Goggles

Work. Nobody cares. Monday to Friday. Early mornings, occasional late nights. I never make sales. I’m lucky. I don’t have to be on the ball, I just have to push my reports past certain desks on or around certain dates and do something engendered by 21 years of life and 15 years of primary, secondary and post secondary education: Read, understand, process. Being unimportant is comfortable in various senses of the word. Nobody depends on me for anything, and thus, I myself am independent. I can ask for extensions if I feel like it, but mostly I just say something might be late and turn it on by the deadline. Wow the man. Keep other people’s expectations of you pleasantly low so you can always exceed them. Play the game. Move up slowly, cautiously. Don’t get into debt. Don’t get too involved. Don’t get convicted. The minute you have convictions is the minute your principles are opened up to bidding. Principles?

A year ago from this moment (Monday, July 14th, 2008) I thought I could get used to this. I had a job. I had a really hot (alwasshe, stupid) girlfriend, more money than I knew what to do with and boundless energy and enough spare time to utilize it in whatever reasonable manner I pleased. I thought I might be able to live here, forever. There was frontier here. It was strange and beautiful all the time. Every day was an adventure. Home was boring. It was punishment for having overstayed your welcome in Japan. It was a place where I had responsibility without gain, people appreciated me only in terms of what I could give them, and it seemed like everyone around me was content in a state of perfect normalcy.

I was starting to get to the point in my life where people were asking me what I wanted to do with the rest of it. Most of them never really had the choice. If I had the choice and all- -I’d be…I’d be—the catcher in the Rye kikikikikikikikikiki- -just kidding. You’re an idiot if you answer like that. You missed the point. Nobody can be the catcher in the Rye. Gotta let ‘em reach for the ring by their ones. Gotta let ‘em jump. Jump kiddies! It’s a soft landing as long as you have your delusions about you to cushion the blow. Some of you won’t make it though, I’ll warn you straight up. Hard reality is fatal upon impact. That’s why we have aphorisms. Canned truth. It’s okay to have more a few. They can even be conflicting if you want. It’s not the fall really, it’s the sudden stop. We’re all falling anyways. Take the plunge. Sink. Like Bowering kiddies. Sink.

- -No, what was it? People used to ask me if I wanted to go on to grad school. I did, I wanted to be a lawyer. The law always interested me in the same way literature did. Active interpretation. Too competitive though. Too tedious. Was thinking about trial law. Prosecutor. Loved justice. Decided it’s not in my interest to pick such serious work. Leave to people who care enough to be convicted. It was actually my dad who talked me out of Law. He used to be a Lawyer. Got sick of it. “You’re never working for yourself.” Wanted to be his own boss. Wanted freedom. That’s what being an American is all about: Freedom ©

(copyright 1776 all rights reserved)

Funny thing is though, he never calls himself an American. Hates Yankees. Is one, but hates ‘em. Calls himself a Canuck. I can see why sometimes. We’re the worst aren’t we? But in the best way possible—Tell ‘em how it is Mr. Bruckheimer. What happened? Inspiration. Professors and their damned enthusiasm. If only they would’ve left me alone- -kept belittling me, with their scrutinizing eyes. No, a few of them encouraged me to learn- -that I was capable of reaching their level. Problematize, problematize. Then it suddenly seemed like the lifestyle of paying money for the privilege of being overworked and single without income until your early thirties had appeal. Maybe I’d be happy living in a microscopic town located in the remotest corner of the most backwater state/province/prefecture I could imagined, encouraging all those pretentious little sh*ts who have the nerve to wear designer clothing while b*tching about what Capitalism is doing to the environment and the working class. Maybe I’d even be good at it.

This marketing report. China…blah blah process mechanization…blah blah TCO doesn’t matter to the average Chinese producer so much as…Acid rain!!!!!!!!!!!!!!- -Problematize, problematize F*ck this. This used to be worth it somehow…the paycheck and the pat on the back? No…it was Miss Takahashi. Everything’s a lie. This marketing report. My report on the marketing report. Academia is more fulfilling than corporate life. True love—That’s what was making me feel really fucking stupid at the moment. I was in agony and so depressed I could barely get out of bed to go to work, and had nobody to discuss it with, and all over a girl who wasn’t even that hot anyways…What did we have together in the first place beyond my ideals? We spent more total hours together on videophone before I was in Japan than in-person after I arrived. I was two months into the season and only 7 Home Runs, and the only thing that ever made suffering like this worthwhile…the travelogue…was as good as dead to me. I felt like that Gilbert Sullivan song, but not the one about matrimony, the one about your life sucking ass… I didn’t want to listen to it thought because that (like everything else) reminded me of Yuki because I sang it for her on a Love-hotel karaoke machine in a moment of pathetic literary foreshadowing on the evening of May 27th, 2006. I was avoiding going to the Retro because I didn’t want…I don’t know.

I went to Bar R after dinner. Literature wasn’t working, so I tried conventional wisdom. That didn’t help either so I needed arrogance. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that on tap anymore. But I knew just the guy who did. Kouba-ken worked Mondays and Tuesdays there. I had enjoyed our conversation about music culture and Europe the last time I we had a drink together. He’s an asshole. He’s overconfident, way-too into his own aesthetic, conceited about his talent and his importance, and his girlfriend is way hotter than mine. Basically, exactly who I was one year ago. Part of me resents him for it. That’s why he can help me. He can get me out of this. He can turn back time for me.

I strolled in maybe 8:40 to find him on a barstool in casual-wear instead of behind it in an apron. He was surprised to see me.
‘Ah- -Teddo? …Where’s Soon-Mi?’
[Slight, intentional pause]
‘She didn’t tell you? …We broke up.’
[long pause]
‘Sou…I’m sorry to hear that.’ He turned to his drink. I sat down beside him. It wasn’t exactly inviting to be there. I got the feeling he wasn’t really surprised to be hearing this from me. I didn’t exactly get the feeling he wanted to talk about it with me either, but he graciously started in for me, “hekonderu?”
‘Not really. Not anymore I mean. I was feeling terrible before, but I’m okay now.’ Only I came to a bar alone hoping I’d run into my ex-gilfriend’s bandmaster in order to “find my center”.
‘That’s good…’
I ordered a drink.
I made sure I didn’t bring her up again, until two rounds later. There are aesthetic reasons for this: Firstly, I wanted to seem like I was crushing my horrible pain deep down inside of me and that I came here in a daze, knowing only that alcohol would make me numb enough to sleep, and realized that I was at BarR—no doubt drawn subconsciously by its associations with Soon-Mi—and our meeting was purely a coincidence. This would make me seem manlier than I actually, and “reserved” and “distant”…a “mysterious foreigner with a trouble past"- -"shocking secrets” etc. etc. Hopefully I could come off emotionally mangled enough (in a really cool and subtle way) that he would ask me first, and if not I could excuse the impulse to spill my guts on my BAC. Perfect plan, he’ll never know.

It worked too.
‘…And then she made me pay for the studio time ‘cause “she bought the recorder” and “I owed her anyways”…’
He laughed. ‘That’s terrible.’
I was trying hard not to exaggerate, but as it came out of my mouth, Soon-Mi seemed like more and more of a b*tch. I mean- -we break up. I call her and tell her I want her back. She leaves me on the hook. We go to a party together. She introduces parades me around as ‘her idiot ex-boyfriend’. She calls me out to Kichijouji and makes me drop 40 bucks on sticks and studio time and then leaves me hanging on the train without even an "I’ll call you." Why am I doing this? Because you have no spine?

The sparknotes version’ll get you a C- on the essay Teddo…Didn’t tell him about Minami. Didn’t tell him that I’d been cheating on her inside my head everyday an’ everymoment she aint around. Didn’t tell him you said you were still in love with her without having made up your mind about your future together. I don’t have to, the paraphrase is just as important as the passage some of the time. The author needs the critics as much as the critic needs the author. Critics are hacks. They nitpick with artists and undergrads because it makes them feel better for never having achieved their dream of being a published author. You wouldn’t say that if you were half decent at what you’re supposed to do, Mr. “B” English Major That’s not even good enough for Starbucks you’ll be working at f**king Timothy’s when you graduate. It’s plenty good enough for my intensive purposes. What? Japlit program at a state school back in freedomland? S’long as my GREs go well, and I’ll work hard and boost my GPA in my last year. You know my cover letter and thesis proposal will more interesting than half the sh*t that’s out there. To what end? So you can sellout and spend half your life overworked making “valuable academic publications” and do the same thing your profs and your shitty TAs did to you? All for the sake of a tenure and a comfortable 85large a year- -promising yourself you’ll start writing again when things at work calm down. Might as well go corporate son. You’re supposed to suffer for your art. I’m suffering plenty in case you noticed. You call pub crawling in Tokyo on a stable income suffering? You’re outta touch. Just whose side are you on? I take no side—I’m on the side of true love hehehehehhehe.

I noticed Koubaken’s drink was up. I decided to buy him one to keep him here for a while long. I also noticed I was really drunk. Sadness interacts with alcohol in the blood stream. Makes you drunker quicker. -Kkkkk. I also noticed a brunette at the end of the bar, alone. ‘Whaddaya want? I’ll buy it for you- -say thank you for listenin’’
‘Really? …Thank you. What shall I have...ne’
‘Pick a cocktail. What you haint ever tried before. Go wild. On me.’
I made eye contact with the brunette—when I say brunette, I mean dyed brown hair. It looked dead. Like she’d done that a couple too many times. She had a nasty face—not that she was hideous to look upon, just I mean she looked like the kind of girl that sleeps around a lot because it makes her feel desireable. Low self-esteem I gander. She had on a cheap black blazer and beige shirt. And a blue pleated navy-blue skirt. She looked back at me with this naughty smile—full of fake coyness and self-conscious sex-appeal. I nodded in her direction, and raised what was left of my drink to my lips so I could join Koubaken in the next round. Already, I was hatching another devious plan.

We had some kind of BarR special. All I remember of it was that it cost 12 dollars, was bright red and tasted like magic. Incapacitated doesn’t even described where it put me next. Koubaken, despite now being significantly closer to being caught up, was starting be visibly uncomfortable with how drunk I was, and the sex eyes I was blasting to the other side of the bar.
‘Teddo, what are you doing?’ He asked me, really frank-like.
‘…I don’t even know anymore. Is this wrong?’ I remember my eyes got wet at this point. ‘I wanna go talk to that girl, but…’
He took another look at her. She smiled back at him more lasciviously. He swallowed. ‘…I mean- -you just broke up with Soon-Mi. Don’t you? …’
‘I don’t know man- -I want to, but she won’t even call…maybe I should just move on.’ I didn’t know who I was convincing at this point.
‘Maybe…’ He stood up and finished his drink. ‘I got school tomorrow. You have work. I think you should go home and rest tonight.’
‘Yeah…I think so.’
‘See you later Teddo.’ He said goodbye to the barstaff and waltzed out the door.


I ordered another whiskey and slid up next to the barskank at the counter. ‘You mind if I sit here?’
‘Not at all.’ she said. Her tone was neither inviting nor dismissive.
I sat down.
I’d never done this before. Never. Believe it or not, for all the wild skirt-chasing antics you’ve read of mine (and believe me, that’s only the start of it), until this moment I’d never approached a girl at a bar and gone to work on her. I was kinda nervous, kinda guilty, kinda horny and kinda confused. My thoughts were starting to spin whirlpools and bubble over like Jacuzzi with one-too-many fat b*tches stuffed into it.

Her bangs hid, what looked to be very coarse, oily skin and a condensation of either moles or sunspots about two inches above her right eye. That is about all I remember because at this point I was hammered. Even at that moment, some distant part of me knew that if I was sober I would’ve probably though she was ugly. I get the goggles bad. I mean it, my friends know me to get my smarm on with an bunk-waitress three drinks after I called her a total a “eeegggh…”. Most of ‘em like to sit back and watch hoping for either result because either’ll be amusing. Some of them try and “save” me which inevitably ends up with me explaining my “competency” and “selection” with the “Majors and J-league” theory:

“You know the difference between the majors and the J-league?” So I’m always reported saying, “Major league hitters—the great ones—go after every ball. Japanese…always wait for the strike. - -Yogi Berra…Nnotorious bad-ball hitter…And Ichiro!…that guy can hit anywhere to- -anywhere…you know what I mean? like…HIT EVERY BALL…hit-every-ball…”

Hit every ball.
‘My name’s Shouko.’ She was saying.
‘Shouko what?’
‘Touyama.’
‘Nice name.’
She didn’t ask me mine.
‘Teddo. Sumisu Teddo. You waiting for someone, can I buy you a drink?’
‘I guess…if you want to.’ She said shifting her glance to the window.
Hard to get eh? I never swing at that first-ball breakin’-ball.

Count was 0-1 (remember, you count strikes-balls in Japan) in my favor and she was all blah blah blah I have a job and thingslikethat and I figured this wasn’t going to be much of a shoubu (dual). The closer I got to her face, the more I knew I’d probably regret waking up next to it tomorrow morning, but It seemed like a fitting punishment for how pathetic I was feeling. That, and I don’t hold myself above trashing one out against a Single-A pitcher just to get my swing back. No shame in being sent down to Tacoma for a week or two. No shame at all.

blah blah blah Canada, really? I like rocky mountains.
Hurry up and throw a strike bitch, I aint got all night.
‘So…Shouko,what your hobby?’
She smiled that forced dirty smile again, and tossed her hair back and looked ahead at the bar. 「不倫」She said.
(“adultery”)
I coughed a sip of my drink back into my old-fashioned. That looked like a fastball to me. I tried to take a swing at it, but I was way late: ‘So…d’you often do things like, uh,that? …’ Steeeeee. 1-1
‘Yeah…pretty often.’ She said with a big grin. ‘Why? You don’t?’
I wanted to say something to the effect of I was trying to, but I was technically broken up, so I was technically not cheating. Technically.
‘Never really given it any thought. My relationships don’t really last, guess I’ve never really had the chance to give it a try…’ Check swing. 1-2. Almost went around, though, the second sentence was more of a complaint than a proposition.
‘Yeah…you look like a good little boy. You gotta girlfriend Teddo-kun?’ That’s the curveball way outside, don’t swing at that. Tryin’ get me to chase it, stupid b*tch. You think I’m an amateur? I’m Randy—f**kin’—Bass, ho. Third season, west Tokyo slugging club.
‘Stupid questions perhaps, but you gotta boyfriend Miss Toyama?’ Ball three. 1-3. 7th inning and the crowd is on their feet here in Tachikawa. Touyama’s in a pinch. Smith is showing some great composure out there, getting ahead in the count. Next pitch has gotta be a fastball.
‘I’ve got three.’ Off-speed prolly, but I’ve got it keyed.
‘Well then, shouldn’t be a problem to make it four.’
‘Hmmm’ she smiled, I started my swing, ‘Sorry, I prefer married men.’ Holy shit, slider!
I swung hard for a strike. Spun me right around. That thing just dove outta sight.
‘Besides, You’re a little young for me…I prefer older guys- -Guys in their forties.’ She said avoiding eye contact.
‘Well how old are you?’
’26.’
‘I’m 24, s’not a bad match?’
‘Nope. Too young.’
My phone rang. I fiddled with it for an embarrassing amount of time before I got it out of my pocket and took a look at the display. During that interval I guess I struck out looking. Distractions… - -It was Soon-Mi calling me.
‘Hold that thought.’ I said bitterly and trudged back to the dugout (out the door and into the street).
“Moshi Moshi?”
‘Hello? You asshole, you have no right to go behind my back and talk to my friends about our relationship problems!! How dare you?! It’s one sided, and sneaky- -you’re such a liar!!’
‘What? Wai- -Soon-Mi, what is this about?’
‘You know perfectly well- -‘
‘No, I have no f**king clue what you’re talking about. What happened?’ I was standing out-front the Mexican restaurant where not even a week ago I’d been kissing this girl. The same lips were now hot with breakup-anger. The table where the middle-aged ladies we’d grossed out was empty, the staff was closing up shop.
‘Koubaken just called me. He said “You’re the worst, I can’t believe you’d do that to Ted.”’ At least someone is on my side. ‘That’s not fair! You only told him half the story. It’s just your point of view’ If only she knew how right she was, ‘…and ontop of that my bandmaster. Now everyone’s going to know!’
Know what, that you were a b*tch to me? That we’re broken up and doing this circular “feelings” limbo? Are you going to have to list off my sins to your friends defend yourself from their scrutinizing? ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sarcastically, ‘I didn’t know that I’m not allowed to talk about my problems with people and get advice when I’m hurting.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that…it’s just…he said I was a “bitch”- -and he told me that you talked a lot…about us, and- -‘
‘- -and it was embarrassing for you, so you decided you call and take it out on me?’
‘Well, why did it have to be him?’
‘Because I don’t know anybody my age Soon-Mi. Nobody. You are the only person I’ve hung out with all summer.’
‘Yeah, but him?’
‘What? You haven’t been talking to anybody.’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘Not to anybody? Chiaki? [Real]Soon-Mi.’
‘Chiaki called me and said we should hang out. She told me you called her. That I shouldn’t be alone right now. I haven’t seen her yet though…I called my sister.’
‘What did your sister say?’
‘…That I should find someone else. She told me about her sh*tty German boyfriend of last year…that- -‘
‘- -White men are all scum?’
‘No. Why would you think that?’ Because I’m insecure b*tch, why else? ‘Anyways, I haven’t talked to [Real]Soon-Mi either. I’ve been busy…’

I was reminded—and this wouldn’t be the first time—that there are people in the world who are not like me. Who do not need to rattle off perfect segments of their life story to friends and strangers in order to deal with the things in life that rattle them. That some people can deal with their problems on their own, or are at least capable of comfortably suppressing troublesome emotions. There were many moments throughout the coming weeks where Soon-Mi Kim demonstrated that she was a lot more mature than I was. And it often pissed me off as often as it placated me. Simultaneously though, I was also beginning to see a wrathful, upbraiding, insecure woman who had been cheated-on or abandoned by every boy she’d ever kissed. And part of me was willing to theorize there might’ve been a reason for it. At that moment I felt she was doing exactly what I was doing a year ago: Justifying, laying blame, too afraid of what others would think to be honest with herself and take responsibility for her actions. I somehow felt that recognizing it made me the wiser, and that resisting the temptation to do the same and letting all the blame fall squarely on yours truly made me somehow the righteous one. I forgot that in order to be a moral person one has to act, well, moral.

‘Soon-Mi I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. Gen’s in Texas, everyone I know at work is in their thirties, I can’t bring this up with my basketball teammates or my cheering-party- -I need to talk to somebody.’
.
.
.
‘Well why didn’t you call me?’
And here’s where I started to lie. ‘…Because I thought you didn’t me want to.’
‘Why would you think that? We talked yesterday didn’t we?’
‘Yeah but,’ and I put on a nice, “hurt” voice here, ‘You called me all the way out to Kichijouji, you made me pay for studio time, and we didn’ talk…about anything and then you just left me hanging on the train…’
‘…Well…why didn’t you say something?‘
Because you didn’t have your mind made up? ‘…I don’t know. I just went along with what you told me to. I thought we were gonna talk afterwards, but we just played music and then…”goodbye.” It felt like it was just over.’
‘…Nothing is over, we said we were gonna talk about it right?’
“Mn.”
‘Well…writing is really important for you right?’ Thank you for finally recognizing, ‘Music is important for me. I was just thinking.’
‘So you still care about me?’
“…Mn…”
‘Good…because I still care about you. Just like I said before…’
“Hontou ni?”
“Honma.”
She laughs. ‘You’re [Kansai] accent is still crap.’
‘Really? …I thought you taught me well…’
‘I guess I’m a sh*tty teacher.’
We both laughed. There was a mutual sigh. A prolonged pause and a simultaneous search for words- -feelings.
‘So- -I’ll call you later?’ I pushed.
“…M- -mn.”
‘Tomorrow?’
“Hai.”
“Wakatta…”
“Jaa ne…”
“Jaa na…”
She hung up first. I took a breath.

Buzz kill. But I felt as a result, I might be able to last till the 9th inning tonight, and maybe get my batspeed up to where it normally is. I walked back into the building and stared up towards the bar. The minute the florescent lights of the narrow stairwell is when the second wave of guilt set in. My ears start to burn with the blood and the drink. What happens if I f*ck this b*tch tonight? I mean what about Soon-Mi. That sounded like progress, maybe there’s still hope. N’what if there is hope, do I ever want that? ‘Get back together with her and it’s just a month more of getting ditched for the band[s] and public outbursts then eight long cold months in montreal…then grad school. Entrance exams. More temptation in Tokyo- -that’s assuming I keep my promise to her. What about promises? How many more do I have to make to keep us together? I followed my impulses back upstairs to where my drink and this bar skank was waiting.

Around the next drink is where the memory loss starts to set in. I wanted to stick around a few innings to my next at bat. It came when the bar staff told her that I was too drunk and she should get me in a taxi. Yes! Score. B*tch is comin’ to da taxi with me. We’re walking over towards Tachikawa station and I literally cannot stand by myself or walk straight without guidance, and I am convinced that this all plays out into my favor. I’m just like Matt Stairs. I love the 0-2. I told her about Canada, about snowcapped mountains, about cool summerbreezes, blue skies and big open spaces, about how I could take her there—hell why not? I’d done it before. We’re two people back in the takushi-noriba when I decide to swing for the fences:

‘So- -you gon’ walk all the way back to the bar or- -you wanna go home with me?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘…Oh…I’m sorry, I thought you did this a lot.’ [laughs quietly to himself.]
Now she laughs. ‘You’re drunk Mr. Smith.’
‘Yes I am. Aren’t you?’
‘Not really. No.’
The cab door opened. I almost felt like pleading with her. Like explaining to her that I’d done everything right tonight. The best I could come up with though was ‘Can I kiss you?’
‘What?’
Haha, bunt to first b*tch!! My lips connected with hers in an awkward teenage kind of way.

Slow roller. Right at her. She’s gonna pick it up and take it there herself.


She pushed me into the cab, the back of my head hit the window roller on the opposite door. I sat up to say ‘call me’ but the door was closed in my face. She waved goodbye. I wanted to believe it meant “goodnight”. I slouched back into the seat and I directed the cabby to my home in single-loser’s paradise. With my last conscious effort I tried to recalculate what’d happened. I’d been just struck out twice by a ni-gun pitcher who gives up homers to forty year old men who’ve been retired from the game for longer than I’d been alive. I know I always say this, but I’d officially hit rock bottom.

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Batting Stats!!～
At Bats 69
Hits 25
1B 4
2B 4
3B 10
HR 7
BB 4
RBI 20
Struck Out 22
AVG .362

Everyone has great expectations of me because I batted .414 last year and set franchise records for home runs hits and just about everything else. You have to remember though, even I've already struck out 22 times this season (which is 7 more than last years total) with a month and no pitchers left in my bullpen...that .362 is a better batting average then most of the players in this league...Now- -negotiations are still ongoing with Miss Kim. Despite last night's bout, were hoping that she'll join us again as a starter to finish the season and then we'll see where we're at in September.

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Part of trip: The Summer of Lame

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