Indulgence

James Sullivan

I sensed I was being gamed, but I liked to play. My first clue this could have been a scam was the pretty woman online enticing me to the bar. Too easy—but maybe just kindness to a foreigner in Japan. The bartender was clearly her friend, which isn’t strange, she could really drink, but nobody else was there. He wore a monochrome outfit, all glint and ruffles, straddling between elegant and tawdry. Second was the gambling, which I don’t do, for shots of Jägermeister, which I don’t drink. Shuffling cards, the bartender recited the rules, which is to say he didn’t really explain them. I speak like a child and listen like an elder—with feigned, fading comprehension. Someone wins, someone loses, someone buys, everyone drinks. Well, ok. I had enough cash for a showdown. We’d see who was gaming who. Cards slid across the counter. Three, two, one, and I was buying the round. The barkeep slapped his new Jägermeister machine, boasting of its chilling powers. More shots were in the cards. The Jägermeister buck logo, head lit by a beaming cross, seemed to tempt me with salvation. The barkeep tempted me with karaoke, goading me into singing L’ Arc~ en~Ciel’s “Driver’s High,” the Great Teacher Onizuka anime OP. “Let’s fly out of this town to the edge of the earth / Let’s step on the gas, a lovers’ suicide / Just reach out your hand.” She sang a love song by “Theory of Relativity.” Maybe the Jägermeister buck can say who groped first. Those barstools could barely hold us in place, and the barkeep crumpled to the floor. Probably all of us puked.

           The $200 tab emptied my wallet as if those bills were destined for tonight.

***

            Her place was near mine, so we took her bicycle. Drunker than I was, she rode on the backside carrier while I pedaled in a cardiac monitor zigzag. Passing a department store, my heart jolted: the Jägermeister buck, glowing cross and all, watched us in reflection. But no: that was only her fluttering hair that evoked antlers. The cross was real, though: a glowing red crucifix floating in the dark. Maybe it rested atop a genuine church. Or maybe, rendered mere fashion, atop a love hotel. Pay by the night—or by the hour—for a climb between the sheets. Under that glow, there might have been cheating spouses. A blindfolded submissive strapped into a Trojan horse, hoping their partner will be gentle—or not. Drunken students with someone they’ll tomorrow try to forget. Or maybe the first tryst between true lovers.

            “Here, John,” she said at her building, forgetting my name past the first letter. She gave me a long hug, burrowing her face into my neck. I thought she might fall asleep there, but then she started breathing me in with a sigh, as if sniffing for some essence. She let the bike topple over, and we held on like high school dancers. So, who’d been gamed? It’s always a surprise how soft another person is.

James Sullivan is the author of Harboring (ELJ Editions). His stories and essays have appeared in Cimarron Review, New Ohio Review, Third Coast, Fourth Genre, The Normal School, and Fourteen Hills among other publications. In 2022, he was a finalist for the Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction. Connect on X @jfsullivan4th