The Die-Fi Experiment Page 4

  The Italian man’s face twists in a grimace and he drops to his left arm, rolling onto his chest. The nylon stocking still attached, it pulls his head upward. It twists on the piece of flesh, keeping it attached to his body.

  Another surgeon cuts the string attached to the fish hook attached to Marie’s tongue. She screams, attempting to fight off the surgeon who holds her in a bear hug. With a quick motion of his hand, he removes the nylon stocking, sending it back against the wall where it swings lazily. He lifts her off from her kicking feet and walks her over to the big screen.

  My screen splits in half, one half showing my Plexiglas neighbor, the other half shows me.

  In my neighbor’s side of the screen, a surgeon opens her door slightly. In his hands, a box of matches. He raises the box for the world to see, slides it open and removes a single matchstick. Sliding the box closed again, he raises both the Matchstick and the box to the viewers. Then he steps away from the screaming woman and runs the match across the box’s striker. Instantly, it sparks and a tiny, dancing flame explodes. He tosses the match toward the Plexiglas ceiling and slams the door shut. The match lands on the woman’s lap and she immediately engulfs in oxygen-saturated flames.

  As her body shakes and her chest heaves in attempt to fight the relentless flames, my side of the screen shows a different surgeon entering my Plexiglas cell. My chest also heaves in a nervous, hyperventilating fit.

  The surgeon walks up to the tiny camera which sits on the television screen and raises his hands. Viewers all over the world are now looking at a rusty, surgical spoon. Slowly, he turns back toward me.

  My voweled shouts mean nothing to him. Crow’s feet claw at the outer edge of my eyelids as I squeeze them tight, fearing what the marshmallow-eyeball insinuated. What I’m not able to see with my eyes closed is the pseudo-surgeon bringing the surgical spoon to my left eye. What I do feel is him plunging the spoon recklessly into my upper eyelid. My body shakes violently against every one of my straps and zip-ties. My seat, warm and saturated with urine.

  Deep in between my ears, I hear the sounds of his impromptu surgery. Skin and blood vessels popping and tearing behind his animalistic pressure. Even in my cell, I can smell the aroma of the burning woman. The stench of burnt human hair and fat is repulsive. Because of this and my own horrible pain, I dry heave.

  My right eye panics and opens, moving erratically, catching sight of my left eye dangling from the surgeon’s fingertips as he rips it away from its socket. My left upper eyelid dangles by a shred of skin, tickling the lower eyelid. I can almost see the optic nerve which barely keeps my eye attached to its socket.

  With a reckless maneuver of the hedge-shears from earlier, the surgeon cuts through the nerve with a popping sound, detaching my eyeball completely.

  My body rushes with panicked blood and my world goes dark.

  #chaptereight

  The flight Marie and I were on was uneventful for me, I slept. I’ve never been one for trips. Road trips, in-country flights, ever since my childhood, I could be found hunched against a window or any shoulder drooling with the sheep. I’d probably sleep through the apocalypse, or better yet, my own death.

  We landed at the Narita International Airport close to 9 a.m. their time. We disembarked the flight and I was hungry. McDonald’s was the first restaurant we came across. The only difference I immediately noticed were the words, all of them in Japanese. The entire airport, really, only the language barrier brought us back to a foreign reality. And the people, of course.

  “We’re in a foreign country, for Chrissakes, and you want McDonald’s?” Marie laughed.

  “I’m not yet ready to put my taste buds to the test, Marie. One step at a time. This guaranteed to leave me unsatisfiably satisfied.”

  “That’s not even a word, dork. But, okay, be a typical American.”

  Being the American Marie claimed I was, I quickly ordered a large Big Mac meal. What I received would have been considered a medium in the States. Immediately, I ordered extra fries and another drink.

  From there we hustled to baggage claim and bustled to seek out transportation to our hotel. We could have been in China and I would never have guessed it, Marie was my travel planner/navigator. I was just an average American tourist, I guess.

  Marie bought our tickets for the following N’EX train to Tokyo and we shuffled to the station. We made it minutes before it arrived and boarded.

  The train ride took an hour. One interesting hour. It was the first I was exposed to a snippet of their culture. As far as the train itself, it resembled an American coach bus. From the tight seating, to the dull, dark grey lined patterns of the seats and the floor’s carpeting. The tourists were loud and excited as travel brochures crinkled noisily as they passed from one to the other in their respective groups.

  The Japanese people were much calmer than us tourists, maybe because the country was theirs to begin with. Their excitement non-existent. All of the Japanese I noticed, they dressed in either slacks or khakis with button-down shirts as if it were casual wear. Lots of the men wore leather messenger bags over their shoulders, while the women’s purses were considerably smaller.

  If the natives’ noses weren’t greasing up pages in a book, their fingers swiped shit across their phones and tablets. Even here, in Japan, technology was life. The world has become dependent on technology. As adults, we receive any new information by way of the interwebular devices available to us. We, the human race, are only as strong as our Wi-Fi signal.

  The silence of the natives was daunting. Focused on their eerie tranquility, I forgot to take in the scenery outside of our train. What I was able to see was the unnatural scenery that Mother Nature hates us for: skyscrapers and pollution-creating factories, and herds of tourists.

  We arrived at the station in Tokyo pushing 11 a.m. We hurried to receive our luggage, attempting to beat the human traffic to the taxis lined outside of the building. The taxis had faded, yellow paint jobs like American taxis. The rest was different. The Toyota placard easily recognizable, but I had never seen the tiny, shoebox looking car ever in my existence. I dragged my phone out from my back pocket and snapped a photo.

  #foreigntaxisareweird

  “Don’t upload anything until we are back home, babe,” Marie ordered. “You promised.”

  “Of course, love. You either, your phone is out and ready, too.” I gloated in my observation.

  “These are Japanese taxis. More than likely, they don’t speak English. I’m going to show them the hotel and address so they know where we're headed, unless you learned to speak Japanese during the flight or train ride?”

  My smile faded into the gloom of ignorance.

  The natives ambled in either directions on the sidewalks, making their way around the herd of noisy tourists exiting the train station. Half of the natives grimaced and bowed their heads apologetically before passing by inquisitive, monolingual tourists. Those who did attempt to help, never making eye contact with the tourists. A handful of teenaged natives bombarded tourists with thick, accented questions about New York and MTV programming and hip-hop.

  After a few minutes of watching random natives walk by wearing surgical masks, we arrived at the front of the line.

  Marie showed the driver her phone with a comforting smile.

  The driver studied it and said, “Okay, I take you now.”

  Surprised, I asked, “You speak English?”

  Laughing, he nodded his head. “A rittow bit.”

  Excited, my own tourist curiosity took hold. “Can you tell me why some people wear the surgical masks? Are they afraid of catching tourist coodies?”

  Marie’s elbow stabbed into my ribs, causing me to cough like a hernia exam.

  “No, they sick. Courtesy. They don wan get tourist or Japanese sick. Respect for others.”

  Once he said that, he fell into an awkward silence.

  It wasn’t long before we lugged our suitcases into the hotel. Maybe it was the hotel we chose, or becau
se we were in a part of Tokyo where tourists infested the city as cockroaches, but our hotel room was Americanized for the most part; an American date night away from home. The hallways up to our second floor room felt familiar with the rose patterned carpeting. The room had the same layout as any American chain hotel, although its size was straight out of a Willy Wonka scene. It was the size of a high school teenager’s, the queen bed the size of a double, and the bathroom and shower the size of a broom closet.

  I turned on the tiny television for shits and giggles. The programming blared across the screen with some comedic obstacle course, the ultimate result being failures. I flipped the channel, only to find another gameshow featuring male contestants lined up against a wall attempting to say some tongue twister I couldn’t understand; any contestant who fumbled the phrase would receive a miniature, wooden bat to the testicles.

  “Are you going to watch TV or come join me in the shower?”

  Marie stood in the bathroom doorway in a couple of strings which constructed her lingerie.

  My heart beat rapidly as I walked over to her and undressed. The Japanese gameshow shouted in their native language and laughed aggressively as Marie and I clumsily enjoyed each other’s warm embrace in the broom closet shower.

  Holding her under the warm water, there was no other place for me in this world. Not meaning the earth, but meaning my existence. I existed in her embrace, with her love. If it wasn’t some romantic movie cliché, I would shout a declaration of our love from rooftops.

  But I didn’t. What I did do is the same as I’ve done since the moment I realized she had stolen my heart: I paraded her next to me. My woman. My fiancée. And now, here along the congested sidewalks of Tokyo, my wife.

  In our American tourist attire, sandals and such, we followed the herd of humans upon the sidewalk in search of a late lunch. Marie insisted I try a genuine hibachi grill. I had never even eaten at one in the States.

  The hibachi grill was amazing. We must have arrived before their dinner rush because there were many vacant tables. Every table had their own cook. The cooks were dressed in solid, burgundy kimonos with short sleeves and thick, black trimming. Their hair covered in a burgundy, traditional head-wrap. All of this information, told to me by Marie as I typed into search engines on my phone.

  As our female cook served us, her subservience grew awkward. Like the other chefs, ours would step to the side and await any request. Feeling like a needy asshole, I requested three shots of sake and offered her one. Without making eye contact, looking down at the table, she grinned, bowed, took the shot with Marie and I, then took her place in the corner quietly and emotionless.

  It dawned on me, not a single native had truly attempted eye contact with myself nor any of the tourists. Were we, as tourists, perceived as the arrogant assholes we attempt to disguise behind fake smiles?

  “While studying here in Japan, I was told eye contact with strangers is an act of disrespect, at least as far as traditional customs go.” Marie’s cheeks flushed with excitement every time she had an opportunity to teach me something on our trip. “This country, their people, regardless of how we portray them in the States, they are extremely respectful.”

  Walking out from the restaurant, the lobby was packed with excited tourists. We were elbow to elbow while making for the exit. None of the employees made eye contact; the host bowed his gratitude for our visit while keeping his eyes angled downward.

  The sun was amidst a fight with the night-lights as we walked out. The sidewalk as congested as ever. Nudged all over by various people passing by, I figured they were accustomed to such congestion as I realized there were no Excuse Me’s being offered. No Pardon Me bows.

  Marie suggested taking the subway deeper downtown.

  I kept my phone close in my line of sight. The train was to arrive by 7:45. It was 7:44 when the ground trembled with punctuality. The train’s light broke into sight and the brakes squealed as my phone watch flipped to the next minute, 7:45.

  We packed into the train, literally. Body odor reigned as we were elbow to elbow with business-dressed natives, not another tourist in the cart but us. Everyone raised their phones above each other’s shoulders, experiencing life through their phones and tablets. Not much different from the States except for the damned silence. One could have effortlessly heard a mouse pass gas.

  We debarked a half hour later into more congestion and even more surgical masks than I had seen before. The human herd moved in large numbers along sidewalks and crosswalks. Marie’s hand dampened from the grip of my own sweaty hand. I wouldn’t have minded getting lost on my own, but my soul would not have forgiven me for losing Marie.

  All along the sidewalks, natives and tourists surrounded us. The majority of them holding their phones out taking selfies, readying themselves to present their best selves to the world of social media, omitting their worst insecure, judgmental, and racist sides.

  The city lights and fluorescent billboards had defeated the sunlight for the day’s battle. It was dark, yet artificial sunlight reigned. Marie paced next to me hand in hand. Pride lifted my chin as my eyes were overwhelmed with the foreign environment. Every shop illuminated in neon lights as if it were its own galaxy. Sounds of arcade games in one were enticing, but the real treat: karaoke.

  Connected to an arcade was a neon clad building blaring American music. A small stage sat next to the entrance. A business suited man stood at a microphone, singing ‘Under the Bridge’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers in a heavy Japanese accent.

  “Love, let’s check this place out.” My voice shook excitedly, but when I looked back to Marie, nervousness crept along my spine. She was gone, no longer hand in hand, it dawned on me: I lost her.

  “I’m over here!”

  I turned in the direction we originally walked in. About four storefronts down, Marie hopped up and down, waving for me, standing next to a woman dressed as a geisha holding a sign.

  I jogged and bumped my way to her, “I thought I lost you, love.”

  “Look, we can get the new iPhone-X for free!” She tapped the geisha excitedly on the shoulder at this point.

  I studied the geisha quickly. She was my height and well built, for a woman. Her makeup was impeccable.

  The geisha was straight faced as she said, “Yes, just do maze. First to exit gets iPhone-X free.”

  The geisha surprised me with her deep voice The accent was aggressive, but the voice proved it wasn’t a woman at all but a man dressed as a geisha. Oddly enough, this didn’t make me nervous, the eye contact alone did. His deep eyes ominous, threatening above his smile. But Marie was excited. There was no way I could say no to those neon emblazoned eyes of hers.

  #ahappywifemakesforahappylife

  I nodded and Marie yelped excitedly, hopping toward the glass-paneled, double-door entrance.

  The male geisha glared into my eyes, his red lipstick broke as he smiled, flaunting his lipstick smeared teeth.

  “Honey, maybe this isn’t a goo—” My eyes caught vision of Marie hopping and waving me on from the wrong side of the glass doors.

  The male geisha gave me a gentle nudge on my lower back, “You go, now.”

  Marie received me with a tight hug. We were in a tiny foyer, a door on either side, facing each other.

  The geisha held Marie’s hand and guided her to the door to our right. “You go here,” and closed the door behind her gentle smile.

  He led me to the opposite door. “You go here. Good ruck.”

  The door closed behind me. I had entered another room, empty and the size of our hotel bathroom. A door claimed the opposite wall in the room. It opened automatically, and the lights went out.

  Black lights flickered on hesitantly. Lint brightened all over my shirt. My stomach churned with the idea of not having Marie at my side. The only way to get her back was to hurry through the maze. Fuck the new iPhone, I wanted my wife, and somehow I knew I had truly lost her.

  I reached back to the door which I had enter
ed, wanting to go back, but there was no doorknob on my side.

  My blood filled with adrenaline, and I did the only thing possible, I stepped into the open door.

  #chapternine

  Darkness strangles my vision, swirls of blood percolate across my remaining eye. My jaw throbs at the joints, sensitive to the touch of my fingers massaging them. My movements stop and it hits me: I’m free.

  My hands search my body for the straps and zip-ties, nothing. Gone. My neck feels like it's sunburned due to the belt that strapped it tightly earlier. Panicked, I rise to unsteady legs and shout for Marie. Only vowels break the silence, my tongue missing. My fingers search my face for the leather strap which held it still for who knows how long, gone, only blood smeared everywhere. The metal dental gag, gone. My left eye, gone, the socket crusted over with blood.

  Sweaty squeaks are heard from my palms as I feel around the Plexiglas cage which still contains me. Only the wall directly in front of the metal chair I've been in is not made of Plexiglas. It feels cold and metallic to the touch. The aroma of burnt hair and, my guess, burnt human hide, washes over me. Angry clicks drumroll throughout the wall in front of me and the door slides to my left, opening. A way out.

  I stumble through the door into a deafening darkness. The door slams shut behind me, the locks clang back together. This new room is the size of my Plexiglas enclosure, only completely constructed of iron.

  On the wall to my right hangs what feels like another television. A digital line streaks across the center of the screen, running from left to right. Then, a static fuzz is heard and black and white snow takes the screen by force. My right eye blinks restlessly as it adjusts to the brightness. Flooding out from the television’s speakers are frenzied Japanese shouts. The screen flickers and the host comes in clearly. He is no longer a male geisha or a man-baby or a surgeon. He is now dressed in the attire of a samurai.

  “We have made it to the conclusion of The Die-Fi Experiment. The two remaining contestants shall fight each other to the death. Complete strangers, fighting to survive. The real winner is our contestant who participated in the games. Let’s see how she arrived to be a participant in The Die-Fi Experiment.”