Summer

Oki set up his tripod just outside of the Bon Dance's penumbra of lanterns. His parents had bought a Canon digital camera for his 11th birthday and this was his first opportunity to test it out in the nighttime. He hid himself along the sidewalk of a narrow street wedged between the rear entryways of two buildings. Hiding behind the curtain of darkness, he snapped a few long exposures and started fiddling with his camera settings. When he replayed at his images, he decided to pull back further, framing the bon dance between the two dark walls of the buildings. This made the festival appear as if it were hidden and tucked away from normal pedestrian traffic at the dark end of an alleyway.

The Shingon Shu temple was a small location nestled street-side next to a McDonalds. Dancers circulated clockwise around the yagura as two elderly singers wearing cherry blossom kimonos warbled on a microphone. The intermittent plucks of the samisen echoed between the buildings and the ring of kimonos dilated and contracted as a taiko drummer raised his bachi sticks into the air. He imagined ancestral spirits hanging from the lanterns.

He had grown fond of the Bon Odori's of summer, when such events were expansive and as large as carnivals. His parents made it a routine to drive out to one every Friday night. Mostly, he had been to those with great grass lawns, and food and games booths. But here, it was a smaller affair, where costumed dancers circumambulated around a small scaffolding festooned with lanterns and draped with fabric like bed sheets hung out to dry on a lanai. The dancers dragged their feet over asphault and parking lines, bumping into each other as onlookers unfolded little metal chairs, enclosing them completely. Cars drove by – customers exiting the Walmart or the Mcdonalds drive thru – and honked their horns as dancers and singers taking breaks spilled into the driveway. Somewhere in the crowd, his parents were dancing along.

"This is the weakest obon I ever seen," he said.

"What's that?" came a voice. "Weakest what?"

Oki turned around. There were three shapes in the shadows, and he could hear the gravel shifting and grinding under the invisible weight so disembodied he may as well have been listening to his own teeth grind. A single red cigarette cherry bloomed briefly then disappeared. "Weakest one, uh? What, boy? What you doing here by yourself in the dark? Spying?" Three kids his age stepped out of the shadow into a triangular swatch of light afforded by a street light partially hidden around the corner. They were wearing traditional happis, complete with matching crests and Japanese symbols. They wore white shorts cut well above the knees, and wooden slippers.

This was a taiko gang.

Oki backed off. "I'm just taking pictures. A hobby of mine. Night excursions. My parents are at the bon dance. Your bon dance!" he explained.

The shortest taiko drummer spat his cigarette out and extinguished it with his wooden slipper. "Trashing our bon dance?"

Another drummer wore a Japanese mask that resembled a farmer from an old folktale. "Lets fuck um up."

The beating came immediately. The three drummers encircled him and began hitting Oki along his arms, chest and back with their bachi sticks. Thwack! After a rough, patchy start, all three drummers found their rhythm. They struck with precision and timing and great synchronicity. At one point, one of the drummers fell back and extricated a wooden flute. As the two drummers pounded on Oki, the third drummer began playing an old traditional folk song. Twee-la-leet. Throughout the beating the third drummer blew through the flute and struck theatrical poses. The other two pounded in unison, and at the proper intervals struck poses of their own by brandishing their sticks in the air. The third drummer called out to them and they began chanting. Oki fell to the ground, drew his knees into his chest, wrapped his arms around his shins and clasped his hands. The drummers used various portions of his back to achieve the proper resonance. They began to hit faster and faster as the drummer with the flute blew with a renewed ferocity and vigor. Fweet!

Finally, they fell back panting. The short kid who had been smoking the cigarette said "Whooo!" and quickly struck another pose.

The drummer with the flute said, "Whew! That was good! Guys, that was one of the best jam sessions we ever played!"

The drummer with the peasant farmer mask stepped up, and in a voice higher than the others said, "The best, ever," and tore her mask off. She let her hair down and shook it into the night's fabric. "You okay?" she asked. The short drummer helped him up. "Hey. You okay?" he asked again, but Oki was tongue-tied. He took one look at the girl and all of the pain quieted. There she was, the first great love of the summer.