Work Text:
10 yen for domestic. International starts at upwards of 700 yen per minute.
Those rates aren’t cheap but fortunately, Joe’s got a pocket full of change this evening.
Fishing around in his coat, he grabs a fistful of coins and extracts them from a flimsy slip of rust colored gauze. The medical tape no doubt serves as a residual parting gift from his boxing gloves but he hardly bats an eye as it flutters to the wastebasket at his feet. Nimble fingers hastily shove a sprinkling of bronze currency into the slot on the call box and the plink of metal hitting the bottom of the receptacle cuts through the muted aftershocks of tinnitus.
Snow falls heavily outside the booth. Condensation builds up droplets of melting slush and fog on the surrounding translucent walls. The wind howls with the ferocity of a lone wolf clawing at the glass. Somehow it’s not as loud as the skittish sound of his own breathing or the dull humming of a dial tone waiting expectantly for further input.
A jittery hand grips a crinkled sheet of receipt paper. The edges digging into calloused skin are perforated and the contents display a mix of messy katakana, cursive romanized letters, and a sequence of flowy digits. With each wrinkle bunching under his thumb, Joe recalls that burning touch in his palm when he accepted something he honestly didn’t ask for in the first place.
The split second grazing of fingers, the momentous spark between them– it speaks of yesterday or two days ago to be precise. Away from the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Removed from the intrusive gaze of the camera lens. Underneath a blanket of stars where all he could do was laugh to fight the satisfactory void of emptiness subsuming every pulsating organ in his body.
It’s a little embarrassing but he has to do this while he’s still got the nerve.
While his mind possesses that persistent inkling of attachment that really doesn’t want to let go.
One followed by a zero to leave his country.
Then a five and two should transport him to another.
The rest is a ten digit number and a three digit extension.
There’s something gratifying in the textured hiss of the rotary swirling off his fingertips. He likes that sensation of moving the plastic circle around until it clicks. Once that final number snaps into place, he presses the receiver up to his ear, waiting for the operator to break the monotony of crackling static.
A few strident hums float along the airwaves before he’s greeted by a receptionist working a front desk situated on the opposite side of the globe. As she speaks, he checks the translation written in advance on the receipt paper, following along like subtitles and guessing at context clues when foreign words fall out of the predicted pattern. She pauses and he takes that space to read his request, squinting at small symbols that comprise a pronunciation guide. He can tell by the way she laughs that his accent is terrible but the redirective cue of elevator music implies it wasn’t totally incomprehensible.
More buzzing. Feedback rustles. Freezing currents and dirty ice continue tapping against the exterior of the booth.
The connection ends with a click and a nearly artificial automated voice:
“The caller you are trying to reach is unavailable. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.”
A harsh beep punctates the prompt given by the answering machine.
Seconds pass after a sharp inhale and in that brief interim, he almost forgets what he wants to say.
“Hey, it’s me Yabuki. You probably weren’t expecting to hear from me so soon but it’s quieter here without you.”
Strangely so, he conveniently omits.
“I saw your plane take off the other day. It seems like you’re settled in Mexico City too now, yeah? Well, I just figured I’d say thanks for the match. I’m glad we got to fight before you head off to better and brighter things, Mr. Venezuelan Big Shot.”
Electrical interference smooths out into a clean signal during a lull in a one sided conversation.
He clears his throat and the ambient crackles, the same ones reminiscent of a bonfire in an abandoned house– they don’t return.
“I wonder what time it is over there. The difference is 15 hours or something crazy like that right? You’re probably jet lagged as hell. Anyways, thanks for everything and– I didn’t get to say this before so…Happy New Year.”
In a swift motion, the receiver latches onto the switch hook.
Joe exhales, slow and controlled. A misty cloud of vapor escapes his lips as a cold draft creeps up the nape of his neck. The door opens and a pair of dingy shoes stamp footprints into thin layers of powdery white flakes covering the ground.
Who knows if he’ll ever hear anything back.
The future world champ of the Bantamweight Division is a busy man.
If anything, he’s glad he tried.
Name and artist lost to time with lyrics ever changing, he whistles an old blues song and shoves his hands into coat pockets. Regular transportation stops running close to this time of night.
It’s a long walk home so he might as well entertain himself.
During early morning rush hour, the commuter trains come to life again.
Driving wheels rumble underneath chromium steel carriages, chugging along the heavy rails of an elevated track. The combination of crossing bells, resonant diesel engines, and a raucous horn overpowers the tranquil splashing of the river coursing below Namida-Bashi Bridge. Ripples vibrate swiftly through the clearest blue water.
It’d be the perfect opportunity for fishing once the ruckus dies down.
Repeated hits of a sandbag jostle the damaged floorboards of a meager training house. Though it’s silent enough to hear the chain clanking against the hook on the ceiling, it’s easier to focus when there’s no one in the attic to wake up or no one in the living room to inadvertently cause distraction.
His jab-cross is looking really sharp.
Loosening his shoulders keeps his movement smooth as he lands a crisp shot to the temple.
A used towel drapes over a wooden chair. A spoon stirs up a post workout shake, scraping the bottom of the cup to incorporate fine granules of whey into a mixture of whole milk and raw cacao powder. The protein tastes a bit too gritty but the earthy flavors of chocolate and banana save it. Barely.
The last drop goes down with little resistance and Joe lets out a sigh of relief, stretching overhead. Sore muscles bend and contract, from the tense trapezius of his back to the tight hamstrings above his calves. As he tilts his neck from side to side, his eyes naturally gravitate towards the front door.
There aren’t any signs of intrusion and yet his gaze instinctively wanders in that direction, like he’s about to do something he shouldn’t or partake in an act that’s secretive.
Maybe he would care more about appearances if he was younger.
No, he’s been this way for as long as he can remember.
The only thing that would have made him more sensitive to other people’s opinions is if his upbringing had been less about survival and more fixated on social climate.
Nowadays, a reporter is likely to bust in uninvited and see anything. And unlike his drunkard of a coach who feels obligated to explain away everything, Joe’s more than happy to shrug and tell the cameramen they can think whatever they want because he simply doesn’t give a damn.
Subconscious hesitating or not, there’s really no reason to be concerned.
After all, he only seeks to indulge the most innocent of guilty pleasures.
Without a second thought, he ventures to the desk in the corner of the living area, an mahogany escritoire that’s distant from the makeshift ring.
It’s a good thing the old man finally installed their new landline. Having access to a decent phone is so convenient when he’d rather stay inside for the day and he’s fresh out of change to pay the not-so cost effective fee. Sure, it jacks up the charge from their service provider but he doesn’t pay the bills around here anyway.
Instead, all he has to do is press the shiny silver buttons on the square keypad and relax.
Purely from memory, he pushes the numbers five and eight after the exit code and proceeds with the sequence two-one-two and the internalized string of seven digits accompanying it. The phone rings for a long time before a click and a bunch of Spanish uttered too quickly for him to parse through. He recognizes a few words here and there but what’s more important is the nostalgic familiarity of the speaker.
The content is completely indecipherable but that voice is warm and animated. It fills his eardrums and settles into his core like a hug he can’t have. The recording system beeps all too soon and it makes him wish he was listening to the real deal.
“Yo, it’s Joe! You didn’t think you heard the last of me did you? I would’ve gotten back to you earlier but you know, life and all that I guess.”
Everything from Hatsumode onward has been more hectic than he anticipated.
Turns out the Beltless Champ isn’t the only one rocking a loaded schedule.
Albeit, his own is rather mundane by comparison.
“Congrats on setting up your fight with Mendoza. Honestly, if I wasn’t on such a strict regimen, I’d fly out and come see you. I’d have to scrounge up a passport and a visa by the end of the month but if it’s for you, I’d find a way.”
In reality, he doesn’t need him there. He doesn’t need his well wishes or good luck cheers from the spectator seats either but of course, Carlos is sentimental like that. It’s hard to grasp why he’d want someone like him around but in another lifetime, Joe would easily oblige.
But who’s to say it has to be another lifetime when his presence has been requested already?
A loan or two on top of a couple of extra shifts at Hayashi grocery and he could save up those funds eventually.
Add some hard earned WBC paychecks to his portfolio and he’d make sure they treat themselves handsomely.
“Oh and speaking of travel, I got your voicemail. If you really mean what you say, then stop beating around the bush so we can make it a date. You’ll have earned a vacation for sure and it’s the least you could do to repay me for Christmas Eve right?”
He laughs into the receiver, toying with the wiring as he twirls the cord between his fingers.
“Hehe, I’m just kidding. But if you’re serious, let me know. I might get serious too.”
Placing the phone back on the hook, he smiles to himself, perhaps too pleased at his efforts to be suave. The ball is in his court now and if this was a game, Joe’s sure he’d be at the top of the leaderboard.
Just as he prepares to lace up his gloves again, the handset rings. The soft cushioned mitts are neglected as quickly as they were picked up, temporarily deserted in exchange for another base impulse.
He doesn’t introduce himself or make any guesses at the caller when he answers it. He runs on intuition and the gut feeling that the words spilling out of his mouth will make sense to the person on the other line.
There’s simply no other way.
“It’s 6:30pm over there. Shouldn’t you be eating dinner right now?”
A pause, a hint of acknowledgement across kilometers of telephone wiring, and within a comedy of errors, it dawns on him.
He’s such a lovesick fool.
The orange pole light won’t stop flickering through the darkness.
A moth keeps circling it in the flurries of snow drift overhead.
It’s amazingly resilient for a tiny little insect trapped in such arctic weather.
Gritting his teeth at a piercing gust of wintry air, Joe tilts the brim of his hat to shield the incandescent light from his tired, brown eyes. He leans against the ice capped kiosk, clenching a rolled up magazine in his fist. Torn up pages of a directory threaten to unravel from the binding but an iron grip refuses to release the paper belonging to a frantically pieced together collage.
The pavement’s too covered in white to tell but he’s done some digging lately.
He’s spoken to people that make his skin crawl.
Slippery guys like Kiyoshi Suga who sell information to the highest bidder to keep the tabloids circulating. Kind women like Yoko who might mean well but don’t know how to stay out of situations that don’t involve them. Neither of them know how to mind their own business.
As if this is anyone’s business.
He hates hospitals.
He can’t remember the last time he’s been to one.
He’s never had a pediatrician growing up and he’s of the stubborn belief that he won’t need a general physician anytime soon.
Boxers like him don’t really get along with doctors.
They’re the guys with the bags full of cotton swabs and antiseptics. The medics who interrupt fights because they think a laceration trickling milliliters of blood is too deep to close up with old fashioned pressure and vaseline.
At ringside, they say he’s too reckless.
In the locker room area, they fuss that he’s thin as a rail and needs to eat more. Be a featherweight or a lightweight or anything outside of where he’s already staking his claim to fame.
The old man and Nishi treat him just fine.
Hell, if they weren’t his trusted cornermen, he’d do his own physicals.
But some conditions are beyond ordinary men to fix.
Sometimes a fighter gets laid out on a stretcher and the referee gathers the first response team because it’s a real emergency. Sometimes all the spectators can do is look on in horror and pray that their penchant for modern day colosseum sports hasn’t catalyzed something awful.
Lately, all he’s been doing is watching paint dry in the attic.
And when he snaps out of that, he’ll read the same manuscript over and over, plug his ears while listening to the radio, and avoid yet confront just how fucking dangerous it is to work as an executioner for a living.
Everyone says it’s all his fault.
As he throws himself into another far away place, he doesn’t dare try to deny it.
Somewhere, he feels a sewn up hole in his chest begin to collapse and when a human voice vibrates through it, he thinks they might be right.
“Hello and thank you for calling Los Angeles County Medical Center. How may I assist you today?”
“I…want to ask about a patient. Can I- can you help me talk to him?” he breathes out in shitty broken English, the kind he’s had no real reason to practice beforehand.
The receptionist asks for his first and last name.
Somehow, he doesn’t stutter when he tells them.
He gets the sense by the exhausted tone droning out of the transmitter that many have reached out before him, intentions good and bad.
Makes him wonder what number message this’ll be on the answering machine.
“Hey there. It’s me, Joe Yabuki.”
He says it like he's a stranger.
Someone who doesn’t know if he has the right to speak to him.
“I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now but I heard about your match. Watched it and everything. Talk about a really stressful show.”
There he goes again. Making it all about himself.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I mean, I’m sure you’re okay. I hope you are anyway.”
What does hope truly mean in the face of automatic retirement?
Carlos will never box again.
He’s deluding himself to think otherwise.
But it’s fine.
They’re both fine.
It’s not like the past.
He’s not the Grim Reaper. Not again.
Yoko said he fell down the aircraft stairs. That he was concussed back then from a nasty right cross.
All the articles say he was the real one to take him out. He crippled him before he had a chance at Jose and all he can think about is what if he had been there to see it in person? What if he had followed that pipedream across the Pacific and seen it?
He would have rushed backstage.
No, he would have run from the first tier of the arena to the ring itself and security would have pulled him backstage.
The rest is unbearable.
In the darkest recesses of his mind, he sees the horrible memory of lifting a white sheet and-
“You’re definitely missed around here,” Joe spits out before his thoughts spiral out of control. “People won’t stop talking about you and sometimes I wish they would because it makes me realize how much I miss you.”
The moth finally perches itself atop the frosted luminaire. It solidifies its body to the scintillating bulb. Warm light bathes its wings, thin and translucent like shoji paper. All movement in its thorax ceases.
Joe stares up at it until the blinding glow burns a haloed afterimage in his vision.
Reddened fingers wrapped tightly around the receiver begin to give in, growing slack with each breath.
“I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m probably just worrying too much too. It’s just– you took some really hard blows. Maybe you’re sleeping right now or not in the mood to talk but…you’ll come out on the other side of this, I’m sure. And I really want you to call me when you do, alright?”
He imagines Carlos would agree.
It keeps him sane to think so.
“Get some rest and in the meantime, I’ll be waiting for you. Until then.”
It doesn’t matter how much he narrows his eyes at the street lamp above.
The moth has disappeared and squinting doesn’t bring it back into view.
As the wind picks up its pace, he adjusts the brim of his hat and dusts off the bits of snowflakes sticking to the threadbarren seams.
Overlooking the horizon lies a sea of tall, imposing skyscrapers, flashing lights, and billboards too far away to recognize. Cars zoom by on the highway offsetting the pavement under his shoes. The road ahead is merely a glimpse of a city that never sleeps.
It’s about time he re-enters that metropolis and flags down a taxi.
It’s vacation.
It’s not a vacation.
This is his first flight overseas.
This is an opportunity to defend his OPBF title.
The old man says to enjoy himself before training ramps up and so far, he has. He’s had a couple photoshoots, some without his permission but paparazzi does what they do best. He stumbled into a Lūʻau and enjoyed a few performances underneath the palm trees and the stars.
He tried his first Mai Tai while the sun was still high amongst the clouds and not gearing up to set in a wash of pink and indigo. It tasted sweet like toasted sugar and sour like a tart combination of citrus and bitter alcohol.
In other words, the perfect storm of paradise and bad decisions.
If he wasn’t an athlete and beheld to the belief that one of the two representatives of Tange Gym needs to stay relatively sober when they can, he’d saunter over to the bar and drink another one.
Even when he’s on break, it’s like he’s working the clock. Falling into routines because they’re comfortable and all he knows in a country that he doesn’t quite understand.
Within a world of changes, there are some similarities though.
American pay phones might look different but they steal a chunk of his money all the same. The only real difference is he’s got way more cash to burn these days.
Counting the crisp banknotes in his wallet and running conversion rates on the newly minted currency in his pocket, he’s got enough for well over 100 calls and that’s if he decided to buy extra minutes as opposed to the standard 180 seconds.
Old habits are hard to break but if he’s gonna regress, he might as well have fun with it.
“Aloha! Hehe, did you know? That’s how they say hello and goodbye here in Hawai’i! Isn’t that cool?”
Not as cool as his plumeria lei that matches a shirt covered in gaudy hibiscus flowers. Truth be told, it’s hardly his style but he knows someone who would wear it in a heartbeat.
Should’ve gone to the tourist boutique and bought two when he was loading up on all those souvenirs.
Perhaps that was for the best.
He’s got enough stale memories and he certainly doesn’t need to buy anymore.
“I saw your poster today. Wherever I go, it’s like you’re one step ahead of me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re stalking me!” he teases, releasing a slight chuckle that’s more nerve wracking than he intended.
Is this payback for eavesdropping in the hallways like a creep while he was staying at Shiraki Gym? For sticking around like a thorn in his side just to heckle him during a sparring match about an illegal move or two?
Karma’s a real bitch if that’s the case.
“Heh, I can’t really blame you for tagging along. There’s great food and great music! I get to hear the ukulele all the time! You’d probably love it here if you haven’t seen it before.”
He would.
They could run on the sand. Play beach volleyball and chase after each other near the coast until the tide comes in. He could play songs to his heart’s content and maybe convince Joe to sing harmony if he taught him the lyrics. He could talk to the locals and translate all the ideas he can’t convey. And in return, Joe could buy him whatever street food he wanted to try. It’d be a small price to pay to see his face light up over Poi Mochi and passionfruit lemonade.
The realm of possibilities is too vast and too cruel to consider.
Carlos made him forget why he doesn’t believe in fantasies.
And it’s that forgetting that ruined him.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls lately.”
Except Joe knows why.
It’s because he ran off somewhere and he doesn’t have any way of contacting him anymore.
There’s no way to tell where he’s gone or what parts of the syndrome have claimed him for good.
That’s why this entire charade is so stupid.
It’s stupid that he picked up the phone hoping for a miracle to happen.
Praying that the sad desires of his imagination came to fruition and that he wouldn’t be left listening to the loneliest sound on the planet.
It’s so fucking stupid but he did it anyway.
“I thought I’d swing by L.A. to track you down but apparently you’re not even in the U.S. anymore.”
Recently he’s found that people he doesn’t know have started to pity him.
The sentiment is infuriating.
He doesn’t want or need anyone’s pity.
That’s only another reason to feel worse about how much of a fucking idiot he was for thinking that maybe if he heard his voice or saw his face, he’d remember something. Anything.
At first glance, Joe thought the waves were calming.
In reality, they’re just irritating.
“You don’t make this easy, you know that?”
Where is he supposed to go now?
What is he supposed to do?
Currents of water splash against the jagged rocks tucked underneath a rickety old pier.
The sound makes him queasy to his stomach.
“And then you show up in my dreams. Just like him.”
The image from the curtains of the hotel room balcony was ethereal.
It felt so real.
Like he could reach out and touch him and remember what it used to be like to sleep dreamlessly without nightmares tearing his subconscious apart.
Suddenly, the stardust fragments of Joe’s wishes coalesce into a single desire.
He wants to rip the cord of the telephone out of the socket.
“So that’s it, huh? Are you going to haunt me too?”
Blood boils within branches of pulmonary vessels.
An interim of silence replaces all simmering speech. It suffocates a myriad of responses that will never come out the right way. He doesn’t care if they’re clumsy or hurtful or something he can’t take back because he’s dealt irreparable damage long ago.
Heat rises and all that vitriolic steam and loathing has no choice but to come out.
“You know what? Fuck this. You can’t do this to me, okay? Because if- if you’re gone, if you leave me-“
Then what?
Then he’ll be alone?
He’ll be all alone, clinging to a misshapen piece of plastic that connects him to visions of an era that won’t happen again.
“Carlos, you can’t-“
The phone disconnects with a jarring low tone, indicative that all remaining call time has run out.
He’d have to insert more money to try again.
Slamming it back on the hook isn’t enough to purge the scalding impatience bursting out of his hands.
Punching it isn’t cathartic either but his fist leaves a sizable dent in the unsuspecting box and flocks of onlookers stop dead in their tracks as if frozen in time.
The chronos of the external world slowly grinds to a halt but Joe’s clock marches on. Blood trickles down the scarred rivets of his knuckles and when the pain surges to a degree beyond his control, he expels months of pent up frustration from his lungs.
He hasn’t even fought Pinan yet and he’s already injuring himself.
As far as vacations go, it sucks that his first one might really be far worse than he could have ever anticipated.
It’s going to be hard to hide but the old man can’t find out about this.
With Joe’s track record, the mere mention just might kill him.
Somewhere far off in the world, in a well lit nondescript location, an answering machine resurrects from months of neglect.
The reel-to-reel tape rotates and through the static, a voice emerges both muffled yet distinct.
“It was a car accident. That’s all.”
A hazy bit of interference suggests that the speaker has company.
That secondary person is further removed, their comments blending into nothing but background noise.
“Autopsy said he left with a concussion. Probably shouldn’t have been driving. But can you believe it? He was number one in both organizations. The real King of Kings.”
Another obscure exchange and the signal smooths out. The secondary speaker disappears without a single auditory trace.
All that’s left is the voice from before in crystallized definition.
“So there’s just one more. One more match on August 17th and then I’ll be free. Maybe it’s sick and twisted to think but I’m going to make it the best day of my life. ’Til the bitter end.”
“I wonder if you’ll be able to see it from where you are.”
“Leon was a fun guy. You would’ve liked him. Hell, you would’ve liked Rikiishi too. You all would’ve gotten along so well. We could’ve done something normal together, like play cards. Poker, Blackjack– I think the old man keeps a Hanafuda deck around here somewhere for Koi-Koi. It would’ve been a cool, regular thing to do between us gambling men. But none of us were normal, were we?”
A cough disrupts the flow of conversation.
It’s rare to hear him sound so fatigued.
It’s almost like he’s been staving off an affliction for too long.
The indicator light on the machine flickers and in another raspy clearing of his throat, the ailment consumes him.
“There’s…something else I gotta say before I go. I’ve actually tried to say this about four or five times now so I keep getting tripped up but I think I loved you. No– Present tense. No matter what’s happened, I still do. And knowing me, I always will.”
“Heh…wow. That wasn’t so bad huh? Even if my punch drunk brain keeps telling me it’s the scariest thing in the world.”
“I think it’s scarier than breaking Wolf’s jaw or running from Rikiishi’s ghost. Scarier than you and your lightning speed punches. Scarier than the knowledge of all the people I’ve destroyed with my own two hands.”
“It’s more terrifying than Mendoza even though I’m ready to fight like tomorrow is my last.”
“Apparently I’m a genius in the ring but I suck at sappy shit like this. But I think about you more often than not and it just feels like I needed to say that.”
“So yeah. It’s finally time. In less than 24 hours, there won’t be any embers left. I’m gonna give it my all. For myself and everyone else. That includes you too.”
“I love you. Goodbye.”
There goes that antique bell sounding off again.
Rubber wheels rotate in the direction of the living room table with the aid of gentle force applied to both pushrims. The spokes turn but not fast enough to intercept that transient line of communication.
No message either.
How sad.
He’s only in his early twenties and he already doesn’t move like he used to.
On the bright side, physical therapy has been going well.
The doctor says he can start walking on his feet again at home.
As a matter of fact, he probably could have eased his way over here on his own without all the slow maneuvering instead. But if he fell, that’d be a huge problem. He’s not sure if he could get up by himself, which is one of many hard pills to swallow.
He’d have little choice but to wait for Joe and that would be a horrible sight for both of them.
Joe has a short fuse and a big heart.
He’d probably curse in every language he knows and help him stand with the saddest expression etched on his face. And that’d be terrible because Carlos Rivera doesn’t like making Joe sad.
He glances at the phone for a moment, listless and lost in thought when he remembers something important.
“Joe Yabuki…where could you be…”
A shaky finger slips into the plastic circles of the rotary, dialing two zeroes followed by an eight and a one in succession before realizing he doesn’t need to do that anymore. He’s not in Venezuela and he doesn’t need the country code for domestic calls. It must be a force of habit.
Sighing, he lets the phone go to dial tone and picks it back up again, allowing muscle memory to input the number for Tange Gym.
It rings and rings and after a while he imagines Joe must still be out, shopping or fishing or playing pachinko. If anything, his pager should buzz. He might complain that it’s annoying but he carries it everywhere now.
The voicemail registers in his ear and he takes a deep breath after hearing that initial tone.
“Hi! I’m sorry I missed your call. I couldn’t get to the phone in time. And I- no, no, I mean, my prescription. It should be ready for pick up. Oh and–”
A cloud of mental fog subsumes his train of thought.
The trail was admittedly murky at the start and any forceful attempt to shed light on the gears churning in the dark resurface as an empty vessel.
This happens more often than he remembers lately. Not all the time. According to the journal entries he records at his bedside, he’s been making incremental progress. That and Joe really does believe they can work to make things better so they won’t get worse. But occasionally those unnatural pauses, those dissociative gaps in information–
It can be disorienting. Frustrating. Embarrassing. A bunch of other things he lacks the words to convey.
It doesn’t define him but it is a new part of him. And a new part of Joe by proxy.
And sometimes he can take it in stride.
Sometimes he can roll with it and try again.
Just like now, as he laughs into the receiver and shakes it off to return to the present.
“I forget what I wanted to say. Oh well! Anyway, I love you too. Be safe, okay?”
As he hangs up, he realizes he hasn’t checked his to-do list today.
There’s probably clothes left to fold. Piles of mail to sort through. Combinations of bills and personal letters to figure out. Junk advertisements for gym equipment and magazines filled with fancy instruments that probably look and sound amazing.
Now there's something he can do: Change the old strings on his sunburst guitar.
The peg winder is likely in the case but where do they keep the pliers again?
More like where did Joe move the toolbox?
Tools aside, music is one of those things he never forgets.
Chords and motifs flow out like breathing for him and like a good deep breath, it’s soothing to strum progressions new and old and dance around scale patterns with a rhythm similar to Bantamweight footwork of yesteryear.
Pulling a songbook from the shelf, glistening blue eyes gloss over notation for a tune bookmarked for today. Without much effort, he softly hums the melody, hearing the accompanying harmony overlaid in his head. He was never that fond of anyone writing directly on the scores in lieu of making copies but the penciled chicken scratch of kana in the margins makes him smile.
Joe doesn’t know his part of the song.
He’s a big proponent of reciting misheard lyrics and singing high notes out of key but he tries so hard because he’s happy to learn.
And that’s okay because Carlos is happy to teach.
As he switches his attention to the measures depicting the harmony section, the sound of metal clicks near the genkan. Ambient humming turns lively and the front door opens with its own whistling performance. Two different songs blend into each other but remarkably, they sound better in synchronicity than isolation.
The man of the hour shuffles off his shoes at the doorway, an arm full of groceries towering out of a brown paper bag. His hand clutches dangling keys and a small pouch displaying a pharmacy logo with a receipt stapled to the front. As he tries lining up his loafers against the wall and stepping into some slippers, Carlos stares at him, mesmerized by the radiant glow of his face in the afternoon light.
“Looking for me?”
Joe flashes a toothy grin at him and time and time again, it amazes Carlos that whenever finds himself lost, gazing back at this man, he’ll speak.
Although he loves it when Joe recounts his day, Carlos can’t focus on any of it. He extracts a few stand out elements: the clinic ran out of the name brand pills so he had to buy generic instead. The grocery store was packed but he grabbed a ton of stuff to feed their guests. Nishi and Miss Noriko are visiting later.
The rest of the details are a complete mystery.
But he won’t beat himself up over it. Not when he’s just so happy to see him.
The moment Joe crosses the threshold into the living room, Carlos plants his hands firmly into the armrests of his wheelchair. His palms squeeze the cushioning, preparing to launch him forward and leap out of his seat when-
“No, sit down! There’s no rush!” Joe says, motioning for him to stop. Reluctant, Carlos settles back into his chair. It’s not what he wants but he’ll listen since it’d probably create problems otherwise.
In due time, the groceries rest on the table. A spread of produce and fresh cuts of meat fill the counter space and paper crinkles as Joe rifles through the prescription bag, murmuring to himself about something on the label. But Carlos doesn’t look at the medicine he’s supposed to take, nor does he quite hear the quiet mention that the dosage is lower.
He simply continues to look at him with eyes unclouded.
There’s an intensity in his solicitous observation that might scare most people away. Not Joe. For the most part he’s used to it. But when he doesn’t know what to make of it, when he wants answers to an open ended question or insight into the thoughts Carlos keeps to himself— he stops whatever he’s doing, puts down the pill bottle on the table and furrows his brows as he asks.
“Is everything alright, Mr. Runaway Latino?”
Absolutely.
Despite everything, he found him again.
A sea of emotions stirs in his heart.
It’s hard to encapsulate all of them in a single phrase
And yet, he’ll try and hope it all makes sense.
“I called you back.”
It takes a few seconds to register but Joe gets it.
He can tell by the way he smiles at him and how he walks over to him, movements slow and predictable so there isn’t a surprise.
And even without that surprise, there’s still a spark that ignites when he brushes back his curly hair out of his face and presses a saccharine kiss to his forehead.
“I know. And I’m so glad you did.”