If a person was asked to gather a group of men together for the sole purpose of getting absolutely nothing done, what would that look like? To some it may simply be to place three politicians of conflicting morals in the room. To others perhaps a bureaucrat or two. A cynical person may reflect that placing one priest among a group of sinners would also beget little but melodrama and a series of incestuous navel-gazing—a similar result if one were to place anywhere from one to eight men of the philosophies together. Men, in general, get little done with just themselves to account for. In a global sense that may change, and in some other preferences in which perhaps motivation takes a male form. The question remains only in its ever-so-microcosmic application.

A six-tatami room in which four men are placed would be, without any degradation, a scene worth little else but passing breath. A sigh, perhaps, because those men would be talking about things which were ultimately worthless and would make suppositions about the grand lives they had lived until the point they met in that six-tatami room. Things like fate held more sway in the alcohol-infused mind of a man in the late night. He would pass through the middle of the night in celebration, fritter the late in musing, and in the early hours of morning he would make some sort of claim that things were either right or wrong for himself or the world. Many such men exist. 

I passed my neighbor’s window as I made my way to my apartment one night after having been out with friends. Winter break had just begun then, but I alone stayed in the capitol to keep up with my studies. Having bid them farewell, I was probably in a foul mood which made me over-curious compared to my normal habit. I had only met my neighbor a handful of times when we passed while taking out the trash or getting the mail. His name was Kanamiyama Itsutsuji, and he was an older man of about forty. He had a bald head he mostly kept hidden beneath a baseball cap that was once blue and white, but by the time I had seen it the whites were stained brown. Yorihama, the building manager, chattered on about him, and told me he worked in sanitation. She had no idea to what degree, of course, but I had him figured for a garbage truck driver. His facial hair was thin and unkempt like one would see in such men. That said, there was not a single inclination in my mind to ask him about his work. Such things were his business, and it would benefit nothing to have learned such useless information. 

Overall, I had no real opinion on him. 

Still, on that winter night when my solitude weighed more deeply than I had expected, I passed his window and was able to see it had been left open. From inside I could hear a group of men talking. Before then I had never thought myself an eavesdropper. However, quite against my own polite senses, I peeked around the edge of the sill and let my eyes accustom themselves to the light. 

“So you see, I tossed the damn ball straight down the lane and that rolling bastard tumbled eight whole pins! Eight-Pin Hachikaze they could have called me! Then those other bastards in the Commission said I shouldn’t toss the ball. You have to roll it, they said. Can you imagine that? Who the hell cares how the damn thing gets there as long as the pins fall?” 

The speech was made by the thinnest man in the group who looked to be around the same age as Kanamiyama. His hair was still present, even though it was soaked with sweat that collected on the front of his white tank top. The scrawny man had also been wearing gym shorts, in spite of the cold. A thin black line slid across his upper lip, though it was so thin and so inept that I refrained from attaching a word like moustache to such a thing. Based on his rant, I presumed him to have been Hachikaze, but I had never met him before. 

He sat facing the window, and Kanamiyama sat facing away, the back of his covered bald head being all I could see. Hachikaze held a tall can of beer in one hand and a gyoza in the other. He flung the gyoza about as he spoke, grasping it with his bony fingers. To his right a man with a light blue jacket and a chubby face laughed at the story and took a deep gulp from a can of beer he also had. He looked to be younger than Kanimiyama, but not much. Across from the man in the blue jacket there was an even younger man, maybe thirty. That man was wearing a loosely-buttoned white shirt and a navy blue suit jacket lay to the side of him nearest me. Resting upon it there was a pack of cigarettes in bad condition. The paper was crumpled and illegible, and though I was far enough away that I could not really see the condition of the cigarettes within, I could tell they were probably all bent or broken from the abuse. The man's face was clean shaven and he looked nearly handsome but for his eyes being too far apart. Or maybe his nose was too high? It was hard to tell from my position at the window. 

The man in the white shirt replied to Hachikaze. 

“I’d think they don’t want you breaking the lanes. That’s a six kilogram ball you’re pitching at the floor. Have some consideration for the employee’s, Hachikaze-san.” 

“Damn their floors!” Hachikaze slammed his can on the table which split the men, crushing his gyoza in the same movement. The fillings fell to the floor behind the table where I could not see them. 

“Oi!” 

Kanamiyama shouted and stood. The man in the blue jacket rose to meet him and gently pressed his palms into the angry man's chest. 

“Itsu-san, don’t mind him, alright? I’ll clean it up for him. Just relax, you’re out of sorts.” 

Kanamiyama sat back down while mumbling something incomprehensible from where I was standing. Once he had taken a mouthful of beer, and after the man in the blue jacket began to pick the fillings off the floor to his side, Kanamiyama spoke again. 

“You’re too easy on this coot, Ken. I’m in bloody mourning and you invite him, what’s that supposed to do for me then? All he’s done since he came in was rant about nonsense.” 

Ken, the man in the blue jacket, laughed while finishing his task and sitting straight again. His reply was an outstretched can of beer which Kanamiyama laughed and tapped with his own. After their little cheers, both men tilted their heads back and chugged away at the remainder of their respective drinks. Based on Ken’s quick conclusion, Kanamiyama had more left. Once finished, Kanamiyama seemed to sway in place and leaned forward to rest his head on the table. The other three men quieted on the movement, and indeed it felt like the world behind me had become totally silent in audience of the old man. 

“She was beautiful.” 

The man in the white shirt put a hand on Kanamiyama’s shoulder and tapped it slowly. 

“It’s a shame what happened. Did you see her after the diagnosis?” 

“Eh? You didn’t hear Dozo-kun?” Ken leaned toward his opposite. 

Between them Hachikaze had sobered or simply began to take the new tone with a sincerity he had not shown prior. His face was flat and depressed. Without the drunken smile to lighten it, I realized he must have been older than Kanamiyama. Perhaps that Hachikaze was fifty or older, though to imagine a guy with that much energy approaching sixty worried me. Men like that, I considered, must have had the worst lives. Why was he drinking with this cohort at his age? While dressed the way he was? I could have stood there for several more minutes and observe the new depth of a careless bowler, but Ken continued to reply to Dozo. 

“Her sister turned him away in the lobby. That was months ago, man, I thought you would have known something like that at least.” 

Dozo chuckled awkwardly and continued his application to the quiet Kanamiyama. 

“So!” 

Suddenly Hachikaze declared amidst the men in a booming voice. The two other visitors turned to see his new performance, and even Kanamiyama sat straight again. He grabbed a beer from the table and cracked it open, chugging down while his guest began. 

“Why do you think I tell you about those interlopers getting between me and my destiny as a champion in the League? You’re curious, aren’t you? I know you are! So let me tell you and you will know that Hachikaze is the only one who could have told you something so wise and of certain strength!” 

Dozo rested his chin in the palm of his hand while he slouched. 

“There is a difference in philosophy! A philosophical debate, even! I am from that higher and nobler time where the construction of man to arrogate limitation was not to be seen! When I was young it didn’t matter how you threw the ball, or what was damaged in the process—hell, burn the whole alley to the ground! Victory! At all costs! To sacrifice repair fees in the name of the title is to be a true man! Nowadays though, you get these young lads who can’t even lift a six kilogram ball without whining about it. They are men unable to meet my ilk on the lane, so they have wormed their way into the Commission, and they made these new rules for the League, and now a man must have proper form and roll the ball in such a motion that it has little bouncing impact on the floor. Not only that, but to play like we used to, like men, is to participate in a crime against the new law of the sport! Do you believe that? What is a world where a thing's very nature can change so suddenly in its truth?” 

Ken had been chewing on gyoza, one after another, while nodding along with shallow eyes at Hachikaze’s story. If Dozo had not occasionally taken a sip of his beer, I would have thought he had fallen asleep. Kanamiyama, for his part, had started to laugh at the story. 

“Yes,” Kanamiyama said with a tone that bespoke a grin I could not see, “I guess there are those kinds of people in the world now. I think, maybe, her supporting me when she did was the greatest thing that could have happened to me. I was just a punk beating up the other kids back then, now I’m at least a member of society, you know?” 

“You’re quite the man now, Itsu-san,” supported Ken. 

“I think you downplay your own power Kana,” Dozo laughed. 

“Enough of this! We must drink and curse these men! These boys wearing the silk skin of the bastards who say you can’t throw a six kilogram ball at bowling pins!” 

Dozo grabbed his jacket and began to stand. Kanamiyama followed. 

“I’m sure we’ll talk about it until the sunrise next time, Hachikaze-san, but for now I have work in the morning. Thank you for inviting me Kana, I’ll see you next time.” The younger man held out his hand and Kanamiyama shook it. 

“Thank you for coming, Dozo. I really appreciate it.” 

“Anything for a friend. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” 

The two men bowed slightly to each other. Then, without another word, Dozo started towards the front door, which happened to be directly beside where I was standing. In the interest of not being caught, I made my way quickly to my apartment door. When Dozo appeared outside I had just managed to get my cold key to unlock the latch. As I opened my door and he closed Kanamiyama’s, our eyes met. 

His eyes were empty. Not like he had no thoughts, but rather he had no suspicion. 

“Good evening,” Dozo nodded to me. 

“Good evening to you as well,” I replied. 

Once the little gesture was complete, Dozo smiled and walked to the stairs, leaving. 

My apartment was dark and empty on my entrance. I stood in the entry, feeling the wall of the lightless hall. Without any reason to take a step in, I fell back against the door and slid down, sitting on the tiles. Then, a thought occurred: 

Who were they talking about? 

Kanamiyama was a forty-year old bachelor who worked and slept and little else. Though such a thing was probably normal for a majority of the world. If a man were to work and sleep and not partake in the pastimes of his generation, would he not become Kanamiyama? Still, he called a woman beautiful, and he was in mourning. A lost love then? Her sister turned him away from seeing her in hospital, so it was a bad relationship. Unrequited? One-sided or unbalanced? He must have felt a greater deal more love for her than she did for him. She cared for him to some degree, she had given him support through a rough period. It sounded like it happened when they were very young as well. A relationship ended on bad terms with the family. Maybe he even had that dwindling and pathetic hope that he could rekindle the spark and see her again, if only to see her beauty again. There was a diagnosis, he was in mourning. My swirling thoughts rested upon that chain of events alone. I barely knew the man, but I knew that a woman he admired had died at an age younger than she should have. Suddenly the thought occurred that I should ask him, that I should know, and deserved to know, because I had already learned so much and yet had little knowledge of the actual matter of the thing. 

I opened the window to see if I could make out the men’s voices. Nothing came to me. 

Before they left my friends had wanted to go out on the town. We all went to a restaurant and ate fried chicken and drank beer. Then some of us split off and went to an arcade nearby, then fewer still made it to karaoke. Each change of scenery meant another face disappeared into the night and into the winter wherein they would return to their family homes for the break. By the time I had gone into a convenience store to get a vitamin drink that would sober me up, only my friend Keiichi remained. 

“You sure you don’t want to come with me? My folks love guests you know, especially during the holidays. They’d probably treat you like royalty, knowing them.” 

“No, I still need to get my head around some of the stuff from my bio-chem. If I don’t study I might start lagging behind. You have fun with your folks though.” 

I never cared about biochemistry. I never cared much for studying either. I lied through my teeth for no reason and watched and waved as Keiichi got into a taxi that would take him home. Lingering on such little farewells meant I had more to drink than I thought. The cold crept in through my open window and I closed it. Silence hung low in my room. I tossed off my shoes and made my way to my bed in the darkness. Too drunk and too in my own head to care, I curled up into my bedsheets still wearing my leather jacket. I slipped into dreams thinking about the ghostly figure of that mysterious woman. 

The next morning I ran into Kanamiyama at the mailbox again. I had gotten my mail first and was already on my way back to the apartment when he had slid his key into the lock. I avoided looking directly at him as I passed, but only a meter or two away I could not help myself. I turned to face him. 

“Excuse me, Kanamiyama-san?”

He looked up from a pile of envelopes in his hands. The brim of his baseball cap protected his eyes from the early light of the sun. Indeed, softened by shadow, they were eyes totally absent of any thought. Much like Dozo the night before, I realized what my mistake had really been in obsessing over the man. 

“Yes, was there something you needed, Sonochihama?”

I wanted to ask about the woman. The image of the back of his head from the night before came to me and stifled such thoughts. How did I know of her? What did I know of him? What was my supposed right to such things? He was a man in mourning, as a neighbor I should have done something to support him. A friendly building, Yorihama often said, was a peaceful one. I should comfort the man who slept fifteen meters away from me, that thought alone bounced from cortex to lobe and back again. 

I was met by the childlike ignorance of his glassy eyes. 

“Where do you work by the way? Just curious, if you don’t mind.” 

Though he had not been standing straight, and was clearly slouching from exhaustion, a relaxation emanated throughout his body. 

“Oh, well, I work in water treatment. There’s a plant near K Station.” 

“I see, that’s nice,” my words faded into the air while I stood placidly. 

“Was that all?” 

“Yes, thank you, sorry for bothering you.” 

I could feel my body shrink in on itself in shame. Every fiber of my being desperately trying to not be seen. A bug crawling away into some crevice or hole which would protect it from the light of day. Yet I was no bug, and my two legs climbed the stairs alone. The latch on my door came unlocked as Kanamiyama’s feet clattered on the steps as well. I stood by and watched from the corner of my eye as he flicked through his envelopes. He reached his door and opened it without taking his eyes off his mail. Just like that, it felt like I had lost my grasp on an ally amid the vast emptiness of space. There was something worth grabbing, after floating aimlessly, and yet I had missed it. It floated on away from me, irreverent to my inability to move myself in a frictionless void. 

I wanted to drink with Kanamiyama. I wanted to talk to him and recount my own lovesickness from the year before. Even though nothing good could come from it, even though, when left alone, men beget nothing of benevolence for each other. I wanted to cherish his advice, for he was a man almost twice my age, and surely had triple the life experience. I wanted to introduce friction to our interactions, even should we become enemies, a peaceful building was a dead building in my eyes. Even friends, even enemies, both remain proof that someone exists in the first place. I sat in my room, alone at the second of my own shame. With nothing else to do I went back to my bedsheets, hiding from the light of day. 

I tried to cry, but no tears came.