Subterranean Homogenous Blues

I was running late for work again and, perspiring and irritated, found myself in that all-too-familiar and excruciating predicament of having to decide whether to end the suffering by slowing down, cooling off and admitting defeat or to soldier on, pissed off and soaked, on the off chance I might make the train.  I had just disembarked a typically packed locomotive at Kyobashi station and now began to contemplate with dread the task that lay ahead: of having to hustle through the crowd of thousands of other commuters to reach my imminent connection on the underground Tanimachi line.  My heart sank as I imagined that impenetrable wall of white shirts and black jackets, creeping along the subterranean corridors like a solemn piano squeaking on old wheels towards a mortuary.  Of course in reality I had no choice but to accept the challenge,  I couldn't be late again; that would be twice in two weeks and, in Japan especially, to even speak of being late more than once a decade was strictly taboo; so I took a deep breath and made a dash for it.

I padded briskly to the end of the platform and descended down a flight of dull ceramic stairs, raising my head skyward as I did so to behold the blue, cloudless sky being stolen by the crumbling concrete ceiling with every one of my shrewdly echoed steps.  I reached the bottom and like arriving at a curb on the periphery of a Japanese funeral procession was met by a parade of black suits shuffling sombrely and in perfect synchrony toward the marble estuary to my right where the corridor split into three to serve the separate connection points.  The smell was an acrid blend of body odour and concrete dust with faint but repugnant notes of urine and the sound was silence but for the muffled clapping of rubber soles on the grimy tiles and the distant tannoy tones which tolled in my ears like a death bell.  The eastern faces remained unintelligibly stoic; betraying no trace of emotion and their hair, jet black and shimmering under the relentless luminescent light, complemented perfectly their suits and the atmosphere.  I stood motionless watching and waiting and when I finally detected a small opening in the crowd I sharply inhaled the foul air and took the plunge.  I was now part of it; this procession, this painfully sluggish, hemorrhaged torrent working its way slowly towards the triple fork about fifty feet away.  I scanned down at my watch and then gathered my phone from my pocket, favouring at this point the time to the exact digital minute.  It read 8:28, which meant I had thirty one minutes and some seconds to reach the school in time to start my nine AM shift…which was surely enough time, right? Of course it was: it absolutely was, although at this point it I did have to admit that it depended on two things: luck as far as not having to wait more than a couple of minutes at the platform once I had reached the Tanimachi and secondly; how long it was going to take to get to the damn marble arches ahead of me where the corridor split.  Looking up over the sea of shoulders I could see to my relief that we had made progress; now only about ten feet or so from the junction.  I glanced up, shoved left into the middle lane and shot down the central passage over which read "Subway Tanimachi line".  I was going to make it.

The corridor was dim at best, frugally lit by a single flickering fixture every thirty feet or so but that didn't matter now as the division of the crowd meant that this passage was almost empty.  Of the persons ahead of me I could just about make out the white collar and the thin sliver of tawny skin that lined its upper edge swinging harmoniously from side to side as a result of the natural sway in the human gait.  This, I figured, was enough of the person to avoid collision so I darted, weaving around the few shadowy entities deeper into the catacombs until every sound and every figure behind me had faded into blackness.  The only thing audible now was the low pitch buzzing of the rustic signs that were strewn across the cool stone walls at irregular intervals and offered their glowing direction to the swelled pupils of passers by.  Like a moth I floated towards each one, turning my head as I passed to read "Tanimachi" in purple underlined by a red arrow that indicated the direction.  Obeying the signs to the letter I skipped around corner after corner, being careful not clash with the black walls or misinterpret any of the contours of the uneven cobbled floor that lay blind beneath me and soon I arrived at a long straight, at the end of which floated a small rectangle of beaming white light.  I turned my head to make sure I hadn't missed a sign and ran towards it, squinting and panting furiously as I did so.  The rectangle became bigger and bigger, rooting itself closer and closer to the ground the nearer I approached and before I knew it I was back in daylight at the foot of a blue-painted steel mesh staircase leading to a bridge that over passed two vacant train tracks to my right.

All was silent for a moment and then like an old radio revived after years of lying dormant my ears tuned in to the environment and my world became suddenly awash with the indistinguishable mish-mash of foreign chitter chatter and the clangs of shoes and umbrella ferrules reverberating along the steel frame of the walkway above.  Unaccustomed to the brightness I stumbled up the steps and found myself at a split in the walkway that faced me with three options.  To my right was the bridge but straight ahead of me and to my left were two paths that led off in opposite directions.  I peered over the flecked railings desperately trying to see if I could make out where any of them led, but both faded under the hypnotising mob of pedestrians below that danced and shifted, periodically breaking and then reassembling like a pattern in a monochrome kaleidoscope.  I leant back and looked up, scouring with my eyes from side to side to make sure I wasn't missing any sign for the subway in my immediate vicinity, but to no avail: the few signs that hung overhead were written in Japanese and judging by the symbols appeared to be only for the overground lines anyway.  I fumbled around for my phone, eventually securing my clammy fingers around it and yanking it out from within my pocket. The time now read 8:38. The onset of panic loomed large and I began to breath  heavily as a large bead of sweat rolled off my forehead and down my face before coming to rest on my upper lip. I went back over the route I had taken through the underground tunnel, frantically visualising every sign and every turn but that was pointless now as I simply hadn't enough time to retrace my steps.  If I had made a wrong turn I was done for and my only option now was to expose my laughably poor command of the Japanese language and ask somebody for help.

There was no time for hesitation so I hastily went about trying to make eye contact with any of the commuters that barged past me as I stood planted at the intersection; a lonely island under siege from raging tides of newspapers and conservatively-coloured ties with shit patterns.  No response: they were all far too consumed with the mobile phones fused to their ears and palms or the coffee or pastry clutched tight between their sticky fingers that choked the walkway with that dreary weekday morning aroma.  My thoughts began to drift and I started to imagine the scene that would face me when I arrived late.  I pictured the faces of the staff, accusing and angry at the impossible situation I had put them in and the reactions of my fellow teachers: greeting me with nonchalant mumbles, avoiding my gaze in order to mask their irritation at having their workload increased by my absence.  It wasn't going to be pretty and that would only be the tip of the iceberg: what about the wider repercussions of being late again?  I was going to get called into headquarters and they were going to take disciplinary action; those were two givens, but how severe would they be with me? Would they suspend me?  Was I going to lose my job? Oh god were they going to deport me?!  My mind raced at a thousand miles an hour and my throat got tight and my face tingled fiercely behind the stream of sweat that now poured down it.  What was I going to do? I needed to get to the subway now and even then I might have already missed the train that would get me to school on time.  Drawing deep breaths I went in for round two of scanning for some kind of friendly face and immediately she emerged from the crowd.

Assured and effortlessly beautiful, her long, straight black hair rippled in the gentle breeze and brushed against her shoulders and breasts as she strolled down the walkway, gliding towards me as if separated from the drab steel by her own special layer of silk.  Her deep almond eyes rested on elegantly blushed, peach-like cheeks and her lips; ripe and full, were gently accentuated by a thin coat of pink lip gloss that sparkled brilliantly in the mid-morning sun.  She was tall but not too tall and her long, feminine legs, which were veiled by a sky blue summer dress that kept her cleavage well guarded but betrayed a bit of thigh, gave way to a perfect hourglass figure that dazzled with every movement and flushed away any anxiety I had had up until that point regarding time.  The tightness in my throat was promptly replaced by an uncomfortable lump and despite my best efforts I couldn't keep my heavy jaw from collapsing to form a facial expression that must have made me look somewhere between awestruck and traumatised.  She approached closer, at first failing to return any of my ravenous stare, but as she got within a few feet she shot her eyes directly at mine and left them there, a slight smile cracking through her lips as she continued to walk.  Maybe she was attracted to me too, maybe she felt the same desire and the same admiration for my beauty as I did for hers.  I began to daydream, decadently indulging in this possibility: her kiss and her voice which strangely I imagined in a Hollywood accent even though she was obviously Japanese; but much to my displeasure I have always been more of a realist than a babe-magnet and so these thoughts soon faded and gave way to the much more plausible explanation that her expression was induced by a mix of pity and sheer amusement at how absolutely down and out I must have looked.  Whatever the cause it was time to act now so I cleared my throat, blurted "sumimaesen" a few decibels louder than I would have felt comfortable with and then watched expectantly as she stopped and turned her face fully to meet mine.

"Where's the subway?  Err… Subway wah doco desu ka?"

I had picked up the habit when speaking to native people of always reciting any sentence firstly in English and then secondly in my rough attempt at Japanese and it was a habit that I wasn't in too much of a hurry to break because it still occasionally came in useful when the person spoke a little English and could understand my native tongue better than my poor Japanese.  She fixed her eyes deeper into mine and remained silent with her mouth slightly ajar, a perplexed look leaking onto her face.  I waited for a moment for her response to become fully pronounced and then reattempted the question with added emphasis on its individual components.

"Subway. Doco. Deska?"

This time I incorporated actions, something that I had really hoped I didn't have to resort to: shrugging my shoulders and turning my head from side to side with an expression pasted on my face that said: "I'm lost" or, some might argue; "I'm a tool".  Anyway, the gesturing seemed to work because she pouted her lips and sucked in air with her eyebrows lowered in a typical Japanese "I'm thinking" pose, tapping her bottom lip with her index finger as she did so.  In the few seconds she took to ponder my question I began to contemplate how the humiliation I already felt at finding myself in such a hapless position had just been compounded by the repertoire of actions I'd just had to perform like some kind of wide-eyed, obnoxious kids' T.V. presenter, but then I chuckled to myself as I realised that in the last few seconds since meeting this girl my feelings of terror at the prospect of being late had completely washed away.  I found it interesting, if not alarming, that during this time of sheer crisis I was still far more smug at the opportunity I had crafted for myself that allowed me to make dreamy eye contact with this girl for a semi-prolonged period than I was concerned with being late and jeopardising the way I made my living.  What stupid creatures we are, us males: slaves to our instincts to the detriment of our livelihoods and dignity and swayed in an instant by just one glimpse of beauty… or perhaps it was just me.  "Ah!", she gasped startlingly, interrupting my train of thought and leaving me wide-eyed.  She nodded and raised her right arm to point confidently down the second path to my left, speaking unfathomable words and actioning with a sloped hand for me to descend a staircase and then make a left.  "Thank you.  Arigato guzzaimas" I replied, a beaming smile on my face as I gave a humble bow and began trotting off with half of my body still turned in her direction, thankful and in love.  She smiled back, reciprocating my eye contact but before I knew it she was lost again amongst the bustle, gone forever and forged in my mind as a beacon of beautiful blue light that had lit the path in my time of utmost darkness.

I zipped along the walkway again dodging black suits and white collars, following as it winded into a gradual descent.  After a hundred feet or so I passed a big silver clock hanging form a wooden beam on my left and it read 8:42.  Providing I found the stair case the girl mentioned soon and got to the platform speedily I might still, just make it so I cantered further down the walkway until I eventually made out the top step of a staircase straight ahead.  This was it! this was the staircase that her supple hand had gestured for me to descend! I felt warmth as a new wave of hope crashed against my gut, resonating through my bones and organs and leaving me feeling energised and elated, even if still a little anxious. I broke into a gallop and raced down the steps, missing three at a time and almost tripping as my momentum carried me faster and faster.  It was touch and go and each and every second now was pivotal and could well mean the difference between squeezing through the doors as they slid shut and arriving at work on time, or just missing the train and banging on the glass windows hysterically with pants around ankles as the carriages steeled off and away into the black mouth of the tunnel.  With this in mind I leapt when I reached the fifth step up, crashing to the bottom before immediately springing back up and making a left as she had directed.

I found myself in a well-lit underpass that was tiled white and green with a floor painted to match and I ran with every ounce of energy I had up its slight incline until my muscles screamed and sweat bubbled and hissed on my forehead: and then I ran some more.  The people I passed became a blur but I could still make out the look of admiration on their faces at what they must have thought of as a feat of athleticism on my part: sprinting at full pace towards and past them as they sipped their fizzy drinks and gorged on their fries and greasy hamburgers, getting fatter and fatter with every bite.  My shoes snapped against the floor like gunshots and my heart thumped in my chest and as I approached the brow of the incline I began to see an opening not too far off that had people piling out of it.  I ran faster, feeling euphoria flushing harder through my veins with every triumphant step and when I eventually crossed the threshold I collapsed into my thighs with my arms on my knees, much in the same way I'd seen Olympic sprinters do on T.V. after crossing the finish line with a new world record.  I'd made it!  I was breathless and too exhausted to raise my head but the siren that alerted passengers to an approaching train wasn't ringing yet so I knew I had at least a few moments to catch my breath and compose myself before boarding the train that in all probability now would get me to work on time.  The harsh expressions on the faces of the school staff and teachers I had imagined before melted into warm smiles now as I visualised them welcoming me into the cool, air-conditioned building, taking my jacket from my back and sitting me down in a plush velvet chair before fanning me with palm leaves as droves of attractive 20-something students fed me grapes by hand. Pfft, that was a close one and I definitely wouldn't be letting it happen again… it just wasn't worth it.  All that trauma when I could've just set off from my apartment fifteen, even ten minutes earlier instead of farting about on my computer watching porn trying to put off my workday for as long as possible.  I had been an idiot, but thank god for people like her who took the time out to help moronic gaijin in their time of need.  She was gorgeous too.  As I mumbled these words to myself, I began to notice the overpowering scent of fast food creeping up my nostrils, which was curious considering where I was.  I caught my breath, swallowed some saliva and gathered the energy to look up slowly.  I beheld the tiles and the lines of black shoes first but as I raised my head further, my neck aching from exertion, these gave way to a serving counter behind which stood people wearing matching shirts and caps busily making sandwiches with hands full of salad and bread rolls and sauce dispensers.  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I raised my head further to behold the final, inevitable piece of the puzzle: over the counter was written Subway in the famous stylised yellow and white print over the green background.  "Oh fucking shit".  Utterly defeated, I moaned sorrowfully and withered to the ground as nausea blasted me, the taste of vomit washing over my taste buds.  She must've thought I looked hungry.                    

     

To Kill A Cockroach

My Monday night began like many others as of recent: I got home from work at about 10:30pm and, fatigued and ravenous, went about concocting a meal from whatever half-rotting vegetables and meat scraps happened to remain in the fridge.  I squinted, scouring the shelves from side to side like a primitive, dress shirt-wearing hunter gatherer perusing his game territory with the blazing sun in his eyes. The fridge was fresh, its cool air offering welcome relief from the stagnant heat of the Osaka evening.  Peering in to it made my face feel cool for the first time in ten hours and just as my thoughts began to drift to air conditioners with angel wings and naked women frolicking in the snow... Alas!  It turned out that my trusty bottle of Coke had been hiding a dark secret, harbouring a fugitive, for when I stroked it aside I beheld a large sachet of curry gel that I had bought last week and to my (now) delight had forgotten all about.  I cooked my own rendition of chicken curry.  I was happy.  The Coke bottle was pardoned.

After dinner, my contentment gave way to boredom and I contemplated how to spend the remainder of my evening.  I still had the pots from dinner to wash, but that was going to take time, effort and besides, they looked quite striking piled up there in the sink like that; the jagged, volatile contours of the stack and the polished ceramic that reflected the colours so vividly making for a greasy, abstract homage to botulism.  With these sentiments in mind I decided against my better judgement to skip the pots for now and head upstairs to watch a couple of episodes of Louis C.K. with my neighbour.  Little did I know that this decision would be to my detriment.

...

I stumbled into my apartment an hour or so later and, merry with laughter, flicked on the main light switch.  The central fixture groaned its usual sharp, industrial buzz and soon the apartment was again aglow.  One thing that struck me immediately was the stench:  it was as if my brief absence had triggered a baptism within my nasal passage and now it was reborn; innocent, curious and re-sensitised to the post-culinary odours of the kitchen.  Safe to say it was time to wash up.  I marched up to the sink inflated with purpose, The Good, The Bad And The Ugly theme playing somewhere in the background.  I lowered my eyes, wiped the sweat from my manly, Eastwood-esque brow and began to reach for the tap as if it were the gun in my holster.  Everything played in slow motion.  My fingers inching closer, the music reaching its brassy crescendo, but then the music suddenly stopped dead as the moment my finger made contact with the faucet handle I saw movement from the corner of my eye and recoiled and froze like a yellow-belly coward.  Clint would have been disgusted.  

I edged away from the sink, stood perfectly still and began scanning the stack meticulously.  My eyes followed the contours of dishes and analysed the shadows intently. Again! I saw it move.  It was definitely there, but the satisfaction in being proved right to myself was quickly dwarfed by terror as I beheld two twitching antennae emerge from under the left side of the bottom plate.  Soon followed more of its body and any doubt I had previously clung onto vanished.  It was definitely a cockroach.  Shit.  It was big and bulky, its brilliant brown shell resembling a honey-glazed almond fresh from the oven and its legs thin, agile and filthy like some sort of verminous ballerina.  It tiptoed arrogantly in and out of the shadows thinking itself undetected.  The sight petrified me but I had to take action quickly, so after taking a moment to gather my courage I reached for the bottom of the stack and gave it small shove right as to make space for the manoeuvring of a rolled-up magazine.  I instantly regretted my move as the wretched creature took off and bolted around the sink, causing me to leap back two feet, letting out a horrified yelp as I did so.  I quickly composed myself and saw the roach dance back under the bottom pot it had come from.  The battle was now officially a stalemate.

Many minutes elapsed.  I knew where he was and he now I, but none of us dared make the first move.  Any frivolous swipe with my rolled up magazine might topple the stack of crockery and open the narrow window of escape up into the walls, or worse, anywhere else in my apartment.  On the other hand an aimless dash on his part left him vulnerable to a rolled up magazine attack; not a favourable way to meet one's end. We both knew the stakes and played our position, waiting the other one out for what seemed like an eternity. At first, I fully expected him to take his chances so I braced myself, magazine in hand, ready to strike; but he never did.  He was smart.  Eventually I came to the realisation that it was me who would have to make the first move, but how?  I glanced around the apartment, being careful not to take my eyes off him for more than a second, and at first came up with nothing.  I returned my gaze to his position and began once again to feel acutely aware of the blanket of heat that the Osakan evening had cast over us.  Sweat began to trickle down my forehead into my eager eyes.  As my vision blurred I imagined that I was melting and that he had played his cards perfectly, waiting for the futile human to cook in the heat that he thrived in. HEAT... wait a second.  I was on to something.  I quickly jerked my head downward and looked at the electric hob, and then up towards the shelf which housed my boiling pot; the best part was that they were both in reach and wouldn't require me to leave my post.  I slowly and delicately reached for the pot, keeping my eyes on him every second, filled it half full with water and placed it on the hob.  Then I flicked the dial and turned the hob on.  

The water began to gently ripple as small bubbles rose from the pot's depths.  He retained his position, half hidden under the filthy bottom plate and oblivious to the tactical master stroke that I was in the process of executing.  It was surely only a matter of time now, but I had to stay vigilant regardless: he was fast and might still make a run for it at any moment.  I kept the rolled up magazine raised above the stack ready to strike.  I had him cornered.  After a couple of minutes, each of us remaining statuesque and tense, the water began to ripple with slightly more energy, and I caught a glimpse of him poking his tiny head out from under his shelter as if to gain a better understanding of the situation.  I watched him curiously, taking stock of his movements and the cautious manner in which he made them.  Maybe... maybe this guy wasn't so bad, maybe we weren't so different after all, I mean, we both wanted the same things: food and women right? oh, and to not have to wash dishes after we eat.  The more I thought about it, the more I concluded that me and this brilliant creature had a lot in common.  He was my Boo Radley and was probably just if not more frightened by my presence as I was by his.  The water in the pot began to bubble vivaciously as it reached the rolling boil.  I thought of him, the cockroach and his wife, and their ten thousand children sat at home laughing and joking and playing cockroach scrabble and going for strolls on a Sunday afternoon in their favourite rubbish pile.  My heart warmed and my battle-weary frown melted into a smile.  I looked at him again and saw that he was looking straight at me, for the first time, our eyes meeting in a mutual show of respect, understanding, comradery.  He appeared to nod and, relaxing my shoulders and magazine-bearing right arm, I nodded back at him.  I began to think of how we could resolve this situation amicably: of how I could let him escape back to his family and we could go our separate ways without either of us losing face.  The bubbles in the pot now bubbled violently as the pan began to foam at the brim, steaming and volcanic.  After a couple of seconds thought I devised a way to gently move the stack so as to not risk injuring him, and leave the path open back up into the wall, back up to his home and his family.  I thought of them being reunited and the jubilation and tears of joy that would be wept by his spouse and spawn… and then I thought "f**k this, what the f**k am I thinking?  IT'S A F**KING COCKROACH" and I picked up the boiling pan and doused the bastard.        

     

Introduction

Hello bloggers and welcome to my latest blog, Memoirs Of A Gaijin.  The story behind this one is as follows:

A shabby testament to the post 2008 downturn in global economics, my hometown had slipped before my eyes in the past few years from a tussocky flea hub on the crap side of mediocre to a true, loud and pronounced shit hole.  where a shitty office job under luminescent lighting could once be found with little effort, now the best one could expect was part-time work in one of many bargain shops that had taken root in the central arcade and had multiplied like thrifty maggots feasting upon a rotting carcass.

Many nights and days were spent, many cheap cigarettes smoked in my pursuit to find any kind of worthwhile work.  my fingers and eyes ached from the laborious wrapping on the computer keyboard, scouring the backlit screen on reams of job-search sights for that ever-elusive good gig.  Frustration fuelled my daily surge of red emotion, monotony its grey antithesis.

Getting closer to the end of my tether, I decided to escape the occupational desolation and boredom and take a job teaching English in Osaka, Japan.  So becomes this blog... a canvas on which to document this new chapter of my life.  Within will be revealed all of the quirks and jewels of this strange place, and with them all of the faux pas that I have already made and expect to make in the future.  Hope you enjoy and thanks for feedback!