He was not balding

Mr. Watanabe liked to collect perishable goods.  He has collected them for as long as I could remember.  I saw him every week in the grocery stores when I was little, scouring the shelves, reading labels.  At first he only collected preservatives and soups.  For years he would buy can after can of tomato soup and jar after jar of strawberry jam.  He made monuments out of them in the foyer of his house.  My mother once asked him if he had a special recipe for tomato soup and strawberry jam.  He told her that he did not and that he ate salad and onigiri everyday.1

After a while, he started collecting ketchup.  Everyday he would run down to the convenience store and buy a new bottle of ketchup.  Sometimes I would see him carrying his bottle of bright red ketchup home when I ran down the corner to pick up a soda.  He would always smile and wave at me, and I would always smile and wave back.2

Mr. Watanabe was a nice man with a nice smile.  He worked as a clerk in a law office and sometimes talked about studying for the bar so that he could become a lawyer.  He was good with children and housewives, although he never slept with either.  He was not balding.3

Once, when I was twelve, I asked him why he collected all the things he did.  I was an avid collector of stamps back then, and I always carried my stamps with me wherever I went.  I would cut out the stamps from the envelops from my friends’ letters, my mother’s party invitations, and my father’s mail from home.  Mr. Watanabe smiled at me and said, “I collect what I collect for the same reasons why you collect what you collect.  I want to remember something important, and make sure I never forget it.”4

When I was fifteen, a few friends and I snuck into his house.  We rummaged through all of his cans and jars and bottles, and scrutinized every label.  I felt dirty afterwards, like I had been sifting through the graveyard dirt of someone’s memories.  I told him about my crime before I left for college, but he only smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled.5

That was in the year two thousand and four.6

Now I am twenty-four.  My mother called last night and asked if I would like her to buy anything for me.  I told her that a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a pack of cigarettes would be fine.  7

I work as a typical businessman in a nameless company for an elusive boss.  Sometimes I talk about quitting or committing suicide with my co-workers.  I tell them that I would like to put on cool clothes and go to a rave.  I would take five pills of Ecstacy and dance until I couldn’t breathe anymore.  They stare back at me with lifeless eyes.8

Someone must have told my manager, because he asked me to take a break from working to see a counselor.  I take the break, but don’t bother with the counselor.9

I am home.10

The neighborhood is smaller than what I had remembered it to be, but it is still home.  I embrace my mother who was enthusiastic as usual and give her an apron I had won in a company lottery.  There is a weird symbol on it that reminds me of a swastika, but my mother thinks that it’s pretty.  I smile at her and tell her that I bought it at the grand opening of a cooking store downtown.  She squeals, and I know she’s happy.11

My mother tells me that Mr. Watanabe has gotten around to collecting tomatoes and apples nowadays.  She says that I should go visit him sometime since he used to be fond of me when I was younger.  I find him in front of his house watering flowers.  He hasn’t aged at all.  He is still the handsome and fit man I remember him to be.  I run a hand through my hair uncomfortably and clear my throat.12

“Well, well!  I heard you were back in town!” he greeted, putting down his hose.13

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say.  “I hear you’re still collecting food in your house.”14

He smiles and nods.15

“Still August first, right?”16

“Two thousand and ten.”17

We stare at each other for a while.  The July sun beats down on us.18

Now it is July thirty-first, two thousand and ten.19

“Want to come down to the store with me?” he asked.20

I nod and follow his lead.  We walk down the street and around the corner.21

The shop is still the same.  Even the bell on the front door is still the same.22

“Excuse me, sir,” begins Mr. Watanabe.  The boy at the counter looks up from behind his magazine.  “Do you carry any apples or strawberries that expire tomorrow?”23

“No, we don’t carry rotten goods,” replies the boy, chewing on his gum.  “Go pick yourself up a fresh box.  They’re in the back.”24

Mr. Watanabe’s smile wavers for a minute.  “Ah, that’s good to know, but, you see, I only want fruit that expires tomorrow.”25

The boy glares at him and says, “Look, old man, we don’t have any.  We threw them all away.”26

Mr. Watanabe was silent for a long while.27

“So you just threw them out?  Because they’d rot tomorrow?” he shouted, “So you’ll just give up on selling them today just because tomorrow you won’t be able to sell them anymore?”28

The boy looked up, alarmed.  “Okay, okay, old man, calm down.  Here, take all the rotten fruit that you want.  On the house!”29

Mr. Watanabe takes the fruit and leaves.30

“What will you do tomorrow?” I ask.31

He just smiles at me and bids me a good day.32

On August first, two thousand and ten, I visit Mr. Watanabe.  My bags are packed and sitting on my porch, ready to be towed away.  I find him sitting on the steps of his porch.33

He looks old.  His eyes are sunken-in and tired.  His stomach is protruding over the waistband of his shorts.  He is balding.34

He looks up at me and doesn’t smile.35