A Christmas in Japan

Maybe I was just trying to escape from my problems–'doing a geographical’ as the self help people say these days. Or maybe I just wanted to have some fun. Regardless, in my early 20s, I decided that immersing myself into a foreign language and culture would be a therapeutic escape. After digging through a mountain of application paperwork, I landed a scholarship to study geology at Hiroshima University. 

After my first busy year of study, and facing the butt end of my savings and my student visa, seemingly out of nowhere, I was offered a job at a Japanese publishing company. With precious few job openings for geology majors, I understood that beggars can’t be choosers. I moved up to Tokyo to begin my new job of translating primary school textbooks into English. 

That was the story on paper. In reality, my position as the first foreign employee of the Jinbocho Publishing was more an experiment of a senior executive than a strategic business move.

The thought of being under the spotlight at a new job terrified me. Since I was young, I struggled with anxiety-a nagging tendency to worry even when there is nothing to worry about. I still couldn’t talk to a member of the opposite sex without my face turning bright red. However, I vowed to overcome my nerves, and master the ins and outs of Japanese publishing. 

On my first day, I walked into the office penniless and wearing a sweater I received from my parents the previous Christmas. My manager, Suzuki, took a disapproving glance at me, and then wearily took me through the ropes of being an employee–working hours, insurance forms, and so on. Suzuki appeared to have woken from a decade long nap-definitely not the energetic mentor I had envisioned. In the following year, he would wear the same brown suit to work every day, and spend most of his time slumped in a cubicle, only coming out for meetings. Getting through an hour long meeting without nodding off was a Herculean task for him.

In Suzuki’s mental absence, Asano acted as the group’s de facto leader. Young, sprightly, and sharp as a tack , he also had a contagious laugh and quickly set people at ease. He slyly informed me that Suzuki had a wife and teenage children, and that was the cause of his perpetual exhaustion. 

In contrast, I was twenty-two, single, and bursting with energy. While everyone shuffled through the motions, I dove headfirst into my first—and ultimately, only—project: translating the Jinbocho First Grade Math textbook into English. Why anyone in America would need a Japanese math textbook baffled me, but a prestigious publishing company must have known something I didn’t. I obsessively wrote and rewrote every word and equation of their book, feeling like a mad scientist trying to create the perfect version of single digit addition for an American curriculum.

The ever pleasant Asano calmly guided me along, and I became acquainted with my new teammates and the workings of the company.

“Are you studying any Japanese?” Asano asked during a quiet moment in the office.

“I’m learning Kanji. And I am reading a book by Haruki Murakami,” I replied, feeling pleased to boast about my ability to read a Japanese novel.

Asano chuckled. “That’s good. But Murakami doesn’t use many kanji.”

“What do you mean?”

“His books are easy, good for foreigners.” 

“It is hard for me.” Disappointment must have crept into my face, as Asano suddenly became more upbeat.

“Which book are you reading? Norwegian Wood?” he asked with curiosity.

“A Wild Sheep Chase,” I said.

Ishizuki, the intellectual on our team, was obviously eavesdropping. His attentiveness signalled he had something to say, but when I looked toward him, he didn’t say it, but instead turned away. I returned to editing the math textbook, and hoping someday I’d be able to finish Murakami’s book and read something better.

I got into the work routine. Every few weeks, my draft would be sent to vanish into the black hole of the editorial department, only to return weeks later with a laundry list of corrections. And then the entire process would begin again.

In my downtime, I continued to tackle A Wild Sheep Chase, painstaking translating each word one by one with a hefty dictionary.

The novel’s protagonist wandered the wilds of Hokkaido, searching for a mystical sheep. Being a lone wolf at heart, I related to the joys of solitary adventure. I yearned to find a mystical sheep, or anything else that would make me important. To break me out of a rut of perpetual insignificance.

Unlike the main character of A Wild Sheep Chase, I was tethered to a 9-to-5 job surrounded by people and obligations. After work, our company organized endless karaoke nights, tennis outings, and barbecues. With the rules and protocol involved, they were less fun than they sounded. 

However, after a beer or two, my normally subdued coworkers would often transform into primary school children. They would laugh at fart jokes and ask about girls and sex in America. Lacking much experience, I would smile, tell them lies, and then dive into my next pint of tasty Japanese draft beer while they metaphorically, and literally, slapped my back.

The next day, no one would mention a word of what had been talked about the night before.

Lunchtime was another routine social event, though the cuisine left much to be desired. In the cafeteria, we could choose from one of two invariably bland options. The food was nothing like the gourmet Japanese cuisine held in esteem around the world. My coworkers would quickly devour flavorless noodles in silence as if there were on an impossibly tight schedule, then head outside for a 55-minute smoking break.

Suzuki, our manager, preferred solitude, so our lunch crew consisted of Asano, Ishizuki, Kazu, and the Mole.  

Asano would lead much of the conversation. Ishizuki would occasionally launch into dull intellectual sounding monologues. Kazu cracked jokes and tossed out funny slang expressions. The Mole rarely spoke, just the occasional “yeah” or “maybe.”

The Mole was an unfortunate person. A short and somewhat hairy man, he was often the butt of their jokes. He never reacted or fought back. I found their culture of bullying slightly unsettling, but the Mole showed no interest to reach out to me, and being an outsider, I felt it wasn’t my position to change things.

Kazu was tall and slim, and sported a gravity-defying hairstyle like a 1950s rockabilly. He was the envy of the other men in the office, and often boasted of his romantic escapades. His current ambition was to buy a sports car to impress even more ladies than he apparently already was.

Sachiko, the sole female member of our team, would join us roughly once a week. She would smile politely at their conversation, and never speak up against any of the flagrantly sexist things they frequently said.

“You should teach Sachiko English,” Asano suggested one day.

“I wouldn’t be good at that,” I protested.

“You should teach Sachiko English,” he said. Again. Instead of arguing, repetition was often used in Japan to get a point across.

A week later, Sachiko appeared at my desk holding a copy of The Great Gatsby. It was apparent that Asano has nudged her over. 

“Would Scotto-san teach me English?” she asked. She looked at her book and read aloud in halting English, “A crescent moon hung in the sky–”

“That book is too complex,” I interrupted. “For you.”

“But this is normal English.”

“I will find something better for you,” I insisted, feeling my mental gears already turning on how to teach her English..

“Thank you, Scotto-san,” she sasaid,miling, as if I had just delivered something to her of great value.

After she left, Ishizuki spoke up. “She doesn’t know English” He giggled with a mocking tone. “I’m reading this…” He brandished a copy of Infinite Jest. “I understand every word.”

“That’s a good book,” I said, while feeling upset he was insulting Sachiko, and also wondering why he usually had nothing to say to me if he understood English so well.

Days turned into weeks of editing a children’s textbook and eating bland cafeteria food. I began to tutor Sachiko in English for fifteen minutes each lunch break. As winter approached, the loneliness of spending another Christmas by myself weighed heavily. In Japan, Christmas is a workday, and I was busy editing the textbook as usual.

Sachiko approached my desk. “Thank you, Scotto-san, for teaching me English. On Christmas, we eat chicken. In Japan, Christmas is a romantic day. Would Scotto-san eat chicken with me?” She smiled, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

“Yes, of course!” I said, speaking in the most positive tone I was capable of.

“We will leave here together at 5pm. Thank you Scotto-san”

At the end of the day, we slipped out together. Our other coworkers seemed not to notice. Kazu had been talking about his hot date all day, and had left an hour earlier. 

After a half-hour train ride, Sachiko led me into a KFC (wildly popular in Japan). She ordered enough chicken to feed an army and then whisked me back to her apartment.

As we feasted on fried chicken, she poured a beer and placed it in front of me. I started to loosen up, and she laughed at my silly jokes and stories. As she went to get another beer from the fridge, the warmth of her shoulder brushed against mine, and I felt a spark.

“Kampai!” she declared, after pouring our glasses. I gulped down my cold beer while she took a tiny sip from her.

In A Wild Sheep Chase, the main character cruised along passively while the antagonists of the novel pulled all the strings. I pondered how I usually follow others’ leads. Reacting instead of acting. Maybe it was time to take charge and make the first move.

Just then, a noise at the front door interrupted my train of thought.

“Tadaima!” a man’s voice echoed loudly through the apartment.

“My husband is home,” Sachiko said, looking at me as if this was the most natural occurrence in the world.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” I stammered. My face warmed up, wondering what her husband would do when he found me in the apartment with his wife.

.He walked into the dining room and studied my face. “Ah, this is Scotto-san. Welcome!” he said, then got himself a glass, and poured beer for both of us. “Kanmpai!”

I thanked him in formal Japanese. “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu!” 

He took over the conversation and asked me questions about my time in Japan, what I thought about the new US president, whether I liked the Yomiuri Giants. The Giants even had an American hitter this season, he informed me.

After many more beers, around ten pm I thought it best I be on my way and I said my goodbyes.

“I hope you will come again, and thank you for teaching Sachiko English.”

“I will do my best.” I said in Japanese and bowed deeply.  

They bowed back, slightly deeper than I had bowed to them.

Soon, this chapter of my life was would end, leaving as many unanswered loose threads as the ending of A Wild Sheep Chase. I would then set off on my next adventure, enriched by fascinating experiences yet still adrift in a sea of endless possibilities.