Early
spring, clear, 2:30 p.m., cherry blossoms sprinkled across the sidewalks,
drifted in the gutters, mashed to atoms on the asphalt. You're in
your lovely late model white-with-maroon interior Toyota Sprinter,
northbound on Machida Kaido, closing in on Hashimoto. But slowly.
It's been one delay after another: traffic lights, some a scant thirty
meters apart and all of them red at your approach; a bus ahead of
you disgorging at length creaking little obaasans and schoolchildren
at every block; heavy construction equipment, bulldozers on massive
flatbeds and monster Kato cranes, inching along with centimeters to
spare on either side, maneuvering around other large vehicles stopped
at curbside while their drivers stroll into the Lawson's or the Seven-Eleven
for a can of Boss and a pack of Mild Sevens and perhaps a bit of leisurely
flirtation with the counter girl; Big Yosun traffic directors, rigged
out like rear admirals, sternly halting all traffic to ease their
motorist customers into and out of the Yosun lot and their pedestrian
customers from the far side of the Kaido despite the absence of crosswalk;
young cyclists wobbling, toddlers toddling, dodderers doddering.
Yes, you're
steamed. And now this: four (count 'em) pump jockeys in neat green
livery surge from the big new Jomo and fan out in formation onto
the Kaido, palms out, stopping both lanes, bowing repeatedly to
their customer while that worthy person tucks away his receipt in
his wallet, buffs his glasses on his necktie, starts his engine,
fastens his seatbelt, readjusts his rearview mirror, selects a forward
gear and blinks in mild surprise as his gleaming Bluebird merely
lurches, restarts his engine and releases the emergency brake, creeps
from the concrete apron and onto the Kaido achieving, finally, a
perfectly executed right turn. You grip the wheel, inhaling and
exhaling richly through your nostrils.
"Don't say it,"
pleads your wife, eyes closed, massaging her temples.
"I love a parade."
"Please, atama
go itai, my head is aching."
"But they should
have some tubas and bass drums. Batons for the girls."
"Because of
your attitude, which gives me so much stress, it aches."
"Those people
are not authorized to stop traffic."
"Of course it
is their courtesy to the okyakusan!"
"It's a gross
discourtesy to everyone else. They are kissing ass on my time."
"Even for a
foreigner you are so very crude and selfish."
"Is this a parking
lot or a road?"
"They are nice.
You are not."
"Is that the
point of a road?" you ask, acidly. "Displaying one's niceness?"
"Point of road
and point of everything is group harmony. Is wa."
----------------------
Early summer,
fog, drizzle, tail end (you hope) of the rains, mid-afternoon. You
are headed south on Machida Kaido in your cherished Sprinter. At
Bamba Ju Jiro the light turns green. You signal for a right turn
and wait for oncoming traffic to clear. It doesn't, however, because
that well-meaning party in the cinnamon Cima fifty thousand dollars,
sleek, exquisite has stopped and now flashes his lights at you.
He waits, again flashes the lights. Your wife looks over, annoyed.
"Well, why don't
you turn?"
"Why doesn't
he go through the intersection? He's got the light."
"Because he
is nice. Now turn, please."
"Nice? Really?
He's holding up everyone behind him. And did he check his rearview
mirror before he so generously flashed his lights? Did he see that
drug-crazed bosozoku on the nana-han roaring up on
his left?"
"Motorcycle?
What motorcycle? I don't see a motorcycle."
"No. But you
can't see that it isn't there, either, and that's the point."
"What are you
talking?"
"I mean, you
have to assume there is or might be some kid zooming up on "
"Turn now! He
is very patiently winking you again."
"I don't care!
This is the classic situation. Remember driving classes? The "Thank-You-Very-Much
Accident." It has a name, it happens so often. You see signs all
over. And if the kid hits me, I'm responsible. Not the kid. Not
the guy in the Cima. Me and only me. And do you know what I stand
to lose?"
"I-I-I. Me-me-me.
That is you sounding like some opera. All you think is me-me-me."
"Everything,
that's what I stand to lose, because that's the way it is. Street's
are wet, no traction, the kid is ripping along at 60 kph, he's breaking
about seventeen different laws all at once, but pow, it's still
my fault. Hey, this is Japan. I didn't draft the legal code. And
then? First of all, bye-bye, nice Mr. Cima, he doesn't want to get
involved. Now let's say the kid is crippled or brain-damaged--"
"You are damaged
in your brain because please notice that this man is winking you
again, so please consider that you are not the only person
on the planet of Earth."
"I know it!
That's why we have rules and right-of-way and and so forth!" High-pitched
beeps begin behind you, then the long bass blast of a truck's air
horn.
"Turn! Right
now! Everyone is waiting you."
"No! It's very
dangerous and stupid, and I will not "
"Turn now, before
I am even more shame." Your wife, sliding down in her seat, hands
covering her face, peering between her fingers. "Oh, this is too
much, I can't stand. Otosan was certainly right about you.
He said, 'Michan, be careful of the foreigner, because they have
such a different kangaekata and care so very little for social
harmony'--Anata! What are you doing?"
Enraged, you
flash your lights at the Cima; dogged, the Cima flashes back. A
crescendo of horns from the furious group. Your traffic light turns
red, the color of war.
----------------------
A brilliant
fall Monday, 5:30 in the afternoon, maples and ginkgoes blazing
scarlet and gold, crystal air. You're breathing deep, glad to be
alive, sweeping up a few leaves from the walk in front of your place.
Just for the fun of it. You look up and see your wife approaching
in your sparkling Sprinter. You spent all Sunday on it: wash, rinse,
rubbing compound, two coats of Simonize. Your wife eases to the
curb and sets the brake. Your Sprinter, you eye it with affection:
best car you ever had, best friend, really: warm, responsive,
dependable. Two coats of wax, maybe next time you'll make it three,
because this car deserves it. Shine looks a foot deep. Actually,
on the left rear door there it looks about thirteen inches deep
. . . no, please. You will your eyelids apart and look again, through
the tears.
"It is only
a little scratch, Anata. Fortunately, I was not injured."
"That's not
a scratch. That's a crease. It will cost a thousand dollars to fix."
"So what? That
is only hachi man. Insurance will pay. Look what I bought
Yumi-chan for her birthday. Do you like the pleats?"
"The premiums
will double. This was your fault?"
"Not
my fault. Two big trucks parked on either side of the road. I could
not squeeze through, it was too semai. So I had no choice."
"No choice?
You had a choice. Why didn't you just back up?"
"Many cars were
behind me! Should I inconvenience them?"
"Yes! I think
so. Maybe a thousand times. Once per dollar. My beautiful Toyota.
And what about the inconvenience to me?"
"Oh, you are
always like that. It is your system of values. You are talking about
some stupid little piece of metal. I am talking about the lives
of human beings and the way we must all work together for smooth
relations of the shakai."
"Well, what
about your horn? I assume you leaned on the horn?"
"Horn is extremely
rude. And I am just a woman."
"Just a woman?
Just a woman? What in the world--and rude, so what? It's rude to
block a major road and then take a nap up there in the cab which
they were probably doing."
"Truck driver
work very hard. They are not teaching eikaiwa to the cute
little burikko in the air condition classroom and chat, chat,
chat, all is so pleasant."
"Hey! Teaching
English is hard work. Day in, day out "
"By the way,
how is Miss Koyanagi is that her name? Is she very pretty? She
called. 'Ah, gomen, I have forgot what is the homework.'
I said her, 'Practice to your grammar.' And she just laughed
and said, 'Is the sensei home?' And I said, 'Ah, no orimasen,
I thought maybe he is with you.' And she said "
"My Sprinter,
my beautiful Sprinter."
"Me-me-me-me.
My-my-my-my-my. I-I-I-I-I."
----------------------
Thick winter,
crisp and lovely, dusk. TGIF! You're back. There is your lovely
white Toyota Sprinter--with the off-white left rear door--parked
in front, gleaming with Simonize and blanketed with scintillating
crystals of snow. "I'm home, Baby," you murmur to it softly, only
half-joking. You stride up the walk invigorated by your hike from
the train station. And by the prospect of big money moving around.
Your money, fifty thousand dollars worth of yen, the down payment
on an actual private dwelling. Yes, you, a humble English teacher,
inkstains on your fingers and chalkdust on your tweed jacket but,
never mind! Soon, if all goes well, you will be out of your pitiful
usagi goya, your tiny rabbit hutch apartment, and into your
very own home. Years of scrimping, months of planning. Prices were
relatively low, but the Keio Line was rumored to be coming through,
and so was the Odakyu Line. The area was starting to hum. If you
wanted in, you had to take the plunge. In a year, six months, could
you still afford it? Probably not. So you plunged, boldly.
You feel exultation
thick in your throat.
Or is it terror?
Oh, this is a major deal, all right. Forty million yen for the building
site, another thirteen for the structure--say five hundred thousand
dollars. Your inlaws, who will live downstairs, are to come up with
half. Still, a quarter of a million bucks. You try not to think
about all the zeroes. You try to forget that your father-in-law
and you had to cough up five large, each, earnest money. Otherwise,
no dialogue with the bankers. Yow, a five grand ante.
And that five,
and the whole complex deal, is or rather was on the line pending
the delivery to the bank of one final document by closing time today.
So this morning you several times sought to impress upon your wife
the seriousness of the situation, until she grew impatient "Wakatta,
wakatta! I got it! Don't worry so much! I know what is at the
stake." And she of course must have made it to the bank because
there is your Sprinter, back in its accustomed slot and covered
with snow. (Why so much snow? Probably she took the bus.)
Just as you reach for your apartment door it opens, and out comes
your neighbor, Mrs. Oshibori--plump, damp, nubbly, ever-smiling,
a fountain of words--obviously terminating one of her late-afternoon
visits with your wife. Animated conversation, bowing, smiling, and
to you from her a hearty arigato gozaimasu. (Thanks? For
what? Probably borrowed another cup of sugar.) More bowing, oyasuminasai.
Good night. You are glad to see her disappear behind her own door
down the hall.
Inside, to your
wife: "So! No trouble at the bank?"
"I didn't go
to the bank. Now don't get okoteru."
"Didn't . .
. go . . . to . . . the . . . bank?"
"No, I didn't
go to the bank."
"Wait, stop.
Did you say "
"Yes! I said
I didn't go to the bank. But I had a very good reason. Ten-thirty,
I was just going out the door, and Mrs. Oshibori is coming over
to pay a visit."
"She's been
here all day?"
"Yes." Your
wife's pretty lips curl in a rueful smile. "We had many cups of
o-cha and she had brought some delicious o-hagi, and
. . . I smoked one of her cigarettes. Do you mind?"
"She was here
seven hours, and you couldn't get rid of her?"
"Get rid of
her? Get rid of her? Keep your voice down. She is maybe listening
through the wall which I think she sometimes does even though her
English is not strong, but still she does her best. Get rid of her?
She is our next door neighbor. Good relations with her must be ichiban.
We must be nakayoshi with our neighbors, or we will not survive.
And she is greatly senior to me. And she is my mother's younger
sister's best friend from university days. Nippon Joshi Dai. Should
I say, 'Excuse me, please leave now because I must go to the bank'?"
"Yes! Of course!"
"Oh, really."
Your wife snickers scornfully. "Now I know you must be joking."
"What did I
tell you this morning? What did we agree? Nothing would keep you
away from that bank. Nothing. And now you're telling me the old
boot came over and "
"How could
I know she was coming over? And bringing the delicious o-hagi?"
"Came over and
dug in and you couldn't pry her loose. Why didn't you call me and
put her on the phone? I would have gotten rid of her."
"Yes, I know."
Your wife shudders. "That is why I did not call."
"Oh, God. What
are we going to do? Five grand gone and fifty on the way."
"Oh, Daddy will
think of something. And anyway, it is only money. Isn't that what
you say in America? Also, I think you are very nakimushi
to cry like that. Mrs. Oshibori doesn't cry although her life has
been taihen. But she needed someone to talk to. Her husband
went on the sex tour to Thailand with his company, and he goes to
Soapland all of the time, and he bought takusan IBM kabu
at 136.25 and it went down even more, so he lost some big money
which they were saving. And their children are having so much trouble
in school, and her oldest daughter you know Rina? she is still
in the byoin with a broken neck from the motorcycle boy who
hit her on her bicycle. And Mrs. Oshibori has been too busy to visit
her because she is so worried about money. So she wondered if they
could borrow some from us, and I said mochiron, that is what
neightbors are for, and I would certainly discuss with you."
"Money!"
"Quiet! Keep
down your voice. Yes, money. They are in a bad situation, can't
you understand that? But they need only hyaku man or so,
and only for a few months, maybe, so I thought, Why not just sell
the car which we almost never use, and you are such a rude driver"
"Sell the
car?"
"Yes, it is
cooperation for the wa. Also, Mrs. Oshibori has a very serious
east problem "
"East? Like
East is East and West is West?"
"E-east."
"Yeast?"
"Yes. Infection.
Which you couldn't even understand, and "
"Yeast!"
"Quiet! Quiet!"
"Yeast and money!
Money and yeast!"
"Quiet! Shizuka
ni! Oh, now it is the great shame for me."
"TO HELL WITH
MRS. OSHIBORI!"
Yourself, pounding
the papery wall, roaring. Your wife pale, her lower lip aquiver.
"Well, that
is your attitude, and you are my husband, so I must bear it patiently
and without complaint but how terrible is my life! Marriage to
this barbarian hen-na gaijin and always so poor and living
in this horrible usagi goya. Sometimes it is all too much.
Many women would complain and do the kenka with their husbands
and get the divorce. But I will never complain. Never."
F.J.
Logan teaches, writes and lives in the Tokyo area with his wife
and their two children. He contributes frequently to the Kyoto
Journal.
