The Urban is a place that comes alive at night. It pops and crackles as the neon flickers to life, as people come and go, going about their business with some reason not apparent to the naked eye. It is a brightly lit ant farm, full of chatter and smoke, meat and gristle, the smell of one too many beers, breath condensed on windows.
In the Urban, Katakana tells me "standard burger with rice 620 yen," "Mexican burger with rice 660 yen." I bet both are good. The words frame the woman inside. I shoot; luckily no one in the Urban is hit.
The Urban is a lonely place - samishi, the Japanese would say. The throngs move about, crammed together in perfect isolation - from one another. Language does not separate people from people; in the Urban, people do. A million brains think a billion thoughts. Eight of them are: "Must get to work," "must get home," "what will I eat tonight?" - "Man I don't feel like cooking." "Maybe I'll go out, get a Mexican burger with rice. I know a place where it is only 660 yen." "Maybe there is time for...
just one drink...I promise."
"Or two...I promise."
"I'll even grab you a little something on the way home from the Urban."
In the Urban, a taxi is always just right around the corner. And the driver sits alone, reading, waiting for you. At least someone is; in the Urban.
