takeaway

Atop the railing, right in front of me, is one of those cats with the waving arm you often see on the counters of Chinese takeaway restaurants.  It’s white with red ears and a gold and green bib of some sort.  That cat, it keeps grinning in the dark, looking right at me.  One arm keeps going up and down, and the other holds a gold coin; this cat is lucky, they say.  What most westerners don’t know is this cat, this maneki-neko, isn’t Chinese at all – it’s Japanese.  What a greater number of Westerners don’t know is this maneki-neko isn’t waving, but beckoning.  Come here, the maneki-neko say, come into this shop, this restaurant, this drycleaner's, this massage parlour.  Come here, this one says, come right this way, over the railing.

This place I’m at, it’s not easy to get away.  In fact, following the maneki-neko’s directions would be the easiest way out.  I’m out on a balcony overlooking the city, fifty-one stories up.  The city lights spread out like a twinkling blanket before me, and the streets and freeways cut through it like stitches.  Crisscrossing this way and that, the stitches are a grid in some places, jumbled chaos in others.  The seamstress, she sewed this quilt while drunk.  Each patch on this mad quilt contains hundreds of people and there are countless patches.  Me, I want to get away, but I’m balancing on the tip of a sewing needle stood on its end.  There’s nowhere to go.  Trapped.

Reclining in one of those rickety folding lawn chairs, it’s the type made from aluminum tubing covered in woven, striped polyester pieces.  Frayed on the arms, the frame bent in places, this thing has been around since the 80s.  I take a sip from my drink, admiring its soft green glow in the faint light filtering outside through the French doors behind me.  This drink, my speciality, it’s equal parts gin, absinthe, and tonic over a full tumbler of ice cubes with a sprig of fresh mint for garnish.  It doesn’t have a name because I’ve never given it one.  Drinks, they don’t need names.

There’s a rattle from the door behind me, and it isn’t long before it opens, causing a toxic mix of music, drunken babbling, and laughter to spill out into the chilly winter night air.  I sigh and pull the collar of my coat up as if to shield myself from the onslaught.  A slender female figure walks out and leans on her elbows over the balcony railing.  Her back to me, she’s shivering in her light cotton T-shirt as she takes in the view of the city.  Then, not looking back, she asks, “Why are you out here by yourself?”  Her words briefly hang in clouds of frozen vapour before dissipating.

“Why are you outside without a coat?” I reply.

She doesn’t answer, but shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and rubs the backs of her arms, her triceps, in an effort to stay warm.  “You usually sit out your own parties?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.  “Every time.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and drink down a full half of my green drink.

She seems to suddenly notice the maneki-neko beckoning madly beside her, and turns her head to look at the cat.  Her profile becomes a perfect silhouette against the three-quarter moon.  Her lashes are long, her tiny nose, upturned.  She’s turned into a cameo.  “What’s this thing?” she asks.

“A Chinese fortune cat,” I tell her.

“Is it lucky?”

“Define luck.”

There’s silence for a time while I watch this girl watching the maneki-neko.  With a long index finger, she reaches out and stops its plastic paw in mid-beckon.  “I know why you have parties,” she says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

I consider that for a moment.  I look away.  “I know you do,” I say.