I cleaned rooms at the Panama Hotel. After work, I used to walk around the block to have a beer at the Maneki. Yes, that dinky little place in the International District. There weren’t many places I felt comfortable in. Most people didn’t even notice the tiny bar in the front corner of the restaurant.
Since the Maneki first opened its doors in 1904, almost 120 years ago, the place has gone through a lot. Can you believe it? Maneki used to be a huge fancy three-story restaurant where Japanese Americans got dressed up and celebrated special occasions. A whole army of kimono-clad ladies served the customers. The Japanese residents of Seattle were a big deal then. Mr. Furuya was so rich he owned the local theater where famous Japanese entertainers performed, and he had big parties at his resort house on Bainbridge Island. But the Depression wiped him out. Then the war came and you know what happened. The whites couldn’t tell us apart from the Japanese who bombed Pearl Harbor, so to be on the safe side, the government incarcerated all of us. Including the folks who worked and lived in the International District. While the Maneki owners were behind barbed wire, people trashed the place. So after the war, they had to start all over again in what used to be a storage room. The place never got back to its original glory.
Oh well. I came to the Maneki to relax, anyway - not the decor. The bartender, an older Japanese woman named Mrs. Moto, knew a lot about the bad old days. But we older Nisei and Sansei didn’t talk about it much. There’s no point worrying about what happened or what might happen again. There’s a Japanese proverb my grandma used to say, Asu no koto o ieba, nezumi ga warau. Whenever we talk about the future, the mice in the walls laugh.
Most days nothing much happened at the Maneki. But I had a feeling about that shy young stranger when he came into our bar one day. He didn’t belong here but it turns out, he didn’t belong anywhere. He said his name was Lee but I never did find out whether he was part Japanese, Chinese or what. He could’ve been Mexican for all I know. Lee had come from out of state and told us he got a job at the Uwajimaya supermarket as the night janitor, and Mrs. Moto said, “Congratulations, young man.”
As Lee looked around our modest bar, he said, “There aren’t many places like this back in Colorado.”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the Japanese decor or just the age of the place. The bar probably hasn’t been renovated for over forty years. It was added to the restaurant after the real estate office that used to be there finally closed.
Mrs. Moto asked Lee, “Have you ever had hot saké?”
Lee shook his head. Mrs. Moto brought out a small ceramic cup along with a small white tokkuri filled with about a cup of hot saké. As Lee held the cup with his fingertips, she poured from the tokkuri. When he sipped the saké, a broad smile erupted across his face. “This is great.”
He gave Mrs. Moto a wad of cash, “I’ll pay you upfront.” He added, “I may be a drunk but I’m not a deadbeat. Can I just ask you to wake me to leave in time for the night shift - around midnight?”
Mrs. Moto said, “As long as you don’t make any trouble, that’s fine by me.”
As the young man emptied one, then another tokkuri, he told us about himself. He said, “Born and raised in Rifle Colorado – where there’s more cattle than people.” He said, “I was okay until the accident. Damaged goods and no one wanted me around. So here I am.”
He wouldn’t tell us the details of his accident, and I didn’t want to pry. We didn’t need to hear about other people’s problems.
Mrs. Moto let the kid sleep with his head on the bar while she served me and the other regulars. Finally, after most of the regulars had left, she shook Lee awake. “Hey, kid. Aren’t you supposed to get to work soon?”
Lee jumped up, said thanks, and ran out the door like a sea otter after a Dungeness crab. Mrs. Moto noted, “That Lee knows how to drink.”
A few nights later, Lee was back at the Maneki, drinking saké and chattering again until he fell asleep. Sitting down at the other end of the bar was Aksel. He was our only regular white guy. Aksel sometimes stopped by Maneki after he brought his Rainier cherries to sell at the Pike Place Market. The old grouch munched his cherries while he drank his usual Orion beer. On more than one occasion, Aksel bragged about his Norwegian relatives who arrived in Seattle long ago.
Anyway, that night after listening to Lee chatter away and then fall asleep, Aksel grumbled, “That kid’s a fool. He wont amount to anything.” With that, the old man spat a cherry pit so that it landed right on top of sleeping Lee’s head.
Mrs. Moto shook her head. “Aksel! We don’t treat people that way.” She knew all too well that everyone had their reasons for drinking. “What’s the harm as long as he doesn’t hurt anyone? In here, let him be. There’s enough to worry about in our lives.” When she shook Lee awake at midnight, the kid jumped up and ran out the door to get to work.
Mrs. Moto scowled at Aksel. “You’re just jealous. Lee’s got a good heart. In my book, that counts for more than how hard a man works.”
Aksel said, “You Japanese. Why are you so polite? You shouldn’t let people get away with so much.”
Mrs Moto snapped back, “I’m not letting anyone get away with anything. People are complicated.”
Too bad Aksel wasn’t around when Lee came back several days later. Aksel missed the most extraordinary thing I’d ever seen. The kid grinned at us as usual as he sat down and ordered his saké. But this time, on top of the kid’s head, a sapling was growing! That’s right. A little tree was growing on top of Lee’s head.
Of course, we were surprised. Mrs. Moto frowned at us to not say anything. How did that sapling get on Lee’s head? Was it from that cherry pit Aksel spit? But nobody said nothing to embarrass the young man. And no one blamed Aksel the next time he came around. As my grandma used to say, “Shikata ga nai. No point getting upset.”
Fortunately, Lee could poke fun at himself. He pointed to the little tree on top of his head, “Ain’t this something? Guess that’s what I get for not brushing my hair.”
Mrs. Moto said, “Don’t worry about it.” And we all laughed.
I think that was the night a young doe-eyed Japanese girl with long black hair, slouchy sweater and jeans named Himiko started coming to the bar. She said she was an exchange student at Seattle Central. A timid little thing, I didn’t know anything about her. When she saw how no one blinked an eye at her or the kid with the tree growing on his head, she started hanging out with us.
Lee did his usual chattering and drinking and little Himiko seemed to enjoy just listening. Over the next months, the sapling grew, flowers blossomed and eventually the fruit ripened. Lee was pleased when Himiko noted how pretty the orange and red cherries looked. She said, “Suteki! Beautiful. Those cherries remind me of my furusato — my hometown.”
When Lee let her try a cherry, Himiko widened her eyes and said, “Oishii! Delicious.” I think that’s when we all fell a little in love with that kind girl. Everyone except Aksel, who got jealous.
But all Lee seemed to care about was his saké. No matter how much he drank, that kid would wake up as soon as the bartender nudged him and slip out the door. I wondered how he managed to avoid hangovers. Not just from all that drinking, but also from that tree growing on his head.
But one evening, a Japanese-Japanese walked in. Not a Japanese American like me or an exchange student like Himiko. But a real samurai with a sword! He must’ve been invited by the Wing Luke Museum to demonstrate some ancient martial art like Kendo. With his black kimono jacket and his wide pleated pants, he looked as intimidating as that famous samurai actor Toshio Mifune himself. I choked on my IPA when that samurai’s piercing eyes got a look at the cherry tree on top of Lee’s head.
Of course we regulars had all gotten used to that tree. It was just part of the decor by now. But the samurai noticed it right away. That little tree was just swaying gently with each of Lee’s snores as he slept with his chin cupped on his two fists.
The samurai pulled out his gleaming sword and took a dramatic attack stance. Like the way they do in the old Japanese movies. One foot in front of the other. He glared at the tree as if it were an opponent and held the sword with both hands to his side. As is proper Kendo etiquette, the samurai then yelled his Kiai, Hyaaaaaah!
Before we knew it, with one swift movement, the samurai sliced the tree off of the sleeping Lee’s head. We all gasped as the little tree toppled over beside Himiko who cringed with surprise.
That samurai’s sword was so sharp and the cut was so quick that Lee didn’t even wake up. The kid just kept snoring. Only the stump remained on top of Lee’s head. Mrs. Moto took the samurai away to the restaurant side where she told the waitress to serve him a house favorite - homestyle Black Cod Collar. I leaned over the bar to see the decapitated cherry tree on the floor.
“Just as well,” I said. “The kid won’t have to deal with that tree anymore.”
Mrs. Moto put the decapitated tree in the compost bin. At midnight, she shook Lee awake. Himiko smiled when Lee asked her why she looked so sad. She said, “Chotto sabishii. I miss your little tree.” We told him what happened.
Lee felt the top of his head, “Well what do you know. I didn’t feel a thing.” The young man said thanks, and ran out to go to his job. He did look a little naked without all the leaves.
When Lee came back several days later, he was his usual cheery self. We were relieved to see he was fine. Himiko had been quietly sipping her tea but I could tell she was happy to see him, too. But Mrs. Moto noticed something on the tree stump and said, “Lee, what’s that thing growing on your head?”
We looked. Mushrooms! There were small mushrooms growing around the tree stump. And not just any mushrooms. They were the prized Matsutake mushrooms I search for in the fall. Some local mushroom expert described the smell of Matsutake as a provocative compromise between ‘red hots’ and dirty socks.
Mrs. Moto clapped in delight and said, “You can pay me with your Matsutake mushrooms.”
Lee said, “Sure thing, Mrs. Moto. That’s fine with me.” He was happy as long as he had a place to drink saké, talk and sleep before he went to work. We congratulated him on his good fortune. That is, everyone except Aksel who knew the mushrooms were worth a lot more than his cherries. I myself was excited to try those mushrooms. Matsutake mushrooms are rumored to be worth a small fortune back in Japan. As soon as the mushrooms were big enough to harvest, Himiko volunteered to make Matsutake Gohan for us.
Here’s Himiko’s recipe for Matsutake Gohan.
Rinse three cups of rice under running water several times until the water is almost translucent and drain well. Take seven ounces of the Matsutake stems. Thoroughly clean the mushroom with a damp towel.. Slice lengthwise into thin slices. Then put the rice, 3 Tbsp of soy sauce, 2 Tbsp of mirin, and 1 Tbsp of saké in a rice cooker. Add two and a half cups of dashi. Just enough to reach the 3-cup line. Layer the matsutake slices on top of the rice and start cooking.
It was wonderful. We all loved the Matsutake Gohan. During one of those times Himiko wasn’t there, I asked Lee, Why don’t you ask Himiko out? I think she likes you.
Lee blushed. There’s no way she’d go out with a loser like me. The accident left me a freak. Besides, I drink too much.
The next time Himiko came in, Lee said to her, “You know, you shouldn’t come here. This bar’s not a good place for girls like you. You’ll get a bad reputation.”
I could tell Himiko was hurt by Lee’s words and she left early that night. After Lee got drunk, he said, “See? Women don’t like me.”
Late one night, when Lee was asleep at the bar again, a stranger came into Maneki. He wasn’t Japanese like the samurai, but he was definitely from out of town. A huge hairy man with an ax. A lumberjack from the backwoods. Maybe he was Canadian. Or maybe from Alaska. Mrs. Moto might have been able to avert this disaster, but she had stepped out right at the moment to get supplies from the back room.
You can probably guess what happened. The lumberjack noticed the tree stump on Lee’s head which of course, we had all gotten used to. He couldn’t help it. Out of reflex, he did what I guess lumberjacks normally did in the backwoods. He swung his ax and chopped the tree stump out of Lee’s head. Wood chips went flying all over the bar and we all dived for cover behind our bar stools.
With the commotion, Mrs. Moto came running back to the bar. She cried, “Stop! Stop!” but it was too late.
We looked with horror at the huge hole on Lee’s head. Was Lee dead? But there didn’t seem to be any blood. Just wood chips all over the place. Then we heard Lee’s snore and Mrs. Moto said, “Thank goodness. He’s all right.”
That night it rained. Much harder than the usual Seattle drizzle. It was the sort of rain I was used to but I was worried about Lee. That kid was from Colorado where it didn’t rain much. So I knew the kid would probably leave his head bare. Sure enough, when I saw Lee the next day, he walked in with his head soaking wet. I peeked a look at the top of his head. The hole in his head filled with rain water! The water sloshed as he chatted away.
We were relieved to see Lee was not bothered by that water. Even with that hole in his head. I tried to be polite and not stare.
Somehow Himiko must’ve heard about the hole in Lee’s head. She showed up that night just as Lee was having his third tokkuri. I said, “Himiko! So good to see you.” Lee tried not to show how happy he was to see her, too. But she made a point of not greeting him. Then Himiko noticed something moving around in the top of Lee’s head.
She gasped. “Nanika iru! There’s something alive in your head!”
Lee said, “Sure there is. Something else to make me a freak.”
We gathered around to take a look. Himiko was right. Fish! There they were, Dozens and dozens of tiny Chinook salmon darting around inside Lee’s head. I almost didn’t believe it but I saw it with my own eyes. Naturally, we couldn’t help talking about this miracle.
Soon people started coming around to see for themselves. Mrs. Moto tried to protect Lee from all the gawkers but eventually, the Maneki bar became as popular as the Gum Wall. Lee didn’t seem to mind the commotion. As long as he could drink his saké, chatter, and fall asleep at the bar, and go to work, he was happy. He slept with his chin on his fists so the fish wouldn’t spill out. Mrs. Moto diligently woke him up every night at midnight as she promised. And he still went charging off to work with the energy of an Olympic Marmot.
But as more and more people heard about the man with a head full of fish, the more crowded the Maneki became. Soon, the place was overrun with tourists, tech bros, fishermen, and everyone else who felt seeing the fish in Lee’s head was as amazing as, but certainly easier than, summiting Mt Rainier. Aksel was beside himself with jealousy. He said, “How does that idiot get all the luck?”
Gawkers lined up all the way around the block starting at the Panama Hotel where they stared at the old photos of Japan Town and the window in the floor showing the luggage left by those people who got incarcerated. There was no way Lee could follow his usual routine. Mrs. Moto and the rest of us regulars were helpless to control the mob. Everyone except for one person. Himiko.
I was standing next to her and could tell she was getting fed up. Himiko stopped smiling and her brows furrowed. She gave a snort and then that’s when I saw it happen. The petite girl grew taller and taller. At first I thought she was just climbing on top of something but when her head towered over me, I saw what was going on. Her slim body elongated so that her oversized sweater hung way above her jeans, exposing her stomach. Her neck also stretched as her skin turned grey. Her eyes began bulging so that they looked like they were about to pop out of her head. Someone screamed, “What’s happening to that girl?”
The mob grew quiet as all eyes turned to Himiko. Lee shouted, “What are you doing, Himiko?”
On top of her now snake-like neck, Himiko’s head turned to Lee, then twisted to glare at the crowd. She growled in an unfamiliar voice, “Listen to me, humans. I am kijo.”
Two sharp horns poked through her long black hair and fangs started growing in her widening mouth. Her head and spreading long hair wavered above the crowd like the hood of an angry cobra. She snarled as her blood red mouth with glinting sharp teeth grinned wide. Lee fainted and fell backwards, and all the fish poured out of his head onto the feet of the crowd.
Panic erupted and screams filled the bar as people tried to escape through the small front door. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” They cried as they scuttled out the door like rats. People who had been standing in line outside heard about the demon girl and also ran. For once, Aksel was dumbfounded. Soon Mrs Moto, Lee and us regulars were the only ones left standing in the bar, the wet floor covered with flopping fish. In our stunned silence, no one noticed Himiko had shape-shifted back into her original form – the meek Japanese exchange student.
Aksel said, “What the hell was that?”
Mrs Moto laughed. “For all the years you’ve hung out here, Aksel, didn’t you notice the Hannya masks on the wall?” She pointed at the carved masks of female demons all over the wall. “They may look scary but they’re really good luck.”
Kijo no naka nimo
Hotoke ga iru
Even among the demon women,
There lives benevolence.