The Solo Level

Hey, you.

How good are you at being alone?

Eating ramen alone. Korean barbecue alone. Traveling alone.

Those are all pretty normal these days.

But how about this?

Friday night.

A packed izakaya filled with students celebrating the end of the week and office workers already well into their drinks.

You walk into all that noise alone.

Order alone.

Eat alone.

Drink alone.

You don’t exchange a single word with anyone. You pay, walk out into the night—

and think:

I won.

I’ve done that.

And that is exactly what I thought.

Clink-clank.

The high little note of the doorbell made it feel as though my day had finally ended.

I took my usual seat, and without a word, Mama placed my Harper in front of me.

The ice made a small, hard clink.

“So.”

Taka reached for his glass.

“What did you beat?”

“What?”

“That izakaya story. You said you thought, ‘I won.’”

“I did.”

“Against what?”

I lifted my glass and watched the amber whiskey move.

“...No idea.”

“You declared victory without knowing your opponent?”

“The feeling of victory is what I remember.”

“So who did you beat?”

“I don’t know. But I won.”

Tom snorted beside me.

“Yourself.”

“What?”

“You beat that stupid pride that made you hesitate to go in alone.”

“Don’t turn this into some inspirational story.”

“It’s not inspirational. It’s obvious.”

“No. I crossed some kind of... invisible barrier.”

“What barrier?”

Taka grinned.

“So your Solo Level must be pretty high.”

“My what?”

“Your tolerance for doing things alone. Independence. Whatever. Think of it as a level.”

Tom tilted his glass, looking uninterested.

“...How high?”

“What?”

“My level.”

Taka folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.

“Friday-night izakaya alone... maybe 3,000.”

“Is that high?”

“We don’t have a scale.”

“Then make one.”

“Why me?”

“You invented it.”

Mama quietly sighed behind the counter.

She could probably sense another pointless argument beginning.

“Ramen alone.”

“Fifty.”

“That low?”

“If it’s a counter-style ramen shop, ten.”

“Beef bowl alone.”

“Five.”

“Coffee shop.”

“Three.”

“Movie theater.”

“One hundred.”

“Nobody talks during a movie anyway.”

“Fine. Thirty.”

“Don’t change it that easily.”

Taka kept going.

“Karaoke alone.”

“Five hundred.”

“Solo karaoke is normal now.”

“Then three hundred.”

I frowned.

“So the score changes over time?”

“Of course. We live in an age with restaurants designed for solo barbecue.”

“Fair point.”

“Years ago, maybe eight hundred. Today, three hundred.”

“Historical adjustment too?”

This was stupid.

Utterly stupid.

And yet I was becoming increasingly concerned about the accuracy of our scoring model.

“Solo trip.”

“Depends where. Sightseeing while staying at a business hotel? Two hundred.”

“What about a traditional hot-spring inn?”

Taka froze.

“...Two thousand five hundred.”

Strong.

Definitely a high-level solo activity.

But I had my Friday-night izakaya.

Groups of students.

Office parties.

Roaring laughter.

Glasses crashing together in endless toasts.

And in the middle of that storm, I had silently eaten, drunk, paid, and left.

“Two thousand.”

“What is?”

“Solo hot-spring inn. Lower it to two thousand. It’s below my izakaya.”

“Why do you control the market?”

“Comparative analysis.”

“Of what?”

“Solo tolerance.”

Tom laughed.

“He’s using his own experience as the benchmark.”

“Quiet. What about an amusement park alone?”

Taka thought.

So did I.

I pictured myself riding a roller coaster alone.

At the big drop, the automatic camera takes a picture.

Families screaming.

Couples laughing.

And at the edge of the photograph—

me.

Alone.

Expressionless.

Wind blasting my face.

Would you like to purchase your ride photo?

...Strong.

“Three thousand eight hundred.”

“That high?”

“It beat the izakaya?”

“There’s evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“A permanent photographic record proving you rode a roller coaster alone.”

“Who are you showing it to?”

I went quiet.

“...No idea.”

“You lost.”

“I did not.”

“Against what?”

“The value of my solo izakaya.”

“So you were making them fight.”

Pointless.

But now I needed to know what stood at the top of this ridiculous ranking.

“Alone on a cliff overlooking the sea.”

Tom threw it out casually.

“Why are you on a cliff?”

“To look at the ocean.”

“Why does it have to be a cliff?”

“Better picture.”

Weak reasoning.

Still, I imagined a solitary man standing on a desolate cliff.

Sea wind tearing past him.

Waves smashing against the rocks.

Seabirds crying in the distance.

Nothing ahead but the horizon.

One man.

Alone.

...Wait.

“Isn’t being alone actually more natural there?”

“...True.”

“If two people are standing together on a cliff, I start worrying one of them is about to murder the other.”

“Yeah. Something definitely happened.”

“But one person?”

“Deep contemplation. Maybe a poet.”

“Exactly. He belongs in the landscape.”

“So the score should be low. One hundred fifty.”

Tom frowned.

“It’s a cliff.”

“Being alone fits the scene too well.”

“But it’s a cliff. The word itself has power.”

“Fine. Four thousand nine hundred eighty.”

“Why did it suddenly jump that high?”

“Because it’s a cliff.”

“That has nothing to do with being alone!”

Mama’s shoulders were shaking.

Apparently we had finally broken her.

“Anything else?”

I urged them on.

Taka folded his arms.

Tom started playing with his glass.

After a while, I murmured:

“...Hot pot alone.”

They both stopped.

“At home?”

“At a restaurant.”

Silence.

I closed my eyes.

A four-person table.

One man occupying it alone.

Silently fishing cooked cabbage out of a bubbling pot.

Strong.

Overwhelmingly strong.

Inside my head, my Friday-night solo izakaya rose to meet the challenge.

A seasoned warrior who had defied the noise of the crowd and drained his drink alone.

Across from him stood Solo Hot Pot.

Motionless.

Solo Izakaya charged.

No effect.

Solo Hot Pot calmly raised its ladle and transferred a piece of cabbage into a small bowl.

My izakaya dropped to one knee.

“...Five thousand.”

“What just happened inside your head?”

“I lost.”

“What did?”

“My solo izakaya.”

“You are making them fight!”

Tom cut in.

“What about the cliff?”

“Four thousand nine hundred eighty.”

“Hot pot wins?”

“By twenty points.”

“What are those twenty points?”

I considered it.

“The conceptual weight of sharing a hot pot.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You don’t just eat hot pot. You gather around hot pot.”

“Okay?”

“But you’re alone. You’re gathering around it by yourself.”

“That makes no sense!”

“That’s why it’s five thousand.”

“I still don’t understand!”

“But it beats the cliff.”

“The cliff score makes no sense either!”

Tom doubled over laughing.

Mama dropped fresh ice into the bucket.

Clink.

“Tell me something.”

Her voice was quiet.

“What are these numbers actually measuring?”

The three of us fell silent.

“...The psychological difficulty of doing something alone?” Taka offered.

“But being alone on the cliff was easy,” I said.

“That was one hundred fifty.”

“Four thousand nine hundred eighty.”

“Tom, stay out of this.”

Mama thought for a moment.

“Then maybe it’s how much you think other people are looking at you.”

We turned toward her.

“Other people?”

“If you eat ramen alone, there are lots of other people eating alone too, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What about an amusement park?”

“Mostly families and couples.”

“Hot pot?”

“Usually groups sharing a table.”

I nodded.

Taka looked like something had clicked too.

“I get it. The more you feel like you stand out from everyone around you, the higher the score.”

“So that’s what it is.”

Tom snorted.

“But did anyone at that izakaya actually look at you?”

I remembered that night.

The students had been too busy making fools of themselves.

The office workers had been too busy complaining about their bosses.

Nobody cared what I was eating.

Nobody cared what I was drinking.

Nobody had probably noticed that I was there alone at all.

“...No.”

“Then whose eyes were you worried about?”

“...Your own,” Taka said.

I lifted my glass.

“Don’t turn this into some inspirational story.”

“That’s what I said at the beginning.”

“I still won.”

“So against who?”

“No idea. But I won.”

“We’re back where we started.”

Mama laughed.

“What about Aoi?”

“What about it?”

“What level is coming here alone?”

We looked at each other.

I came alone.

So did Taka.

So did Tom.

“...One.”

“That low?”

“I feel absolutely nothing.”

“Same.”

“Then one.”

Mama smiled.

“But all three of you come through that door alone and end up talking together every night.”

We fell silent.

“...Does that count as being alone?”

“You arrived alone.”

“Yeah, but we don’t spend the evening alone.”

“So does it count or not?”

“Who knows.”

Tom tilted his glass.

“Actually, there’s something wrong with this whole thing.”

“What?”

“You keep talking about levels and scores and winning.”

“Yeah.”

“But if you’re doing something alone, there’s nobody to compete against in the first place.”

Taka and I froze.

Inside my head, Solo Izakaya had defeated Solo Hot-Spring Inn, been crushed by Solo Amusement Park, watched the Lonely Cliff mysteriously evolve to 4,980 points, and finally bowed before the absolute champion, Solo Hot Pot.

But in reality—

someone had simply eaten alone.

Someone had traveled alone.

Someone had gone to an amusement park alone.

That was all.

“...He’s right.”

Taka burst out laughing.

Tom joined him.

Mama laughed out loud.

I had no choice but to laugh too.

Seriously.

What kind of imaginary league had we been running all night?

Hey, you.

What’s your score?

Solo barbecue.

Solo travel.

Solo amusement park.

Tonight’s provisional champion is Solo Hot Pot at 5,000.

The Lonely Cliff is close behind at 4,980.

Objections are welcome.

Actually, objections are probably the only reasonable response.

I took a sip of Harper.

Still—

who the hell did I think I’d beaten that night?

See you again at Aoi.