Grabbing a gallon container of premium orange juice from its place in the door, he shook it then unscrewed the cap. Placing it to his mouth, he tipped it back and took a long drink, first looking around to make sure nobody would see him. He could hear his mother chastising him for not using a glass also.
Taking his High School lettermanâs jacket from the hall closet, he went out the door into his garage, making sure it was locked behind him. He pushed the automatic garage door opener and a cold brisk February breeze slapped him in the face, like a virgin who had been groped. Now he was happy that he didnât shave. Throwing a leg over his 1989 Kawasaki 1000, he sat on the seat and removed his helmet from the handle bars. After placing his fur lined gloves on his hands, he inserted the key and pushed the start button. Even though the bike had well over four hundred thousand miles on it and it was sixteen years old, it hummed like a church lady, who had forgotten the words to a hymn.
Michael pulled out of his garage activating the garage door again, then down the street and onto Wilshire Blvd, heading west toward the 405 freeway. Anybody might think that on Saturday morning, the freeway would be clear, however as the 405 was one of the main routes to LAX, it was bogged down as usual. Michael split traffic all the way to Century and took the off ramp with most of the other vehicles. However when they went west toward the airport, he turned left and completed the three miles, past the strip clubs that featured âlive nude girlsâ. He wondered if the sign didnât read âliveâ; would the guys going there expect âdead nude girls?â As Michael walked in the door to the office, Hutchâs voice rang out,
âMike is that you? Iâm sure glad youâre here buddy. Weâve got a problem.â
âWhat?â asked Michael as he sauntered into the office.
âItâs Merdock again. Heâs pissed because he hasnât received his shipment.â
âI sent it Thursday, by FEDEX. He should have it by now.â Michael picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Merdock & Company. The phone made what sounded like a dozen bleeping sounds; then began to ring.
âHello, This is Michael Yashamura, is Mr. Merdock there? Yes Iâll wait.â
Hutch sat there with a worried look, staring at Michael.
âRelax Hutch, you look like somebody ran over your dog. No I wasnât talking to you Mr. Merdock. Oh you did; Great? Thatâs what I was calling about. Ok ⌠fine, weâll talk to you later in the week then. Goodbye. Have a great weekend.â
âHe got it? Good; now I can relax. Iâll tell you I was so worried. When Merdock called about twenty minutes ago, he was pissed. I thought we were going to loose him.â
âWe wonât loose him, unless one of our competitors is willing to lower their prices forty percent. You really have to stop getting so upset. Itâs not good for you.â