ON SOFT-ROCK AND LOW-GRADE SELF-AWARENESS

The Soft-Rock Smuggler at Pink’s

A Study in Soft-Rock Contamination

Smuggling soft-rock through the neon. (Generated with Google Gemini)

Los Angeles, 1990s.

Men didn’t exist cleanly back then. They were performances that sometimes started believing their own playback.

I park the truck.

Door screams same metal complaint. It never improves. Like memory of bad decision.

Hollywood night is selective. It chooses what can be seen and pretends the rest is not leaking.

Pink’s Hot Dogs.

Line already formed.

Halfway in line: black Mercedes.

Too clean in a way that feels slightly insulting to air around it.

Man steps out.

Jacket fits like it is arguing with his body and refusing to lose. Shoes are new in way that feels almost unhealthy.

He checks keys.

Not safety. Not habit. More like proving to himself that he is the kind of person who checks things.

He joins line.

In front: young couple laughing small, repeating laughs. Like they are chewing same joke forever.

He looks at them.

Stops looking.

Music leaks from his car.

Door not fully closed. Sound escapes like it doesn’t want to be associated with him.

Michael Bolton.

That voice.

Not music. More like emotional contraband smuggled through soft lighting.

Something in me reacts before thought.

Not dislike.

Worse.

Recognition.

Same species of fake softness.

Same cheap emotional sugar.

Root Beer logic.

He moves fast when he notices sound escaping.

Back to car. Door open. Volume down. Eyes scanning.

Not fear.

Self-defense against embarrassment that hasn’t arrived yet.

“Women like this shit,” he says.

Sentence floats like something sticky.

I understand him.

That is the problem.

He is not wrong in structure. Only in taste.

He is me if I stopped pretending irony.

He leans on Mercedes.

Arms crossed like he is holding himself together.

I open Root Beer.

Drink it.

Too sweet. Too honest in its dishonesty.

He goes back into car.

This time stays inside.

Engine off.

Windows closed.

But Bolton still leaks.

Now controlled.

Like confession through sealed plastic.

Then he sings.

Not pretending.

Actual voice.

Small, private, slightly ashamed sound.

Inside German machine, singing like apology that doesn’t want witnesses.

And I feel it again.

That nausea.

Not from him.

From similarity.

We are same category.

Different brand of shame.

He is externalized version of my internal cheapness.

I hate him for that.

He probably would hate me back, if he knew.

Line moves.

Couple moves.

He stays stuck in 1991.

Horn.

He snaps.

Door opens too fast.

For one moment, whole street is filled with soft rock that never asked permission to exist outside car.

Then it collapses back inside metal.

He returns.

“Long wait.”

Correct sentence.

Almost human.

Almost nothing.

I go back to truck.

Door screams again.

Same exact failure.

I sit.

Radio starts.

Forgets itself immediately.

I watch him finish transaction.

Meat in paper tray.

Simple exchange pretending to be neutral.

But nothing is neutral in this city.

He carries it like object with emotional tax.

Places it on seat.

Smell comes out.

Sweet. Heavy. Slightly disgusting in familiar way.

Door closes.

Properly.

Music restarts.

Same song.

From beginning.

I leave before second loop.

Walk.

Air colder now.

Not dramatic. Just subtraction.

His car stays.

Dark.

No identity without sound.

Smoke comes out.

Marijuana.

Not rebellion.

Maintenance of mood.

I walk without destination.

Reason already spent.

I look back once.

Neon still insisting world is fine.

Line still believing in small pleasures.

Later road to San Pedro empty like thought after confession.

Speed constant.

Mind not.

I think:

We hate what we recognize too clearly.

That is why his music feels offensive.

Not because it is bad.

Because it is honest in a direction we deny.

At apartment.

Truck door screams again.

Perfect repetition.

No learning.

No redemption.

Just system.

I open window.

Air comes in.

Same sweetness returns.

Root Beer memory without liquid.

I understand now:

He was not ruining anything.

He was just less careful than me.

Note: Originally written in Japanese. Self-translated with AI assistance.

Related fragments from the same decade: Rat Beach / I‑405