February 2001

Every month contributors to this publication come and go, but a cherished few will manage to grace these pages, offend, exit as graciously and unimpressively as they entered, and then actually be invited to contribute another article. In attempting to do this, I will join the throng of other contributing miscreants who somehow manage to generalize upon and typify an entire nation and its people into one neat, simple, convenient package to apply subjective bases of comparison, proliferate stereotypes, and impart otherwise inconsequential insights hard-pressed to elicit any response other than "that's nice."

After spending a good part of my life in association with my seemingly betrothed Japan, travailing through trials, tribulations, travel, study, work, and a fat sack of mixed emotions, nothing has become clear to me. Perhaps it is an age thing and nothing becomes clear until you reach the mandatory retirement age of 60. Perhaps not. Maybe one has to throw oneself into a variety of situations and circumstances to establish a worldly way of thinking. I have not found any answers in Singapore, Thailand, Korea, Hong Kong, China, Mongolia, Italy, France, Spain, England, Scotland, Switzerland, Canada, Mexico, or the U.S., however, and am starting to doubt whether I ever will. Maybe that is what life is-a long journey through time and space with no certainty and no resolution except our eventual check-in to the maggot motel-like some sick one-way bus trip into the ground to become food for the daffodils. In search of an answer, I contemplate the point of things everyday from when my godforsaken alarm goes off to when the prison bell rings signaling the end of the work day and that it is time to descend the stairs of freedom leading to the very same thing the next day. The stairs always lead to the same place. After months, even years of searching, the only thing that has become clear to me is the importance of extracting meaning out of what we have. This often equates to long walks at night, heart to heart talks with a pal, humming falsetto in a quiet room, or passing off a fart as the fault of the guy next to me. It was a 2 week trip to Mongolia and having to return to my boring-as-hell job that made me realize life is better enjoyed by keeping things in perspective, not taking things too seriously, and not giving a shred of slack to anybody. Although a bit different from the cliche of international understanding, try going through a day entertaining evil thoughts and laughing and smirking at those around you. On those not-too-infrequent days when you are struggling just to make ends meet, let alone be considerate to others, enjoy a laugh to yourself at others' expense.

Let me run you through one of those typical days. As if cursed with a canine sleeping disorder, the abused dog chained to the wall outside my apartment wakes me up at 4:30AM. I pee and go back to bed, tossing, turning, and griping until 7:30, at which time I fall into the deepest, most meaningful sleep I have ever enjoyed. My alarm clock, which is broken such that it wakes me up early even on weekends and holidays, tolls its bell 15 minutes later, kindly releasing me from any disillusion of contentment in my daily sleeping routine. Rolling off the futon on to the cold floor and seeing my winter-whitened breath before me provide immediate reassurance that nothing has changed and my walls are still without insulation. As I wash up and dress for another day of unchallenging labor, the dog outside begins to bark again, preparing its attack for my passing. Surviving the dog's terrific charge-a bundle of off-pearly snarls and gnashing chained around the neck-and kicking awake my fly-by-night scooter, I make haste to work, where I oftentimes arrive late. As the elevators to the 5th floor are usually too full of last minute stragglers to ride, I instead ride my legs and break my neck up the stairs, weaving and dodging slowgoers, darting from the stairwell to my division, and sliding into my seat without a moment to spare only to have to stand up for the morning greeting.

Not unlike grade school or a prison, a morning bell rings, certifying the timely arrival of those who arrived on time, and isolating stragglers to an eternity of guilt and emotional hell for being late. Although everyone has already delivered their 'ohayou gozaimasu's' and 'sorry for being late's' upon entering the room, the bell sounds and we all stand up, bow, and deliver our official good mornings. Mornings in my division are funny. While the directors of most other divisions stand up and deliver empowering messages of fighting to the finish and overcoming strife and selfishness in bringing to the people of Wakayama long-lasting peace and prosperity in the name of the Yamato race, immobilizing nearly everybody with tears of pride and patriotism, my division falls impotently short in an orgy of disappointment: a barely audible 'hey' is offered up to the gods of greeting, and it's back to waiting for lunchtime. Perhaps a few jumping jacks or high 5's-even a brass knuckle beating would be more fun.

Although we have our share of busy days as well, waiting for lunchtime is where our hearts lie. Putting our minds and strength together, we have devised and perfected countless state-of-the-art techniques for maximum efficiency in passing time. While I prefer to sit at my desk, study, and listen to mp3s, my co-workers, many of whom date to the Cretaceous, prefer more traditional methods, such as reading newspapers, filling out crossword puzzles, smoking, looking up the latest from the horse track, and sitting around. As for more modern but nonetheless time-tested modus operandi for waiting for lunch, the recent introduction of post-Atari computers into the office provides yet another avenue. Although the computers probably have the capability to be reconfigured for use in launching satellites, monitoring activity in terrorist hideouts, or even getting Japan up-to-date with the IT revolution, we use them primarily for solitaire and freecell. These latest additions have even the oldest, most decrepit dinosaurs in my division knick-knacking and paddy-wacking for a turn on the new 'machines.' Some colorful personalities, however, cannot make it all three and a half hours until lunch and are found having fallen victim to the lazy haze of Sleepy Kingdom. Oftentimes, I will be plugging away at my desk and, all of a sudden, a snore not dissimilar to ripping paper softly caresses my inner-ear, signaling that some poor soul in the office has finally given up counting the average number of holes per ceiling tile in favor of a lethargic saunter through the Land of Nod. Some snores actually make for really good background music. Can you really blame them, though; if you were 168 wouldn't you do the same?

With all the build-up, lunch is inevitably anti-climactic. It is never as much fun as it should be, so I usually end up waiting for work to resume so I can set my sights on breaktime and eventually going home time. Until the fat bell sings, it is the same monkey boy crap as usual. But when the bell finally does ring, however, the scene becomes a spawning ground for chaos and disaster with people running left and right and up and down-tramplings are not unheard of-making mad dashes for cars, scooters, bicycles, bars, and izakayas; each one, in their own way, delivering people to wherever they want to be. At the end of the day, when I should be aglow with satisfaction and pride for my daily achievements, I cannot help but experience a slight pang of sadness for the day having ended. And then out of the blue it hits me and I feel a sense of relief: I'll have another chance to extend my solitaire winning strike tomorrow.

Justin Bonsey

Posted on February 2001 in the following categories: Opinions, Stories and Information | TrackBack(93)