So……the blog thing stumbled huh? Well, in my defence there were good reasons. For starters, I am, by my nature, a lazy lazy man. Which in part makes me an exceptional worker because if anyone can find a way to get a job done quickly to the bare minimum of standard, it is I, because I want to stop working on whatever monotonous thing it is as soon as humanly possible. Employers often fall down at this point. If I work my genius and get the job done with 30 minutes to spare, I expect to spend those 30 minutes with my feet up reading some kind of comic or talking bollocks with anyone who happens to pull up a pew. What I don’t appreciate is being given some sort of ’make-work’ task. You know, those stupid jobs that definitely don’t need to be done because they are pointless and only exist to make the employer feel like they’re getting their money’s worth out of you. ’We’re paying you until 11, so you’re going to work until 11.’ Washing shelves. Sweeping the floor again. Sorting tea into date order. Writing lists of stock that’s needed despite the fact the computer system knows exactly what it needs unless middle-management/chavs have been pinching it again. Bollocks says I. If you’re going to be that way I’ll work the same speed the rest of the chav-spawn do, the work won’t get done and you’ll have some kind of stress related bowel movement all over your half price Burtons suit because the upper-middle-management are going to lay the smack down on you with something like ’we expected better.’
Secondly, there was every chance my sister would read the next part and talk away about it to my parents who would then read it and there’d be mucho explaining, worrying and general hardship that to be honest, I couldn’t be bothered with.
So. It started with a costume party. For some reason, almost every party was a costume party in Toyama, for reasons I never quite gathered. It could be that there were only about 20 English speaking people you ever saw on a regular basis and making them dress in outlandish ways gave some kind of illusion that there were more of us. Of course, as the ultimate lazy man, I simply went through a bunch of characters which mostly just relied on me wearing some kind of suit. Japanese costume party? Well, I’d be Yakuza then, with some kind of pop-gun for shooting people who question whether or not I bothered. Letter M party? Do I dress as a monkey the same as 30% of the crowd or do I simply don the suit, strap a bit of black leather to my face and become a Masquerade guest? Well, when it came to the celebrity party I figured I’d change to something without a suit to pour chu-hi over. Realising that looking like a celebrity would take effort, I went the other way and became ’generic roadie’ with my catchphrase of ’we’re part of the band too!’ Happily all I had to do was wear jeans, big bastard CAT boots and a black T-shirt. To finish off the look I found myself a really shit baseball cap that only a moron would wear. I don’t recall too much of the party. A lot of people put a lot of effort in and then got trashed. I stayed somewhere near sober because we ran out of mixer for the whiskey and its not possible to stomach Black Nikka whiskey without so much as an ice-cube. Japanese whiskey is on about the same level as Tesco’s white label. For all I know both are made from the same secret recipe of dog hair and cow faeces, but Black Nikka in particular retails for about £4 a bottle so you can see how too much too fast can cause blindness. Anyway, It came to about one and I was struck by the revelation that I still had a bottle and a half of Coke at my place, and Beth would probably still be up in some kind of state. Good times could recommence, and I could get out of the party without having to help clean or suffering the embarrassment of projectile vomiting Black Nikka off the 6th floor balcony. It was a plan. I text Beth about my impending arrival, ate a handful of peanuts, picked up the unopened second bottle of Black Nikka and made my way to the glorious contraption that was my bicycle.
At this point, a huge flaw in my plan revealed itself. A monstrous typhoon was passing the town and the weather was decidedly not pretty. It was that kind of sheet rain you only see in the movies because the gods aren’t that bastardish in real life. However, not one to be beaten by the foreign devil gods I fired up my I-Pod with The Trooper, flicked on the sorry excuse for a dynamo powered light and peddled like a madman onto the streets of downtown Toyama. Downtown Toyama sounds a bit dramatic. I mean, it was downtown, it was in Toyama, and it was 5 minutes walking distance from the red light district. But it wasn’t all that exciting. When I got to the shopping arcade I was wet though and freezing cold, but was within 10 minutes of dry clothes and alcohol entering my system, so pretty much I was riding high on The Tailgunner. I came to the intersection going at a fair pace, but it was 1:14am there were people walking in the middle of the road, so the path must be clear right? On I went.
In bad weather, motorists are expected to lower their speed to allow for the conditions. This is perfectly sensible. After all, why test fate? Why make that choice that could lead to such intense agony and miscellaneous trouble that none of us really want to deal with? A sensible man would slow down. There are at least two exceptions to this rule. I was one of those exceptions. You see, while a cautious motorist will slow down, a cyclist will in fact speed up on account of the lack of anything protecting him from the elements. Its all well and good to slow down in a car. You’re dry, warm, listening to Motown greatest hits or something. No rush. If you’re wet through and the only thing stopping the wind flipping you sideways is your forward momentum you’re not going to stop for anyone. You’ll swerve, you’ll curse, you’ll fluke a bunny hop onto a step, but you will not stop. The other exception is a taxi driver trying to get somewhere before their company has to give people money off their fare. They generally know what they’re doing, and bar something completely random happening, they can deal with the speed. They’re experienced, they’ve seen it all, they’re ready for anything. Anything except a soaked half-cut foreigner bombing it out of a side road peddling to some insane beat that only he can hear. I saw him. He saw me. We both did the highway code sensible thing and braked. As it happens, if I’d stuck to my ideology of not stopping for anything, I might have made it. Needless to say, I didn’t. It turns out sheet rain and emergency stops don’t mix all that well. I started skidding. I released the brakes and braked again. Hell yes, I should get through just for being smart enough to know to do that. But foreign gods hate me.
I’m sure there’s supposed to be some kind of life flashing before your eyes thing. My life has been in real danger only twice. Once, when I was hanging off a cliff with one hand in Snowdonia. I was thought something about holding on, and that was about it. This time was different in that I knew there was nothing left to do but grasp onto that brake and ride this bastard out. I couldn’t bail, my head would end up under some juggernaut’s wheel and explode like a watermelon. Swerving would lead to a similar fate of my face impacting with a combination of tarmac and tyre rubber. Given these circumstances its easy to see how a brain supercharged with adrenalin and nothing in particular to do except wait for oblivion could end up flicking through random memories. However, in retrospect, either this is bollocks or the Black Nikka had rendered my brain into some sludgy oatmeal that had no interest in past events and was more concerned with imminent pain and possible dismemberment which to me seems a more sensible thing to think on anyway. Kinda pressing in fact. To this end my thoughts went something along the lines of ’oh shi…’
’…..it.’* I crashed straight into the bonnet just in front of the windscreen ribs first and bounced backwards onto the shiny wet tarmac while the taxi slewed to a halt a few meters further down the street. I’m not entirely sure on the physics, but somehow my bike flipped up from under me into the air and was heading straight for my face. Though by no means beautiful, I like my face well enough to keep it where it is, so it ended up piling into my raised forearms rather than my nose. To be honest I could have really done with some kind of video footage to show exactly what happened. How was I lying broken on the ground with my bike flipping over me? Was I really riding that fast? Surely its not possible without my legs flying off? Or at the very least some intense crotch burns.
My chest hurt. My back hurt. My head hurt. Not badly, but that kind of insistent throb that promises the morning isn’t going to be much fun at all. For some reason I dared hope nobody saw what happened and any shred of street cred I had would be retained. Alas, there was a fair number of spectators standing under their umbrellas watching with the languid interest of people who regularly see people pummelled by motor vehicles. In many countries I’d have immediately been accosted by do-gooders wanting to know if I was ok, and if I wasn’t, if they could they possibly steal my wallet. In Japan its considered to be bad form to offer aid on account of it adding further humiliation to the unfortunate person’s suffering. Before I’d always considered this a slightly cold, almost cruel attitude to those in need, but standing in the middle of the road being lashed by a storm I completely understood how unwelcome their attention would have been. I just wanted to get back on my way to some warm apartment where I could put the whisky to use on numbing the ache permeating my entire body. Looking at my bike, I came to the realisation that it in no way was going to be that easy. I’ve ridden a bike with two buckled wheels before. Its intensely hard going, but do-able if you’re particularly desperate or alternatively too far gone to realise that you seem to be putting uphill effort into going downhill. Unfortunately, as well as being buckled, by front wheel was bent at a 45 degree angle and quite obviously wasn’t going to turn ever again. Compacting the problem was that the taxi driver was out of his car walking purposely towards me talking on a mobile phone. I’d only travelled in a taxi twice since coming to Japan, and so I was ready for a Westerner strain of the species in that I expected insults, threats and quite possibly a number of blows. I winced at the shock of pain that lanced through my chest as I drew myself up to my full height to try to discourage at the very least the latter expectation.
He was a jovial looking chubby guy in his late thirties who hung up the phone and started speaking Japanese at me. At me rather than to me because my Japanese is profoundly sub-par. In fact, probably the majority I learnt from Street Fighter, but you’d be surprised how little the word hadouken (powerful energy blast or wave motion fist depending who you ask) is used in every day conversation. He seemed to be apologising and asking if I needed an ambulance, looking quite concerned. My face split into what I hoped was a friendly smile and unleashed the one word I knew which would sort this situation out.
Daijobu. Its an awesome word which essentially means ’hey, no worries.’
You lost a students files. Daijobu.
You just got mugged. Daijobu.
Your house is burning and your sister is inside. Daijobu.
In my case, almost suffered death by taxi. Daijobu.
Its Ok, I can make my way home, we can forget this ever happened. I just need to get home, out of the rain, and not be caught up in any kind of insurance detail malarkey. Over the man’s shoulder I noticed that we were in fact standing just outside the offices for his taxi company. More to the point, we were standing outside his taxi company and there was a trio of men in suits walking across the road in some very serious looking suits led by a frightening looking old guy, the kind of guy who is almost certainly in with the organised crime syndicate of Toyama . You know a man is important when he has a lackey hold an umbrella for him, but only over him. The lackey completely ignored the downpour that was falling on his own head. My Daijobu’s got a lot more urgent as I tried to pick my bike up and make some kind of limping getaway because if those men got to me I was finished. Mucho explaining would have to be done, and I was in no condition to be on my top blagging form.
Unfortunately, while the man was as I say a jovial chubby type, he also a steely grip that suggested just under the chubbiness was a helluva a lot of muscle fed by a driven will to do the right thing, in this case getting me medical attention whether I wanted it or not. Then I recognised a two words. Phone. Police.
At this point wild untamed terror took over. Japanese are, generally, nice courteous people. Japanese police work on the basis that a confession is the ultimate evidence and they know they can do most anything within the Geneva Convention to get one. They stop being courteous and turn into the Spanish Inquisition but with more conviction and perhaps less mercy. ’DAIJOBU. I feel great, honest. On top of the world. No harm, no foul, eh? DAIJOBU.’ The trio of men in black arrived. I turned to them imploringly. ’Daijobu, right? Hai? Daijobu?’
’You hurt?’
’Nei, Daijobu.’
’Your bike, its broken. We will pay?’
’Nei. Daijobu…eh…Daijobu…cheap…five thousand yen…daijobu…no worries.’
’You need to see…doctor? Hospital?’
’No, no, no, no. Daijobu’
’Police are on their way. They will help.’
’No need. Daijobu.’
’Its ok. I know…some….English. It will be OK.’
’Daijobu. Its OK. Its OK now. I’ll just go home. Very tired. Oh crap.’
The police arrived. Not on foot, or those quaint bicycles they meander around on. It wasn’t even your average police car with a couple of coppers. Toyama is the capital of the prefecture, so it has a substantial police presence, but is also on the quiet West coast which means they don’t actually have all that much in the way of crime. So I found myself facing a police van with an entire squad. I’d say they were making a mountain out of a molehill but it would probably turn out that they were just very very bored police officers. Plus, they got to lay the smack down on a foreigner, and to a certain type of Japanese person this is a special opportunity to be treasured.
There was lots of talking between various black suited types and police officers, the senior of whom occasionally asked me something to which I shrugged. Another Black suited driver joined us and, on account of his wife learning English, knew enough to translate some of what was going on. I gave my details as best I knew them, but got a particularly bad feeling when they asked me about where I worked. If they followed up on their investigation in any way and got hold of my workplace I could kiss my job and my holiday-life in Japan goodbye. The company doesn’t particularly care what you do as long as you don’t give them a bad reputation, and having one of your teachers involved in a drunk riding accident at 2 in the morning would be considered all together quite embarrassing. I had no idea of Japanese law, but I was sure I must have broken at least one law. At least the car didn’t appear damaged. No, wait, the wing was distinctly concave. Balls. Which is what they had me by when the senior policeman found the Black Nikka on the ground next to my bike. If it had broken, as bottles are liable to do when they hit concrete at speed, I’d have been in a blaggable position. ’Never seen it officer. Someone must have dropped it officer. Nothing to do with me.’ Alas, bar some scratches to the label, it was unharmed, which blew my defence of disowning it completely out of the water. A malicious grin split the man’s craggy face. It was almost as good as a confession. I sent a hurried text to Beth.
Been run over. OK. Will be late.
Play it down I thought. Yeah, I’ve been drinking. He can smell it. But he doesn’t know how much. That bottle is still sealed, its not like I’ve drunk two thirds of it. I was at a party, had two or three drinks over a period of time, and made my way home. Hell, that was pretty much the truth. Sure my drinks were pints of rum and coke rather than shots, but they don’t know that. I made my defence through my amateur translator while the officer nodded sagely. A man was using a wheel to measure distances of where the car hit me and where I hit the ground, and marking key points with chalk. The officer beckoned me over to the van and started fiddling with something inside while mumbling. ’He wants you to breathe into this. OK?’ The translator said. The officer turned holding what could only be a breathalyser test. ’Really blow,’ the translator added with a good natured smile. Even if there was a choice, refusing would be right up there with confessing, so I did it. And the reading went up. I can’t recall exactly what it said, it wasn’t a fancy digital one, but rather a strip with some coloured line that reminded me of doing PH tests as a kid. Anyway, I was three times over the legal limit from driving in Japan, which means I quite possibly would have been OK back home. So if its that for driving, I asked, what is it for riding a bicycle? It turns out bicycles come under traffic law, so its all the same thing to them. As far as the law was concerned, I was a drunk driver, one of those careless fiends who casually drive .. running down some sweet old lady and her grandchildren.
The officers and black suits went into some kind of huddle to decide what to do next while an exceptionally attractive young police lady led my translator and I into some cover from the rain to do some kind of roadside tests. They all followed the format of the officer saying something, the driver translating, me doing it, and the driver giving me advice.
’Blahdy blahdy-blahdy blahdy blah.’
’She wants you to walk over there.’
’OK.’ I walked along the crack between the paving slabs. I’ve known times when this could have been a problem, but at this point, I was stone cold sober and had seen enough ’Police Camera Action’ to know to turn at the end and walk back where I came from.
’Yes, Yes! Well done!’ The driver clapped. It was like having my very own supporters in some kind of twisted sport. I’m not sure exactly what he expected when he asked me to walk in a straight line. Maybe his fear of messing up the translation meant he half expected me to start cartwheeling down the road while singing ’She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain. Which would have ended in tears because I can’t carry through a cartwheel and I only know the chorus to the song. Anyway, it was good to know at least one of these guys was on my side.
The senior guy, satisfied that my superior gaijin drinking abilities had dealt with the alcohol let me off with the warning of ’look before you cross the road. And don’t drink.’ I agreed that this might well be the way forward for me. Yes officer, I’m a reformed man who’s learnt from his mistakes, and will never touch a drop again. At the very least, not a drop of that absurd Black Nikka. It really is terrible. This was pretty much on the condition that none of us tried to sue each other as it turns out that in an accident, a motor vehicle driver is always the responsible party. I have the feeling that the black suited guys were as happy as me to see the end of this, as it could quite possibly end up costing the man his license and the company a whole lot of money and bother. Everyone wanted it to be daijobu. Happily, as cycles come under traffic law, the primary punishment is penalty points on ones driving license. As I didn’t have a license, I was mostly safe. Unless they talked to my boss at Nova, but even these bored police can’t be that motivated. There was one last thing to do, have official photos taken of the damage incurred to the vehicles. This consisted of the driver and I crouching next to our respective machines and pointing at the broken bits. My bike required a lot of pointing. And then I had to carry the bastard thing back to my apartment to get my drink with Beth. Past a police station full of curious faces. Damn.
In the morning I was woken up by the door bell, and found the head of the Taxi company flanked by the driver and my favourite fan outside holding an envelope. It was compensation for the unfortunate incident and there was a whole lot of official bowing that went on which was particularly unpleasant for me because my ribs were actually in agony by this point, and moving at all was a chore. After they left, I opened up the envelope to find five thousand yen, the same amount I said my Bike cost. Whilst this was the truth, in retrospect I should have quadrupled the price considering the amount of pain I was in. And then I had to walk to work because my bike was bust. I still don’t understand how I ticked off those foreign gods so much. It seems unfeasible that I should have this much trouble considering my usually good karma. By the third lesson of the day I couldn’t breathe without feeling like I should be screaming, so I figured getting those ribs checked might be a good idea. Of course all the hospitals were a good distance away because otherwise they would be convenient, leaving me to call on the elemental power know and Koji, who promptly picked me up and drove me to the Accident and Emergency department. Whilst not particularly an emergency, Japanese hospitals have some kind of screwed up useless system mirroring the bank’s operating hours, where they open at nine and close at three or four. Thus I was an emergency, and waited for a total of 20 minutes before being whisked between a doctor, having X-rays taken, and going back to some kind of consultant who studied the X-rays and had Koji translate what was going on. The doctor started laughing. Koji started laughing. They started laughing together at my X-rays. At this point my temper was seriously frayed and I demanded an explanation for the apparent hilarity my x-rays represented. Koji pointed at a big white patch on the screen.
’You see here?’
’Yeah, what is it?’ Some warped part of my brain jumped to conclusion they were laughing at some kind of massive tumour or haemorrhage in my abdomen.
’This bit?’
’Yes! What is it!?’
’ITS YOUR GAS. HA! YOU HAVE TOO MUCH GAS.’
’Gas.’
’Yes. Too much.’
Embarrassing. But not life threatening. I figured on releasing the gas right then to see how they liked the solution to this particular problem, but in all honesty I hurt too much to break wind. Nothing was broken, and there was nothing to indicate anything more than perhaps a hairline fracture. All the pain was most probably muscular, and would fade after maybe four weeks which doesn’t sound so bad until you realise how much the muscle between and over your ribs has to move. Say, every time you sit, try to roll over in bed, or indeed, breathe. Until then I had a cocktail of painkillers and anti-inflammatories and was packed off on my way with over a hundred quids worth of medical bills and a swipe card that contained my records. As far as efficiency goes, its pretty useful to have a patient carry duplicates of their records. There’s no need to hunt for them, no risk of losing them in paperwork or the system, everyone carries their maladies on a metallic strip in their wallets. Convenient.
What was inconvenient is that I ran out of pills after four weeks but was in pain for three months. Especially inconvenient because ten days later I climbed Mt. Fuji…
* Rhymes with hit obviously. If I hadn’t pointed that out some student literary critic would possibly find it one day and point out how I must be some kind of genius subtle writer for using it to start a paragraph in which the person in question physically hits something. Really, its not a sentence, its not even a word particularly, its just the noise that rhymes with hit. Amazing. Well, I’ve blown it for both of us now kid. I’ve destroyed the subtlety and you’re going to have to find something else to dissect.
