by Jeffrey Yamaguchi
The small bottle of shampoo looks like glass, but turns out to be plastic. Its lighter weight and flimsy body throws off my fingers’ calibration — I lose my grip, and it falls to the floor in a whirlpool of soap suds and hot water disappearing down the drain. I don’t bother to bend over and pick it up. Just like I didn’t bother to check the levels — does anyone, anymore? Does it even matter? I just let the water wash over me and work up the will for the rest of the early morning ritual.
In front of the mirror, I see the haze of myself and nothing more. I know I should shave, but it’s the last day of the conference — anybody who’s anybody has already left. My hands stay planted on the edge of the bathroom counter. The smattering of people who remain just wish the thing would be over already. We’ll share those knowing glances. The work that is going into those half-smiles. I’m grateful I can’t see myself right now. A drip of water slowly makes its way down the mirror, as if marking me off. Not even this moisture is safe — to touch, to breath in. How is it that this is even allowed to build up and collect like this? I watch the steam float towards the door and drift into the oblivion of a beige hotel room with a window overlooking a half-filled parking lot.
It’s pouring, as always. I wait 15 minutes for the shuttle to the convention hall. The endless stream of water blurs the perfectly manicured lawns — an artificial landscape askew. Somehow, despite being under shelter, my feet are soaking wet. I know this will mean blisters. Or worse.
Once on the shuttle, I close my eyes and feel the lack of sleep descend like an errant wave. Before I even have time to reorient myself, the shuttle stops and the driver throws open the door.
“We’re here,” he says.
“Isn’t the next stop the beach?”
The driver nods towards the front windshield, indicating the rain, and says, “Not today. Not any day, anymore, since about a year ago. Because of the… changes.”
“Take me there,” I say.
He pauses, then asks, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”
I am soaked even before the sound of the shuttle fades into the thrum of the rain and crashing waves. Still I walk towards the ocean, my feet sinking into the muddy sands. The record of my footsteps is quickly erased by the fury of the downpour. No one else is on the beach. Of course they’re not — why would they risk it? Still, it’s a thought that comes to mind, that no one is here. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, that this is where we would be, or want to be, even on a day like this. The frothy, pelted waters upon the looming gray skies bring focus to the expanse.
When I get to the water’s edge, I see a bottle slowly drifting towards me on the remnants of a crashed wave’s final reach. Perhaps there is a message for me, I think, visualizing myself as if in the hotel mirror’s reflection that morning.
I reach down, pick it up, and peer through the glass. Nothing. It is just a bottle.
Jeffrey Yamaguchi creates projects with words, photos, and video as art explorations, as well as through his work in the publishing industry. Recent publications include: Kissing Dynamite, Okay Donkey, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Vamp Cat Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, Nightingale & Sparrow, Failed Haiku, Memoir Mixtapes, Daily Haiga, and formercactus. @jeffyamaguchi | jeffreyyamaguchi.com