Angel Wings

“That’s it for tonight’s show! Have yourself a safe trip home!” The announcer made that statement about twenty minutes ago, but I still stand here. My ears are ringing from the loud music. The last stanza of the Angel Wings hit song echoes through my brain repeatedly.  “Shut Up, Shut Up, Just Shut the Hell Up!” I don’t even like the song. But I’m mesmerized by the cute girls who sing it. I know I’m too old to be following a K-pop group. I think their ages are from eighteen to twenty-one and I’m forty. The open stadium is empty except for me. I’m standing here among the empty plastic cups, food wrappers, and half-burnt-out glow sticks. The ground is covered with confetti that drifts like colorful snow blowing back and forth.

At last, a big sweeper emerges from a side door to clean up the mess, and the driver yells at me,  “Come on, buddy, we’re closed! You got to leave!” With my head still throbbing, I look at him with dull eyes. “I’ve got nowhere to go.” And that’s the truth. “I don’t give a shit!” he frowns. “Get out, or I’ll call the cops!”

A cold night wind blows as I stagger into the empty parking lot. It tugs at my hair and clothes. I feel like I’m in the middle of a desert rather than the big city of Tokyo. I used to have a nice job working in a video store in Tanuma, 93 kilometers away. I was the manager.  One day I heard this catchy little tune on my radio by a K-pop group named Angel Wings. I was intrigued and looked them up. That was about two years ago, and they were even younger then.  So I started watching their videos and TV appearances.  Next, I had to get every CD they put out. Like some kind of teenage kid, I had posters on my walls, expensive figurines, all kinds of stuff. Ultimately, I started planning my weekends to travel to Korea and watch live shows. That cost a lot of money, but I felt I had to do it if I wanted to follow them as a true fan.  My friends, those who used to be my friends, all think I’m crazy and have stopped associating with me because all I ever talk about is Angel Wings.

Turning my collar to the cold, I scan the street before me for an alley where I might spend the night. Spotting an all-night diner, I decide I have enough on my credit card to buy a coffee.   The sign out front simply says, “Welcome.” Stepping inside, I first notice that it’s nice and warm. The scent of coffee fills the air, and I breathe it in deeply. The place is small and covered with wood paneling. The main feature is the wrap-around counter with swivel bar stools. A gentleman is sitting on the last stool. He grumbles, gives me a disgusted look, and resumes reading his paper. After waiting for five minutes, I ask the man reading the paper if there was someone to serve me.

“Yeah. That would be me,” he answeres without looking up. “What do you want?” My mouth drops open. “Why didn’t he just ask me that when I came in?” I think to myself.

“I’d like a cup of coffee, please.” He sighs heavily, folds his paper, takes a hit off his cigarette, and goes behind the counter. Then, over his shoulder, he calls, “I suppose you want something in it.”

“Cream and sugar, please.” After a moment’s pause, he turns angrily and glares at me. “How many?”

“How many?”

Shaking his head, he then pronounces each word clearly and slowly to make sure that stupid me understands. “How many sugars and how much cream.” 

 “No cream, just three sugars, thanks.”

He brings my coffee over, “You come from that concert down the street?”

“Yeah,” I answer while placing my credit card on the counter. Again he sighs while pointing to the sign above my head that reads, “Cash Only.” I reach into my pocket, take out all my change, and place it on the counter.

“That’s it, that’s all I got.”

Without counting it, he palms his left hand under the counter’s edge and sweeps the change into it. He deposits it into his dirty apron pocket,  “ You’re a little old for that kind of music, aren’t you? What are you, some kind of pervert? You get off looking at little girls?”

My face turns red.  I snap.  “Who the hell are you? It’s bad enough that you’re rude, but I won’t stand for being called a pervert!”   He arches his eyebrow and runs his tongue over his teeth, turning away from me.

“Hey!” I scream. “Where do you get off saying such a thing? I want to know!”

“You want to know? Well, I’ll tell you. Since she was little, my daughter had always wanted to be a K-pop idol. At sixteen, she found a company to take her on and train her. She signed a contract for eight years that, during that time, they would house her, feed her, and pay for all her clothes. Sounds great, doesn’t it?  They house you in a dormitory of fifty other girls, five to a room. They charge you for everything.  You must pay them back when you start making money. So right away, she owed the company 3,502.3074 yen. My poor daughter wasn’t beautiful, but she was nice-looking.  Looks matter the most, more so than your singing. Electronically they can fix your singing, but not your looks. She worked very hard and was in three different groups. She would go to meet and greet sessions and tell me how many older men wanted their picture taken with the lead singers but never with her. The company noticed this and figured she was not well-liked and was getting older. She was twenty-two. They let her go.  After she paid off her debt, she had nothing left. Six years of her life gone with nothing to show for it. The only thing she knew was how to sing and dance. She had no other life skills at all. She said all the older men would stand in the front, drooling over the lead singers, and paid no attention to the backups. She once sobbed to me, “We’re entertainers! We’re real people! We have feelings too!”  

He places his hands on the counter and drops his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry I called you a pervert before. I realize now that you are a victim too. To these big companies, these girls aren’t real they’re just a product to sell, and if they don’t sell, they’re dropped from the product line. They’re shown how to look you in the eye as they sing, so it seems they only sing to you. They smile and seem glad to see you. During a photo shoot, they are told to hold your hand to make it more personal and make you feel special. The company does all this because they know that men like you are probably lonely. So they draw you in and take you for every yen they can get leaving you with not even enough change to pay for a cup of coffee.”

Looking at my partial reflection in my cup of coffee, I ask the question I’m sure I already know the answer to. “Where’s your daughter now?”

In a small, sad voice, he replies, “She took her own life because she couldn’t see any other future. She knew she would never obtain her dream. You’re still young, and you can still start over. Go home, find a good job, and leave this all behind. Go and live a real life and be happy.”

A tear runs down my nose and drips into my cup of coffee. I stand, bow to the gentleman, and say I’m sorry for his loss. We embrace before I walk out into the night to begin again.