A Motorcycle Dream
Out from our travels came our time. We ended up in Japan. A new life, a new bike, more times to come. My wife was off with friends. I was studying my new motorcycle, getting a lay of the land from our home. The upstairs room was no larger than a cockpit, but it was cute. I was in it, studying the little keys. They were toy keys, like the type you can bend with three fingers. They were for the motorcycle. You could actually take the handlebar off, I guess for security reasons. I was playing with it outside, wondering how we were going to make life with this motorcycle work. Downstairs, the one lavatory was nothing more than a toilet taking up center space, surrounded by patterned curtains in mostly red. I was getting a phone call. My wife was telling me about her time. But then, two men entered our habitation and went into the bathroom together. My wife was describing the half Japanese singer that sang well, even though he smelled bad, and I was trying to talk to the two guys behind the curtain. They were taking turns defecating, making a virtual party of it. When they were bowing and thanking me as they exited, I noticed all the shit stains covering the toilet bowl. I had hung up, and didn’t know what to do. I felt the motorcycle would be in danger. I went out to try to take it for a spin. It was not easy since I was not a motorcyclist. When I came back, it was evening again, and our residence was now acting like a restaurant. Now I understood why there was only the small space upstairs and the toilet in the center of the communal living space. The owner was giving me a sly look from behind the counter. He was reprimanding me in a jocular fashion because they had quite a job cleaning the bathroom. I was giving him my best facial expression for such an event, almost explaining to him the two homeless guys, but I then started to go through mental math about why we couldn’t live there anymore, and then I woke up.