by Tim Anderson
“What fucking argument?” I ask with petulant exasperation. “What are you fucking talking fucking about?!”
He must have interpreted our conversation in the kitchen earlier-the one in which he’d offered me a Valium and I’d politely declined-as an epic struggle between opposing forces that had ended in a vengeful prank. I should have just taken the damn pill. (It’s not like me to dismiss offers like that out of hand.)
I take advantage of the fact that he’s sorry and prostrate, and I send him to his room with no more vodka.
“Go to fucking bed!” I command him. Still confused and very, very drunk, he sheepishly obeys and limps to his room.
I’m awake for good now. Ewan and I have a cup of tea in the kitchen after cleaning up the remnants of the past eight or so hours and try to think of what to do. Meanwhile, Ron is in his room snoring like a hacksaw. Then, of course, he starts talking-screaming, really-in his sleep. At one point I hear him shout, “Hey, fatty!” but since neither Ewan nor I can generally be described as such, I figure he’s safely asleep and dreaming of Debbie/his mother.
Ewan and I can’t figure out how he had gotten hired by MOBA. Yes, they hire some idiots, but how had Ron stayed sober long enough to get through the interview? Had he not made a bad impression when he’d creamed his coffee with whiskey and then wet his pants?
I spend the whole day at work telling everyone about what happened and worrying about what I will find when I return home. Will he be selling all my CDs for a hundred yen by the side of the road? Will he have turned the refrigerator into a medicine cabinet for his many pharmaceuticals? (Actually, that might be nice.) Will he have killed, crushed into powder, and then snorted poor Ewan?
How could this have happened? Is MOBA so desperate for teachers that they’ve resorted to raiding American rehab clinics, luring the conscripts out with the promise of limitless Absolut and tonics? It’s true, the English conversation school industry in Japan is one of the most fiercely competitive in the country. On trains, magazines, television, newspapers, and billboards everywhere, advertisements for language schools abound. Even celebrities, always up for making a quick buck in the lucrative Japanese market, get in on the fun, allowing their images to be used to convince the Japanese public to say screw it, get a second mortgage, and sign up for some English lessons. Which means you have the baffling phenomenon of Celine Dion’s face on an Aeon English School poster beckoning people to come to Aeon and learn to speak English like an overwrought French Canadian.
I understand the need for teachers to meet the demand of an English-starved public. In Japanese grade schools, kids learn English reading and grammar starting in junior high. But since most English teachers don’t speak English, they are ill-equipped to prepare their students for any real-world English-speaking scenario. So a handsome student named Tatsuya can graduate from a Japanese high school, walk right up to a native English speaker named Cheryl in a dimly lit bar, say something as basic as “I can buy you any drink?” in order to woo her, and because Tatsuya’s pronunciation is so horrendous, Cheryl will promptly hold up her hand and say, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese.” Their relationship will end at roughly the same time it started. Very sad.
The tragedy of Cheryl and Tatsuya is why native English speakers are a hot commodity here, and all of the competing language schools understandably need a constant influx of teachers from America, Britain, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand in order to meet the demand. But I’m old-fashioned, I guess. I think prospective teachers should be able to do more than present a valid passport and pass the height requirement. They should at least have to pass a breathalyzer.
I call the accommodations department at the head office and talk to Kevin, the man in charge, who thankfully has already spoken to Ewan, so I don’t have to start from the beginning. He apologizes and says that there must have been a mistake.
“We’ll try to get him out of the apartment as soon as possible, but since it’s the weekend, you know, it’s a little difficult to arrange these things.”
“Oh, please,” I say. “Please please please get him out of there.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He calls me later and says that they won’t be able to move him until Monday night-three days hence!-but that they will definitely be moving him then. He offers me a pearl of advice.
“You and Ron should just attempt to stay out of each other’s way until then, if at all possible.”
Well, that sure ruins my dinner plans. Thankfully, Kevin has spoken to Ron and assures me that he is very sorry and has agreed not to come near us.
When work is over, I prepare myself to return home, with anxiety in my heart and, thanks to my friend and colleague Donna who has a boyfriend at Yokosuka base, a mild sedative in my belly.
Mamta, a teacher from Australia who lives directly below me, says she’ll go home with me.
“I know you don’t want to be alone with the one-legged man,” she says.
When we arrive, Ewan is there, alive and well, but Ron isn’t. We all sit down and have some tea and watch a Discovery Channel program called Travelers that sends young, wide-eyed Americans to exotic places so they can say things like, “I just love shopping in another culture!” We all agree that Ron is a better roommate than any of the retards on the show would be.
To prove our point, a skinny white girl from Ohio named Kim tries on an African head wrap at a street market and says, “Oh, this is totally me!” I start desperately wishing Ron would come back and put us all out of our misery. Right on cue, Mamta looks down the hall at the door and says, “Um, Tim? Yeah, the police are here.”
I stand up and walk to the edge of the hallway leading to the door. Just outside it stand two policemen, leaning in and saying to me, “Your friend? Your friend?” while pointing to-you guessed it-Ron. Not surprisingly, he is drunk as a wombat. I speak to the policemen in my rough Japanese, and they explain, with the help of hand signals and mimicry, that they’d found him on the bridge down the road stumbling and generally looking like a scary foreigner. I thank the officers and apologize, going against my gut instinct to fall to my knees and offer them money if they will just stay the night. They leave Ron propped up against the wall just inside the door, and I go back to the kitchen.
Ron stands in the hallway for some time, leaning against the wall so as to remain more or less vertical. I slump down into a chair at the table and exchange unsure looks with Mamta and Ewan.
“I suppose it’s good he didn’t accidentally fall into the river,” Mamta offers, and we all nod in agreement before changing our minds and sheepishly shaking our heads in embarrassed disappointment.
A growling sound comes from the hallway, followed by the words “Can’t we talk about this?”
I hear him take a few steps toward the kitchen and say, in a more menacing tone, “Where’s that guy who thinks he’s better than everyone else?”
“Who’s that?” I wonder aloud before realizing he’s talking about me. I think this evaluation of my character is completely unfair. Sure, I am most definitely better than certain people, like most of the people I went to middle school with, all the gorgeous guys who have ever ignored me, and anyone who has ever told me I look like Bert from Sesame Street. But I don’t argue. Nor do I raise my hand and say, “Over here!”
I stand and walk over to the kitchen drawers. “There you are,” he says. Meanwhile, I start pulling all the cutlery out of the drawers to hide in my room.
Finally he makes it to the kitchen, launching into a litany of good deeds that he’s performed today.
“I did all the dishes.” I look at the drying rack. He’s washed two soupspoons and a rice bowl.
“See how I washed all the dishtowels and hung ’em up?” he adds, pointing to the balcony. I go out to the balcony and find hanging two formerly white towels covered with big brown blotches and smelling like Ron’s breath had the night before. He must have wiped up the Jack Daniels puddles with them, I figure.
> “And I took out that big trash bag.”
“Where did you take it?” I ask him.
He looks uncomfortable and says nothing.
On a hunch I look down to the street and see the bag slumped against some shrubbery, a milk carton sticking out and leaking droplets onto the greenery.
“Great,” I say, coming back inside and taking a seat at the table. “Thanks.”
He twitches and tilts his head, detecting a lack of authentic appreciation. Then he looks at me the way a person looks when he’s about to snap another person’s neck, gets in my face, and says, doing a spot-on imitation of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, “You wanna live here? I just bought this building. And I ain’t leaving.”
He steps back and lifts his arms and shoulders into a shrug.
“Guess you’ll have to.”
“You, um, bought the AF Building, Ron?” I ask.
“Yes sir,” he spits. “It’s just gonna take a few days for the money transfer to go through.” Then he turns and plods off to the bathroom.
I look at Mamta and Ewan, utterly speechless.
“Look!” Mamta says, pointing to the television in the corner of the room. “He didn’t break the TV!” Bless her, she’s grasping.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s beginning to look like I’ve traveled all the way around the world to the safest country on earth only to be drawn and quartered by an unhinged Phil-adelphian. Monday night seems so very far away.
“Listen,” Mamta whispers, “why don’t you and Ewan just bring some of your important stuff down to my place. You know, just to be safe.”
We agree this is probably a good idea, since there’s no telling when the Beast will decide to start throwing things over the balcony railing again. So I pick up my laptop and a stack of CDs. Ewan collects all his books.
We go downstairs and drop off our stuff. Ewan stays with Mamta, and I go up to Julia’s to see if I can stay the night if things become life-threatening. As I’m filling her in on the recent developments in the saga, the doorbell rings. Julia answers and it’s Mike, who lives in the apartment between Julia’s and mine.
“Hey, do you know what’s going on in Tim’s flat?” I hear him ask.
I run out of the apartment and look towards mine. The door is wide open, the police alarm from the kitchen is sounding, and Ron is inside screaming. I go down to Mamta’s and get Ewan. We decide to go up and get everything of importance out of the place, in case Ron has started a fire or something. I grab the rest of my CDs, and some work clothes and shoes. Ewan gets more books. Mamta offers to help, and Ewan quickly makes use of her, handing over his encyclopedia of arthropods and his giant collection of historical maps of the world.
But our mass exodus is halted when we can’t get the front door open. The handle won’t turn. Ron is on the other side, blocking us in. We can hear him outside shouting at Mamta’s roommates, who had come to make sure we were alright.
“Oh my God, we’re trapped!” I say, clearly kind of starting to enjoy the drama. I look at Mamta and Ewan with their arms full of useless books, and we all laugh. Then we look worriedly toward the door, because we really are trapped.
I could force the door open, but I am really afraid to do anything that will result in Ron being thrown off balance, for there’s a second balcony and he’s standing directly between it and the door. So we put everything down, go into my room, open the window, and watch as Ron wields a fire extinguisher to keep at bay the group of MOBA teachers from nearby apartments who have gathered around him, some people looking scared, others covering their laughing mouths.
We wait at the window until he finally moves away from the door. We quickly gather up everything and make a run for it. As we bust through the door, Ron is busy threatening the others congregated outside-the entire floor of tenants at this point, including a few mystified Japanese people who have never seen a real American crazy before.
“What’s your name?” he demands of Mike.
“I’m not telling you,” Mike says.
“What’s your name?” He points to Julia.
“Thaddeus,” she says.
“What’s your name?” Holly, Mamta’s roommate, this time.
“I don’t have a name.”
“Well,” Ron growls, “I’m going to remember your names and I’m going to find you and you’re going to be sorry!” Then he burps and kind of sneezes.
We sneak behind him and spirit our stuff down to Mamta’s. From above someone yells down that two police officers have arrived, yay!
I run up the stairs ready to tongue-kiss both of them at the same time and, with a wink and a lick of my lips, invite them over to Julia’s later. Turns out the two officers are the same ones who had brought Ron home earlier, after the bridge incident.
The party has moved back inside my apartment, so I open the door and see the two cops standing over Ron, who’s sitting in a chair in the middle of the darkened hallway, his arms folded, his expression defiant, his face beet-red and shiny.
Erica, one of Mamta’s friends who’s half Japanese, serves as interpreter.
“I own this place! This whole place!”
Erica translates directly with a wink wink, nudge nudge.
The officers look at each other, confused. After a long, winding conversation that takes in all of Ron’s hijinks as well as Erica’s attempt at explaining that not all English teachers behave like this, the officers tell us they can’t do anything because it isn’t illegal to be publicly drunk in Japan, and anyway, he hasn’t hurt anyone. (But what about what he’s done to my feelings?!) They take down our details as a formality, and after accepting my heartfelt apologies on behalf of my entire country, they leave.
The door closes behind them, and we all silently turn our heads to look at our tormenter.
The good thing about a drunk like Ron is that, though he can ingest award-winning amounts of booze, he will reach his stopping point, and suddenly. Leaning back further in his chair and struggling to keep his eyelids raised, he reaches that stopping point. Down, down, down he goes, backwards toward the floor, the chair giving way under his greasy girth. He roars and spits all the way down to the floor, a trip that happens in slow motion. Then thud. Binge over. Yay, gravity.
Folks gathered outside begin to scatter now that the show’s main performer appears to have passed out in epic fashion. “Goodbye, y’all,” I say. “Thanks for coming. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow. G’night. Be safe.”
I step over Ron and walk to the kitchen, where Ewan sits looking tired, confused, and desperate to take up smoking. “It’s over, Ewan,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”
The next day, I receive a call from the MOBA head office at work. He is out. They’ve moved him somewhere else; I don’t ask where. I get home that evening and find that all of his stuff is gone. I walk back to the kitchen and see a final parting gift from Ron on the tile floor: a big brown turd. I turn around and walk to his room. It is completely empty, except for one item on the floor: a small paperback book that had presumably fallen from his bag on the way out. The title: Networking in Japan: Making Those Important Contacts.
Also, my Entertainment Weekly is missing.
A few days later, gossip swirls that Ron has gone missing from his new digs and still hasn’t shown up for work. All of us gasp at the idea that Ron is freely walking the streets of Fujisawa carrying all of his belongings and throwing empty beer cans at old grandmas on the street. What if he decides to pay us tenants at the AF Building a visit? He is our landlord, after all.
Finally, after two weeks have passed, Ron calls the MOBA head office and says, no doubt slurring every syllable, “I’m ready for work!” But at this point MOBA has written him off and decided to do something unprecedented in their history: pay for a teacher’s flight back home before he’s even started work. It’s the right decision-for the security of the nation.
That night, Mamta sees a particularly interesting item on CNN. A flig
ht from Japan’s Narita Airport bound for New York’s JFK had to make an emergency landing in the Midwest because an unruly American guy had attacked a stewardess.
I’d bet my very soul that this guy had been drinking Jack Daniels. And reading my Entertainment Weekly.
# of times I’ve visited Takashimaya department store just to use their fancy, high-tech “Washlet” toilet: 3
# of train suicides that have made me late for work: 2
5
In which we learn that our hero’s rock star wet dreams can indeed come true-if he just stays asleep long enough.
Since the Ron fiasco, I’ve been seriously questioning my future not only in my apartment but also with MOBA. Sometimes it seems like getting a job teaching at this school is about as difficult as finding work as a homeless person on the streets of New York. It takes no credentials whatsoever and anyone can do it, which means that in day-to-day life you run the risk of clashing with drug-addled assholes who don’t know when to shut up and go to sleep.
Or just normal everyday idiots, like Paul from Canada who recently dedicated an entire class to teaching his students the nicknames English speakers have for Japanese people, most of them extremely unflattering (“slanty-eyed midgets,” for one). When I asked him why he felt compelled to do such a thing, he said simply, “I just thought they should know.”
Then there’s Australian Mark, who recently had the brilliant idea to teach a lesson in impenetrable, slangy Crocodile Dundee-inflected speech, because “they’re gonna have to deal with it if they ever come to Australia.” I watched from my classroom as his three mid-level students had three separate mid-level nervous breakdowns.
Not that I’m any kind of Einstein. I’ve made my share of idiotic remarks in class. Sometimes it’s unavoidable when your job is to talk all day and try to maintain enthusiasm. Recently I was teaching two men, both engineers and advanced-level students, and we were talking about Japanese electronics, architecture, and design. At one point I proclaimed in a commanding tone, as if I were saying something really quite unprecedented and insightful, “Japanese engineering is just, like, totally amazing, and, you know, the architecture and, like, electronics, I mean, you know, my God…” I wanted to die even as I rambled on, and from the look on my students’ faces, they wanted the same thing.
