Chapter 1 - Nombei

I woke up, my head throbbing, my eyes red and sore. I sat up a little too quickly, hitting my head on a low ceiling, my mind swimming. Confusion seeped in, between the fragments of still-functioning grey matter, finding easy entrance via the holes where contiguous braincells once lived. ‘My god,’ I thought, ‘what was I drinking last night? And more to the point, where the heck am I?’

I rather foolishly rubbed my eyes, making them sting momentarily. Strange images flashed in my foggy mind, like a strobe light: shots of shouchuu (no wonder my head was hurting); a woman laughing; a man with an unusual moustache. Not sure I remember who he was either.

My eyes had decided to focus and I found myself in a narrow tube. A small TV was a permanent part of the décor, as was a small shelf to my right, with an array of buttons and dials below it. A capsule hotel. Apparently I had crashed in a capsule hotel, god knows where, after some sort of party, also god knows where. I strained my memory, risking possible brain implosion, but to no avail. Shrugging, I reached for my fedora and coat, both which lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of my bed. I call it a bed, but it was, in effect, my room as well. I crawled uncertainly to the end, pulled the curtain away and almost fell face-first to the floor as I was blinded by what seemed like a giant floodlight shining in my face. It was just the regular light outside my capsule but it felt like something used to see enemy aircraft with in the sky. Turning around I backed out of my capsule and clambered down my ladder to the floor. I donned my fedora, once I shook it back into shape. It was old and a rather grey shade of black. It had seen better days to be sure but we had been through a lot together. My arms didn’t seem to want to work, making putting on my long brown coat an interesting spectacle I’m sure. I slipped on the slippers waiting for me. The Japanese people’s obsession with slippers was a never-ending source of amusement for me. Take my friend, for example, she would wear a different pair of slippers for the four steps it took to cross her kitchen to the door. Slippers were a big business here in Japan.

I staggered to reception, frequently losing a slipper on the way. Slippers were never my choice of footwear. At the reception desk, the concierge looked at me and rambled something incoherently in Japanese. It took several moments for the words to penetrate the walls of alcoholic stupor still surrounding my mental faculties. But even with my meager nihongo (Japanese language) skills I deduced that he wanted my key. I’m sure I looked like a cadaver risen from the dead. If they felt anything like I did presently it was no wonder they were always in a bad mood. I reached into a pocket in my coat and fumbled around inside. No key, but a matchbook from an izakaya (tavern). Maybe it was the one I went to last night. I didn’t recognize the logo on it though. ‘Curious,’ I thought. I turned it over quizzically. Scrawled on the back as if in some foreign language were a few words in my drunken handwriting. Slowly I read: “Call Masagi. He has it.” Call Masagi? Who is Masagi? He has it? What? I started to get the feeling this would be a strange day.

The concierge waited patiently for the key.