After a long day collecting cans, with bent back and tired feet, he stopped by a Lawson convenience store and approached the rear entrance. He sat down on the pavement by his cart and waited patiently. Right on time, the door opened and a boy in his late teens walked out. He was wearing the blue and white striped Lawson uniform.
‘Ohashi-san!’ the boy called out.
‘Ah! Makoto-kun.’ He stood to greet the boy. ‘How are you today? How are your studies?’
‘Oh, fine, fine.’ The boy looked tired, and ran an awkward hand through his slightly unkempt hair. Ohashi liked that he didn’t spike it with gel like most of the other kids his age. Makoto held a plastic bag slightly out of sight in his other hand.
‘Excellent. And you’ll graduate soon?’ Ohashi stood very straight and still, hands held formally at his sides, his body positioned in front of his cart as if trying to hide it.
‘Yes. Well, I just did.’
‘So, what’s next?’
‘I’ve applied for an internship at a legal department in a big PR company that’s dealing with the Olympics.’ Makoto shrugged. ‘My parents’ idea.’
‘They must be proud of you. And I am too.’
Makoto smiled, and then remembered the plastic bag hanging awkwardly from the fingers of his other hand. ‘Oh, here you are.’ The bag clinked as he handed it over. ‘It’s not much, but this is all I could get for you this week.’
‘Makoto-kun! This is more than enough, thank you so much.’ Ohashi began rifling through the contents: tins of fish, bottles of wheat tea and onigiri – all out of date and due to be thrown away. He paused when his hand brushed against a bottle of alcohol. ‘Ah . . . Makoto-kun?’
‘Yes?’
‘This shochu . . . I’m afraid, I don’t need it.’ He took the bottle from the bag.
‘Sorry. I forgot you didn’t . . . Well, you can take it anyway. Perhaps one of your friends might like it?’
‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ohashi held out the bottle to Makoto. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I can’t . . . Why don’t you have it? You’re a . . . good . . . um . . .’
There was an awkward silence as Ohashi looked at the wall, avoiding Makoto’s eyes.
‘Well . . . if you’re sure you don’t want it.’ Makoto took the bottle. ‘Thank you so much, Makoto-kun. Have a lovely evening.’
‘You too, Ohashi-san. Will I see you next week?’
‘That sounds perfect, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Take care.’
‘Goodbye.’
Ohashi hung the bag from a hook on his cart and pushed it down the street away from the convenience store. Makoto looked on until the older man had turned a corner out of view. He thought for a moment about how sad it was to see a good man like that, down on his luck. Always so polite and formal. He looked a bit like Gen from the Street Fighter II series with his grey beard and hair.
He shook his head, and then went back into the shop.
In the evenings, after a hard day of work, Ohashi would meet up with his friends at the camp – a little village of blue tarpaulins and cardboard boxes nestled by the train tracks in a park only the homeless visited. Those who lived there made an effort to keep the camp orderly – anyone not tidy enough would likely be ejected. The smell in winter was not so overpowering, but in the height of summer, local residents complained about the odour of urine. The trains that rumbled by served as a kind of clock tower for the community, the clanks of the wheels on the tracks a constant reminder of time passing. Those who lived in the camp kept to themselves, living quietly, and, for the most part, the police left them alone.
Ohashi made his way along the neat rows of compact houses, looking for his buddies.
‘Over here!’ a voice called out to him.
He turned to see a group of three men huddled around a small fire beneath one of the few trees in the park. He strolled towards them, gait dignified.
‘Evening, gentlemen,’ said Ohashi. He took off his shoes, placed them with the others, and sat down on the blue tarpaulin they’d laid out. Four pairs of shoes were now neatly lined up on the grass.
Shimada greeted Ohashi with a little nod and his usual serious expression.
‘Evening, Ohashi-san.’ Taka’s round face was set in its permanent warm smile.
‘What have you been up to today?’ asked Hori, thin and toothy.
‘Same old. How have you fellows been?’ Ohashi took a bottle of wheat tea from his bag and offered some to the group. They all declined, and knew Ohashi well enough by now not to offer any of their saké in return.
‘Went to church,’ said Shimada.
‘Got some free food,’ said Hori.
‘Nourishment for the soul,’ said Taka wistfully.
‘Yeah . . . that, and soup.’ Hori laughed.
A train clattered past, halting the conversation temporarily.
‘You should come too, Ohashi. Get some free grub.’
‘Yes, Ohashi-san. The Lord always has space in his heart for you.’ Taka’s eyes pleaded.
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Ohashi replied, looking awkwardly at the dancing flames in the middle of the group as if there were something there that required urgent attention. He cast around, searching for anything, his eyes eventually falling on the cross Taka wore around his neck.
Ohashi allowed himself to recall the one time they’d convinced him to come to the church. Hori and Shimada just turned up and pretended to be good Christians, but Taka really believed it all, deep down. It had made Ohashi sad to see all these men, down on their luck, jumping through hoops to get some free food. Before getting fed they had to listen to a preacher with a cheap suit and slicked-back hair talk about how Jesus had died to save everyone. The preacher had said, without a trace of doubt, how the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had paid for their sins. Ohashi couldn’t believe his ears for a second when he heard that. Could this man really be saying such a dreadful thing? Did he actually believe the words coming from his mouth? Ohashi had never gone back after that. It made him sick to think of Christians preying on the poor men while they were at their lowest, feeding them with slop food and even worse ideas. Buddhists would never do that. Then there were all those condescending women serving miso soup in the yard afterwards. Ohashi could tell from the way they wouldn’t make eye contact, the way they wrinkled their noses, that they hated the smell and unkempt looks of the homeless men. They only served the soup to tell themselves they were good people – it was obvious.
‘There were some rumours floating around,’ said Shimada.
‘Oh?’ Ohashi looked at Shimada, whose serious face was cast down.
Shimada looked up. ‘They’re cracking down on the homeless in the city.’
‘How so?’ Ohashi shifted his weight to get comfortable and took a sip of wheat tea.
‘Olympics,’ said Hori. ‘Go on, Shimada. You tell him.’
‘Well . . .’ Shimada drank some saké. ‘People disappearing off the streets. Like, Tanimoto, remember? No one knows where he is. Gone. Haven’t seen him in weeks. Disappeared. Something’s going on, since they announced the Olympics. Knocking down old buildings, building new stadiums. They’re cleaning the streets. Tidying the place up, you know. Getting rid of undesirables.’ He snorted. ‘The city’s changing.’