that term and would have to repeat a year, but I didn’t care. It didn’t even feel like my business. I felt little sadness for his death itself. There had been many signs. Ever since I met him, Shindo had longed for death. He smoked three packs a day, took straight swigs of whiskey, and went out on his motorcycle night after night. He’d watch New Hollywood films and repeatedly play back the alltoo-quick deaths of the protagonists, sighing as if in a trance. So when I was told of his death, I more or less thought “good for him.” He was finally where he wanted to be. There wasn’t a shred of regret in me to the tune of “I should’ve been nicer,” or “I couldn’t see that he was suffering.” Shindo, too, probably never thought of talking with me about his problems. No doubt, all he wanted was to have some ordinary days full of laughs, and then vanish from them just like that. The problem, then, was that I was still here. Shindo not being there was a serious blow to me. For better or worse, he was propping me up. He was lazier, more desperate, more pessimistic than me, and similarly lacking in life goals, so having him there was a pretty big relief. I could look at him and go, “If a guy like that can live, I’ve gotta live too.” His death pulled away an important foundation out from under me. I gained a vague dread for the outside world, becoming only able to go out from 2 to 4 AM. If I forced myself to leave, my heart would start pounding, and I’d get dizzy and hyperventilate. At its worst, my limbs and face would go numb and cramp up. Holed up in my room with the curtains closed, I’d drink and watch the movies Shindo adored. When I wasn’t doing that, I slept. I longed for the days when I’d ride tandem with Shindo and we’d drive around. We did all kinds of stupid stuff. Pump coin after coin into games late at night in an arcade smelling of nicotine, go to the beach at night and come