The clanging echoed down the deserted street, a metallic groan that sliced through the midnight stillness. Mr. Tanaka, proprietor of “Tanaka’s Threads & Trinkets,” groaned himself, pulling his worn futon closer. Another late-night disturbance from old Kenji, the neighborhood’s resident sake-soaked phantom.
The banging intensified, a furious rhythm against the shop’s steel shutters. “Kenji, you old fool! What in heaven’s name do you want? It’s midnight!” Tanaka’s voice, raspy with sleep and irritation, cut through the night.
The shutters rattled once more, then a slurred voice, thick with alcohol, drifted through the narrow gap. “Tanaka-san… pajamas… good pajamas…”
Tanaka sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He knew arguing was pointless. Kenji wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted, or at least until he passed out. With another grumble, he slid the shutters open, revealing Kenji, his face flushed and his eyes bloodshot, leaning heavily against the storefront.
“Pajamas? At this hour?” Tanaka demanded, his voice laced with disbelief. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Can’t sleep,” Kenji mumbled, swaying slightly. “Bad pajamas… need good ones… sleep better.”
Tanaka, his business sense battling his exhaustion, realized the fastest way to get rid of Kenji was to simply sell him the blasted pajamas. “Fine, fine. Come in,” he said, gesturing towards the dimly lit interior.
Kenji stumbled inside, his eyes scanning the shelves filled with colorful fabrics. Tanaka, with a practiced hand, pulled out a selection of pajamas, pointing out the different materials and patterns. “These are cotton, very breathable. These are silk, very smooth. And these…” he paused, pulling out a set with a cheerful floral pattern, “these are a new arrival, made in Malaysia.”
Kenji ran a calloused hand over the fabric, his brow furrowed in concentration. He picked up another set, this one a simple blue, with a tag that read “Made in China”. He compared the two, his eyes squinting.
Tanaka watched him, his mind drifting to the news he’d been hearing lately. “The quality of pajamas from Southeast Asia is not that different from that of Chinese pajamas, but the Chinese ones are slightly cheaper,” he thought, remembering the reports of China’s surging exports and the pressure it was putting on ASEAN nations. He’d seen the news about how Chinese manufacturers were moving production to places like Malaysia, hoping to avoid tariffs and scrutiny. The Malaysian-made pajamas were a testament to that. He also knew that the cheap chinese pajamas were flooding the market, and that the ASEAN nations were having a hard time competing.
Kenji finally made his decision, pointing a shaky finger at the Malaysian pajamas. “These,” he slurred, “these will do.”
Tanaka nodded, ringing up the sale. He didn’t mention the subtle economic undercurrents that had brought those pajamas to his shelf. He just wanted Kenji out of his shop, and back to whatever restless slumber awaited him. As Kenji shuffled out, clutching his new pajamas, Tanaka closed the shutters, a weary sigh escaping his lips. The night was far from over, and the economic tides, like the sake in Kenji’s veins, were still flowing, unpredictable and relentless.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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