My Gulag: Part III The Iron Sausage Continued

Guest post by Net Pariah

The next day, on the 24th I arrived early as usual, but in a pretty foul mood. My vacation officially was to begin on the twenty-fourth, but I had earlier agreed to come in anyway during that morning to be the token whitey in their promotional video as an act of good faith and since I had nothing particular to do that day and since not coming in would look pretty ungracious; also I had yet to turn in the last drafts of the translations for the school's lame-ass pamphlet. Now, I was there to settle this shit. I had listened to "Dr. Dre's Nigga with a Motherfuckin' Gun on repeat mode on my head phones most of the way down the hill from the station. And it was a good thing that I did not have one. No-gnads walked into our office and we had a few words about a promotional video segment I'd agreed to shoot that day later on. Then he announced that it was time to go have "our meeting" with Ass-Head Ass-head. He'd mentioned it before. On the way down, he said, "Please try to be calm, and remember that Ass-head's decision is irreversible and your isn't."

I said something about "how, we'd see about that," while thinking to myself "You're going to pay for that one No-gnads, not today, not next month, not even this year, I won't forget and I AM gonna get you. I'm gonna get you. Can you say, 'American Psycho'? Please repeat after me, 'Ameri . . ."

We went into the meeting room. The others were on their way, the secretary informed us. I took that opportunity, because I could constrain myself no longer to let this bumbling fool know exactly what I thought of him. "Before, the others come in," I told him looking directly into his eyes and pursuing them when they tried to look away, "I just want you to know, that up until yesterday, I've been willing to forgive and try to forget the problems that I've had on account of your poor communication skills. But yesterday, I lost all respect for you, and for the other senior members here as well. My trust is completely broken. I don't trust you and I don't respect you. I'm not going to believe another thing you tell me, because your words have no meaning; they haven't since the day I started here . . . because you don't understand the difference between true and false," all the while a little shocked myself to hear the harsh shit coming out of my mouth, but not feeling the slightest bit bad about it. It had been a long time coming. While I'd spewed out this diarrhea, he'd sat there trying to take it all in, making occasional tiny "ooh"s and throat clearing and sounds.

Gentle reader, who can piss into the pickle bucket or vomit into the cracker barrel and then with feigned graciousness serve hor d'oeuvresto his unwitting guests? Who, dear hearts, can shit on a fallen adversary, who moaning in a state somewhere between agony and rapture, eats the shit, vomits it up, scoops it up with his hands and then eats it again, prostrate before him in a pose of gentle supplication?

But we ain't goin' out like that. We ain't even goin' out. Last night taifun # 15 blew through Japan, tearin' shit up. I took a lawn chair outside and sat under the carport roof, listening to the rain and watching the clouds flying across the sky. The power of the taifun is terrible. I stood up walked over and stretched my arm out into the storm letting the raindrops mix with my martini, which by this hour had become pure gin and rain juice. Drank in the storm-power awaiting my hour of vengeance. There is something in the air, and it ain't love.

The door opened behind us and Ass Head, Ms. U_______ (who even Mr. No-gnads called a "vicious woman." and the Walking Goat Corpse Dead Goat-head filed in and sat down across the table. Ass-Head was about to begin speaking, but I was not about to let him take the initiative. "Jaa, hajimarimashoo," I said, falling back into English and my own patent broken Nihongo. "First, let me apologize for not speaking to you in only Japanese, but right now I'm so angry at all of you that I almost can't speak English . . . About three months ago, we were all here having a similar discussion. Do you remember what we were talking about? Do you remember what the cause of the problem was? Communication. Or the lack of communication."

To his credit, No-gnads, was translating fairly accurately what I was saying, no doubt as a result of the insults I just heaped upon him. Surprised that had been permitted to run the show so far, I continued with even greater confidence. I ran through what had passed between No-gnads and I over the last two weeks Riji-cho promise and then her inexplicable. And now, you tell me two days before that vacation that SHE JUST CHANGED HER MIND. This is completely unacceptable!"

No-gnads at this point reasserted in English and then in Japanese for the others benefit that he must have misunderstood what Riji-cho said, to which I butted in with an "I DON'T BELIEVE YOU. Let me ask you, when Riji-cho spoke to you WHAT LANGUAGE WAS SHE SPEAKING? Nihongo deshoo? So how could you mistake the words "the same as D________'s vacation" with "no vacation at all?" You couldn't have. Why don't you tell me what REALLY happened? AssHead, by this time had recovered from my having taken control of the meeting explained to me that the reason for the difference in the vacation time was that I worked five days a week whereas D________ worked four.

So she works a four-days a week and gets a month-and-and-a-half, I work five, get nothing, and full-time teachers work six and get bonuses and week vacations or longer. Would you mind explaining THAT? No-gnads translated and then interjected that I made a considerably higher salary than D________. I rebutted by bringing us back to the original point: Riji-cho original statement concerning my vacation. And another thing, and I want to make sure you understand this completely. This is not about vacation. Personally, I don't care about the vacation, because I have so much work to do preparing lesson plans [plans, the purpose of which I didn't tell them was to make a portfolio for an interview at another school so I could get the &%$# out of this place] that I'm going to be busy most of the summer. This is about RESPECT, and it is clear to me that you have none. I let No-gnads translate that and watched Ass-Head squirm a little. He got out the contract and pointed to the clause which read, the vacation will be the same as other teachers, and explained that this clearly explained away all my complaints. The same as what other teachers? It doesn't say. Last year it meant the same as D________, when Kathy had this position. Now it means other Japanese teachers? Why and how has it changed without my being informed until the last minute? And anyway, different instructors have different vacations.

So, how can you tell which instructors? It's impossible to tell, because thanks to No-gnads who wrote this thing, the language is completely vague. These words have no meaning or they mean whatever is convenient for you. Ass-Head then shifted into a weak-ass explanation that maybe I wasn't aware that things worked differently at private schools than in the prefectural and city board of education (at which I worked hitherto). "Yes they sure do. At the board of education I could trust what my supervisor and superiors told me. Here, at this school, I haven't been able to depend on you to keep one part of your word to me. But informing me about your interpretation of this contract a day before my vacation starts Anata wa OSOI (late). [And or those of you who don't live here, let me point out that this was a very blunt, rude and insulting way of addressing him.] He had the gall to try to laugh it off, repeating my OSOI (late) as though I were the unreasonable one. "OSOI!" I said again sharply, startling even myself and wondering how long they would endure my insulting my superior before one of the others lead an attack in order to show their loyalty. But no one did.

There was only more of that creepy, face-saving calmness the inscrutable Japanese often exhibit while they offer you a dish of steaming shit and a pair of chopsticks. But it felt good to finally be speaking to them in the tone they'd so long deserved. I launched into the next point, that although, personally I didn't care about vacation myself, that based on what Riji-cho had said that my honorable professor had bought tickets to visit me during my vacation and was expecting me to show him around F______. It was here that Ass-Head made a terrible mistake. He'd threatened me, saying,

"Which is more important, your friend or you job?"

I could not believe what I was hearing. Didn't he know that I was now honor-bound to kill him? Excuse me, but you may mess with me. My patience is great, but YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THE PROFESSOR, people. You do that and I will wait. I will wait a year, wait until you've completely forgotten about me. And then I will come back after you and I will Fuck Up Your Shit.

"Fukohee shitsumon," I barked at him (unfair question). Fukohee? he said incredulously . . .

Late night. No moon. ASS-HEAD'S front lawn. Saburo Goro is creeping through the shadows. Cut to ASS-HEAD's bedroom. Ass-Head and his wife are in bed. Ass-Hhead is saying " . . . Soylent Yellow, that's what my Human Dogs eat. And I like to RUB their FACES in it." Outside: Saburo Goro picks up a large stone and weighs it in his hand thoughtfully, before throwing it with obvious venom, great agility and impressive accuracy though ASS-HEAD's bedroom window on the second floor. The bedroom window lights up and ASS-HEAD parts the curtains. Sabu hails from the shadows, "HEY, MOTHERFUCKER! I'VE GOT YOUR MOM OUT HERE AND I'M GONNA CUT HER UP!" Though this is admittedly way into the vernacular, Ass-Head somehow penetrates the language barrier and understands perfectly. Sabu steps from the shadows with a baseball bat and shatters the windshield of his former employer-tormenter's gray Mercedes.

And because most Americans can't be asked to read subtitles, his wife, upon seeing him donning his jacket, says in perfect English, "Honey, don't go out there! Call the police!"

"I've got to. He's got Mother." [more glass shattering sounds from the front yard] "and he's demolishing our Mercedes!" he says, amusingly believing Saburo's incredible claim. Runs down the stairs grabbing a driver from the golf club bag in the genkan (foyer) and charges furiously out the front door falling over the trip wire face down on the walkway glasses breaking, golf club skating across the concrete meters out of reach. As he crawls forward frantically to grab the driver Saburo strides across the lawn and hoses him down with kerosene from a pressurized tank and as Asshead, still lying face down, incredulously wipes the kerosene from his eyes smelling it and understanding suddenly that he will be late getting to work the next morning. Sabu lights a match and drops it on his back.

Ass-Head goes up in flames, jumping to his feet, madly swinging his arms and running achi-kochi all around, crying out like a little girl or a rabbit in pain, making suddenly for the garden hose spiggot. Cranking the wheel desperately, but no water. Sabu had already tied a knot in the hose. Sabu steps over to the smoldering form on the ground and hawks a lugee on the back of Ass-Head's head. "You see what you get? Here. Here's a little sp-sp-sp-spittle for your mottled scalp head . . ." Turns to admire the neighbor's rock garden and sighs a sad existential sigh as strikes another match and lights a fat marijuana spleef. Straps on his jetpack and rockets across the sky back to his home in the Black Hatake. And I? I was at an ikebana appreciation festival that night seen by several dozen people. .

"Fukohee shitsumon." I barked at him (unfair question). "Fukohee?" he said incredulously. "Fukohee!" Before I been EXTREMELY IRRITATED. Now I was PISSED. I could tell that even the others thought that he'd overstepped himself. Speaking in terms that they could understand culturally, pointing my shaking finger at him. I may endure your disrespect for me, I told him but "if you SHAME me before my professor and friend of 15 years, I will NOT forget it." At this point I was glaring at him as No-gnads translated what I'd said so directly that for a moment I decided that perhaps I would not break into his home and strangle him with piano wire. Of course, I later I recanted my momentary weakness, attributing it to the contrast between my disgust with him and my hatred for Ass Head Ass-Head who was finally getting the message that if he didn't do something I'd be hunting for his head sooner than later. He actually had to look away from me; let me stare him down, the little bitch, and looked at the floor between his feet, silently for a few seconds. Not willing to relent even for a moment to give him time to collect himself, I said his name.

"Ass-Head . . . He was lost in thought. ASS-HEAD . . . So what are you going to do?" Now, I know that you, gentle reader will be saying, " What is wrong with you? Ass-Head's not the little bitch. You are. How can you sit there, vanquished, and not cut loose on these shit-hooks?" Certainly, my Western Friends, that would be the thing to do. Over here though strength is measured in terms of one's ability to keep one's cool, even when everyone present knows that situation is completely unreasonable. It is very uncool to loose your wa (peace of mind). And remember, I can't just tear off his restaurant apron, throw it to the floor, saying "Take this job and shove it" and head down the street to put in his application at the nearest Git'n'Go. (I'm not Pedro) I can't make the rounds of the bookstores and retail shops. I can't even put in applications at a parts factory. His options are sweet, but limited, and so great caution and patience are called for, though what he really wants is the four of them in a locked room with a chain saw (or a sandblaster).

"Chotto matte kudasai (just a moment please)" he said fleeing from the meeting room and returning with a timetable a minute later. The fallout was this. Ass-Head agreed to give the author of this insane archipelago one day of vacation (which was officially noted as a "home study day." He also very graciously allowed your friend to trade a Saturday for one weekday. And not only did I settle for this, but I agreed that it was a most reasonable settlement. I knew that this was not the time, as I had not yet lined up my ducks (or dicks as it were). And so it was that for every weekday and one Saturday I did wend my bitter and belittled way like a dark hatake right through the fields to the hallowed (and almost completely deserted) halls of Sucker Tandai. Even Mr. Tagalog was not there.

Editorial Note on the Human Will Continued. Oh with what great shame did I descend from the highlands of I_____ station everyday to the depths of the tandai. The headaches that I spoke of earlier had become much worse, in fact almost debilitating. During the crowded train trip to work several morning I felt that I would pass out right there on the train floor. I was almost sure that the heartless passengers would simply step over the gaijin as they entered or exited the train car. The pressure seemed to come from deep within my skull and at the same time rise from the top of my spine over the back of my skull bringing on chills and clammy sweats alternating with feverish dizziness. I honestly at times expected to have a fucking brain hemorrhage right there on the train. I had finally confided in my wife who was also really worried about my health. It happened this way: We had driven down the road to a nearby Italian restaurant and had just ordered. I was looking at a copy of the British toilet humor magazine VIZ (any fans?) when I felt something hard to describe, as if the page would not be still or my eyes wouldn't and I could not focus or look at one spot. I laid down in the booth, telling Eri that I was "in trouble."

I managed to get out to the car and lay down, while she (we had already ordered) got the food to go and drove back home. I couldn't eat at all though and went straight to bed. I managed to crawl back downstairs later because I felt hungry but once I got down there I was sick again. I am telling you all about this for a reason. Many of us find ourselves in these situations and feel that we ought to be able to think our way out. Or if we are married we feel we have no choice and that we are being weak if we give up and quit, but what I want to say is that it is one of the greatest of human follies to underestimate the insidious power of stress. And it is NOT worth it. Man, let me tell you, any of you who are finding yourself at the beginning stages of this sort of work-related hatred that you do NOT want to go there. Sometimes giving up and walking away is a kind of strength too.

The summer was not wasted entirely in sorrow, for I went straightforth into my work and produced a 24-page plan for one term of lessons for both 1st and 2nd year students. Each page is laid out in a table telling who is doing what and for how many minutes each activity is supposed to last. The purpose of this being to make a portfolio that would essentially constitute THE BOMB. Anybody who looked at this, whether they could understand only half of it or not, would certainly say, "Here is a guy who has his shit together." Also revised my resume, and wrote a short essay about teaching feelawsofee blah blah blah which Mr. Ueda heroically translated into perfect Japanese. All of this in time to make the deadline of August 10th at a well-known school of economics in a nearby city. And as providence had planned it that way upon calling Eiji to ask if he could print out the essay for me. He said yes, c'mon over. I said does your printer work? He said yes. I said Are you sure? He said, Yes I'm sure. Drove over to his house. He couldn't find any paper. Finally found some paper after searching for 15 minutes, then back up to his garret filled with stacks of pornographic magazines, empty tissue boxes, ashtrays heaping with butts empty potato chip bags . . . Guess what? No ink. A fruitless search for the cartridge. A call to my next door neighbor who is a junior high principal and also my friend of five years, present land lord and patron saint. He's not home but his wife is who invites me over to use their printer.

Upon reading the letter she says, "Oh, you're applying to K__N____? My husband is a graduate of K__N____." My lower jaw dropped. "WHAT did you say?" A powerful link indeed. Mr. K. rewrote the letter of recommendation that originally got me into my present position. Several days later the second package went off to B_______ Gaukuen Daigakku my other choice of places I'd like to work and where I have friends in high places. Full time position opening there as well. Probably neither place will interview me, as I understand. I'll just get a call hearing one way of the other. K__N____ is a better school, but the disadvantage is that I'll be the only foreigner who has worked there in over seven years and so there is a lot of unwanted baggage that comes with that kind of deal. Now, it's just a matter of waiting to hear the results. Now you must send this e-mail to 10 other people including the person who sent it you or you will be excommunicated from the church of your choice.