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Hurtful Yoghurt

It was a Tuesday morning, and as soon as I woke up, I knew that I would be taking a sick day.

Lying in bed with the alarm still beeping, I bit some dead skin off the side of my thumb and began to wonder how I could feel so rotten and, at the same time, still have a massive erection.

No position that I assumed in bed made the feeling go away, so I got out of bed and drank some pineapple juice. When I was done, I put the juice back in the fridge, walked over to my toilet, and threw it all up. The enchanting circle of life.

“Do I have the pig flu?” I giggled, crouching down in front of the porcelain with my knees shaking and hot “sick” tears streaming down my cheeks. I felt as if the word “pathetic” had jumped out of my Oxford English Dictionary and taken possession of my body and soul.

Not a good way to start the morning.

I texted my boss with one word – “sick” – and went straight back to bed. When she wrote me back, it was not to ask how I was faring, but rather to order me to go to a clinic. I didn’t respond, because I wanted her to think that I’d peacefully passed away. I hated the idea of going to a clinic.

Let me explain.

It’s hard enough getting a video store membership here in Japan, let alone getting medical treatment. Sure, I could probably find a clinic, and sure, I know the Japanese word for “ill,” but from that point on I’d basically have to surrender myself to the medical personnel. They’d have the green light to experiment on my foreign body in any way they saw fit – including liquidizing me (just for kicks) or administering a pap smear.

No thanks. I decided to continue lying in bed, thinking about my sickness. And my erection.

What on earth was happening to me? Why was I suddenly so sick? Was it swine flu? No. I would have been running a fever and experiencing intense muscle pain. One of my students had had the swine flu, and he said that it had made him feel as though his testicles were being sucked up into his body. I’m not sure I understood what he meant by this, but I didn’t pursue the matter, because we’d already exceeded the number of times the word “testicle” can be mentioned in a 45-minute English lesson.

No. My sickness probably had more to do with the yoghurt I’d eaten out of my sink drain the night before.

What happened was, I opened a carton of yoghurt. When I tried to drain the yoghurt juice, I ended up letting the entire contents of the carton splat into the sink by accident.

“Oh shit, then.”

Instead of rinsing the yoghurt away, I took a spoon and attempted to scoop what I could from the drain filter into my mouth – all the while seeing myself, from an imaginary bird’s-eye-view, as a 30-something bachelor eating plain yoghurt out of his sink drain.

Even to my crude, unscientific mind, this appeared to be a very unhealthy thing to do – but, you see, so great was my desire for plain yoghurt. The risk involved somehow made my eating experience all the more pleasurable – as if I were partaking of some exotic, forbidden fruit. I went to bed shortly thereafter, and the sickness didn’t strike until the next day.

My sick day was spent lying in bed, perfectly still, or sitting in my beanbag chair, reading kick-ass short stories and drinking peppermint tea. I’m better now.

Gentleman Thief

Here in Japan, apart from my books and clothes, my most important possession is my bicycle. It is the worst bicycle in the world. It is called “The Sunflower.”

Today, one of the brake lines snapped, causing me to slam into the wall of an Italian restaurant. There is a hole in the seat cushion – right where I typically put my nuts. The tires slowly leak air, so I have to fill them up every week. Did I mention that it is called “The Sunflower”? On the plus side, it is purple – the color of royalty.

Every week I have to go to my local gas station and ask for their air pump to fill up the tires. I hate doing this, because it makes me feel like The Poorest Man in the World. Everyone else is a paying customer, putting gasoline in their cars, and then I wheel in on my shambles of a bike to beg for mere air.

The contrast between me and the customers is most apparent when I am actually pumping the air into my tires. Everyone else is standing by, relaxing, waiting for their tanks to fill, and I am furiously pumping up and down in some kind of mock sexual frenzy – saying the word “fuck” in an exasperated tone of voice whenever the little air nozzle comes off the wheel.

Sometimes I also end up running around the parking lot because the wind has blown away the greasy plastic bag that the pump comes in. I’m usually saying “fuck” then, too.

Today, when I went to the gas station to borrow the air pump, no one was behind the counter. There was a Japanese attendant waiting outside, but I hated the idea of summoning him into the store just to ask for the air pump, so I decided to wait. He would eventually come in of his own accord.

He didn’t.

To get his attention (I knew that he could see me out of the corner of his eye), I decided to steal something. Well, not actually “steal.” I would simply pick something up – an item of negligible worth – and slowly move it towards my jacket pocket. All the while I would be staring at the attendant and making him uncomfortable with my intense eye-beams. He would be forced to look.

The thing that I chose to “steal” was a small figurine with a moving head. There was a solar panel in the base of the figurine, and this is what caused the head to move. Maliciously, I covered the solar panel, thereby depriving the tiny creature of sunlight, and its head stopped moving. It gave me a feeling of real power. I flicked the head. It jiggled. I decided to “steal” it.

Just as I had started to raise the toy from the counter, the attendant came in. He did not greet me, but instead, with a very serious expression, he looked at the toy in my hand.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Please take it,” he said. “It is my gift.”

“No, no, I couldn’t.”

“Please. Go on. I insist.”

“Ok,” I said, depositing it in my jacket pocket.

He smiled.

“By the way,” I said, “can I also use the bicycle pump?”

Not only did he produce the pump, but he also filled my tires with air. He didn’t even swear when the little nozzle came off, or when the plastic bag blew away in the wind and he had to go chasing after it because I had just eaten a bag of Doritos and was afraid of getting a cramp.

This is the kind of thing that only happens in Japan.

Je suis le King of Pop

I am typing this in a Japanese Starbucks. I begin work in one hour.

Sitting directly across from me is a huge woman with the largest breasts I have ever seen. When I saw them, I did a double-take – which is saying something, because I typically don’t like to be caught staring at women’s breasts. She is wearing a shirt that says, “Je suis le King of Pop.” It seems a little presumptuous to claim the title “King of Pop” so soon after Michael Jackson’s death, but the French somehow makes it more acceptable.

(But seriously, if I am ever assaulted at night by someone who is in every conceivable way the opposite of the King of Pop, the final police sketch will bear a striking resemblance to this woman.)

The new King of Pop is sitting with another huge woman whose hair is in a bob on top of her head. When they came in, my first thought was “couple of lesbians.” I look around, and it seems that every Japanese person in this Starbucks is huge. You would be hard-pressed to find a mouth that is not breaking down large chunks of food. God bless globalization.

There is a little boy sitting near me in a high chair. His father is putting bits of muffin into the boy’s mouth. Who does this boy think he is, anyway? The king of Starbucks?

As I am typing this, another massive woman comes in. What the hell is going on here? She is literally wearing suspenders. Suspenders! Suspenders is one article of clothing that I would refuse to wear if I were extremely overweight. As soon as she sees me she scowls. What? Am I not allowed to sit here eating my blueberry and cream scone? Don’t get angry just because my face had a look of profound disgust on it. It had nothing to do with you. That’s how I ordinarily look.

A 20-something girl is standing at the sugar and cream counter. Her shirt says, “I am pretty.” The whole shirt is adorned with the word “pretty” written many times, in many different colors and styles of font. The trouble here (and I’m not trying to be mean) is that she is not especially pretty. I wonder if she seriously thought that, by wearing a shirt with a particular word written over and over on it, she could hoodwink me into thinking that she possessed that quality. If this were possible, I would immediately set about hand-stitching all of my own clothing – but instead of “pretty,” I would use such words as “handsome,” “go-getter,” and “not only interested in sex, but also in hearing about your day. How was it anyway?”

Time to go to work.

Holdin' Hands

I met Nozomi two months ago in a Tokyo bookstore. She was pretty and, when she made eye contact with me for a moment, I thought I saw her smile.

“OK,” I said to myself, “I’ll try and talk to her.” I waited for a few minutes to steel my nerve, rehearsing in my mind the Japanese that I would use.

There were no other people in the aisle, which was ideal. I have tried approaching women before in public places – coffee shops, grocery stores, etc. - and when there are other people nearby, I feel as if I’m committing some unspeakable crime. I feel like a deformed, sinister hobgoblin, trying to lure innocent victims back to my subterranean lair.

Nozomi and I were facing in opposite directions, so, in order to speak to her, I had to do a 180 degree turn and spend some time pretending to browse through the books that she was looking at (Japanese books about flower arrangement). After a few minutes of taking random items off the shelves and inspecting their covers, I turned to her and said “HELLO.” In my nervousness, the word came out much louder than it should have, and I sounded like an autistic boy trying to practice the social graces and getting it all wrong. A person in the next aisle dropped something and mumbled.

There was some initial awkwardness, but we talked about Canada, books, and type-2 diabetes (she’s a doctor). When I found out about her job, I cobbled together a very primitive joke by pointing at my belly and saying a medical phrase that I’d picked up from my Japanese text: “I think I’m pregnant.” She didn’t exactly laugh, but she definitely didn't frown, and, in the end, she agreed to give me her email address.

Things might have turned out very differently if I’d used the other Japanese medical phrase I’d picked up from that phrasebook: “I haven’t had my period for weeks.”

***

Since then, Nozomi and I have been going on regular dates. There are no serious problems so far, but there have been obstacles. When she’s talking about her job, I sometimes have no idea about how to respond.

Once we were strolling down the avenue, hand in hand, enjoying a couple of green tea ice creams, and she whispered this sweet nothing in my ear: “Have you ever heard of acute myocardial infarction?”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” I said, licking my cone.

Or, another time, she got a call from the hospital when we were at the aquarium.

When the call was finished, I said, “What was that all about?”

“Oh, a nurse just wanted to know about how much insulin to give a patient.”

“And what did you recommend?”

“Five units.”

“Neat.”

If you can think of any way to extend this kind of conversation beyond the word “neat,” I’m all ears.

Sometimes, when I think of the many differences between Nozomi’s job and my own, I feel like a little nothing of a man. This feeling is most intense when she gets a call from the hospital, because it reminds me that there is never an urgent need for my expertise. I can’t imagine getting a late-night call from someone saying, "You’ve got to get over here - there’s a group of middle-aged businessmen who need to practice phrases for beginning and ending a meeting! And whatever you do, don't forget to bring your Clifford hand puppet!” It wouldn’t happen.

So, when Nozomi is telling me about her work week, I’m admiring her, but I’m also saying to myself, "I wish I were more involved in the goings-on of the world. I wish I were more necessary.” I know these feelings are probably petty and evidence of despicable male insecurity, but I can’t help it. Take any random day of the week, and try to decide for yourself whose contributions to society are more important:

Monday: Nozomi shows great respect for human life. I rearrange the letters on the Japanese teacher’s classroom door from “Happy Halloween” to “Oh Hell.”

Thursday: Nozomi eases a patient’s suffering by simply listening to him. I spend a large part of the afternoon simply galloping around the lobby in a horse mask. Children boot me in the ass and use the Japanese for “giddy-up.”

Saturday: Nozomi gives her patient information about his complicated illness in a way that he can understand. I draw faces and cryptic clues on every piece of fruit I can find in the office fridge. I eat some of the fruit.

I don’t think any of this will be a problem though, because I believe I can hide the details of my job for a very long time – maybe forever. I suppose it could spell trouble if we marry and have a baby and there’s a bring-your-child-to-work day. But by then it will probably be too late!

She did not appreciate my novelty whistle.

One of my duties as an English teacher is to stand in the front lobby of my school and chat with students in a non-threatening manner.

I’ve had many injuries in the lobby. A kid once thought that it would be "cool" to drag the sharp corner of a Lego piece down my spine to see what I do when exposed to great physical stress. In return, I taught him the word “MOTHERFUCKER.”

I didn’t and still don’t care. You drag a piece of blue Lego down my spine in any situation – even if it's when I'm at a funeral, standing over an open casket – and I will yell it out again. What? You think that it's a horrible word that should never be spoken, under any circumstances? Then have your kids use Lego to create medieval castles, or aircraft carriers, or pirate ships, or maximum-security prisons in which they can incarcerate themselves for 8-10 years.

When I think back on all of the things that have happened to me in our school lobby, I wonder if I've earned the reputation as a kind of “freak” of the school – if not of my local community.

Take last week for example. I saw a mom sitting and holding her baby. I thought that I would introduce myself.

I brought along my slide whistle – the long, cylindrical kind that extends and makes the “whooooooop” sound that you hear in cartoons when someone's pants fall down. I bent over the baby, and just as I put the wooden whistle to my lips, I realized that the mother was not just holding her baby, but also breast-feeding it. She looked down at my whistle, and since it was practically dipping into the milk, I guess she thought that I was using it as a kind of straw to get a drink of my own.

She looked horrified. To show her that my wooden instrument was a whistle and not a straw, I stood up, wrestled my bulging eyes away from her breast, and started blowing it (the whistle). The cartoon “whoooooop” sound made it look like I was trying to make a joke out of the whole thing, and so she put the baby to one side – like she preparing to kick my ass. I have to say, this was the first time in my life when I’ve literally run away from an awkward situation.

Another time the lobby was much more crowded. A little boy was sitting beside a plastic bag of colored wooden blocks. The boy was crying and tugging on his mom’s pant leg, but she was typing on her cell phone and not paying attention.

“Oh, hi there little guy,” I said. “You want to play with the blocks?”

I dumped the blocks out on the floor, and we built things together.

We built a technicolour pyramid.

“Pyramid,” I said.

“PEER-mit,” said the boy, smiling. Then he used his fist to bash the pyramid that I'd spent five minutes making, and I wasn't even angry.

I thought to myself, “You know, I really think I have a way with children. And at least that’s something.”

Basking in my new role as a kind of “fun uncle” figure, I took the empty plastic bag and put it on my head – like a *crazy* hat. Because the plastic was thick and the opening of the bag was just smaller than the circumference of my head, the bag stayed there, like a transparent top hat. The boy was loving it.

For kicks, I removed the bag and put it on the boy’s head. The opening of the bag was too big, so I ended up putting his head inside the plastic bag. I was laughing, because this truly was a *crazy* hat. After all, what kind of hat do you put your entire head and face in? What kind of weird hat would that be?! At that moment, in my mind, I was the funnest uncle in the world and of all time.

Things changed when I saw the boy staring out at me, trying in vain to remove the bag. His breath was fogging up the inside of the plastic, and I realized that he wasn’t in a *crazy* hat at all, but in a dangerous situation that could cause him to suffocate.

All at once, things became very clear. I had just "plastic bagged" a boy's friggin' head at my workplace, in a lobby that was full of hostile witnesses. Mothers. His mother. With the way everyone was looking at me, you'd have almost forgotten that I was a "fun uncle" figure. I took the bag off (much harder to get off than to put on, by the way), and I pointed to the blocks that we’d been playing with earlier.

“Pyramid?” I said.

From now on, I’m only going to appear in the lobby if someone specifically asks for me. Since this hasn’t happened yet, I expect things to get better.

The Nipple Stigmata

These days, when people tell me I'm fat, I know they're only joking.

If you google my name, you’ll come across an old photo of me. The difference is staggering. I’m standing there, pasty white and double-chinned, smiling the awkward smile that characterizes all photos from that bleak period of my life as a private high school teacher. I’m wearing a pair of trousers that would slip off me now. The student beside me is smiling with great enthusiasm, as if to say, “Out of the two of us, I am the thinner one.”

Do you want to know my weight-loss secret? I don’t count calories. I don’t bounce up and down on a big rubber fun-ball or wear a pair of medical shoes. I haven’t cut down on beer (F that), and haven't worn my girdle for years, dear. Here’s the secret: I run. Last month I covered 220 km. Since coming to Japan I estimate that I’ve actually run 1/20th of the distance around Mother Earth.

I’m in love with almost everything about running. I love being in the vitamin-rich sunshine, and I love how the blood flowing through my veins feels like a river after the spring thaw - a roaring, heavy-metal river that flows from Mount Awesome to the Great Lake of Kick-Ass. There’s nothing like rubbing my hand up the back of my head and seeing the cool mist of sweat glinting in the sun. The lactic burn evaporates my worldly cares – or at least pushes them into the background for a while so my subconscious can reduce them to bite-sized annoyances.

There is only one thing about running that I hate: the stares of the Japanese townspeople. Everyone has to get a good look in. And these are not just passing glances. These are flat-out, open-mouthed stares – like I’m not a man out for a morning jog, but a wicked poltergeist.

Only beautiful women don’t look (thank you so much). Everyone else is a stare-much – especially when I’m wearing my “nipple stigmata” shirt. This is a white t-shirt that always chafes against my nipples, causing them to become irritated and bleed. The blood trickles down, producing an overall effect that is not unlike the stigmata (the only difference being that it comes from my nipples, and God’s grace doesn't really factor in to the picture).

Once, when I was on the final K of a 10K run, an old Japanese man was so amazed to see a foreigner wearing shorts and moving at twice the speed of “stroll” that he actually stopped in his tracks and turned to face me and frown. What bothered me is that this wasn’t even subtle. I glared at him, and he didn’t look away, which bothered me even more.

"Got a damn staring problem?" I wanted to ask, but dared not.

Instead, I stopped in the middle of the street and started doing jumping jacks. More people gathered round. This was the angriest I’ve ever been while doing jumping jacks. The old man didn’t give in, so I started jumping-jacking towards him. That’s when he shook his head as if to say, “You don’t see that every day,” and started walking away.

I told a friend about this and he said, “You’ve got to be careful.”

Oh no, don't run. You wouldn't want to alarm anyone. Once a woman screamed and ran indoors when she saw me sprinting my last hundred meters in her direction. Another time a school girl may have thought that I was pursuing her, because she was riding her bike ahead of me and her path corresponded precisely to my running route. Calm down everyone. I’m not a predator. I’m not a poltergeist. I'm not really even a rapist. I’m a just out for some exercise. Think about it for a second: would a rapist or a poltergeist be carrying an Ipod nano loaded with Mika tunes?

I don’t want to give you the impression that people think I’m non-human only when I’m jogging. A little while ago I took a break from writing this and popped over to my local bento shop to get some lunch. The shop is nearby, so I just threw on whatever clothing lay between me and the doorway.

While I was waiting for my food, an attractive young mother came in with her son and daughter. The son – about 4 or 5 years old and wearing a yellow necktie – came over and sat beside me, even though there were plenty of other seats available. After staring at me for a few seconds, he stood up on the bench and started stroking my left cheek – as if my face were a semi-precious stone. I should note that I hadn’t shaved, and I was wearing jeans and dress shoes, sans socks. Also, my fly was down. The mother, who hadn’t been paying attention until this point, turned around and gave her son an outraged scolding – like he’d picked up a dirty hypodermic needle and said, “Look mom, a popsicle.” In retrospect, I could have chosen a more opportune moment to hoist my fly.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether you jog or not. In a foreign country, you will always be a bald freak. But why are you running? Are you trying to attract attention? Pull up your damn fly. Tonight I’ll go for a midnight jog. Maybe that way, by cloaking my body in a shroud of night, I will find sweet release.