A word about chopsticks

Now, obviously, any sensible person can tell you that two little wooden sticks are not the cutting edge (see what I did there?) of dining technology. They are insufficient for the tasks of eating soups, or of cutting anything, much less stabbing tiny individual peas. The peas just end up squashed. So, to combat this inefficiency, the Japanese have taken to approximating the table manners of a wild dog. It is not uncommon to see someone pick a bowl of rice, put the edge of it directly on his lips, and literally shovel food, like some sort of two-sticked backhoe, directly down his throat. A person might also pick up a bowl of soup and simply slurp it directly, without the intervention of any hand-held eating apparatus. This, of course, is accompanied by a constant slurp, which is considered the polite way to enjoy everything from soups to noodles. This audible courtesy, while admirable, given the trend towards decadence in this modern world, gives the strong impression, when sitting amongst a group of Japanese diners, of a dozen janitors unclogging a dozen toilets with a dozen old plungers. Amongst them, even I seem to be a bastion of civilized eating behavior, holding strong against the slurpy, stick-waving hordes. But, amongst all this strange behavior, I have noticed one more thing missing from the Japanese table setting: napkins. The Japanese, apparently, and I have yet to witness it, do not spill food. Ever. For eating like wild dogs, they are very clean and fastidious wild dogs, the kind who would wipe their paws on the mat before coming into the house. This lack has been a source of some consternation for me, since, being a little less than completely adept with chopsticks, I have a tendency to drop, spill, and spray, especially with noodles. And when, in those rare circumstance when someone does knock over a glass or something, the manner of remedy is neither a dishrag, nor a paper towel, but your common tissue. Needless to say, lacking adequate quilting, I find these measures sorely ineffective.

About schools

I have two middle schools that I teach at here in Shiiba. The first is the "large" on, Shiiba Chugakkou ("chugakkou" is Japanese for "middle school") and the second is the small one, Matsuo Chugakkou. On my first day at Shiiba, I was given the tour by the vice principal, who's name I've never learned, but that's alright, I can just call him Kyoto Sensei, which is Japanese for "vice principal". He's a very, very short man, bald, with only four fingers on his right hand. I don't know what happened to his pinky, and I haven't the courage to mention it. Shaking hands with him is a lot like shaking hands with a ninja turtle. Still, he's a quality gentleman, and he speaks excellent English, which has been of great help.

On the first day at Shiiba, we had a welcome back ceremony. The students had just gotten back from summer break, so, of course, there must be a ceremony. A start of term ceremony at my school consists of a great deal of speech-making. First, I had to get up and say a little something, but I'm afraid I broke all sorts of rules of etiquette. You see, when going on stage to give a speech, the correct thing to do is to stand, walk in front of the principal and vice principal, and give a little bow. Then, ascend the staircase up to the stage, and as you reach the stage, bow to the Japanese flag hanging at the rear of the stage. Then approach the podium, give a bow to the assembled audience, then speak. When you've finished speaking, you bow again, walk to the stairs, turn back, bow to the Japanese flag once more, descend the stairs, present yourself before the principal and vice principal and bow again, before returning to your seat. The problem is, I spoke first, being the new guy, and had no benefited from any examples. So when I simply vaulted up onto the stage, without having the good etiquette even to bow while I did it, I elicited not a few gasps and giggles from the student body.

I'd be more concerned of their opinions if I weren't so vain and self-absorbed. Also, if the student body weren't such a bunch of nerdy, goody two-shoes. (I've never had occasion to write "goody two-shoes" before. What the hell does that even mean?") One student from each of the three grades spoke to the assembly, and, thanks to the vice-principals helpful translations, I heard a few discouraging remarks. One student professed his desire to not let his extra-curriculars interfere with his studies this year, while another decided it was important to tell his fellow classmates about his plan to be more inquisitive in class, and ask the teacher for help when he was confused. The third year student, which is the oldest class, talked at length about her plans to prepare for her high-school entrance exams. Needless to say, I was a bit dismayed, since I have no idea what to do with thoughtful, motivated, disciplined students. I hadn't prepared lessons, after all, just jokes. If this is indicative of the state of Japan's youth as a whole, I worry for them.

Following these contrite, sycophantic little suck-ups, a couple of the teachers took the stage to address the students. I will not bore you with the same cliches you heard a million times when you were in school, but there were some strange departures from what I remember being told when I was that age. For instance, one teacher gave quite an involved talk about the importance of dental hygiene, which included the consequences of neglect, ranging from bad teeth, obviously, to increasing the risk of communicable, infectious disease. But he happily advised them on the correct manner in which to brush, the length of an adequate tooth-brushing session, and vivid imaginary demonstrations on the best way to hold the floss in order to get those hard to reach teeth in the back. I can only imagine the lasting impression it will make on these children, when they're thirty-five, endlessly brushing in order to stem a typhoid infection.

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.

Details

My predecessor has finally responded with a great, steaming pile of information. And because details are the most important feature of good exposition, allow me to fill you in. I live in a semi-detached house, which actually means attached. I've got an apartment, or some other house, on one side. I guess it's semi because I'm not squeezed in between like a house sandwich. It's a two story, two bedroom house. I've got all the amenities one would expect, running water, electricity, walls, ceilings, floors, you name it, I've got it. No really, my house has the singular privilege of an indoor water heater. I hear that the traditional method of heating water for your morning shower is to drag your ass outside, light a fire, an honest-to-God wood to charcoal combustion reaction, under your water heater. Well, I asked for traditional Japan. The house is designed for maximum breathability, with no pesky insulation, central air, or heating to interrupt my experiencing the three traditional Japanese seasons: hot and muggy, freezing, and wet. I also have a kitchen, fully loaded with all sorts of cookware that I'm sure would come in very handy to any of the other six billion people on the planet, none of whom have managed to light boiling spaghetti on fire. And of course, I get the pleasure of a traditional Japanese bed, which I assume comes in one of two comfortable sizes: small and tiny. And I get all of that for the low, low price of 39,000 yen per month. I've been told that my predecessor, and the last three predecessors before her paid a whopping 16,000 yen a month for the exact same house. I think I'm going to have to discuss that with my supervisor, and my first big challenge in assimilating into a foreign culture will be to get through my first day of work without using the phrase, "Fuck you, douchebag!"

Not only that, I'll be lucky enough to have a car, also generously provided by the Shiiba Village Board of Education for the reasonable sum of 8900 yen per month, which in dollars is a much smaller number, I hope. It's a Subaru 4WD "k" car. I assume the "k" stands for "kill car" because I'm basically going to be driving a tin can with wheels. It may or may not have an automatic transmission, but it certainly doesn't have airbags or crumple zones. But since it weighs in at just under eleven pounds, there's a good chance both the car and my body will be thrown clear of any crashes. Here's hoping. And with a maximum speed of 65 kph, I'll be cruising the slow lane in style. It's ok, I've been told it's fashionable to drive with your chin resting on your knees anyway.

Of course, in between showering and driving, I may be expected to go to work. I'll have classes in the two middle schools, a small one with twenty students, and the large one with sixty. All in all, that's probably for the best. I had enough trouble trying to remember the names of my SAT students. Luckily for me, all of my new students will have black hair, brown eyes, and identical uniforms, which I can't help but think will make it easier for me to tell them apart. I'll also be expected to make infrequent appearances at the seven local elementary schools, but at that age who needs to tell kids apart anyway? I mean, there's no way to tell whether they'll be cracked out meth whores or rich, successful businessmen until they're twelve and can take the meth whore standardized test. No reason to get attached before then. Luckily, I will stand out from the crowd. Not because of my 6'1" (and a half) height, or my round, blue eyes, or my ability to pronounce the letter "r". But because I'll the most underdressed person there. While all of my students have to wear formal school uniforms, I'll be wearing polo shirts, slacks, and slippers. Which is great, because I didn't feel like packing my ties, suits, dress shoes, and dress pants. Nor did I feel like buying my ties, suits, dress shoes, or dress pants.

Of course, I might also stand out because I'll be the only person in town between the ages of fifteen and fifty who doesn't have a family. The nearest person my age lives about forty minutes away. She'll be another new teacher, like me. Word on the street is she's from Hawaii, so maybe, if I'm lucky, she can teach me to surf. Since I'm so graceful, poised, and naturally athletic, I'll probably need someone to help me rein in and focus my natural abilities. And it turns out skiing was more pipe dream than reality. There is only one run at Gokase, which still attracts about half the island on winter weekends, in years where it happens to actually snow. Oh well. Maybe I'll pick up mountain biking. That'll give me a chance to meet the village doctor. Luckily, he speaks English. I haven't learned the Japanese for, "More morphine, please."