Luckiest Man in Japan

Nice to meet you. Or should I say, it’s good for you to meet me because I’m special you see. I’m the luckiest man in Japan. Even better, I’m not the luckiest man because I’m good at pachinko* or I’ve cheated death so many times. It’s nothing as simple or material as that. No, I’m lucky for other reasons, many reasons. One of those reasons is sitting next to me on this train.
My girlfriend? No, but isn’t she cute? This is my daughter. I have three daughters. Would you like to see a picture? No? Ok, sorry, I’m just so proud of my daughters that I don’t care who sees. It’s probably unseemly for a man to be so bursting with joy but again, I’m about to retire so what do I care? Hisako, there are so few “ko”* names now, is my middle daughter though she’s the tallest so people often think she’s the oldest. She has two sisters, Naoko and Rie. Naoko is my oldest daughter and Rie is my youngest. Naoko is married with one baby. They’re coming to visit us for Obon* and my wife and I are very excited. Rie is married as well and very pregnant. She’s short so her belly just overwhelms her frame. She does look like she swallowed a beach ball every time I see her. They both have good husbands and I’m glad of it. A good match is important. I swear if I ever hear their husbands have made them cry I’d break every bone in their body. I’m not keen on getting arrested so I’m very glad they have loving husbands.
I am certain their husbands love them like I love my wife. I’ve always loved my wife. We met through family in our little town. She was very quiet which I didn’t like at first but as we’ve been married I’ve noticed she’s quiet because she’s listening, always taking things in. I often find my wife picks up on even the tinest change in my speech and seizes on that to ask about my welfare. She keeps a neat house and cooks well. I’ve made it a habit of telling her that I appreciate it. That I love her. She blushes like a first year high school student even still. I’ve been openly loving her for quite some time and it still makes her blush. Sometimes I tell just because I think she’s cute when she blushes.
Have I always loved my wife? Yes, but I haven’t always told her. No, I’m not a member of any clubs for men who can’t tell their wives they love them and are deathly afraid of divorce. As you get older, your priorities change. Soemtimes something happens and it makes you see what’s been going on around you.
It wasn’t a heart attack or a cancer diagnosis or losing my job. It wasn’t even something that really happened to me. It was seeing something that happened to someone else. It was the suicide man that gave me pause. I didn’t know this man, this man in a business suit who looked just like me. I figured he was standing close to the platform because he wanted a better seat on the train at a busy time. But that wasn’t it. When I look back I can’t help but wonder if I’d been as I am now if I would have saved him. He wasn’t big or dramatic about it. He jumped at the last minute, one second he was “waiting” for a seat the next he was on the tracks waiting to be cleaned up. There wasn’t much in the news about it, trains were delayed but that was it. I couldn’t get the image out of my head. I’ve had trains delayed for “technical difficulties” before but I’ve never seen someone become a technical difficulty. More and more I was struck by how much this man looked like me, like all the other commuters. Did he have a family? Was he in debt? Was he fired? Did he have friends? Would someone put incense at his alter in the coming year or did he just vanish? Was all that was left of him a pension?
I didn’t think then “Ah, I’m going to let my family know I love them”. My life, as fantastic as it is, isn’t a movie. It was a change I didn’t realize until my wife pointed it out. It started that night. I came home late. Hisako was up studying for high school exams at the time. She never slept well even when she was a baby. She’s more like her mother, constantly taking in the world and worrying about it. Math, she was struggling with math. I don’t know why I did it, but I sat down beside her and we talked about math. Usually I just ate the dinner my wife left out but tonight I sat down with my middle daughter, the quiet daughter and shared a bit of her world of tests.
We still do that, today I’m visiting her after a doctors appointment. I’m still very healthy for a man my age. She explains to me about the reorganizing of her company and I tell her a little about mine. She’s a little jealous of her sisters, married with babies but she’s happy at her company. I’m happy she’s happy. I’ve told her before I’d rather she waited and found a good husband than just settled for the first one to come along. I confided in her that I’d like to stay out of jail for assault. She laughs at my jokes, as many times as she’s heard them. Her laugh is small where mine is big and I’m certain it fills up the whole train. As she gets off at her stop I say good bye to her and take my seat again.
If I am not the luckiest man in Japan, I don’t know who is.
Pachinko- Kind of like pinball and slot machines combined.
“Ko” names- A while ago most girls names had the kanji “Ko” attached to their names. As the years have gone on this has become less and less common.
Obon- the time in the summer when people go back home to tend their family shrines. It’s a bit like Memorial Day.
I had the privilege of sitting next to this guy on the train. Alas he didn’t talk to me but he kept looking over my shoulder while I was writing. He also had a big deep voice and made huge sweeping gestures. He reminded me a lot of my own father. He was with a younger woman who looked quiet but very interested in what he was saying. He smiled a lot and even dared to smile at me. Considering people are usually very put out by having to sit next to me, I was glad of a smile so I gave this guy a nice story.

Super Salary Man

I’m almost home. This trip is almost over. It’s not that I hate trips or that I have much to go home to. Just a goldfish, my small apartment, that’s all I’m coming home too. It’s fairly standard really, which I like for the most part. I’m not like a few of my classmates who insist that they are too good to go work at accompany. They look at me like there’s something wrong with me working for a company. Right now the only thing wrong with it is that I’m stuck wearing a jacket in 35 degree heat while my sempai wears short sleeves.
It’s really more that I’m hot than that my sempai* wears different clothes. I’m sure if I asked he’d let me take off my jacket. I’m really lucky to have such an understanding sempai. He’s certainly more understanding than my father was. Otosan*, always providing, working long hours. Only slithering out of the office for drinking parties, dinner, and special occasions. No, I don’t despise him, I get it. But he seems such a stark contrast to sempai. Sempai treats me more like a son on most days than a kohai*. He has a family, no sons but two daughters. I wonder if they feel the same way about him that I feel about my father? DO they think he’s a pathetic workaholic who they only see once in a while? I mena, I guess now that I’m older I understand, you know? I mean, I get it’s not how things are done in other places but working long hours is how he showed he cared. I’ve tried expaining it before to a few ryugakusee* at my college but they didn’t really try to get it. It’s the way it is. You fight it when you’re young but as you get older it makes sense. A lot of times the company, work, can be like a family. Your sempai can, if he’s good, become like a new father to you. Maybe that’s the issue with my generation. Our fathers aren’t our fathers in the sense that’s imported so instead our sempais become our fathers.
I don’t even know what I’m saying. I lost myself in thought again. At least talking to myself is good company. It’s always disheartening when you’re talking to yourself and you realize you don’t even know what you mean. But these thoughts are things I can’t imagine telling anyone, not sempai, not my parents, and certainly not a wife, if I had one. Maybe when I hit middle management I’ll get a wife, I wonder if it’s part of the promotion package. It’s not that I don’t like anyone. Yumi’s cute, really cute. She’s smart* and always dresses very well even in the company uniform. I’d talk to her, ask her out but you can’t sexually harass secretaries until you’re at least in middle management. Or they can’t sexually harass you until you’re in middle management. I always forget the order of when it’s no longer creepy to ask a girl at your office out.
But here, isn’t where I always pictured myself. Believe it or not until I was a 6th grader I firmly believed I was going to grow up and become Anpan-man*. Like, that was what I wanted to do. When mom would ask me what my plans for the future would be, I’d start singing the anpan man song. It was really funny until I was a 3rd grader. After that she’d admonish me and hastily tell all those assembled that I didn’t really mean it. Of course I wanted to work for the same company as my dad. And I mean, after a time I found I did. It’s a good company, I have a good fatherly sempai who doesn’t horribly abuse me. The secretaries are cute mostly, not that it’s important, but I know my father noticed them. No, I don’t know for certain that he had an affair, but it’s not uncommon that’s all I’ll say.
It’s time to go back to the goldfish. I see a little boy with an anpan-man t-shirt. It hurts, a little, to wonder about his super hero dreams, if they are the same as mine were. So clear and sharp, so easy to reach. I suppose now, as government literature says, I’m a super hero too. I’m the backbone of the Japanese economy. I’m a super salary man.
Or at least I will be.
Sempai- hard to convey the feeling behind it but it’s someone who has been doing something longer and is, ideally, supposed to be a mentor of sorts.
Kohai- like sempai hard to convey, it’s “junior”.
Otosan- Father
Ryugakusee- international students
Smart- usually refers to body, slender, svelt.
Anpan-man- A super hero made of red bean paste bread (anpan). It’s very old but an extremely popular children’s’ show. Even my high school students watch it.
I saw this guy in the Shinkansen terminal of Himeji. He was looking at the art display with an older man who wore short sleeves. He carried the bags and wore a full suit. That’s really all I went on, the rest of his story is just pure me going nuts after a ridiculously hot day.

Are you Japanese?!

Yeah, it hurt but I like roses. They’re very cute don’t you think. They’re on my arms, I’m very proud of them. By which I mean the tattoo and the arms. I don’t know why everyone seems nervous looking at them. Well I know but I think it’s stupid. Yeah, I’m a yakuza*. Clearly, anyone with a tattoo must be Yakuza, because getting a butterfly on your lower back is really something that the yakuza are known for.
People, well old people, traditional people, those I don’t really waste my time thinking about don’t like my roses. They click their tongues and think that young people are now dressing like gangsters. What’s happened to Japanese society? Won’t someone please think of the children!? Such people didn’t bother me when I died my hair blonde and they bother me even less now that I have my roses. I feel happy to have them. Roses are beautiful and really, how can you say a tattoo of something beautiful is ugly? It’s not like I got a sleeve of falling sakura* or something outrageous.
But I know what they’re thinking. It’s written all over their faces, far more prominent than my roses. They look at my blonde hair, my tan skin, my roses and think “Are you Japanese? Really? Uso!*” But who are they? What is being Japanese? Meh, it’s too complicated a question so it doesn’t really bother me. I’m happy, I’m happy with my life, with my hair, my roses, my boyfriend who I may no have children with.
Yeah, my mother used to be the same but one day she just stopped. If she’s disgusted with me it’s silent, like the strangers disgust. When they don’t say anything it’s easier to tune them out. People think that their silence around me speaks volumes but really, at the end of the day, all I hear is silence which suits me just fine. I can plug in my ipod and be surrounded by noise. Oh yeah, sorry off topic. You want to know why I got these tattoos? Well I already told you I like roses. Roses are pretty. I mean yeah, I could have gone for something more “traditional” but it wouldn’t be something I wanted them. I went with my friend Miki to get them. Her tattoo is bigger and takes up most of her arm. Miki always likes big elaborate themes, always wants to make a big statement. Me, just some roses on my shoulder says enough. I’m glad we went on the day we did, because if we hadn’t I wouldn’t have met my boyfirened. He’s not the kind of guy parents approve of but I like him. I was telling the tattoo artist what I wanted and he came in. Apparently he was friends with my tattoo artist. I liked his hair, that was the first thing I noticed. It was long, covering his eyes and a slick black like oil. He approached me and asked me what I was getting. I told him I was getting roses on my lower back. In a gesture I didn’t expect he touched my arm and said
“I think they’d look better here. Otherwise only you’re boyfriend’ll see them”
“I don’t have a boyfriend” I said
“well then no one will see them. Tattoos should be seen.”
It was the advice that set me free in a lot of ways. Before then, I was very conscious of my hair, my tan. I knew I was a part of a subculture and while it did bother me, my mother’s loud disapproval, I tried to ignore it. Miki said we all do things to piss off our mothers, like it’s only a phase. I wanted a tattoo on my lower back in case she was right and really I just wanted to die my hair black, put on a kimono and line up men for marriage interviews and pop out a few kids just because that’s what you do. But maybe it wasn’t what I wanted. I like roses and yeah, I wanted them to be seen. So I put them right on the spot where he touched my arm. He probably doesn’t think much about it, making less smooth gesture now that we’ve been dating a while. I feel stupid, thinking a touch of a total stranger changed me. He was probably just hitting on me. He may not even think this is a relationship but it’s good. It’s really good. I don’t care because I like it now and really isn’t that what’s important? I’ll have time to think about long term when I’m old. And I won’t make sour faces at blonde headed girls.
Also considering how many of my friends have red or blonde hair, don’t know how to tie a yukata, would rather read manga than Sei Shonagon, I feel like I could throw back at them that they aren’t Japanese. I’m sure years ago people used to say that those wearing western clothes weren’t Japanese and now anyone wearing a kimono looks a little out of place. I’m Japanese. I dye my hair blonde. I tan on a weekly basis and think skin whitening creams smell bad. I have a rose tattoo on my shoulder because it’s pretty and because I wanted it. And I’m still Japanese.

Yakuza- gangsters, the Japanese mob
Sakura- cherry blossoms, a sleeve tattoo with them on it can denote yakuza
Uso- “Lies!” it can be pretty strong or said jokingly. In this case it’s meant to convey rude disbelief
The woman in the story was the first Japanese woman I’d seen with a visable tattoo. They’re frowned upon in Japanese society though the trend is changing. For all I know these were temporary tattoos. She was in Hagendaaz talking at a boy with longish hair in his eyes. He was nodding occasionally while checking his cell phone. She struck me as someone with a lot to say who was used to people only vaguely listening.

Apologies

So while I don't think anyone keeps up with this except my husband, I thought I'd post an apology for not doing anything in October through January. November I had Nanowrimo so I expected to not write much (I won by the way for the 2nd year in a row! I'm quite pleased with myself and with Trajectories from a Summer). It's hard to crank out short stories for me when so much of my attention was taken up with my novel characters. I pushed to try and finish my novel in December but I just got burnt out on writing and I have 1 more chapter left. Plus I had Christmas/Hanukkah lessons and family coming to visit. There's no excuse for October other than me just being lax in loading in the stories I'd already written. I've pre-loaded them into the 2nd week of February but I now need to get back to writing more short stories. Anyway, that's what I've been up to.

Here's a bit of whimsy from a bus ride. I was coming back on the bus to Chiyoda and i turned my music on random shuffle. Gogol Bordello's "Your Country" came on and I closed my eyes. I started singing out loud and the band popped up in the seat behind me, instraments and all. I was running up and down the seats singing the song to people on the bus and pulling them up to dance. Soon everybody on the bus was dancing, from the older men with sour expressions to the middle school students who commute so far for reasons I don't know. Even the bus driver was grooving along. We turned the bus into a giant dance party that kept going and going even after the song ended on my iphone. The party didn't end until I got off the bus and everyone was sticking their heads out and waving at me. The second I turned around the bus went back to normal as if there never was a crazy dance party on the bus. Yeah it's silly but my mind goes odd places on those 45 minute bus rides.

School Girl Crush

I’m the only person from my school on this train. It’s late, not a usual time for the commuter students to be going home from school but I had to stay late. Soft tennis practice always runs late when we’re getting ready for a tournament. I have a long way to commute, there’s a streetcar ride after this. But I’m alone. I take out my keitai and pretend to be texting someone. I hate just sitting on the train not looking like I’m doing something. I try to take out my books but I don’t want to read. I’m so tired that it seeps into my bones, allowing the motion of the train to occasionally toss me around like a rag doll. At the next stop there are more students, a different school, different seifuku*. I don’t know any of them but they seem to take up all the space in the train. They’re noisy, clearly all friends. I can tell by their bags that they are in the same club, soccer or some sort. They don’t have rackets so I can’t ask them if they’re even in the same club with me. It suddenly feels like there is no room in the train for me. I just slump down in my seat and crush myself, making myself smaller to make room for the hordes of genki* girls.
I don’t until I’m safely in my room, alone. I eat dinner that’s a little cold, my mother is imploring my middle school brother to study so he can get into an exclusive all boys school. His school is closer, less of a commute. He could probably ride his bike there, surrounded by friends. I’m a little jealous. I think small, hoping that her ire won’t turn on me for not being home earlier to study. There are college exams, it’s always the press of exams. You take high school exams only to earn the privilege of taking college or company exams. You take college exams so that you can take company exams and not just be a temporary employee. And once you’re a permanent fixture, you don’t have to take formal exams but everyday feels like an exam.
More so now than ever, I feel crushed by everything around me. I have to do well in this tournament or all my practice will be useless. I have to do well on midterms or I won’t get to take college exams early. If I don’t take the exams early then I’ll be smothered by the agony of having to wait until February to take the exams. If I don’t do well on the exams, I’ll be a rounin. I have to be genki so my mother doesn’t hassle me about how my poor spirit will affect my grades.
I know I’m not the only one but I wonder if I’m the only one who feels crammed into a space that’s too small for her; who feels as if all the air is being squeezed from her lungs. Sometimes during cleaning time as I wring out the mop, I can’t help but feel sorry for it, having all it’s vitality wrung out of it. On days like that I am tempted not to ring out the mop in a display of solidarity, but I have to wring out the mop or Yamanaka-sensei will scold me.
But in my room no one will scold me. I give myself the 5 minute luxry of moving outside, of expanding to take up all the room, to make the universe exactly as I want it. It’s glorious but sad because I know it can’t last. I hear the footsteps of my mother’s slippers as they clomp up the stairs and the universe comes crashing down around me. The pressure starts again and I pour myself into my books, shutting my universe out.
Seifuku- school uniform
Genki- spirited, spunky, full of beans, upbeat, outgoing, healthy, you get the idea.
I was on my way back home on the train when I noticed a lone school girl standing apart from a crowd of other girls. At first I thought they were from the same school but there was a sublte difference in their uniform. The group was a bit noisy, as one would expect from teenage girls. The girl would occasionally look up from her phone with some vauge mix of annoyance and sadness.