"Tadaima," George said as he slipped off his shoes and stepped into the apartment.
"Okaeri," J.D. yelled from the bedroom. "Where did you learn the Japanese?"
"I told my students I moved into a new apartment and they said I have to say 'tadaima' when I come home. What's it mean?"
J.D. checked his dictionary. "It means 'now' or 'soon.'"
"Yeah? Well, it's great to be able to say it anyway, eh? Home Sweet Home."
J.D. closed his books and come out of the closet sized bedroom into the living room/dining room/kitchen, a room the size of an average American houses' patio and just as drafty and barren. There was no furniture in the room yet, not even a stove, refrigerator, or heater. Fortunately, the previous tenants had left behind a single light fixture, which meant one less thing to buy and one less $300 installation charge.
"Jeez, we need some furniture."
"Where are we going to get it? I'm broke. The key money deposit was all my savings."
"Same place I got this." George held up a toaster oven and handed it to J.D. "Straight out of the garbage. It's a little dirty."
J.D. put the toaster on the counter. The inside was covered with grease, burnt crumbs stuck to the bottom, but otherwise it looked fine. He started cleaning it.
"Oh, and I bought this." George pulled a large bottle of Canadian Club out of a paper bag. "Best whiskey in Canada. Best whiskey in the world!"
J.D. opened the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. "I'll take American bourbon any day."
"What are we waiting for? It's kanpai time! If we only had some glasses, eh?
J.D. opened the cupboards to show shelves overflowing with glasses, dishes, pots, utensils, and a variety of unidentifiable items.
"Where did all that come from?"
"Your student, Masa brought it by. His wife's friends donated it. Seems we're the local charity case."
George fixed two hefty drinks of straight whiskey. "Kampai-ski." George took a big swig. J.D. sipped at it while continuing working on the toaster.
"We'll have to do something for Masa and his wife, eh? How about some flowers?"
"Just make sure you don't pick up the funeral bouquets."
"How's the toaster?"
"Finished. Let's try her out." After a simple scrubbing it looked nearly new. J.D. plugged it in and the coils started glowing. "Jackpot."
"I'll bet there's lots more out there like this, just waiting for us."
"Well, tomorrow's daigomi day."
"Huh?"
"Big garbage collection day. Gomi means garbage."
"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go gomi hunting. This could be our lucky day!"
J.D. slipped a pair of sweatpants over his shorts and slid shut the paper door to his bedroom.
"Sure need a television, eh? A bilingual one. And a washing machine. Kitchen table. Some chairs. A new rug. We should be able to furnish the whole apartment."
They were on the main street when J.D. realized he had forgotten his wallet.
"Don't worry. It's all free," George said. "Besides, I have plenty of cash if we want to stop for a beer or run into a couple of girls who want to go to a love hotel."
They walked along the main street and at nearly every corner was a pile of garbage with something that looked useful. They grabbed a desk chair. The Japanese were staring at them even more than usual, especially when George stopped at the next pile and began rooting through it.
"Come on, let's hit the side streets," J.D. said. "I'm embarrassed."
"Why? I'll bet Japanese do this all the time."
"Are you joking? They won't even buy used stuff. That's why all this junk's out here in the gomi."
When the traffic light turned red and people began gathering at the crosswalk, all of them staring, J.D. silently slipped away and started walking down the side street, hoping George would follow. George was busy unrolling a discarded carpet. It was a nice beige color, but had a few dark stains on it. He left it behind. They could come back later if they didn't find better.
George looked around for J.D. He couldn't understand why J.D. was embarrassed. What did it matter if the Japanese thought it was strange? Everything the Japanese did was strange, like throwing out things that still worked, just because they were a few years old or outdated by a new model with a few extra features. It didn't matter if the Japanese stared a bit - they would do that anyway. What could they do - arrest them?
"I found some good stuff down here," J.D. yelled from the end of the street. George hoisted the chair above his shoulders and trotted down to the corner.
"Here's a heater. Looks brand new." It looked like it had never been used.
"Perfect. One down." J.D. carried the heater. A few streets away, a desk sat at the edge of the road.
The desk was next to the front door of a house. "Maybe it belongs to them," J.D. said. There was a note affixed to the top of the desk that probably said it was garbage, but could also say that it wasn't. Neither of them could read the Japanese characters.
"Would you leave a desk out on the road?"
"No, but this can't be trash. It must be worth at least a thousand dollars."
"Probably three thousand here."
"I say we leave it for now."
George reluctantly agreed. A few blocks away, they came upon another trash pile. Three washing machines in a row sat amongst the assorted garbage. One of the washing machines had no lid. The second looked fine but very old. The cycles needed to be manually changed and the spinner was a separate compartment. J.D. removed the piles of trash from the third and peered inside. It looked perfect.
"Look what I found," George said holding up a cassette deck. He handed it to J.D. and examined the washing machine, turning it on its side. The water hose running from the bottom was split in half.
"Good thing we didn't carry it back before finding that," J.D. said.
"What do you mean?"
"It's broken, dude."
"Just needs a bit of tape. Maybe I can switch a hose from one of the others."
"Should we carry it back now?"
"Naa, let's keep looking. We'll probably find a newer model. Besides, we have to get this other stuff back before we can carry it."
They continued walking along the road. They soon came to the biggest garbage pile yet. The apartment on the corner was set slightly away form the road and a square automobile sized area had been left for garbage. It was overflowing with washing machines, small tables, book shelves, and heaters, and probably hid other small treasures they would find after searching through the real garbage.
"A motorcycle!" George exclaimed.
J.D. looked. "Yeah, that's a motorcycle." A standard, 10 year-old bike leaned against one of the desks.
"They threw out a motorcycle! A 500cc Honda CVX!"
"Someone must have parked it here. If it's really trash, it can't work."
"Then I'll fix it."
"It can't be garbage."
"This is the gomi pile, right? And Japanese threw out other valuable stuff, right?"
"Yeah, but..."
"And, if you were parking a bike, would you leave the key in it?" George pulled the key from the ignition and held it with the key ring around his little finger.
"You can't just take the bike. What if you're wrong? You could get arrested and deported or something. Is it worth it?"
"Who's going to know? It's gomi and it's mine now. Let's see if she starts up." He put the key into the ignition and turned the switch. Nothing. "No gas. Probably just needs some new plugs and I'll have her running like new by tomorrow." The feeling he missed most about Canada was the freedom that having his own car had provided. It would be great to own a bike again. No more worrying about rushing back to the station before the last train. And the beach would be only a couple of wind blown hours away. He could probably persuade one of the secretaries at work to come along, too. That would be real sweet.
"I'm having nothing to do with it."
"You don't have a cycle license anyway." George handed the chair and a heater to J.D. "Carry the stuff while I wheel the bike, then we'll come back for the washer, okay?"
They hadn't walked even a single block when they heard footsteps running towards them from behind. It was a policeman.
The policeman ran past them, then stopped and blocked their path. He said something in Japanese. George turned to J.D., but J.D. couldn't understand it either.
"Gomi," George said pointing at the pile behind them.
The policeman bent over and examined the bike. Japanese characters had been hand painted onto the front fork. He reached for his holster and pulled out a walkie talkie, whispered some words into it, placed it back in the holster, and stood in front of the bike with his hands crossed. J.D. glanced at George, but George only shrugged his shoulders. J.D. laid the tape player and the heater on the ground.
The policeman seemed young and with his hat and uniform, he seemed a very generic policeman, like the ones in the Japanese comic books.
Within minutes, a very tall policeman arrived. The generic one said something to the tall one who picked up the tape player and heater. The generic one took hold of the motorcycle and motioned that J.D. and George should follow him.
J.D. considered making a break for it. Both of the policemen had their hands full and he could probably outrun them. They couldn't shoot him, not with a walkie-talkie. Then he remembered the local registration. The government kept a record of every foreigner living in the town, including address, employer, photograph, and thumbprint. He imagined the police waiting for him at the office the next morning. It seemed better to take his chances now, explaining that he had nothing to do with the motorcycle and had only met George by chance while walking home from the station.
The police station was a three-story building not much different from the other offices in the area, except that it was set back from the road, had its own parking lot, and had a kendo stick wielding policeman guarding the entrance.
They were led behind the reception desk into a small, drab meeting room. The policemen left and closed the door.
The room was the same as most other meeting rooms in Japan. Four cheap metal tables with fake wood tops comprised a block in the center of the room, circled by uncomfortable chairs. The walls were painted a grayish cream color and plastered with posters telling people to conserve energy, pay their taxes on time, drive slowly, invest in post office savings accounts, and work hard.
"Don't say anything," George said.
"I wasn't going to. I'm too busy thinking how I'm going to explain being deported at job interviews."
"It'll be all right."
"At least we'll get a free plane ride home."
"Knowing the Japanese, they'll make us pay. And no discount tickets, either."
"I guess they can't deport us then. I don't have any money left after the apartment deposit. How much is refundable?"
"None if we break the contract."
"Eight thousand dollars gone."
"Jesus, stop worrying. It'll be okay. Trust me."
The door opened and two policemen entered, the generic one and another. The new policeman asked, "Can speak Japanese?"
George and J.D. shook their heads. The generic policeman guarded the door while the other sat down across from them. "Eetoo...Much things...recently... stolen...this neighborhood."
"We found these in the trash, sir," George answered.
The seated policeman relayed the information to the other who then left the room. "Telephone ootobai owner now," the English speaking policeman explained.
"We'll be out of here in a minute."
"What if it wasn't trash. Or what if it was stolen and the thief left it there when it ran out of gas?"
"Then we'll have a great story to tell our grandchildren." George let out a deep roaring laugh.
The generic policeman returned and the two policemen conversed for a couple minutes. Another policeman entered the room, handed two forms to the generic policeman, bowed and exited. The other policeman took the forms and laid them on the table in front of George and J.D.
"After write paper, can go. Owner say ootobai no good. Engine old. Put in gomi."
J.D. was relieved. George was wearing his I-never-worry grin.
They were anxious to complete the form and leave, but completing the form was not a simple matter. It covered front and back of the paper. There was no English explanation. Even with the policeman's help it took quite a while, but finally, to the relief of the policeman as much as J.D. and George, they were finished.
The policeman inspected the forms then said, "Gaikokujin torokusho, please." George and J.D. looked at each other. "Eetoo...Gaijin caado." He needed to see their Alien Registration Card. George pulled his wallet out and handed over the card. J.D. felt for his wallet. It was gone. He left it in the apartment.
He tried explaining that he could bring it later.
The policeman shook his head. "Must have gaijin caado. Always." He examined the forms again. "Mr. George can go." He pointed to the door.
George stood up and looked at J.D. "What are we going to do?"
"Go back and get my wallet. It's on my desk, I think, or somewhere in my bedroom. Then call the embassy and see if they can help."
"Aren't they closed at this time of night?"
They both looked at each other and said, "Masa!"
"I'll be back in a minute. We'll get you out of here eventually." The generic policeman opened the door for George and escorted him to the front door while the English speaking policeman led J.D. to the holding cell. Another policeman unlocked the grate and motioned J.D. inside.
The cell had 2 wooden benches and 3 other roommates. Although the cell wasn't much different from what J.D. expected an American holding cell looked like, fortunately the prisoners did. One was wearing a suit, head bowed down, asleep. He smelled of alcohol and looked sick. The second was in a cotton print bathrobe. He must have gotten into trouble on the way home from the public baths. Both were in their forties. The third was a Japanese "rebel" and like all the other rebels, his James Dean hair was dyed orange. He wore a Batman T-shirt, round John Lennon sunglasses, and one inch thick sole shoes. The awake pair seemed shocked to see a foreigner in the cell. The one in the bathrobe gave J.D. a quick bow. The rebel ignored him.
* * *
"Hey, man. Can't meet girls here!"
Yoshi, a friend of J.D. and George stood on the other side of the bars, a policeman on either side. "What are you doing here?" J.D. asked.
"I met George on way home. He said they catch you stealing motorcycle. He told me bring this." Yoshi handed J.D.'s wallet through the bars. "Trying to bribe someone?"
J.D. ripped through the wallet until he found the registration card, then handed it back through the bars to the generic policeman. "Ask him if I can go now," he said to Yoshi.
Yoshi spoke with the policeman. "He says he has to check the form." The policeman left.
While J.D. was explaining the predicament to Yoshi, another policeman entered escorting George, along with Masa's wife, Atsuko.
"Kawaiisoo na J.D. desu, ne," she said.
He did not understand so he bowed and said, "Hello."
"Masa is at his mother's house," George explained. "He'll be over in a minute."
The other policeman returned with the registration card and J.D.'s form. He spoke with Yoshi. "He says the address is different. Can be deported for wrong address on card."
"I just moved to a new apartment!"
"He say only ten days to change address or deported."
"I moved yesterday."
"He says they call landlord tomorrow morning."
J.D. buried his head in his hands. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Why didn't they stop you, George?"
"Oh, I couldn't remember our new address, so I wrote the old one. Good thing, eh?"
A coterie consisting of Masa, his mother, his young son and daughter, and a variety of their relatives arrived. The Japanese all exchanged greetings. The boy yelled, "Herro, J.D." He then began running around the room yelling at the policemen. Atsuko finally caught him and told him to be quiet.
Two other senior looking officers arrived and bowed deeply to Masa and his mother, who were well known in the neighborhood. His mother, though resembling a small prune, was still a feisty woman and supposedly one of the richest people in the area. Even the land the police station was built on was once owned by her. She constantly demanded the respect that her 82 years entitled her to. The English class that J.D. taught at her house twice a month was a difficult matter since she demanded that the younger students in the group use "respect language" when addressing her, even in English. Since there is nothing equivalent in English, a compromise was reached where the other students would interject respectful Japanese verbs in the English sentences when addressing her.
"What happened?" Masa asked. J.D. and George explained and Masa translated for his relatives. The boy screamed out "J.D. in toraburu!" Atsuko took him outside.
Masa began speaking with the two senior policemen, but his mother quickly interrupted. She demanded that J.D. be released - he was her English teacher.
One of the senior officers returned with an older man in a suit. Judging by the reaction of the younger officers, he must have been the man ultimately in charge at the office. Masa's mother addressed him with a fair amount of respect, which meant he was a very high official. They seemed to know each other well. She quickly reiterated her demand, pointing at J.D.
The official asked the senior officers some question, who asked the English speaking policeman, who in turn, asked the policeman who had originally stopped J.D. and George. After a fairly quiet discussion, consisting mostly of the official apparently explaining something and the other policemen listening, he walked away. Masa's mother headed toward the front door.
Masa stepped over to the bars. "They say they have a deal. If you promise to have the address changed tomorrow, and write a letter of apology to the motorcycle owner, the police station, and the government, they will let you go tonight."
George started laughing. "Tell them no deals!"
The English speaking policeman opened the gate, motioned J.D. out, then handed his registration card back to him. They all walked to the front door and the Japanese bowed to each other.
After thanking Masa and Yoshi, George and J.D. began walking back to their apartment.
"What an adventure, eh?"
"I could have done without it."
"Hey, look at this." George stopped by a trash pile. A washing machine, seemingly new, was waiting to be carried home.
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