The Man Who Lied Too Much
He was a guy with a cute smile. He was a good talker. He was popular with women. He could drink a lot. And, he was a liar.
It was years ago, when I started going to a certain bar in Koenji. The place was so small that it would be full with just seven or eight people, and most of the customers were regulars. The food was mediocre, and it wasn't exactly cheap, but it was the kind of place common along the Chuo Line where people who just wanted to talk, laugh, and kill time always gathered. I wandered into that bar as a newcomer. I don't remember why I stepped inside now. I think I was probably drunk. At first, I was a bit bewildered by the inside jokes, but thanks to the regulars and the owner being kind to me, I started going there more often, and I gradually came to occupy a seat at the edge of the bar.
That was where I met Tomoki (a pseudonym). Among the regulars, who were mostly in their thirties and forties, Tomoki, in his mid-twenties, was exceptionally young. He wasn't just young; he was charming, funny, smooth, and popular with women. My first impression was that of a friendly cat. He was the kind of 'cheeky junior' you find in every community, the type who could get away with being disrespectful to his elders because he was so well-liked.
He started acting familiar with me, a newcomer, almost immediately, but it never felt unpleasant. In fact, it was a relief, as Tomoki helped me get to know the other regulars and fit in.
Tomoki was at that bar almost every day. Sometimes he was there early, and other times he would show up late, quite drunk. I wondered if he actually worked, but I had heard him talking to others about setting up scaffolding or something, and he sometimes came in wearing work clothes, so I assumed he had a construction-related job and didn't think much of it. Bars along the Chuo Line are overflowing with people whose occupations are a mystery; it's common to see someone for over a year without knowing what they do for a living, how old they are, or even their real name. Asking about it would have been considered boorish.
"I drank 100 Oolong-hais the other day."
Tomoki was the kind of guy who would say such tall tales while drinking. In any bar, it's common for stories of questionable truth to fly around. Drinking 100 Oolong-hais in a day is probably impossible for a human. Even 10 is a fair amount, but it's not impossible. However, people sometimes inflate stories about drinking those 10. Whether that becomes 20 or 100 depends on the person's discretion.
In bars, things like that happen every night to varying degrees. I've inflated stories myself, and I've heard others' exaggerated tales. There was a guy who had a bruise on his eye from being punched by a drunkard, and every time a new regular came to the bar, he would embellish the story until it eventually became, 'I dodged the drunkard's punch, grabbed his arm, applied a joint lock, dislocated his shoulder, and ran away.' Then how did you get that bruise, anyway?
Tomoki was a man with a strong penchant for 'embellishment' in the bar. He was raising 200 rhinoceros beetles and making pocket money selling them. When he studied abroad in America, he entered a car race there as a driver and earned a million yen. He had slept with 100 women, but they were all the ones who approached him. He did 500 push-ups every day. When he did the interior work for a yakuza office, he received 2 million yen as a tip on top of his payment.
"You should write a book about my life someday."
Tomoki would say that to me jokingly many times. Yeah, yeah, I would always brush it off. I knew it was all a lie. The number of beetles would go from 100 to 400, and the 100 women would increase to 500. The fact that he usually exaggerated in units of 100 gave it a sort of rough, casual feel that I actually liked.
Other regulars heard those stories from Tomoki too, but no one ever tried to verify them. Because it was entertaining. Tomoki was an exceptionally good storyteller. Even if the content wasn't actually that significant when you thought about it, his delivery, facial expressions, and timing were exquisite, and people hearing it for the first time would usually laugh. If I told the same story, it probably wouldn't get as good a reaction. If you can get people to laugh out loud, a certain amount of 'embellishment' is justice in a bar. So, Tomoki's tall tales were brushed off with a feeling of, 'He's saying something again.'
Of course, Tomoki didn't talk like that all the time. When other regulars were talking about serious matters, he would listen intently and nod, and he could stay quiet when necessary. He would also sometimes talk shyly about trivial things regarding his family. Tomoki was married with children. He doted on his newborn child, and his smartphone wallpaper was a photo of the baby. It was a cute child with clear-cut features.
"When I take a bath with him, he laughs and it's so cute."
The face he made while saying that, smiling shyly, was a truly good face that he didn't usually show. Because of that, I swallowed the question that suddenly popped into my head: 'With all this drinking, when do you have time to give him a bath?'
After a while, Tomoki disappeared. The frequency of his visits, which had been almost daily, gradually decreased, and eventually, he stopped coming to the bar entirely. The regulars speculated about what might have happened, but no one had heard the circumstances from Tomoki himself. A few people tried sending messages on LINE, but there was no response. Some of the regulars who were particularly fond of Tomoki looked worried, saying, 'Something must have happened, right?' but since the messages were being read, there wasn't much more that one adult could do for another. Gradually, the number of times he came up in conversation decreased, and we grew accustomed to the space without Tomoki.
"I wonder what Tomoki is doing now."
Around the time he had completely stopped being a topic of conversation, one of the regulars suddenly brought him up as if he had just remembered. It was a man in his late fifties who had been the most fond of Tomoki. That prompted everyone to start talking about him, and one customer joined the conversation, saying, 'Are you talking about Tomoki? Kaneda Tomoki. The one about my age.' He was a thin, tall man I had seen in the bar a few times, a trendy young man with hair dyed gold.
"He's a total lying piece of trash, isn't he?"
The blonde young man blurted that out and then started laughing loudly all by himself, as if something were funny. I was startled for a moment by the harsh word 'liar,' but when I recalled Tomoki's habit of embellishing, it made sense.
The young man, who had previously only been listening to the regulars, began to talk about Tomoki as if a dam had burst. It turned out the blond young man had met Tomoki at another bar in Koenji. The content of his story was about the lies Tomoki had been telling at the bar the young man frequented. Some of the lies were ones we already knew, but there were others we had never heard before—like that he had spent two years in the Self-Defense Forces, won 2 million yen at pachinko, or been gifted a 5 million yen car by a yakuza member because he liked him. Apparently, he had spent several months hanging around that bar, telling endless lies, and then vanished once the inconsistencies in his stories became too much to handle.
"Apparently, he disappeared from the previous place in the same way, too."
Upon hearing this, some of the regulars said, "Ah, I thought he was suspicious, too," and everyone agreed. It wasn't just that one person; even if they didn't say it out loud, everyone knew Tomoki's stories were lies. We all enjoyed the tall tales Tomoki spun, and there were no particular problems with it. Since it was like a fixed race where everyone was in on it, why did he disappear? Everyone was puzzled.
"Huh? Kids? No, he shouldn't have any. He's not even married in the first place. No, seriously, my buddy went to the same high school as him."
However, when the blond young man said that while talking to other regulars, the relaxed atmosphere changed. "Wait, he's not married? What is that about!?" one of the women exclaimed in surprise. "Then whose photos are those of the kids? I was shown photos of his wife," others shouted, and the bar became chaotic. Amidst the commotion, the blond man just gave a bitter smile.
In the end, it turned out that everything Tomoki had said was a lie. Having a wife and kids—he wasn't even married; working in construction—he just happened to help an acquaintance out and was actually unemployed; having studied abroad—he had never left Japan; being from the countryside—he was born and raised in Tokyo; and so on. The list was endless. It wasn't even certain if his name was real.
"I wonder why he told such lies."
The female regular who was arguably closest to Tomoki said this with a sigh. Why did he want to make himself look so important, and what did he hope to achieve by doing so? It seemed obvious that the lies would be exposed quickly, so why tell them at all? No one knew the reason. Perhaps even Tomoki didn't know. Not long after that, the bar closed due to a change in business model. With a few exceptions, I stopped seeing most of the regulars from there.
A few months later, on a cold winter afternoon, I was walking alone in the northern part of Nakano when I happened to run into Tomoki. His hair had turned blue. I could barely remember his face, but as soon as I saw him, I knew it was Tomoki. For a split second, Tomoki said "Oh," his face turning serious, but then he immediately started talking to me with a smile.
"Man, I drank ten tequilas last night and passed out."
When I asked how he had been, he started telling me another one of his exaggerated stories in his usual style. I smiled and nodded along. As always, Tomoki's storytelling skills were superb. When a story is told with such good rhythm, it feels as pleasant as having your shoulders massaged by a skilled masseur. My face naturally relaxed, and my reactions became exaggerated. As I listened, I thought to myself that Tomoki was probably still lying. I don't know what bar he's at now, but he'll likely disappear from there eventually, too.
"You should write a book, a book about me."
With that, Tomoki waved his hand and walked away. That was the last time I saw him. I felt like I would never see him again, and I thought that was for the best.
Tomoki had told me many times to write a book about him. So, I decided to try writing it down. I thought that even though I didn't know who you were, writing it might make it possible for someone to figure it out. But after writing it, I understand even less. Hey, Tomoki, who on earth were you?