Posted by Hajja on January 29, 2001 at 09:10:03:
In Reply to: Re: Speaking of tabs for Popper, Dylan, Ozzy... posted by stan on November 04, 2000 at 13:07:30:
April 14, 1959
Yesterday I spilled soup on my lap. Sensei always taught me to place a napkin in my lap when I first sit down to eat, so luckily my pants were not stained. I felt bad about wasting the soup that was spilled, but what is done is done. The rest of the soup tasted excellent. It was some type of bean soup.
The restaurant owner treated me very well. He recognized the manner in which I spoke and carried myself and quickly he realized that I was a pupil of Sensei Wakayama. He asked me how the old man was doing, to which I replied "fine." As we began talking, he became a bit presumptuous, but correct in his allegations. He asked me if there was some part of my life missing; a part of my life that somehow no longer exists. I could only stare at him blankly, wondering how he could know such personal details of my life. Something seemed to pull at me from deep inside. I got up and left the building mid conversation out of pure frustration. It seems wrong that a perfect stranger could somehow know more about my own soul than I do.
As I slept that night I dreamt about two patrons that came to visit me from afar. One was a handsome Hispanic with very distinct facial features: a grin that spanned from ear to ear and eyes that captivated the soul. The other was a blue eyed angel so beautiful I was uncomfortable looking at her. Her eyes reminded me of my own. They came to me in this dream, and held me, as though I were a baby. They loved me, and supported me for all of three minutes. As I finally found the courage to embrace them, they turned their backs and walked away from me, never turning to say goodbye or even look back once.
I awoke in a cold sweat. My hair was saturated, as were my clothes. I knew I had to see the man in the restaurant again. I was sure that he had some clue to my history.
For years, I vowed never to leave Sensei. He was there to care for me in my most dire moments, but I felt it is not only my right, but also my duty to seek out my true family and the secrets of my youth. Once again I set out to wander the rural country side of Japan in search of the same restaurant I had eaten at the day before. Mid afternoon, I found it again. I walked inside and found the man waiting for me with two meals already prepared: one for himself and one for me.
"Youāre late," he said with scowl on his face. I sat down at the table and the thick atmosphere seemed to thin out a bit. The man smirked at me, hinting that his serious attitude was merely an act. We began speaking. At first he had little to say to me besides the usual introductions. I got to know the man a little better than I had before. His name was actually Ken Kuroda. He had owned this restaurant for only a short time and had an eight year old son named Ama. Later on in the conversation, he began to speak seriously again.
The man told me that my coming to the restaurant once again related somehow to his son. He started by telling me everything I already knew. He told me that at the age of twenty five I awoke in Senseiās house with no memory of my past.
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