Run-in with the Authorities
I get drilled for a little over three hours in a damp, dark, indistinguishable backroom at my local police box. (Police boxes are on the corners of every Japanese community and act as branches for actual police stations.) The only thing missing from the way I'd always pictured an interrogation is the styrofoam cup of coffee, but I was getting my share of caffeine just by taking in the cops' breaths. (See "coffee contact buzz"). The two are pressing hard--trying to get a confession out of me that I was attempting to break into an apartment located outside the prefecture, and everytime I ask "what prefecture" or for an address, they laugh, and say "we're not tellin' YOU." I begin tiring of this and am on the verge of lying to admit being there, but the possibility that doing so might confirm that I was at the scene of a REAL crime stops me. I really don't want to say anything until I get more information from them. "WE ask the questions here, sonny." This condescending speech incenses me, but I sit still in my chair recalling that I HAVE no rights. This whole episode is getting to become an exercise in patience and Japanese ability. The older cop removes a remote control from his pocket and switches on the TV in the corner using both of his thumbs. It's the black and white security footage of an apartment corridor. My full attention is on the screen when a figure in a plain, white T-shirt stumbles into the picture and starts past the first few doors on his left.
"Who is that?"
"That's...me," I swallow.
"And?..."
"--But. There's no date here--there's no way you can tell when this was taken!!"
"Oh, we can tell," the younger cop responds casually.
I'm satisfied with this answer, and am ready to leave. The figure stops and takes a confident step toward the door to his left, and begins fumbling with the keys he's drawn from his pocket. There's no sound, but you can see the dismay on his face when he realizes the key won't fit into the lock on the doorknob. He begins ramming this one key into the doorknob at a steady pace and with ferocity--this I can recognize. I see one tenant, a few doors down, poke her head out enough to see me punching at the doorknob and swiftly pull her head back in to shut the door. At this point, the cops observe my look of disbelief as I take note of the scratches and bruises traipsed across the knuckles of my right hand--left behind by the knob and frame of the apartment door. Then, my stomach turns when it hits me that I might know the girl that spotted me--in fact, I KNOW I've seen her face before, and a paranoia that I might have done something to this girl starts to grow within me. I try to stay expressionless. Could this be why they have apprehended me--showing me this footage?? To establish opportunity to commit murder? Or even rape? To induce a plea?! I can't even think of what I might've done. I need to stay ahead of them. They know something.
The Lakeside
I awoke on the shore of Lake Biwa this morning with sand under my nails and in my mouth. I rolled over to look up and could barely open my eyes--they felt glazed shut. This time, I made out the figure of a fisherman with awful breath who must have spotted me from the nearby dock and come over to check and see if I was alive. Waving my hands around, I immediately started in with the "I'm not dead, I'm not dead," and noticed he was having trouble understanding me. While straining to peer over the bags sagging from my eyes, I swallowed the sand stuck on the roof of my mouth and I gargled "looks like the earlier bird got the worm," looking up at him and smiling. I swallowed more sand and trailed off, "the undead, white worm"--I started looking around. He finally let go of my shoulder and stood there huddled, hands on knees, with hollow eyes that stared straight through me warning me that he was going to try to speak some English. Instinctively, I tried to stop this by offering him another smile and yelling, slowly enough for him to understand, "I'm OKAY!! OH--KAY, okay?! Ya know? Like, GOOOOO AWAY, now. GO FISH!! FISH!!!!" Oh, he knew this word! "Yes.....fish? Fish," he repeated twice with a smile, and his breath was beginning to offend, but it was his English that was getting the best of me when I started throwing angry handfuls of sand at him. He kept smiling and just started backing away, bowing. I threw receipts I'd stingily collected the night before, along with some lint and one-yen coins, and he was gone. I stood up, and fell back down on my ass with tears oozing from the corners of my eyes. I knew I'd have to get my jacket dry-cleaned.
Then it dawns on me and, I PANIC, "no, no, no, no, you little SHIT!!" I scramble to find a clock somewhere nearby, and notice I have a watch on--less than two hours until work!! I begin insulting myself with profane, non-sensical phrases, like "stupid cocker bitch" and "bitch-kickin' cunt" as I jump to my feet and book it to the parking lot, but realize I have no direction since I have no idea what side of the lake I'm on--and then, I recall that I don't have a job. I stop running.
When I reach the parking lot, still trying to catch my breath, I hop over a concrete barrier and crawl underneath a grey Corolla--the warmth of the blacktop mixed with a momentary sense of relief puts me back to sleep.
Unemployment
I do not wish to live in a cruel world such as this--where the snout is so angrily slapped, and the coffee tastes of cheeseburgers.