Well... I've been looking for a useful output of my artistic energy. I'm not very good with art projects and stuff of that sort. I just get bored easily, and I've never found my projects had anything of use for me or anything. But... I can't sleep and I've been thinking about several things... I always do. I was thinking about my bike accident the most. The implications it had for my church and stuff. Annoys the hell out of me. How a reckless stunt like that can take away from so many people. I also feel a sense of betrayal from my church counselor. Pretty much the guy who enthralled me to try the thing took my secrets and made them public in an attempt to justify the action and steer the spotlight away from himself. But I guess people do things they might regret under pressure. Well I guess I don't have many regrets. Back to the point. I'll just start writing stories based on random topics I find on the internet. I need to improve my writing skill, and hell... I might find some things about myself while writing. So that's a healthy reward, right?
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The Unforgettable Gift: An Autobiographical Moment in Oliver's Mundane Life
When I used to live in Tallahassee, FL in what seems ages ago, there was a spectacular restaurant I discovered a few years after moving there from Texas. It was a sushi restaurant and one not of high class, but rather high service. During the months that I would eat there several times a week, not once did my service get worse, but steadily better. How is this possible? Well, I'll tell you.
I really can't remember the first time I went there, but I remember when I did, the aura of the place was attractive. It was a dimly lit place called Mori's. They served sushi and they had habachi grills at the sides of the restaurant. The whole restaurant has this icky blue carpet, but it gave it a more quiet, laid back feel. It was probably not one of the premier sushi places of Tallahassee, but it was more satisfying then any other I have been to in my life.
My father and I would always go there just for sushi, and more over, sake, or salmon. We got tons of the stuff. We went there again and again, and increasingly, at shorter and shorter intervals. On certain weeks we would go 3-4 times in a row. This is no normal feat considering sushi is a luxury to those with cash to shell out. At least I wasn't spending...
We usually sat at the sushi bar, and over time we noticed that there were two sushi chefs common to the business. Their names, I will never know, unless they work there to this day. One was old, and had a hardened face that looked like it had come straight from Hiroshima. The other was younger, but was still native to his land, and seemed to respect the older one very much. They would always check in on us with their cluttered English asking us, "Iz okaye?" and my dad would never understand, and I'd have to clarify. Then, we'd both nod our heads in a timid manner, eager to get the message that "It kicked ass!" across.
Whenever we left, we'd tip them generously, and this may have an effect on future events, but maybe not.
I don't remember how far into the habitual visits did we start getting free food, but it happened. The young chef had a knack for loyal customers, and a few months before I moved to Minneapolis he started making dishes for us for free. They started as small tapas-sized samplers to whole platters of his inventions. What he made wasn't sushi, and we asked him several times to clarify, though we never got a percievable answer. They were "sashimi salads" or something... There were strips of eel (unagi) on seaweed, mixed with more strips of salmon, and the whole deal was delicious. We were highly grateful, although we did not really know how to express it.
After I'd experienced his generosity several times, I'd sometimes considered working under the chefs as an apprentice when the age was right. I remember I was under the impression that I'd live in Tallahassee forever, until I went to college. I even brought the class application for my would-be high school to the restaurant to look it over with my dad on those last few days in heaven.
When he brought the news up that we were going to move, it held certain ramifications to the young sushi chef and the restaurant. I needed a way of saying goodbye, but alas, those last few days in that town did not give me an opportunity to do so, and I left without saying a word. I'm not sure in what ways this affected my young sushi-making friend, but I'm sure it left him dumbfounded when he had not seen us in days, weeks, then months.
Eventually I did return to the restaurant. It was during my visit there in May of 2006. Almost a year after I'd left. I went there with my older step-sister (for all practical purposes) and I did not see my buddy that assisted me in being a freeloader, but I did see the older chef, and when I saw him, I'm not sure if he recognized me, but he just smiled. I smiled back, a bit taken aback, but I could see no recognition in his eyes, so I figured he had not realized my identity.
So, her and I left, after conversing for a while, and eating a small portion of sushi.
A while later, though I was not there, my father and his girfriend (the mother of the girl) went to the restaurant where they saw the younger sushi chef.
I am not sure of the details of the encounter, but when I saw my father again in the evening he handed me two boxes of chopsticks. These are not your everyday paper-enclosed wood chopsticks. These chopsticks, in a think laquer, decorated with samurai men, lay in cedar, slide-open boxes. I don't know the exact reason for this gift, but it was dear to me, and to this day those boxes still lay on my shelf, on display, and unused.
A suitable gift for an uncommon relationship.
