The Preemptive: “Yes Jesus And I Are Good Friends. Now Go Away.”

I waltz down the corridor pausing briefly to say “konichiwa” to this man who looks at me as I pass him. He is at a neighbor’s door down the hall. He peers at me curiously and smiles.

I come back loaded down with three bags of groceries, bobbing along to my well-worn iPod Nano which blares words of English that keep the language portion of my brain from completely shriveling up and dying. The smiling man is standing at my door.

Why is this strange little fellow at my door. I have no time to discuss God in Japanese nor do I want to buy any encyclopedias. I walk towards him. He knows my name. From the scant Japanese I know I’m able to make out that he does not, in fact, represent a cult but instead works for a well-known Japanese newspaper company.

The problem with not having a really firm grasp on a language is that one tends to cling on to certain known words, run with them and simply make up the rest, molding it into whatever works best for them. This is precisely what I do.

Comprehending the words “newspaper” and “foreigner” I fabricate the rest of his conversation and come to the triumphant conclusion that that this little man must want to interview me. Why else would a reporter be hanging around my door? Clearly I am a fascinating foreigner and my opinions and views are highly coveted bits of news worthy of the front page.

He asks me if I have pen and paper. This is his clever way of getting me to invite him inside. But surely a reporter carries a notebook on them at all times?

Had this man been brandishing a bible or asking me if I “knew Jesus,” (as I’ve already had people do to me here,) I would have simply fled inside my apartment with a brusque, “Not personally. You take care.” But as he was not outwardly a religious zealot I permitted myself to talk to him. Besides who am I to refuse an interview?

Inside I give him a piece of paper assuming that he is going to explain what he

wants in writing. The Japanese often cannot explain themselves verbally, but give them a piece of paper and they can write a bit of sense, or at least tell you what you should enjoy.

He starts listing off numbers and prices. It’s then it clicks.

He’s selling subscriptions, you twat.

Amidst putting away my groceries I inform the Smiling Man that I have absolutely no need for newspaper subscriptions. Granted it would give me something to burn and huddle over for warmth, but a Japanese newspaper would, essentially, be about as useful as a one legged man at an arse-kicking contest. He persists, telling me that he has papers in English as well. No, no, but I have Internet you see – I read papers from the bright shiny screen online – saving trees and killing my eyesight all at the same time!

The man doesn’t know the English word for “newspaper” but he can say “pocket money,” a word that he drops several times. I will not be prevailed upon. Is this man ever going to leave my kitchen table where he has plopped down, put his feet up and made himself comfy?

It sinks in that the stubborn, thrifty American will not be the source of income for him and instead he starts chatting with me. Upon learning that I am an English “teacher” he stops. He is almost heading towards the door but he halts and turns back on his heel. His eyes light up. Lightning sparks burst forth from his head as a result of his current brainstorm.

“I’m going to Hawaii to work! I will go! But I can’t speak English. Please teach me, please!”

We mull things over. I can understand the general gist of his Japanese without inserting too much of my own inventiveness. His friend is downstairs. Or “RADY!” as he calls her, completely ignoring that the fact that the letter L exists. He opens the door, yells down from the balcony, “RADY, HEY RADY!!!!11” and asks her to come up.

“She speaks English. Sort of.”

We all sit back down at my table and chat in Japanese. I learn they are from Matsuyama (“big city” folk)- they travel to various parts of Ehime doing what I can only assume is selling newspaper subscriptions. I learn they think foreigners are “way cool” and for some bizarre reason they are willing to travel all the way from Matsuyama (which I know, for SURE FACT, has plenty of English teachers) so that I might chat with them a bit.

First demanding that you buy newspapers you can’t read, then befriending you in the hopes that you’ll teach them how to successfully buy a postcard in Hawaii. Friends just show up on your doorstep in Japan.

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Published:
12.2.06 / 6pm
Category:
what i call life, culture