MIDNIGHT AT THE RITZ
Its 6-9-2016
A Thursday
10 p.m.
and I can’t sleep.
Day 7 of this family vacation
and I’m officially on edge.
I’ve been running on nothing but their energy,
and I’m two days past my limit.
I didn’t even realize I had a limit,
but now I know.
I’m restless, my mind racing to nowhere,
when one thought hits:
“I want a drink”
I roll out of bed,
sit there for a second,
and let that thought settle.
I’m not in just any hotel.
It’s the Ritz-Carlton.
THE Ritz-Carlton.
Minato, Midtown
45 floors above Tokyo just to check in.
A lobby that feels like stepping into a dream
and toilets that make you feel like royalty.
I throw on something “Raza-presentable”
for a late-night drink—not fancy, but intentional.
All black, of course
because that’s the only language I need at this hour.
I step out of the room and
make my way down to the lobby.
When the elevator doors open on the 45th,
it’s like walking straight into a dream.
Tokyo’s neon skyline stretches out below,
every building a piece of the city’s intricate, glowing puzzle.
Skyscrapers sprawl in every direction,
each one lit up like it’s telling its own story.
The night sky reflects a million tiny lights,
blending into a horizon that looks infinite.
For a moment,
I think about heading down to street level.
There’s a whole city waiting down there,
its pulse alive even at this hour.
But I remind myself why I came down here in the first place.
Tonight’s mission is simple: get a drink.
I walk through the lobby,
towards the bar.
It’s dimly lit,
like an intimate lounge designed for quiet conversations and secret exchanges.
High-backed booths give everyone their own little world,
and the air is thick with the sound of murmured voices in at least five languages.
It’s a place that demands sophistication,
a certain polish I know I don’t quite have yet at 23.
I feel the eyes on me,
that subtle shift in the room when someone enters who doesn’t quite fit.
Under my skin,
there’s an urge to turn around,
to step back and hide from the scrutiny.
But then I check myself.
Fuck that. Fuck them.
I let that energy settle over me,
putting on a mask of confidence.
Cigarette smoke and curious eyes feel like obstacles,
but I cut through them,
each step stronger,
because this drink isn’t just for me anymore.
It’s a message.
WE belong.
As I reach the bar,
I see him
Japanese gentleman in a booth to the right of the bar.
He’s dressed in a way that’s effortless but intentional
—fly without a hint of trying.
He’s fishing out a Marlboro menthol from a soft pack,
his hands moving with a practiced elegance.
Maybe it’s the newfound confidence,
maybe it’s the nerves,
I don’t think—just act.
I lean over, point to his pack,
I press my index and middle finger to my lips,
a universal sign that needs no words.
He smirks,
sizing me up for a second,
then gives a soft chuckle.
He taps the pack and lets me pull a square,
like he’s acknowledging the audacity it took to ask.
With a flick of his wrist,
he lights a gold-plated Zippo and lets me lean in,
the tip of the cigarette catching flame in a flash of warmth.
In the orange light, i see the golden details of his shades for a moment
"CLEAN AS FUCK”
I THINK TO MYSELF
I nod my thanks,
feeling like I just passed some unspoken test.
I settle into my seat at the bar,
take a slow drag,
and let the scene around me unfold.
I’m the protagonist in my own movie,
Tokyo’s neon glow and Ritz-Carlton luxury my backdrop.
I let my mind wander,
almost hoping I’ll look over and find some Yakuza figure
nodding me over to broker peace in a neon-lit underworld deal.
The cigarette smoke curls around me,
the dim lights flicker,
and for a moment,
I’m not just me.
I’m an enigma,
a stranger in a foreign city with a thousand stories hidden under the surface.
Reality pulls me back as I flip open the drink menu,
but damn if it isn’t a reality check.
This isn’t just any bar.
Top-shelf everything,
labels I’ve never even heard of,
cuts that look like they belong on a billionaire’s shelf.
The thought crosses my mind to just walk away,
leave before I get in over my head.
But then I remember those eyes on me,
the ones that questioned why I even stepped into this space.
I remember that this isn’t just about the drink
—it’s the principle.
So, I comb through the options,
carefully calculating the balance between making a statement and not selling my soul.
Finally, I land on it:
Captain Morgan,
a special cut,
$37.
High for a drink, maybe,
but reasonable for a night like this.
When the bartender slides it over,
I let myself savor every drop.
Between the nicotine,
the alcohol,
and the buzz from the skyline view,
it’s one of those moments that’ll stick with me.
I sit back, taking it all in
—the bar,
the city below,
the people who doubted I belonged.
I may have walked in feeling out of place,
but by the end of that glass,
I knew one thing for sure:
I owned this moment.
I took up space.
Just one drink,
but that was all I needed.
