Assault, Japanese style
When I was a kid, I lived in a bunch of places, including Japan.Tokyo, to be specific, and I was aged 11--14 when I was there. 1968--1971. I loved it, because it was perfect in every way. See, Tokyo is so safe that my parents had no trouble with me disappearing for hours at a time, wandering the streets, checking it all out. So that's what I'd do, alone, enjoying it hugely.
A typical Saturday morning: I'd leave the house and just...walk. Komaba, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Roppongi...just wandering and checking it all out. I loved the solitude and the loud business, all simultaneous. I loved the narrow streets and the noodle shops and the pachinko parlours and the noise of the motorbikes whipping by. I loved the smells of the restaurants opening up. I just loved it, and when I had an opportunity to go back, courtesy of my radio work and Delta Airlines offering me a free slot (along with my late brother Kent, who spoke fluent Japanese) on their inaugural direct Atlanta to Tokyo flight back in 1988--well, I had to take it, and damned if all the things I loved weren't exactly the same.
One time, though, reality hit me hard. My younger brothers and I were returning from a weekend morning skating session at some ice rink and having taken the train, we were walking through the main street of the little village where we lived inside Tokyo proper, back up the long hill to our house. All the people knew us. We shopped there. And as we were walking, my brother was viciously attacked by some nutty woman who couldn't stop screaming at us. Beating on his back. Spitting at him.
My brother, Kent, was smart enough (he was about 9 years old, now) to yell at me "don't hit her back, don't stop her" as she literally beat the shit out of him. He somehow knew that if I retaliated, it would escalate badly. This was on the main street. Passers-by stopped, horrified, but no one helped Kent. Yet somehow he broke away and together me, Kent, and my youngest brother Scott (who was maybe 7 years old at the time) ran into a store where we were regular patrons. The store owner quickly ushered us to the back door--nothing special, just a wooden door--and as we stood there waiting to get out a huge knife came through the middle of the thing. This lady was out there and serious.
The rest is somewhat of a blur. Somehow, we ran home, the police were called, and because Kent was the only one who could really speak the language he was the one who had to tell the cops what had happened. But he was injured, hurting, the poor kid, but he did his best.
Fast forward. The police knew this woman: her brother had been killed by the Allies in WW2 and she'd lost her mind because of it. Her deal was: she hated foreigners. White people. Because of the war. But, someone had to go and identify her; that was me, being the oldest. So there I am in a Japanese squad car, being driven to this lady's house. The Japanese cops had me hide behind a wall--they rang the doorbell, everything was fine, until they ushered me around the corner.
Crazy lady went berserk as soon as she saw me, screaming, frothing at the mouth, had to be held back by the police. She was taken away, and I was taken home. I didn't sleep for weeks.
Japan. I love that country.
posted by Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines @ 6:46 PM
1 Comments:
Yea, sounds great. What's not to love?
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