The Midosuji Cowboy

Blue T-shirt Hajime

2004-08-24T23:47:00.000-07:00

Blue T-shirt Hajime (jpoldmixon)

From The Daily Sujimoto Wednesday, July 14th ・

STUDENT ATTACKS CLASSMATE WITH KITCHEN KNIFE

WAKAYAMA ・A middle school boy is reported to have stabbed his classmate yesterday, the fourth such incident reported following the tragic death of eleven year-old Ai Nakajima in Nagasaki just three months ago. The incident occurred after school hours when fourteen students stayed behind to clean the classroom. No teachers were present at the time. When the student made fun of his classmate's haircut, he was shoved to the ground and afterward thrust the knife at his classmate, police said. The knife grazed his classmate's neck and he immediately went to the school nurse on his own to seek treatment before being sent to a hospital for further care. The student claims that he only meant to threaten his classmate with the knife and that . . .

Instructor: Recently, such stories seem to be fairly common in the news. As the article mentions, it was only three months ago that an eleven year-old was killed by her classmate for allegedly writing something bad about her on the Internet. My question is this: Have these stories become more prevalent in the news because juvenile crime has become a hot topic, because the number of incidents being reported has increased, or because the actual number of cases of juvenile crime is increasing in Japan?

Student 1: Yes. I think the number of cases increasing. When I was in school days, I never knew everyone who did such a thing - brought a knife to school. (Motions to Student 2)

Student 2: I think so, Yes. It is more common these days. But I think this is because of parenting.

Instructor: Because of parenting? Ok. I understand, but can you explain that a little more? What exactly do you mean?

Student 2: Japan was - Before Japanese society was community centered. Like the villages. Everyone took care the children. The children would listen to any adult, and if a child did something bad, then adults would scold them. But today - Today Japanese people are afraid to yell at him if he is someone else's child. Or maybe they are afraid the parents will come and say, "Don't yell at him, he's my child, not yours." . . . Or the children. The children don't listen to adults if these adults is not their parents.

Instructor: Alright, that's a good point. But hold on a second ・do you mean to tell me that in the Nineteen Fifties and Sixties, Japanese society was communal? Like the villages before the war?

Student 1: Of course. Student 2 : Mmm. Yes. Japanese society is not like this these days. These days people don't know their neighbors. Maybe if they hear some noise next door, they just ignore it. They don't do everything.

Even in Japanese, I can tell the weatherman is delivering his extrapolated guestimates of typhoon thirteen in the same that's-the-way-it-is tone that is the product of repressed feelings over the fact that no one takes him seriously and that everyone relies, quotes him, on a day to day basis for information that dictates the answer to every who what when where why which how question of the following day. It's a plea for help - a please take me seriously or please keep tuning in. Or it's just a big fuck you - it passes the Korean peninsula, progresses at a slower pace back toward the Japanese archipelago, and even though this overly simplified picture says the thing's gonna hit five hours due north of my viewer's area, well - you know, these things can change direction on a dime, so even those of you in Osaka should take every precaution necessary. That's how they usually translate it, I think, "take every precaution necessary," and just as I'm about to tell Frankie this exact phrase, she pops off the sofa and flings open the door to the balcony. I can hear her muffled curses and stomping around outside. She opens the door again and walks through our little T.V. room to the living room. Not five seconds later she passes me again and is out on the balcony with muffled curses, rattling the coat hangers and racks of laundry set out to dry.

"I can't find your blue shirt," she says. "I just looked up and realized I can't find it."

"Umm. ? It wasn't on a hanger, did you put it on a hanger?"

"I put it on a hanger. Wait - did I put it on a hanger? Hold on, lemme look." She proceeds to circle the tiny apartment, pulling her pink t-shirt up to reveal her midriff in order to cool herself off a bit. She pops her head into the T.V. room a few seconds later and says, "I found your shirt," with a confused expression. And no wonder.

She leads me to the living room window and points below to the roof of the adjacent building. "So, It somehow flew off of the rack, made a one hundred twenty," she does the math on her palm, "maybe one hundred thirty or forty degree turn around our apartment, and then fell on that roof over there."
"Fuck. ? Did you ・um. Maybe you should・ She puts her palm flat on my stomach and looks me directly in the eyes. "I'll get it back, don't worry."

I had intended to tell Frankie, who for the past two and a half weeks has been complaining that her life resembles that famous Samuel Beckett number, that it was, you know, just a blue t-shirt - I could get another blue t-shirt - with a hand on her shoulder and a "no worries," expression. But suddenly I was able to picture her standing at the head of a long mahogany table, the lights at a somber level as she stands poised, the meeting point of the lines of perspective that pass unseen through all of the tiny little flags representing the origin of each head-of-state seated at the conference to end all conferences, watching intently with entrenched brows and wringing hands as she punctuates her strong, flat delivery with the occasional laser pointed direction to the screen just behind her:

"It's six thirty four. That gives us about an hour - maybe less - before the sun goes down. The shirt is still on the hanger, so we need some sort of fishing rod to get it back up. I was thinking we could do it from the third floor stair well, but with the wind blowing across the building at this speed, we'll have to go from the living room window." Here she looks out of the window with an intense look at the horizon. It's a look from a Hollywood movie. I'm not sure which one, but I'm sure there's one helluva budget for special effects and it's quite likely that Aerosmith has a ballad on the soundtrack. Without returning her line of sight to me, she turns toward the bathroom and starts rummaging around in the cabinets underneath the bathroom sink. She emerges with 30 meters of string intended for culinary purposes wrapped around a piece of red cardboard to serve as make-shift spool. She mutters something about a hook at the hundred yen shop and begins pacing back and forth between the front door and the living room window. She's tapping the string on the make-shift-spool in the palm of her hand like that laser pointer I was thinking about earlier when she does an abrupt pivot turn on her right heel to face me and says, "Are you ready for this?"

I have no idea. Am I ready for this? I am, again, inclined to say, "It's a blue t-shirt, Frankie. Let it go," but then I'm somehow in the movie too, and I'd rather just go back to the droning Japanese weatherman, but it's too late. She's gets another wire hanger from the closet in the T.V. room and begins to pull the triangular base into an elongated oval, leaving the hook at one end untouched. She then folds the stretched-out base over four times, shortening the base to a jumble of different ovals roughly the same length. Duct tape is then wrapped around the base to consolidate the different ovals into one, "and to add weight," she says as she ties some elaborate system of knots around the exposed wire at the base with the culinary string. Without further ado, she opens the living room window and throws the modified fishing line out of the window. As the wind carries the hook far to the left of her target, she eyes the parabolic curve between her hand and the shirt below.

"Mr. Bass sits in his Kelpy room," says Frankie.
Still at a loss, I ask, "Mr. Bass?" but she only says, "Mr. Bass. The Descendents." At this point I notice what I guess to be a thirty something couple who have paused, grocery bags in hand, just before entering their apartment in the building past the one on which my blue t-shirt remains the subject of a dubious reconnaissance mission. The male half of the couple leans an extended arm over the balcony to draw attention to Frankie's measured withdraw of the make-shift fishing line as the female half, always prepared, flips open her cell phone to attempt a quick shot of the scene. "It's somewhere in the stack of Cd's by the futon," she says. "I need some motivation music." And it's a good thing that I realize she's talking about Mr. Bass because she doesn't wait for me to reply before asking, "What time is it?" and answering herself with the line still dangling out of the window, "Eleven minutes. Maybe forty till sundown."

"You want a beer," I ask, and mutter, "I need a beer," on my way to the fridge. The CD is somewhere in one of the five black cases sitting around the futon, and I haven't even put the thing in the player before she's asking if there's any beer in the fridge and demanding that I turn it up a little. The little boom box is now wailing about Mr. Bass, and Frankie has apparently missed a shot or two in the meantime because she's tying two of those tiny, plastic figurines that come with the purchase of Japanese sports drinks just above the mangled coat-hanger-turned-hook, "to add more weight." In synchronicity with the hook's plonking on the metallic roof (again, to the left of the currently beyond-salvage blue t-shirt), there is a single knock on the door. For some reason or other I look at the beer in my hand as if it is responsible before discovering my next-door neighbor outside with a bushido smile and a short bow.

She starts off with lowered eyes and I don't have the heart to interrupt her for a full twenty seconds before I say that I don't speak Japanese very well. Her look tells me that she wants me to believe that my poor study habits are, after all, her fault - the fault of all Japanese people, perhaps - so she begins to make a motion with her hands that looks as if a flower is blooming out of the side of her head. I am, of course, confused. And luckily, so is the kid who has just run up behind her, his head cocked to the side in a gesture that communicates confusion in any language. He, then, takes his cue and begins to say something or other far too quickly to me, but doesn't get very far before my next-door neighbor explains to him that I speak absolutely no Japanese (which is not what I said, I thought, I do speak some Japanese, but - ). Of course, he pays no attention to this, and, continuing in a much more animated tone with whatever he was saying before and a finger pointed toward the roof of the adjacent building, explains to my neighbor why the music is so loud. I imagined what he said to go something like this:

You know someone's t-shirt is stuck on the roof over there? So there's this foreign lady throwin a piece of string with a waded-up coat hanger on the end out of the window to try to get it. That's why the music is so loud.

In any case, Frankie is now asking who it is, I'm telling her it's the neighbor and some kid, and the two outside aren't budging an inch. The door is still standing open and I'm wondering if I should invite them in or something, but then I think that they'll probably refuse and the woman from next door will probably call the manager as soon as she gets back in, so I've got to keep her in this liminal state between the manager and my living room until Frankie hooks the T-shirt. And I can, I swear, speak a little Japanese, but the only question that comes to mind right now is, "Was work busy today?" Frankie yells something about, "Twenty seven - damn she's sinking fast!" and the kid, somehow or other, convinces the woman from next door to follow him to the stairwell, where he continues his explanation of the scene. Propping the door open with a house slipper so as not to make the neighbors feel unwelcome, I return to the living room window to find the couple across the way has multiplied by three. A man two floors below has his head out of his own living room window and is turning his attention between Frankie and the t-shirt. As the light is, in fact, fading fast, she asks me for a flashlight and another beer. I explain that I'm pretty sure the neighbors were complaining about the music, but Frankie seems more concerned with the fact that the flashlight isn't helping at all, "we'll have to give her a cake or something," she adds before telling me that turning out the lights inside could help. It doesn't.

What transpires from there is what appears to be the man from two floors below (room 307, maybe) gauging whether or not he can toss his body-harnessed terrier onto the roof of the adjacent building in hopes of retrieving my blue t-shirt for reasons that Frankie claims to be "highway robbery." Truth be told, the gap between the two buildings is little more than two feet, and were our apartment on the second floor, I could reach my arm out of the window and touch the facing wall. The only problem with Mr. 307's idea is that the light is worse down there than it is from our height. And who should come to Pochi's rescue (Frankie pronounces the name in a way that suggests "Pochi" is an insult to the terrier) but the voyeur sextet in the other apartment complex. One of these brilliant minds has either picked up Frankie's signal of stress or has had the auspicious sense to drag a full-on cue beam out of their apartment and aim it at the helpless t-shirt on the roof between our buildings. Frankie, giving the hook line and sinker another go, nearly lets the line fall on the leaping terrier below.

"Four feet," she says in defeated disbelief. "I'll be damned if Pochi didn't clear that gap with a foot to spare," and putting her free hand on her hip with the string still waving in the wind out of the window, "But how the hell is that dog gonna get back over?" "The body harness," I say, taking a long drink from what's left of my beer. "Pochi," I say pointing to the terrier shaking with an expectant look at his owner in the window across the way, "has been fitted with some sort of baby harness. There's a cord there," I start to say, but she's interrupting again with, "I'll be damned." Pochi takes some sort of cue from his owner and gets the shirt in his mouth, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere with it. He sort of looks blankly around him every once in a while and eventually totters to the edge of the roof. Frankie goes on about how Pochi has had enough and is through taking this shit from everyone. Goodbye world! But that's not the case. Instead, it's most likely the owner is realizing that he planned the thing all wrong and that despite the harness idea, because of the given angle at which their intercessory cord stretched, he didn't have the leverage to pull poor Pochi back up to the window from whence he came.

The t-shirt drops, the cue beam swings to the left and finds the kid who was at our door a few minutes ago traipsing casually over the rounded shingles toward Pochi - toward the blue t-shirt. "Shit," says Frankie, still not bothering to retract her line. The kid puts out a cautious palm toward the dog, Mr. 307 can be heard shouting something or other at either Pochi or the kid, and through delicate negotiations between the triumvirate, the dog ends up in the kid's arms, the t-shirt in the dogs mouth, Mr. 307 squeezed on a ladder between the two buildings, and Frankie's upper torso out of the living room window waving alternately at the trio below and the sextet with the cue beam across the way.

Instructor: Anomie - a state where society ceases to care for its members. Do you really think Japanese society has gotten that far? Imagine that you hear a noise next door. Would you go to your neighbor to investigate?

Student 1: Me? Oh, no. No, I wouldn't. I don't know. . . who my neighbors are.

Student 2: No. I think I wouldn't - I think they want privacy. I don't want to take their privacy.

In August, The Messenger

2004-08-06T03:46:00.000-07:00

In August, The Messenger

(jp oldmixon)

A boy of nine or ten absent mindedly twirls the net and pole thrown over his shoulder. He shifts his weight from side to side, the gray rocks crunching, sliding beneath his sandals. In the clear, plastic box at his feet, two fat shapes buzz and jitter against each other. He raises his eyes briefly to the green cherry tree and lets the net drop to his side. The cicadas' rattle swells.Do you think he'll pull their wings off, she asks, neither removing her attention from the boy nor waiting for Les to respond before saying, He will. He's a boy. That's what boys do.

Les turns the corner of his mouth and sucks on his Seven Stars. The boy lifts the box to his eye level and wanders toward a group of pigeons a few feet away. Just beyond him, a tired face balances a rusting bicycle with one hand and tosses breadcrumbs into to the tottering circle of pigeons. There is no connection between these images, thinks Les. They'd make picture postcards, he says out loud, if you could separate them. But together they really don't make much sense. The boy, the pigeons, the homeless man. Too abstract. Junko, paying little attention to the remarks, says, I think he's going for the pigeons next. He'll need a bigger box.
You think he's following the sound, asks Les. And Junko, of the pigeons? Yes, the pigeons - NO, not the pigeons, the cicadas, says Les with a half smile. You think he follows the sound or just walks around eyeing them in the trees? Junko opens her mouth to answer, but the rush of thirty wings from the gravel to the sky cuts her off. The boy drops the net at his side and turns his neck to follow the abrupt, mid-flight changes in direction. Junko stands up and turns to Les, Definitely needs a bigger box, she says.

The two crunch past the boy and onto the wider, brick path that leads to the temple's central garden. She lets her hands swing at her side, he lifts his index finger in reaction to the brief encounter. The cherry blossom, she says, only blooms once a year. Lasts only about a week, you know.　A weak smile finally surfaces, and she spreads her hands before her in explanation: that's Japan, she says, perfect love and beauty in one week, then an entire year of emptiness, sorrow, regret. Sometimes I think it's really the rest of the year we like. The love and beauty, it comes and goes - the heartache: it's like hearth and home. He cocks his head to look at her, Don't kill the messenger, he says. She raises a confused eyebrow. Les draws on the cigarette and returns his attention to some point ahead. She moves next to him, gently brushing up against him with her hip to guide him off of the brick path, onto a narrow, white rock trail that wanders into the temple's central garden.

Everything is waiting for me in Adele, says Junko. She looks at the white gravel path and glances at Les. A job, Michael, my friends - I have to go back. Les nods and looks through the trees at the pond below, I know you do. And Junko, in a matter of fact voice, I don't regret anything. I don't even feel guilty. Now she tilts her face toward him. No - Neither do I, says Les. I don't feel guilty at all. I guess it all seems - perfectly natural . . . to me. God, that sounded - I feel like I'm fifteen, he says with a smile.

Nowhere near it, she says and points to a brown bench to the left of the pond. Water lilies, massive and bright pink, cup supplicating hands to the clouded sky above. The turbid green or brown of the water spreads in tiny concentric circles that relax into the placid surface as soon as they appear. Is it raining, he asks. Her eyes unfocused on the water, I don't think so. It's the coy. The mosquito hawks. And he nods in distracted agreement.

What's your middle name Junko? The question comes like a promise, or a secret. After all, he thinks: every good romance begins with a secret. But she shrugs, I don't have one. Your last name? Nakajima, and she playfully asks, why? So I know how to find you - but the answer doesn't come, disappears before it surfaces, and all he ends up with is, I don't know. Just Curious. And, of course, she doesn't pause long before, what about you? McMullen, he says. Perfectly common name. There must about a million Les McMullens out there. His eyes follow a coy close to the edge of the pond. He wonders what Micheal's last name could be.

It's fiction, he says out loud. That's why people like it. The year of sadness and the week of beauty. Everything in a week of beauty. But the lines aren't that clear. The lines are never that clear. But look, he says, in fiction you draw the shapes yourself, you make the story - there's nothing vague about it. In fact, it's perfectly clear. It's so easy to understand that everyone buys it. The year of sadness begins at the exact point in which the week of beauty ends. And why not? It's so easy. So clear cut. But it's not like that, he says. It's pure fiction. That cherry blossom (pointing to the summer green of a nearby tree) is pure fiction. She looks him in the face and smiles. He smiles too - I know what you're going to say. But she laughs anyway and says, Don't kill the messenger.

The Sleeping Maples of Minoh

2004-05-14T04:22:00.000-07:00

The Sleeping Maples of Minoh
(jpoldmixon)

For Tracy Crossett... Maybe a year ago, we met somewhere along Deep Eddy... I hope you're in a better place...

1.

Old Sam Bedford had stepped off a 26-hour flight from Houston Intercontinental to Kansai International Airport alone. His son, Glen, greeted him with a tired expression.
It was the first time the 72 year-old had seen his son in over two decades, and although their written correspondence had never faltered, the overdue reunion caused Glen to realize that he had somehow believed that he would never see his father again. Not because of death - his father was active, in good health, and nothing he knew could kill the old man - but because the distance had grown comfortable. Glen was fifty-three. The events of his life had developed into a working order, and it was only when one deliberately tampered with those developments that problems occurred. Comfortable wasn't the right word. It wasn't that the distance was comfortable: the distance was appropriate.
"You must be pretty tired out," said his son.
Sam curled his upper lip and scratched his unshaven chin. "Naw, I'm fine. Need a shave, prawbly."
As they drew closer to Minoh, the distant purple and gray of the mountains turned with the landscape and slowly fell into focus with the colors of autumn. Old Sam kept his gaze out the window. His son drove on in silence.

The apartment was just as it had been described in the holiday phone calls. Wall to wall carpet spread a gray monochrome through two small bedrooms, a kitchenette, a dining room table, and a sitting room Old Sam guessed to be about twice the size of a walk-in closet. On the floor of the sitting room against the wall, a narrow futon was folded in half. A yellow, cotton blanket and a white pillow were neatly arranged on top.

Dinner was an elaborate affair with four dishes, to all of which Sam added soy sauce, a gesture that Glen's wife, Yuko, regarded as a peculiarity of old age rather than an insult to her cooking. Of more concern were the questions he posed directly to his grandson, Toshiyuki, which caused the boy's face to grow pale with incomprehension and Yuko to fidget slightly. Glen seamlessly answered the questions in the same matter-of-fact voice that he used over the phone, reducing the old man's initially steady gaze on the boy to an occasional sidelong glance after Glen had answered a question.

As Yuko slid shut the door to his grandson's bedroom, he announced that he'd like to have a stroll in the hills. His son's protest centered on the forecasted cold front, but the insistence of his 72-year-old father was relentless. Glen eventually pressed him to take a light jacket, a flashlight, and a map of the National Park within walking distance from his house. He stood just inside the doorway with one hand on his hip and watched his father walk briskly out into the autumn evening.

2.

It was the first time he had been to Japan since the war. After so many years, he was hardly surprised that this place looked nothing like his memories. The road led uphill, and the adjoining shallow river's deep, manmade embankments reverberated the sound of the distant waterfall.
He remembered that Glen, at one point, had been a baseball player. He spent twelve years sitting in the stands watching, but the time he could spend in those memories was as short lived as his recollections of the war. To his left, a green, streaked statue of an elderly man with a walking stick carrying what may have been his wife. Anne.

The road took a sharp left turn. Here, the river was little more than a creek. On the opposite bank, perhaps seven feet below, a gray monkey was frantically gnawing at the roots of a plant. It scattered the remaining, inedible part of the plant at its feet, forming a soft, green matt of elongated stems. In the trees above, three or four or five kept watch, occasionally shaking the branches as they leapt from one bough to the next.

As he passed another curve in the pavement, he noticed a footpath on the opposite side of the river. Ahead, the dark shingled roofs of two temples traced short, black arcs into the autumn sky. The paved road gradually inclined, and the lulling sound of the waterfall grew stronger. A short way ahead, a bright red bridge with a black, lacquered rail joined the paved road and the footpath on the opposite bank of the river. Beyond the bridge, the paved road cut around the temple grounds lying to his left. Across the river, the footpath wound back, and up the side of the hill.

The path through the hills was a series of stairways and uneven footpaths. Each stair was six inches high, the depth of the step varying depending on the position of the stair in the larger walkway. The way to the top of the first hill retraced its progress, doubling back from right to left in broad sweeps, while continuing to move upward through the towering maples.

He paused to rest after walking some distance up the hill. The leaves overhead stirred rigidly, as if the wind had separated to shake each leaf without disturbing the branches. The rattle of maple leaves swelled and fell off in a moving network of sound that formed a blanket in the canopy above. The blanket spread, a lullaby that began in the heavens and reached upward from the earth beneath his feet. He raised his chin to the winding earthen steps and pressed on, through the onset of frozen rain.

3.

Glen's eyes remained focused in the darkness. The rough, paper layer over the ceiling textured to let varying depths of shadow fall over its surface. His wife rested her forearm on his stomach, turning her body as she felt him rise and kick his left leg outside of the covers and onto the floor.
He ran a damp palm from his forehead to his chin and exhaled. He carefully slid open the door to their bedroom so as to not wake his son. Glen moved into the adjoining sitting room with equal silence, where he found the guest futon still folded in half. He squinted as the neon light flickered on. Letting his body drop to the floor, he sat cross-legged in front of the small television perched on the wooden cabinet marking the only piece of furniture in the room.
From the underside of the cabinet, he withdrew a small key from the magnet holding it in place. The key turned in the lock, and he lightly pulled at the handles of both doors. Sliding forward with some friction, the doors eventually stopped, the inside corners jammed against each other in such a way as to prevent further progress.
For a moment, he shifted his weight, moving his hands to the floor behind his back to support him. He looked to a corner of the ceiling as if an answer lay within the texture of the paper-thin walls. His attention returned to the handles of the cabinet, and after two sharp tugs, the doors opened with a reluctant moan.
The thick aroma of wood, dust, and abandoned papers rushed toward him. Inside, an array of letters, pictures, and other anonymous volumes were scattered in disarray. The haphazard organization was a scene alien to the meticulously clean apartment. Glen surveyed the cabinet with a thin smile that conveyed both remorse and comfort. One by one, he removed the contents of the cabinet, placing each item in his lap and arranging them according to size and type. To the far right, standing straight up against the inner wall of the cabinet, the only item defying the disorder remained untouched until Glen had set everything else in order on the floor around him.
Finally, he withdrew the large envelope from the cabinet. He drew a deep breath and slowly let the air pass out of his mouth as he traced a finger around the letter taped to the cover. The letter detailed the contents of the envelope: the program for his mother's memorial service, a copy of a last will and testament, and several photos that his father had included at the last minute. He continued to trace his finger over the surface of the envelope and averted his eyes again to a corner of the ceiling.
Glen had read the letter only once, over two decades ago. The envelope remained sealed. At the time of reading the letter, he was surprised and relieved to find no indication of scorn in his father's words. There was no questioning of his responsibility as a son, no reprimand for remaining overseas, no hurtful accusations of being callous for missing the funeral of his own mother.
With the care that he had opened the sliding doors so as to not wake his son, he replaced each item in the cabinet in even, ordered stacks, leaving the envelope at his feet. With a letter opener given to him by his wife, he opened the envelope for the first time. The program for the memorial service bore the names of friends-of-the-family that he remembered in two to three second flashes. He spread the photos of his mother on the floor in front of him as if they were a deck of cards.
The thick, white borders stood out against the browning images. The olive and orange tones varying in shades as the arm of a middle aged mother stretched to a child dressed in overalls the color of red clay dirt. Inside, the contents were just as his father had described, only the last will and testament was not his mother's.

4.

At the summit of the hill, he lowered his heavy body on the stone benches of a small pavilion. To the west, the maples separated, framing a panoramic view of the gray metropolis below. The buildings were blurred by the falling sleet, the rigid lines of intersections and skyscrapers smudged by the thin veil descending on the city below.
Old Sam rested his palms at his side on the seat of the bench. The thick blue veins between his knuckles stood out against his skin. Purple and red blotches formed around the orange of his fingertips. His tongue traced viscid saliva over the corners of his mouth. His feet were wet, his toes numb, the prickling sensation spreading from his ankles and suddenly moving up the backs of his calves.
The Sun had long passed out of sight, the diluted fluorescent pink of sunset hardly visibly on the dome of the sky. The lullaby of the maple leaves and frozen rain had settled into the background, while the punctuated cracks of sleet set a melody on the roof of the small pavilion.
There was a drowsiness to that cloud descending on the cityscape before him. He concentrated on that cloud. He tried to see every particle of that floating cloud without separating each droplet from the whole. And he somehow remembered that before, long ago - when he was a child - he would lay awake at night and stare into the darkness, a sharp gaze that could somehow pick out every particle of light in that darkness, because no darkness was complete - there was no darkness that he could not see, and therefore no darkness without light - it was a matter of time, of concentration, of honing the visual senses to detect each layer of the thick sheet, each thin strand in the layers upon layers, the strands woven together that make those layers tight enough to reinforce the sheet, to see those strands are made of tiny knots tied together in columns of twisted strings, and inside each of those knots - the single particle that keeps the darkness from being impenetrable - a light in darkness; and by that light, he fell asleep.

S - Interview with a Male Prostitute in Japan*

2004-04-20T02:50:00.000-07:00

S - Interview with a Male Prostitute in Japan*

*Special thanks to S for approving the transcription of this dialogue with only minor changes and especially for the preservation of the title, which he finds base and inaccurate in describing his profession (jpoldmixon)

The guy was good. Or, better said, he was smart. In the first ten minutes I had agreed to let the guy proof read and approve of the story before I published it online. "It's nothing major," I tried to explain, but he made no reply. No reaction in his face. He lit a cigarette and started talking before I could press record.

S: First things first. I'm not a baishunfu dansho. I'm not a host either. And tacking on something like "high class," won't do it justice. Got it?

I nodded. To be honest, my Japanese isn't so hot. But that's part of what made this guy perfect. Fluent English. Decent Japanese. I was also at his mercy, to a certain degree, but that was part of the package. He made that clear from the get go.

I: How long've you been here?
S: About eight years.
I: Any jail time?
S: (Laughs through is nose, takes a drag from his cigarette and shakes his head). No jail time. Look, you want the story or what?

What's bugging me is that there really isn't anything so remarkable about this guy. Blonde hair cemented in an intentional frazzle. Light blue eyes, pin striped black suit that makes him look more like a congressman than a... well, whatever he is. The hint of freckles on his cheeks add to that just-like-any-gaijin-in-Japan look. Yet he wears that big-timer, self-important, good-old-boy attitude like a cologne that you just can't get away from. He signals the waitress and orders two Gin and tonics. I hate Gin and tonic. But at the moment, I'm more worried about how much the drinks are going to run me. The place he's picked is far from a 300 Yen Izakaya. No menus. No prices. Low-backed Western armchairs surround dark wooden tables that suggest we should be smoking pipes or cigars instead of Lark cigarettes. I'm guesstimating it will run us anywhere from 800 to 2000 Yen a drink.

S: You want to guess what I did before this?
I: (Still unsure of what "this" is) Anything will help.
S: Don't be stupid. What did I do before this? Take a wild guess.
I: (smiling) English Teacher?
S: No Shit. Just like every one else in this country. The western ones, anyway. Nine to Five at a kindergarten. Not bad work actually, fairly enjoyable. But I had truck loads of student loan debt back home. Somewhere around 50,000 U.S. So, like everyone else in this country, I decided to pick up some private lessons on the side. That's what got me started. By mistake, anyway.

I gave him my best, "Ooooooh, I see," expression. He responded by snuffing his cigarette out in the ashtray.

S: You know what a "Language Exchange" is, right?
I: I think so... Yes.
S: You don't, do you? (Sighs). Pick up a free paper anywhere in Kansai, and in the classifieds, you'll see a section titled, "Language Exchange." Usually the ads are run by desperate western men or lonely, middle-aged Japanese women. Of course, the whole thing is a fa軋de. What happens is, you decide to meet the person somewhere, usually for coffee or sometimes at one of your places. If you know what's going on, you collect the money up front. You talk to each other in a hodge-podge of English and Japanese for about twenty to forty-five minutes, then you have sex. After all is said and done, you have a shower and hit the road with somewhere between 2000-5000 Yen for a couple hours work. Bada-bada-bing. Easy money.
I: And that's how you got started. . . ?

He leans forward in his chair. For the first time, I notice the guy has hardly moved an inch, except to signal the waitress or tap the ash from his cigarette. He smiles this time.

S: Not yet. I said that was a mistake, remember? You are recording this, right? Because if you're going to go home to type this up and butcher it, I might as well take off now.
I: No, It's recording. (I wave a nonchalant hand in his direction) Don't worry, I'll get it all verbatim. Just, you know, pick up where you were.
S: (Slides back into his armchair) Language Exchanges. That's small peanuts. 2000-5000 Yen. That's like 20 to 50 bucks. And what's worse, you have no control over who you're going to meet. If you make the mistake of having sex with them... (exhales through his nose and grins) ... There's just no telling what's going to happen. The variables start to pile up. Maybe they want you to come over again and again or they want to be your girlfriend. Maybe they start to get jealous or they start thinking they shouldn't be paying. For someone desperate, it's not bad as a one-time shot. But I'm not desperate.
I: So how long were you doing that before you stopped?
S: (Continues as if he didn't hear the question) It's dangerous. And it's an unreliable way of working. Just too many variables.

Here, he pauses with every indication that he has hit a dead end in the story. I start to wonder if that's it - if this seedy underworld he's promised me is accessible through a free weekly newspaper that anyone can pick up at their local bar. He orders two more gin and tonics. In fact, I'm not even half-way finished with my first one, and I'm convinced that this guy is a con man. And a crap con man at that. Dragging me to some posh bar that overcharges you for drinks while they trim the electric bill by turning down the lights under the guise of "atmosphere."

S: Not much of a drinker, are you?
I: I don't like to drink when I work.

At this he nods approvingly and glances at the tape recorder. I get a pen and notepad from my pocket and scribble, "Hooker approves of my professional work ethic". I scratch out "Hooker" and replace it with "Gaijin Gigolo". He watches this carefully, then glances at a remote corner of the room and continues.

S: I didn't know what I was doing. If I would've known, I probably wouldn't have done it. But I did, and I got lucky. (At this I write, "Gigolo gets laid," with an earnest expression) See, this wasn't the first time for the lady I met. Not the first Language Exchange. She put ads here and there, but always ended up with something she wasn't happy with. When I showed up at her door, I was skeptical. But before I walked out, she handed me an envelope that changed everything.
I: How much?
S: 35,000 Yen. But that wasn't why I was lucky. There was a note with a phone number, and a date and time. (He laughs through his nose again). Kind of like a spy story, huh?
I: Yeah, a little bit. (Writing: "Idiot")
S: I was lucky. You know Toyonaka City?
I: Toyonaka? Yeah. Up north. Suita and Senri-Chuo and all that.
S: Location is everything. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success. You know why they don't drill for oil in South Osaka?
I: No clue.
S: Because there is no oil in South Osaka. You know why no one sticks up pachinko parlors?
I: . . .
S: Because you'd walk out with a bag full of little silver balls.
I: . . .
S: Toyanaka is ripe with rich, lonely women. Most of their families have been rich since before the war. And most of them are married.
I: Doesn't that - ?
S: Not at all. A lot of the time their husbands live and work in Tokyo or Beijing or something. That's what they tell them, anyway. They come home once every two or three months to visit their children, if they have any, and jet back to work and a much younger girlfriend after two or three days. Of course, they're never so bad as to forget to leave their wives with huge bank deposits as apologies.

He's finished his second Gin and Tonic and has begun to glance more frequently at his watch. He orders two more with a raised finger. The waitress empties the ashtray.

S: So it started with the first lady. But, so much for discretion, she must have told her friends, because on our fourth or fifth visit, I call the number, show up at the place, and there's another lady with her.
I: So. . .?
S: No group business. I don't do that. The other one paid to watch. Of course, I was still wet behind the ears, so I only asked for 35,000 from each of them. But they were smart, paid the price, and later gave me hell when I raised the rates a little.
I: Where were you - you know, doing this? Hotels? Their Houses?
S: Bingo. The last thing these ladies want you to know is where they live. What their real names are. Any personal information is out the window. The first time, she blindfolded me and drove around in circles so that I lost all sense of direction. Same thing with the trip home. Of course, after a couple of times doing this and what with the new lady coming into the picture, it became clear that some alternative would have to be created.
I: And?
S: And I got the apartment I have now. About three months later I got a car. Nothing too impressive. A little two door number, but fully loaded.
I: So, do you mind if I ask... uh... how often are you meeting her? Or her friend?
S: (Glances at the tape recorder as the waitress arrives) It's not like that now. That was the beginning. Now she's... well, sort of the main one. But there are others. Only she has to be aware of every meeting. Every encounter. And I can't have sex with anyone but her.
I: Then what do the others do? Watch? I'm not sure I understand...
S: Dates, mostly. Someone attractive to be seen talking to at an expensive restaurant. Someone shopping with them in the department stores. You know, they even give me the money to pay for things? In the department stores - that way it looks like it's me who's buying them the necklace! Great stuff.
I: ... definitely. So, if you don't mind me asking, how much are you looking at? I mean, in a year or so?
S: Me? (He straightens up and let's his cigarette rest in the ashtray. His eyes roll up as if he's calculating the number from scratch) Last year - I'm guessing I was at around 10 million yen. Without the car, the apartment, the clothes... the, uh... perks, you know?

10 million yen. Roughly 100,000 U.S. dollars. Plus the perks.

S: But there are others I know. They make more than that. Do better.
I: How's that? I mean, 10 million yen is quite a bit of money. How do they...?
S: Location, Location, Location, my friend. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success.

I jot down that he must have memorized this phrase. Maybe he heard it from some real estate yuppie tourist on vacation in Japan. Or maybe he was the one on vacation. I start to imagine - Hawaii? Fiji? Thailand? With 10 million yen a year, you can pretty much go wherever the hell you want.

S: Some of these guys are making twice what I am. And they get the apartment, the car, the suits - everything.
I: And how old is... the, umm, main one?
S: (Here, he pauses to size up the question and coughs before he continues). Not sure. I think late forties, early fifties. It's hard to tell.

I act like I'm writing something important on my notepad. By his reaction to the last question, I'm starting to wonder how to phrase the more personal questions.

I: And, you, uh, said there's no one else?
S: No, like I said, there are others.
I: I mean that you have sex with. No girlfriends on the side?

He winks. It's that, "now that you're in the country club, you can find out for yourself," kind of wink. Of course, I'm not in the country club, so I'm a little confused. I wait, but he doesn't answer. There's a bit of a pause, and I notice that he's finished his drink, but isn't ordering another. I decide he must be cutting this short.

I: Alright. So, how does someone else get into this market? Without the luck, that is.

He licks his lips and puts out his cigarette. He tries to stifle a grin.

S: I don't know anything about it. Just, you know, it happens or it doesn't. It's not like there's an application or anything. Although - (grins in full) - I'd like to see it if there was one.

He stands up to shake my hand and signals the waitress for the bill. I make a move for my wallet, hoping he'll offer to pay before I get it out of my back pocket. Seeing this, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me as if I had suggested something amusing. He glances casually at the bill and hands the waitress two crisp, 10,000 yen notes.

d

2004-04-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

Masako in Photographs

2004-04-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

Masako in Photographs

Through the paper-thin walls, the seven-year old eavesdropper wondered why her mother sprinkled her hushed comments with English (a sure sign that she was trying to hide something from her daughter), and her father, Yuuichi, answered in Japanese (a gesture that suggested nothing unusual, inappropriate, or otherwise eavesdrop-worthy).
"... and she's never been on a plane before, Satomi."
"That doesn't matter."
"Then why are you so worried?"
To this her mother replied, "Nine eleven." Her fathered sighed and the conversation appeared to trail off from that single remark. Nine eleven? She was confused. Nine Eleven. What did that mean? It was the key to the conversation and yet she had no idea what it meant. That is, she understood that nine and eleven were English numbers. But... Nine Eleven? Had her mother, after discovering Noriko's mastery of English, created a new, more sophisticated code language that she would have to crack? The possibility of the entirely numerical conversation seemed altogether plausible. She could picture her parents in the living room whispering, "Thirteen four hundred eleven two."
"Six thirty five thousand seven, twenty teen."
"Eighty nine?"
"Fourteen six."
How had they done it? First it was English, now it was this number language. She sighed and felt determined to figure out this new language that revealed adult secrets. Nine eleven. A language comprised entirely of numbers. Think of it! God, her parents were smart!

Noriko was born on the morning of the Kobe earthquake. The hospital in Toyonaka city was unaffected, but Noriko's grandmother, living alone in Kobe, was not spared that day. Since then, her mother had become almost obsessively protective of Noriko. The first year at the international school had been difficult for her mother, but the distance had developed a small amount of trust in Satomi. In fact, Noriko's schooling had gone without incident until the day after her husband announced his imminent transfer to Cooperstown, New York. a-MEI-RI-ka. ah-Me-Ri-ka. A-ME-rika.

Noriko was meticulously counting and recounting the cotton balls she had recently glued to the construction paper Santa's beard when she popped out of her seat and headed towards Teacher Meridith. She tugged at Teacher Meridith's flowered skirt and waited for her attention.
"Nine Eleven." Noriko said it with a frank expression that suggested she was giving business advice. Teacher Meridith, a rather portly American woman with curly blonde hair appeared confused, then a little a shocked as she asked, "What did you say?"
Noriko relaxed. Teacher Meridith's reaction meant that she recognized the child's recent acquisition of this new language. She repeated it again, as if to threaten the very fabric of the adult world's secrecy, "... Nine... Eleven."
At this, Teacher Meridith was genuinely puzzled, and her reaction did not go unnoticed in the class. In fact, little Shiomi had already flipped over his construction paper Santa and, having borrowed a pencil, was scrawling the numbers to explain to the two friends sitting next to him, "Two numbers. Nine... Eleven... see? Easy." Teacher Meridith tried to get herself together and told Noriko to sit down and Shiomi to please be quiet and return to his work. But her remark only drew attention from other students. In a matter of minutes Mai had stood up from her desk, and, feeling somehow left out, demanded to know what Nine Eleven was. At this Shiomi raised his construction paper Santa and, pointing to his proudly written numbers, exclaimed, "TWENTY! Nine eleven equals twenty."
Again Noriko was told to sit down and Shiomi was directed to return to his work, but Mai was insistent and the other children took the sudden outburst to be some kind of game, so three or four in the back of the room began singing, "Nine Eleven, Nine Eleven, Nine EEEE-leven," to the tune of "The Wheels on the Bus." Shiomi was now marching up and down the aisles with his numbers on display as if he were in a parade. Noriko, watching Teacher Meridith try to end the confusion, marveled at the power of the number language.

In fact, Noriko had virtually no recollection of September 11th, 2001. The date, much like the severity of the events and their connection with her imminent departure to New York, was wholly unattached to the sparse images that remained in her memory. In other words, she had, at the age of six, surmised from the images on Japanese T.V. that planes at times flew into buildings, and that such events were called terrorism; three years later, the thought that this tragic event took place in New York and that her own move from Osaka to that State might present a similar threat had never occurred to her. In the same regard, her parents had never spoken of the tragedy surrounding her birth and the death of her grandmother; for the same reason as the flight to New York, she feared earthquakes less than she feared the host of threats produced by and existing only in her imagination.

The car moved slowly over the bridge toward Kansai Airport. Yuuichi had picked up his daughter from school and explained what he could about Nine Eleven. Noriko, for her part, tried to follow what her father was saying, although some of the English was fairly incomprehensible. Although she hadn't dismissed the notion of the number language, she gathered from what he said that this particular phrase might be a dangerous one.
Her father circled the airport, avoiding the parking lots and instead finding a narrow road that ran near the tarmac. He parked off the shoulder of this road next to a couple of K class cars. Noriko had asked repeatedly where they were going, but her father had only told her that she had to be patient and she would get a surprise.
She clenched her father's hand as he led her, at a brisk trot, toward the tarmac. A sign a few meters ahead warned of incineration by the planes' jets. Reading it from a distance, Noriko was confused, afraid, and inexplicably excited.
"Just stand still now."
"But what are we doing out here?"
Yuuichi dropped to one knee and pointed at the sky in the distance. "Just out that way, a plane is flying from New York to Osaka. Anytime now, that plane is going to land right here in Kansai Airport." Noriko smiled a little, but failed to understand. Her father released a muffled laugh and glanced back at the sky. "The plane will land," he turned her around, "right over there, see, where those thick lines begin there?" She nodded. "The plane from New York will fly - right - over - our - heads. And land, safely, right over there."
Noriko narrowed her eyes. They were flying to New York soon, but why was her father taking her here? Was there something that she didn't know that she needed to know? She scrambled for a reason and pitched pebbles about the tarmac in the ten minutes before the plane arrived. Her father knelt again and hugged her tightly to his chest. The 747 was low in the sky, drawing a wide arc before the wings flattened in their direction. Noriko was suddenly enthralled. Afraid, she clung to her father and breathed heavily. The weight of the noise seemed to press down on her small body. She issued a scream as the deafening rush shook the pavement beneath her.
She felt her father's chest jostle in a light chuckle. He gently pulled her from his chest and turned her trembling form to face the opposite direction. The plane was rolling along the pavement in the distance, the heavy noise moving away as it turned slowly on the tarmac. Noriko watched in awe. With a wordless, gaping mouth she turned to her father. The shock and fear slowly left her face. She began to laugh, and threw her arms around her father's neck.

It wasn't the fact that they didn't have ramen, but the way the cabin attendant looked at her when she said, "I'm sorry, we don't have that." She was opening her mouth to say, "Nine Eleven," when her father interrupted her with something about how she'd have the fish. Noriko was flustered, but managed to shake her head with downcast eyes and, in the most insidious tone that the seven year old could muster, utter the word, "Poopie."
The cabin attendant paused for a second, her eyes showing the attempt to cover her surprise for a short time before regaining their perpetually pleased expression. Noriko, feeling satisfied, smiled back at her in a childish imitation of her cheerful countenance.

Satomi insisted that the cat would only make a mess in the house. Of course, her protests were all together useless, as Noriko was already debating whether to name the gray and black tabby "Pochi" or "Bill." Her father, who got the cat from a nearby shelter in hopes of comforting Noriko in this potentially difficult transitional period, cast his vote for "Bill," while his wife made a motion to abstain by silently walking off to the kitchen.
Despite her objections on the day of Bill's arrival, Satomi had grown quite fond of the plump tabby from the minute she laid eyes on it. In the ensuing months she had taken countless hours of video footage of Noriko and Bill, and she was somewhat relieved to have Noriko's attention focused on something other than the television. She was in her room when she noticed the silence in the house. Outside, the repeated cry of a bird resounded in a single, shrill note. She called Noriko's name but heard no reply. She approached the front room of the house and found her daughter looking out the screen door, the latch held tightly closed by her right hand. Satomi was about to scold her when she saw Bill crouched on the front lawn, a blue jay slumped lifelessly on the ground some 3 feet ahead of him. She heard the shrill cry again as another bird dived toward Bill, dropping it's beak in an attempt to attack the gray and black tabby.
Noriko turned to face her mother with a flat expression. There was little sentiment in her voice as she said, "Bill killed that one's girlfriend." Satomi, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder, drew her away from the latch on the screen door and called Bill from inside the house. The cat made no response, but continued to dart about the front yard, crouching low to the ground, as the male blue jays seemed to grow in number, the shrill cry of the first multiplied by three, by five, by nine. The brown forms shot towards the cat in steep angles, one drawing him as a decoy while two would follow seconds later to surprise him from behind. Satomi opened her mouth to call him again, but instead placed her arm around her daughter and turned her resisting shoulders away from the scene.
She drew her daughter towards her and spoke in an even, soft tone. "Come with me to the bedroom, Noriko. There's something I want to show you."
Noriko followed with a backwards glance out the screen door. Her mother sat her on her parent's bed and went to a small desk in the corner of the room. She rummaged in one of the drawers and nodded, bringing a handful of flat, slick black and white photos to the bedside. She laid the photos in a scattered fashion on the bed so that her daughter could see look at them in whatever order she saw fit. "Do you know who this is, Noriko?"
Her daughter shook her head with the corners of her mouth turned down, the off-centered pigtails wiggling awkwardly.
"There's a story I want to tell you." Noriko cocked her head, her eyebrows raised as she drew one of the pictures close to herself. "About you, Noriko. About how you were born."

Shitennoji Sidewalks

2004-04-13T20:32:00.000-07:00

(jpoldmixon)

Shitennoji Sidewalks

Under the undulating, gray shingles of Shitennoji Temple, through the walls surrounding the temple grounds, tied to the handrails that line the narrow sidewalks outside, she can count them one by one. Three, four, five, a yellow knit cap peaks out against the tattered purple blanket. Plastic tarps tightly tied around discarded cardboard, the static dollies as makeshift carts, each to his or her own, neatly gathered stacks that unpack and fold into bedtime boxes for the city's homeless. She has passed them sleeping in the same positions as always, blankets tight over their heads, the top of a somnolent matchbox sliding, closed over their heads like corrugated coffins. Six, seven, the two who sleep with their shared box open to the winter's cold, foot to foot, heads at opposing ends while the unfailing presence of two neatly wrapped Mochi stands sentinel between them. As she walks, she begins to hum a lullaby whose tune is indelibly etched in her memory, but whose words she has hopelessly forgotten. A sidelong glance through the enormous gate reveals others nestled beneath the trees lining the central courtyard. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, she smiles, cranes her neck to inspect the contents of his bag - water bottled by Suntory, half a loaf of bread, an empty can of Asahi beer streaks silver through the plastic. On the sidewalk above his resting head, a pair of red socks, freshly scrubbed.
Liz pulled the red muffler tightly around her throat. She wore a royal blue blouse under a fleece pullover, black slacks, and a small satchel embroidered with the word "Roots," the strap bearing a white pin with a red maple leaf to remind all that despite her appearance and her accent, she was not an American. Aside from her sensitivity concerning this subject, she was easy to get along with. She could not recall ever having anything like an enemy. A polite young lady of 23, Liz was the type who would shriek at the sight of a cockroach, but demand that the creature remain unharmed until it made its way safely out of sight. In the tiny apartment just beyond the temple, her perpetually drunk roommate, Janna, had begun decorating the living room without her. Tinsel, lights, and red ribbon were bought from the 100 Yen shop in a nearby ward some three weeks ago, but Liz had never found her roommate in the proper spirits for the task. Tonight, they agreed on making the holiday, "an authentic American Christmas."
Liz hardly flinched at the comment, saving her rolled eyes and Janna, Christmas isn't only for Americans, for another time. Liz waved a "look what I got," to her roommate as she took off her shoes in the antechamber. Janna, wondering why it couldn't have been a little more rum for the eggnog, "What's the name of that movie they always used to show at Christmas? 'Bing Crosby's White Christmas,' or something. Only it was the director's name, I think, like, 'Frank Zefferelli's White Christmas.' Do you remember?"
Liz didn't remember, and she didn't think it was the soundtrack, but maybe a radio show recorded a long time ago. In any case, she was happy to find her roommate more or less sober, and the fact that she had taken interest in her purchase made her feel like a little sisterly bonding was at hand. Sisterly bonding? The decorations, the lights, the little wiluma tree sprayed with fake frost, and maybe even a little eggnog - Not sisterly bonding. It was more like they were conspirators in this plan to create a traditional Christmas in a country where the holiday was for lovers; where couples greasy with Japan's tradition of Kentucky Fried Chicken for Xmas dinner lumbered through the cold to respectable hotels that would accommodate their off-season rites with separate "stay" and "rest" rates.
"It's like we're 'Xmas sweet hearts'," said Janna, quoting the slogans draped in advertisements where "Merry Christmas" might appear in the west.
The hooks for hanging the lights went into the walls as easily as the rum went down Janna's gullet. The two were Buh-buh-buh-Booing along with Bing before long, and the discussion of how high should this and are you going to put that's subsided in favor of what we did was "open them on Christmas Eve. Sort of Strange, huh? Like, all the other kids would be beaming on Christmas morning and running from Gramma to Gramma to unwrap whatever they got, but I was sort of, you know, done with the whole thing. Christmas Day was more like, eat with your family and watch TV. I dunno," she concluded with a wave of her hand.
Janna, now reflecting on the wiluma tree with a glass of eggnog, "Yeah. Yeah... we always used to beg my parents to let us open one present on Christmas Eve. You know, 'Just one, mom, common!' But they never did. I guess it really didn't matter. But I guess it wouldn't have mattered either way." And Liz with the obvious but then they would have to let you do it every year. Janna nodded absent mindedly, humming out of tune in a way that made her roommate turn and laugh.
Although the compulsory urge to decorate had worn off by ten o'clock, the alcohol had not. As the stories branched off and dead ended into you're drunks and no I'm nots with fits of laughter from both, it began to seem as if their traditional Christmas had stretched itself as far it would go without annoying cousins, awkward church clothes, and something more than noodle soup spread across the table. Feeling adventurous from the drinks and quite comfortable with her companion, Liz allowed herself to be coaxed into taking the subway to Umeda, a spot spattered with ex-pat bars that made the perfect faux away from home.
Wham commanded the juke-box with last Christmas hits and the hunched over the table faces one might find on Christmas Eve back home turned at every pair of hips that crossed the room, hellos and O Namae Wa's from the sticky pink lipstick of stripped orange hair and pleather pants to the pea coats and shined shoes of every Tom Dick and Hiro. But the smoke and the booze and the German Japanese English French wall of talking meant anything goes, or everyone goes, even Liz.
Janna, it appeared by raised eyebrows and lower lip tightly bit, had already found a few admirers. Liz sighing comically with a hand to her forehead only wanted to watch, but enough of this sit here and say nothing Liz, this is Jun. "Yoroshiku" replaced by "How do you do," produced a giggle and her hand outstretched with "I'm fine thank you." And this is Hitoshi and Miki and Junji, so she thought she might as well be Lizzy for laughter's sake, but no one seemed to notice, or no one seemed to care.
So she was Liz again and he was Mike, two plain names and the conversation running about the same way before she looked up to find her roommate had disappeared. Of course, she thought, she would be back soon, because no one leaves anyone stranded on Christmas Eve, especially in some pick-up joint for desperate locals and horny middle age western men. But she did.
For a while anyway. In the meantime, Liz had the decency to rule out the possible "rest" rate at the Wedding Bells Hotel, but was made to put up with the increasingly dizzying parade of this is and meet my friends by Hitoshi Miki and Junji, who now introduced her as Lizzy. Janna returned to find her roommate like a Christmas ham waiting to be glazed by Japanese men already watering at the mouth. And Janna's boy toy? Arm around her waist and a look like he had really done something but it was really nothing for him to pick up a western girl. After declining drink after drink Liz told Janna she would have to meet her at home. Janna, words stumbling, would not wait up, no you wait, hahaha, I mean you don't, wait up, don't wait up for me.
The stairway exit descended into the cold streets of Umeda. The force of the cold hit her face as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She fumbled for her red muffler, the passersby turning at sharp angles to avoid colliding with the only unmoving figure in the street. Liz walked forward thinking she couldn't have expected anything different. It's not that her roommate was to blame for always being that way; if she wanted to be a lush, let her. She immediately took back that word - lush. The frigid light of neon rising stories high, the turns and crosswalk songs played at the changing of the traffic light. It really could have been any part of Osaka, she thought. But it couldn't be home. It wasn't like home. Suits and bloodshot eyes crowded on the last train, the last chance to get wherever you wanted to go without paying a fortune for a taxi, and Liz congratulated herself on saving the money, despite the two men pushing against her for room to breathe their whiskey soaked stench over her head.
As she pushed her way up from the underground into the gray asphalt streets, the iridescent light of the city glowed, lighting the white stripes of the streets, falling away in narrow allies with colder signs and faces staring at her through the shadows. But Christmas could still be saved and maybe she could buy a loaf of bred for all those that slept along the sidewalk outside the Temple, leave it quietly quietly so that they woke up wondering what had happened and she immediately felt that sinking, the blood is drained from your face, leaving from the tips of your fingers through your limbs and from your toes through your legs up from the stomach sucked backwards from whichever way it went before. That feeling that won't think to look up to the sky and wonder if someone is watching or where is whoever is dear to you and what might they be doing right now.
Seeing the cold air escape from her lips and nose as she did so, she began to hum one of those Bing Crosby renditions to herself, counting them one by one as she went along the walls of the Shitennoji Temple. Four, Five, step by step ringing against the pavement, Eight, Nine, following the cracks in the sidewalk and imagining the empty space between, Fourteen, Fifteen, the consecutive eves of the central pagoda curling up and out while the spire's concentric rings remain unseen against the night, Twenty-two, Twenty-three, and she stops, turns around. Somewhere behind her, a tattered voice bounces off the walls and his plaintive palm points toward the pavement. A fireman, looking disheveled and probably annoyed from being summoned so late, attempts to lift the dead weight shadow but only shakes his head. Help arrives with a stretcher and the tattered voice is shoved aside, his wail swelling as he stumbles back against the Temple wall. Liz retraces her steps as quickly as she can, going Eighteen, Seventeen, Sixteen to keep the people straight but finds her breathing coming in pants and stops counting with her feet starts counting with her eyes - Twelve, Eleven, Ten - and stops all together. Box top slid shut, blanket pulled tightly over the uncovered body in the same position as always, yellow cap or freshly scrubbed socks worn feet to feet with heads at opposite ends and the sentinel standing watch between them. A heavy cloud of cold breath hangs before her face. She shudders, Six. Eleven. Seventeen.

Seaweed Smamiches

2004-04-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

(jpoldmixon)

Seaweed Smamiches

So Ollie was already on the Midosujii line when he got the email that said -

LET'S HIT SHINISAI TONIGHT. ANYA DROPPED THE L-BOMB.
MARCEL.

A proposition Ollie readily accepted, mainly because it seemed like some kind of message in a bottle, but also because he couldn't figure out what "L-BOMB" meant. It took him a few seconds to sort out Anya as the ex-girlfriend from Florida, but "L-BOMB?" A train coming the opposite direction on parallel tracks slammed past his carriage.
Ollie closed his cell phone and decided on two possible meanings. The most obvious was that she told Marcel that she loved him. Considering they were about a billion miles apart and that he had left on uncertain terms, this would be the most likely option. Marcel would be overwhelmed by her declaration and probably be wondering if he should go home or not. Questions about weighing the opportunities of his present situation and the couple's powder-keg past would put him in a potentially lose-lose situation. That, of course, would be overblown, trite, and likewise altogether boring.
The second possibility was that she was not American, but Lithulanian - and had failed to admit this to him for the duration of their four-year relationship (DUN DUN DUNNNN!!!). She was engaged in international espionage. Sent to research and document every detail of young American culture. Fashion, speech patterns, eating habits, hygiene products, actions and reactions endemic to the lifestyle. And now that Marcel had moved to Japan, his usefulness had run its course. Only she found that she couldn't cut him off that easily - no, there was something between them. Something she had never known. Not love. But something much more terrifying. It was with Marcel that she had become - American! (DUN DUN DUNNN!!!!). That would be interesting. But before Ollie could take the story any further, a rather emphatic voice informed him (in Japanese) that he had reached Shinsaibashi.
So I'll say this while Ollie walks to the exit where he'll meet Marcel: Ollie and Marcel are both Americans living and teaching English in Osaka. They work, as Marcel would put it, "for the damn pink bunny." Ollie's favorite flavor of ice cream is rocky road, but he's lactose intolerant and therefore shuns all dairy products as if they come from the teats of Cerberus himself. He's kinda tall and kinda not. Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Freckles. Marcel, on the other hand, is about 6 foot 3. He's skinny and he's got a long face with light eyes that give him the look of a Lynard Skynard fan. He listens to grindcore and mid nineties hip-hop. He hates Lynard Skynard.

M: What's going on, Ollie?
O: Ehh. Same old bullshit. Yourself?
M: Yeah - the same. Have you eaten yet?
O: Yeah, but I don't care. I can sit with you or something.
M: I'm thinkin Mos Burger.
O: Mos Burger has white cheese.
M: ?
O: White cheese. It's not natural. It's supposed to be yellow cheese.

Ollie thought about flushing out the subject from the start but changed his mind. It was early, anyway.

O: Do you know what time it is?
M: Something like Ten. (He looks at his watch). Nine Forty-something.

Marcel returned his phone to his pocket and turned to Ollie.

M: Well it's early so I better get this out of the way now: I think my last train home leaves at eleven forty eight from Umeda. Which means I have to catch a train here, like ten minutes before that, which would put me in Juso. . . but I kinda wanna stay out and drink, so I was thinking about just taking a taxi. Do you wanna, like pitch in on a taxi together or something. I mean, would you mind if I crashed at your place? Or if that's too much of a problem, then. . .
Of course it wasn't a problem, but Marcel when on about the inconvenience for another couple of minutes before Ollie said: Is that it? Marcel cocked his head: What?

O: I thought you were going to tell me about whatever it was you -
M: Oh! No - that wasn't it. I thought I told you in the email, but Anya called me the other day and told me that she has a girlfriend. She's a lesbian. Which is kind of messed up, you know? Not that I think I turned her into a lesbian or anything. It's just - kind of shocking. But I guess she likes both, you know? So she's technically not a lesbian or something.
O: Techinally?
M: You know what I mean, right?
O: Technically.

The conversation, continued in front of the cashier, in the seating area, and out the door on the way to the bar, followed in a format that was mainly Marcel talking to himself - at Ollie. Which didn't bother Ollie, although he ranked the "L-bomb" around the level of a firecracker and wished he could have been right about her being Lithuanian after all. The place where they eventually bought two Kirin's on draft was called Khurashba. It was on the third floor of a non-descript building and offered free pool and darts. The girl behind the bar was named Naoko. As it was one of her few English words, she picked out the word "lesbian," in their conversation, but correctly guessed that they had no idea that they were in a gay bar. The two scrawled their names on a chalkboard to reserve a spot in the lineup of pool players.

O: I don't buy it.
M: Buy what?
O: The whole they were "born that way," thing.
M: Yeah. . . I don't know.
O: It just makes no sense. Why would you be biologically hardwired to do something that's disadvantageous to the propagation of the species? . . . Which is not to say that I agree with the survival and reproduction bag. That shit overlooks the evolution of culture and all sorts of other variables - not exactly marginal influences.
M: So - eh. Right. Is it nature or nurture, then?
O: But, see, that's boiling it down too far too. No one is born like some robot programmed to fuck only women. Or only men. Or whatever. But it's not like showing gay porn mags to a little kid from age 3 to age whatever is going to guarantee they'll be gay. That's fucking reductionism. On both ends.
M: Right. I think I kind of agree.
O: Or reductionist fucking?
M: I don't really think people are born gay. And it's kind of weird to think of people as becoming gay. Because that sort of implies that people start off with some preference and then somehow end up changing it. Which goes back to the idea of being born gay or being born straight.
O: And all that business about, "falling in love with a person," as opposed to a sex? I don't think that's right either. Because I really don't think I could fall in love - love love - with a man. I guess it's like cottage cheese. I really hate cottage cheese. There's nothing more disgusting than that shit. But I bet there's something you could make with cottage cheese that I would like. Of course, I'm pretty sure I'm not biologically predisposed to hate cottage cheese, and I can't say my environment has influenced me to ineluctably hate cottage cheese. Both of those options are absurd reasons for my hatred of cottage cheese. Which is not to say that I hate homosexuals. . .
But by this time Marcel had left for another round of beers and Ollie was trying to work it out in his head. As Marcel returned, Ollie noticed his expression was a little more removed than usual. And he was pretty sure he knew what he would say next.

M: What if every girl from here on out is gay?
O: Every girl? Gay?
M: Every girl I'm attracted to is really gay. A lesbian. Not a straight girl. And I end up falling for all of these girls that are gay. Or I only attract gay girls, which poses something of a problem.
O: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah... whatever. It's a myth. Impossible. Think of how slim the chances would be. I mean, why even entertain such a notion?
Marcel nodded and watched the subject drop somewhere into the bottom of his glass.
O: Of course, this means we have to get you laid tonight. What other option is there?
Marcel narrowed his eyes a bit.
M: Yeah, I don't know about that. I don't think I really feel like chasing girls tonight.
O: Oh, come on. COME ON, MAN! You know all it takes.
M(laughs): That's right - All it takes is Kon'ban wa. (laughs again) I forgot all about that.
O: See? No problem. All it takes is Kon'ban wa.
Marcel shakes his head.
M: You know, after this whole Anya business, I don't even want to think about sex. I thought I had this Zen outlook on sex, but. . . It's not even that, but every time I've met a girl, it's been by pure chance. I'm not really a go-getter. Has it been that way with you or is it. . .?
O: No, no - it's been that way. Almost every time. But I have met girls by looking. Even when you're not looking, you're looking, you know? You're not handing out flyers, but you're looking.
M: I guess that's true. You know, I'm not exactly young anymore, either. Girls used to approach me, so I never had to worry about it. I never introduced myself, I just waited for them, basically. But, Jesus, look, I'm even starting to go bald. Runs in family. I guess I really should be getting out there, but. . . I don't know. I don't know.

O: That's your problem.
M: What's that?
O: Peanuts.
M: Peanuts?
O: Peanuts! My god, Marcel, you don't know Peanuts?
M: Whaaat?
O: What? Peanuts! Charlz Shultz. Charlie Brown. Snoopy. But it's actually called "Peanuts," and I fucking hate it when people call it "Snoopy." It's called "Peanuts."
M: And that's my problem?
O: You're just like Charlie Brown.
M: Because I'm going bald?
O: Because you're going?! - come on, Marcel. Really. Not knowing Peanuts is like not knowing Rockwell.
M: The philanthropist? Ollie, what the hell -
O: That's Rockefeller. Rockwell: The Saturday Evening Post. But that's beside the point. Charlie Brown and Lucy. The football scenario. You're Charlie Brown in the football scenario.
M(laughs): Oh-hoh-kay.
At this response Ollie appears to be somewhat annoyed. It is as if he were explaining to a small child how to make a bologna sandwhich. He proceeds with a tone of voice that is appropriate to such a situation.
O: Lucy holds the football in place. An obvious symbol of the vagina. The shape - everything. Most of the time she promises him she will let him kick the football this time around. Our friend Chuck is the balding middle age man - impotence - and the strapping young lad - virility - all rolled into one. Charlie Brown, whether or not he believes Lucy, vows time after time that he will succeed in kicking the football; he approaches at full speed, only to have the football jerked away at the last moment. He lands on his ass and typically says something like, "UGGGH." Sometimes he says "ARRG."
M: So I should slow down my approach?
O: You're missing the point. The scene is an allegory about male sexual frustration. This isn't a new idea. See, most people think it's about the seemingly unattainable vagina, and leave it at that. But they're forgetting one important detail.
M: That it's a comic strip about two little kids?
O: That Lucy is not Chuck's girlfriend. Charlie's girlfriend is the one who gave him his nickname - Chuck.
Here, Ollie either pauses to collect his thoughts or to elicit the some twisted corollary from his interlocutor. Marcel can't tell which. I can't either.
M: ?
O: Popcorn Patty. His girlfriend is Popcorn fucking Patty. Do you read the comics, Marcel?
M: I guess not.
O: Anyway, the point is, if it were an allegory about male sexual frustration in general, Charlie Brown wouldn't have a girlfriend. They would be two parties with no ties attached. But good old Chuck does have a girlfriend. So everything changes.
M: Of course it does.
O: Of course it does - why wouldn't Popcorn Patty be holding the football?
M: Because she plays on the baseball team.
O: So does Lucy. She's the pitcher. And Charlie brown manages all of them, but now we're talking about an entirely different allegory. Look - the point is this: Lucy is holding the football instead of Popcorn Patty because the allegory isn't just about male sexual frustration. It's about the anxieties of post-modern man's sexual promiscuity. Not polygamy, mind you, or even casual sex, but the anxiety which results from the mere pursuit of multiple women - a practice which is presented as inevitable through social and pan-cultural norms perpetuated by all sorts of fucked up parties.
M: Parties?
O: You know what I mean, Marcel. The thing is, you've got yourself stuck in that comic. You're always going after the football. Getting it pulled away right before you kick it. And now you're pissed. So now you're lining up again, wondering if you should even bother to try to kick the fucking thing.
M: OK! . . . you lost me. I genuinely have NO IDEA what you are talking about. Charlie Brown and the football, Ollie? What the hell does that have to do with my situation?
Someone from a few tables is asking if anyone knows who "Mar-kell" is. "Nextoh," the guy says with a gesture toward one of the pool tables. Ollie asks him if he wants a beer and heads in the direction of the bar. Naoko, the bartender who was pretty sure the two weren't gay, makes a show of kissing a girl seated on a stool across the bar as Ollie approaches her. He pays for the beer and returns to the table, keeping an eye on the two guys playing pool at the table next to Marcel's. He puts his beer down and turns to find Marcel. His competitor, it turns out, is a rather cute twenty-something Japanese girl with short, black hair and a beauty mark on her right temple. After she breaks, Marcel wiggles his thumb to indicate that he needs a lighter. The girl nods and approaches him with her hand in her pocket. Rather than hand him the lighter, she cups it in her hand and allows Marcel to lean in so she can light it. At the moment when his cigarette comes into contact with the flame, she raises her thumb and lets the flame disappear. Marcel gives her a look of apology and lowers his head to the newly lit flame, which she promptly lets fall as it comes into contact with Marcel's cigarette. At this, the girl bursts into laughter. Marcel turns with an incredulous look to his friend across the room. Ollie shrugs.

The Midosuji Cowboy (About this Blog)

2004-04-07T02:33:00.000-07:00

Irasshaimasen Dozo... The following Blog is being composed in the heart of South Osaka by J.P. Oldmixon, a native Texan living and working in Japan. For requests or comments of any kind, please write to my email address, which you should be able to find by a number of legal or nefarious means. All the texts are the original and the copyrighted property of J.P. Oldmixon; all rights concerning the publication, distribution, and rapid dust gathering of this material are held exclusively by J.P Oldmixon.

... or something like that, anyway.

Wait. . .

2004-04-05T20:09:00.000-07:00

Just a moment