I flipped through a couple of pages and saw that most of the entries were handwritten in Japanese. This made reading it difficult for me, but I thought I could handle the challenge with time and a decent dictionary.
"Are you sure you want this?" Tanaka asked nervously.
"Yes," I replied assuredly. "I'm looking forward to reading it."
I flipped through a couple of pages and saw that most of the entries were handwritten in Japanese. This made it difficult for me to read, but I thought I could handle the challenge with time and a decent dictionary. I went behind the bar to put the book on top of the safe, but then reconsidered and placed it inside my small reserve cooler, figuring the cool environment would be better for the delicate volume than the heat and smoke of the bar.
After downing his second beer, Tanaka thanked me with a casual bow then headed out. At the door, he stopped, slowly turned toward me, and cautioned, "Don't let anyone know."
I scratched my head, "That I have a book of poetry?"
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The Little Brown Book
The air inside was musty with yesterday's cigarettes, and one of two small televisions above the bar had been left on all night. I would have to talk to my bartender about that.
I went behind the bar, barely long enough for its eight wobbly stools, and grabbed a couple of ice cubes in each hand, tossing the ones from my right hand into my mouth and sliding the others deliberately across my forehead and neck. Anticipating a quiet evening, I slowly prepped the bar.
At six, my good friend Tanaka arrived, sitting in his usual spot--an old wooden chair at the table closest to the door, and ordered what would probably be the first of two mugs of beer.
As I sat down next to him, he opened a thick briefcase and dug into it. He pulled out a small homemade-looking book, more like a
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