The Shack

by Zach Benak

“She has a boyfriend,” I said, holding a pool cue in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. “So I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with her!” 
Hikaru looked alarmed, so I knew my wrath transcended our language barrier.  
“Why would you say that?” he asked. 
“I’m just being honest,” I carried on. “And you act like you don’t have a girlfriend. That’s fucked up.” 
Hikaru didn’t know what to say, at least not in English. But I could tell by his furrowed brow and gritted teeth that I’d struck the nerve I was aiming for. 

There comes a time in every gay person’s life when they will pine after someone who is oblivious, unavailable, and tragically straight. My turn came as a college student on a two-week study abroad in Japan, feelings expedited by the trip’s brevity and a foreign landscape. While my initial reason for traveling to the country was an interest in religion and mourning post-atom bomb, my time in Hiroshima was consumed by Hikaru, and my outburst at the pool table was fueled by a slow burn of jealousy and misguided anger. 
Hikaru was part of a student organization at Hiroshima International University that welcomed and mingled with Americans. The grouping was mutually beneficial—the Japanese students got to practice their English and accompany us on excursions throughout the city, while my classmates and I had personal tour guides. When we met at a documentary viewing, Hikaru was wearing a dark gray sweater over a white collared shirt. Beneath his black-framed glasses and hat were kind eyes and clear skin. After a group discussion about the film, he approached me. 
“I liked what you said during the talk,” he told me. Underneath his ball cap was black hair and side-swept bangs with subtle red highlights. He had full lips and dimples that creased over his smooth skin. He was a beautiful man. 
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m like, the leader of the group.”  
“Really?” he asked.  
“Yeah. You should stick with me.” 
Oddly enough, he took my suggestion. From the university, we walked several blocks to a nearby art gallery. We were in a quieter part of town, away from the neon lights and heavy foot traffic of downtown Hiroshima. We cut through dimly lit alleys, walking side by side with our hands in our pockets. 
“What do you study?” I asked. 
“Peace,” he said. “I want to study it more in Rwanda next year.” 
“That sounds lovely,” I said. 
“Nice,” he replied.  
I asked him about where he grew up (Saga—a prefecture 150 miles away), if he’d ever been to America (just once—Las Vegas), and what he did for fun (thrift shopping, karaoke, and going to bars). He paused with every response, carefully choosing his words. If he wanted to say something but didn’t have the diction for it, he stuttered through his thought with wide eyes, eventually giving up with a shrug and soft smile. Once we made it to the art gallery, he opened the door for me and put his hand on my lower back.  
“You two are so cute together,” said Gemma once I’d caught up to my classmates. Gemma was a bit of a celebrity within our class, having had a guest stint on Dick Wolf’s Chicago franchise on NBC. 
“Do you think he’s even gay?” I asked. I was hot, like my face was blushing and couldn’t cool itself down. 
“If he’s not gay, he’s definitely queerbaiting,” added Jade, a lesbian and my best friend on the trip. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”  
As we gossiped and speculated through the exhibit, I clung to the feeling of his hand on my back, paying little attention to the sculptures and digital art that lined the gallery. After walking through the first floor, I ran into Hikaru again, now playfully sitting on a male friend’s lap. Even my Japanese history professor weighed in on the debate.  
 “Gay,” she said, throwing her hair up in a ponytail to reveal an undercut. 
But after spending three days with Hikaru—eating chicken skewers and drinking C.C. Lemon soda on Miyajima, letting him hold my hand while teaching me to use chopsticks, and messaging each other on Instagram at night—he slipped into conversation that he and his girlfriend were going to a spa resort over the upcoming Christmas holiday. 
“Girlfriend?” I repeated. He nodded, biting into a matcha-flavored ice cream cone outside of the Hondori Shopping Arcade. Something wasn’t clicking. On my end, there’d been heartbreak at home that left my self-esteem at an all-time low. While I’d shown interest in Hikaru from our first meeting, I felt encouraged by his reciprocation. We’d taken pictures together at the Itsukushima Shrine per his request. He told me about his past travels to Fiji, and asked if I’d ever been to Hawaii. 
“It’s halfway from here and Chicago. That’s where we can meet next,” he said, once again putting his hand on my back.  
Instead of grieving my crush by the book, I morphed denial and bargaining into one.  I researched homosexuality in Japan, learning that laws were in place to protect the rights of LGBTQ individuals, but same-sex marriage was not yet legal. The year was 2018, and considering SCOTUS had only made its landmark decision on Obergefell v. Hodges three years prior, it seemed safe to assume that Japan was on a level playing field with the United States in terms of access, freedom, and closet cases. Knowing that Hikaru was from the rural prefecture of Saga, I projected onto him my own escape to Chicago from Nebraska, the politics of which kept me closeted until the age of 20. Maybe he came to Hiroshima seeking liberation. Maybe he knew something about himself that he wasn’t ready to admit yet. Maybe all hope was not lost. 

On our last night together, all the students met at a place called The Shack. It had moody lighting, a pool table, and a dance floor. There were rustic signs for Stella Artois and Captain Morgan behind the bar. Next to the dance floor was a small stage, desktop computer, and massive projection screen. Any patron could type their song of choice into a YouTube search bar and play it on the big screen. Without hesitation, I got on stage and started the night off with Beyoncé.  
“We like to come here because it’s an American bar,” Hikaru explained. The Shack wasn’t reflective of a Japanese cultural experience, but everyone felt right at home. 
Hikaru and his friend Leo challenged Gemma and me to a game of pool. The shooting order lined up so that Leo and Gemma took their turns while Hikaru and I could sit and talk, and vice versa. Leo had spent the last few days hanging around Gemma, despite both having significant others. Not my circus, not my monkeys, I thought. My focus was Hikaru, with whom I was now chain-smoking a pack of menthols. 
“It’s okay here,” he said after I questioned him about smoking indoors. 
“That’s crazy,” I said. “In America, you have to smoke outside but can buy a gun at 7-Eleven.” 
“Really?” he said, mouth agape.  
“Basically,” I said, taking another drag and tossing back my tap water. I’d already drank a Moscow Mule from a plastic cup, and that was enough alcohol for the night. I was nervous, feeling an unsettlement in my stomach that I didn’t want to exacerbate.  Just the one drink had already lifted a veil: I didn’t know what I was doing, or what my expectations were, or why I was investing all this energy into a guy with a girlfriend.  
After Gemma sunk several of our striped balls, it was finally Hikaru’s turn. 
“Gemma is nice,” he said to me, standing up to take the pool cue from Leo.  
“She’s obnoxious,” I muttered.  
“What?”  
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I said, pausing the game. 
“Same,” he said, following me. 
We wandered into the dinky restroom and I took my place at a urinal. He chose the one right next to mine, uninhibited by any stage fright. He started to pee and let out a long, sexual moan. 
“Ugh,” he said. “Feels goooood.” He made eye contact with me, maintaining his stream, and started to giggle. 
What the fuck?  I thought. Was this a crass joke between guys, or an invitation? As I laughed along, it dawned on me that I had never told him my sexual orientation. In Chicago, my identity spoke for itself—most people I encountered read me as gay, a privilege that spared me of coming out to strangers on a day-to-day basis. I didn’t know if Hikaru knew about me what I suspected about him. My Wikipedia rabbit hole on Japanese LGBTQ history did not cover the minutiae of every interaction—what was straight boy toilet humor and what was flirtation? 
Leaving the bathroom even more confused, I went to the stage and queued “Bills” by LunchMoney Lewis. I needed a pump-up anthem to carry on and dissociate from whatever on earth was happening at The Shack. 
 “I took your turn and scored another ball,” Gemma said upon my return to the pool table. She’d definitely had more to drink than me; her turtleneck was rolled down a little and her voice had a higher pitch to it.  
“Gemma is good at pool,” Hikaru said. 
“I’m fucking good at pool,” I said, chalking up my cue and feeling the beat of the song. I started headbanging to the work, work, work every day lyrics while an audience formed around the table. Feeling a spurt of arrogance, I shot my shot, sinking the 8-ball with several of my and Gemma’s striped balls remaining on the table. To counter Gemma’s look of disappointment, I added levity to the error by dancing my way to the bar’s exit as the group of spectators laughed hysterically. I returned to the table and took a bow, feeling like my comedic performance was being rewarded with a standing ovation. Hikaru threw his arms around me, his own laughter leaving him on the verge of tears. 
“I’m getting another drink and then I need a new partner,” Gemma announced with a little too much spite. 
“Gemma’s funny when she’s tipsy,” Hikaru said, letting me go and watching her walk away. 
“Fuck her!” I said. 
“What?”  
“She’s full of shit,” I said. I lit another cigarette, livid that my moment and Hikaru’s attention was being taken away from me. “She’s an actress. Like, come on. And what the fuck is your problem? She has a boyfriend, so I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with her!” I continued my diatribe, seeking to harm. He appeared hurt, but also confused, as if he understood the intention behind my cussing but not the entire impact. I left them to play another game of pool without me, and sat by a table near the dance floor alone. I took a self-imposed time out, placed in isolation to feel weird about myself and think about what triggered such a harsh and absurd response.  
About a year later, I’d be introduced to the “breadcrumbs” metaphor, and I’d think about it in relation to Hikaru. Like a bird, I ate every little crumb dropped to me—the touch of a hand on my back, late night messages, the promise of meeting again in Hawaii—mistaking each one for nourishment and unaware that over the course of three days, I’d been starving to death. 

By the time our group left The Shack, Hikaru no longer seemed bothered by our collision. He offered me one last cigarette, but I declined. The Hiroshima students walked us back to our hotel, and Hikaru spoke in Japanese with students from my class who came to the country eager to practice their language skills. I listened to their unfamiliar words and felt rain on my forehead as it started to sprinkle from the sky. I wanted to cry but didn’t, feeling foolish and embarrassed and sad. We congregated inside the hotel lobby and I took off my glasses to wipe away the raindrops. Hikaru approached me, taking off his own glasses and putting them on my face. I put mine on his, and we were beckoned for a final photo. We both gave the camera a soft smile, and I put my head on his shoulder. 
“Don’t forget about Hawaii,” he told me. I wrapped my arms around him. 
“I can’t go,” I said. “I don’t want to support imperialism.” 
He had no clue what I meant, but laughed anyway. I squeezed him once more and let him go. 

Zach Benak (he/him/his) lives in Chicago. His nonfiction has appeared in GASHER, The Paragon Journal, THAT Literary Review, and Sweeter Voices Still: An LGBTQ Anthology from Middle America (Belt Publishing 2021). His latest work is forthcoming in Riding Fences: Essays on Being LGBTQ+ in Rural Areas (Alternating Current Press).