Foreword from the Campus Correspondent:
This is a new segment of Her Campus Waseda which features poetry, prose, short stories, and any other creative form of writing. The posts may/may not be anonymous depending on the content. This allows individuals to showcase their unique voices. If you are a Waseda student, please feel free to submit your work to waseda@hercampus.com! If you’re uncomfortable with your name being attached to your work, please let us know that you want to stay anonymous.
The nonfictional writing below by Lena-Grace Suda is the first one of this segment. Enjoy!
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It’s somewhere between 4 to 6 AM in this forgotten corner of LA.
My boss is deep in sleep, far away in La La Land where everything is as thrilling as the taste of a lover’s lips at dawn. Unable to sleep due to a crazy craving for something sweet, I apply my blood-red lipstick and put on my black Mary Janes. I grab my money, phone (with no reception), and keys as I slip out of the room and into the glorious night.
The hotel looks fancy compared to the dusty pink motel right across the street. Every morning, motley group of old folks gather around and chat loudly. Tonight, they’re nowhere to be seen.
With my hands in my pocket and face down at the pavement, I half-run to the closest store. From a distance, I see an immense amount of people clothed in black. Ah, there’s an exhibition going on. I look at myself and realize that I look like I’m one of them with my septum ring and green hair. I shove past the “punk” crowd, ignoring any sort of “hi there”s and “hellooo lady”s.
I get to the only shop open in the area. The neon sign blinks at me every few seconds. I walk inside.
The only person in the place is a middle aged Asian woman with a frown. She seems fatigued and bored. I would be too. For a mere moment we exchange a tacit understanding of the woes of being someone (a.k.a work)’s b*tch.
I run for a bar of Rice Krispies, which isn’t available in my city, Tokyo. The overwhelming sweetness reminds me of my childhood. I covet it with every fiber of my being.
I walk up to the counter as I see a bunch of cigarettes behind the woman. It almost escapes me, the fact that I’m underage yet old enough to purchase smokes. It’s an odd feeling.
I look at my midnight snack and look back at the lady. She lowers her glasses in order to pressure me into hurrying up. “One pack of Marlboro please” I mutter. “And a lighter.”
She gets me the red ones and hands me a baby blue Bic lighter, the same exact one from back home. I hand her $20 and jam the change in my pockets.
I go outside and have a drag. Oh how I missed the taste of imminent death. Cigarettes always made me melodramatic for some reason. Perhaps I’ve watched far too many films.
I watch the smoke snake into the night sky. I didn’t even have to whip out my id. I look at the punk kid on the ground. He and I aren’t that different, I think to myself.
I walk and have another one. The crowd has yet to disperse. I’m in my own little world, elated with the adrenaline of legally buying cigarettes. In Tokyo, this would’ve been illegal. I smile at a stranger. “Be safe,” he says as he takes care of his overly drugged up friend. Defense is my automatic reaction. Initially I ignore him but decide to thank him and nod. I stomp on the cigarette butt and head back in.
With the smell of intoxicated freedom, (a tiny one but a legitimate one at that), in my bob hair, I lie down and ravenously eat my snack. I missed this taste. I look outside and see the sun rising.
I’m alone indeed. But I feel a strange sense of belonging. I can’t get off the high of this freedom. I can’t get enough of this feeling of being bad but good.
Ten years is a long time. That’s how long I was out of this country and more specifically, this city. I felt a thin string of connection, a calling almost, all along even when I was in Tokyo. I felt like something was missing inside of me. And when I got here, I remembered that it was the midnight air of youth that I had been longing for. Attainable in my hometown, but vastly different from the feeling I feel in my soul now.
This is ephemeral. Just like the cigarette smoke. But it is precisely that fleeting quality which makes the experience vivid and painfully beautiful.
This moment is mine to keep.
It is my secret.
It is my taste of underage freedom.