Mr. K. got a call from his old friend:
—— Oi, Kizuna!
Don’t worry about it. What did you expect, to go on forever?
—— People don’t understand any more.
—— Yeah, but
time changes, there are other things, people need something different.
—— It’s all right for you in your boring little
coffee shop all day, but some of us are trying to do something for people, make
them feel better, give them some purpose in life, try to make them think about
the precious things, things we should cherish and respect, how to live with
each other, cut out the nasty competition, from childhood, as soon as the kids
start to walk, do this do that, be better than the others, it’s a pretence this
false veneer of friendliness…………
—— Relax,
Kizuna! Is your missus there?
—— Hello, Gimon, how are you?
—— Saw you the
other day, you still look great.
—— You’re just saying that. The clothes don’t fit any
more.
The Kizunas decided to drop in on Gimon. Because it
had been such a long time since they had been there, they couldn’t remember the
exact location of the coffee shop. As they were walking along trying their best
to remember where it was, they recognized one of their T-shirts on a young man
several metres ahead. It was one of a limited edition to mark their first
appearance at the Truism Dome, the coveted venue that, like a Mecca for
pilgrims, all entertainers seek to perform at as the pinnacle of their careers.
They remembered the print on the T-shirt: KIZUNA IS FOR LIFE. But when the man
came closer, they saw that some of the letters had been worn away, with the
result that all they could see on the man’s chest was KIZU IS LI E. As they passed each other, the young man’s face betrayed
the hint of a slight sneer as he wondered why this middle-aged couple was
staring at him. The Kizunas in turn wondered whether the man knew the meaning
of Kizuna and who they were, wondered whether the T-shirt had become scruffy
because of a pride in wearing it often, with reverence for the words on it.
They soon found Gimon’s coffee shop and went in.
There were a few customers in the shop, but nobody rushed for their autographs,
as would have happened not so long ago. Two or three of them looked up from
their drinks towards the Kizunas, but these were just the normal, casual
glances nonchalantly directed at whoever walked in. Gimon said nothing. He
picked up a record and put it on the turntable. It was an early recording of
the Kizunas’ “We are one big happy Family.” After a few seconds, though, the
record got stuck, repeating, “…..all together, help each other/all together,
help each other/ all together, help each other…….”
Gimon gave the turntable a slight nudge. The needle moved along smoothly. He smiled and said:
—— Wonderful things like Kizunas need a gentlle push now and again.
