I made it across the street

I finally got up the courage to leave my room around 1PM. Walking down the stairwell was like being born. Terrifying. I've been trying to keep my mouth from constantly hanging open. I'm already talking to myself. Went to the super market across the street and spent 3 hours wandering around staring. Employees stocking the shelves pass by and thank you for shopping. They thank you for your existence. I asked a woman if they had rice milk in my broken Japanese and she spent 5 minutes scurrying around and talking to other employees and making sure she understood what I meant. After a while there were 4 employees, all middle aged women, debating and conversing, and finally one figured they didn't have it. They apologized profusely. But apologizing profusely is to be expected, and a few seconds later they went about their day like nothing happened. Does it make it any less real emotionally?

I slumped myself down outside of a MacDonalds in the supermarket and had myself a very small can of Fanta grape soda and a disgusting cold chicken thigh/leg. I had deliberately seated myself next to this scruffy long-haired elderly dude who had a strange spread before him: 5 bottles of Boss coffee drink (immensely popular) set down in a very markedly placed manner. One was filed with water, one with milk, the others with coffee, or empty. With great care and precision he mixed himself an iced coffee drink, adding a little milk or a little water when appropriate. He pointed upward with his hand from time to time, and mumbled something, but he never stopped straightening the bottles, or the cloth napkin they were situated upon. He had a large loaf of sugary white bread that he ate in its entirety as I watched, folding the slices into his mouth. As if he knew he was giving a great performance, he moved from the table next to me, to the table directly in front and sat down, continuing his ritual. After about 5 minutes he got up to check the table next to me, and I asked him if he was a musician. Then I asked him if he was a chemist, then a priest. He replied in completely unintelligible Japanese, as he was missing most of his teeth, but I understood from the shaking of his head. I guessed that he was retired, and he asked if I was a student and where I was living, also if I taught English, smiling all the while. He was the first person not to tell me my Japanese was good, after I apologized for it being bad (which it is). This meant something to me. Could it be a sort of disillusionment with the falsity of manners? This guy was for real. He moved back to his seat, and made a counter clockwise motion with his finger at his temple. I denied his admittance and he said "I rike you! I rike you!" I got up, told him that I had only been in Japan one day, that he was my friend, and that we would see each other again. He smiled and simply waved. I'm gonna call him Boss-san on behalf of those 5 bottles of crap he had, and that he clearly was the boss of something, or at least he used to be. I'm looking forward to knowing that guy's story.