Easy Come, Easy Go: Episode 3 - The Bill I Didn't Want to Spend

The thirst grew stronger with each passing day.

Ever since the night I burned the teacher's bill, I began to feel as if a small hole had opened up in the back of my throat.

Drinking water didn't fill it.

Whether I drank coffee or alcohol, my tongue kept searching for the sweetness that had come at the end of the teacher's bill.

Meals were the same.

Even when I ate expensive sushi, grilled meat, or a convenience store sandwich late at night, my stomach would be full, but something inside remained empty.

I am starving.

That's what I thought.

But I didn't know what I was starving for. No, perhaps I actually did know.

I kept burning bills.

The soba shop in front of the station, the drugstore, the taxi, the old coffee shop, the night club—each one of them rang.

They made a sound, and they gave off a scent.

Some of them weren't bad. The five-thousand-yen bill from a late-night taxi smelled of wet leather and canned coffee. The five-thousand-yen bill I broke at a night club rang like a low saxophone, hidden behind perfume and cigarette smoke.

But none of them reached the level of the teacher's bill.
They were all wrong.

There is sound. There is scent.
But there is no flavor. And even if there is flavor, it is incredibly faint.

I gradually began to grow irritated.

What was missing?
Was it the age?
The grime?
The places it had been?
The number of people who had held it?

Each time, the teacher's words would come back to me.

It's a bill that has been bent in the depths of a wallet, soaked up sweat, and passed through lies, rent payments, funeral offerings, and women's fingers.

The more reluctantly a person spends a bill, the better it is.
The bill you didn't want to spend is the one that rings the best.

The bill I didn't want to part with.

I rolled those words over my tongue again and again.

At first, I thought it meant old bills.
Dirty bills, or bills that had passed through many hands. Or perhaps bills that had been in a wallet for a long time. But that wasn't what the teacher meant.

The bills you didn't want to part with are the ones that ring the loudest.

If that's the case, where are the bills I didn't want to part with?

When I thought about it, the first place that came to mind was under the overpass in front of the station.

In the evenings, several homeless people sit under the pedestrian bridge behind the station. Cardboard, black backpacks, folded umbrellas, convenience store bags. It was a place where time seemed to move a little slower.

Until now, I had walked past it without really looking.

I had grown used to not seeing them.

That day was different.

With several ten-thousand-yen bills I had just withdrawn from the bank in my inner suit pocket, I headed toward the overpass.

The man was sitting at the edge of a blue tarp.

I couldn't tell his age. He could have been in his fifties or his seventies. His beard was white, and his fingertips were blackened. An old tote bag sat on his lap.

When I approached, the man looked up just a little.

Excuse me.

When I spoke, my own voice sounded strangely bright.

Do you have a thousand-yen bill?

The man looked at me for a while.

What is it?

I want to exchange it.

I took a ten-thousand-yen bill out of my wallet.

"This, in exchange for your thousand-yen bill."

The man's eyes shifted.

Suspicion. Caution. Then resignation. And finally, a tiny glimmer of hope. They appeared on his face in that exact order.

"You're a strange person."

"I get that a lot."

"Are you sure a thousand yen is enough?"

"Yes."

The man rummaged through his tote bag. A small plastic bag, a broken pair of chopsticks, a newspaper, work gloves. Finally, he pulled out an old wallet. It was made of fabric. Probably something he'd received as a freebie somewhere. The metal zipper pull was slightly bent.

He took out a single thousand-yen bill from it.

It was a terribly worn-out bill.

The edges were curled, and the marks from being folded over and over stood out in white. The surface had faint ripples, as if it had been soaked in rain and then dried.

I handed over the ten-thousand-yen bill and received the thousand-yen bill. The man still had a look of disbelief on his face.

"Are you really sure?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to use it for?"

"It's for a little experiment."

The man didn't laugh. Instead, he carefully tucked the ten-thousand-yen bill into his wallet. His movements were as if he were putting away a living creature.

When I saw those hands, a warmth spread deep in my chest.

This is it.

That's what I thought. This bill would surely ring.
It would surely smell. It would surely have a taste.

I hurried back home.

Once in my room, I immediately closed the curtains and turned on the ventilation fan. I placed a ceramic plate down. I picked up a lighter.
The thousand-yen bill lay on the table like a worn-out piece of cloth.

I lit it.
The edges turned black.

There was a sound.

It was a low, murky sound. It had a muffled resonance, like pressing your finger into damp cardboard. Mixed into it were the scents of post-rain soil, cheap shochu, and cold canned food.

A little later, the smell of worn-out gloves arose. Cloth that hadn't been washed for a long time. Socks that had gotten wet on a winter morning. It was a smell like those things wrapped in thin smoke.

But it wasn't as much as I had expected.

The sound was low.
It was murky, yes. But it wasn't deep.

The taste never came.
I stared at the remains of the fire.
It was different from what I had expected.
It should have been terribly intense.

This was a bill that had passed through the bottom of society. And I had thought it was a bill that had been clinging to the edge of life.
Yet, it didn't reach me.

I thought about it for a while.

And then, it suddenly dawned on me.
That man had let go of the thousand-yen bill.
Moreover, in exchange for ten thousand yen.
He had gained something.

Perhaps it wasn't money he didn't want to part with.
No, even if it was money he didn't want to part with, the reason to let it go had been overwritten.

He let it go in exchange for ten thousand yen. I think that in that moment, what had soaked into the banknote had loosened a little.

The bills you don't want to part with are the ones that ring the loudest.

The teacher had certainly said that.

But that thousand-yen bill had been given up.
It had been given up willingly.
That's why it was thin.
I rolled those words around in my mouth.

Money handed over by mutual agreement doesn't ring as much as you'd think.

Then, what if it wasn't by agreement?

When that thought crossed my mind, a small shiver ran down my spine.

I immediately dismissed it.
It was ridiculous.
It wasn't that serious.
I just want to hear the sound of banknotes.
I am not a criminal.

I don't want to hurt anyone, either.

However, from that night on, I started noticing wallets all over the city.

At the convenience store register.
At the station ticket machine.
At the taxi stand.
Paying at an izakaya.
On the small tray at a coffee shop.

I began to watch the moment people took out their banknotes.

People who took them out without hesitation, people who hesitated just a little. Then, people who checked the contents of their wallets and took them out as if they had given up. And even people who started to put them away, only to take them out again.
I was strongly drawn to that 'one bill that was almost put away'.

The bill they didn't want to spend.

You can tell just by looking.
People move their fingers differently when handling money they are willing to let go of versus money they don't want to part with.

One night, it was raining.

It wasn't Ginza. It was a station front that was darker and closer to everyday life. As the last train approached, the footsteps of people heading to the ticket gate scattered across the wet tiles.

I was walking without any intention of doing anything.
I truly believe that was the case.
Just before the ticket gate, a man opened his wallet.

A worn-out suit.
Wet shoulders.
A convenience store bag.
A tired profile.
The man looked inside his wallet and furrowed his brows slightly.
Then, he started to pull out a ten-thousand-yen bill.
It was an old bill.

The corners were rounded, and there was a deep crease in the center. Fingers dampened by the rain were gripping the banknote tightly.

Those fingers stopped for a moment.

The bills people don't want to spend ring the loudest.

I heard the teacher's voice.

In that instant, I knew.

That bill would ring.

If you don't want to spend it, it will only ring louder.

Then.

I just shouldn't spend it.

When that thought occurred to me, I was already walking.

My next memory is a little fragmented.

I bumped into someone's shoulder.

A man's voice spoke.

A convenience store bag fell to the floor.

I heard the sound of a canned coffee rolling inside the plastic.

Footsteps scrambled on the wet tiles.

In my hand, there was a ten-thousand-yen bill.
Maybe I had run.
Maybe I had been walking.

I don't really remember which way I went to get home.

When I realized it, I was in my room.

I had locked the door, drawn the curtains, and turned on the ventilation fan.

The ten-thousand-yen bill in my hand was damp.
It wasn't just from the rain.
Someone's hand sweat was still on it.

I stared at that bill for a while.

I should just return it.

That's what I thought.

I could pay back ten thousand yen, no problem.

I could take it to the police box.

I could go to the station tomorrow and look for the owner.

I could donate it.

I could even pay back ten times that amount if I wanted to.

But that's not it.

What I wanted wasn't the ten thousand yen.

It was what this ten-thousand-yen bill held the moment it was ripped from that man's hand.

I set down the ceramic plate.

I lit the lighter.

The flame of the lighter looked bluer than usual.

I brought it close to the banknote.

Before the fire touched it, there was a sound.

I held my breath.

It wasn't burning yet.

And yet, the banknote was trembling.

It was closer to a breath than a sound.

A thin string, stretched to its limit. The sound of it just before it snaps. Deep inside it, the sound of rain is ringing. The electronic beep of a ticket gate. Wet soles of shoes. A canned coffee falling to the floor. The man's short cry.

The fire touched it.

The edge of the banknote turned black in an instant.

A sound exploded.

A low string.

A metallic sound.

A wet drum.

Footsteps of someone running down the stairs.

Breath that had almost stopped.

The heat of clenched fingers.

They all rang out at once.

I couldn't stay in my chair.

The inside of my body floated.

No, perhaps it sank. The floor beneath my feet vanished, and only the depths of my chest lifted. My stomach turned over, and a sharp sourness raced to the back of my tongue.

The taste arrived.

It wasn't iron.

It wasn't salt, either.

It was sour.

It was the taste of fear.

After that, a sweetness came.

It was different from the sweetness of the teacher's bill.

It was a younger, more violent, and more raw sweetness. An immature, painful sweetness, like biting into an unripe fruit by force.

I was laughing.
I hadn't intended to laugh.
But a small breath leaked from the back of my throat, and it took the shape of a laugh.

The bill is burning.

It shrivels black, curls up, and Yukichi Fukuzawa's face distorts.

The sound grows even higher.

I thought, this bill still holds the hand of its owner.

That's what I thought.

It wasn't money handed over by mutual agreement.
It wasn't a payment, a gift, or an exchange.
It was money ripped away mid-transaction.

That is why it rings.

That is why it smells.

That is why it has a taste.

The banknote finally curled into a small ball and turned to ash.

The sound vanished.

The room fell silent.

I was on my knees on the floor.

I didn't know when I had stood up or when I had knelt down.

A sour taste still lingered in my mouth.

The smell of rain.
A wet suit.
Clenched fingers.
A can of coffee dropped on the floor.
A man's voice cut short.
I looked at both my hands.
They were trembling.

It wasn't fear.
It wasn't guilt either.
Perhaps, it was joy.

The moment I realized that, I felt nauseous.
But, as expected, I couldn't throw up.

I went to the washbasin and drank some water.

The sour taste would not go away.

I brush my teeth.

Only the sweetness remains.

I look in the mirror.

There, a man with an ordinary face stared back.

An ordinary face.

He didn't look like a man who had snatched a ten-thousand-yen bill from a stranger on a rainy day and burned it just to savor the experience.

I smiled, just a little.

After smiling, I immediately returned to a straight face.

No, that's not it.

It wasn't that I wanted the money.

It wasn't that I wanted to hurt anyone, either.

I just wanted to confirm something.

What?

I already knew the answer.

Money handed over by mutual agreement doesn't ring as loudly as I thought it would.

A bill that someone didn't want to part with trembles even before you set it on fire.

I returned to my room and looked at the ash on the ceramic plate.
The ash was just ash.

No matter how beautiful a sound it makes, no matter how rich a flavor it leaves behind, in the end, it becomes ash.

That was what I found strange.
Something that meant so much is now so light.
When I touched it with my finger, the ash crumbled instantly.
Black powder got into the gaps of my fingernails.
Looking at that powder, a thought suddenly crossed my mind.

Does this ash still have a taste?

The moment that thought crossed my mind, I pulled my hand back.

It hadn't gone that far yet.

That's what I thought.

Not yet.

Outside the window, the rain continued.
I looked down at the wet city through a gap in the curtains.
People were holding umbrellas, carrying wallets, and heading somewhere.

Inside each and every one of them, there was money they didn't want to spend.

A bill they didn't want to use.

A bill they didn't want to hand over.

A bill they had almost tucked away.

A bill they had wanted to keep in their wallet until the very end.

The whole city looked like an instrument that hadn't been played yet.

For the first time, I wanted money.
Not to spend it.
Probably not to burn it, either.

To take it.

Even after realizing that, I wasn't very scared anymore.