Free Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami Page B

shampoo. I know how to speak politely. When I feel like it, I'm pretty good at impressing people older than me.
    The girl listens silently, nodding, her lips slightly twisted up. She's petite, and wearing a green uniform blazer over a white blouse. She looks a little sleepy, but goes about her morning duties briskly. She's about the same age as my sister.
    "I understand," she says, "but I have to clear it with the manager. We should have an answer for you by noon." Her tone is businesslike, but I can tell that in her book, I pass. She notes down my name and room number. I have no idea whether this negotiating will get me anywhere. It might blow up in my face—if the manager demands to see my student ID, say, or tries to get in touch with my parents. (Of course I gave a phony home phone number when I registered.) But seeing as how my funds are limited, I figure it's worth the risk.
    I check the Yellow Pages and call a public gym and ask about their weight machines. They have most of what I need, and it only costs five bucks a day. I get directions from the station, thank them, and hang up.
    I go back to my room for my backpack, then hit the streets. I could just leave my stuff in the room, or in the hotel safe, but I feel better carrying it all with me. It's like it's a part of me already, and I can't let go.
    On the bus from the terminal in front of the station to the gym, I can feel my face tighten up, I'm so nervous. Suppose somebody asks why a kid my age is traipsing off to the gym in the middle of the day? I don't know this town and have no idea what these people are thinking. But no one gives me a second glance. I'm starting to feel like the Invisible Man or something. I pay the entrance fee at the desk, no questions asked, and get a key to a locker. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt in the locker room, I do some stretching exercises. As my muscles relax, so do I. I'm safe inside this container called me. With a little click, the outlines of this being—me—fit right inside and are locked neatly away. Just the way I like it. I'm where I belong.
    I start on my circuit training. With Prince blasting away on my Walkman, I put in a good hour of training, making my usual round of the seven machines. I thought for sure a gym in such a small town would be full of dated machines, but these are the latest models, with the metallic smell of brand-new steel. The first round I do with light weights, then increase the weight for the second circuit. I know exactly how much weight and how many reps work for me. Pretty soon I start to sweat and stop every once in a while to take a swig from the bottle and a bite out of a lemon I bought on the way over.
    Once I finish training I take a hot shower using the soap and shampoo I've brought along. I do a good job of washing my cock, not too many years out of its foreskin, and under my arms, balls, and butt. I weigh myself and flex my muscles a bit in front of a mirror. Finally I rinse out my sweaty shorts and T-shirt in the sink, wring them out, and stow them away in a plastic bag.
    I take a bus back to the station and have a steaming bowl of udon in the same diner as the day before. I take my time, gazing out the window as I eat. The station's packed with people streaming in and out, all of them dressed in their favorite clothes, bags or briefcases in hand, each one dashing off to take care of some pressing business. I stare at this ceaseless, rushing crowd and imagine a time a hundred years from now. In a hundred years everybody here—me included—will have disappeared from the face of the earth and turned into ashes or dust. A weird thought, but everything in front of me starts to seem unreal, like a gust of wind could blow it all away.
    I spread my hands out in front of me and take a good hard look at them. What am I always so tense about? Why this desperate struggle just to survive? I shake my head, turn from the window, clear my mind of thoughts of a hundred years away. I'll