So, about Shiiba

Shiiba Village is a tiny mountain village. I mean, tiny. We have a street. We have a stoplight. We have a grocery store. End of story. I've been told there's a restaurant somewhere in town, but I can't find it. I have some leads, but I've checked into a few, and they just turned out to be people's houses. That was awkward, because I don't know how to say, "I don't know if this is your house or a restaurant. Either way, will you cook me some food?" in Japanese yet.

Everyone here is really nice to me. Although they do stare. Yesterday this kid just about had a stroke when I got out of my car at the grocery store. Of course, he/she (it's hard to tell) may have just been shocked to see me get out of my car. It's the kind of performance you can usually only see performed in a giant tent by a dozen men with white makeup, giant shoes, and a VW Beetle. It's kind of convenient though, because if I want to get something out of the trunk, I just reach back and grab it. I'm thinking about taking it home as a souvenir when I'm done here, it ought to fit in my carry-on luggage.

So you're probably wondering what I do all day? No, you're not? Well, fuck you, read it anyway. Actually, you don't have to read it, you're looking at it, in a remote, virtual kind of way. I sit in a office. There are nine of us here. Across from me is the rotating seat, sometimes nervous, really weird, always blinking guy sits there, sometimes it's guy with one arm. Sometimes, on Wednesdays, I think, the really fat girl (yes, they do make fat people here) from the city hall comes in and sits there. I don't know what they do all the time, because the laptop at that desk faces the other way, but it must be difficult, because it takes them all damn day. To my left is Chikahiro-san. He's alright, kind of looks like that nerdy Egyptologist from Stargate, except not at all, because this guy is Japanese. Then across from him, diagonal from me, is Shintaro-san. This guy must weigh about fifty pound, and he kind of looks like a Vulcan. His face is all pointy, and he hides the tops of his ears under his hair. I don't know what he's hiding, but as far as I can tell, he's the youngest person here. I think that's what makes him the office bitch. He's always sweeping up, or cleaning people's desks, or taking out the trash, or something. I offered to help once, but then I remembered I hate helping.

Alright, then we've got another little square of four. Bottom left, we've got Yosuke-san, who is really creepy. I think he's a nice guy, but he's got the crazy facial tic, where he blinks twice, really fast, with both eyes, about every, oh, two seconds. It's impossible to look him in the face, and he just stares at you, blinking. Really freaky. Across from him is Tadahito-san, who is just a dick. Enough said. Next to him is Kuniko-san. She's a woman, and I think she's relatively in charge, because I think the further you get from my desk, the more in charge you are. She's actually the only woman, and though I think she's generally in charge, I think being the only woman also makes her in charge of serving tea, because she does this about twice a day, everyday. Across from her is my actual boss, Tanigawa-san. He's alright. If you know Craig Utz, then this will help you understand him. Imagine if Craig Utz were a tiny Japanese civil servant instead of a large American roofer, and you have the beginning of an idea. He chainsmokes about twelve thousand cigarettes a day, and throughout the day goes between extremely magnanimous and funny to furiously busy and grumpy about as often. Still, he's taken a shine to me, and he makes some good jokes. Or I think so. Did I mention nobody else here speaks English? I probably should have. It makes things very confusing.

Oh yeah, there's one other guy, who sits at the head of office. His name is Something-something-san, and he's everybody's boss. He sweats a lot and never talks to me. Enough said.

So, I sit in this office, where people seem to be conducting a lot of business in Japanese. Did I mention I don't read, write, speak, or understand Japanese? That's probably important. I get here at 8:30. I leave at 5:00. In between, I make flashcards. That takes a couple of hours. I have a lot of flashcards. I read webcomics. That takes up a lot of time too. I go to the grocery store to buy lunch. I eat a lot of sushi and chicken-on-a-stick. That's called yakitori. Sometimes we try to have conversations. It doesn't usually work. Mostly, I just die a little on the inside. But, I have been paid, and they are writing quite a fat check for my competitive webcomic browsing, google chatting, wikipedia reading abilities. Although, perhaps I'm simply being compensated for sitting for eight hours in a room without air conditioning. Did I mention the Japanese don't use air conditioning? They don't. I'm told I can also look forward to them not using heating either. Or insulating houses. This is really a very primitive place. Instead of air conditioning, they've invented a really great device. It's a piece of stiff paper, stretched over a lattice of plastic or wooden spokes, with a handle, that you wave back and forth in front of your face all day. It's the pinnacle of Japanese temperature control technology.

Today is my last full day at this office. Fridays are half days for me, and next week I actually start teaching. I think. Remember, I don't speak Japanese, so these things are a little tentative. But, I'm going to the big city on Saturday. I've got to get some rare things you can't find in Shiiba. A few examples from my list include a cutting board, a butter knife, and a pillowcase. For that I must drive two hours down crazy mountain roads. Then back. And I have to be back on Sunday. At 6:20. In the morning. For Sports Festival Day. Yes. Sports Festival Day. I think I'm going to bring the hurt at tug-of-war.

A Tale of Woe

Gather round, and hear of the end of days. On a dark and stormy night in Tokyo, men and women congregate at hidden temples to perform an inhuman ritual. They call this "karaoke".

The entrance is garishly light, bright, fluorescent. The young man behind the counter greets you politely, and asks how long you'd like to stay. The only answer worth giving is all night long. It is a long path down into the darkness. They take your tiny coven of seven or eight and lead you into a small cell, bare but for a long couch, a table, and the unholy altar. The altar is dark, silent, waiting. One the table is a great tome, thick and heavy, filled with instructions for acts unspeakable.

We order drinks by telephone. No other communication is possible through the soundproof walls, but these things require courage, however it may be found. Frightened still, I shy away from the hideous, rounded wand, and pass it to my neighbor. He takes it up, and the altar comes to life. Bright images display themselves, illogical and senseless. Strange symbols appear on the altars face, and I realize they are words, but in a tongue I do not know, sounds I cannot speak. Time passes in a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

Soon it is my turn to perpetrate this dark rite. I lift the microphone, and thunder rumbles in the distance. I thumb the power on, and darkness covers the heavens. In the distance, through the soundproof walls, I hear the shrieks of frightened children. On the altar's face words appear, and I am bound by their awful magic. Hell itself covers its ears and shields itself.

I sing.

I sing and Hati himself howls with me, chasing the moon. The air grows cold and the earth begins to shake. There is a crash, as of chains snapping, and three cocks crow. The ground trembles beneath the tread of heavy steps, and the great wolf and his brother, the serpent, rise from their prisons. The wolf breathes hot fire, and the serpent's poison runs in rivers through the streets below. The earth opens and the dead walk from below to overrun the world of the living. A great horn sounds, and a hooded man leads a shining army from the seat of an eight-legged horse to push back the dead. His spear snaps in the great wolf's jaws, and his golden army falls beneath the endless hordes of walking dead. A sword of fire, wielded from high in the heavens, sweeps down to burn the world, and everything it touches is wracked by flame and ruin. So ends the world of men, brought low by the harsh voices of the black magic called "karaoke".

The Arcade

You enter at the lowest floor. It is bright, pink, the music tinny and the games silly. Familiar faces, like the impossible claw game, mingle with strange machines whose purposes are unclear, but are stuffed with toys. Small children and teenage girls operate these devices with surprising and inexplicable precision. Continue upwards, the second floor, and the noise overwhelms you. Simulated engines rev up and imaginary clutches engage. Rows of steering wheels manned by young men, eager to power through impossible turns at break-neck speeds, practicing for future driving license tests. A terrifying premonition grips you and you ascend. The third floor is quiet, silent. Pinball machines, ancient relics of an analog age, slouch, ashamed, in the corners. Their weak bells cannot compete with the siren songs of higher floors. Obsolescence walks here, and it smells of the quiet death of a nursing home. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race will find them here. The fourth floor calls, and I answer. Here, I see the living dead. Smoke clouds the air, and rows of men sit, like drones, motionless except for the quick click of fingers on buttons, the practiced twist of a joystick, or the flick of a cigarette. No one speaks. The games are unfamiliar, strange, I grow frightened, I turn and go. The fifth floor is different. From within I hear voices, loud cheering and angry swearing. Even in Japanese I recognize the rhythms of competition. The poster on the door stops me for a second. The faces are familiar. Jin Kazama, Heihachi Mishima, Nina Williams pose in improbable positions, and I know that I am home. I enter. Young men again, but crowded around a handful of machines, watching. I join them. The players are good, very good. I smile, and when King breaks Ganryu's spine with three linked throws, I cheer with them. The young man next to me smokes a cigarette and turns. He ask, "Do you play?" in slow English. Modestly, I respond, "I can try." We sit down, two machines, one next to the other. I pick my avatar, Jin Kazama, simple, powerful, direct. He chooses Marduk, the Native American giant, but I am not afraid. His large size is compensated by little speed. We begin, and we draw a crowd. Back and forth, we fight, until the giant falls. I turn to my opponent, and I smile a smug smile, a Cheshire cat smile, quite pleased. He smiles back, politely, then looks over his shoulder at his compatriots, and he winks. In an instant, I learn why a mouse should never venture into a lion's den. The second round begins, and I open with the Demon's Fist. He blocks. Double Lift Kick. He blocks. Low Sweep. He jumps over it. Back Roundhouse. He blocks. Forward Throw. He ducks. I turn my head to look at him, and that was my last mistake. His brow is furrowed with a concentration he hadn't shown before, and when I turn back to the screen, I'm dead. The giant crushes me with six powerful blows of his fists, then shatters me over his knee. Now, he turns to me, and his smile is wide, and full of teeth. The third round goes quickly, my failure is complete. I laugh, obviously outclassed, excuse myself with a meaningless, "Good game," then take my leave. His friends' laughter chases me out the door and up to the sixth floor. The sixth and seventh floors are the same, but different games, ones I do not know. I fear to face the predators within, so I descend, back out the rabbit hole, holding close the tattered shreds of dignity and pride that are left me.

I have arrived.

So here I am, in beautiful Shiiba Village, high in the mountains of southern Japan. But let me take you back a few days, to Tokyo. I won't bore you with the harrowing tales of my trans-continental plane flight. Suffice it to say, I've flown over the top of the world, as the shortest path between Washington D.C. and Tokyo is over the north pole.