arcane codes and symbolsâa pyramid? wasnât that supposed to be Egyptian?âonly half believing that this was the real article. It was soâso whimsical, like the play money of a childrenâs game. There was a picture of a man in a wig on three of the notes, and he was wearing a high collar and a benign expression, THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE, Hiro read. FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE. THE UNITED STATUS OF AMARICA.
He shrugged. Akio Ajioka, the BR aboard ship and his only friend in the world, had traded him the bills in exchange for two bottles of Suntory whiskey and a stack of thumbed-over
manga.
âThis is the real thing, mate,â Akio had said with a grin, âthis is what they use in Times Square, Broadway and Miami Beach.âAkio wouldnât lie to him, he knew that. After a moment he stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants. Clutching the bills in one hand and J Å ch Å in the other, he crossed the gravel lot to the store.
Inside, it was cool and fresh-smelling, lit only by the sunlight filtering through the windows. Hiro saw racks of food, junk food mostly, in garish plastic packages and brightly colored cans. There was a freezer, and against the back wall, two glowing huge coolers full of beer and soda, a shrine to thirst. Behind the cash register, a young womanâvery young, sixteen, seventeen maybeâsat nursing a baby and watching him out of a pair of wide green eyes. âKin Ah help yâall?â she said.
Food. Hiro wanted food. And drink. But he didnât know how to respond.
Kinahhelpyall
didnât compute, not at all, but he wanted desperately to ingratiate himself, get through the exchange and then bow his way out the door, vanish into the bushes and gorge himself till he burst. He knew he had to have his wits about him, had to demonstrate his savoir-faire, convince her that he was all right, that he belonged and knew the ways of the
gaijin
as well as they knew them themselves. Already the pressure was killing him. He was sweating. He couldnât seem to control his facial muscles. âSomesing eat,â he said, trying to sound casual, and he snatched a loaf of bread and a bag of nacho chips from the shelf, all the while bowing and bowing again.
The girl took the baby from her breastâhe saw the little fists clench, the feet kick, caught a glimpse of the pink wet nipple and the pink wet puckered mouth. âBobby,â she called toward the back, âwe got a customer.â
Hiro cradled the bread and nacho chips to his chest. He moved ponderously down the aisle, the wet overalls pinching his crotch, bowing automatically. He was moving toward the cooler, his tongue dry as chalk. Be cool, he told himself. Act natural.
The girl had set the baby down in its crib behind the counter and was leaning lazily over the cash register. âYâall must be a toor-ist?â she said with rising inflection.
Toor-ist, toor-ist,
Hiro thought, swinging open the door of the cooler, the miraculous refrigerated draft on his face, the six-pack of Coke in hand. What was she saying? He hadnât a clue, but he knew he had to answer, knew he had to say something or he was doomed.
It was then that Bobby stepped out of the back room, wiping his hands on an apron. Bobby was nineteen, as fair and beautifully proportioned as an archangel, but with an IQ so low it prevented him from unfurling his wings. He had trouble with simple sums and he couldnât read the newspaper or punch the cash register. His job was to stock the shelves and watch Bobby Jr. whenever Cara Mae had a customer. He stood there in the doorway, blinking at Hiro.
Say something, Hiro told himself, say something, and all at once he had an inspiration. Burt Reynolds, Clint Eastwoodâwhat would they say? Americans began any exchange of pleasantries with a string of curses, anyone knew thatâand even if he hadnât known it, even if he were an innocent,
He shrugged. Akio Ajioka, the BR aboard ship and his only friend in the world, had traded him the bills in exchange for two bottles of Suntory whiskey and a stack of thumbed-over
manga.
âThis is the real thing, mate,â Akio had said with a grin, âthis is what they use in Times Square, Broadway and Miami Beach.âAkio wouldnât lie to him, he knew that. After a moment he stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants. Clutching the bills in one hand and J Å ch Å in the other, he crossed the gravel lot to the store.
Inside, it was cool and fresh-smelling, lit only by the sunlight filtering through the windows. Hiro saw racks of food, junk food mostly, in garish plastic packages and brightly colored cans. There was a freezer, and against the back wall, two glowing huge coolers full of beer and soda, a shrine to thirst. Behind the cash register, a young womanâvery young, sixteen, seventeen maybeâsat nursing a baby and watching him out of a pair of wide green eyes. âKin Ah help yâall?â she said.
Food. Hiro wanted food. And drink. But he didnât know how to respond.
Kinahhelpyall
didnât compute, not at all, but he wanted desperately to ingratiate himself, get through the exchange and then bow his way out the door, vanish into the bushes and gorge himself till he burst. He knew he had to have his wits about him, had to demonstrate his savoir-faire, convince her that he was all right, that he belonged and knew the ways of the
gaijin
as well as they knew them themselves. Already the pressure was killing him. He was sweating. He couldnât seem to control his facial muscles. âSomesing eat,â he said, trying to sound casual, and he snatched a loaf of bread and a bag of nacho chips from the shelf, all the while bowing and bowing again.
The girl took the baby from her breastâhe saw the little fists clench, the feet kick, caught a glimpse of the pink wet nipple and the pink wet puckered mouth. âBobby,â she called toward the back, âwe got a customer.â
Hiro cradled the bread and nacho chips to his chest. He moved ponderously down the aisle, the wet overalls pinching his crotch, bowing automatically. He was moving toward the cooler, his tongue dry as chalk. Be cool, he told himself. Act natural.
The girl had set the baby down in its crib behind the counter and was leaning lazily over the cash register. âYâall must be a toor-ist?â she said with rising inflection.
Toor-ist, toor-ist,
Hiro thought, swinging open the door of the cooler, the miraculous refrigerated draft on his face, the six-pack of Coke in hand. What was she saying? He hadnât a clue, but he knew he had to answer, knew he had to say something or he was doomed.
It was then that Bobby stepped out of the back room, wiping his hands on an apron. Bobby was nineteen, as fair and beautifully proportioned as an archangel, but with an IQ so low it prevented him from unfurling his wings. He had trouble with simple sums and he couldnât read the newspaper or punch the cash register. His job was to stock the shelves and watch Bobby Jr. whenever Cara Mae had a customer. He stood there in the doorway, blinking at Hiro.
Say something, Hiro told himself, say something, and all at once he had an inspiration. Burt Reynolds, Clint Eastwoodâwhat would they say? Americans began any exchange of pleasantries with a string of curses, anyone knew thatâand even if he hadnât known it, even if he were an innocent,
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