I thrive best hermit style
With a beard and a pipe
-Bjork

"Furious George: A Schwarzeneggerian Terminator of a Tale " - previously published* in "The Globe and Mail"

The anecdote you are about to read is true. Some names** have been changed to protect the innocent.

This is the harrowing story of one young gaijin's (foreigner's) journey, his quest, to get breakfast for his girlfriend and himself from a Japanese convenience store.

Baby, he said, leaving to get his woman some food, I'll be back.

* * *

The gaijin in question, a Canadian if you must know, had been teaching English in Japan a year, and was living forty-five minutes north of downtown Osaka in the suburb of Seiwadai at the time. Because it's a rather new development, hip and with it Osakan urbanites might laughingly refer to Seiwadai as “in the mountains” (read: pine-covered hills) because it is a fifteen minute bus ride from the nearest train station. Really, it's no more rural than any North American suburb. Walking distance from the Canadian's place there was a McDonalds, a post office, a supermarket and a Lawson - the 7-11 of Western Japan.

The three minute walk to Lawson was not the harrowing part of the story. There was the obstacle of a large main street to cross, but no red rover, red rover Tokyo type crowds to cross against. The Canuck (call him Gord if you like, though in truth he couldn't work a skate key much less play hockey) was the only person out there that time of morning (again, very North American suburb). The harrowing - the downright terrifying - portion of the story still to come, he made sure to look both ways before crossing.

This is not one of those cultural difference is so difficult type stories. A year in to his stay and our hero, Gordo, he was not gonna have trouble navigating the Japanese convenience store experience. After many such experiences he was no longer taken aback by the shouts of greeting when he entered the store, or the odd mix of foods, Snickers and Pringles alongside prepared Japanese foods like onigiri (rice balls) and oden (soggy fish cakes swimming in brown water held in small aluminum containers and seated on convenience store counters across Nippon).

No. It was after the shaggy teenager working the cash (clearly an international phenomenon) bagged Gord's bread and orange juice, when he left the store to the usual chorus of “arigato gozaimasu” from the staff that the crux of our tale really begins. It was in morning sunlight walking across the parking lot when Gord caught sight of the monkey coming towards him. Oh yes. Monkey. Now he knew there were monkeys in Japan, in the same way one might know there are grizzly bears in Canada or cobras in India. Sure they existed, but not in a suburban parking lot. Yet there the furry creature was, hanging out like some bored adolescent, but a rather big and lumbering adolescent at that. He may not have been gorilla big, but he was, to be sure, the largest monkey Gord, as we're calling him, had ever met outside a convenience store.

They say you musn't stare when encountering potentially dangerous wildlife. They also say to stay still when confronted by grizzlies. Try accessing these pearls of wisdom in the moment. Gord, despite a goodly amount of time spent watching Animal Planet, sure couldn't. Because he saw that monkey and what did he do but stare, he stared good. Of course he did. He stared at that stupid simian. Stupid simian stared back at him. The harrowing portion of the tale comes right about now as the monkey, that had to this point seemed a lumbering, buffoonish creature, in a flash had leapt up so fast, so quick to grab at Gord's plastic bag of food. Gord didn't let go. A tug of war ensued, the monkey holding on for dear life, his hairy legs dangling helplessly in the air. But Furious George was a strong son of a bitch. It was with literally all Gordie's brute strength, the kind usually reserved for lifting small cars off of helpless infants, that he managed to pull hard enough to get the bastard to let go and drop to the ground.

Moving quickly towards the main street and the girl he had waiting for him in a house not far across it, Gord fast-walked it only to be confronted by a red light and a steady enough stream of traffic to prevent J-walking, jogging or even sprinting. Meanwhile, the monkey was bearing down on him. Our poor hero kept looking over his shoulder at the advancing creature.

The people of Japan are a profoundly patient people. (The monkey was closing in.) In Japan you are not to lose your cool. (The monkey was getting closer.) Like its people the traffic lights of this ancient nation seem too to be in no kind of rush whatsoever, changing as they do every quarter century or so. (The monkey wasn't a few feet away and those hands had claws goddammit.) F%$#$!

Gord kept turning round. The monkey still coming. The damn light. A true suburban nightmare. A Schwarzeneggerian Terminator of a tale. When the light finally changed our Canadian boy half-ran across the street excessively relieved to find the monkey hadn’t crossed. He just stood there. He scratched his head.

Panting but unscathed, Gord returned home to his girlfriend (a girl he might, he hoped, one day marry), orange juice and bread for toasting safe and sound in the bag swinging at his side.

He told her. The whole thing. That he'd braved the monkey, baby.

A monkey, she said and burst out laughing. In the Lawson parking lot?

He said yeah! He then said that she couldn't have any breakfast.

*This is a vastly revised version of what was originally published. What was originally published, in the newspaper's travel section, had a completely banal title and looked NOTHING like this. It was also 380 words (there are a tad few more words in this one) and was in the first person. It did at least also involve a monkey though.

** 'Baby' is one those names that was changed. Of the 3,264 nicknames I have for Ai, baby has never - not once - been one of them.

Ray Bradbury's Zen Wisdom

In "Zen in the Art of Writing" Ray Bradbury tells the story of how when he was just a wee lad (though Bradbury never actually refers to himself either as wee or lad), maybe 8 or 9 years of age, he loved loved loved Buck Rogers. But his friends teased him for it. That he was so obsessed with some sci fi comic book character. That was just silly. So, little Ray took all his stacks of Buck Rogers comic books and hid them away, under his bed, as I imagine it. Enough was enough.

A few weeks later, though, and young Ray starts feeling lousy and can't figure out why. He then realizes it's because he misses his beloved Buck Rogers. He, thusly, pulls back out his stash, dusts them off and says good riddance to those friends that had teased him.

In the book he speaks to what amazing fortune he had, to have figured out at such a young age what many of us don't learn till much laster in life (if ever).

He ends the anecdote by addressing the would-be-writer, saying that if your friends don't support your dream they aren't real friends. Go get new ones.

But who has the balls to do that? Do I? Do you?

SHORT STORY: Last Train to Takarazka Pt II of II

[continued from Part I]

Nakamura moved quickly along the sidewalk, hot and frustrated by the feelings he had no explanation for, his plastic bag of books swinging by his side. Then on the platform the young man in the suit bumped into him and didn’t even apologize. But no one apologized these days, Nakamura thought, as he boarded the last car of the last train of the night. He didn't realize he was standing in front of the young salaryman until he was already wedged in by passengers on both sides. He pretended not to notice the selfish young man, though. What was the point of starting anything? Still, he could feel it boiling up inside of him. He had to consciously look everywhere but at the young man. The whole train, all the passengers tonight, looked angry or sad or drunken-awful, like nobody would ever care about another soul again. Nakamura knew to catch it, this angry wave of heating thoughts. He’d put too much conscious effort into his reactions to let something this small work him up. So young people never gave their seats to the elderly anymore – what else was new? And he knew he couldn’t change it and he felt pretty lucky to be as healthy as he was. He could stand, it was good for him to stand. He’d been sat too much of the day anyway. But still he let out a sigh. It all felt like too much effort. Was life supposed to be this hard? Today if felt that hard.

The familiar musical warning trumpeted loudly along the platform and in through the open train until its lingering last, just slightly off-harmony (and thus), sour note. Twenty-four sets of car doors closed simultaneously and the train started with a thrust. Yamamoto simultaneously held tight onto his shiny black leather briefcase, which was on his lap, and looked up. It was better to look when the train was moving. The old man and the other ring holders were bobbing toward Yamamoto and back again in rhythm with the jerky movements of the train. Out the window were the short office towers, the shopping complexes, the Hankyu International Hotel. In the foreground, a billboard for a Tom Cruise movie lit with four lights from below.

The train shrieked as it took a sudden turn. Yamamoto quickly unzipped his leather briefcase. He had the empty plastic bag he had took his fruit to work in that day. His hands burrowed deep inside the briefcase and did not pull out but only tightly held onto the plastic bag. He closed his eyes, swallowing and swallowing as he did. It had to have been the oysters. He was sure of that. What he wondered was how long he could hold it? If he could make it all the way home?

It came up soon after, the way a train makes its sudden start. A jerk followed by a thrust. Yamamoto barely managed to hold on to the regurgitated food at first, sealing his lips and feeling the soft warm-wet food, like porridge, fill his stretched cheeks. That was the jerk. The thrust came as a second jolt went through his stomach and up his throat and like a thick jaundice waterfall his mouth flew open and he threw up. He hadn’t had time to get the bag he was holding out of his briefcase and instead found himself retching into the outstretched and tightly cupped-together hands of the old man in front of him.

A good deal of the warm liquidy vomit overflowed out of Nakamura’s hands down onto his jeans and down further to the train car floor. Although Yamamoto had stopped bringing up, Nakamura could see there was more to come. He quickly wiped himself off with his handkerchief and then offered Yamamoto a hand. “Do-zo,” he said and helped the boy up as the train slowed into the next station. Everyone on their train stared unabashedly when Yamamoto walked by, leaning with an arm over Nakamura, wiping the dribble from around his mouth with the sleeve of his handsome suit. He couldn’t use his hands as they were both holding shut the two sides of his unzipped briefcase, which made it difficult to get off the train fast enough – to avoid the unwanted looks. Nakamura turned to glare at the people as he helped Yamamoto out the train. There was a men’s toilet off the platform and Nakamura quickly moved the boy towards it. He hurried him into a stall. Yamamoto dropped to his knees. A new surge of food and drink immediately came up and out. Nakamura kept his hand on the boy’s back while he threw up. A few aftershocks followed. Then bile. Then nothing but empty gagging.

The boy slowly rose to his feet after. “Sumimasen. I’m sorry. Gomen Nasai. I’m very sorry.”

“Not at all. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Nakamura said as they both walked out of the stall. “Do you feel better at least?”

“Yes. Much. Thank you. You are so kind.”

“No-no. Please. It was nothing.”

They walked to the sinks. Nakamura put down his plastic bag of books, leaning it up against the back wall behind them. Yamamoto tucked his briefcase under his armpit before turning on the taps. Where the mirror should have been there was a plank of wood in its place. Nakamura turned to Yamamoto and said, “Well, that was the last train of the night. I guess we’re going to have to catch a cab.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Yamamoto replied, staring intently at hands as he washed them.

“Ee-yo, ee-yo. Don’t worry, don’t worry. We can share one if you like. I live in Takarazka. Is that anywhere near you?”

Yamamoto barely hesitated to apologize, turning off his tap, slapping his hands dry, and explained that he unfortunately lived off a connecting train line, that he, uh, lived in Uneno. The young salaryman then patted down his hair with his hands Nakamura splashed some more water onto his stained pants. “Oh, I see. Never mind then,” he said. “I’ll walk.”

“Walk!”

“Sure.” Nakamura said, turning around to look at Yamamoto now standing by the door.

“Why not?”

“It will take you an hour, at least.”

Nakamura, who walked whenever he got the chance, said, “And?”

“But it’s raining.”

“Not much though.”

“Please.” Yamamoto took a five thousand yen bill out of his wallet and moved back in toward the man. Standing a few feet behind him, he said, “For your trouble; so you can take a cab home.”

“Thank you. But come to think of it, I’d actually prefer to walk.” Nakamura realized it as he said it. He turned his tap off and reached into the inside pocket of his blazer for his handkerchief. As he pulled it out he remembered it too was badly stained and proceeded to turn the tap back on and wash the thing out.

“Please,” Yamamoto said, five thousand yen bill still in hand. “I insist.”

“If I wanted to take a cab,” Nakamura said over his shoulder, “I would tell you. I promise.”

“Please. Don’t be embarrassed. If you need the money . . .”

“I don’t, but thank you. That’s very kind.” Nakamura turned off the tap and faced the boy once more. This was the first moment he’d had all day to get outside of his own head. When he smiled it was in his eyes. “Believe it or not,” he said, “you run a little bookshop long enough and you figure out how to make ends meet.”

“You own a bookshop?”

“I do. A second-hand place in Hori-e. We’ve actually got a decent collection for our size. It’s just a twelve minute walk from Shinsaibashi station. You should come visit some time. You take exit seven and walk east.”

Yamamoto said thank you, that he would, though he wasn’t much of a reader any more.

“I suppose you must be busy with your job,” Nakamura said. “Young guys your age have to work pretty hard, don’t they?”

Yamamoto, inching toward the bathroom exit, said they did. He didn’t want to be rude; he just wanted to get home.

Before they parted Yamamoto did manage to give the old guy his umbrella though.

“Really it’s not necessary, but thank you. Thank you so much.”

Yamamoto couldn’t look the old guy in the eye when he was thanked. He said a quick goodbye and got into the first of the taxis at the cab stand.

“Evening,” the cabbie said.

“To Takarazka,” Yamamoto said, looking out the rain soaked window.

“People always complain about the rain. But I like it, you know? Something different at least. Don’t you think?”

Yamamoto didn’t say anything.

“I mean, how else to get the trees all sparkly green?”

Yamamoto managed a grunting response.

“Late night, huh?”

“It is late, yes. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but I’m tired.”

The cab reached for the volume control on the radio and turned it up a little.

Yamamoto was of course already miles ahead in the cab, but if he could have gone back to see the old guy, still so far from home, if he could have seen Nakamura walking at a good clip in the light rain he would have been surprised to see the smile on the old man's face.

Desert Island Novel to Read and Read and Read Again # 5: John Steinbeck's "East of Eden"

[For Desert Island books to read and read and read again #4 click Ernest Hemingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls"]

I usually love writers with an especially strong sense of style. Previous inductees into the The Desert Island Rereading list (masters Murakami, Salinger and Roy) have it in spades. Though there is of course no lack of lyrical prose-poetic moments in all of Steinbeck's great works, this is not why John Steinbeck's East of Eden is one of the best books ever.

I'm lugging the six-hundred plus page tome to the island because, like a Bernard Hermann score (Psycho, Citizen Kane) or a Lasse Hallstram movie (Cider House Rules, Chocolat), there is next to no ego in the last book John Steinbeck ever wrote. You finish East of Eden and you remember the characters not the writer. You remember Lee, who is so selfless and good and wise; you remember the two sets of brothers, Adam and Charles, and Cal and Aron; and with a series of spinal shudders you find you cannot forget Cathy (or Catherine) who has to go down as one of the most sinister - and interesting - characters in all fiction.

No tricks, no overly clever plot-twists or wordplays, this is just a straight-ahead, old-fashioned, fascinating story about the greatest biblical theme of them all: people's struggle with good and evil. But that's not all. It's so much more than that. [Ok, nerdy confession time:] I drew up a list of all the great themes East of Eden covers but have since scrapped it because Steinbeck does precisely that in the book's appropriately humble epigraph, delivered as a simple letter to a dear friend:

Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, "Why don't you make something for me?"
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, "A box."
"What for?"
"To put things in."
"What things?"
"Whatever you have," you said.
Well, here's your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts - the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
John

What more need be said? 　

[Click Ernest Hemingway's "Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises" for Desert Island Books to read and read and read again #6]

Writerly Quote of the Month

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

I love New York in Spring (even when it won't stop pissing with rain and the Yankee game we had tickets for had a two hour delay), How About You?

The Park in The City