Though it happened many, many years ago there still are some who remember Hiroshi Morioka and Today's Special, the butcher's shop his family ran in Koi, a small town that adjoins Hiroshima city. The locals seldom speak of him and if asked to recall Hiroshi or his peeling clapboard shop with its gray tiled roof, they'll cite a faulty memory even though the news of his death riveted the area and was mentioned in all of Japan's major newspapers.

The name for the shop came from his parents' custom of each day having a special section of heavily discounted meat. It was almost always of lesser quality, but in those days any kind of meat was a luxury and seasoned shoppers knew they had to arrive early if they wanted any before it sold out. Those who missed it would usually buy a smaller amount of something at regular prices and though it would be inaccurate to describe the shop as prosperous, business was steady and their needs were simple.

Hiroshi was an only child and doted on by his parents.Though the shop's modest income did not allow them to indulge him with material things, they anticipated his needs and without saying a word would know when he was hungry or thirsty and bring him what he desired. He was sheltered from the world to such a degree that even after he began to walk his mother continued to carry him on her back and only stopped once he was too heavy for her to bear. For the rest of their days they worked, ate, and slept together in the tiny two room apartment above their shop and Hiroshi never felt an urge to be a part of the larger world outside their doors.

Hiroshi was in his early twenties when his father died and the shop was passed to him. His mother followed within a few years and Hiroshi found himself living alone. Each night after shuttering the storefront he'd have a simple meal of rice, miso soup, pickles and a cut of left over meat, then spend the rest of the evening sitting on the floor at his kotatsu reading pulp comics and weekly news magazines under the flickering hum of a fluorescent light. After the Tokyo Olympics and the prices of television sets became affordable, he bought one and began watching it as he ate and continued till the stations went off the air. He seemed neither happy nor sad, content to live with what life had offered.

One unusually warm spring day he received a visit from Ms. Otsuka, an ingratiating, meddlesome woman who lived in the neighborhood. She was a professional matchmaker and made it her business to stay current on all the latest gossip. She never shopped at his store, so when Hiroshi saw her standing in front of his display case neatly folding her frilled parasol he immediately sensed trouble.

"A fine day today, isn't it?" she said as she dabbed at her neck with a handkerchief made of the same material as her umbrella.
"Yes, it truly is."
"The winter was very cold."
"Yes it was, wasn't it?"
"I wonder if this fine weather will continue."
"Hmmm, I've been wondering that, too."

She was bent at the waist peering over the rims of her glasses at the trays of meat. "I don't know why I don't shop here more often," she said. "Everyone says it's the best shop on the hill. I think I'll have about 150 grams of the tenderloin.

Hiroshi always sold the tenderloin whole but because of her reputation and the meagerness of her order he was prepared to sell her a cut without protest. While he was slicing off her piece she spoke up. "You must be lonely living by yourself."

Hiroshi was quick to disagree. "It's not like that. I get by."
"Yes, but wouldn't it be better if you had someone to take care of you?"
"You mean marry? Who would marry me? I'm just a common butcher."

Ms. Otsuka covered her mouth as she laughed. "A common butcher? Hiroshi! I never knew you were so modest! You own your own business and there is no mother-in-law to fuss and nag." She clucked her tongue and added as if speaking to herself, "The stories I could tell you about mothers-in-law..."

Hiroshi had been caught off guard and wasn't sure how to react. "Just the same..." he began but Ms. Otsuka cut him off.
"To tell the truth, I happen to know just the person to make you a fine wife. She is not a great beauty but she can cook and sew... She comes from a good family and hasn't been spoiled by a life of luxury."

Hiroshi wrapped the meat in butcher's paper and laid it on the counter. When she opened her purse to pay she handed him an envelope with the money. "I put a little information together and will leave it with you. You'd better act fast though... Women like her never last long." Hiroshi thanked her for the purchase and said that he'd think about it.

Hiroshi was short and stocky with blunt, powerful hands and close-cropped, bristly hair that would never lie down. His face had the thick musculature of a boxer and he had always been shy and clumsy around others. He was kind at heart but the teasing he'd received in school led him to withdraw from others and he was resigned to the life of a bachelor.

That night Hiroshi left her resume and photograph on the kotatsu and found himself continually going back for another look in much the same way one's tongue keeps searching out a freshly chipped tooth. She was small boned with shoulder length hair pushed behind her ears. He could just make out the tendons of her neck and he imagined her as impossibly soft and delicate. In keeping with the custom of the times she wore a grave expression and it was endlessly fascinating for him to think how that face might soften with a smile.

His shop was open in front with nothing but the long enameled display case to block the cold and heat, and even on the coldest mornings he began each day by plunging his hands into icy tubs of meat. As he stood there at his block cleaving and sawing, he would sometimes think about the fact that the meat he held in his hands had not so long ago been a living, breathing entity raised solely for someone's profit, and he played a vital role in this injustice. Whenever his mind wandered onto that terrain he would have nightmares where his hands were covered with blood that wouldn't come off no matter how hard he scraped and scrubbed. It troubled him deeply, and as he sat gazing at the photograph of this woman who was offering to be his wife, his life appeared to him in the harshest light. He slept little that night and by morning had made up his mind to marry.

The next day Ms. Otsuka came by and after telling him that the tenderloin he sold her was the best she'd ever had, asked him if he had thought over the matter they discussed. When Hiroshi answered that he had and would like to meet her, Ms. Otsuka said that she'd check to she if she was still available. Later that day she returned and arranged a date and time for the two to meet.

Her name was Yasuko and to say she hadn't been spoiled by a life of luxury was to put the best possible face on it. She was from a neighboring town called Kannon-machi and her father had been a construction worker for a small, struggling company. Immediately after the bombing he had gone into the city in search of his brother and spent days crisscrossing the area around the Atomic Bomb Dome. Within a year he took to bed where he stayed until his death. She had four brothers and sisters and her mother had been forced to scramble and juggle odd jobs to keep them housed and fed. Being the oldest, Yasuko had had to quit school and gone to work in the garment industry doing piece work to help support the family.

Within a few months the two were married, and despite the disappointment they both felt when Yasuko was unable to conceive, the marriage took hold and thrived. Yasuko added a feminine touch to Hiroshi's drab apartment, prepared the meals, did the paper work and helped him with the tedious end of the business, like sending out the hundreds of New Year's and mid-summer greeting cards to their customers and neighbors that were meant not so much to keep tabs but to encourage a subtle sense of indebtedness. They lived simply and spoke little, preferring to express themselves in small acts of kindness. Life, though unexciting, was fulfilling and Hiroshi was content.

Koi is separated from Hiroshima by a mountain and because of this was spared the devastation of the nuclear attack. The area retains some of the charm of old Japan, but like many old cities was poorly designed for the advent of the automobile. The shop sat on the main thoroughfare that winds its way up to the pass and had a great deal of bicycle and foot traffic until the automobile became so common. Today the road seems like an afterthought the way it's squeezed in between the rows of shops and since there is no sidewalk, pedestrians put themselves at risk by walking along the street with its steady stream of cars rumbling by inches away. This affected Hiroshi's business for his customers had to stand on the street as they chose their purchases from his single display case. But what really spelled the end of his way of life was the new supermarket that was built just down the street.

The supermarket represented the new American, impersonal way of doing business and was a threat to the small shopkeepers clustered nearby. The store was spacious and well lit with bright, colorful packaging and, most of all, there was a parking lot. When it first opened he was curious and went in to see what it was like and was disheartened by what he found. Everything the store offered for sale, even the fruits and vegetables, seemed artificial. The meat section in particular seemed as if it had been designed to divorce the customers from any familiarity they had with what they ate. From then on Hiroshi regarded the building as a wart on an otherwise pristine landscape and began to avoid passing by at all possible cost.

When business was slow he'd take out his knives and sharpen them on his whetstone as he watched the traffic go by. For years he had been sharpening his customers knives as a favor and decided to put out a sign offering his services for a fee. Through this new sideline and the little meat he sold he was able to carry on.

One day Yasuko complained of a pain in her abdomen and within two months was dead. Though their life together had been uneventful, he was attached to her in ways he had never recognized until her death brought them to the fore, and after that he began to look upon himself as not whole. He had also been unaware of how much weight she had shouldered in running the business, and despite his superior quality meat and cut-rate prices, within a few months the steady trickle of customers that had begun to drift away grew into a deluge. He became indifferent to his health and began to eat poorly and drink sake in the evenings until he fell asleep. In time he bittered and began to think of his former customers as traitors. In the afternoons when he'd sit facing the street while sharpening his knives, he'd glare at them as they trooped by with their supermarket bags and sometimes muttered obscenities as they passed.

Years went by and his health began to fail. There were days he couldn't bring himself to open for business and with time even his most loyal customers began to buy their meat from the supermarket. One evening on a day he had struggled to not close early, he felt dizzy as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment and once inside went straight to bed. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning he awoke with a start, got dressed in a freshly starched uniform and hat, went downstairs and stood on the opposite side of the street for a while thinking of nothing in particular, just staring at his storefront. It seemed to tug at him and as he headed across the street he glanced up and saw his parents and Yasuko at the window, happy to see him and beckoning him home. He returned their smiles and raised his index finger in a gesture meant to give him a moment, then began throwing open the rust-tinged shutters. As he lifted the last one his heart seemed to explode in a fireball of ragged barbs that seemed to lodge and throb in every nerve and joint.
He staggered inside and while supporting himself on the display case with a forearm, reached for a felt-tipped pen and began to write on one of the small, red bordered placards he used to advertise the day's prices. His breathing was becoming more hurried and shallow and between each gasp of air he wrote in as neat a hand as possible. When he finished he slid the placard into its stand and as he did, felt his very essence gather like a cloud, then detach and drift outside the shop. Though he was in a hurry to get home he had to linger when he saw the crowd of customers gathering to browse the day's selection. Their reluctance to leave was extremely gratifying and for the first time in what seemed like ages Hiroshi smiled and felt whole once again.

He was still smiling that morning when they found him lying unmistakably dead inside his display case. He was on his back with his hands folded neatly over his chest. He was looking straight up and the sign that he had labored so hard to finish stood in front of him. It said, Not For Sale.

The landlord tried for years to rent the shop and its apartment above, but no tenant ever stayed longer than a month and he eventually had it razed. The empty lot is covered with weeds and broken glass now and they say that in the early morning hours passersby can sometimes hear him whetting his knives, offering a hand to any who dare not hurry on.

Rick Nelson, 4/2007
Rick Nelson grew up in Oklahoma and has lived in Japan for all but a few of the last 27 years. His mother was a librarian and professional storyteller and was instrumental in developing his interest in literature and writing. Hiroshima inspires him and he currently divides time between Hiroshima city and Shikoku.