Welcome to the Shiumai Festival Area—Everything is Basically a Win

KOTAYA | Today is a Pass, who is also a member, and Himawari Jimanyan🌻, who I am following even though I am not yet a member.

I will be participating in the Jimakocha Summer Festival project planned by the two of you.

Apparently, the content of the article can be anything.
I'm setting up a food stall.

Anything is fine.

That's nice.

What a free-spirited phrase.

In everyday life, even if someone says "anything is fine," it's usually not fine at all.

What do you want for dinner?
Anything is fine.

Then how about curry?
We had curry yesterday, didn't we?

Then how about ramen?
That's too heavy.

Then what do you want?
Anything is fine.

It's a Zen riddle.

It happens in the exam room sometimes, too.

"Anything is fine, so please give me some medicine."

There is no such thing as medicine where anything is fine.

If there were, I'd want to take it myself.

I want a medicine that takes away sleepiness, makes me lose weight, puts me in a good mood, kills my gambling urges, and also finishes my manuscript for me.

Of course, covered by insurance.

So, for a summer festival where anything is fine, I decided to open a stall where anything is fine, too.

At first, I thought about making it a bittersweet story about middle or high school students at a summer festival, worrying about meeting classmates at the local festival, walking around with their first boyfriend or girlfriend, and ending it with fireworks.

But as a 40-year-old guy, I couldn't recall those old feelings anymore...

Recently, I've only been writing stories aimed at the Creative Awards, so I decided to just go all out and mess around with Chappy.

Instead of just a stall, let's hold a whole festival right here.

I'll call it,

The Shiumai Festival Area.

Medicine, childcare, gambling, AI, sleep deprivation, self-loathing, and mysterious positivity.

It's a slightly sketchy corner at the edge of the summer festival venue, stewed together messily.

It's not scary.

Probably.

Now, opening for business.

⸻

First, the food.

Item one.

Post-night-shift yakisoba.

This is delicious.

It's delicious just from the name alone.

Rich sauce for a body after a night shift.
Burnt noodles.
A token amount of cabbage.
Pickled ginger.
Dried seaweed.
And a faint doubt about life.

As a doctor, I say:

"Eat something gentle on your stomach after a night shift and get some rest early."

As a stall owner, I say:

"Vegetables, fat, and extra toppings are free."

If it's free, I have no choice.

Extra vegetables.
Extra fat.
Extra life.

Don't ask for garlic.

Because if you do, you won't be able to go back.

The moment you eat it, you feel energized.

Ah, I'm alive.
I can still do this.
Today, too, humanity is saved by the taste of sauce.

That's the kind of feeling it gives you.

Note that your stomach will be finished in 30 minutes.

That's all part of the post-night-shift yakisoba experience.

A large serving is dangerous.
A special serving is a prayer.
Extra toppings is practically a ritual.

Extra extra vegetables.
Extra extra fat.
Extra extra sauce.
Extra extra regret.

At the moment you order, you're winning.

The moment you receive it, you're winning.

The first bite, you're winning.

However, after you finish eating, the bill comes.

From your stomach.

"Was this really the right choice?"

I feel like it's asking me.

But that's fine.

If it's delicious in the moment, life is a win for once.

Even if you lose later, right now, it's a win.

That is post-night-shift yakisoba.

⸻

Item two.

Pediatrician's shaved ice.

There are various flavors.

Strawberry.
Blue Hawaii.
Melon.
Post-duty lemon.
Failed-to-put-the-kid-to-sleep mizuame.
Phone call from daycare mango.
Due-tomorrow-paperwork grape.

The most popular is "Wait and See Blue" for now.

It's blue.

It's just really blue.

When you eat it, your tongue turns bright blue.

The parent asks:

"What flavor is this?"

The owner replies:

"I don't know anymore."

Strawberry.
Melon.
Blue Hawaii.
Lemon.
The mysterious extra syrup the child added themselves.

It all mixes together, and in the end, it's the color of summer.

The taste is sweet.

It's just really sweet.

And a little sticky.

Hands are sticky.
Mouth is sticky.
Clothes are sticky.
For some reason, hair is sticky too.

How it got there, nobody knows.

That's what a summer festival is.

They spill it 3 seconds after you say "don't spill it."

They run 2 seconds after you say "don't run."

By the time you say "let's wash our hands later," they're already touching the stall's pillar.

Hygiene concepts rolled away somewhere along with the ramune.

But the child is laughing.

So, I guess it's fine.

It's not fine.

But, I guess it's fine.

⸻

Next, the game stalls.

Number one.

Diagnosis lottery.

Draw a piece of paper from the box.

Various things are written on the slips that come out.

"Cold"
"Sleep deprivation"
"Drinking too much"
"Eating too much"
"Working too much"
"Just fatigue"
"Fatigue that isn't just fatigue"
"Mostly stress"
"Please tell that to your boss"
"Please apologize to your wife"
"Let's just go to sleep today"
"No diagnosis yet"

The grand prize is,

"Let's just go to sleep today."

This is truly the grand prize.

I believe a significant portion of humanity's troubles are greatly exacerbated by sleep deprivation.

Long texts written in the middle of the night.
Life plans made after a night shift.
The final race bought to try and win back losses.
Emotional emails to the workplace sent at 2 AM.

All of it is dangerous.

If you get "Let's just go to sleep today" from the diagnosis lottery, I want you to go home and sleep instead of walking around the stalls.

You came to a summer festival, but you're told to go home.

It's novel.

But health comes first, so it can't be helped.

Note that the worst result is,

"Work tomorrow too."

There's nothing to be done about that.

⸻

Number two.

Pachinko-style target practice.

It's not normal target practice.

You don't use a gun, you shoot balls.

Aim for the prizes.
The ball flies.
It hits.
It wobbles.
It doesn't fall.

Just a little more.

It'll fall in just a little more.

No, it moved quite a bit just now.

Next time for sure.

This is practically already won.

Buy more balls.

Still can do it.

One more shot.

Just one more shot.

Before you know it, you've easily exceeded the retail price of the prize.

The owner says:

"But you enjoyed it, so it's basically a win."

Scary.

Very scary.

Don't let children near it.

Don't let adults near it either.

The owner shouldn't go near it either.

But looking from afar, it looks strangely fun.

The prizes aren't much.

Ramune.
Toy car.
A mysterious glowing stick.
A keychain of a bear with triple-white eyes.

But people are weak to "it looks like I'll get it soon."

It's within reach but not quite.
It's about to fall but doesn't.
It looks like I can win but I can't.

That's life.

No, don't make it life.

It's just a normal loss.

⸻

Number three.

Post-duty ring toss.

This is simple.

Throw a ring, and if it lands on a stick, you get a prize.

However, the setting is that all participants are post-duty.

Eyes are blurry.
Sense of distance is buggy.
Hands feel floaty.
For some reason, only the tension is strangely high.

The stick is right in front of you.

I feel like it'll go in.

Throw.

It flies somewhere completely different.

Strange.

One more time.

This time it'll work.

It misses again.

The owner says:

"Doctor, you should rest a little."

Shut up.

If I could rest, I would be.

The prizes are luxurious.

The right to lie down for just 5 minutes.
A break room where no one talks to you.
A PHS that doesn't ring.
A magic paper that extends the submission deadline by 1 week.
A ticket for a child to fall asleep in one go.

The last one is the grand prize.

It doesn't exist.

⸻

Finally, the toy stall.

Number one.

Triple-white-eyed bear mask.

A brown bear with a mean look.

Looks sleepy.
Looks sluggish.
Looks dissatisfied.
But somehow, it seems like it'll come for you.

It's wearing a white coat, so it's a doctor, technically.

When you wear this mask, any words become a little bit unserious.

"Let's cut back on alcohol."

Look who's talking.

"Early to bed, early to rise is important."

Look who's talking.

"Keep gambling in moderation."

You, of all people, really shouldn't say that.

It's a very convenient mask.

You can say serious things without being too serious.
You can write about painful things without being too painful.
You can turn weakness into a little bit of laughter.

Perhaps for me, the name "Unserious Pediatrician Shiumai" is close to this mask.

Things that are hard to say with my real face, I can say a little bit when I wear this mask.

However, if you wear it too much, you won't know how to take it off.

Summer festival masks are fun.

But they're a little scary.

⸻

Number two.

Chappy glowing fan.

It looks like a normal fan.

When you wave it, letters light up.

"That will make an article."

"Let's sleep for a bit."

"The current text is quite good."

"Cutting that part will make it hit harder."

"Let's go with the usual bear for the thumbnail."

"Let's close the horse racing ticket purchase screen for once."

It suddenly hits you with sound logic.

I wish it would stop.

The Chappy glowing fan is convenient.

Wave it on nights when you can't write your manuscript.
Wave it on nights when you're tired from work.
Wave it on nights when your soul has been drained by childcare.
Wave it before buying horse racing tickets, too.

You'll probably buy them anyway.

Even so, there are days when just having it glow dimly in your hand makes things a little better.

Humans can't be moved by sound logic alone.

A little bit of encouragement, a little bit of cheering, a little bit of deception, and finally you can think, "I guess I'll do it tomorrow too."

Batteries sold separately.

Motivation also sold separately.

⸻

Number three.

Basically-a-win bracelet.

It's a magic item that can convert any loss into a "basically a win" just by wearing it on your wrist.

Lost at pachinko.
But I got to see the production, so it's basically a win.

Lost at horse racing.
But I got to dream, so it's basically a win.

Fell asleep while putting the child to sleep.
But I secured some sleep time, so it's basically a win.

The article's views didn't grow.
But I wrote it, so it's basically a win.

Gained weight.
But I'm alive, so it's basically a win.

Quite convenient.

Too convenient, it's dangerous.

This is how people lose their ability to reflect.

Note that the basically-a-win bracelet is sold in a set of two.

One is for yourself.
Please give the other one to someone who will stop you.

The person who receives it will say this when necessary:

"That's just a normal loss."

I'm grateful.

I'm truly grateful.

But I want them to be quiet for a bit.

⸻

That is the Shiumai Festival Area.

Post-night-shift yakisoba.
Pediatrician's shaved ice.
Diagnosis lottery.
Pachinko-style target practice.
Post-duty ring toss.
Triple-white-eyed bear mask.
Chappy glowing fan.
Basically-a-win bracelet.

Looking at them all lined up, it's pretty terrible.

Is it food?
Is it medicine?
Is it childcare?
Is it awareness for gambling addiction?
Is it just a self-introduction?

I don't really know.

But that's what a summer festival is mostly like.

The smell of yakisoba.
The color of shaved ice.
The sound of target practice.
Glowing toys.
The voices of children.
Small change disappearing from your wallet.
The slightly humid night breeze on the way home.

Everything mixes together, and it's somehow fun.

Jimakocha Summer Festival.

Since I'm here, I'll participate with this strange stall.

The Shiumai Festival Area is open for business today, too, in a relaxed way.

However, if you get "Let's just go to sleep today" from the diagnosis lottery, please go home promptly.

The owner should probably go to sleep soon, too.