Untitled Yakuza Fic

Novel Idea # 2

Author’s Note: So, this is what has sprouted from my miserable attempt at NaNoWriMo this year. This is just chapter one. I cannot promise timely updates as I do not know when I have writing time anymore but they will come.


Chapter 1
Suitcases spilled out of the top of the luggage carousel and down the silver slide to the conveyor belt. A group of eyes watched them, trying to pick out their bags from among all the others, some a bright color, others with a decoration attached to the top to signal the ownership of the bag. Yoshirou’s suitcases, there was about two of them along with his backpack, were black with big red tags. One of them tumbled down the slide and he grabbed it, lifting it up and setting it down next to him. He waited ten more minutes for the other bag, a lime green suitcase and neon pink one were picked up by two tiny Japanese girls who walked off chatting before his other one appeared. He got it and made his way out of the baggage claim area and to the general waiting and exit part of Narita Airport.

It was modern and sterile, with stainless steel and big windows. There were rows of orange cushioned seats and an area with a giant television that was showing sumo wrestling. There were five different trash cans against the wall, each for a different kind of garbage. Yoshirou followed the signs for the bathroom and was dismayed to find that the men’s room was almost completely squatters. He left his suitcases against a wall in the corner and went into one of the stalls. The artificial sound of a waterfall started on its own accord scaring the crap out of him and causing him to almost put his foot into the squatter.

“Stupid Japanese toilets,” he grumbled as he flushed. He left the stall and washed his hands in one of the sinks. He then grabbed his bags again and went to find the JR Narita Express train. The train platform was a fifteen minute walk from the main airport, down a few ramps and about three escalators. It looked like a normal train platform, the different shuttle trains into Tokyo in their own spots. The red and silver JR Narita Express train was waiting on the right and Yoshirou dug out his ticket. His seat was in car five and it was 6B.

The carpeting and seat fabric of the train matched, both were gray, but the seats had red and yellow patterns drawn on them. His suitcases went up on to the overhead shelf and his backpack went into the leg space in front of his seat. He was rummaging around in the big pocket of his backpack for his mp3 player when his seatmate sat down next to him. He was young and dressed in a totally black suit, even his shirt. His shaggy short hair cut and eyes matched. Yoshirou noticed that his hands were covered by tiny scars as they held a newspaper which he was reading. He didn’t think much of him and stuck his headphones in his ears and cranked his music for the hour long trip into Tokyo.

Yoshirou felt someone tapping his shoulder so he opened his eyes and looked. He hadn’t been asleep; he had slept enough on the airplane. His seatmate was looking at him, his cell phone in his hand. Yoshiro pulled out one of the headphones and looked at him again.

“Do you mind if I take this call?” the other man asked.

“No, I can’t hear you anyway,” he responded. The man nodded and flipped open the cell phone as he returned the headphone to his ear. The cell phone was black like everything else on the man but was missing the distinctive phone charms most Japanese decorated theirs with. He watched as the man pulled out a pad of paper and scribbled something down, a line of kanji so complicated Yoshirou would have to sit down with his electronic dictionary and write for hours to get the right one. That is, until he saw a kanji he did recognize, death. He didn’t think much of it, maybe someone in his family had died and he was coming into Tokyo for the funeral, it would explain the black suit. When the man hung up Yoshirou quickly directed his attention out the window and to the neon signs going passed them. He had never seen so many brightly lit advertisements in one place before. He counted seven McDonalds and eleven 7-11’s as the train sped towards Tokyo station.

Tokyo station was buzzing with people that Friday night. It was nine pm and the youth of Tokyo flooded the station, each one going to a different place in the massive city. Yoshirou got off the JR Narita Express behind his seatmate but he quickly lost the other man in the crowd of people. He shrugged it off and dragged his bags behind him in search of the JR Yamanote line which would take him to Shinjuku station. He was not looking forward to finding his way through the maze that he had heard Shinjuku was. He sighed as he trudged over to the stairs up to the Yamanote platform, groaning when he saw how high it was.

“Would you like some help?” Yoshirou turned and saw the man from the train standing next to him.

“What?” he asked. The man smiled at him and asked the question again.

“Oh, sure. Thanks.” Yoshirou responded.

“Are you new to Tokyo?” the man asked as he picked up one of the suitcases.

“I’ve been here a few times on vacation but never lived here,” Yoshirou answered.

“Ah, so are you moving here?”

“Yes.” The silver and lime green Yamanote train was waiting at the platform when they made it up the stairs. The train was pretty full already but they managed to find a corner to stand in.

“My name is Mori Hayato,” the man announced.

“I’m Arai Yoshirou,” he responded.

“Where are you from Arai-san?”

“The United States.”

“Where are you going?”

“Shinjuku.”

“I’m headed to Shibuya.” The train stopped at the Akihabara station and a large group of people got off. “Are you staying in Shinjuku or going somewhere else?”

“I’m going to Honancho,” Yoshirou replied. Hayato chuckled.

“The Marunouchi line stops at Tokyo station,” he informed Yoshirou.

“Crap,” Yoshirou exclaimed. More people got off at Ikebukuro.

“Well, I hope you get home safely. Here is my card, call if you need anything,” Hayato told Yoshirou when they arrived at Shibuya.

“Thanks, I will,” Yoshirou responded as he took the card. Hayato waved as he got off. Yoshirou looked down at the business card; it was white with black text and a weird emblem on the side. It just had Hayato’s name and a telephone number. Shinjuku station wasn’t the craziness that he had expected. It was just the right time of night that people were either at home or had gotten to their intended destination. He grabbed a few baked goods and some fruit from the grocery store and one of the bakeries in the station and followed the signs for the Marunouchi line where he bought the 160 yen ticket to get on the train.

Nakano Sakaue was practically empty when he switched to the Honancho train and the station was just as empty as he struggled with his suitcases up the flight of stairs. Cars drove down the main street while families filed out of the Jonathan’s restaurant from across it. Yoshirou waited for the walk sign before he dragged his bags over the cross walk. The landlord for his new apartment had told him that the building was passed the Jonathon’s and down the street next to the Mazda dealership. He saw the Mazda sign in the distance so he walked towards it. The small apartment building was across from the Bunka University Foreign Student House, the spiral stair case up to the front door surrounded by green plastic. The key to his apartment was in the mailbox along with a letter from the landlord. There were only three rentable apartments in the building, the forth belonging to the landlord.

Yoshirou’s apartment was about three rooms and the bathroom. The main room was also the main living area, he also planned to sleep there, while the kitchen was off to the left and down a small hall was another room and then bathroom. The empty room was going to house the stuff he couldn’t put other places. He didn’t have any furniture to put in the apartment, except for what had come with it, the landlord had even let him borrow a futon until he could buy his own. His bags were abandoned in a corner until the next day and he stripped off his jeans. He unrolled the futon, successfully confusing which piece went where, and once he had managed to set it up correctly collapsed into the mountain of blankets