‘Bones broken against
Temple Walls, the base
of bloodless Torii jammed
against a village of coca cola
vending machines.
Where does this city bleed
or is it done with blood?
broken arrows from the bows
of performing monks on horseback,
racing time in the shadow
of Kamakura’s Buddha,
miss their targets
at point-blank range.’
Philip Porter
“Where are we going?” Asked Robyn.
“Bills.” I said.
“Bills?” She asked.
“Bills.” I said.
“Where’s Bills?” She asked.
“Just beyond those vending machines.” I said. We left the beach to pause in front of the six appliances of the Morimori Bar de Espana. Individually, they didn’t look a whole lot different from mechanical dispensers in any other country- except that no other country would have parked them outside in a place like this, or next to ancient temples or every few meters in the middle of nowhere, or the summit of Mount Fuji. And no other country would have had such a bizarre array of 180 theoretically potable liquids on sale behind the glass and metal.
“This is what the dark sands make now.” I said. Each vending machine, one for every 23 people, turns itself off from 0100 to 0400, signals the police if tampered with, and makes 15,000 dollars a year. About 50 million Japanese, forty per cent of the nation, drink at least one potion a day from over five million automatic machines containing identifiable categories of beverages- water, soft drinks, canned coffee, milk-based, and the like. But the water was Diet Water, desalinated Hawaiian Deep-Sea Water, and Water Salad; the soft drinks were Pepsi Ice Cucumber, Pepsi Blue Hawaii, fizzy gelatin Fanta Furufuru Shaker, Eel Soda, Black Vinegar Juice Bar, and Final Fantasy Potion; the coffee was BM Coffee, BJ Coffee, Deepresso Coffee, Black Boss Coffee, GOD Coffee, or actual brewed coffee, with an internal brew-cam simultaneously streaming both the black liquid and video of the process; the milk was steaming Hot Calpis, peach or kimchee-flavored Coolpis, NEEDS Cheese Drink, mixed Melon Milk or Bilk (70% beer, 30% milk, 100% unbelievable), or real Mother's Milk; and the ‘and the like’ drinks were, like, nothing you could imagine, ranging from a child’s garden of Kid's Wine, Kidsbeer, and Barkeep (a frosty Kidsbeer in a jelly glass), to the hormonally active and ethically questionable swine Placenta Drink, and the special isoflavone-containing bosom-boosting properties of the Okkikunare Drinks. To make big.
“Can’t complain about the absence of novelty.” Robyn said. And, in an alley up the stairs to the second floor of a concrete low-rise across the street, was Bills.
“Who was Bill?” She asked.
“Is.” I said. “Bill Granger. Australian restaurateur. He opened this place as his first eatery outside Sydney, six years ago.” We were greeted in Japanese by the wait staff, and seated at a sunny interior booth along the sky and sea that filled the windows. Crows fought the fork-tailed Black Ear Kites high above us. Beyond the single sharp-beaked black and rust samurai starling scavenging for crumbs outside, the surfers were thick on the waves.
“Feels like Sydney.” She said. The waiter spoke no English.
“Two full Aussie breakfasts.” I said. He bowed. Robyn looked at the menu.
“More than Sydney prices.” She said. “Why here?”
“I figured we’d start off slow.” I said. “In here you get scrambled organic eggs, whole wheat toast, bacon, roast tomato, arugula, pork and fennel sausage, and Swiss brown mushrooms. Out there you get the rest of Japan.” Robyn’s cappuccino arrived, smothered with a museum quality foam chrysanthemum. Thirty years earlier, in my poverty, cappuccino foam would have been out of the question.
‘Divine wind.
Rising sun.
Too many yen and too little fun.’
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