So, I ride off for home—along a new roadway that seems like it was recently paved prior to my arrival. (It was, actually, but not because of me, despite my thoughts). Wonders of wonders! The wind is at my back, pushing me along at about 50 kilometres an hour—with the only thing saving me being the constant application of brakes.
Believe it or not, I manage to come to a stop at a three-way T-intersection. My road ends, and I need to go left to get to my apartment. I stop first. A car comes from the left and stops.
Since I was there first, I have the right of way. So I proceed to make my left turn. That’s when the car decides to drive forward.
Now I know he saw me.
As I tumbled in slow motion over the hood of his tiny red car (it must have been a white car painted red with the blood of other victims), I noticed his eyes grow wide as he mouthed the word “gaijin”.
I rolled off the car, and lay there in the road. I was in shock. I don’t think I was hurt, so I lay there, curious to see what this kamikaze pilot would do.
Ten seconds. Twenty Seconds. Nothing. What the heck? Peeking, I can see him fumbling around for something in his car. But still he hasn’t even opened a car door. There were a small score of 40 students watching all of this go down… where were they? Ah, probably in shock too at seeing the gaijin-sensei get plowed by a car. Especially one that isn’t moving.
And still, raindrops keep splattering on my head.
Finally, I hear the car door open. I close my eyes and squint through them to try and keep the rain out. I see him squat over my face. He has a red umbrella in his hand. Was that what he was looking for?
And where did my umbrella fall off too? With the wind, it probably blew away to Korea.
He stares at me for a few seconds and utters the most bizarre phrase I have yet to hear here in Japan: Daijobu (pronounced: die-joe-boo)?
Daijobu? What the heck is that?
He speaks again: Daijobu, gaijin-san?
I answered: Huh?
He began putting his hands on my arms and legs, slightly squeezing and asking: Daijobu?
I let him off the hook with a quick ‘hai’ (yes) and get up just as a small elementary school student had begun to draw an outline around my body. Screaming in fright he ran off. In his place and bowing deeply, a young girl handed me my umbrella… hmmm, must have been a lull in the gusty winds.
Anyhow, my kamikaze pilot picked up my bike, straightened out the frame to the best of his ability and asked a group of students (of the junior high school ones who had finally wandered over) if they knew where I lived. About six of them gave my full address—including postal code. Privacy. Heh. It’s funny now nearly 20 years later.
Cramming my bike into the back of his car, he drove me home – chatting all the way in Japanese, in a very friendly manner. He’s a bad driver who can’t locate an umbrella, not necessarily a bad person.
I got home, collapsed in my chair with a coke.
DING-DONG.
Crap. I get up and open the door to a stern-looking Hanazaki-san and Kanemaru-san who have already heard about my accident. I’d only been home for four minutes! Twitter ain’t got nuthin’ on the Ohtawara gaijin hotline!
While I was in the process of convincing them I was daijobu-desu (die-joe-boo-dess, meaning I’m okay) the doorbell rang again – Kanemaru-san answered it—and in marched three of the ladies from the OBOE office, complete with homemade food.
Of course, for the next couple of months, my right shoulder was hurting—a bone bruise—meaning I couldn’t play sports properly. Or at least shouldn’t (Remember THIS?)
Somewhere nothing’s bothering me… except that pain in my distended abdomen,
Andrew Raindance Joseph
Title is by BJ Thomas
