A father is repeatedly hitting his son in the head, and my first instinct is to snap a digipic. I put away my camera, ashamed. "You idiot! You idiot!" he screams at the boy, no older than ten years old. "You stupid idiot!" The kid clutches his Xbox 360 give-away bag, and his father hits him again and again and again.

It's the last day of the Osaka Games Festa. We're in front of the exhibit hall in Honmachi, the banking center of the city before the War. Bright orange trees dot the wide boulevard, and all I'm thinking now is, "Kid, that bag ain't gonna do shit for you."

Moments before, the Editor-in-Chief of Famitsu strolled through the exhibit hall, people bowing right and left. Besides the swank casual suit he was wearing, the thing that struck me was the cat had great shoes, really great shoes. Guess great shoes are important when people bow to ya all day. That's what people remember: yer shoes.

Security guards push by me. Men in suits follow. The father's got his sandal off, and his barefoot grips the cold pavement. I'm close and see his horrible, yellow toenails and that his baby-shit green sweatpants have holes in them. His son is in unseasonable shorts and a tee-shirt the father now has wrapped around his hand. The other hand swings the sandal at the boy's face. SMACK! SMACK! cuts through the crisp fall air.

"What happened?" I ask a teenager, who's standing next to me. A crowd of looky-loos has gathered.
"Not sure. I think the father's angry because the kid didn't meet him at the right place at the right time."

Security guards attempt to pry the man off his son. The father raises his fist, and the whistle-carrying watchmen flinch.

"Isn't this illegal?"
"Hmmm... If he hits one of those security guards, it is."

Leaning forward, I try to get a hard look at the boy. Security guards shield him, but the father still gets in a few pot-shots. The Suits have surrounded the man and are trying to talk sense to him. The kid isn't crying. He doesn't even look shocked or surprised. He looks resigned.

"They're not doing anything," I say, turning to the teenager.
"Yeah, they're meaningless. But there's nothing they can do anyway. That's what he's going home to."

A suit whispers something to the man, who screams something in what could hardly be called Japanese. He yells slurs at a bystander and then stomps off. The boy is left there, clinching that 360 bag.

"What do you think's gonna happen to the kid?" I venture.
"Dunno. Guess they'll call his mother to take him home."
"To take him home to his father."
"Yeah."
"That kid should've slugged his old man."
"One day, he will."

I check my watch. My wife is waiting for me in Den Den Town. We're shopping for a new TV. I nod my head to the teenager, signaling the end of the conversation and excusing myself.

The subway's crowded, but I find a seat. Two children across from me occupy themselves by playing Paper-Rock-Scissors. The mother looks over and keeps track of who wins which match. And for a moment, I catch myself smiling. The doors open, and I get off the subway and walk up the stairs to street level to meet my family.

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