Man, let me tell y’all somethin’. Futons ain’t worth a single thing to anyone over 180 pounds. Oh, in case you didn’t understand, futons in Japan aren’t the same thing as the ones in America. Futon is a Japanese word that translates to “throw rug”, but apparently, the Japanese didn’t think to use it like that. I’ve slept on softer carpets than those dern paper thin pieces of crap. By the way? The Japanese do not understand cushioned surfaces. Even the places where you’re supposed to lay down your futon are pretty much hard, flat, wooden decks.

So, I woke up at 4:30 am for two reasons. The first was because futons suck. The second was jet lag, that wonderful phenomenon that I had never experienced until then. Even stranger? The sun was out…and BRIGHT. I swore my watch was wrong, so, I looked for my cell phone to confirm. And it was that moment that I realized…I had lost it. Not that it mattered, because I wasn’t gonna be able to use it in Japan, but…it would’ve made a very nice alarm clock. Dah well. I figure I’ll buy one later. But right then, I really needed some sort of confirmation on the time, because I really didn’t want to be late for my meeting with Trust School. So, I needed to find a clock. Especially since my computer said the time in Tokyo was…4 hours ahead of my watch. My only choice was to venture outside and find myself a timepiece that enjoyed being, ya know, right.

I didn’t have too many options when it came to clothing that day, since all my clothes were sealed up in vacuum bags and it’d be a pain to unpack anything for just one night. So, I put on the dress shirt I’d had on during the whole flight, threw on some jeans and went for a walk…totally not matching, and it felt great.

As I stepped out of my apartment, there was the little white car again. It had made it a complete chore to move my bags in since it was parked right on the walkway, and today it continued doing its job. Someone really needed to move that thing.

“Suzuki, huh?” I said aloud, knowing no one would understand me, particularly the car. “You’ll get yours!”

The walk was rather…painful. My “tuberculosis” was still messing with me horribly, making it rather tough to breathe, but my mind was also spinning from stress, so I really couldn’t tell if my chest pains were stress related or otherwise. Either way, it made the walk a bit of a chore. It was rather hot outside, too. If I wasn’t a Florida-blooded kid, or a Child of the Sun, it might’ve gotten to me, but really…wasn’t that bad. As I walked, several kids rode by me on bicycles, trying their best not to make eye contact with me. Grown men and women would look at their shoes as I passed them. Drivers tried their best to catch quick glimpses of me without me noticing, but come on, people. I’ve been gawked at since I was 13 and passed the six-foot line. That’s ten years of practice on your…what, two seconds of havin’ a Negro in your city? Please. I can catch a curious glance from a mile away. Thank you, America, for making me feel awkward everyday, or I’d never be prepared for this. Imagine how it must’ve been for the poor old woman I asked for the time. Ha.

Anyway, my walk took a lot out of me, so, I went home, and noticed the license plate on the little white car. 532. 5+3+2 = 10. Ten is my number. So, I couldn’t be too mad at the little car for being in my way. I inched my way past it, opened my door, kicked off my shoes, climbed up to my lofted futon, collapsed and fell asleep…again. And woke up late…again! Stupid jetlag…stupid watch…stupid lost cellphone that should’ve been my alarm clock. I would not be late. I could not afford to be late. The Japanese hate tardiness. So, I ran, in my suit, in the sweltering sun, the bustling city of Mito.

And arrived 1 minute late. Fortunately, the Japanese must’ve adapted to CP time, because they weren’t ready for my arrival.

“Oh! Mr. Williams!” said a woman who looked exactly like the driver from the previous night, but…wasn’t. “We are sorry, but the trainer is on the phone. Please…this way.”

She led me into a room with a blackboard and a dry erase board, and turned the air conditioner on full blast.

“You look hot,” she said. “Please, wait here.” She handed me a box of tissues to mop my brow, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind her.

Minutes later, she returned. “We will handle your contracts now.”

This is the boring part, where I had to sign a crapload of paperwork swearing I wouldn’t burn down schools or leave the country suddenly, or declare jihad against Japan. Then there were car contracts, apartment contracts, bleh, blah, blee…a bunch of stuff that matters but doesn’t, all written in some of the most hilarious English I’ve ever seen. The l and r mix ups are beautiful.

“The signee must not free Japan without first notifying Trust School.”

Darn. I had my revolution pants on and everything.

Then came another woman to talk to me about my car. Here we go, the moment I’d been waiting for. See…Matt and I had been giggling like schoolgirls over the idea of me in a Japanese car, so this was like the punchline to one awesome joke for me. I sat there and wondered what micro car they were gonna put me in.

“Okay, Mr. David. We have your car all ready for you.”

“Right. It’s at my apartment in Chikusei?”

“No, no…it is here in Mito. We want you to drive it over to Chikusei.”

Oh, great.

“Sure,” I said, though I think my voice cracked. The woman turned a piece of paper toward me, that had all the car’s description on it.

“Okay, your car is a Suzuki We’ve.”

Ha. Funny name. Hey, wait…Suzuki?

“It is a little small.”

As expected.

“The color is white.”

…Wait a minute…

“The license plate is 532.”

Oh, you gotta be kid—

“And we parked it in front of your apartment.”

…@$#%! I glanced up at the ceiling and thought, ‘Oh…oh…oh…whoo, You’re funny, You know that?. You got me good. You and I? We’re gonna laugh at this for a long time. Yep, You are the king of jokes. At least this time, I know how to laugh.’

When all that garbage was done, my trainer came in. I was expectin’ the dude I talked to on the phone a month ago…a New Zealander with a rather powerful and persistent cough. But no, this was a little Japanese woman named Atsuko.

So, my trainer began to talk to me about the workings of Trust School. Eventually we were joined by two other people, a man and a woman, all seemingly about my age. I think they just wanted to see the black guy, because they really served no purpose. But within ten minutes, I had everyone laughing, even with my broken Japanese. I kept derailing their sincerest efforts to do their jobs, because they really didn’t want to. They were good people, though. Turns out, Atsuko was my supervisor, who made sure to point out where her house was in relation to where mine would be…and offered to drive me somewhere to get an alarm clock…and muttered under her breath to her female co-worker that I was cute/cool/handsome. You see what kind of trouble I can get myself into in this country? But I’m not stupid enough to pull something like that. But still, it is funny. During that training session, I was called handsome, cool, “nice guy” (which in Japan, means a combination of “cool” and “hot”…what is that, “lukewarm”?), “nice face”, “good character” and “ideal ALT”. Hey, nothing wrong with an ego boost from time to time, as long as you have pride on your “arch nemesis” list.

After my three new friends left, I met with a guy from Canada, who was EXACTLY like my boss from my Resident Assistant days…who happened to be from Canada. He was even more laid back than the first three folks.

Captain Canada and I joked around while trying our best to focus on the task at hand…explaining the company handbook, but oh, man did we fail. Eventually, we finished. I was on the express training schedule. Two days of training in 4 hours…2 hours of jokes included.

When all was said and done, I went to the main office, where Atsuko comes running up to me and grabs me by the arm.

“David! How are you? Was the training okay? I wasn’t boring, was I?”

“No…no, not at all.” Okay, this is just silly. Japanese women aren’t this keen to physical contact…according to the legends.

“Good, good…oh! Who is that for?” she asked, pointing to the rather long, blue box I had under my arm.

“Oh, this? It’s a gift…for The Boss.”

Yep. Before I had even left for Japan, Matt told me, “Dave…if you want to get in good with the Japanese, buy ‘em gifts. Particularly big ol’ bottles of hard liquor. They love that stuff.” So, I had picked up a bottle of Macallan’s Twelve Year Scotch for The Boss.

“Ohhh…you’re so kind! You want me to put your name on it?”

“…Sure!”

She took the box from me, looked at it rather longingly, and showed it to everyone else in the room. “Look what David bought for The Boss!”

…Now I wasn’t sure if she wasn’t treating me like a three-year-old or not. The tone in her voice was pretty much, “Aww, lookit what the special ed kid did!”

Then she came running back, just as Captain Canada walked up. “Otsukaresama deshita,” he said. Basically, “Thanks for workin’, folks.”

I repeated it, slowly, but surely and Atsuko slaps me on the arm. “Your Japanese is good!” Yeah…I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Man, I don’t get that when I say it,” said Captain Canada.

“Jaa!” I said.

Atsuko just giggled and replied, “Remember, be here at 9 am, and we’ll drive to Mito together, okay?”. …Yeah…

Captain Canada drove me to a 100 Yen store…a dollar store…in his Mustang. That’s right. A Mustang.

“Got it for 2,000 bucks, man. As long as you don’t mind older models, cars here are cheap. ‘Shaken’ is a beast, though…”

At the 100 Yen store, I used a note that my other female interviewer had given me, that said “Where are the alarm clocks?” The lady at the store thought it was cute.

So, I walked back home, alarm clock in hand, stopped by the grocery store near my apartment for a bowl of do-it-yourself ramen, and called it a day. Yep, I was feelin’ pretty good…and then I remembered: I had to drive 90 km the next day…in Japanese traffic…and face a bunch of old Japanese men…as a big black dude with dreads.

…Can’t…breathe…

D