The Restaurant Job

One thing everyone learned about Moritora was that he never, ever took his sister’s side. Well, he never took Matsumi’s. Every time there was a fork in the road, he’d give her a hard time even if he thought her suggestion was good. When his sisters disagreed, Muro usually won the argument, and privately, Moritora thought he deserved some of the credit for that.

Which made him hate what he was doing even more. He went from table to table, bussing a growing heap of dishes covered in slippery strains dribbling off the edges, piling bones and unwanted vegetables on the top plate and hoping it all stayed on. And every time a customer called him, the boy carrying twelve dirty plates, over to ask for a salt shaker or if the food was organic or if the chefs were demons, he thought that Muro was a lunatic.

They’d hit a rough patch recently. Gas was expensive here in Sapporo, because less people needed it – what kind of sense did that make? All it took was a few days of fun in the city to nearly empty their wallets, and now they couldn’t get the jeep out of town. At first, Matsumi suggested looking for underground street fights or a casino or whatever she always looked for, but Muro suggested they split up and do honest work for a bit. The nice thing about their world, s he’d said, was that people were always valuable – all three of them would get hired in no time.

She’d been right about that part, but so, so wrong about the whole plan. Muro almost stumbled into the tall, bearded head chef, and mumbling an apology didn’t spare him the chef’s icy glare. He steadied himself before he went on, since he figured the floor was probably wet – and it was. The clattering of dishes in his left ear, silver against china, meant the left side was full, so he turned right, inched forward, and finally, finally dropped the load of dishes into an open sink.

“Yeah, great work,” came the voice of a woman who’d smoked a pack a day her entire life. His boss. As soon as Moritora turned around, the tall, black-grey haired woman shoved a wad of cash into his still-trembling hands and turned to leave. “That’s your pay for today. We’re closing in five, so get out early,” she told him.

Moritora watched her head out the back. She was far from the worst part of the job. For one thing, she never smoked inside, around the food. Ever since Matsumi took them to a dump of a sushi bar where the rice tasted like cigarettes, Moritora was wary of that. Matsumi called him paranoid, but when the world was half-over, who was going to make sure every restaurant followed safety guidelines?

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He decided to sit down outside before seeing what that was about; it didn’t keep vibrating, so it wasn’t a call, thank god. Once he’d found a clear spot behind the restaurant’s back wall, the maximum distance from the nearest dumpster, he checked his phone.

It was a text from Muro. “Come to Lawson”. Another one came in. “Looking for Matsumi”.

Muro would’ve thrown his phone at the pavement if it wouldn’t cost him to replace it. Both of his sisters, really, rushed into things. Muro just had better family PR. Muro stood up and looked around him. Faded walls, back doors, and dumpsters lined up against a long chain link fence. Lit signs glowed at either end, but he didn’t see a Lawson. Did he just expect her to walk around at night, looking for a Lawson and waiting to get jumped by whatever freaky gangs this city had?

Then he slapped his forehead. The Lawson they’d bought drinks at that morning, right. That’s probably where she meant. He started off in that direction, grumbling to himself. It wasn’t like him to get mad at this stuff. He’d even been paid. But thinking about what made him mad just made him madder, so he focused on what was in front of him instead.

The biggest neon sign up ahead was for a place called “Black Tea Parlor”. Probably a casino; they liked to advertise the food and drink up front to distract fairies, so they’d steal chicken wings instead of chips or bills. He stepped out onto the street, and saw that it was flanked by two smaller shops in the same building, with their own vertical signs: “Rush Hour Ramen” and a place called “24/7”, the laziest name he’d seen in a while. He swallowed, literally, the temptation to take his earnings and go get some ramen by himself.

Mouth still watering, Moritora looked to either side, like he was crossing the street. Signs hung from first and second floors as far as he could see, advertising spas, nail parlours, shooting ranges, batting cages. You name it, Sapporo had it, especially compared to tiny cities like New Nakagawa or even Moss Bay. And a lot of it was on this one street. Not the Lawson, though – but he saw the blue and white poking out in a single stripe at a corner a block down. Off he went, then, to his sisters. Like usual.

The idea of piping-hot ramen by himself haunted his thoughts as he walked.

There was a small line outside the Lawson. Just two people, but they were probably having a busy night. One salaryman, shoulders slumped – probably hung over. The other was a greying woman with a reusable bag. Moritora had no idea why she was at the Lawson when she looked like she’d fit in at the co-op a mile down. Maybe they’d closed early. No sign of Muro, though. She was probably–

Someone yanked him inside. Cheap pink wristwatch – that was Muro. He exhaled a sigh of relief through his nose as the salaryman glared at her past the line, not at him. The inside of the store was just as packed, though, and the narrow aisles stuffed with “conveniences” didn’t help, so Moritora glared at her, too. “Why here?” he pleaded, too quiet probably to be heard over the beeping and ringing of the register.

To be continued…