Sleeping Bags and Futons

Works included in "Thousand Mile Blues"

Most of my debut work, "Thousand Mile Blues," consists of short stories.
Or rather, back when I was just starting out, those were the only kinds of requests I got.
"Could you write three pages by the Xth?"
"We can only spare two pages."
"Write something interesting quickly. Something short."

In other words, almost all the requests were for self-contained stories with a fixed length.
And a length that could be read in under 10 minutes, at that.
The luxury of being told, "Please, write as much as you like," came much, much later.

So, I had to complete a story in just a few pages of manuscript paper.
And it had to be interesting, too.
If it wasn't interesting, there wouldn't be a next time.
I was juggling several of these a month.
Every day was like my brain was boiling.
It was around this time that I developed insomnia and started passing blood in my urine.
My research expenses exceeded my pay, and the more I wrote, the poorer I became.
But thanks to that, I am where I am today.
I acquired my own method of creation.
I feel that this platform has many people aiming to be novelists, so if there is a demand, I would like to write about that as well.

I've digressed, but "Thousand Mile Blues" is a collection of works primarily featuring those four-panel comic-like short stories.
There are serious ones, but there are also many comical ones.
I made sure to be conscious of the 'Jo-Ha-Kyu' (introduction, development, and conclusion) structure, and to finish with a punchline reminiscent of Rakugo. And, just like in "Yokosuka D Blues," I actively covered phenomena and people that were not widely known to the public. I felt that was also a role of a writer.

So, as a greeting, here is another free short story.
It is a work I published about 20 years ago called "Sleeping Bags and Futons."

Sleeping Bags and Futons

"A sleeping bag or a futon..."
I was torn.
In front of me stood a campsite and a Japanese inn. Usually, I wouldn't even glance at an inn, but the truth was, I was exhausted from my long journey. I hadn't even taken a bath, just used coin-operated showers. On top of that, there was a hole in the bottom of my tent, and my sleeping bag was damp. For once, I wanted to stare at the wood grain on the ceiling and sprawl out on a fluffy futon...
After agonizing over it, I decided to stay at the inn, compromising by taking only local roads on the way back, leaving early in the morning, and eating nothing but cup noodles for a while once I got home.
I was shown to my room, and the attentiveness of the veteran innkeeper made me feel a different kind of travel mood than I had experienced before. I felt like a feudal lord. Then, perhaps to help out, a young man with his hair tied back brought me tea. No, he must have been an adult, but he was small and androgynous, looking just like a "boy." No, wait, if I wasn't careful, he could even pass for a "girl." The veteran innkeeper noticed me watching and smiled.
"Actually, he's my son, but he was born with the wrong gender."
She explained that at his own request, he was doing an apprenticeship here. However, the mother, the innkeeper, didn't seem troubled at all. On the contrary, I even felt that she understood and was watching over him warmly. I see, a cross-dresser. Then the mother, who was also the innkeeper, peered at me.
"If it's an eyesore..."
"No, I don't have any prejudices like that."
That was no lie. Just as every rider has a different approach to travel, human sexual orientation should also be individual. Perhaps relieved by my words, the boy showed me a smile. More than that, whether I could sleep on a fluffy futon tonight was my immediate social concern.
Satisfied with my first bath in a long time, I was guided to the dining room, where a feast—also a rarity—was waiting. And the androgynous person from earlier was there too. He took care of my meal in detail, glancing at me every now and then. Then, he asked timidly,
"Were you introduced by someone?"
"No, I just dropped in. I thought a Japanese inn might be nice for a change."
He leaned in close and lowered his voice.
"Not that, I mean for today's party."
"Party?"
"Yes. Our party."
When I asked, it seemed his friends were gathering at the campsite next door tonight. I stopped my chopsticks in mid-air and tilted my head.
"Friends, you mean, by any chance..."
"Cross-dressers and transsexuals."
A social gathering held on a night with a waxing half-moon. The name of the group was "Half and Half." Apparently, some people participate from far away by motorcycle, and he thought I was one of them. I told him I wasn't, but I felt a bit curious to take a peek. When I asked if he could take me along if it was okay, he readily agreed. But there was something I didn't understand.
"What's the difference between a cross-dresser and a transsexual?"
"There's no clear definition. But in my interpretation..."
He said it probably comes down to whether or not you put medicine or a scalpel to your body. And he added that it is also a passing point in the struggle of "gender identity disorder." I tilted my head at the term I was hearing for the first time.
"Gender identity disorder?"
It seems to be a state where one's physical gender and mental gender do not match. He said that while research is progressing in the medical world, it is still not understood by society at large.
"I believe that in ten or twenty years, there will come a day when it is spoken of and accepted normally..."
When the meal was over, he said it was time to head to the party. I returned to my room to change. There, a pure white futon was laid out. I tried lying face down. Of course, it was fluffy. I could sleep on this tonight. I was overcome with emotion.

Led by him to the half-moonlight, it was like being in another dimension. Low, feminine-sounding voices were flying about. From silhouettes that looked exactly like women to those who looked like they were saying, "Let's try a little harder," dozens of people were chatting. I had never seen a party on such a moonlit night. A corner of the campsite was filled with people of unknown gender. No, everyone here was...
I whispered to him.
"They're all men, right?"
He, wearing light makeup, nodded. And when he introduced me as an ally, everyone flocked to me. I recoiled. I was confused about how to react to voices saying, "Oh, how wild!" or "You're my type!" However, I gradually got used to the atmosphere, and as I talked with several of them, I completely opened up. Everyone was very serious. They were facing their own gender with sincerity.
I asked one of the participants something that had been bothering me.
"Is being a cross-dresser a process toward becoming a transsexual?"
"That depends on the person."
Under the light of the half-moon, he, who was also a she, continued.
"How you find satisfaction and where you draw the line is different for everyone. But I think everyone struggles with 'hormones'."
He said that administering female hormones makes you more feminine, but after six months, sperm dies and never regenerates. In other words, there is no turning back. But he said that many people make the decision there and move on to "Type 2 female." After that, it's cutting and inflating. And at that crossroads, the person in this group currently struggling the most seemed to be the one who brought me here.

As time passed, I began to feel sleepy. I excused myself, saying I had an early start tomorrow, and headed toward the inn. Now, for the treat. I would sprawl out on the fluffy futon. Then, for some reason, the apprentice innkeeper followed me. He said he had a little consultation.
When we faced each other in the lobby in the middle of the night, it was indeed about the same topic as before. He was miraculously understood by those around him, and his "boyfriend" was also hoping for hormone therapy and gender reassignment, but he said he was hesitant to take the step. He wanted to shed the man he felt uncomfortable being and live honestly as a woman, but he wondered if he would regret it, or if his very essence would change.
I was listening while desperately trying to stifle a yawn. I knew it was a serious consultation that would affect his life, but I was just too sleepy. My brain wasn't working at all.
Ah, I want to get into the futon. Into that fluffy futon...
"...There are sleeping bags and futons, right?"
Words that hadn't passed through my thought process came out of my mouth on their own. He looked blank. No, keep going.
"They are both bedding, but there's no such thing as one being better than the other. You can't pack a futon on a motorcycle, and you can't sprawl out in a sleeping bag. In other words, they are different personalities."
What am I saying? Never mind, keep going.
"And you are a sleeping bag with the heart of a futon. Your boyfriend acknowledges the sleeping bag, but he prefers the futon. Why, that's just like me... In other words. They are certainly different personalities, but even if you change the stitching or the fabric, the cotton inside doesn't change..."
I was saying something completely nonsensical. But what I saw just before my heavy eyelids closed was his beaming smile.

It was morning, and when I woke up, I was stunned. I was sleeping on the sofa in the lobby. Perhaps because of the strange position, my joints were aching everywhere.
"Damn! What the hell!"
I threw off the blanket that had been draped over me. I hurried back to my room to try and sleep on the futon for even a little bit, but it was gone. It had been cleared away. As I stood there, stunned, a cheerful voice called out, "Good morning." It was him. But when I turned around, he had become a stunning "woman." Wearing makeup and a kimono, he was completely an innkeeper's assistant. His expression was also bright and clear. I see. Well, that's fine if you've made up your mind.
I looked down at the tatami floor with lingering regret. He, who had become a she, said,
"Um, I've cleared away the bedding... Is there something else?"
"No, don't worry about it."

First published in "Outrider" (Million Publishing), January 2002 issue