A Requiem for the Boss

The master of a yakitori house in our neighborhood suddenly deceased a week after he was carried away in an ambulance. He was 77, crisp and hardworking.
The master ― I’d call him “the Boss,” which I feel is more fitting for him ― would charge us unbelievably cheap sums when we visited the place in large groups (six to ten.) When we went there by two of us or I alone, the Boss would offer us small dishes saying, “Try them.” The whisky and soda that the Boss served were 70% whisky, always filled to the tip.
Once I asked the Boss why he was so generous. He answered with his usual grin, “This is what I’m running this place for. To watch people enjoy themselves.”
The Boss was a great fan of baseball; when there were only a small number of customers, he would watch TV with us, cheering (and sometimes grunting) at the plays. We, soccer fans, also frequented the place since it was the closest bar from our home stadium. He’d always commented on how our team fared, both in good times and bad times.

I learned of his death through the neighborhood grapevine yesterday. On the night, the place was lit and open as always. His widow and chef seemed to have decided to do so, perhaps because they had reservations. We talked to them and told them that we’d come in the next evening.
Tonight, the place was filled with about twenty customers, old and young. Most everybody knew that the Boss had passed away. On the counter, there were several pictures of the Boss on display, with glasses of liquor for him. People would come up to them and clink their glasses to pay the Boss their respects. What impressed me the most was what a regular did: As soon as he came in, he called for a bottle of beer, walked straight to the fridge himself, took out a bottle, fetched two glasses, placed one in front of the pictures and poured the beer for the Boss. Then he filled his own glass and gave a toast with a silent prayer.

I am not often moved by people’s deaths. I don’t remember crying over my father’s or mother’s death. But I was so moved by this guy’s gesture, it almost made me weep. To further make my point, this guy’s wife was helping run the place tonight.

I guess what moves me the most on these occasions is not the death itself, but the attitudes of the people who surround the deceased one: how they show love and affection to the one who passed away, how important and crucial the existence of the lost one was.

May the Boss rest in peace.
May the place continue to be open.
May the people left after him be in health.
May our feelings reach the Boss.

Thanks for all the yakitori, dishes and the drinks you’ve served us, Boss.

Atsushi Furuiye

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I wrote this on the night of last Tuesday, right after we came home from his place.
I don't know why I started to write it in English, but somehow it came naturally at the time. One more note: I tend to turn to writing when I lose a dear one.