Gordie sat in the Lucky Whistle Bar and watched on the television as his hometown was destroyed by an unprecedented hurricane. He was drinking a beer. It was his fourth within the hour. He was not usually a heavy drinker.

Tomiko, the bartender, craned her neck to view the scene on the television.

“Wow,” she said. “That's amazing.”

Gordie looked at her, eyes wide, mouth open.

“Aren't you Americajin, Gordiesan? You ever go to New Orleans city?”

Gordie's mind condensed and expanded in a dizzy second. Images saturated with the kodacrome effect of years past flickered on and off. The French Quarter apartment with the thick twisted iron railing. The rough wet cobblestones of Pirate's Alley. The sound of trumpets on the corner. The inescapable smell of urine and beer. Ducking into doorways during sudden squalls. Valentina's shirt soaked through, her face glistening with rain and shock.

“Uh huh.”

The television switched to overhead copter views - as close as they could get. Cars floated down Canal Street. Black people stood on balconies with thick twisted iron railings and waved. Not parade waves. Double-armed, for-the-love-of-God-see-me-and-pluck-me-from-this-hell waves.

He couldn't help but feel guilty.

“We destroyed our city.”

Beep.

“Hi, Gordie. It's Val. I left the copies of my birth certificate and passport in the roll top. Could you please mail them to Mr. Sagawa's Tokyo address? I think the address is in your planner. Give me a call if it isn't.”

Beep.

Gordie paid his bill, reminded himself again that it's improper to leave a tip, and stepped out into the night. It was raining in Osaka. A mild typhoon had stroked the backbone of Japan all week. It lost the force of its wind after landfall in Kyushu. Now it was just a bother, soaking the bottom of Gordie's merino trousers and making the sidewalks slick and difficult to walk.

Gordie was not seriously lost. He'd lived in this city long enough to know that if he just followed any main road long enough, he'd soon come to a rail or subway line with a graphic, brightly colored map that would show him which train to take back to his Namba neighborhood. He usually walked with his eyes wide open, soaking in the lights and sounds, desperately trying to commit the streets to memory so that he could show-off his knowledge of Osaka when friends from the States came to visit. Not today. Today he had collided full frontal into three different people.

“Sumimasen. Sumimasen. Sumimasen.”

How quickly you learn to apologize for yourself when you live in a foreign country.

Beep.

“Hi, Gordie. I really need that paperwork. Please send it soon, OK?”

Beep.

Val had asked for a divorce the day after Christmas. Gordie withdrew, hoping his hurt would draw her out, break that obscenely stalwart fortress of resolve and strength that protects her from real life. She's never understood what life is like for ordinary people, people without built-in confidence and undeniable God-given talents, people like him.

Val's only weak spot was Gordie. He knew this. He used it. He drug himself down down as far as he could go so that she would be crippled, unable to run from him.

She did stay, but only in appearance. When he read the ad, he knew immediately that it was hers. Creating desire had always been one of her God-given talents.

Beep.

“Look, I know that this is difficult. But, if you're just trying to make things complicated so you can get back at me – that's really lame. I'd never do that kind of thing to you. Please, just call me.

Beep.

Gordie walked through the rain, unsure of where he was heading. The crowd writhed around him like a dragon and the sidewalks bulged and buckled at will, sending him stumbling into rotating nail saloon signs and girls in short skirts and tall boots.

That's unusual. Hmm; I must be drunk. The thought slipped through his mind like ￥ 100 coins through a grate. Gone.

A man stood before him. Gordie noticed him. He had to. The man was blocking his path. He wore a suit and had spiked hair. He was holding out a flyer.

“Hey man, go here,” he said.

“What?”

“This is good place. Girls take care of you.”

He pushed the flyer into Gordie's hand. A beautiful Japanese girl maid with tight ringlets and a full pout mooned up at him. Roughly inked kanji filed the space around her.

“I can't read Japanese.” He pushed the man's hand away.

“That's OK, man. Go here.” He pushed Gordie away from the street edge, towards the building, towards a harshly lit staircase leading up into oblivion. “Go here.”

Gordie climbed the steps. He had to. They led to the bright light. God was calling him. He opened the door and stepped into heaven.

It was darker in heaven than he expected. It also looked a lot more like a bar than he'd expected. A girl took his arm. She said something to him, he didn't know what, and led him to a booth. Her skirt was too short. He could see her panties. He thought that he shouldn't look, that someone should let her know, but he couldn't say anything because he just kept looking at them. They were blue, possibly cotton. Who wears blue panties? Val doesn't.

He realized she was talking to him again. She was asking him something. She was suddenly quiet, but her hand stayed on his arm. She wants my order, he thought. I have to order.

“Bi-ru, o' kudasai.”

How quickly you learn to order a beer in a foreign country. The phrase is easily accessible even when drunk.

The girl smiled and left. Gordie was relieved. He noticed that the other girls were wearing skirts that were too short. He waited for his beer. He kept his hands on his table and his eyes on his hands.

Another girl came to his table. She did not ask him anything. She sat next to him. She put her hand on his knee. Her bare thigh rubbed against his leg. Gordie turned to look at her and her hand ran up his leg and stopped over his zipper.

Beep.

“Gordie, please. Really. I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry that this is how it all ended up. Please don't hate me. Don't be mean. Help me out. Call me. I'm worried about you.”

Beep.

Gordie did not move. He kept his hand on the table and his eyes on his hands. When the girl leaned into him and unzipped his pants, still he did not move. Her fingers pulled out his soft penis and pulled until it was hard. She was very skilled. It did not take long. Soon he shuddered and jolted, but still he did not take his hands off the table, or his eyes off his hands.

The girl was speaking to him. He couldn't understand what she was saying. Her voice sounded far away, like a child speaking into her own cupped palms. The other girl came with his beer and a slip of paper. His eyes left his hands and landed on the slip of paper. He grabbed it and stood up. The lip of the girl sitting next to him fell down full and pouty – just like the girl on the flier. He walked to the front of the room, found the cashier and paid for his ￥ 3,000 “bi-ru”. Thirty bucks American.

He stumbled down the bright steps, into the darkening night. There was the man with the suit. He made a gesture with his fingers. Gordie understood. He reached down and zipped up his fly. He went straight home. He didn't even undress before he fell into his bed, into the sleep of the dead.

Beep.

“Hi, Val. It's me. Have you been watching the news? Did you see New Orleans ? It's terrible, just terrible. I was thinking about what we would have done if we were still in the middle of it – at the old apartment in the Quarter. I can't help but wonder if we would have headed the warnings and gotten out early. Somehow, I just don't think so. Crazy. What a wreck.”

Beep.