As regular readers are aware, I sometimes get a tad melodramatic--often it has everything to do with my frame of mind that day I write things down. Sometimes it's just because I feel like telling you a story I suddenly remember.
Here's a story I wrote, but never showed anybody. It was entitled The Last Mile. It was written by myself as I rode home from Ohtawara Chu Gakko (Dai Chu aka Ohtawara Junior High School) on what I knew was my last ever day of teaching English in Japan.
Don't worry - I still have more stories to tell. I'm not going to do a M.A.S.H. (U.S. television show about the 3-year Korea war... but the show lasted 9 years!). There's way too much stuff about Japan that we haven't even touched on yet!
I am perfectly willing to listen to suggestions about topics you might want to hear about-- or even let the odd guest blog be written. The whole blog experience is about sharing after all.
Let me share that story now.
As I rode home, the grey skies above Ohtawara-shi, Tochigi-ken began to lightly piss on me. I hate the drizzle. If it's going to rain, then rain. If not, give me dryness. It's a sort of piss or get off the pot kind of mentality I have at the moment.
I should note that on this particular occasion, the wet stuff wasn't bothering me, as I was too busy being nostalgic.
Some people don't like discussing the past. Too bad for them. By recalling the past and reveling in its glories and miseries, it can help us all grow in to better people. Those that fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. It's an old adage, but one I believe in - perhaps that's why I spend time writing this down for myself.
It had rained harder earlier that day--it had made the Dai Chu baseball field to wet to practice on. There was nobody there. This was the path I had always taken whenever I left the school grounds. I liked to watch the girls play softball and the boys play baseball--and no matter what, they always took the time to stop playing to bow and to wave and to say sayonora (good-bye) to me.
This time there were no sayonara's or 'goo-bai's' to confront me. I'm still not sure if that's a blessing or what. I began my ride home in reasonable solitude, almost oblivious to the few stares I received from yet another cab driver who had never seen me before.
As I picked up a bit more speed, the rain misted onto my face. It was refreshing, and reminded me to straighten up and throw back my shoulders so that if anyone looked, it would appear as though I was not sad and disappointed at having to leave this wonderful city, this country... my life.
The wind whistled light about my ears. It pushed every other sound away... except one. From out of the void that are the plethora of rice fields, a low moan quickly rose into a high-pitched bellow of pain.
It's weird how my mind immediately conjured up the image of a botched torch job. I could just see in my head a small cadre of evil four-year-olds pouring a small canister of gasoline onto a cornered cat and then giggling with anxiety as their leader struck a long wooden match. I could sense their laughter as the match was tossed forward towards the terror-stricken feline.
I closed my eyes for a second as the smell of burning fur reached my nostrils. Then I heard the boys scream in delight and fear as the cat made a flaming break for release underneath the farm house. There, with the fire out, and its skin a mess of bloody red pustules, it moaned. Moaned because it wasn't burnt badly enough to find release from this world. It moaned because its existence was worse than dying.
I opened my eyes and listened again. Yup. It's a cat all right. But there were no evil little boys and their can of petrol.
While I am sure such things have happened, and do occur here, nothing bad actually happened.
And that's kind of the way I actually felt about my time in Japan. I was so distraught at having to leave. I have a woman I really care for, and who cares for me... but circumstances are pushing us apart. I'm going to never see this country again that helped shape who I am today. How fair is that? If I got to stay longer, could I have turned out better? Worse?
Drama queen.
Back in 1993, continuing that ride... that cat and it's guttural growl... it was either getting boinked by another cat, or it was doing the boinking.
The cat suddenly stopped moaning. The wind suddenly stopped whistling. And the rain suddenly stopped pissing in my face. I slammed on the brakes, slid and skidded on the wet road, but stopped. I shook my head. I raised the middle finger of my right hand (index and middle fingers for those so inclined), and jabbed it upwards into the air.
I was cut off by yet another car making a turn onto my street.
Crazy Japanese drivers seem to think cyclists and pedestrians are beneath them--and often are. They always assume we will stop to let them go first regardless if WE have the right of way.
Every single time I ride a bicycle in this bloody country, I end up flipping the finger to some driver--letting them know they are number one--and reminding them that they have no concept for traffic safety or basic knowledge of the rules of the road.
How can these Japanese kids do so much school and be so smart but never learn about street safety?
I wish I could find a bunch of maniacal four-year-olds to torch a few stupid drivers.
Somewhere never riding a bicycle again,
Andrew Joseph
Today's title is by Jimi Hendrix. Move over Rover and let Jimi take OVER
PS: Kindda sucky, huh? Sorry. Back to better stuff tomorrow. How about we talk about, oh I don't know... something about Japanese windows?
