Calgary and Montana Trip (Day 8+9)

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Now was the homestretch.

This past week had all been in preparation for these three days.

These three days would define the trip.

These three days would define the semester.

These three days could possibly define the year.

These three days would probably have absolutely no bearing on my life.

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Despite its significance, Day 8 was completely uneventful.

It was spent driving 12 hours from Montana to Calgary.

Chiaki slept the whole ride.

The end.

Fuck.

Ok.

These two days would define the trip, the semester and the year.

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Day 9, I was completely jittery. The same feeling you get when you’re just about to launch fisticuffs, the same feeling you get when you’re slowly climbing the first hill in a roller coaster, the same feeling you get when you’re about to confess your love to a girl. An excitement which makes every decision, every object, everything sharper, clearer and decidedly scarier.

I was pumped.

I pulled Ted and Yuriko (my two best batters/consultants) and I voiced my major concern, should I pop it today or tomorrow? My instinct and the pent up, um, frustration of 8 days said the former, common sense from my two batters easily convinced me of the latter. A pat on the back from both of them, and I was set.

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On the itinerary for Day 9 were two b-ball games: Ted’s sister, Maggie, was going to show how she schooled Calgary girls in a high school game and later, we were slated to see Canada West’s college playoff.

We hopped into our usual phalanx of Toyota SUVs and cruised to the other side of town. Maggie’s school, Rundle HS, was the most ridiculous attempt at a high school I had ever seen. On the outside, it looked like just about any suburban school-a nondescript brick block slapped into the middle of a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Inside, it looked like I had stepped into a cross between a museum, a mall and an upscale sports gym.

I won’t lie, my public high school was pretty crazy-we had a marble lobby, a 2,000 seat auditorium, two gyms, a computer lab, a pool and a decent library. Pretty standard fare for any high school in America—except mine was parked in the center of New York City, where land is insanely expensive and public schools are treated like Jews in Germany circa 1941. To give you a good comparison, my zone high school had no gyms, no pool, no library, no auditorium, no computers, was heated with coal, spent their entire budget on metal detectors and security cameras and yet still managed to have an average of two stabbings a year. But Maggie’s school was the most baller school I had ever stepped foot in. Hell, if I hadn’t lived in Ted’s houses for a week, it would have been the most baller place I had ever stepped foot in. The closest comparison I can come up with is the atrium at the MOMA—glass and steel strewn everywhere, all the furniture looking like it came from the Jetsons’ and everything painted in bright, sunny colors (unlike public school grade D puke green and crusty beige).

Shit, it was better than any building on my university campus.

I managed to gawk for only ten minutes, then turned my attention to the game: Home 17, Visitors 0. Maggie’s team was clearly running away with game and not to sound sexist/discriminatory/racist/truthful but watching skinny white high school girls play basketball does not enter into my expansive realm of excitement. Looking for something to grab my attention, I started observing the other students, and that’s when I started getting excited (no, not for that reason): everyone at this school was a walking, talking pint sized stereotype.

My humor (and by extension, my life) is based on stereotypes, so when I actually see them in action, I get keyed up. When I was Tokyo, I always took the longer route to work just to talk to black people as they waited in line at KFC for their orders. When I’m in NYC, I “mistakenly” drop pennies in Jewish delis. When I go to parties in McGill, I pretend to support Bush to watch the ensuing calamity.

Seeing stereotypes manifest themselves is my favorite form of entertainment and I get really excited; it’s like a guy spending his life looking for a shipwreck worth a crapload of money. After years of fruitless searching in solitude, there finally comes the day when his little underwater submarine starts pinging and as he pans his little underwater camera across, he sees a hull, and then a mast and then as he shakily zooms out, he sees the ship on his little screen. He screams in triumph because not only has he reached his life goal, he can go back to shore a hero, gleefully call up all his friends and family who rightfully doubted him for years (“See, see. I told you!! Haha, I’m going to be famous! Haha, who’s the loser now, John?!”) and he can finally change his Facebook status from the woefully sad, “Mark is searching for a shipwreck” to the joyfully upbeat and grammatically incorrect, “Mark is I’m a fucking rich motherfucker, bitches!”

Everyone in this school was a perfect stereotype. The white boys were either the J-Crew wearing semi-classy prepsters or the Lacoste wearing incredibly douchebag prepsters. The white girls all had long blond hair, clutched brand name purses bought with Daddy’s Platinum Card while sporting super tight jeans and black jackets with fur trim. All the Asians had square frame glasses. All of them. And either they were the emo, Anime freak kind who scored 99s on their Math tests or the nerdy, fresh off the boat kind who score 100s on their Math tests and talk like this. Since this was a school, there were, of course, zero blacks, Latinos and natives in attendance.

Trying to control my uncontrollable laughter as I watched these groups interact, I got dirty looks from the parents who thought I was laughing at the ridiculous shutout occurring on the court (who’s heard of a fucking shutout in basketball?). Finally, I managed to cover my laughter with some coughs and regained my breath by wheezing.

Then an Asian took out his calculator to compute free throw percentage.

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After Maggie and her crew thoroughly trounced the other team and Teddy and I had laughed our asses off, we decided on one of many random, overpriced restaurant/bar combos that saturate every city for lunch. I had done nothing on the Chiaki-front for the past few days (in my defense, this girl slept through the last day in Montana and the whole car ride from Montana) so I needed to do something. But as luck would have it, she sat in the seat farthest from me, so the only thing I could do (besides hitting on her from 10 feet away) was to suggest beer.

After eating a huge hamburger and then drinking enough to get a slight edge (and some courage), we started slowly walking back to Teddy’s house. I talked to her for quite a bit as we browsed through a few stores. Nothing in particular, but just to make her accustomed to talking to me so it wouldn’t be too awkward when I was ready to bust out the love confession tomorrow. We talked about tv shows, music, liquor, Japanese otaku culture, snowboarding, basketball, NYC—and then the conversation ended up on ex-girlfriends.

When I talk about ex-girlfriends, I always mention the fact that I dated a model (she became a model after we broke up) as it gets me mad respect from both girls and guys. Naturally, everyone is within hearing range so when she asks, “How were your past relationships?” I raise my voice a bit and reply, “Well, I once dated a model” to get my respect meter up. I look around arrogantly to get affirmation of my pure amazingness but all I see are my batters frozen in spot, eyes bugged out.

Huh?

Maybe in Calgary dating a model isn’t astonishing, but in NYC, next to getting shot 9 times and making horrible rap songs about misogyny and violence, it's the easiest path to the top of the respect totem pole.

…and then the batters outside of Chiaki’s field of vision start to rapidly shake their heads while waving me off in the universal language of “don’t FUCKING go there, you idiot!”.

Ohhhhhh shit…

I quickly glance at Chiaki, who’s frowning slightly. She opens her mouth to change the subject…

And I cut her off as I swiftly put the pin back into the grenade: “BUT, BUT, BUT. But…she was a bitch. And had no feelings…and lied…and we broke up because I want a good relationship built on trust.”

A hesitant smile graces her face and I pump my fist behind my back.

Situation averted.

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After this seriously close call, we arrived at Ted’s house, fucked around for a bit and then took the C-Train to U of C (University of Calgary). Apparently, this was the biggest basketball arena in a Canadian university and it was supposed to be jampacked for this playoff game.

In the train, Soon Hae started photodocumenting everything in sight, which I had gotten used to over the course of the trip, but still didn't fail to annoy me. Do you really need to take a photo of the expired train ticket clutched in your right hand and then another photo of it in your left hand and then another of it held with both hands? However, this intense impulse that Asians have to take pictures of everything happened to work in my favor this time. As she reviewed a few of her photos with the rest of the J-Poppers, everyone went “Oh wow. Cool! Gen and Chiaki look like Hollywood actors! Cute!”

I took a glance at the picture (not hard considering I towered over all of them) and I silently noted neither of us looked anything like an actor…considering the demographics of Hollywood, I would’ve had to have been in a martial arts pose and Chiaki would’ve had to have been Lucy fucking Liu. But good hitters learn to turn small openings into basehits, so instead of voicing the biting sarcasm that was screaming to get out, I gritted my teeth and said, “Yeah! You’re right! Let’s take more pictures of us two to see if we can get a better pose!”

Tell an Asian to take more pictures and they’ll hand you a documentary of the rest of your life. After me and Chiaki took on a variety of poses in the C-Train, Soon Hae’s right index finger was blistered from holding down the shutter and she had amazingly managed to take over ten photos between two stops on the train. It didn’t matter that the whole train was shaking their heads at our sheer stupidity—I had effectively managed to plant a seed in Chiaki’s head:

Gen and Chiaki look good together.

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After stumbling out of the train, blinded by the onslaught of flashes from Soon Hae’s camera, we meandered through U of C’s campus to their gym. This was a real campus. A large, enclosed area with grass, trees and paths, dotted with a variety of buildings from a variety of eras and with a nice, clean feel. Studying in a university tossed in the center of a large city, I’d completely forgotten about the usual college experience of a campus. Granted, my school does have a “campus” but its two blocks wide by three blocks long, nothing like the sprawling behemoths one is accustomed to in America. Because everyone lives in apartments, my “campus” also doesn’t have the thriving, throbbing feel of a real campus (plus our sports teams suck).

One step into the gym, and I knew this place would be the fucking shit. Just like the one time I visited UMich and went to a football game, the gym was pulsating and we hadn’t even glimpsed the court. We handed in our tickets, walked down some hallways, and then entered…

…into a small basketball gym.

The crowd was loud, and the gym was packed…but this place was max capacity maybe 5,000 at most. I was expecting proportions similar to Madison Square Garden or Cameron or any other arena in (American) college basketball, but having had to endure 3 years of ambivalence that McGill students show to school sports, I really didn’t fucking care. This was basically my first college basketball game.

I was hyped.

I was psyched.

…and then after the first possession, I realized this was fucking Canada. The players were too white. There were none of the crazy crossovers, behind the back passes, rim-shaking double clutch dunks one is accustomed to when watching black people shred street courts in inner city America. Despite the overabundance of good passing, good defense and long range threes, I was pumped. Watching sports in a jam-packed gym, sitting in the boisterous student section with a supply of cheap, good beer makes anything from the Superbowl to African U-12 girl’s curling the best time of your life.

Especially when sitting next to Chiaki. I taught her the intricacies of the game, answered all her cute questions about basketball (“cute” because she was cute-generally I find them really fucking annoying) and talked about tons of other sporting events we needed to go to (stressing “we”) in between heckling, screaming support and chugging beer.

The hometown U of C Dinos were nowhere close to winning the entire game and everyone headed home in defeat. Except me.

Cuz I'm amazing.

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Took the train and then we started the trek to Teddy’s home. Since the gym, me and Chiaki had been talking about shitloads of nonsensical stuff nonstop. As we walked through the streets with Calgary’s skyline framed to our side, I purposely started lagging my strides bit by bit, and soon we were a little detached from the group. Far enough that they weren’t in hearing distance close enough that they didn't find anything suspicious.

Outwardly, I was still my arrogant New York City self and continuing this senseless talk about where we want to travel or something. Inwardly, I was a wreck.

I was nervous. What the fuck was I supposed to talk about? Damn. Damn. I was brainfreezing inside. How can I work this in my favor?

My hands were getting all clammy and sweaty and sweat was rolling down my face.

Shit. I needed to get a hold of myself. I rolled my neck to get circulation back to my head and took my hands out of my pockets to air dry them.

And as I took my next step, my hand brushed against hers.

My heart missed a beat. My cool, calm outward demeanor almost missed a beat. But I quickly recollected.

Hooo shit.

On back swing, our hands lightly brushed again.

Jesus.

Now I knew what to do. I had to-her hand brushed by mine again. Like clockwork, every half second, disrupting the flow of my brain and the flow of my talk (remember, I was still talking to her about something) as an electric jolt swept through my body. I knew…brush…I knew…brush…what I…brush…had to…brush…to…brush…to do…brush…I had…brush…had to…brush...grab…brush…that…brush…hand…brush…but I’m…brush…a…brush…pussy…brush…

Tell me to fight the biggest, baddest guy on the block, and I’ll get my stomping boots. Tell me to dive from the 10 meter diving board and I’ll cannonball off that ma-fucker. Tell me to prank the principal and I’ll put mousetraps on his seat. Tell me to grab a girl’s hand and I’ll tell you I have some skin disease that makes holding hands impossible and I have a doctor’s appointment now that I just remembered and my dog ate my fucking homework.

…but this…brush…was my…brush…chance…brush…to cement…brush…it...

GRAB!…brush…IT!…

And on the next brush, I changed the arc of my arm and curled my fingers around hers as her hand swept by. But due to my lack of motor skills, I had only caught two of her fingers (Asian’s are deft? Not this one.).

I slowly rotated my head as the conversation we had been having abruptly careened off the hill we were walking on.

She looked shocked.

Fuck. FUCK!

I let my hand open.

Defeated.

FUCK!

…and then the shock slowly evaporated into a smile and I quickly re-clutched her two small fingers.

Yes! YES! FUCK YES!

…and she wriggled her fingers a bit. I opened up my death grip and we awkwardly struggled to fit our hands together for a proper version of “holding hands” while glancing at the five figures ahead to make sure they weren’t noticing this embarrassing moment…

…and we forgot there were eight of us total. Yu, who had been taking pictures of the skyline had managed to sneak behind us unnoticed and when she had finished, came running back…

“Hey, Gen! Hey, Chiaki! Wait for me!”

FUCK!!!!!! !@#$@%^&*&*^%$#@!#~@$!!!!

…in a flash we stopped the Dance of the Fingers and swiftly shoved our hands into our pockets, mine in the shape of a clenched right hook with Yu's name etched across the knuckles…

…and Yu chattered on and on for the rest of the walk, as Chiaki and I gave monosyllabic grunts from time to time to acknowledge her presence as the skyline of Calgary twinkled in mirth.

Only one more day.

Tony Gwynn: Oh man, that sure-

Shut the fuck up Tony Gwynn.

I only have one more day.

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Just in case you were wondering, Tony Gwynn was the color (pun intended) commentary for Sunday Night Baseball for a few years. Hall of Fame career, amazing athlete, huge and black as midnight but talked like a gay white man. Here's a clip of him talking. He is what I associate with baseball, even though listening to something manly like baseball with his voice makes me want to smash my head against the tv or wear tight spandex with an open vneck shirt.

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Photos

Calgary
Only one more day...

Chiaki
Framed in the amazingness of the school's lobby

Brother Coaches Sister
Set a pick on 24, and don't date until you're 25!

Jayne and Keith
Ted's mom and dad watch their daughter school fools

Maggie's B-Ball Team
Avg Household Income: 1,000,000
Avg Pigmentation: 0

Shin
Flew from Japan to Calgary to try Japanese food

Lunch
My batters are too interested in their food to work

Apparently we look like actors
...and apparently, the Holocaust never happened

Apparently we look like models
...and apparently we do, bitch!

Dunk
Apparently, white boys can jump. But only if there's a 401k at the top of the basket

Fucking around on the Train
When not studying, Asians are found to actually have a sense of humor

More Fucking Around
Yuki becoming insane after sitting next to Yu for 2 secs

This Combination...
...killed me.

Night Skyline
One more day.