Poky bars in Kabukichō – Tokyo’s red-light district – are always packed; some nights it’s almost impossible to get a seat. Ken’s came courtesy of a tearful, ageing gentleman who was being shown the door (ever so respectfully) by the venue’s sole bartender. The pair bowed and exchanged a note as Ken hastily squeezed inside.

“Whisky, please!” Ken barked. He slung his simple brown coat on an old wooden peg as the barman hurried back. By the time he was comfortable in his chair, the drink was waiting on a clean napkin. The barman turned his back and polished glasses in silence.

Ken downed the drink in three lustful gulps, closed his bloodshot eyes, and relaxed further into his seat. He felt better, but the drink had tasted awful. Like licking the back of a cheap watch. “Thank you, and another please. But perhaps another brand?” he requested. He rubbed his eyes slowly, then massaged his aching neck.

“Busy day, sir?” the barman enquired, placing the new drink on a fresh napkin.

“Yes, aren’t they all?” Ken responded, though he couldn’t remember much from the day, other than a hurried morning with some papers to sign. The barman turned his back again, and let Ken be with his drink.

“That man you were assisting when I arrived, he seemed upset. Everything okay?” Ken asked.

“Ah yes, I believe a stressful day at work for him, sir.”

Ken fumbled around his satchel for his pack of cigarettes, dismissing the barman’s stock response.

“Is he a regular?”

“Sir, this bar has only a few regulars. Most customers I never see a second time.”

“I see. I suppose, then, you must get to know those regulars quite well. May I ask what sort of job would make a man stressed to the point of shedding tears?” Ken prodded playfully, hunting for some matches with no success.

The bartender turned around fully and answered, “He works in the detention centre, sir.”

“Interesting. I’ve never crossed paths with a prison worker before. I suppose someone has to do that sort of work. Can’t be that bad, right? Government job. Solid pension.” Ken laughed, accepting a light from the barman.

“His job is a cheerless one, sir.” the barman offered, looking Ken in the eye, adding, “And you’ve met him before.”

Surprised, and intrigued, Ken slouched with a grin. “No. Barman – you’re surely mistaken. I never forget a face, I guarantee you” he explained, aiming a jet of smoke at the ceiling.

The bartender reached for the whisky bottle and poured Ken a third drink.

“I’m sorry, sir. Your memory for faces is no doubt perfect. However, I’m not mistaken. You have met that man. You’ve just never seen his face.”

“Explain yourself!” Ken demanded, slamming his glass on the bench-top. His mood had finally flipped. The bartender mopped up the spilt liquor, before calmly restoring Ken’s glass to full capacity.

“Please, sir. Just enjoy your whisky.”

“Oh, enjoy, you say? After being insulted? How can I, now?” Ken spat.

“Because it’s your last, sir.”

“My last drink? My last? What the hell do you mean? Are you kicking me out?”

The bartender deftly replaced Ken’s ashtray with a clean one.

“Sir, no. Not at all. Please finish your drink. Let there be no further harm today.”

“Harm? Are you joking? I think I’ve had quite enough of you and this place. You’re right. It is my last drink. Here at least!” Ken shouted. He stood up, snatched his cigarette pack, and tossed a handful of ¥500 coins on the bench-top.

The barman bowed deeply. Ken cursed, marched to the door, and gathered his coat.

“You know, this place is the worst!” Ken muttered, and left through the thin sliding doors.

The barman straightened when the door closed. He extracted the elderly gentleman’s note from his apron pocket and read.

Apologies. Late notice, as always. We have a group of seven today. Feisty bunch. Remember the sarin gas attack back in ’95? Awful. But you know me well enough… It upsets me every time I pull the trapdoor lever.

The bartender looked over to door when he heard the dramatic crackle of burning saltpetre. He saw a few flashes of yellowish light, and waited for the resulting sharp smell to pass before finishing the note.

The Buddha tells us we owe each of them a drink or two for altering their karma today. But give these ones the cheap stuff.