Aeolus Claims My Underwear

“GAHRUFFJHGLALH,” I roll over and snap open my cell phone squinting to see what ungodly hour I have awoken. It’s a little past one AM and I have regained consciousness in the middle of Kansas. Outside the wind is howling as though the apocalypse is coming. In my head hundreds of little monstrous whirlwinds dance down from the mountains covering all of Shikoku with gales of destruction. Every two minutes the whirlwinds die down and every two minutes they reappear again, sounding stronger and fiercer blowing away scruffy looking Toto-dogs, farmhouses and small, frail Japanese women as they walk along bent over, their toes pointed in. I briefly consider the status of my freshly cleaned laundry hanging outside but pure stubbornness (or is it laziness) refuses to allow me to leave the confines of my dog-bed-like sleeping conditions that I have grown to relish.

I fully expect to wake up to be greeted by two feet tall munchkins pulling on my limbs and slapping me in the face to see if I am still alive. Instead, my alarm wakes me and in grim comparison to yesterday, which was the first warm, delightful spring-like day I have seen in months on end – the morning is dark, bleak, overcast, drizzly and the winds have yet to calm.

As I look in dismay out my back window at the pollution-colored rain clouds enveloping the mountains, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be able to see said mountains if the laundry I had hung up was still where it was supposed to be.

Fuckity Fuck Fuck.

Where’s my underwear? Where’s my favorite black shirt?

Many rural JETs are warned before arrival in Japan that their clothes, or more specifically, their underwear, may be purloined if left hanging on the line. Being in (by Japanese definitions) a city (-like) area and on one of the upper stories of an apartment building I have taken to hanging my clothes, underwear and towels with reckless abandon outside whenever I so choose. I also refuse to believe that anyone’s underwear could ever be the object of desire to anyone. As a result of my foolhardiness, half my clothes are now missing – not at the whim of some twisted individual who patronizes the used-underwear vending machines that brightly line the streets of Osaka and Tokyo when he can’t find available freebies left hanging willy-nilly on a string, but by the brigand Aeolus and his crafty bag o’ winds.

I fully expect to go grocery shopping one day and see a little old Japanese grandma sporting an NYU hoodie. MY NYU HOODIE. I fully expect to pass through the thrift store and see straight from the streets of New York, newly imported, Victoria Secret underwear in the “Designer Box.” The little signature pink Labrador (OH! SO CUUUUUTE!!!) is an instant hit and thus causes the price to be significantly jacked up. Tank tops, shirts, and basic work staples- my wardrobe has suddenly been cut in half. Is it a legitimate excuse to show up to work wearing pajamas everyday as everything else has been pilfered by the wind?

Japanese houses are made with scare tactics in mind. As I trudge along to school I discover that the winds are not as strong as I had anticipated. The currents and gales resound off houses and through laundry poles causing their acoustics and general scare-factor to increase considerably. Perhaps this is to dissuade potentially rebellious housewives from leaving home mid-day to go have some fun instead of rolling sushi. Or perhaps this is to wake up retarded foreigners who are stupid and lazy enough to leave their clothes outside in the middle of a tornado. What fools we mortals be.

So Happy ferocious March – aptly named after the war God Mars/Ares - one of the few gods I could potentially see stealing someone’s underwear. As the proverb goes – In like a lion who loots peoples’ wardrobes and out like a lamb. Bring on the lamb. Maybe it’ll return my underwear to me.

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Published:
3.5.07 / 6pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, unschoolish