Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35

It's Sunday, July 7, 1991.
I'm both mentally and physically drained - so of course the phone rings at 8AM to wake me up. Now, normally I wouldn't jump out of bed to get the phone, but this call had a funny long-distance ring to it, so I figure if someone is cool enough to call me long-distance, I'm cool enough to pick up the phone.
It's my friend Rob from Toronto. I really haven't seen Rob for 11 months since arriving here in Ohtawara-shi (Ohtawara City), Tochigi-ken (Tochigi Prefecture), in Japan. He has a new phone number and new news and we chat for an hour. It feels pretty good to talk with him but—and I don't know about you–but when I get up in the morning, I have to go to the bathroom to empty out various orifices. Finally, I can't take it any longer and have to cut short our talk. But - I feel good now.
I go out and get my hair cut at Nakamura... in Ohtawara, we have a barber who speaks English and likes foreigners. I'm not saying there are people who hate foreigners, but it's always nice to go where you feel comfortable.
 Read THIS blog for a short example of what the haircut experience was like for myself and Matthew.

Afterward, I go shopping for food, do laundry (I'm always doing laundry ne (eh)?
At 2PM I'm ready for Suzuki Tokunori's party--he's another funny Japanese man - and he's a farmer to boot. Hmm... perhaps all of the really funny guys in Japan have the surname of 'Suzuki'?
Because we're foreigners, Matthew and I are not charged - but all of the Japanese people are... I guess this enkai (party) is part of the Ohtawara International Friendship Association - and you can't charge your international friends.
Shoko—the girl from a night school English class I teach for extra-curricular kicks (and money) is there. I really like her and I think she likes me, but there's still a language barrier and I wish I could go over and say hello.
Because of that—and because my ex-girlfriend Ashley is there—I get drunk on a lot of beer, but I do eat well to try and temper it.
I play some card games with the kids who are there. They always seem to appreciate some attention from the adults (even if it's a gaijin-foreigner... or perhaps more so when it's a giajin).
Except for a brief "Hi", I don't speak to Ashley.
I usually feel lonely at parties surrounded by people who know each other. For some reason, my outgoing personality reverts to the old shy Andrew whenever there are a lot of people around. I even walked away from the party to look at the flowers Suzuki-san grows just to get away from everyone.
But, here in Japan, I can never be truly alone as people always like to wander over to see what I'm up to - what great practical joke I'm thinking of next. The whole 'funny guy' stuff I do–that's all spur of the moment, however.
Matthew is talking with Shoko. I wish I could.
As we're leaving the party, Matthew tells me he was telling Shoko all about me. She likes me! She was worried about my break-up with Ashley, as in Japanese 'tradition' when you break-up, you never talk to that person again. That's seems harsh. But because of that difference in North American/Japanese culture, she thought I was still going out with Ashley.
Matthew corrected Shoko. What a guy!
Matthew's girlfriend Takako drives me out from the party back home and then waits while I pick up some clothes before driving me out to Nasu Shiobara-eki (eki = train station) where I meet Mona, a high-school assistant English teacher - and the girlfriend of Tim Mould, another buddy.
I like Takako for a number of reasons. She didn't have to drive me anywhere, but she did. That train station wasn't even necessarily close by—maybe eight kilometres away—but she did. She offered, and I accepted. Matthew did alright by her and she by him.
At the train station, Mona and I hop aboard a train and head to her place--which I have forgotten where it is exactly.
As we get off the train, it begins to rain.
Ame otoko (Rain man).
She and I are going to head down to the Immigration Office tomorrow to pick up our papers (we had previously gone down to file that paperwork a week or two ago when I made out with one of her friends at a night club in Tokyo).
Mona Maas is about 5-10, long dark brown hair and is very well-proportioned with twinkling eyes that radiate a wonderful sense of humor and very high intelligence.
She's too smart to sleep with me, I guess... even though I have always only wanted a woman who was as smart or smarter than me. And, truthfully, that's all I have ever slept with or dated.
Needless to say, I sleep in the loft of Mona's place listening to the rain clatter against the roof.

Somewhere just sleeping on top of a woman,
Andrew Joseph
Today's blog title is crooned by Bob Dylan: STONED. By the way... I do a great Dylan impression... because I can't sing extremely well, I can do the Dylan whine. He's still a fine musician. Obvious to me, the 'stoned' aspect in this song is another way of saying that four letter word for intercourse. Starts with an F and ends with a K, and has the letters U and C in the middle. And that is how you swear without swearing in this blog.
PS: It's strange that I don't swear in this blog considering I have a mouth on me that would make a Catholic school girl blush while trying to pick-up a sailor.     

Please Mr. Postman

It might sound stupid and whinny, but even though I’m in a foreign country with new friends, a girlfriend, have my own apartment and am experiencing new things I’d never thought I’d have the opportunity to pursue, there still exists a feeling of lament. A feeling of homesickness.
While I’m no quitter, there were more than a few Assistant English Teachers (AETs) on the JET Programme who could not handle the life in Japan and chose to leave. One bugger, an American guy, who in my third year in Ohtawara decided to leave Japan so he purchased an airplane ticket, sold all of his apartment’s furnishings and left—without telling anyone… you know, like his board of education employers. To top it off, the furnishings didn’t even belong to him. Our apartments are rentals and come fully furnished with items the employer purchases on our behalf to make us more comfortable, and so save us quite a few Yen (Dollars/Pounds/Euros). What an ass, eh?
In Japan for about two months, the euphoria I felt at being here had begun to wane, because I constantly found my thoughts drifting back to my home in Toronto.
Phone calls to my family only seem to exacerbate the feeling. I missed my mother, father, brother, my three rottweillers, my cat, my friends, my comic books and my televisions shows – especially hockey which was just starting training camp for my beloved Maple Leafs.
It’s why watching the mailbox became a pastime of mine, one that lasted the entire three years there.
I don’t mind telling you that getting a letter from home was like water to a thirst-starved wanderer in the desert. Lifesaving.
My mother realized that and made an effort to send monthly shipments of a letter, food products – microwavable lasagna shells, and VCR (remember those) tapes of television shows my brother Ben would tape for me—it would always be a pot pourri of shows – maybe a hockey game, The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Star Trek: TNG, comedy shows galore… always stuff I could share… and to Matthew’s credit, his folks did the same… we were looked after. But the feeling of abandonment or loneliness always seem to pervade my oft-time moody personae.
Along with standard news from my family, it was also uplifting to get a letter from a friend. When I left Toronto, everyone said they would write. Everyone being maybe 25 people. The reality is that about half of them wrote – once.
All of those writers except for two people – maintained a more constant letter-writing presence: my good friend Rob Jones who has been my friend since I was 14, and this cab driver named Doug McIntosh whom I had only met once a couple of weeks prior to leaving for Japan.
Rob first. I’m unsure if I was Rob’s only friend, but I was certainly his best. While he never sent over a package of videos, he more than made up for it with letter frequency. Over my three years there, Rob sent 69 letters. Remember… this is in the days before e-mail where one had to put pen to paper, find an envelope, buy a stamp and then post it. How Rob was able to send me so many entertaining letters without poisoning himself with envelope glue, I’ll never know. But he did it. And I’m here to tell him now just how much it meant to me.
Also – and here you have Rob to blame for this – but he’s the one that kind of got me started on this whole creative writing kick.
Sure I had been writing a primitive version of It’s A Wonderful Rife once a month for the Tochigi-ken AET newsletter, but it was the letters that got me thinking about writing professionally when I got back home.
For Rob’s upcoming birthday at the end of March, I thought I would write him a letter every weekday for the month as a cheap present. After three days of “How’s it going? I’m fine” crap, I decided to write a creative short story instead. For some reason, the creative juices were flowing, and I actually wrote three that day. And two or three or four the next, and every day until it was his birthday… I wrote close to 60 short stories that month. Lots of comedy, but other more series stuff too. Despite the grammatical and spelling errors, that stuff was/is dynamite and I’ve converted more than a few of them into comic book stories (www.strangefuncomics.com).
So… blame Rob for my writing. I do.
And there’s Doug who equaled Rob's output of 69 letters. A little background info is required here. I was 24-years-old to Doug’s 41 when we met in 1990. I was working for the Toronto Star as a reporter on a summer internship program. On a hot and humid July day, I was asked to go out and do ‘pick-ups’. That means I had to go out to the homes of people and pick-up photographs of a loved one who had just passed away. That job sucked. Its still bothers me to think about it.
I went down to the line of cabs parked in front of the Toronto Star, peered into the open passenger window and asked if he could take me around for the day, as I had several photos to get. A deep, clean voice that made me think of radio beckoned an assent.
I still have no idea why I did it, but I opened the front passenger door and sat beside him.
We made intros and shook hands… but who sits in the front seat of a taxi when there’s plenty of room at the back? Me, I suppose. 
We spend the day together making the pick-ups – I bought us lunch at a Harvey’s, and at the end of the day, he knew more about me than I knew about him. He said (and I quote), “Ya gotta write to me from Japan,” and gave me his business card.
A couple of weeks into Japan, I began writing letters to everyone on the computer at the OBOE. Even though I am loathe to admit it, I sent off a few form letters – changing only the addressee name. Doug’s was one of those. Hey, writing was hard back then.
A week later, I opened up my mailbox at my apartment – and lo and behold, there’s a letter from Doug. I wrote back – and surprise, surprise, so did he.
All I can tell you is that we became story-telling sounding boards for the other… but more importantly, we became friends. And now while I’m older than Doug was when we first met, we’ve only physically seen each other a few times, but the letters keep a-coming… each as interesting and heart-warming as the first.
It’s funny where friendship can occur. Sure still being friends with Rob is to be expected (It is, isn’t it?) And so, too making a friendship with Matthew? But how does a chance taxi ride turn into a 20-year-friendship? I have Japan to thank for all of that.
Letters kept me sane(ish). Who would have thought that writing would ever be so important to a writer?
Ending in a melodramatic note: Why is it that it takes so little time to write and send a letter, but to receive one, months seem to pass?

Somewhere starting a letter to Doug (I’ll see Rob when we go comic book shopping later!),
Andrew Joseph
Today's title is by The Marvelettes.