SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Emi –

“A small butterfly

Lovely bright wings, dances past

Flying on the breeze“

(Anon)

—CHAPTER TWO—

I am a typical American, as I have no respect for our politicians. Any regard we had for them vanished decades ago. No politician has popped by to make us feel otherwise.

I mention this because we, in the good ol’ USA of America, have suffered through a brain-dead, eyes-glazed-over, intelligence-insulting national election. One more episode in the continuing sitcom of the flabby, panty-wearing, Democrats against the mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging Republicans.

Democrats want us to believe they’re Santa Claus. Republicans want us to think they’re God.

My favorite political joke concerns a half-full glass of water. A Democrat walks into a room and spots a half-full glass of water. He’s enraged. “There is no excuse for ANY glass to be half-full! This is unacceptable! When elected, I will ensure EVERY glass is ALWAYS full! On my first day in office, I will form a bipartisan committee to enact the NO GLASS LEFT HALF-FILLED initiative. I will make certain no half-filled glass is EVER left behind!” As he’s escorted out of the room, he yells, “My opponent doesn’t care about the plight of the working glasses…” The door is shut, and the Democrat is taken to the kennel for the weekend.

A Republican walks into the room, looks at the half-full glass, and yells indignantly, “Hey, who’s been drinking my water?”

The democratic process is not something we celebrate. We endure it.

I’m not sure how much it matters who wins these clown shows. We take comfort in knowing the winners will spread the latest iterations of the same old misery to as many people as possible.

In my state, we had the typical Democrat running for Senate. Her opponent, although he is a Republican, does not follow the party line at all. He’s independent in all the best ways. Also, he was the finest governor this state has ever had. His only campaign promise was to do what’s best for the state.

He is a rational grown-up and, as a result, stood no chance because the Democrat in the race made the same empty promises Democrats make every election. For reasons I do not understand, voters fall for it every time. Oh, she’s gonna “fix everything, take on the NRA, take on prescription drug companies, take on big corporations, take on anti-abortionists, take on the insurance agencies, take on the richest one percent, take on the oil companies, blah, blah, blah.”

To which I say, “No, Honey. You’re not taking on anybody. You’re going to do what your party tells you to do.”

And, since you’re just another Junior Senator, your party is going to tell you the same thing they tell all Junior Senators:

• Put on a headset.
• Call every donor in the state.
• Beg for money.
• Don’t bother us until you bring in fifty million dollars.

The party leadership will manage you the way Bill Lumbergh dealt with Milton in the movie “Office Space”:

“Hey, uh, you. Whatever your name is, we’re gonna need to go ahead and move you downstairs into Storage Room B. We have some new people coming in and need all the space we can get. So, if you could go ahead and pack up your stuff and move it down there, that would be great. Oh, if you could go ahead and come in Saturday, that’d be great. Oh, and Sunday, too. Thanks!”

You’ll be in the cubicle beside Milton in the basement, carrying a can of Raid, fighting Milton over the red Swingline stapler. Also, remember to put the new cover page on your TPS reports. I’ll make sure to get you another copy of the memo. Maybe you and Milton can fix the “PC load letter” error on the printer.

“I’m gonna take on the insurance companies…”

What a crock of shit.

Republicans aren’t any better. They spend most of their time wiping their rancid behinds with the American Flag. I’m not sure of their platform. I believe it’s about protecting individual freedom by banning all books and replacing them with automatic weapons, taking away unenumerated Constitutional rights (and numerated, too, because why not) and replacing them with more automatic weapons, illegalizing protests (unless they’re against taking down some statue, having to rename a sports team, or taxing the sale of automatic weapons), requiring Nativity scenes on everyone’s front yard and hyperventilating about what the rest of the world is getting up to in bed.

Banning shit is not unique to Republicans, of course. Some Democrats want to ban specific words or phrases in the name of political correctness, such as – crazy, gay, male, female, fake news, politically correct, and seminal.

That’s correct. We have politicians telling us the phrase “politically correct” is not politically correct.

As I say, it’s something we endure.

Why am I mentioning all this? Well, Japan has its politics, too. It’s just as farcical as the USA’s.

Japan’s citizenry suffers from excess respect for authority. Japanese politicians, like the ones in America, have done nothing to earn respect. Sadly, the elected ones get all the authority without any responsibility and take full advantage. If you believe that corruption in America’s government is outrageous, and it is, then you haven’t seen anything yet. We’re baby poop compared to Japan.

The good folks of Japan are painfully obedient to their elders and those possessing fancy job titles. This included giving its Emperor way too much power from the Meiji Restoration in 1868 until the end of World War II. His orders were followed with blind subservience.

It did not work out well.

At any rate, the government scandals are stupefying. They include massive bribes from large companies such as Lockheed, Douglas-Grumman, and Siemens. Thanks to Japanese politicians, there was enough extortion, racketeering, manslaughter, disease, pandemics, mass murders, poisoning, and mafia-based criminality to feed the Russian Army.

It’s a mess.

The next political landmine concerns the parties. In the good ol’ USA, the two parties are monuments to stupidity. In Japan, there is a pile of three-letter political parties. They come and go. The parties cobble loose alliances with other three-letter parties before falling apart in a blaze of corruption.

It’s like the Life of Brian movie. You have the People’s Front of Judea. The Judean People’s Front, The Popular People’s Front of Judea (“there he is”), and so forth. They all fight a common enemy: each other.

These parties are much too complicated for us Americans. For instance, the JCP (Japanese Communist Party) candidates run on the “establishing a democratic society based on scientific socialism through working within an electoral framework while carrying out an extra-parliamentary struggle against imperialism and its subordinate allies” platform.*

Can you imagine an American presidential candidate saying these words during a rally? The stunned silence of the audience would be followed by an outbreak of cerebral hemorrhaging thanks to all the heads exploding.

Neither the government nor the citizens have taken a shine to other ethnicities. They have gone above and beyond to ensure that the lives of non-Japanese are as uncomfortable as possible. Yasuhiro Nakasone, Japan’s Prime Minister from 1982 until 1987, claimed Japan’s booming economy was due to its lack of foreigners. Nakasone went on to congratulate the US for its success despite America’s “problematic minorities.”

Japan’s government officials had a blank check, threw their weight around, sold themselves to the highest and most unsavory bidder, and did whatever they damn well pleased, knowing the only response they’d receive from the citizenry was a polite and respectful, “Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

In 2021, Japan’s government did something surprising and remarkable when it appointed someone to be the Minister of Loneliness to address the population’s social isolation and, well, loneliness. Folks in Japan are depressed.

Hell, if you worked eighteen hours every day, you’d be depressed, too. It’s not unusual for Japanese workers to experience a condition called “karoshi,” which means, in so many words, “Dead. The poor dumb slob’s dead. He worked himself to death. He used to be alive. Then he worked a hundred twenty hours a week. He’s no longer alive because he’s dead.”

A bad case of karoshi is only slightly worse than contracting “hikikomori.” Hikikomori amounts to a complete, force-twelve, frontal-cortex-destroying, take-the-invisible-dog-for-a-walk, have-meaningful-conversations-with-invisible-people, dance-with-the lampshade, fly-off-the-rails nervous breakdown from working eighteen hours daily.

Considering the citizen’s obedience to authority, their inability to say what’s on their mind, the perception of mental illness as a sign of moral weakness, the requirement to be in lockstep with the rest of the country, and the eighteen-hour workdays, it’s easy to see that running the Ministry of Loneliness is a full-time gig.

My first morning in Kyoto was spent trying to undo the damage to my neck and spine courtesy of the five-foot-long bed. I visited the Fushimi Inari Taisha Shrine, which, if you are ever in Kyoto, you must do, although it involves quite a bit of traipsing around. If I understood correctly, it’s dedicated to the Shinto god of rice.

They’ve got a lot of rice in Japan.

I thought you should know that.

Here was a delightful insight. In 1983, at least, a foreigner in Japan could be arrested and held in jail for up to twenty-three days. No lawyer, no calls to anyone, no Miranda warning, no bail, and no formal charges filed. You’ve got nothing except quite a few employees of the jail who are glad to help you with any sleep disorder you may have by not letting you get any. Sleep, that is.

There’s good news, though; a get-out-of-jail-but-not-for-free card is available. You need to confess, in writing, to your crime. You may not have the slightest idea what law you broke. Fortunately, a friendly, customer-oriented, helpful, and extraordinarily persistent law officer will gladly give you all the particulars concerning your unlawful activity, which is useful as you may not remember doing anything close to the specific accusation.

If you are stupid enough to say that you didn’t commit the crime, then the officer will explain how you’re suffering from an “unhealthy corrosion of cerebral retentiveness.” Copious details on your sin will be provided followed by an encouraging, continuous interrogation for which you’ll be required to stay awake.

Seventy-two sleepless hours later, with your only sustenance being the porta-potty-smelling green tea and three-month-old sushi on the radiator, you might feel a bit more negotiable. Your jailers will be open to a discussion by telling you precisely the same thing they said three days ago:

1. Shut up.
2. Confess to your crime by getting a piece of paper and writing down precisely what you’re told.
3. Even if you didn’t do it, confess it anyway.
4. Sign the piece of paper.
5. Pay your fine (amount to be determined via a dart board).
6. Get the hell out of the country.

Japan’s leadership is very proud of its 99.9% conviction rate. I wonder what happened to the 0.1%. It couldn’t have been an exhilarating experience for anyone involved.

Additionally, there are numerous laws concerning personal conduct in Japan. For instance, it is illegal to initiate a fight. Fair enough. One shouldn’t assault an innocent bystander. However, it is also unlawful for the bystander to fight back. I’m not sure what the bystander is expected to do. Drink a lot of sake, I suppose.

Of course, no one will intervene; that would be illegal. No one will even glance at the two people fighting because watching them is against the law as well.

I’m unsure if this is illegal or just considered bad form, but thou shalt not tinkle in thine Japanese toilet whilst standing. If you’re a woman, you might want to jump to the next paragraph. Either way, after using it (the toilet), the expectation is to clean the toilet (and the surrounding area) meticulously. I’m not sure who monitors these things. Given the level of government involvement in the lives of its citizens, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were a Ministry of Biological Discharge and Personal Elimination Services with employees distributed to all the public and private toilets.

And you thought you had a lousy job.

Having enjoyed the maximum benefits of the Fushimi Inari Taisha Shrine, I returned to my hotel. I was nervous about dinner. I checked at the front desk and confirmed that Emi hadn’t called.

What is wrong with me? Why should I care if I piss off Honorable Father-San? The guy sounds like a maggot. They’re a bunch of tight-assed clowns who disapprove of Westerners. Fine. There’s not much I can do about it.

Five seconds later, my disposition changed.

They’re going to hate me. I’m a piece of garbage. They’ll kill Emi for bringing a piece of trash like me. I’m too stupid to make this work. Too stupid. Too stupid. Garbage, garbage, garbage.

I spent the next few hours studying the documents Emi shoved at me. She called to confirm I’d be there on time—at 6 p.m., as we discussed.

Repeatedly.

Then, at her insistence, we reviewed the path I should walk to her family’s house. I wanted to tell her I was too sick to attend dinner, but I didn’t. Sounding unsettled, she rattled off the information I already read in her documents.

After a few minutes of her monologue, I barked, “Emi. Stop. Out with it. What’s the worst that could happen tonight? Just tell me.”

After a long pause, she replied, “I don’t know.”

“What do you want to happen? Please. It would help to know.”

Her response was a five-minute monologue spoken in a semi-decipherable whisper. I caught every third word. She repeatedly mumbled the phrase “black sheep.” It referred to her.

She said her father was a live wire who scared the hell out of his wife and children. He directed his most unshakeable disapproval at Emi. She explained the cause of his displeasure, but I couldn’t make sense of it.

Okay. We’re taking on a hard ass. I can manage hard asses.

According to Emi, when it came to upholding Japanese culture, her mother was fanatically old-school. She was spastic about cleanliness, modesty, perfect behavior, obedience to tradition, obedience to authority, obedience to Dad’s demands, obedience to the family’s demands, obedience to just about every-fucking-body and obedience to being obedient. Always. No variance. Not for one second.

Right. We’ve got a nut case on our hands. Well, she and I should get along just fine. We can share our psychosis. I’ll introduce her to all the invisible friends I brought along. They’ll be thrilled.

Her aunt combined all aspects of both parents.

Why did you wait to tell me this until an hour before dinner? Color me pissed off. You and I will have an animated conversation later.

Her siblings didn’t sound like any bargain, either. Both were bitter and had many demeaning things to say about Emi’s stay in the States. She hadn’t spoken to them in over a year. They weren’t returning her calls or responding to her letters.

And you needed a buffer to keep the temperature down with your precious little deranged family. You didn’t want a “friend.” They didn’t want to meet your soon-to-be-ex-friend. You just wanted someone to take all the bad juju for you. Thank you so much.

The grandmother was a full-time lush who spent most of her waking hours staring off into space or going to the bathroom.

Emi was confident the family’s cat didn’t share the anger, animosity, psychosis, alcoholism, and fanaticism cluttering the house. So that was good.

I interrupted her discourse. “Fine. Understood. Thank you for the description of the adversaries. I have your directions to the battlefield. I’ll be there at six. I’m stepping into the shower now. Ta-ta.” Not waiting for her to say goodbye, I terminated the call.

Let’s see. What do I say when Mommy opens the door? I need to know how to say, “Hey, Baby. I’m here for sex. Do you wanna go first? Safe word? ‘Symphorophilia.’ You probably should cancel tomorrow’s appointments. It’s gonna be a long night.”

Nah, too forward. Might be misinterpreted.

I was seething but decided to go through with the visit and followed Emi’s obsessively detailed directions to her family’s house.

At the first hint of unruly behavior, I’m leaving. I’m not gonna kiss Honorable Father-San’s ass.

At six o’clock, I rang the doorbell twice, as instructed. I heard a brief shuffling of feet. Sixty seconds passed. No response.

Let the games begin. Phase one – Make the round-eye shit-for-brains Western loser stand outside. Let him ring the doorbell again so we can demonstrate our anger at his typical American pig-dog impatience.

I waited another minute but felt no urge to ring the holy and sacred doorbell again.

There was a small front lawn, no more than thirty square feet. It must have been cut with scissors and edged by an electric razor. Every blade of grass was the same height, and the border to the walkway was distressingly precise.

Someone is secretly watching me and waiting for me to look annoyed.

I remained motionless until the door slowly opened to reveal a disarmingly pretty woman with two wild eyes saying, “Seeing you makes me feel as though a hot poker has recently been placed in my ass.”

We bowed.

Well, here goes nothing. Look content. Non-threatening.

I opened it with “Konbanwa ojamashimasu. Watashi wa Drew to moushimasu. Hajimemashite.”

Hmmm, I thought I said, “Good evening. I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is Drew. It’s nice to meet you.” Based on her facial expression, maybe I said, “Good night! You look disturbing. You drew my name. Now lick my sushi.”

She gave me a cute smile. Her eyes weren’t nearly as frightening.

She replied, “Douzo. Welcome.” She introduced herself as Emi’s mother.

Really? No shit.

With a flourish and an enormous smile, she extended her arm to the side, which meant I should step inside.

Maybe she wants me to scratch her armpit, which would be weird.

“Doumo arigatou gozaimasu.” I said that. It means, “Thank you very much.” I think. Either that or “Let’s get started on getting the poker outta your ass.”

I put my shoes in what I hoped was the preferred location.

More bowing. She asked if I spoke Japanese.

Well, I just spoke some to you, Bitch. Try paying attention.

“Oh, no. I’ve just memorized a few phrases.” As she led me into the living room/battlefield, I said, “Your house is beautiful.”

It wasn’t. I mean, it was likable—not thrilling, but nice. As monuments to minimalism go, it was fine. The place was horrifying in its tidiness. I looked at the corner where the shoes were. There was no dust or dirt, and the molding along the floor didn’t have a single dent or chip.

I was stunned to notice no cat hair or claw marks anywhere.

We have a Siamese cat. Riggo. He’s a great cat. We brush him all the time. When we’re done, there is no loose fur on the animal. Still, the little rat bastard sheds all over the house. Last night, I ate some ice cream directly from a newly opened container and spotted a couple of Riggo’s hairs in the ice cream. We have a black sofa. A couple of days ago, my wife walked into the living room, looked at the couch, and asked, “Did a cat just explode here?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. The sofa, cleaned two hours earlier, had enough fur to start another cat. He’s an indoor cat in a climate-controlled environment. The change of seasons has almost no effect on the temperature in the house. It doesn’t matter. He evenly distributes his fur everywhere every day.

Plus, there are scratches on every piece of furniture. We don’t lose any sleep over it. We figure it’s part of having a cat.

We are diligent in keeping the house clean, but there’s still cat hair spewed around. It’s embarrassing when people come over. Fortunately for everyone involved, we have a portable vacuum cleaner. It’s strong. We vacuum the visitors before they leave.

They’re pretty used to it.

Back to Kyoto…

Emi’s mother led me into the living room, where I was greeted by a horrendous blast of arctic wind in the form of dead silence, six icy smiles, twelve judgmental eyes, and one perplexed-looking cat. They immediately stood.

Including the cat.

I found the greeting amusing. I tried suppressing a grin but failed. After a brief bow, I fired my opening shot at the crowd. “Ah, yes. Good evening. Konbanwa. O-me ni kakaru. Ah, yes. Uh, right. My name is Lowry Drew. Watashi o mukaete kurete arigatō. Right. Thank you for having me over.”

I glanced back to the mother as if to say, “You wanna help me out here, Honey?”

She introduced her dreaded hubby.

The guy looked like an Asian version of Don Knotts. His vibe reminded me of Al Haig, who, on the day Ronald Reagan was shot, announced to the world that he was in charge of the USA even though he wasn’t. Al wasn’t in charge of his bowels that day, either.

Honorable Father-San and I bowed at each other. I presented the gift to him. “Ah, yes. Koko ni ko rarete kōeidesu. A small token.”

He grinned with maximum force. “Good evening. We are most appreciative. Are you versed in our language?”

“Me? No. I memorized some phrases for tonight.”

He looked happily surprised.

I continued. “Hope I didn’t mangle them too badly.”

I turned to Emi and was about to say it was her idea, but Emi jumped in. “Thank you for taking the time to learn them. You are most considerate.”

You don’t want them to know you taught me all this crap. Weird.

Father-San and I stared at each other. Our prefab smiles were locked in place.

Right. I’m supposed to say something. Ah, yes. Glace around and announce how wonderful the place is.

“Lovely, your house. Gorgeous.”

“Yes, you are most kind to state this.”

Dear Old Dad decided it was time to introduce the rest of the jury. We firmly established that I already had the pleasure of meeting his wife.

The next lucky winner was his mother. More bows.

And how much sake have you had today, Sweetheart?

Grandma was followed by someone’s aunt. She looked constipated.

Then there was Number One Son, Naoki. He appeared to be in his late teens and closely resembled Charles Manson. His smile could be best described as homicidal.

Next time Central Casting is looking for a mass murderer, I’ll keep you in mind. You probably have a small penis.

After Naoki, I met Junko, the younger daughter.

Yet another smile that proudly says, “I will kill you. I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, I will fucking kill you.” Honey, get yourself a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. It doesn’t matter.

These people are a nightmare.

Last and, based on Dad’s introduction, certainly least, Emi.

“Well, you look familiar. It’s great to see you!”

Thank you so much for dragging me to your version of Hell, you fornicating duplicitous little ho-bag.

Emi looked close to tears but kept up appearances. “We are all very pleased you are with us this evening. I am happy and proud for you to meet my family.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Okay. She’s bouncing into a bizarre world.

I waved at the cat. “Hey, Handsome.”

Everyone stared at me with a mix of sheer hatred and, after I spoke to the cat, sizeable concern.

I remembered Emi saying there was some family hard-on about waiting for directions on where to sit. Having received none, I stood and waited.

The games continue.

I broke the silence. “Kyoto is wonderful. The city is amazing!”

Nothing.

The father said something in Japanese and, as he smiled to the breaking point, indicated the approved chair for me to sit. The chair was built for a ten-year-old and designed for maximum discomfort.

We all descended onto our appointed places, and with green tea having been distributed, I enjoyed a thirty-minute interrogation. The questions were delicately phrased, a little too personal, and indirectly accusatory.

I fended them off well. Things went smoothly until Dear Old Dad asked, “May I ask, please, who your father’s employer was?” (Earlier in the cross-examination, I said he was retired.)

Ooooh, shit. They’re gonna love this.

“Yes, he worked for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Ka-boom.

Dead stunned silence and stunned faces all around.

This was a great “Glenn Close jumps out of the bathtub with a knife, I’m here to inform you that you’re the baby daddy, the severed head falls out of the luggage” moment of shock and horror.

I wish I had a camera.

Did I mention he was stationed in the Pacific Theater in World War II?

I thought that. I didn’t say it.

In most foreign countries, America’s CIA was considered equivalent to the KGB, the Stasi, and the Gestapo. Plus, in everyone’s learned view, the place was packed by G. Gordon Liddy types, who committed mass executions daily and told the president what country to bomb next.

(Truth be told, and I’m prejudiced, this was not the case. Just about everyone in the Agency worked eighteen-hour days in unfortunate or dangerous circumstances to gather the information that G. Gordon Liddy seized so he could tell the president whom to kill. Most of the Agency’s employees were simply trying to make it through another lousy day without letting their depression get the best of them.)

Once the shock wore off, Emi’s brother asked the stupidest question imaginable. “What did your father do? In the CIA. May I ask?” Honorable Father-San shot him a hostile look.

I decided a long and dramatic pause was appropriate. I flashed a resigned smile. I replied, in the most conciliatory tone I could muster, “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say.”

More silence.

Chief, I don’t know what he did. No one does, which is precisely how my father prefers it. Watching your facial expressions is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

All family-related questions ceased.

Next topic: Girlfriends. The women in the audience, other than Emi, were quite interested. Did I have one? Had I ever had one? If so, why didn’t I marry one or all of them? Were the girls unsuitable? Did the relationships remain platonic? (I’m not kidding, although they asked in a roundabout way.) What was I looking for in a wife?  Shouldn’t I be married by now?  (They asked indirectly, but I’m good at reading between the lines.)

Emi occasionally tried to reroute the conversation, but the rest of the family was having none of it.

They think something is, or should be, going on between Emi and me. Did she lead them on? Is she leading me on? Do they want me to take their “black sheep” out of their lives? Or are they worried that some pathetic, inferior round-eye is trying to force his way into their exclusionary family tree?

The following line of questions came from the mother. “To what religion do you align?”

Pfffffft, he says while figuratively spitting his ghastly green tea on their cat.

Emi looked horrified.

“Well, I don’t. I don’t have a religious background. I had limited exposure to religion as a child. It wasn’t important to my parents.”

This led to another slew of questions. Was I interested in religion? If not, then why? If so, then why? What did I know of the world’s religions? Shouldn’t religion be a deciding factor before pursuing a relationship? Are my morals of a negotiable nature? (Again, reading between the polite lines.) Should religious women have a keen interest in butt sex? Have Emi and I had a serious exchange of views on the subject?

They know Emi removed Shintoism and Buddhism from her life. Do they know she’s Christian? No. They’re fishing.

I excused myself for a bathroom break. I needed a rest. As expected, there was a series of barely audible, staccato conversations among the judge and jury members. No one seemed happy, but to my untrained ear, Japanese verbal exchanges generally sounded hostile.

I used the bathroom as prescribed and ensured they heard me cleaning it. When I returned, the living room was much less frosty. We had a stiff but congenial conversation during which Emi stared at the floor and maintained operational silence. We filed into the walk-in closet, which passed as the dining room.

Eating dinner meant being on your knees and sitting on your calves. Anyone who has had major knee surgery knows that this position hurts. I had knee surgery in 1977 when these things involved a jackhammer, chainsaw, and leaf blower. The pain defied description.

The father mumbled something terse to Emi and his wife. He toasted my outstanding, momentous attendance while mixing in unspoken accusations.

A little of Dear Old Dad goes a long way. I better say something.

“Well, thank you. The honor’s all mine. Meeting you and your wonderful family is a rare pleasure. Honjitsu wa omaneki itadaki arigatou gozaimasu. Please accept my sincere and humble gratitude.”

They all found this profoundly moving. Emi finally smiled.

I am completely full of shit. Truly genuine in my disingenuous…ness. “Hi, I’m Drew. Damn glad to meet you. I have a major in Fraud. I minored in Premeditated Hypocrisy. Now, I’m completing my Doctorate in Happy Evasive Metaphorical Horseshit.”

I did my best to mirror the eating habits of the family. I couldn’t bring myself to make the comical soup-slurping noises.

Emi was bang on target about her mother’s cooking. It was revolting. I periodically said how splendid the food was.

Occassionally, Emi, her sister, and her mother would go to the kitchen, where Mom and Sis whispered unpleasantries at Emi before bringing the next frightening course.

Dinner concluded. There were no casualties, although Emi looked shaken and humiliated.

As we returned to the living room, Dear Old Dad excused himself. He quietly snapped at Emi. One minute later, she followed him. The family looked distracted and uncomfortable. The conversation, what there was of it, became disjointed. The periodic silences were, and I’m being mild, awkward. Father San and Emi, looking as though she’d been body-slammed, reappeared. Another ten minutes of awkward conversation later, the father made sudden noises to abruptly indicate that the festivities were over.

I shoveled enormous piles of humble gratitude in every direction. It made my skin crawl. Other than the father and Emi, the family was effusive in expressing how wonderful it was to meet me. Through gritted teeth, Dad thanked me for intruding on his previously happy family. (Reading between the lines.)

Emi, looking sideways, said, “I am so grateful you met my family. I look forward to seeing you sometime soon.”

I shoved off. 

In need of a quick and overwhelming attitude adjustment, I jogged back to the hotel, grabbed a sake glass, threw back three healthy shots of Jack Daniels, and replayed the psycho-drama as the bourbon worked its magic.

The family saw right through me. They were so disgusted that Father-San put an end to my visit. They’ll take it out on Emi. I blew it. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. No good. Bad. Stupid. I am incapable of doing anything right. Failed again. Idiot.

After thirty minutes, a call was forwarded from the front desk. I picked up the phone, said hello, and listened to ten seconds of dead air.

It wasn’t long before I was startled by an urgent knock on the door.

This must be Emi to inform me of how much I destroyed any hope of a long-term peace accord between Japan and the US.

It was Emi. A suitcase was on the floor to the right. She was crying. The left side of her face was bright red. There was swelling under her eye.

“Oh, no. Emi.”

She was too busy sobbing to respond. I brought her and the suitcase into the room, found some ice, wrapped it in a washcloth, and handed it to her. Her hands were shaking, so I held the ice on her face.

Eventually, I asked if she liked some Jack Daniels. She nodded. I knew this would be her first adventure with hard alcohol. I found a glass, poured a shot, cut it with some water (considered a hanging offense in most colleges), poured water in a separate glass just in case she hated the taste, suggested she take a couple of small sips of the booze and have a little water. “It’s an acquired taste. If you don’t like it, then…”

I stopped because she had already slammed the entire shot.

Wow. You’re my hero.

Her crying was relentless. I offered her another drink. Unable to speak, she nodded.

“Here you go. Maybe you should go a little slower just so…”

She finished the drink, handed me the glass, and indicated that a refill was in order.

“Right-o. Well, mind if I join you?”

I was already feeling well-oiled, but I thought another small, watered-down shot for both of us was in order. We tossed them back.

“Maybe we’ll hold off on more for the time being. Have some water? I think I will.”

I sat on something that passed as a chair. She was on the bed, head in hand. Her crying gradually subsided.

I hardly said a word. I didn’t know what to say.

When in doubt, moron, keep your mouth shut. So, Dear Old Dad hit her. It’s my fault. I committed some infraction to prompt the vicious, abusive bastard. It’s all my fault. It was stupid of me to agree to go. I knew I’d fuck it up. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Her only sin was thinking I could hold up my end. It was inevitable. I should have told her this would happen. She didn’t deserve the pain. I did. No damn good. I am no damn good.

Having taken note of the amount of bourbon in the bottle, I went to the bathroom. After returning, I saw she made a colossal dent in the supply. I put the bottle on a high shelf. “Maybe we should give Jack a rest.”

She damn near emptied the bottle. Dearie, you’re going to feel every bit of this in the very near future.

She apologized and started crying again.

“No worries. Uh, right. Would you like to talk about what happened? It’s hardly a required activity, of course. Consider it an option.”

She whispered a few sentences, but I couldn’t make sense of them.

“Emi, it was my fault. It’s all my fault.”

She insisted this was not the case. Despite my unfortunate heritage, the father said I exceeded his comically low expectations.

The relevant issue was that she had her fill of being the family punching bag. She spent a lifetime seeking their approval and, about an hour earlier, determined it wasn’t forthcoming. If half of what she told me was true, then she was emotionally and physically abused from the age of three.

And, yes, she was ashamed to admit my presence at dinner was her effort to demonstrate how the rest of the world regarded her as an acceptable lifeform.

She told the parents she was a Christian convert and would return to the States permanently. The father responded by hitting her in the face. Having anticipated his reaction, she had already packed. Before Dear Old Dad, or anyone else in the house, inflicted more damage, she got out of Dodge in a hurry.

After her twenty-minute monologue, it was more than a little evident that Emi was, by any reasonable measure, bombed.

“Well, you’re safe now. Stay here tonight if you’d like. It’s a two-drink minimum, which, I believe, you have satisfied.”

She skipped to the loo to put on a sweat suit and some cream for her slightly swollen face. She returned, weeping, marched up to me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and, with profound insobriety being on her side, kissed me with astonishing aggression. I kissed back. Her legs wrapped around my waist, and she chaotically kissed my face and neck. After dismounting, she pulled my shirt off. Then hers.

Several thoughts struck me in sequence. The first was, “This should be fun.” It was followed by, “It is obvious to the committee that she has never indulged in this sort of thing before.” Next, “Are getting back at your pathetic family by having it off with someone who is, by all reasonable measure, not Japanese (he asked, expecting the answer yes)?” Unfortunately, the same damn question resurfaced. “Am I drunk enough, or will the eight-hundred-pound rapists enter the room and turn me into a mess? Maybe I’ll down a few shots right now.” The subsequent mental contortions sidetracked me. “Will she seriously regret this in the morning? Will this be the memory she wants for her first foray into the naughty world of making whoopie?”

Finally, there was the question of her not remembering anything and waking up the next day wondering if I had taken advantage of her Shit-Faced-Status.

Years before, a sixteen-year-old niece asked me, “When will I know when I’m ready?”

Once I got up from the floor, I took a minute to consider my response. It wasn’t a question she could ask her parents. They’d be shocked and appalled that she’d consider sex a possibility. I didn’t want to contradict her parents. But she needed an answer to take to heart and not another pompous adult barking at her about waiting until she gets hitched.

I had to come up with something. “Well, you usually don’t know beforehand. It will become apparent to you at that moment. If you’re hesitant, wait. You’ll thank yourself in later life.

“Then there’s the question of your partner. Is he ready for you? If he’s twisting your arm, he is not ready for you. You should expect him to make you entirely comfortable with your decision. He needs to make a genuine effort to make it about you. Otherwise, he’s not ready.

“Next, how would you like the memory to be? You will remember your first. Everyday. It may be for a milli-second, but you’ll think of it daily. Trust me on that.

“If you’re looped then the committee is begging you to not do anything. Drunkenness does not mean you’re ready. It means you’re drunk. Be sober and in control. Otherwise, you’ll be doing yourself a disservice. And you’ll probably regret it when that memory appears, which, as we discussed, will happen daily for the rest of your life.

“Just, please make sure you do this on your terms. It has to be this way. It’s exclusively your decision. Not someone else’s. Please, please, puh-leeze wait until you know the moment is right. Promise? Promise, promise, promise?”

She promised. I hoped this would discourage her from feeling like she needed to satisfy some high school boy’s demands. High school boys are evil and must be destroyed. I was in high school. I was evil. I should have been destroyed. It was an oversight on someone’s part.

I looked at Emi.

I can’t do this.

What we have here is someone too drunk to decide where she’ll throw up. She probably won’t remember a fucking thing. If she does, then she’ll regret every second of it. Will she feel guilty about giving it up right here, right now? Oh, hell yes.

I just can’t.

Besides, it’s not sex you’re after. You just want to feel the warmth of a human touch. Now, though, you’re too drunk to know the difference.

Emi was beginning to lose her balance. I carried her to my five-foot-long bed. “Let’s take it slower. Okay? We have all night.”

“Yes. This would be quite fine. I think that is fine. It will be fine.”

I offered a massage.

“Yes. I believe that is fine, also. Yes, that is fine.”

I started on her feet and moved to her back. She enjoyed it too much.

You’ve never had a massage before. No one has ever done this for you. It’s not your family you’re rebelling against. It’s loneliness.

Eventually, she fell asleep. I put her sweatshirt back on, turned her on her side, propped up her head, set a glass of water on the nightstand, and placed a wastepaper basket strategically next to the bed. Assuming Emi felt the onset of regurgitation in time to do something about it, I left the light on in the bathroom and cleared the path.

I stretched out on the floor. Staring at the ceiling, I considered the recent events.

Well, consequences be damned, she dared to tell her family the truth, which is more than I ever did. She stood up for herself. I hid under the desk. She is making something of herself. I’m taking up space. She has put in the sweat to be a genuine academic success. Whereas…oh, never mind. Despite her family’s best efforts, she’s a winner. I’m the other thing.

Gawd, I suck.

Where is my Jack Daniels? Mongo needs a refill.

There are better attitudes to have in life.

I thought you should know that.

—END OF CHAPTER TWO—

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* From Wiki.