“What brings you to our storied shores, Kel?” “Cat ladies.” “Righteous.” Slater follows dusk’s slow crawl over the sand, toward the city, leaving the fires of go-go jubilation in his wake. He’s guided by strange tales recounted in a cheaply-purchased sharenbon — travelogs for the pleasure districts. Among these first-hand accounts of restaurants, kabuki plays and inns where one might meet a companion-for-a-fee, are tales of supernatural occurrences. One is a story about Kono, a bakeneko — reductive translation: shape-shifting cat — working as a meshimori onna entertaining men at the Ise Inn in the Shinagawa-juku area. A similar tale recounts a man witnessing his amant pour la nuit — reductive translation: sex worker — now transformed into a cat-person, feasting on a human arm, remnants of her shrimp cocktail appetizer scattered across the floor. Slater pursues rumor into the underbelly of Edo. He makes no deference for anonymity or guile in his inquiries, whether it’s with degenerate gamblers in the back rooms of sketchy inns or a street-side throng of unruly samurai collecting their lord’s debts. It takes little time for a woman to approach him with answers: “The gentleman prefers the company of bakeneko yūjo. Purrrrfect choice. Allow me to show you my wares.” She proffers a series of intricately detailed watercolors of women with felid heads. Many of them are in consort with seemingly happy men, holding hands on a walk or taking a picnic at a crossroads. Co-ed interspecies mouth-fishing, a description of which is an adventure you choose. Whatever you came up with, gold star! You’re correct! “Once our kind were feared. Kaibyō sent from hell to steal corpses or curse children or dance upright with napkins draping our heads [Author’s Note: All things people absolutely believed. Carry on]. But now— ” gesturing to the images, “— now we are famous across every island. Sought by people of means for our more … exotic traits. In the brothels of Yoshiwara where dreams and reality are intertwined so acutely that boundaries lose meaning. Physical … mental … emotional …” Entranced, Slater swoons like an undersexed character in a Joe Eszterhas erotic thriller — Showgirls if everyone in the cast knew it was a comedy. He drifts into wanton emptiness; falling for this cat-woman, for her enigmatic wiles. Drawing on his decades of world-class surfing, he recalls all the spills it took to achieve greatness; the necessity of embracing the flow, understanding the waves; becoming part of the greater, not to conquer it but to collude. In what he refers to as his mind-egg, when he’s positive nobody’s listening to his thoughts, he douses the furry puff most humans recognize as a feeling synonymous to “pleasant” with a deluge of sea-foam. “I … love … the OCEAN!” he shrieks, breaking the enchantment. “Suit yourself, aquaman. We could have been beautiful together.” The crazy cat lady, true to form, eschews this human as easily as she’d attached. For her, there’s always another. A love yet unfound, simultaneously deep and petty. Schrödinger’s conversation of candy hearts. Happy Valentine’s Day, you self-actualized singles out there. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR. IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED.
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