Affirmation of the day: I attract people who uplift me
and have faith in me.
SHINJUKU DISTRICT, TOKYO, 1:25 A. M.
There’s a weirdo living below me.
Takeda - san, my liaison from Tiger Corp, was reluctant to deliver the
message from my downstairs Japanese neighbor; he only did so after much
apologetic face - scrunching and de ep bowing. Apparently, my neighbor
(whom I have never seen and who seems to be a shut - in) has put in a
passive - aggressive complaint with the management: that I “clomp around
the apartment like an el ephant.” I told Takeda - san to convey to this weirdo
that I am not an American gaijin. I’m Indian, and I take off my shoes when
I’m at home.
That’s not my only problem: Before I got here, I was in touch with the
Tokyo Tiger Corp people about the layout of my store — but I arrived to find
the lighting was all wrong, harsh and industrial. The display cases were in
that standard U shape, not the individual, museum - like vitrines I’d
specified, and the sign (Hustle & Shine, a name a trendy Tokyo marketing
firm came up with — they assured me it conveys a cool American hip - hop
vibe) hadn’t been constructed. I’ve spent days yelling at Takeda - san, and he
sucks his teeth to show me he’s listening, bows, and says, “Yes, maybe,” to
all my requests — but nothing gets done.
I’ve wanted my own jewelry store for so long. I can’t fail. I have to
show Papa that I can make this work, even though it’s Tokyo and not Los
Angeles, as I expected. But it’s hard when I’m operating in a culture that
doesn’t take women seriously, especially brown women.
And then there are the postcards: I’d been off social media for years, and
as soon as I returned to Instagram — to promote the store — they started
showing up. Three of them, all the same: an aerial view of Jackson Heights,
the Roosevelt Ave/74 th Street station. Red lettering said “JACKSON
HEIGHTS: THE REAL MELTING POT.”
— On the back of the first one was written, in careful capitals, “I MISS
YOU.”
— The second said “YOU GOT AWAY.”
— The third said “COME BACK.”
None of them were signed, and I felt violently nauseous. Was this him?
I literally got up and walked to the door and slammed the dead bolt. Was
the Jackson Heights Killer here in Tokyo, lurking behind the nicely
trimmed hedge at the end of our walkway, waiting to pounce on me, crack
open my chest, and collect my heart? That’s where my imagination went,
even after all these years.
I stayed home for two days. I felt as though I was losing my mind.
Then yesterday, Ali called me at like four in the morning. Of course I
was asle ep, but he left a message. Some shit about missing me terribly,
about how he wanted to reconnect, and I finally put two and two together:
the postcards. It wasn’t JHK. It was Ali. It’s such an Ali thing to do, send me
an unsigned postcard — after all, I’d told him all about growing up in
Jackson Heights, hadn’t I? About how we lived in that crowded apartment
building on 37 th Street. How Papa would take me on the train into
Manhattan, and the elevated subway was magical — I’d look into the
tenement windows as we clattered past, each framing a mysterious, hidden
life. Yes, Ali must have chosen these Jackson Heights postcards to make
sure I knew it was him ... and, stupid me, I’d jumped to conclusions. I’d
misread the whole thing.
Still, to double - check, I texted Maryam and asked if she’d been getting
any postcards. It was early in the morning in New York, but Maryam is
Type A and likes to go running before work. She texted back right away:
‘What postcards? No, nothing in the mail, why?’
I said, ‘Never mind,’ and asked if she’d given my Tokyo mailing address
to anyone. She snapped back: ‘Do you think I’m an idiot? And to whom
would I give your address? Got some disgruntled exes lurking?’ Why did
Maryam have to be so bitchy? Oh, I’d love to tell her that her husband,
lying in their marital bed, was missing me, had called me, was sending me
freaking postcards.
But. This is Farhan 2.0: “No drama” is my mantra. I didn’t write back.
I have enough problems as it is: Managing the over - polite store
employees. Managing our Instagram account. Managing Takeda - san. Trying
to sle ep — it’s not just the jet lag, but my nightmare is back. It plays all night
on endless r epeat: I’m a kid, peering through a crack in the door, seeing a
woman lying on a high bed. Her legs are spread open, and dark blood
gushes from the opening between her legs. But now additional details have
been added: A sheen of perspiration on the woman’s pale face. Dark hair on
her thick, veined legs. And now figures have appeared at the edge of the
scene: A woman in a white nurse’s uniform. Two men — men! — in business
suits and spit - shined black shoes confer in a corner, backs turned.
Will the nightmare ke ep expanding, revealing more of its awful world?
What else will it show? Surely the scene — a woman giving birth — is
symbolic of something — but what? Dr. Bajaj, my old therapist, liked to
paraphrase Jung: “The unconscious is as vast as the ocean; the conscious
mind floats upon it, a mere tiny island.” I miss her terribly, Dr. Bajaj, with
her round, serious face. I could use her wisdom now, but she’s only licensed
in New York.
I’m on my own here. I’m the only person wide - awake at two a. m. in this
apartment building in Shinjuku ... No, wait. I hear something in the
apartment below me ...
My weirdo neighbor, the one who complained about me, is shuffling
around below. I can hear his footst eps clearly, then the high, cheerful voice
of cartoon characters. Does he have nightmares, too? To calm himself, does
he watch the Disney Channel at two a. m.? I have a sudden, wicked idea: a
pile of dead cicada corpses has accumulated on my balcony, dry husks as
large as the palm of my hand. I’ll swe ep the corpses over the edge of my
balcony and onto his.
I’ll teach that moron to complain about me.