If you've been following along on the home version, you know I've started a new book. While still fiction, it's a departure from what you may be accustomed to from me. Allow me to set the scene: 2 middle aged American musicians, in Hokkaido. If you've ever experienced jet lag and a hangover, you might be able to appreciate this excerpt. - MM
After a few hours, he gave up. He got dressed, found a pen and left a note.
Couldn't sleep. Went for a walk. Back later. - V
He left the note in the bathroom. He figured one of them would find it.
Hiroshi's neighborhood looked different in the early morning sun. It was a little run-down, but surprisingly clean. Little mounds of dirty snow were about as bad as it got. The air was cold but it felt crisp and clean as he breathed it deep into his lungs.
Vince walked on instinct. Forward, cross a street, forward, cross a street, right turn, forward, right turn...or was it a left? It wasn't long before he was lost. He'd been gone for at least an hour when Hiroshi woke Daniel.
"I think Bince go," he said as he handed him the note.
"Ahhhhh shit," Daniel muttered, still drunk from the night before...or possibly it was jet lag. He wasn't awake enough to tell the difference.
Just about the time Daniel and Hiroshi were leaving to search for him, Vince saw a welcome sight for his bloodshot eyes. The green, red, and orange sign recognized the world over...
7-11!
24/7 goodness! A hot cup of coffee and maybe a donut would fix what was ailing him, no doubt.
As he made his way to the front door, the first thing that struck Vince was the umbrella stand. There had to be at least a dozen umbrellas, just sitting outside the door. It wasn't raining, so had people lost these or was there a storm coming?
The fleeting thought left his mind as the automatic doors opened to what was probably the biggest convenience store he'd ever seen. It looked brand new on the inside, but the building itself looked much older. No matter, Vince was a man on a mission. Coffee and something sugary was needed, and he was going to have it.
He headed straight for the coffee area and stopped dead.
There was coffee, technically. But not the kind he wanted.
No big glass pot of burnt black sludge. No row of stained plastic lids. No powdered creamer in little cups. No rack of honey buns, glazed donuts, or something vaguely called “cheese Danish” that had never been within shouting distance of cheese.
Instead there was a machine.
Not just a machine. A machine that looked like it had been designed by NASA for the sole purpose of humiliating foreigners.
The front of it was covered in buttons and clean little labels, all in Japanese. There were pictures too, but not enough to inspire confidence. A cup dispenser sat beside it, equally mysterious. Vince stared at it for a full ten seconds, as if American willpower might force it to become a coffee pot.
It did not.
He looked around for donuts.
There were none.
There were pastries, maybe. Bread things. Beautifully wrapped objects that looked soft and expensive and possibly filled with fish. He picked one up, turned it over, and found himself staring at a block of Japanese text and a date he hoped was the expiration date and not a warning.
He put it back.
A woman in a dark coat moved past him, took a cup, pressed two buttons without hesitation, and produced a flawless cup of coffee in less than five seconds. Then she added milk from a tiny refrigerated case, bowed slightly to no one in particular, and walked off.
Vince watched this happen with the dull resentment of a man who had crossed an ocean only to be outperformed by breakfast.
He approached the machine carefully.
One button had what looked like coffee on it. Another also looked like coffee. A third might have been coffee, but it might also have been soup.
He chose the first one.
Nothing happened.
He hit it again.
Still nothing.
A polite electronic chime sounded, which Vince took to mean: Nice try, idiot.
He looked down and realized, after a moment of gathering shame, that he did not yet have a cup.
“Fantastic,” he muttered.
He took a cup from the dispenser. That part, at least, felt universal. He set it under the machine, pressed the same button again, and was rewarded with a loud grinding sound that suggested either fresh coffee or mechanical failure.
It was coffee.
Tiny. Perfectly respectable. About three swallows.
Vince stared at it.
“That’s not coffee,” he said to the machine. “That’s an insult.”
Still, it smelled good. Better than good, actually. Infuriatingly good.
He took a sip.
It was excellent.
This only made him angrier.
Now all he needed was something sweet, fried, and familiar. Something from home. Something stupid and terrible and comforting. He wandered the aisles in growing disbelief.
Rice balls. Sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Noodles. Bento boxes. Salads fresher than anything sold in half the grocery stores back home. Little desserts in neat plastic cups. Everything looked edible. Nothing looked like a donut.
Not a proper one, anyway.
He found something round in plastic packaging and seized on it with desperate hope. He held it up to the light.
It might have been a donut.
It might also have been seafood.
He put it back with the care of a man defusing an explosive.
By now his head was pounding. The coffee, though excellent, had only reminded his body how tired it was. The warmth of the store had turned his earlier confidence into a kind of slow, spiritual collapse. He stood in the aisle holding his tiny cup, surrounded by immaculate food he could not identify, and had the unpleasant realization that he was very far from home and not nearly as adaptable as he liked to think.
A clerk behind the register noticed him lingering and said something cheerful in Japanese.
Vince froze, then gave the universal smile of the linguistically doomed.
“Coffee good,” he said, lifting the cup a little. “Donut... no?”
The clerk blinked.
Vince made a small circle in the air with his fingers. “Donut? Sweet? Breakfast of champions? Future diabetes?”
The clerk smiled politely, clearly understanding none of it, and bowed.
Vince bowed back out of pure panic.
That seemed to go over well, but it did not produce a donut.
Vince tried the globally tested American linguistic hail Mary. He said it again, louder and slower.
DO - NUT?
The clerk looked puzzled for a moment, then had what could be best perceived as an Aha moment.
"Ahhhhh, donatsu!" he said, in the voice so chipper it would infuriate Mother Teresa, and pointed to a case of pastries along the far wall of the store.
Vince’s face lit up.
“Yes! Donut! That’s what I’ve been saying!”
He gave the clerk an enthusiastic thumbs up, which the clerk returned with equal enthusiasm, as if they had just successfully negotiated a peace treaty.
Vince made his way to the case.
This was it.
Salvation.
He leaned in.
The optimism lasted about two seconds.
There were round things. That was promising. Some had holes. Even better. But they were...off. Too perfect. Too carefully arranged. Too...intentional.
One was dusted with something that might have been sugar.
Or salt.
Another had a glossy sheen that suggested either glaze or some kind of seafood-based decision.
He opened the case cautiously, like a man approaching an animal that might bite.
He picked one.
Round. Lightly coated. Safe-looking.
“This is a donut,” he told himself. “This is a normal, American-adjacent donut. The universe is not completely broken.”
He brought it to the counter along with his tiny, insulting cup of excellent coffee.
The clerk rang him up with impressive speed. Numbers appeared on the screen. Vince paid, nodded, and - because he was committed now - bowed slightly again.
The clerk beamed.
Vince took that as a good sign.
It was not.
He stepped aside, unwrapped the pastry, and took a confident bite.
For a brief, shining moment, everything was fine.
Then the filling hit.
Not sugar.
Not cream.
Not jelly.
Not anything that had ever been inside a donut in the United States of America.
It was...beans.
Sweet beans.
Warm, smooth, aggressively present sweet beans.
Vince froze mid-chew.
His face went through several small but important changes. Confusion. Denial. Betrayal. A flicker of disgust. Then, finally, resignation.
He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. That’s on me.”
He took another bite, smaller this time...like he was negotiating with it.
It was still beans.
He looked back at the case.
Every single one of them suddenly made sense in the worst possible way.
“None of these are donuts,” he whispered. “These are lies.”
A man next to him grabbed two of them without hesitation and walked off, perfectly content, as if this were normal behavior in a civilized society.
Vince stared down at what remained of his.
He sighed.
“Alright,” he said. “We’re doing this.”
He finished it.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he had committed.
He washed it down with the rest of his coffee, which remained excellent and somehow even more offensive because of it.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Tired. Slightly caffeinated. Full of beans in ways he had not anticipated.
Very far from home.
Behind him, the door chimed.
Vince turned.
Hiroshi burst in first, slightly out of breath, scanning the store like a man who had just lost something important.
“Bince!”
Daniel followed, looking like he had been assembled incorrectly that morning.
“There he is,” Daniel said, squinting. “Jesus, you look like hell.”
Vince held up the empty pastry wrapper.
“I found coffee,” he said. “Everything else in this place is a science experiment.”
Hiroshi lit up.
“Ah! You eat donatsu! Very popular!”
Vince looked at him.
“It was beans, dude.”
Hiroshi nodded proudly.
“Yes! Anko! Very delicious!”
Vince considered this.
Then nodded slowly.
“Sure,” he said. “If your goal is to start the day angry and confused.”
Daniel glanced at the coffee machine.
“Is that coffee at least normal?”
Vince looked down at the empty cup.
“It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had,” he said. “And that somehow makes it worse.”
"I could really go for a cup of coffee," Daniel said, almost thinking out loud.
Hiroshi clapped his hands once, suddenly energized.
“Coffee! I show! Very easy!”
Vince snorted.
“That machine just insulted my entire upbringing.”
“No, no,” Hiroshi said, already moving. “You do wrong. Come.”
Daniel followed, still not entirely upright.
“I just want something that doesn’t fight me,” he muttered.
Hiroshi grabbed a cup, placed it under the machine, and with the confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times, pressed two buttons in quick succession.
The machine whirred to life.
A proper cup this time. Larger. Fuller. Respectable.
Daniel’s eyes widened slightly.
“Okay!”
Hiroshi handed it to him like a prize.
“Hot coffee. Good, yes?”
Daniel took a sip.
His posture changed immediately.
“Oh that’s - yeah. Yeah, that’s real. That’s real coffee.”
Vince, watching this, grabbed a larger cup himself.
“Alright,” he said. “Round two. Let’s see if we can establish diplomatic relations.”
He followed Hiroshi’s motions, a little slower, but this time the machine complied without judgment.
A full cup.
He took a sip.
Still excellent.
Still annoying.
But now there was enough of it to matter.
“Okay,” Vince admitted. “That’s better. I withdraw my previous statement about this place being run by lunatics.”
Hiroshi beamed.
“Japanese convenience store very high quality!”
Daniel, now partially restored to life, wandered toward the shelves.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s try food again. Something simple. Something safe.”
Vince, still chewing on the memory of beans, stayed where he was.
“Godspeed my brother,” he said.
Daniel scanned the options.
That’s when he saw it.
Triangular. Neatly packaged. Clean. Friendly.
One even had a little smiling face printed on the wrapper.
“This,” Daniel said, holding it up, “looks normal.”
Hiroshi nodded enthusiastically.
“Ah! Onigiri! Very good!”
Daniel smiled.
“Great. That’s what I’m talking about. Bread, right?”
Hiroshi hesitated.
“Rice.”
Daniel waved that off.
“Close enough.”
He brought it to the counter, paid, and returned with the confidence of a man who believed breakfast had finally stopped being complicated.
Vince leaned against a shelf, sipping his coffee.
“This should be good.”
Daniel looked over the packaging.
It had numbers on it.
1
2
3
Arrows. Tabs. Lines.
Instructions in Japanese.
“How hard can this be?” he said.
He pulled at the top.
Nothing.
He turned it over.
Pulled again.
Still nothing.
Hiroshi watched, already smiling.
Daniel frowned.
“Why does this have instructions?”
He found the tab marked “1” and pulled.
The wrapper split neatly down the center.
“Okay,” Daniel said. “Progress.”
He moved to “2.”
Pulled.
The plastic peeled away in a strangely satisfying but deeply suspicious way.
Vince leaned in slightly.
“Oh no,” he said. “I don’t like how organized this is.”
Daniel ignored him and went for “3.”
He pulled.
Everything went wrong.
The wrapper came apart - but not cleanly. One side stuck. The other tore too far. The seaweed - previously hidden - snapped free and folded awkwardly over itself.
Daniel froze, holding something that looked less like food and more like a failed arts-and-crafts project.
“What...what is happening?”
Hiroshi was already laughing.
“Ahhh - no, no - too fast!”
“I followed the numbers!” Daniel protested.
“No like that!” Hiroshi said, stepping in.
But it was too late.
Daniel tried to recover.
He squeezed it slightly.
The rice shifted.
Not catastrophically - but enough.
Just enough.
A small chunk dropped out the bottom and hit the floor with a soft, humiliating thud.
Vince lost it.
He doubled over, laughing into his coffee.
“Oh my God,” he managed. “It’s fighting back.”
Daniel stared at what remained in his hands.
“This was supposed to be the easy one.”
Hiroshi, still laughing, took another onigiri from the shelf.
“Watch,” he said.
He demonstrated - slowly this time.
Pull. Separate. Slide.
The wrapper came off clean. The seaweed wrapped perfectly around the rice. Compact. Elegant. Edible.
He handed it to Daniel.
“Like this.”
Daniel looked at his own ruined version.
Then at Hiroshi’s.
Then back again.
“This was supposed to be the easy one.” he said.
Vince wiped a tear from his eye.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It's easy for people who know what they're doing.”
Daniel took a bite of Hiroshi’s properly unwrapped onigiri.
He paused.
Chewed.
Considered.
“Okay,” he admitted. “That’s actually pretty good.”
Vince nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s how they get you. First, it’s confusing, then it’s better than anything you’ve ever had.”
Hiroshi grinned.
“Yes! Japan!”
Vince took a long sip of his coffee.
“Yeah,” he said. “Japan.”
Then, after a beat:
“...but I’m still thinking about that donut.”
© 2026 Michael C. Metzger
(from the forthcoming novel Drink The Water)
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