Michiko in the Middle of Fifth and Sixth

Michiko stood and watched the Caucasian couple run their hands over one another. He was tall, with dark hair and perfect teeth, while she was blonde and endowed with the most prominent cheekbones Michiko had ever seen on a woman. They’d just started making out—Michiko cringed at the sight of the man’s eel-like tongue darting into the woman’s mouth—when Michiko coughed, noisily.

“Sorry, my dear girl!” said the man, prying himself off his girlfriend to look at Michiko. His English was crisp, clear, though his accent hard to place. European, for sure, Michiko thought to herself. “Didn’t mean for you to see all that.”

The woman laughed. She looked young, no older than Michiko was. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed,” she said.

Michiko wondered if she’d misunderstood what the word ‘embarrassed’ meant, because the woman bore no sign of being as such. Of course, Michiko would never say that to a customer’s face. Instead, she gave them her best and brightest smile. 

The couple smiled back, and—thank heavens they didn’t start kissing again—the man asked how much they owed her in (poorly pronounced) Japanese. 

“Two hundred yen, please,” Michiko replied in English. 

The man dropped two coins onto the wooden counter and grabbed his soda. Michiko watched them walk away. It only took the man three steps to find the woman’s buttocks. 

Michiko sighed, tucking her tousled, shoulder-length hair behind her ears. As gross as that couple had been, they had been her first and only customers this entire morning. It wasn’t tourist season yet, and the small handful of visitors to Fujisan were either patronizing the restaurants and shops around the Fifth Station, or buying charms at the Komitake Shrine. And here she was, tending Papa’s stall in that weird nowhere state between the Fifth and Sixth Stations of Fujisan’s Yoshida Trail. No one stopped here. It was too close to the Sixth Station for a pit-stop, and too close to the bustling Fifth for it to be of any remote interest. 

Sitting back down in her portable stool, Michiko rubbed her slender hands together and slapped her puffy, peach-colored cheeks. It was something she did whenever she found herself thinking negative thoughts, a habit she had picked up from Papa. In fact, just this morning he had done it. He’d been sick all week—down with a cold, poor Papa—and while taking his medication at six in the morning he had lamented that he was getting older. In response, Michiko offered him a cup of hot tea and a sympathetic gaze. He slapped his face, drank the tea and told her not to worry. 

“Come, let’s go. The stall has not been open for a few days. We’re losing business,” he said.

“You’re sick, Papa. Stay home and rest,” Michiko chided. “Besides, the tourists will not be here for another two weeks.” 

Papa coughed and shook his head. “No! It’s the weekend. There will be visitors. Who else will they buy drinks from?”

The vending machines at the Fifth station, was Michiko’s unspoken reply. Of course, verbalizing that answer would have earned her an agonizing lecture from Papa, about how Michiko was already nineteen years old and should learn some responsibility, because how else was she going to find a husband if she continued being a day-dreaming slacker? 

But Michiko wasn’t a slacker. She eventually reached a compromise with Papa. She would go and set up the stall in his stead while he stayed home to rest, and no, he was not allowed to argue. Under Papa’s ever-watchful eye, she loaded up the cartons of canned and bottled drinks onto the family truck (she was much stronger than her petite frame suggested), and drove off to start the morning. 

“Konnichiwa,” said a deep male voice that pulled Michiko out of her reverie. She glanced up to see a young Caucasian man looking at her. He was what the Americans called a ‘dirty blonde’, and possessed a prominent nose, a chiseled jaw and sapphire eyes that sparkled like lakes in the summer. He had the slightest hint of a stubble, just enough to add another layer of masculinity to his flawless face, without appearing too messy.  

“K-konnichiwa!” stammered Michiko, as she sprang to her feet and bowed, a little too forcefully.  

The young man grinned and bowed back. His impressive height made the gesture seem awkward, and Michiko couldn’t help but giggle.

“What’s so funny?” asked the man. His accent was American. Definitely American. 

“Nothing, nothing!” said Michiko, shaking her head and trying not to burst into laughter. “It is nothing at all.”

The man raised a brow. “Ah, so you speak English!” 

At this, Michiko beamed and nodded. Her command of the English language, though imperfect, was far stronger than that of most Japanese people her age. After Mama passed away, Papa found it difficult to work while looking after a young girl, so he’d hired their Aunt Minoru as a babysitter. Aunt Minoru taught Michiko how to read and write from early on, tutoring her in both Japanese and English. In middle school Michiko took up an English elective class, giving her a distinct advantage over her classmates once she got to high school. Michiko loved the language, its irreverence and sheer distinction from Japanese, how very simplistic it was in its phonetics yet sorely complex in its structure and nuances. And of course, she loved most of all that she was considerably good at it. 

“That’s awesome!” said the American man. “My name’s Caleb, what’s yours?”

“My name is Michiko. Pleased to meet you.”

Caleb extended a hand, which Michiko took. It was warm, firm, a little rough. She held on for as long she thought was appropriate. Hand-shaking was a western thing, not Japanese. 

“Pleased to meet you too, Michiko. That is a lovely name,” said Caleb. He asked what drinks she was selling, and she listed them out for him, slowly. Eventually he made his selection—a can of Sapporo—and said, “Have you worked here long?”

Michiko nodded. “It is my Papa’s shop. I helped him since I was nine-years-old.” She held up nine fingers.

“Your dad, huh? Is he here?”

“Papa is sick. But he wanted to open the shop, so I open it for him.”

“Man, what a slave-driver,” said Caleb, laughing. 

Michiko frowned. She didn’t know what ‘slave-driver’ meant, but it didn’t sound like a compliment. “Please do not insult Papa. He is a good man.”

“Whoa, hey,” Caleb said, putting up both his hands. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry if that offended you. Just a joke.” 

A joke. Yes, Americans liked making jokes. It was just a joke she didn’t understand. 

“Gomennasai. I did not understand you. Please, do not see it badly.”

Caleb flashed her a smile that could have melted a snowcap. “It’s cool. So, er, it’s my first time going up Mount Fuji. Any advice?” 

“I don’t know,” said Michiko, shrugging. “But I heard you should buy a walking stick. Very helpful, coming down.” 

“Wait,” Caleb said. “Are you telling me you’ve worked here since you were a kid and you’ve never been up the mountain?”

Michiko shook her head, her lips curling into a pout.

“That just won’t do! We gotta get you up there. Come with me.”

Michiko’s eyes went wide. It took every ounce of consciousness not to let her mouth hang open. Was she hearing him right? This westerner, this complete stranger, wanted her to drop everything and climb Fujisan with him? Was this another one of his strange jokes?

“I cannot. I must watch the shop,” she replied. “And my clothes are no good.” It was true. She ran a hand over her thin cardigan, wrapped over a Hard Rock Café T-shirt, and a pair of faded, high-waist jeans.

“I’ll pay for whatever you need,” Caleb said. “And I’ll even pay for all the drinks you need to sell. It’s Fuji! C’mon, you know you want to.”

Even as Michiko shook her head, she recalled the countless times she had stood at the foothills of Fujisan, in her hometown of Narusawa, and looked up in awe at the mountain’s majestic peak, reaching out to graze the vast sky. The sight always filled her with a sense of wonder and delight. Looking up from her lowly spot, she could see not Fujisan’s long winding trails nor its steep slopes, only the mountain as a whole: a creature to be feared and loved at the same time. 

“No,” Michiko said. “Gomennasai.” 

Caleb stared at her, hard. He appeared genuinely disappointed. Finally he shrugged and said, “Well, if you’re not climbing, I’m not climbing.” With that, he walked over to a nearby rock at the edge of the trail, and parked himself there. “Let me know if you change your mind!”

Heavens, this young man—or perhaps he was just a boy; it was hard to tell with westerners—was something else! He must be a rich man’s son, Michiko thought, being able to waste all his money like that. He came all the way to Fujisan from wherever he stayed and wasn’t going to climb it because some girl he just met didn’t want to climb with him? How foolish!

Well, it was his money. He wasn’t going to make her do anything she didn’t want to do, Michiko resolved. She went about the rest of her day, and for the next three hours, one or two customers came by the stall. She greeted them politely, and thanked them with a smile whether or not they bought anything. When she thought Caleb wasn’t looking she stole glances at him, but she was wrong and he was looking and all she could do was duck her head down and blush. 

As morning turned to afternoon, Yuki came by to visit. She worked at the Fifth station as a waitress, and had been classmates with Michiko throughout middle school and high school. Now they had both graduated and were still trying to figure out what to do at the next stage of their lives. Yuki kept her hair shy of her chin, and dyed it shades of red and brown. Thick bangs hung just above her brows, obscuring her high forehead and making her face appear smaller than it actually was. She was half-a-head taller than Michiko, which made her not very tall at all, though she often teased Michiko about her height. 

“Michiko-chan, I brought you lunch!” said Yuki, holding up a bento box. 

Michiko thanked her and set up another stool for her friend. Michiko sat down and started to eat, but Yuki leaned over and asked, “Who’s that man? Why’s he staring at you?” 

“A strange tourist. He wants me to climb Fujisan with him.”

Yuki clasped her hand over her open mouth. “He does? What is he planning to do with you on the mountain? Did you agree?”

“Of course not!” said Michiko. “I’m not crazy, even though you think I am.”

“But he’s kind of cute.” said Yuki. She waved at Caleb with her fingers and he waved back. Michiko hit her on the shoulder and both girls laughed. 

Yuki’s lunch break soon ended, and as she packed up the bento boxes she winked at Michiko and said, “I think you should go with him. And bring protection.” Michiko gasped and slapped her friend. Yuki feigned being hurt and galloped away, back down the road to the Fifth Station. 

“Have you reconsidered?” asked Caleb. He had left his rock and sauntered back up to the stall. “C’mon, I promise I’ll take care of you. Or maybe you’ll take care of me.”

Michiko laughed—she didn’t know why she was laughing, but she laughed. Then she turned and looked at the trail leading up to the Sixth Station. Gravel road, flanked by stone and trees, littered with fallen leaves. She couldn’t see Fujisan’s peak from where she was, but she could still picture it in her mind, clear as day, as if she were standing at the foothills in Narusawa. She thought of the European couple, and wondered how far up the trail they had gone, and what mischief they were getting up to there. 

She turned back to Caleb, caught her own reflection in his blue, blue eyes.

“I need to lock up first,” she said.

Papa was going to kill her.