His Heart Beats 6 Times a Year

Prologue

Agoraphobia.

That's the answer. It has to be it. The man is agoraphobic.

Sure, it wasn't a big deal in the beginning, but now, almost 3 weeks after moving in, you haven't even caught a glimpse of your eccentric neighbor who supposedly lives next door. It's become somewhat of a pastime peeking your head through the curtains of your window any time you see activity across the street.

Usually drama.

Like a pretty 20-something, doing the walk of shame down the steps of his home, crying her eyes out pleading with him not to dump her. You watched as the Uber sits idly by the curb, engine humming softly, ready to take her home.

Or sometimes it's rage-fueled shouts followed by a string of "fuck you's" and "I hate you's" making you reach instinctively for your cellphone in case you needed to call police.

In those instances, broken glass, and threats of bodily harm were ubiquitous, so was the sound of metal scraping metal when woman-of-the-week decided to key the shitty hooptie he kept in his driveway; boldly threatening to do the same to ... other parts of his body.

Poor thing– the car of course—not his penis. The vehicle had seen enough adventures to be a prop in the next Indiana Jones film. The car absolutely defied logic, the way its various parts held together in a masterful combination of duct tape and prayer.

For some reason, he chose to leave it parked outside, at the mercy of the women he scorned, instead of you know, storing it safely in his garage. Which leads you to believe it must hold some significance... does it even drive? He never works on it or calls a professional to work on it. And it's the only car you see on his property. Does he not need a car to get to work? Is he retired? Maybe he's living off his retirement?

The neighborhood was a quaint, quiet place--pretty boujee in fact. Most who live here are white-collar workers who work in or around the city or retirees from high-paying professions living off the couple million saved from a lifetime of corporate ladder climbing.

Only Hugh Hefner next door seemed to be the only stain ripping you from the illusion that everybody here preferred peace, quiet and privacy.

Speaking of Hugh Hefner, Maybe that's why he kept the car outside? It's no secret Mr. Fushiguro lived his life like a frat boy... an-over-the-hill frat boy at that. Images conjure in your head of that one balding, pot-bellied, man at the club going around asking girls if he could buy drinks for them... until last call where the only women left are just as desperate as he is.

You cringe.

It's an embarassing sight you've seen many times at the club you work at, and now that you're spinning tales about the ever-elusive heartbreaker next door you wonder... maybe Mr Fushiguro keeps the car out to act as stand-in? A sacrificial offering of sorts for women to wreck instead of the real treasure that laid betwixt his legs?

If you trusted anything, it'd be that his member was apparently the stuff of legend. A rod of gold. A sceptar of despair. A constant subject of both ridicule and admiration; envy and disdain; Reverence and revile.

Simply stated, you know why they keep coming back... if nothing else. His special gift from the gods was a topic of many-a scorned women, as embarrassing as that should be for a middle aged-manchild (or not). But is it really worth all this drama? Is doing it with a balding recluse just that appealing? Or is it the well-to-do area that sells the man?

You pocket those thoughts for later.

Regardless, it wasn't female drama this time around that captured your attention.

Today the car parked across the street was a male delivery driver—Bringing Chinese by the looks of it.

Does Mr Fushiguro not cook? This is the 3rd delivery driver in a few hours. Perhaps he's ordering for company he's with? But you don't recall seeing any ubers dropping off or picking up women today.

You didn't see any new graffiti on his personal effects like the words "fuck you, pig" written in hot pink lipstick. Nor did you see new keylines etched into the metal of his car like tattoos of shame advertising to the world how much of a sleaze he is. But it isn't like you're keeping strict track either.

You didn't care that much about the man's personal life, it came to you, if anything.

The driver gets out of his car with the brown bags-- yup, definitely oriental-- and rings the doorbell before taking a few steps back bobbing on his feet juggling them in his arms. The door opens, but to your dismay, no figure comes out to greet them. You figured Mr Fushiguro opens his front door remotely. Not uncommon in this area, many of the houses were smart homes. It isn't uncommon to set up your surveillance, electric or other appliances remotely, but what is uncommon is to never ever bother to open the door yourself. Even smart home owners come out for fresh air every once in a while.

But your neighbor is never seen, not even to greet the revolving door of beauties always entering and exiting the property.

But you continue peering through your window at the vacuous 2-story home across the street.

The driver takes a large step inside, his back leg bracing the door behind him as he places the brown bags on the floor. Then he reaches for something out of sight, and returns happily to his car, pocketing the cash and the generous tip left for him. Your neighbor, like many in the area, is a generous tipper, despite barely scraping together his rent each month. (Again, gossip you learned from the ladies. When they're especially angry intimate details and toxic vitriol flow from their mouths like diarrhea.)

"Oh, boo," you whine at another missed opportunity at seeing the infamous Reach Fushiguro. Or Hugh... Or Mike... Or Ben... or Jack– or whatever his fucking name is. Hard to tell if he was the most shameless womanizer in town, or well... a pimp, because he went by alot of names.

Well at least, you find solace in knowing that could never be you. Such behavior is a massive turnoff. Not that, you're judging Mr. Fushiguro per say, for his 'lifestyle choices' (or the women for theirs), but you do learn a lot about about a person vicariously through the company they keep.

So if it walks like a pimp... it probably quacks like a pimp too.

Your phone notification goes off, startling you as your attention is abruptly pulled away from the window. You read the flurry of texts. Nobara, your friend and coworker, says to come to work a little early if you can because we're getting some VIPs.

By VIPs, she's means the wealthy, powerful, egotistical, and undeniably problematic Zenin family members, notorious for their cumbersome behavior.

Naoya Zenin, in particular, was a massive headache.

"Ugh..." you roll your eyes at that.

As you grab your keys, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and quickly adjust your wig and makeup, making sure you look presentable (hoping to avoid any comments from Naoya).

And head out to work; A nightclub owned by the very same family you despise.