Sick Boy[s] Paddle Club↓

Something Almost Like the Moon

Bolaniao 波拉鸟

Translated by: Eva Yang

It is an early summer night. I buy a stack of umbrellas from a department store in Kanazawa. This is the first umbrella I have ever bought in my twenty years of life. As if in reward for my courage, it starts raining the moment I step outside.

Whenever it rained suddenly in the past, I would run home in a miserable state, letting the rain soak through my clothes. Then I would spend days curled up in bed, waiting for the fever to wear off. This time, when I am startled by the sudden downpour, I still panic briefly before remembering the umbrella I have bought. I open it, and the rain is completely shut out. I feel a strange sense of relief towards myself, as if the existence of this umbrella separates my present self entirely from who I used to be. I am renewed.

As I stroll through the rain, I lose my usual frantic urge to rush. I even feel like humming a tune or dancing a little. Carrying this long-lost joy, I reach the street just two corners away from home. There, I see something sitting by the roadside that almost looks like the moon.

For an ordinary person, it probably looks nothing like the moon. But to me, it is no different from the moon; it holds a complete and unmistakable sense of “moonness”... a purely subjective feeling. After all, the scene is not quite realistic. Even someone lacking in common sense like me knows that the moon is a satellite about 380,000 kilometers away. Generally speaking, it doesn’t appear on Earth, and, generally speaking, it doesn’t fit onto a street-side bench. So I can only draw the conclusion that this is a person almost like the moon—it is the first time I have ever seen someone who resembles the moon.

To my eyes, Dr. Sakai is a blackbird. When he examines me, it feels as though he is fluttering his wings, pecking at my body with his sharp yellow beak. He is puzzled as to why I see him as a blackbird, and I can’t explain it either. He dislikes eating vegetables, and he’s Asian, not Black—nothing really matches the species. The illness I have is called “Fantasia Syndrome,” a name given by Dr. Sakai himself. After understanding my condition, he is the only doctor left who still tries to treat me. Some people believe I am lying; others believe I am beyond saving—or perhaps they mean the same thing. In any case, Dr. Sakai is the only one who stays.

He is convinced I am suffering from a hitherto unknown disease. Personally, though, I don’t really feel “ill,” despite the troubles it brings me. Those troubles feel more like bad jokes—something I don’t particularly like, yet still have the leisure to observe from a distance and smile at. This so-called illness manifests as other people turning into completely unrelated things in my eyes. Like blackbirds, for example, or the moon.

Dr. Sakai believes that this transformation is not merely a visual disorder, but more of something that occurs within my mind. At first, he painstakingly considers the connection between the actual person and the image I perceive, convinced that there are some hidden patterns. He studies it diligently, yet still can’t figure out the connection he has with a blackbird, even after joining a local birdwatching society and listening to all kinds of rare bird calls. Fortunately, he lets it go after some time when he finds out that the junior student who accompanies him turns out to be a traffic cone to me. A magician’s hat. Perfectly square, with those red-and-white stripes. I repeatedly mistake her for a real road barrier and carefully avoid her whenever I pass by. She stopped coming last month.

Compared to people who resemble traffic barriers, a moon sitting on the bench doesn't bother me much. At least I'm not foolish enough to mistake it for the moon. The almost-moon person remains completely still, letting the rain soak them.

I don't usually go out. It's easier to avoid awkward incidents that way. For example, I might throw rubbish in a bin, only for Mr. Trash Can to stand up and punch me in the face. Similarly, I have to observe a vending machine for quite a while before daring to use it. Apart from interacting with Dr. Sakai and the traffic-cone junior, I usually just curl up alone in my apartment with no social contact. I barely even speak to neighbors on the same floor.

But in this moment, perhaps overly excited with my umbrella, or perhaps out of a sudden surge of benevolence, or perhaps simply to show off the massive stockpile of umbrellas I have prudently purchased in advance, I do something entirely unexpected. I walk up and strike up a conversation, handing an umbrella to the almost-moon person.

“Would you like an umbrella? Keep it, for free.”

Dr. Sakai is worried about me going shopping on my own. He always underestimates me, doing all the daily shopping himself and, from time to time, nagging with his beak: “How are you going to live without me?” The traffic-cone junior chimes in beside him, as if I truly suffer from some terrible, horrible illness. Dr. Sakai says that he will be taking on new patients at the hospital and will not be able to come as often starting next month. That is why he asked me to try going out alone. Before I left, he reminded me not only to buy food, but also daily necessities like umbrellas. He doesn't want me to get soaked and come back with a fever again.

“I know, I know,” I reply, “I’ll buy a dozen.” He said there was no need for that many because I don't go out that often. “Exactly,” I reply. “That's why I’ll buy enough in one go.”

The almost-moon person is not responding, so I still have no way of knowing whether it is an old lady or a young boy. But I am not embarrassed. For a long time, Dr. Sakai and the junior resembling a traffic cone were the only people who spoke to me. Now, I am surprisingly no longer socially awkward and can easily break the ice. Besides, to me, it looks like a moon. I may not be good at socializing, but it’s hard to be shy in front of a moon.

“Aren’t you worried about getting a fever? How about I hold the umbrella for you?”

I carefully open the packaging and hold up the umbrella to shield it from the rain. Making the kind gesture fills me with satisfaction. Truly, the process of buying the umbrellas was not without difficulty—if some people look like traffic barriers, then naturally, some may look like umbrellas to me. Fortunately, those people weren’t sitting on the shelves, so despite my nervousness, no confusion arose. Yet when I shelter someone from the rain, all of that turns into pure joy.

The almost-moon person remains unmoved. I begin to wonder whether it had gone through a breakup—otherwise, why would it ignore others so completely and let the rain pour over it mindlessly? Wanting to make it a little happier, I start telling jokes, one after another. But there is no reaction. A new thought occurs to me: has my condition worsened? Could it be that it's not just people, but also objects that are distorted in my eyes? I may actually be holding an umbrella over a trash can.

But, by common sense, a trash can should not be sitting on a bench. So it truly was, as I suspected, a person just like the moon. It was simply choosing to ignore me. I feel a trace of gloom, but it quickly fades. Given its indifference, I move a little closer and begin to examine the almost-moon person more carefully.

It is no different from the moon, and this condition is indeed not merely a visual problem. Although I describe it as almost like the moon, I cannot see any craters on its surface, nor does it emit any moonlight. Rather, it is the overall sensation that misleads me... To analyze that in detail would simply be too troublesome.

Holding two umbrellas at the same time makes me a bit tired. After all, I’m not the kind of person who keeps up with exercise while hiding at home. I try to fix the umbrella to the bench, but the wind is so strong that every time I wedge it into a gap, it gets blown over. So, I take out a shoelace and secure the umbrella to the bench. This makes things much easier.

I ask the almost-moon person, “What do you think? You can just untie it when you leave.”

The rain is getting heavier. It is only today that I realize that using an umbrella also requires a certain level of skill. Despite gripping it carefully, the cunning raindrops still find their way through, leaving me damp all over. I decide it is best to head home soon, so I say goodbye. "Stay safe—bye!" The almost-moon person still does not respond. I hope it does not catch a fever.

I push open the door, and the blackbird flutters his wings. Dropping the umbrellas, I hear Dr. Sakai ask: “How was it? Are you okay?”

“Piece of cake.” I feel a bit pleased with myself.

I hand him an umbrella when he leaves. He signals the corner with his wing, and I finally notice the traffic cone there. She has not spoken at all, so I have only now realized that the cone is actually the junior. I hand her an umbrella as well.

The rain stops at midnight. Lying in bed, I look out the window. The clouds clear quickly, and the moon emerges again. Did the almost-moon person hold the umbrella properly and make it home? I wonder about this as I drift off to sleep.

Despite my usual plan to spend the whole morning in bed, I manage to get up early the next day. Last night's solo shopping trip proves that going out isn't difficult for me. I decide to go for a walk rather than staying cooped up at home—there won't be many people around at this time of day anyway. Driven by a pathetic sense of vanity, I bring an umbrella with me.

After turning the two corners, I arrive at the spot where I saw the 'almost-moon person' last night. The umbrella is still there, one end tied to the bench while the other leans crookedly against the ground. It was blown over by the wind, after all. A parasol-like man mutters, "Damn it," as he unties the shoelace from the umbrella handle. There's something oddly touching about a big umbrella rescuing a small one, like a bond between father and child. But I know the parasol man is simply doing his job as a street cleaner.

The almost-moon person did not take the umbrella. Maybe they were too heartbroken and wanted to stand in the rain for a while—I do know people like that. Then again, perhaps I tied it too tightly, and they simply could not untie it. In that case, I have really caused trouble for Mr. Parasol.

Or perhaps it is actually the real moon? Since it rained last night, it thinks no one will notice if it slips away for a while, so it quietly sneaks down from behind the clouds. Isn’t that possibility just as undeniable? If a doctor can be a blackbird, a junior can be a traffic cone, and a man can be an umbrella, why can't the moon simply be the moon? I cannot say for sure. In fact, I don't know what I can say for certain—perhaps nothing truly exists at all. I think—or rather, I hope—that it won't catch a cold or develop a fever.

I narrow my eyes and look at the clearing sky. The sun is restrained and gentle, hanging against the still cool-toned backdrop of morning. Soon it will become vivid, washing the colors of the sky pale and making it impossible to look at directly. Before long, people will stream out of their apartments and begin their busy day. My many wayward fantasies will grow and burst forth as they pass by. When I turn to look at the street, both the parasol man and my umbrella have already disappeared. The quiet street stirs with signs of awakening.

I raise the umbrella. It shields me from the increasingly intense sunlight as I make my way back to the apartment.

Bolaniao (lit. "Bolan Bird")

Bolan Bird likes literature as a kind of game, skilled at writing things no one really cares about. For that trivial bit of amusement, let’s play together until night falls.