Slow Boat
Page 3
She isn’t here.
It smacks me like a whip. Red alert. Alarm bells are ringing. WHERE. IS. SHE? I do a three-sixty—to get a full scan of the parking lot. I see her. There. Over by that stupid red sports car. There’s a woman in her thirties standing by the passenger door, a man in sunglasses—age unclear—in the driver’s seat. The woman’s talking to somebody.
To her. My girlfriend.
I watch my girlfriend squeeze into the back seat of the car.
But she’s looking back. Looking at the bus. Looking for me. Our eyes meet and sparks fly. The alarm in my brain goes off. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.
That woman has to be Mommy, here to take my girlfriend home.
How could I be so dumb?
I never saw this coming. I never thought she was going to be taken away. When she showed up at the start of summer, I was convinced she was here for the long haul, like the rest of us. But she was just a summer camper. Sent to The End of the World to stay out of Mommy’s hair, until Mommy came back.
She was being taken away.
We were going separate ways. That was our fate.
But I had been too stupid to notice.
Red alert.
Once my girlfriend was buckled up in the back seat, the car took off. I broke out of line and ran after it. What was the director saying? Keep both hands flat on your lap? Are you kidding me? More like, keep both hands on your girlfriend and never let go.
Never let go.
I leap onto the highway that runs next to the lake. The highway that runs here all the way from Hikawa Campsite. National Route 411. I’m a hitchhiker with an emergency. The station wagon coming towards me screeches to a stop. Well, more like I bring it to a stop by standing in the way. They were probably yelling at me, but I don’t remember. I think they were campers, in their twenties.
I’m all worked up. “They took my sister!” I scream. “Follow that red car!”
It all sounded very dramatic—and they took my word for it.
I mean, it was a lie they could believe. My girlfriend was banging on the rear window, crying and screaming, playing her part to perfection. Saying something—to me.
“Come on! Catch them!” I yell. The station-wagon driver floors it. The adults in that sports car had to be completely unprepared for the station wagon speeding after them—this was a scene from a movie they hadn’t seen. We chase them through tunnel after tunnel—Omugishiro, Murosawa, Sakamoto. Drumcan Bridge to our left. Flying west down NR 411.
We’re getting close to Kamosawa. As in: “Kamosawa, Yamanashi Prefecture”.
Tokyo’s about to end.
And we’re catching up. I scream: “Ram them! Make them stop!”
But next thing I know, we get cut off. Something pulls between the station-wagon (that I kinda sorta hijacked) and the sports car. It’s the bus, sliding sideways, blocking the whole highway. The station wagon swerves to a stop.
The bus driver sped up and killed the chase.
A highway with only two lanes. Game over—just like that.
There’s a sign up ahead: “Now entering Yamanashi Prefecture”. End of Tokyo.
I fling open the station-wagon door and bound onto the street. I try to run past the bus. But arms grab me, hold me back. Adult arms. I struggle, start swinging like a maniac—I know justice is on my side. Give her back! You can’t have her!
But Kamosawa, Yamanashi is off-limits.
No matter what.
No way out of Tokyo.
That was how I lost my first girlfriend.
BOAT THREE
I CAN READ SOME, NOT OTHERS
I toss a pebble into the well of my consciousness.
A rock of art? Does it have a dragon’s face on it?
Back to 24th December 2002.
I had to move on. I couldn’t take it. It was killing me to see the Hamarikyu crows locked up that way. Change of plans. I got on the New Transit Yurikamome Line at Shiodome Station. A train that would take me as far as the city goes in that direction. Odaiba. But I wasn’t going for the night scene—it was morning and Odaiba was dead. I looked around for signs of life. The Palette Town Ferris wheel was up and running from 10 a.m. As always, Fuji TV’s globe-shaped observatory was hanging in mid-air—looking over everything like a transparent eyeball.
Minato ward and Shinagawa ward converge by the Grand Meridien Hotel. Tokyo’s front line. I get off at Odaiba Station, walk across West Park Bridge and enter Symbol Promenade Park. The heart of Odaiba. A hollow surrounded by semi-futuristic buildings.
No rain. Not yet. Is it coming or not?
I find a seat and let the morning chill seep in. Through my coat and my jeans.
Does this even pass for a seat? More like a stone frustum. A man-made stalagmite with the head cut off. There’s more than one. Stumps forming a fairy circle around a solitary trash can.
I fantasize. The trash can is the Round Table—the stumps are chairs for the Knights of the Round. What a stupid fantasy.
It’s Christmas Eve morning and everyone’s at home, getting ready for Christmas Eve night or whatever. The real Eve. No one’s deranged enough to come sit here at this hour. Except, well, me.
Wasn’t the Holy Grail all about slaying dragons?
Maybe I’ve got it wrong. I have to admit—the cultural heritage of Western Europe isn’t really my strong suit. I can tell you this, though. I’m no dragon-slayer. It was a lucky dragon—a creature we’d seen on a movie screen—that brought my first girlfriend to me. And this fact, this brilliant fact, has been a factor in my life ever since. Dragons have had a special place in my heart. That in mind, I think I need to reconsider my presence at the Round Table. I’ll stand against the Knights if I have to. Yeah, my fantasy’s all wrong. I’m on Team Dragon.
I mean, this creature—or creation, whichever—let me read my first girlfriend like a dream.
My ass is freezing.
On this headless stalagmite.
This lifeless piece of stone. Wonder if I can warm it up.
Think warm thoughts.
Pray for warmth.
I’m asleep before I know it.
Christmas Eve morning, in the heart of Odaiba. I start dreaming. Everything that had been swirling around in my head suspends. In my sleep, I can see. A vision. For the first time in a long time, everything’s clear—in focus. Almost like the dreams I had when I was ten or eleven. I’m in the dream—the dream world floods my senses.
I wonder if the Japanese language can do justice to my dreams now.
Have I got any better at the language of dreams?
Only one way to find out.
I was in a room. I was there—in the dream. Strange. I could see my own body. My whole body. In the real world, I can’t do that. All I can see is my hands, my arms up to my elbows, my belly, my legs. I’m a character in this world. Not some viewer, outside of it all. I’m a part of it—under its control.
Seeing my whole body proves it.
In that moment, I’m in that world—that “room”.
Everything’s fuzzy. The edges blur. What’s going on? Take a good look. OK, where am I? At a writing desk. Sitting in an armchair… A cabriolet?
I’m leaning back with all my weight.
And I’m watching myself lean back. So where am I watching from? From what perspective? Hovering just above ground. Almost like a guardian angel, watching over myself.
After a while, the line between my two selves vanishes.
Then—all of a sudden—I’m looking at the “room” through the eyes in the head of the body in the chair. Leaning back into the cabriolet.
The ceiling hangs low.
It vaults… Or curves? I need to check it out. I spin around—I guess this cabriolet can spin. Or maybe it’s not a cabriolet.
There’s a bed across from the writing desk. A single (not a twin, not a double). The linens are fresh, unwrinkled. The work of professionals, no doubt. At the head of the bed, by the headboard, the ceiling curves down the wall.
Behind that?
Just darkness.
I feel beyond the lace. There’s nothing outside this window. I pull back the second set of curtains. The window’s boarded up. Nothing to see.
That sort of thing normally scares the shit out of me. But, in the dream, I have no fear.
OK, the bedside window’s no good. What about the others? Where are the others?
I take a look around the “room”. Nothing else you could call a window.
Ceiling, wall, floor. That’s pretty much it.
What is this place?
A hotel, I bet. What else could it be?
Over time, the “room” takes the shape of a room. But there’s no wall by the bed. That stays the same. The slope is like the nose of a bullet train. I go back to the writing desk, but don’t sit down. I look at the desk. Something’s off. Way off. Dust—the desk is covered in two or three centimetres of dust. What gives?
On the right side of the table, there’s a TV. Under that, a cabinet. On wheels. Wait—maybe it’s not a cabinet. More like a safe. (The longer I stare at it, the more it starts looking like a safe.) It’s got a sticker on it. There’s some writing on it. A clue? Instructions? It looks like instructions—like how to use a life jacket or something. For emergencies, like if there’s a fire in the hotel—to escape. There’s something written in Japanese.
It says: OPEN ONLY IN EMERGENCY. Then there’s an inspection date and a signature.
There’s more writing. Besides the Japanese. English and… Chinese? The characters look like the kanji I know, but different. Simplified Chinese? I can read some, not others. Not sure what it says.
I look back at the desk and the dust is even thicker now.
I brush it off.
Then I see it. There’s a CD. Didn’t expect that. How thin is this case? I feel like a forty-niner discovering gold dust. I take the CD in my hands—lovingly.
It has a yellow jacket. There’s a black man on the cover, holding a tenor sax. “Sonny Rollins with the Modern Jazz Quartet.” Is that the title? Band name? Both?
Sonny Rollins.
I flip the case over. Thirteen tracks in all. “The Stopper”, “Shadrack”, “On a Slow Boat to China”.
That’s where I wake up.
Violently.
I’m cut out of the picture. The dream spits me out.
I’m shaking. From the cold. Back on my stone stump in the middle of Symbol Promenade Park.
CHRONICLE
—1985—
We age, but we’re not alone. The same goes for our city. So—how has Tokyo got older? How has it grown up? These are the kinds of questions we’ll tackle in “Tokyo Chronicle”, a new series launching in our next issue.
In the meantime, here’s a little taste of what we’ve got in store—a teaser, if you will. Kaku Nohara kicks things off with a short story about his Tokyo, circa 1985. Before we get to his story, just a few lines about where the world was in 1985.
AIDS landed in Japan. Gorbachev was picked to succeed Chernenko. Aug. 15: PM Yasuhiro Nakasone paid a visit to Yasukuni Shrine, in an official capacity. Race riots raged in South Africa. Japan Airlines flight 123 crashed near Mt. Osutaka, Gunma Prefecture. In Ibaraki, EXPO Tsukuba 1985 ran for 184 days. The New Entertainment Control Law went into effect. Oct. 16: Hanshin Tigers named Central League champions.
THE PEPSI WARS
By Kaku Nohara
We’re all ten years old. Old enough to taste the difference. And you can buy Coke at any convenience store… Really, where’s the fun in that? We’re on the hunt for Pepsi-Cola.
Pepsi’s different. Premium. A rare brew manufactured in underground power stations.
I issue the order:
—Fall in!
We’re in West Shinjuku. The quiet second district. Quiet—because the 1.569 billion-yen Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office hasn’t gone up yet. We assemble by the Water Plaza in Central Park, our base of operations.
—Uno
—Dos
—Tres
—Cuatro
—Sinkhole
Our secret code.
I’m the commander, so I take the lead: Got your timepieces, amigos?
All at once: Si, señor!
Yuji Okazaki spent the summer in Spain with his family. When he came back, Spanish hit us hard—at an instantaneous wind speed of fifty metres per second.
Me: Ready? Synchronize watches. You have exactly five minutes. And no Fanta—got it? Pepsi only.
Hiroki Uehara (raising his hand): Are vending machines out of bounds?
Me: Affirmative. Stores only. Clear? Get receipts, too—for evidence. Everyone reading twelve seconds?
All of us: Yessir!
Me: Ready… get set… go!
We run like hell.
We hit every Pepsi-carrying store we can find. Pepsi. Rocket fuel for the double-digit generation.
Hopped up on caffeine, we barrel through the streets of Shinjuku. As I bolt towards the next store, I catch a glimpse of the Tokyo Hilton. Or should I say El Hilton? Remember, though, the H is silent.
That was my 1985.
BOAT FOUR
NO WAY OUT
I never was much of a talker, but after that ill-fated car chase—when I lost my first girlfriend—I really clammed up. Let my fists do all the talking. I lashed out at everyone in range: the adults trying to hold me back, the other kids at The End of the World, everybody, anybody. Third grade, eighth grade, it made no difference to me. Then they sent me home to Suginami, supposedly rehabilitated.
Back to school.
As soon as I saw all those ugly faces for the first time in a year, I got kind of slap-happy.
I’m pretty sure I took a swing at every kid in my grade before the semester was up. I mean it. In the spirit of being open and honest, there’s something I need to admit. I didn’t spare girls. It was low of me, I know, but on average, they were the better fighters.
We beat each other senseless. All of us. There was plenty of hate to go around. “Peaceful resolution”? Huh? What’s that even mean? Peace is just a ruse. Granted, “ruse” wasn’t in my vocabulary back then. But I felt it in my bones. We all did. All rise, bow—and come out swinging!
In no time, I was slapped with a bad rep. I made it into middle school, but Suginami ward put me on blast. I was an ex-dropout who hit girls. Blacklisted. In middle school, likes and loves were flying all over the place. Boys and girls and unchained libidos. But I played no part in the adolescent melodrama. I was hanging out in my corner, alone, giving off bad vibes.
High school was easier on me. All boys. No girls meant no girls to hit.
But my school wasn’t easier on everyone. During my time there, three boys (in different grades) killed themselves, one kid in my grade survived a family suicide, and another kid murdered his parents in their sleep. (He doused his house in gasoline and set it on fire.)
The rash of deaths didn’t have anything to do with my school, though, not really. Every school has kids who want to kill themselves, and kids who want to kill their parents, and parents who want to kill their kids. But the media likes to find patterns where there aren’t any. FIVE TRAGEDIES IN THREE YEARS—WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS SCHOOL? There were talk shows about us, dramatizations, you name it. Our school was legendary. Every time I turned on the TV, I was back in school. It was crazy.
This school stood for everything wrong with the Japanese education system. Wild kids = wild homes = the end of Japan as we know it. Like that.
TV crews were always hanging around. We knew exactly what they wanted to hear—and we delivered. STUDENTS SPEAK UP—TEENAGERS AT THE END OF THE CENTURY.
We were in magazines
and newspapers. We were even on TV. As unpaid extras.
The more over-the-top we were, the more they ate it up. Even though every word out of our mouths was pure bullshit.
We worked on our story, transforming an unexceptional boys’ school into the campus of the damned. People were afraid of us—even lowlifes from schools way worse than ours didn’t dare mess with us. That felt real good.
We felt something like school pride.
We invented a kind of language of our own. Words that fitted our own needs. Japanese for idiots, or something. For the first time in years, language made some sense to me. That was when I started speaking up—almost like a regular kid. Like I was part of something.
Sure, that camaraderie had its limits. Our language didn’t exist outside of the school and its immediate surroundings. And it didn’t last long. But it got us through some strange times.
Years later, I bumped into one of my classmates, but everything was different. When high school ended, that world ended. Everyone went their separate ways. Me? I went the way of the proper young gentleman. If you can believe: I studied liberal arts at a private university. No joke.
That came with a different circle of friends.
Boys and girls.
University. It didn’t take long to have a few close encounters with girls. But these girls were nothing like my first girlfriend. I mean, I wouldn’t call them “girlfriends”. More like science experiments. What happens when you introduce manganese dioxide to hydrogen peroxide? Oxygen! When ammonia and hydrochloric acid combine, you get… white smoke! Don’t try this at home, kids! Ha ha ha. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.
University.
School, sex, bar, school, work, double date (“collaborative research”), mid-terms, sex.
Science, it turns out, can be pretty medieval. Look at alchemy, the magic of converting base metals into gold. What am I trying to say? Love can lead to sex—of course. But there are times when things go the other way around. Sex can lead to love. That’s what I’m saying. I know it can happen because it happened to me. How many times? Well, just once.