In a Pachinko Parlour Parking Lot

Hiro sat in a Pachinko parlour parking lot in the sun drenched remnants of his town. He had remembered sitting in that parking lot before as a child in the back seat of his mother's car while she picked up the laundry before they moved into their house. Even then, he remembered sitting in the parking lot after his 8th birthday party. He remembered sitting in that parking lot in High School, smoking cigarettes and drinking, listening to Tupac and wondering what "Weed" was. Now, he sat here helping to dispense food rations and water bottles to survivors at mid-day. The colors of the pachinko machines were already well faded by the time he had seen them. The parlor had been there since the 1970's. Bu there was an arcade inside as well, which always seemed more appealing- but his mother always made him play a few games too many with this grandfather, an old WWII vet. Being forced to play, he always thought, against his will- yet it seemed to give his grandfather true joy, which even then, was not much incentive. He was so Japanese, Hiro's grandfather. As Japanese as one could get. Flat sun pocked face, small nose, thin lips, strong voice and hard wrinkled hands. Shirts always tucked into his high water Khaki pants. He was strong and loud. But too much for Hiro. Hiro, had been raised to distance himself from his Japanese heritage. By television, by music, by their humiliating loss in WWII accented by the war time atrocities of men like his Grandfather, also named Hiro who had participated in the Batan Death March, which his grandfather had indeed done. Hiro had grown up, very confused about Japan and it's place in the world. Japan, it seemed to him had been nothing more than what he had seen in the Pachinko parlour as a child. Bright lights on the outside, a well oiled machine but prone to breaking down, and producing strange odours. Not as clean as everyone perhaps thought, and a little bit- too friendly. Japan seemed like a place that had existed a long time ago with Samurai and Castles like Europe. The Japan he knew was all gray skies and boredom, a small town far from where anything really exciting happened. He remembered Japan feeling like those old Pachinko machines with the faded colors, and the crudely drawn illustrations of monkey's and salarymen who's faded colours stuck out more than their jovial features juxtaposed against sexy, doe eyed femme fatales. It was a Japan that appealed to him as a child, yet which he rejected strongly now. And it was all he knew of Japan and his connection to it. But what did he replace it with? Rap music. Black American music. He thought about being a rap star, about being a Black American. He wondered what the ghetto was like, what was so bad about it. He felt a connection to that music and those people yet he had no knowledge of them outside of their music and their poetry. Perhaps, the ghetto looks something like this. Devastation all around you. The remnants of lives shuffling around calling the names of missing loved ones, picking up trash that used to keep sakes, moving shovels of debris. Perhaps the ghetto had a young man like himself sitting in a parking lot in whatever the equivalent of a Pachinko parlor would be in harlem or south central, handing out boxes of poptarts and bottles of water. Hiro was lucky to survive the Tsunami, and over the past several days- had learned unknowingly what it meant to be a Japanese person. The realization gradually started creeping up on him, and crested in a great wave. Looking around him, he saw the devastation of the Tsunami, and wondered why the Pachinko Parlour was spared. He wandered around inside of it, manouvering around boxes and looking at those old, well used Pachinko Machines and their faded colors, and the unused arcade games with their bright colors and smiling giddy mascots, and he felt his heart rise for a moment at the sight of their familiarity, and he let it. He did not supress his childish glee at seeing them as he once would have done, because he knew when he turned around, he would see nothing but devastation. Nothing left of his town to make his heart rise in anyway. He stood bemusedly, and fondled the knobs of the machine, and pretended to close his eyes and be cordially forced to play 20 minutes of Pachinko with grandpa. He didn't wish those days to come back, nor did he grow too sentimental at the thought. But he knew that after the war, his grandfather had to help rebuild Japan, as he had helped destroy on it's behalf. He knew that he had the same eyes, but his face was a little rounder, his cheek bones a little less dramatic. He knew, that now he understood something about being Japanese the way his grandfather had understood it. It was a place that existed long ago in the hearts and minds of those long dead samurai and peasants. It was a place that had been destroyed, and that he had no choice but to help rebuild. He could relate to that experience.