Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.61.0409081647530.1991@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject: The Chopsticks
Date: Wed, 8 Sep 2004 16:48:02 -0400 (EDT)
The Chopsticks My name is Harry. On a good day, you'll find me at a local watering hole. I do business left table rear. I know the place. But this time the job was different. I'd been sent to south Japan to look for a necklace. Not an ordinary neckless, mind you, but one worn by the Kami of Peru. It's a long story. I was in Fuokoka or however they spell it and I was being followed. I was sure of it. I can sense stalking a mile away. He walked like a ghost and I thought he must talk like one too. Dressed all in black, slipping from one doorway to another. I read about characters like him. They're unemployed, always on the lookout, easy hires. I walked into a yatai, one of those restaurant stalls they have. Not like Tokio. Everyone stared. There were four customers in the place. I ordered rice and that eel they put on top, used my hashi like a native. My friend came in and sat at the other end of the counter. The rest of the place left. Everyone knows when trouble comes knocking. I took my chopsticks and placed them upright in the rice. That's the Buddhist sign of death for these folks. Call me Harry I said. The stranger looked at me then at the sticks. He backed away in terror and fled. I have to say I never saw him again. The eel was good and I went on with my mission. Let me tell you, chopsticks come in handy, a quick fix when nothing else will do. __