Bored in Japan
Matt diTargiani
Death would be coming for him soon, at least that was what his intrusive thoughts were leading him to believe. He had lived a good life up to this point; at thirty-four, a decent job with decent people by his side had made the monotony of it all worthwhile. He had contemplated death would come in a little cottage way out in the countryside, with a big dog sleeping soundly by his side as he himself enjoyed a novel and sipped some ice-cold beer. Every here and there, he’d take a moment and close his eyes, taking a deep breath in through the nose and enjoying the aroma of deep blooming shrubbery. He’d imagined putting down his novel, closing his eyes and drifting off into a sleep he wouldn’t wake up from. Yeah, that would have been nice.
Deep into this reverie, the man we have come to briefly know as Oliver was happened upon by a young boy of around nine. On his little park bench overlooking the sea, Oliver heard the footsteps approaching and opened his eyes. The young boy was bouncing a ball, and it took a ricochet off the little wall in front of the bench and ended up at Oliver’s feet. He picked up the ball and handed it back to the boy with a smile. “Here you go, kid.”
“Sank you,” the boy replied and darted back in the direction from which he had come. The boy didn’t seem to notice the bloodstain growing on Oliver’s midsection or his deathly pale pallor despite it being late July.
Oliver was happy thinking he hadn’t frightened the boy. On the other hand, selfishly, he wanted to call out to the boy to go get help, yet he was unable to muster the words. It was taking everything he had to remain completely still and calm; any sudden movements or excitements to his body would make the blood spill more rapidly. He was positive the wound wasn’t too deep, but even still the pain was incredible, and at his age, it rendered him immobile. He had wanted to watch the boats come and go, so, with some gusto, he had gotten up from where he was stabbed and had made it to the park bench.
At first, Oliver was just a sailor in the Navy and went wherever he was told. He fell in love with the country and after initially separating with a bad knee, he found work as a private contractor and was able to continue employment with the Navy. His job consisted of working on electrical systems aboard the Navy ships. He specialized in radar systems like the SPA-25G, SPS-67, OE-120. The work itself was easy enough after doing it for 10 plus years, and he really enjoyed it, not that it mattered anymore. After today, everything would be different and he couldn’t imagine staying, not after bringing dishonor to his entire office. Contractors were held to a higher standard and were afforded more liberties than were the sailors. Looking out to the sea now, conjoined with the smell of salt and seaweed, he wondered what he should have done differently.
On his little park bench, he wondered if he’d be saved. He also wondered if he was going to be fired; he’d seen this kind of thing happen before, so it wouldn’t surprise him. I’m not that great of an employee, I’ve just been in this department the longest. They just throw promotions out not on the quality of the work, but the amount of time spent there. The bozos at the top think we haven’t caught on to their little game; they hope it motivates the workers to stay and do even better work, but the exact opposite happens. Since the actual quality of the work doesn’t matter, why work hard at all? And in such an upside-down place, why stay at all? In truth, other serious matters weighed on his mind, a wild run-in with a Yakuza member and what to make of what had just gone down. The Yakuza are a notorious Japanese gang that mostly lurked in Tokyo’s underground. Any nefarious activities you could think of, they were doing. Oliver had a weird fascination with them and was always on the lookout; he wanted to see if the stories were true. Ten years in Japan and he had never seen one, so the night before he was on the hunt. The plan hinged on finding one, and after observing him for a while, Oliver would follow him and see what he was up to. At the peak of his boredom, he fancied himself the protagonist in a Raymond Chandler novel, but a Philip Marlowe he was not.
When the night itself began, not much was happening in the Honch, the party strip in Yokosuka. It was a Thursday and the Honch wasn’t at its rowdiest, but even still, Oliver found it odd. He figured the next day would be a breeze at work and decided to hop the train to Tokyo and satisfy his need to see a Yakuza. He got on the Chuo Line at Yokosuka Station, transferred to the Tokyo Line in Yokohama and eventually made it to Shibuya Station in Tokyo. Shibuya had everything he needed, it was one of the more party-heavy districts in Tokyo, and if he went to a Japanese-only bar, he was sure he’d find a Yakuza.
Oliver’s search didn’t take long as he quickly spotted one strolling on the streets just outside the station. It was quick, but the burly man Oliver was watching threw his arms up in a stretch before reaching for his pocket and answering his phone. It was at that moment that Oliver saw the Yakuza tattoo hidden in a plethora of others on the man’s left arm. His raised arms lifted his black t-shirt just enough to reveal it. His face beaming with excitement, Oliver watched the Yakuza take the call, and from what he could tell, the person on the other line needed him urgently. The Yakuza then hung up the cell, did a quick gather of his surroundings, disappeared into the crowd of Shibuya Station and made his way inside. Oliver lowered his baseball cap further on his brow and entered the station as well, and luckily for him, the Yakuza was big and tall and easy to trail. The big Yakuza headed for a connection line to Setagawa but did the unexpected and stopped in his tracks. What is he doing? There’s no way he’s spotted me. Come on it hasn’t even gotten fun yet. Oliver’s heart started racing, and he could barely keep it under control, thinking it was going to explode out of his chest. He didn’t even notice the Yakuza take his phone out of his pocket and typed out a quick text.
The crowds in Shibuya Station were not letting up, and Oliver was able to hide amongst them and maintain a safe distance. The Yakuza was still not moving, barely twitching a muscle. It was as if the two men were stopped in time while the rest of the world went on without them. This went on for 10 more minutes, and by that point, Oliver had calmed down somewhat, not knowing what to expect next. His thinking being that if he had been spotted, he would have been approached. That was when the Yakuza turned around and looked right in Oliver’s direction, but it seemed he was looking at something in the distance. If Oliver were to duck into the crowd now it would have been too obvious, so he maintained his watchful eye on the departing/arriving board. Glancing away from the board to look at the Yakuza, he saw him glance to the left and motion with his head towards Oliver’s direction. Oliver, frozen in place, slowly came to the realization that the man he was tailing was not alone and a moment later was smacked in the back of the head and crumpled to the ground.
He wasn’t completely unconscious, and was able to keep half an eye open in observance. The blow was clearly meant to knock him out, but by now he was powerless and was being carried out by the big Yakuza that he was originally tailing with his partner holding his other arm. The crowd made way for the unlikely trio, and no one batted an eye. An officer at the entrance to the station questioned the two men hauling a body, and they explained, in Japanese, the man they were carrying was drunk and had taken a fall, and they were taking him home. And with that, Oliver finally passed out from the pain.
He dreamt of being chased by thousands of giant coyotes, somehow keeping away for a while but eventually being caught. He woke up in a cold sweat to the sound of an engine and tires on concrete. His eyes were bandaged, and it smelled stuffy; he struggled to breathe. He wriggled around like a fish but gave way to the cramped quarters, leading him to think it was a trunk. Oliver yelled for a bit and kicked as hard as he could, but these attempts were futile in the dead of night. When he quieted down and listened real close, he heard a Japanese conversation. The two male voices Oliver overheard sounded calm, even letting out a laugh here and there. Oliver let his mind run wild as he imagined every scenario where this situation could turn terribly ugly.
Oliver passed out again, and this time he dreamt he was king of the elephants, with thousands of elephants at his beck and call, but this time he woke to the slamming of the brakes. His two captors quickly got out of the car, slammed their doors, and threw Oliver from the trunk. Oliver got to his feet and started running, but his leg caught a light post, and he crumpled to the floor. Laughing, the two Yakuza quickly got to him and took off his bandage, explaining, in broken English, that they just wanted to talk. Fearful that they knew this place better than he did, he obliged and threw up his hands in a gesture of submission. But after a quick look at his surroundings, Oliver knew exactly where he was. They had driven him to Yokosuka and were close to Mabori, a suburb in Yokosuka Oliver often frequented to visit the ocean and watch the sea. He knew this place like the back of his hand. He had wanted to live here, but it was just too far away from the base. It was the burly Yakuza who was first to speak while his smaller partner went back to close the trunk.
“This…warning,” he said. Oliver got the idea and figured he was going to be spared.
The burly one spoke again, “No follow Yakuza. See Yakuza, don’t follow. Understand?”
Oliver was taking it all in and never imagined he would encounter a good Yakuza member.
“See Yakuza, don’t follow. Got it, sorry for the trouble,” he said.
Oliver locked eyes with his captor, and the two men seemingly shared an understanding. The burly man looked to the pavement, shaking his head and chuckling a bit as he reached for his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up and turned towards the sea and muttered something to himself in Japanese. It stayed like that for only a moment, then the smaller Yakuza came over with his right hand extended to shake Oliver’s but quickly stabbed him in his midsection with a knife in his left. Oliver let out a yelp as he crumpled to the ground for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. It was a brilliant move; the right hand was the distraction while the left made the attack.
“You no follow Yakuza. Ever,” the smaller Yakuza said.
His burly partner turned around in disbelief. Taking in the scene, he snuffed out his cigarette and yelled at his counterpart. He then smacked him upside the head and took the knife from his hand and whirled it into the sea. Oliver watched from the ground, blood slowly gushing out of him, as the Yakuza got in the car and drove away. They then made a hasty U-turn and drove back towards him, and the burly one hurled Oliver’s wallet at him. Still able to move his legs, Oliver got himself up and made it to the bench where he put his hoodie over the wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. It was there he would await the unknown, and soon after the boy with the ball had scampered off, he was fading in and out of consciousness. Oliver figured there had to be a better way to tackle his boredom, but in some way that only revealed part of the problem. Why was he so bored, and what could he do to change things? Simple fascination doesn’t lead normal people to chase down Yakuza. As he slowly opened and closed his eyes, he realized if he fell asleep one more time, he’d be toast. Just then, he could make the outline of two figures heading towards him. It was the kid with the ball and an adult. He’d been saved.
Matt diTargiani, class of 2025, is from Old Bridge, NJ, and is of the opinion that “reading Murakami in Japan is highly recommended.”
Matt wrote this story in a creative writing course taught by Aimee Labrie. Labrie selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.