A Woman's Nails (2 page)

“Yeah, right,” I replied looking up at the sky. As much as I liked Ben and had come to depend heavily on his advice over the past year, his comprehension of the Japanese language just could not be trusted. The fact alone that the man still hadn’t realized that his Christian name, Ben, meant
excrement
in Japanese was enough to peck away at the urgency of taking an umbrella. “Besides,” I said, “I’ll miss the bus if I go back now.”

I should have listened to him. No sooner had I started up the hill towards the bus stop than the wind picked up, the sky darkened, and heavens opened up
, the rain falling in torrents.

Niwaka ame
. I’ve learned a new word.

Halfway between the bus stop and my apartment, I was paralyzed with indecision and getting wetter by the second. Do I run back and fetch an umbrella only to risk missing the bus, or do I hightail it to the bus stop, and try to find some shelter under the awning of the
rice shop until the bus comes?

The rain had already soaked my head; icy rivulets were now running down my neck and back. Umbrella or no umbrella, I was going to get drenched, so I forged ahead, up the hill. As I neared the bus stop, the approaching bus plowed through a cascade of water flowing along the curb, sending a wall of water towards me. I tried to leap out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough. By the time the bus stopped, my pants were sopping wet from the knees down, my feet sloshed around in their loafers.

Looking like something that cat drug in, I boarded the bus and took a seat next to a floor heater. I rolled my pants up an
d tried in vain to dry my feet.

As the damp settled into my clothes, a chill rattled up my spine and the chest cold that had been pestering me for a month started pestering me some more. I managed to suppress the first sneeze. And the next. But the third one was doozie. It developed up deep inside me and, as it gained strength, I rifled through my pockets, frantica
lly looking for a handkerchief.

For the love of God, how could I forget a handkerchief?

The sneeze came, carrying with it the generous contents of my nasal passages, and deposited it all into my cupped hands.

Opening the window, I stuck my hands out into the rain to try to rinse the snot off. Then, taking the silk pocket square out of my breast pocket, I dried my hands.

By the time the bus arrived at the train station, the
niwaka ame
had already passed. The sky, however, was still overcast and the air much colder than it had been when I left my apartment. Looking around at the sleepy mob standing on the platform, I could see that everyone, but me, was wearing a heavy winter coat over his suit or a scarf bundled around his neck.
Spring may have been evident in the buds of the
sakura
trees and in the frenetic activity of birds, but the wind barreling down the platform was all winter.

A “local train” rolled into the platform. I knew I’d be cutting it close if I took it, as it would stop at every blessed station from now to Hakata, but the limited express train wasn’t scheduled to show up for another fifteen minutes. I’d surely catch myself a death of a cold if I waited on the platform, exposed to the cold wind. I hopped on, figuring I could always transfer to one of the express trains several stations down.

It was lovely inside the train. Unlike the express in which
salarymen
and office ladies are usually packed in like cattle off to slaughter, there were only a handful of students dozing off or staring blankly out the windows. It was an older model of train, and the thinly padded pews-like cubicles offered a modicum of privac
y.

When the train jerked into motion, the heaters below the seat kicked on. I removed my shoes and socks and tried to warm my poor little blue toes.

Warm air bathed my calves, climbed up my legs, enveloping my knees, and drifted toward my face. Before I knew it, the heat and relaxing sway of the train as it made its easy way to Fukuoka lulled me to sleep.

When I woke up the train was completely empty. Looking out the window, I
couldn’t recognize the station.

"
Shûten des’. Shûten
," came over the PA system
.

Last stop? You gotta be kidding. How long have I been asleep?

I pulled my warm but slightly damp socks over my feet, slipped on my soggy loafers and scrambled out of the train. The platform clock showed eight twenty-five, giving me thirty-five minutes.

But where the hell am I
?

I cornered one of the clean-cut uniformed station employees on the platform told him where I wanted to go and was directed with a white-
gloved hand towards the stairs.

I dashed down them and on to the turnstiles where I asked a
nother employee for directions.

"
Sutorayto. Sutorayto
," he said.

“Straight. Gotcha!”

I hurried out of the train station and back into the cold, continuing “
sutorayto
“ as directed where I was supposed to eventua
lly come upon a subway station.

The sun I’d been counting on when I left my apartment was now hidden behind a menacing layer of black clouds and a chilly breeze was blowing in off of the bay. Before long, I was shivering like a maniac and my cold was acting up: my chest ached and my nose ran like a leaky faucet.

At a vending machine I bought two cans of Georgia coffee, which I tucked them under my armpits for warmth. Pressing on, I walked, hunched over, hot cans of coffee under my armpits, until I came to the subway station. I now had twenty minutes to travel six stops and walk from the station to the school; meaning I'd just make it by nine.

I purchased a ticket and as I was about to pass through the gate, a gust of warm air blew up from the bowels of the station, followed by the horn announcing the train's approach. I scampered down the first flight of stairs to a broad landing where I was offered two options: left or right. The signs were all in goddamn Chinese characters, no English to be found.

Although I'd been studying the language for a year, had even been scribbling the pictograms down in a notebook, I couldn't rec
ognize any of them on the sign.

I turned to a man and blurted out the name of my destination, but he scurried away without answering me. A young woman avoided me altogether. Then a soft-spoken middle-aged woman approached and asked in fl
uent English where I was going.

“
The
Ôhori Park station. Ôhori Kôen.”

“
Oh, Ôhori Kôen. Yes, yes, it
's very nice this time of year.”
The words trickled slowly out. I could hear the swoosh of the train doors opening, the click of heels on tile as the passengers got off.

“
Yes, yes, I know. Which . . .
”

“
In a week or so, the cherry blossoms will be
at their most beautiful . . .”

“
Yes, I, I'm aware of t
hat. Which platform do I . . .?”

“
Oh, yes, the subway's a very convenien
t .
. .”

“
Oh, for the lo
ve of God, lady. Left or right?”

“
I'm sorry? Left o
r right? I don't understa . . .
”

“Which platform?”
I said pointing towards the stairwells. I could have strangled the dimwit.

“
Oooh, I see, I see. Platform Two, of course. I'll sh
ow . . .
”

“
No,
you won't. I'm in a hurry. Bye.”

I ran off towards Platform Two, flying down a second flight of stairs, three steps at a time, towards the platform, but mid decent a soft bell chimed, the doors
closed and the train departed.

“
Ah,
fuck
me!”
I yelled, the curse echoing throughout the station.

Plodding down the remaining steps, I came to the platform and made my way to a row of seats where I plopped down. As I waited I drank the two cans of Georgia coffee.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes a second train came, but before I could count myself the lucky beneficiary of an efficiently-run, white-gloved public transportation system, I learned that the train wouldn’t take me all the way to Ôhori Park. I would have to change trains at yet another
shûten
.

Time was ticking.

3

The shredded contract lies on the tabletop before me and Abazuré has a look on her face like I have wasted her time and, would you just now go. If it wasn’t for the fact that my visa is going to expire in less than a week and I now have no other prospect for employment, I would flip Abazuré and that other bitch in the office the bird and storm out of the buil
ding. But I need the job. Good G
od, do I need ever it.

As Abazuré glares at me, the realization that I've made a huge mistake hits me like a kick in the g
ut and I can't take it anymore.

“I'm sorry,” I say standing up, “but, I'm feeling very ill.”

I dash out of the classroom, pass the lobby and office, and hurry towards a door that has “
o-tearai
” (honorable hand washing) written in Chinese characters on it. Opening the door and hoping my troubles are over, I discover they've only just begun: the school has a
fucking Japanese style toilet.

Oh, for the love of God
!

Taking a crap on a Japanese style toilet is like trying to take a dump into a lady's shoebox. In the floor of a slightly raised area is a narrow porcelain trough barely a hand's length wide over which you’re expected to
squat as you do your business.

I mount it and squat as well as my stiff Achilles tendons will allow me, but my arse is hovering precariously above my pants gathered at my ankles.

With the forces of nature in motion, I grab onto a large sewage pipe that runs from the ceiling down to the floor and hold on to it for dear life. I then lean back and peer down between my legs like a bombardier might until the target comes into sight. When it does, it’s
bombs away
!

The collateral damage is worse than expected: half of my payload lands far off target.

Good grief!

After I’ve done my business, I spend several minutes tidying the toilet up. No matter how much I wipe the porcelain down, a heavy smell
of death hangs in the restroom.

I look in the small cabinet above the toilet hoping to find a book of matches, but there is none. Next to a few rolls of the rough toilet paper I sanded my ass with, I find a can of what, judging by the picture of a field of flower
s on it, must be air freshener.

I give the room a liberal spray, and stir up the air with my arms, but an obtrusive hint of pooh lingers stubbornly in the sweet floral fragrance.

Several minutes later, I return to the small classroom and apologize to Abazuré. "I'm not feeling very well,” I tell her. “If today's meeting weren't as important as it is, I would have cancelled it and suggested meeting later in the week when I was feeling better."

Abazuré softens somewhat. She's still visibly irritated, however, with the foul souvenir that has trailed me back into the room, the woman cannot doubt my candor. I am plainly ill.

Just then a shriek comes from the direction of toilet. The young woman in the office h
as ventured into no-man’s land.

Serves her right.

Abazuré stands up and leaves me alone in the classroom (Could you blame the woman?) and returns a few minutes later with another contract, which she places on the table before me. S
he asks that I read through it.

As I go through the contract, my jaw drops onto the tabletop. Each item in the contract is written in the bluntest of terminology--namely, do this and you'll be fired; do that and you'll be fired. There is no room for mistakes at
The American School
.

If I am ever late--regardless of illness, accident, ill-timed bowel movements, or what have you--my employment
will be terminated on the spot.

I swallow hard and sign the contract. What else do you expect me to do?

Once all the paperwork is complete, Abazuré instructs me to meet her at Immigration next week,
the day before my visa expires.

“If you are even a minute late,” she warns, “
I will have no choice but to look for someone else. Am I understood
?”

“Y-yes, you are.”

“Well, then. See you next week.”

4

“Fired if I'm late?” I shake my head in disbelief as I make my way back to the station. “Fired if I'm ever absent? Fired if I ever accept presents from the students?”