The Girl from the Well

So I almost tried this underwear machine out—just to, you know, see if the thing actually works—but my acute sense of shame finally won out. There are so many other fun ways to dishonor the family name that buying girls’ underwear shouldn’t be one of them.

Just the other day, I found a salon that specializes in giving girls crooked teeth. And this is considered adorable if, uh, Japanese girls who look like a vampire needing braces are supposed to turn men on. Also, there’s a holistic care spa specializing in dogs. I think in my next life I’d like to come back as some rich Japanese lady’s labradoodle and enjoy all these spoils. Kinda ironic that most hot spring resorts allow for dogs, but not for people with tattoos. So I guess in this current Japanese social hierarchy we’ve got Japanese > pets > me.

(Not that I mind too much. I’m not so sure I like the idea of bathing in public, anyway. I know people say communal bathing is a test of how comfortable you are with your manhood and all that other crap, but manhoods should be heard and not seen, thank you very much.)

That didn’t sound right. I might have mixed my metaphors up, but I’m sure you know what I mean.

You told me to send you an email as soon as we’ve settled in Tokyo, and right now we’re doing most of our settling in a swanky apartment high-rise at Shibuya that looks like it’s been designed by an architect who’d had one too many shots of bourbon.

Tark pauses to glare at the walls of his room, which are covered in seven expensive paintings, each with its own alarming splashes of color.


There’s lots of bulging concave art and intricate metalwork that contribute absolutely nothing to functionality except to sit there and look intricate, and there’s a table here that can defy the laws of physics to also become a makeshift lounge chair and bookcase. I’m still expecting some metallic female voice to come popping out of the woodwork to welcome me into the future. Also, everything’s too polished. I can see my reflection on the toilet bowl lid. (Said toilet bowl also has a bidet. And a seat warmer for the tush. These people think of everything.)

I was expecting to grab some tatami mats, roll out the futons, and pretend it’s possible to camp out in Tokyo. As it is, I’m afraid to touch anything because everything looks expensive and breakable, though admittedly this is just the way Dad likes it. The only greenery I’ve seen so far in this glass dome of technological awesome is a potted plant in one corner, and I’m pretty sure that’s about as artificial as everything else in here.

Nobody we’ve talked to speaks much English, so it looks like I’m going to have to learn a new language soon. Dad says there are more than three thousand letters in the Japanese alphabet, which could pose a problem. There are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, and I get into enough trouble with them as it is.

I haven’t seen her since arriving here, which is always good. But I’ve been seeing a lot of Okiku…

At this point, Tarquin lifts his head and smiles at me. “Having fun so far?” he asks lightly. I shoot him a puzzled look, but he only laughs and turns back to his laptop.


…and as strange as this might sound, she’s usually the highlight of my days. Do you think that’s a bad sign?

We have this one creepy little kid for a neighbor who looked like he could be the poster boy for every scary movie involving dead children, ever. He went up to me once and asked why “shitai-chan” was following me around. I asked Dad later what “shitai” meant, and he said it meant “dead body.”

Like I said, creepy little kid. His parents probably had a blast with that one.

I guess that means something’s still following me around. I’d have more peace of mind if I knew what it is.

You in Japan already?

? ? ?

Educational tours and school visits make up the better part of Callie’s days, and she only finds time to respond when everyone is sleeping at the apartment she shares. Your emails always amuse me, she says first, smiling as she rereads his letter.