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 THREE—

I remained lying on the same floor, staring at the same ceiling, trapped in another self-imposed exile from reasonable mental health. I spent an hour dissecting the resounding fuster cluck that was my elementary school career.

It wasn’t as distressing as middle school. Still, it was a dark hole.

As a child, I dreaded going to school. Hated the place.

My teachers were bitter, unpleasant, angry women who, after taking a lifetime of sucker-punches (literal and otherwise), had given up long before I was sentenced to a year with them. They depended on amphetamines and alcohol to get them through the day. This combination helped them to support the hatred needed to help the impressionable students discover their genuine contempt for public education. Two of them were prone to fits of furniture-kicking, door-slamming rage. Inevitably, they would apologize for the outbursts and provide comfort by assuring us their temper tantrums were our fault, so if we didn’t do it again, whatever it was, they wouldn’t be forced to break more school property.

My third-grade teacher had a problem with her vagina. It itched—a lot. She would reflexively scratch for a few seconds throughout the day before catching herself. After stopping, she’d look around the class to confirm that no one noticed.

We noticed.  

It was very distracting. Most of our intellectual investment was devoted to wondering what the hell the problem was.

The teachers didn’t think much of me and treated me with varying degrees of hostility. One teacher enjoyed letting the class know I was stupid (her word). To her credit, she rarely mentioned it more than three times a week. Another had me sit in the back of the classroom and ignored me the entire year, which, at the time, I appreciated very much.  

The school’s vice principal hit me on the side of my head. He said it was my fault. That he hit me. It was my fault that he hit me because he believed, incorrectly, that I started a fire in one of the outdoor trash bins.

Luckily, he was willing to overlook my grievous infraction if I forgot all about his right cross to my head. In case I mentioned our little episode, the clown said he’d have me arrested. I’d be tossed in the clink and sharing a cell with a triple murderer—presumably, those accused of fabricated arson charges go straight to prison without any of this trial nonsense.

(In America’s public educational system, the informal job title for “vice principal” is “butt boy.” I thought you should know that. To me, he was another random adult who took liberties just before telling me to keep my mouth shut.)

There was a teacher’s assistant who roamed the classroom. She had a habit of reminding me and all those within earshot that I was fat. Well, I was fat. She had a firm grasp of the obvious. Her more significant concern was the depth of the moral abyss I inhabited. She wondered how I could eat with a clear conscience while children in Africa starved.

I didn’t have a good answer other than it was what my mother gave me that morning, and shipping a peanut butter sandwich to Africa wasn’t practical due to the mold forming on the sandwich. There was no overnight shipping in those days.

She was frighteningly thin. It was only a short time into the semester before she took an extended leave of absence.

One teacher would have done a fabulous job at Guantanamo Bay. This woman had enhanced interrogation down to an art form long before it became fashionable. 

I was hardly the only child singled out for special treatment. It was open season on all students. School teachers loathed most children. One teacher hated all little boys because little boys, as a rule, turn into men, just like that bastard ex-husband of hers. Our tendency to grow up was unforgivable and gave her all the justification she needed to treat us non-girls with oodles of resentment. If she predicted a boy in her class would commit a sin soon, she’d bellow, “You can go to the Principal’s Office for a paddling.”

You see, elementary school sixty years ago wasn’t close to 2024’s version. In the old days, deranged, angry, vindictive teachers and administrators ran the asylum. Now, deranged, angry, vindictive students are in charge. The teachers and admins were either drunk or addicted to speed, while today’s students are wired on Adderall.

I don’t know which arrangement is better.

Today, schools fall over themselves to ensure everyone has high self-esteem. They shove self-esteem down all students’ mouths and up their colons until the children are exploding with self-esteem.

In the sixties, self-esteem did not enter anyone’s equation. A student with high self-esteem was considered an immense pain in the ass and the last thing any teacher wanted.

If you wanted to feel good about yourself, you had to earn it the old-fashioned way by beating up the younger students. If physical violence wasn’t your cup of coffee, you could always insult the kid into a quivering mess. In emergencies, pulling someone’s pants or skirt down was also possible.

The point is that you had ways to accumulate self-esteem. In my day, we needed some initiative before feeling good about ourselves.

There’s another practical reason that the students run the schools. The employees are too busy taking mandatory training classes on essential educational topics, such as:

• How to telework, how to document your telework, how to pass the telework test, how to document your telework test grade, and how to document feedback from the telework training. Plus, a team-building exercise on opening the VPN so you can telework.
• Immediately identifying the nature of the blood-borne pathogens oozing from the child’s nose, emphasizing the distinguishing characteristics between Malaria and Syphilis.
• Techniques to fill out a pay voucher without injuring yourself or others nearby.
• How to administer multiple vaccinations to the kids with Syphilis.
• Mandatory steps to bullshit all third parties into not suing the school.

Another difference in elementary schools is if a student has a small bruise, the teachers are obliged to inform school management, who take the information and urgently mishandle a child abuse investigation.

Hell, if the child looks sad, the school dispatches an emergency team of psychiatrists, grief counselors, neurologists, group therapists, first responders, leaders from all religions, attorneys to help with the last will, and more attorneys to get the child to sign something saying it’s not the school’s fault. These people descend upon the student put in a padded room who is doing just fine thanks to the three hundred milligrams of Valium that were surreptitiously put in the child’s chocolate milk.

We didn’t do that in 1964. Students would show up covered with cuts and bruises. No one would do a thing about it, as questioning anyone’s parenting was off-limits.

I thought about a girl in second grade who would privately show off the bruises on her back, bottom, and legs. She pretended to be proud of them. No one dared say a word. I heard she died in high school from a heroin overdose.

These mental contortions brought me to Emi, who, at that moment, was groaning and making noises, indicating it was time to start the vomiting process. I carried her to the bathroom so she could take care of business in private.  

Is she another version of the second grader? The same Biblical scapegoat who was battered and bruised for the sake of the family’s desperately needed atonement? Well, she told you as much and did so while being drunk as a skunk.

What was their excuse for treating her this way? Hmmm, she closely resembles her mother but no one else in the family. Did mom have a fling resulting in an Emi?

It doesn’t matter. People manufacture excuses for their bad behavior.

Based on the animal noises emanating from the bathroom, Emi wasn’t finding the after-effects of too much booze fulfilling at all. Between bouts of vomiting, she cried.

I knocked on the door. “Yes, hi. Uh, mind if I pop in for a minute? To see if I can help.”

Thirty seconds later, I received a faint “Uh-huh.”

I slowly opened the door and found Emi face-down, flat on the floor. With no clothes on. She had neatly folded her clothes on a shelf next to the sink in a fit of exemplary Japanese behavior. I gave the toilet a much-needed flush. (Fortunately, for all involved, it was a Western-style toilet. Things could have been much worse.) I was concerned that, in her current position, she might choke when she vomited again.

So, before she let forth, I maneuvered her in such a way as to make the best use of the toilet. This required situating her so she could be as comfortable as possible while keeping her face at point-blank vomiting range. There wasn’t a gentlemanly way to do this. It involved grabbing, lifting, and pulling. I did my best to avoid touching any danger zones.

Dear, at this point, we can dismiss the chivalrous phase of our relationship. However, this beats choking to death.

I finally got her in position. Just as I started to leave, her face fell into the toilet. This caused her to wake up and vomit some more.   

I held Emi’s hair and tried not to throw up while she barfed to her heart’s content.

Our dialogue was one-sided:

ME – I bought soft drinks from one of the eight convenience stores in front of the hotel’s entrance. Would you like one?

EMI – BLARRRRFFFFF!

ME – Hmmm. Take that as a no. Would you like a…

EMI – BLARRRRFFFFF!

ME – Right. Good to know. Maybe we can…

EMI – BLARRRRFFFFF!

ME – Let’s get you another towel and…Whoa, what did you eat that was brown?

EMI – BLARRRRFFFF! [Starts crying again]

ME – I know it is not much fun, but it’ll pass. No pun intended. Try inhaling through your nose and exhaling from your mouth. It’ll help with…

EMI – BLARRRRFFFFF!

ME – Well, I wouldn’t immediately dismiss the idea. Give it a try. Speaking of passing, I think you recently tinkled on the floor. Let’s hope there’s nothing more…oh, dear. Right-o. I’m going to grab a quick shot of Jack…

EMI – BLARRRRFFFFF!

She fell silent for quite a while. I picked up cleaning supplies from one of the eight convenience stores in the hotel lobby. I returned to the bathroom and noticed Emi wasn’t dead.

But she sure smelled funny.

She was a mess. Eventually, she was coherent enough to mumble something about wanting to take a shower in the worst possible way. Our damsel in distress couldn’t stand up, so I pulled her off the floor again, carried her to the bathtub, and put her in a seated position. I gave her plenty of soap, shampoo, conditioner, washcloths, scouring pads, paint scrapers, and a power washer. It took her an hour to get herself cleaned up, during which I kept her in position while holding the shower head. Fortunately, she was able to wash herself. If it had been otherwise, then we’d have fallen into the groping phase of our relationship.

Once done, Emi tried to sit on the side of the bathtub and fell backward. I caught her before she crashed on the back of her head. She slurred something about feeling humiliated by her lack of sobriety.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there. More than once. Welcome to the club of poor judgment. Proud to have you aboard. I wouldn’t give it a second thought. My advice to you is to start taking drugs at once.” I handed her a couple of aspirins. I think they were aspirins. Folks suggested them at one of the eight convenience stores across the hall. Without incident, she drank some water and Japan’s version of an American soft drink (not recommended).

She was having problems drying herself. This was where I was hoping to draw the line.

“Right-o. Well, would you like a hand drying off?”

Her reply was in a whisper. “Yefff, theh wool be fahhh.” She shoved the towel into my face and began falling face-first into the bathtub. I caught her.

This is awkward.  You know…to hell with it. She’s not going to remember anything.

I wrapped her hair in a towel, dried her off, and got her dressed. The bathroom looked like a war zone. I carried her back to the mini bed, expecting she’d wake up in twelve hours feeling refreshed, energized, and ready to take on the world.

The following hour was spent cleaning and fumigating the bathroom.

After two enriching shots of Jack Daniels, I stretched out on the floor.

In the past ten hours, the young protagonist in our movie finally admitted (to herself) that, despite a lifetime of trying, she would never be accepted by her family, discovered the extent of their scorn, realized she no longer had a home in her home country, took an awful punch to the face from her disgusting father, concluded she was on her own, drank herself under the table, and truly enjoyed the resulting embarrassment. Our hero must be devastated to her core.

There was one insight, though, dominating my thoughts:

Emi looks darn fine with no clothes on. She needs to stop vomiting and letting forth other unfortunate fluids. Plays hell with the vibe. I’ll explain this to her tomorrow.

The committee would like to remind you that she’s having one of the worst days in her life, and you’re thinking about her troubled and vulnerable body. This reinforces our determination that, beyond any doubt, you are a shallow, self-serving, American male heterosexual with no redeeming social value whatsoever.

Guilty as charged.

Having resolved that issue, I slept peacefully.

I woke up ten hours later. I glanced at the bed and saw Emi in a fetal position. Her back convulsed from the attempts to stifle her crying.

Well, only a few icebreakers for this one.

On the nightstand next to the eighteen-inch bed, I put some aspirin, a glass of water, some crackers, a couple of bottles of something a guy from one of the eight convenience stores on the other side of the room recommended, and a cup of green tea.

“Well. I’m not sure what looks least unappealing, but any or all can help with the hangover. Miso soup might help. I might get some for myself.”

My favorite hangover cure was beer. I decided not to suggest it.

Emi remained motionless while staring at the wall. Other than continuously sniffing, thanks to the tears and runny nose, she showed no signs of life.

Well, say something, jackass.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

No response.

Brilliant. Say something useful, dipshit.

“You’ll feel better if you eat and drink something. This is the voice of experience talking.”

Nothing.

Say something useful and helpful, loser-boy. Or is it too much to ask?

“Right-o. Yes, well. Right. Look. I don’t know what you are going through. I won’t pretend otherwise. I’m not going to ask you to talk about anything. It’s not because I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say. I am. I don’t want to badger you and become a pain in your ass. So, talk to me when you want to talk. Fair?”

No acknowledgement.

I finished. “I’m going to step out for a few minutes. You need to be here when I get back. Alive and unharmed. Promise not to hurt yourself? Promise not to run away? Just nod if you’re able to make those promises.”

After a pause, she nodded.

In brutal need of anything resembling coffee, I stepped out of the hotel and into the busy world of being Japanese. I had to speed-walk to keep up with the natives. You’re not allowed to meander in Japan.  It’s probably illegal and would merit twenty-three days in lockup.

Having found a place that sold coffee, I proudly asked the proprietor, “Ganbattekudasai, okusama. Anata no kōhī wa kappu no nakade wa chairo no mizudesu.”

What I meant to say was, “Good morning, Sir. May I get a cup of coffee?”

What I actually said was, “Good luck, madam. Your coffee is brown water in cups.”

This was another moment I wished I had a camera.

The glazed-over look the gentleman gave me screamed, “What the fuck just happened?”

Through childish gestures and finger-pointing, I showed my desire for coffee. Despite my insults about his coffee, he served me one. And another.

On the walk back to the hotel, I picked up soup for Emi from one of the sixteen convenience stores on the block. When I walked into the room, Emi was seated. She kept a perfect, symmetrical posture while staring out a window. She had just showered and was wearing a bathrobe. I put the soup next to her and said it was my turn for a shower.

I hope the hotel does send me a water bill. Wait, she’s paying. Cool. Where’s that Jack? It’s time for medicine.

No one knew I drank bourbon all day because I kept the Altoids, mouthwash, and toothpaste people in business. When it came to maintaining minty-fresh breath, I was maniacal. People commented on it constantly. The breath maintenance regime included eating the toothpaste and drinking the mouthwash. To play it safe, I snorted mouthwash, too. Yes, you read that correctly. I was a closet mouthwash snorter.

Don’t say a word. Not one word.

After I enjoyed a tumbler full of bourbon, I meticulously breathalyzed myself and returned to the room. Emi was in the same position and staring at the same window.  

I took a seat next to her. While in our bathrobes, we stayed side-by-side quietly for fifteen minutes. I felt no urge to break the silence.

Eventually, Emi spoke. She said she was embarrassed, even ashamed, by the previous night’s festivities and hoped I didn’t think less of her because of it. The portion of the evening where she took off her shirt, took off my shirt, and kissed me. Repeatedly.

“Emi, come on. Don’t give it a second thought. We’ve all been there—more than once. It never occurred to me to think worse of you. At least, it was here. Just us two. Have I told you about one New Year’s Eve party where I spent two hours outside in a snowstorm leaning on the side of a house, wearing nothing but a scarf and gym shorts, in front of a hundred people? It was a glorious…”

“Would you, um, review what occurred last, um, night? I am not, um, clear on the sequence. I am concerned about anything I, um, said.”

She remembered lying on the floor. After that, things got sketchy.

I hesitated. “Right. Would you prefer the Reader’s Digest version or the full one?”

She wanted the gory details.

“Fair enough. You were struggling in the bathroom. I heard you crying and vomiting. I asked you if I could come in. You said yes. I stepped in.”

Emi nodded. “I remember this, um, somewhat? What was I wearing?”

“Nothing.”

After a long pause, Emi managed to say, “Oh.”

“You put your clothes next to the sink. You had thrown up and passed out on your vomit. Too much?” Emi shook her head. “Since you were facedown on the floor, I was concerned you’d choke the next time you let forth, so I moved you in such a way that you could hit the toilet. Less likely to choke, you understand.”

“Yes. I understand. That was, um, good of you to aid me.”

I took her silence as a sign that I should continue. “So, you threw up again into the toilet. I held your hair. You didn’t say anything then. You cried. Altogether, apropos given the circumstances. Sometimes, you were hysterical. Appeared to be hyperventilating. I was concerned enough to stick around for a while. Too much?”

“No. This is fine. I should know what occurred. My behavior was regrettable. I am humiliated by…”

“Don’t be. Stop.”

“I am disgusted and ashamed by this, and I must…”

“Emi, stop! For the love of God, stop! Don’t say a word…don’t start!” She was beginning another diatribe. “No mas! You’re killing me! Please stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it.” She droned on about proper punishments for her actions.

I shouted, “Emi! Put a lit on it!” When I yell, my voice drops a couple of octaves. The result is that I sound like a homicidal, coked-up version of Lurch from the Addams Family. More than a few people have told me that, for a moment, they feared for their safety when I turned the volume up to eleven, even if I was not yelling at them or even out of anger. To which I say that I’m baby shit compared to my father. That guy could scare a team of Navy Seals into rolling over and playing dead.

I had a nephew who was a high school wrestler. Wrestling matches are loud because four matches run concurrently, and the people in the stands are too enthusiastic. My nephew was in a match and had a rough time pinning his opponent. He was getting close but still struggling.

While this was happening, I yelled, “Finish him!” Most of the arena went silent. His opponent froze, and my nephew pinned him within three seconds. I take complete credit for the win.

Emi reacted as though I was about to punch the side of her face that her father hadn’t gotten to yet.

I felt horrible. “Emi, Emi, Emi. I’m sorry. I really am. But please stop kicking yourself about this. It’s not a kickable offense. It’s no offense at all. You’re guilty of nothing. Did you know the kick eighty-proof bourbon has? No. No, you did not. Were you scrambling to deal with your father, who should be ashamed? Yes. Yes, you were. I don’t know what will happen to your father or the rest of your family. But what won’t happen is for you to bad mouth yourself. Would you like to hear the rest of the story?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That’s my job. You threw up some more and…”

“Did I, um, pee on the floor?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s okay. Don’t start. Sometimes, that is part of the unlovely process. No fair kicking yourself in the head.”

“Did I, um, also, um…”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

She started crying.

“Sorry. Again, part of the initiation. These things happen. Anyway, you finished throwing up and announced, with some urgency, that you wanted to take a shower. Quite rightly so. You couldn’t stand, so I picked you up and put you in the bathtub. I gave you the necessary resources so you…”

“Did I say anything? Personal things?”

I smiled. “You talked, but I couldn’t understand a word you said. Hard consonants were a challenge. You may have been speaking Japanese. Either way, no secrets were revealed. No new insights.”

“So, I did, um, wash, um, myself. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I held the shower head. Look, Emi, I didn’t try my luck. Your virtue remains unsullied. By me. Or anyone else. You could hardly move. I tried to be respectful about the whole thing. Can you take my word on that?”

“Yes, um, yes. That is good. I am glad. Thank you for this.”

“No problem. You needed some help drying off. Again, I didn’t violate any restricted airspace. I put your hair in a towel, got you dressed, and carried you to bed. Where you stayed for nine or ten hours.”

Emi looked at me. “You, um, put my, um, underpants back on?”

“Yes, you insisted on another pair.  Wise woman. I accommodated your request. I tried to be delicate during this part of the festivities. Although, if you’re putting underwear on someone else, then you’ll probably be a little intrusive. Not much way around that one. Did my best. Is okay?”

She paused. “Yes, um, it was nice of you to do this.”

After an awkward pause, I addressed the eight-hundred-pound elephant in her room. “Emi, look. There were no sexual undertones. I’ve seen plenty of women with their clothes off. It’s not a revelation. You were in rough shape. You wanted help. Plus, you were in no condition to take care of yourself. No one was aroused by the moment. Far from it. I wasn’t sizing you up for future considerations.”

Well, fine. That’s not entirely true. Her bod is impressive.

I continued. “Honest. Also, it’s not the first time. Had a college friend. He was looped and then some. Naked and passed out. Did the same thing for him. Anyway, I carried you to bed, cleaned the bathroom, stretched out on the floor, and slept until I stopped sleeping.” A brief pause. “What concerns do you have? Feel free to belt them out.” Another pause. “Well, I have a clear conscience. You should, too. The only people who should have regrets are those in your family. The only one who should be punished is your father. He should be here begging for your forgiveness. Sorry.”

Emi put her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around hers.

For the first time since I sat down with her, Emi turned to establish eye contact with me. Looking very anxious, she said, “Your breath is of very high, um, quality.”

“Yes, well. Thank you for mentioning that. I owe it to my exemplary faith in the great Buddhist philosopher Anita Bryant, who preached eternal peace and love by giving us a list of people we should hate. Plus, a diet consisting of mint julips and cocktail sauce. Kills dog breath on contract. Plus, I renewed my membership with the Flat Earth Society. What was the question?”

For the first time in two days, Emi laughed.  “I often wonder where your, um, thoughts come from.”

“Stole it from a liquor store. Took the cash, too. Oh, yeah, a couple bottles of champagne that didn’t have ‘André’ on the label. It was a pragmatic decision. Why rob the place just to turn around and pick up the champagne? Get everything in one trip. Efficient. Saves on gas. Stands to reason. One must be practical, mustn’t one.”

More laughter.

Whoa, that was a lot of booze I threw down. Feeling pretty smashed. Close to Def-Con 4.

Our faces were inches apart, and we looked directly at each other.

Oh, I know this look. She was so spastic about nothing untoward went on when I carried her around when she was naked and too drunk to walk. And, now…

We had bathrobes on. When I sat next to her, I considered the possibility of discovering each other in something other than a Christian manner.   

Well, she did rip our shirts off before puking in all directions. She was drunk. I understand that.

But she’s of sound mind this time. Be cool. This is new ground for her. Take it slow. Let her kiss me first. I’ll return the favor. Let it roll.

It didn’t take her long. We embarked on the kissing phase of the process. As we had bathrobes on, there was no hopping around on one foot while getting the shoe off the other, which is always a buzz kill.

I was drunk enough to keep the 800-pound rapists showing up.

No reason to delay things. I don’t believe she has any plans for the next few days. Neither do I.

Emi stopped. Looking, for the first time, relaxed and resolved, she said, “I am, um, new to this. I have not done this. Yet. I am not certain what I should, um, do.”

Hmmm, it’s time to level set. Hey, she’s upfront. Took some courage on her part to mention it. She looks a lot better when she’s not covered in puke.

“You don’t have to do anything other than to enjoy yourself. Do what you feel like doing. Or don’t do anything at all and take pleasure in the feeling. We’ll be gentle. If something feels wrong or weird, then tell me. If you want to stop, then say so.”

“Stop? Would you not, um, be angry if I said this?”

“Angry? No. Never. Disappointed? Sure. But I’d be much more disappointed if you didn’t say anything and went through with this just because you thought you needed to keep me happy. And you should know I’m not looking to begin a relationship.”

Eni then said something that surprised me. “I do not think a relationship is, um, something I want, too. But I want this. I want to be free.”

She’s breaking things off with dear old Dad and family. This is part of walking away. Very cool. Eight hundred pound rapists are not intruding, courtesy of the entire glass of Jack. Good.

“I understand. Take in the moment and the sensations. Don’t think about anything. Fair?”

It seemed fair to her.

So began our young hero’s initial ascent into the carnal world.

I’m usually not the one to take the lead in bed. I think it has to do with being raped and not wanting to do something that might cause her to feel the way I felt that day. So, I’m very cautious and probably too careful not to exercise control over these things. Sometimes that’s good.  Sometimes not.

With Emi, I directed the production, which was what she wanted: the teacher and the motivated pupil.

The sense of the occasion was never one of domination.

It may have been closer to, “This is your captain speaking. I’m going to be in charge for, well, quite a while. Sit back and enjoy the ride. You may experience turbulence during the flight. Not to worry. It’s just part of the rich pageant. If, at some point, you feel that things are way too intense and out of control, let us know. An oxygen mask will drop from the ceiling.

“Oh, you can disconnect the seat belt. For where we’re going, it’ll just get in the way.”

Something like that.

She’s becoming a butterfly. Navigating her way through parts unknown. Taking this journey with a kindly but wayward gentleman who’s been around the block so many times that they named the streets after him.

She needs this night to cut the cord from relationships that ran their course long ago. She’s setting aside, for one night, at least, the fears and insecurities piled on her by those relationships and replacing them with the intense pleasure that lovemaking can bring.

I need it, too. A reminder that I can, despite myself, be the one to facilitate this pleasure for someone else.

I should do this more often.

—END OF CHAPTER THREE—

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