The High Sierra
It is a story about Brent. Who got himself mixed up with the Yakuza somewhere near Mount Whitney.
I met my clients in a small coffee shop at the edge of downtown. It was the coffee shop where I had once been a barista for a couple of years, but now it was under new management, and everything looked and tasted different. Yet, the same familiar smell lingered on my clothes after I left. My clients both wore black with even blacker sunglasses. They were both young—a boy and a girl, Siblings, most likely. The young man was much taller than his young female companion. They stood over me while I sat at my table, drinking a cappuccino and reading my latest local history book.
“Here is the ten thousand grand we promised upfront. There is another fifty grand once we meet again at this location, and you show us the photos,” instructed the young woman. Next to her, the young man produced a small black urn shaped like a cocktail mixer. It had a matte finish that felt cold to the touch. “That is our mother you are holding. You take precious care of her. Our father would have been here, but his heart still aches and most likely would never pass her over to such a stranger as yourself,” spoke the young man as if he were an adult carefully massaging a lucrative business deal for some large corporation. “You must treat this less as a job and more as an emotional duty. That is why I give you Mother's book. Read only a chapter each day and nothing more. Then, by the last day, you will love her too.”
The young man's voice did not waiver. He held it steadfast, and with a quick bow from him and his sister, they turned and left. I looked at the book they had left on my table. It was a bright pink paperback. There were no dog ears, water-damaged corners, or split ends. The book seemed fresh off the printer. I flipped to the first page with a dedication that read, “To Mother: A Mother, a hero, a lover, and one of history’s great princesses.”
The last part gave me pause momentarily. I looked around as if I had a secret. Then, at the door to see if I recognized her kids as some Asian royalty, but they had already left. I turned over the page to the table of contents. Something about early life, marriage, work, memories, etcetera: I never cared much for those pages. On the next page was a black-and-white image of a koi fish. After that, the introduction page.
It reads as follows: “ Mother stood five foot three. She spoke three languages: Japanese, French, and English. Her favorite hobby was swimming at night. She had three children. Each was three years apart from the former. Her husband, Akihiko Ito, took her last name of Yamada. A name that would control many docks and freight yards across the world. Mother was always thought after in her life. When she was young, she courted many powerful men at rooftop parties in Tokyo, and in her latter years, Mother would carry a room with a simple gesture, a smile, and lift the sadness from any tragedy. Like all mortals, Mother found comfort in the forests and Mountains of California when she was lost. She met many strangers who traded stories which she used to move mountains of her own and become known as the Underground Princess of the World. She met the world in those distant mountains with open eyes and learned of life’s essential reasoning. Therefore, her ashes shall be given to the wind on the highest point imaginable. Left to mother nature to lift and fall wherever the universe wishes, and there Mother will rise once more with strength, beauty, and vigor, much like in her human years. Goodnight, Misha Yamada, and welcome to your newborn awakening.”