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"When are we landing?" I asked Evans.
"Snore...snore." Evans was sleeping with his eye mask on.
"Uh...let's wake him up," I thought.
I shifted myself towards his ears and whispered in a low voice.
"Dad, come, let's play!" I whispered to him.
"No..." Evans said in his sleep.
"Come on, Dad! Let's play soccer! After all, I am your kid!" I said while giggling.
"NoOo, I don't have money!" Evans said in a louder voice.
"Dad, please. Mom is also asking if my 13 sisters can have Chipotle tonight," I said a little louder.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I CAN'T, I CAN'T, WE DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEYYYYYYY!!!" Evans screamed, totally awake now.
Evans is afraid of having kids, not because he thinks he can't have them or he can't be a good father. He doesn't want kids because when he was little he was the 13th of the 15 children his dad had. All with the same woman. He had seen how his family struggled financially because of that large number of kids in the house.
"Lol! You're funny," I said in a low voice.
Everyone was looking at Evans like he was a mad man.
"Sorry!" He sat down.
"You are a bad person, you know that, right?" Evans said.
"Calm down, after this flight no one would even remember your face," I said nonchalantly.
"Why did you wake me up?" Evans said clearly evading a confrontation with Micheal.
"I was just asking when are going to land."
"Ah...two hours... and just for that? You could have called a hostess for that," Evans said, looking at his watch and looking at Michael incredulously.
"Mhm," I confirmed without looking at him.
"Hmph!"
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After the plane landed at the airport, we went straight to our hotel. Obviously, we took separate rooms.
Lighting a cigarette, I stood on the balcony of my room.
"The view is nice." I said to myself.
I would have never thought it could come to Japan in my entire life, and also meeting Mr. Miyazaki.
After finishing my cigarette, I called Evans, who was half asleep, and told him I was going out for the day.
"Okay...Just come before din...er" Evans said.
"Cool. Good night sleepy head." I said.
"Hmm...snore"
"Now lets get out of here" I said to myself.
Michael Owen had finally escaped the hotel lobby after losing a twenty-minute bowing war with the doorman (he bowed too low, nearly toppled a potted plant, and the guy still won).
Now he was loose in Tokyo.American, anonymous, and armed with nothing but a map app, jet lag, and the vague hope that his debit card worked everywhere. No one knew his face, which was perfect. To these people he was just another tall, confused gaijin with bad hair and worse Japanese.
He wandered into Meiji Shrine because the giant wooden gate looked like it belonged on a postcard.
Michael struck what he thought was a deep, thoughtful pose arms crossed, staring meaningfully into the distance when three elderly Japanese ladies in matching visors and hiking poles shuffled up.
One pointed at him with pure delight. "Tall American! Very good for picture! You stand there?"
Before he could say no, they had arranged him like a human prop between the torii pillars.
"Peace sign! Peace sign!" the leader commanded, demonstrating with both hands. Michael complied, feeling like an idiot tourist statue. They took seventeen photos, then the shortest one handed him a wooden *ema* plaque.
"Write wish! For love, money, or… strong legs?"
Michael scribbled "Please don't let me bow myself into the hospital" in English.
They read it over his shoulder, burst out laughing, and adopted him on the spot. He left with a bag of matcha KitKats, their LINE group chat invite ("Granny Hiking Club-free snacks for tall foreigners" he had to download Line on the spot), and the realization that he was now their official shrine mascot.
Starving, Michael ducked into a tiny ramen shop in Shibuya with six stools and a menu that was 90% glossy pictures. He pointed at the reddest bowl like a pro. "This one. Extra spicy, please."
The chef, a bald, built-like-a-tank guy grinned like Michael had just challenged him to a duel. "Extra? You sure, America-san?"
Michael nodded, cocky. Big mistake.
The bowl arrived looking like lava with noodles. One bite and his face went full nuclear. He wheezed, eyes watering, while the chef leaned over the counter, arms folded, watching with professional pride.
"Too spicy?" the man asked, already sliding over a glass of milk like he'd seen this movie before.
"My asshole will deform tomorrow," Michael gasped.
The whole shop four salarymen and one college kid exploded in laughter looking at his face. The chef clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth and replaced the bowl with plain chashu rice.
"Next time, baby spicy for America-san. I give you my LINE. You tell when you come."
Michael left with a burning tongue, a new best friend, and the chef's personal sticker that said "I Survived Extra Spicy – Level: American."
At a 7-Eleven that felt more like a fancy café, Michael stared at the wall of perfect triangular sandwiches like they were alien artifacts. He pointed at a chicken one and said slowly, "One of these, please."
The college-aged cashier with silver-dyed hair nodded enthusiastically. "Hai! One *sexy* chicken!"
Michael blinked. "I'm sorry… Nani?"
The guy pointed at the label: "*Spicy* Chicken Katsu." The English sticker had been printed with a tiny font error that looked exactly like "sexy."
Michael lost it, laughing so hard he had to lean on the counter.
The cashier cracked up too, then tossed in a free melon soda "because funny gaijin make my shift better."
Michael walked out clutching his spicy (not sexy) sandwich, melon soda, and the sudden, beautiful knowledge that Japan was going to clown on him daily.
Jet lag finally hit like a truck. Michael collapsed onto a bench in Yoyogi Park, staring at nothing. An old salaryman in a crisp suit and bright sneakers sat down beside him, silently feeding pigeons like it was a sacred ritual.
Without looking over, the man said in perfect English, "You look like a man who just lost a fight with Tokyo."
Michael snorted. "That obvious?" Look at at the man.
The guy chuckled. "First time?"
"Hai"
"Even though this city is fast-paced, it is also full of surprises. You will like it here," the man said.
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute. Then the man reached into his pocket, pulled out a single perfectly preserved firefly keychain, and pressed it into Michael's hand.
"For luck." He stood, gave a tiny bow, and wandered off whistling.
Michael sat there, keychain warm in his palm, grinning like an absolute idiot.
"I like it," Michael said.