I WAS A BULLIED BOY

　　When I was a 7th or 8th grader, I was being bullied by this big boy named Y. Since my house and his were near, we always went back home together, though I did not like to do so.
　　I do not remember exactly what kind of things he did to me, but I still remember that he often said to me, “Hei, ikkan-matsu, wait for me.” “Ikkan-matu” was the nickname he had tagged me with. “Ikkan” means “one Kan” or 3.75 kilograms, Kan being a Japanese weight unit. My name is Matsuoka, So he joined “one Kan” and “Matsu” and coined a nickname, Ikkan-matsu.” He meant I was so small and such a feeble-looking boy, I was not able to carry even one Kan miso. (My father sold miso or soybean paste and shoyu or soy sauce for living. I helped him carry miso.)
　　I remember I had to carry Y’s bags on our way home. Sometimes he jumped on me, held on to my head with one hand and rubbed my head with an eraser with his other hand. In those days boys’ heads were usually clean-shaven. So, if your head was rubbed by an eraser, it was painful. He rubbed and rubbed my head laughing. 　　　　
　　Around seven o’clock one evening I told my mother that I did not want to go to school because of Y’s bullying. She immediately took me to Mr. Ohashi, my homeroom teacher’s house.
  　　The next day after school, Y and I were just about to leave the classroom, Mr. Ohashi called Y over and told him to stop bullying me. I watched him being scolded. His head was drooping and seemed to be listening to him. Soon, Y was allowed to go home. I had been, as usual, waiting for him. He looked at me in a queer, embarrassed way for a second. We went home without speaking anything at all. He did not bully me on the way home.
　　Fifty years later, when I (and Y) became 60 years old, an alumni reunion was held in my home town of Ogaki. About 70 people gathered together. Some came from Hiroshima, Osaka, and Tokyo. I was wondering there, but there were too many people for me to spot him. After a while, the master of ceremony called attention, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to introduce Mr. Y now. He came here all the way from Tokyo. I am happy to announce to you that he has recently awarded a medal of honor by the government. Mr. Y, please.”
   　　After the applause, Y walked onto the stage, stood in front of the microphone, and began to talk about how he had won the medal. 　　I could not believe my eyes. Such a bully, a medal? 　　After his speech, he returned to his table. I made up my mind, went to his table, and said to him, “My name is Matsuoka. Do you remember me?”
　　He said, “I think so.”
 　　I told him how he had bullied me; how my mother had asked Mr. Ohashi to tell him to stop bullying me; and how Mr. Ohashi one day had scolded Y.
　　After listening to me for a while, he said, “I don’t remember bullying you.”

NEARLY FATAL ON A PLANE

　　About 10 years ago, my wife and I were in a plane bound for Sydney. Our seats were separated by the aisle. The plane was scheduled to land at the Cairns Airport first and then to fly on to Sydney.

After three hours or so had passed after taking off, a flight attendant came to me and said, “Excuse me, but your wife fainted and is lying down on the floor in front of the toilet.”

Surprised, I rushed through the aisle and found my wife lying on her back. Her cheeks and lips were pale. She looked as if she had been struck by lightning. She was trembling and gasping for air. Her eyes were closed. When I called her name, she half opened her eyes, but they were white. When I slapped her cheek, her consciousness seemed to return to her.

“I am cold,” she said.

I took off my coat and put it on her and asked the attendant for some blankets. I tried to sit her up with my arms, but when she sat up halfway, she swooned and her eyes turned white. She looked llike she was in pain. I gave up trying to sit her upright.

It would take three more hours before the plane reached the Cairns Airport. After a while, the flight attendant came back with blankets and said:

“I am sorry to say, but all the seats, including the first class ones, are full. So we cannot arrange three seats where she can lie down.”

That meant that my wife had to stay lying down on the cold floor for three more hours. The flight attendant covered her with the blankets, took off her uniform coat, and put it on them. The passengers near us looked anxious. I felt sorry for them to have ruined their pleasant flight.

My wife’s face continued to be pale. Sometimes she looked unconscious. Whenever I called her name, she seemed to have heard me and tried to open her eyes but whenever they opened, they were white. I thought she might die before the plane reached Cairns. The scene of her funeral ran through my mind.

I sat beside her doing nothing but only watching her for the next three hours. At long last, the plane was nearing the airport. All the passengers had to fasten their seat belts, but my wife could not even sit up. If she had to be fastened with a seat belt, she must lie on three consecutive seats, but there was no empty seat. The plane was coming near the airport. The fasten-your-seat-belt announcement was heard. Then the attendant told the three passengers nearest my wife to move to the special seats on which the flight attendants sat during taking offs and landings. They emptied their seats. Two attendants and I moved my wife’s body to the seats and lay her on her back. The attendant fastened her body with the three seat belts. I returned to my seat and fastened the belt.

The plane landed and passengers began to get out of the plane through the front door. A custom officer and a doctor came to us. I showed our passports to him. The flight attendant then brought a wheel chair and managed to sit my wife on it though she hated to do so. They quickly pushed the chair through the aisle to the back door. I grabbed the baggage and followed it.

When the door opened, I saw in front of me a large iron plate about 1.5 square meters in the dark night. I thought it was used for cargo. They pushed the wheel chair onto the plate and I stepped onto it. It began to lower gradually until it stopped before an ambulance. She was carried into it. I sat at the front passenger seat. The vehicle ran with the headlights illuminating the countryside road and the siren blaring in the Cairn’s night.

Later in the hospital, my wife said that although she was a poor drinker she had drunk a bottle of wine in the plane to go to sleep as soon as possible because the neighboring young couple had been too intimate.

(I thank everyone who helped my wife, including the airline company, the pilot, the flight attendants, the three passengers, the airport staff, the ambulance crew, and the hospital staff).

AN UNFORGETTABLE PARENT

She said to me sharply, “There is no Mr. Matsuoka in this school, is there?” Momentarily I did not know what she was talking about, but a second later I understood what she wanted to say.
　　She was my student’s mother, around 50 years old. I, around 40, was having a parent-teacher meeting with her in May, one month after the new school year had started.
　　Her son, Kazuki (anonym), had entered the private senior high school I worked for after he had graduated from a public junior high school. Usually public junior high school graduates enter public senior high schools, but Kazuki, or rather, Kazuki’s mother had chosen my school.
　　She said, “The reason Kazuki entered this school is that we heard that an excellent English teacher was teaching here. Do you know Takao Nakao (anonym)? He is Kazuki’s friend.”
　　I had taught Takao a few years before. He had been the captain of the English Speaking Club, of which I was the adviser.
　　She continued, “Takao said to my son that there was an excellent English teacher at this school and that he should study English from him. So, we entered this school.”
　　I remembered how Kazuki had asked a question a few weeks before. Kazuki had said to me, “I don’t understand the meaning of this passage.” He was reading an essay written by a British essayist, probably Robert Lynd. His essay was so difficult that it was usually read by university students majoring in English, but Kazuki, only 16 years old, was reading it. I read the passage. I could not grasp the meaning by reading it only once. I read it a few times, and I understood the general meaning. I translated the passage into Japanese, explaining some of the difficult points.
　　While I was explaining, he said, “I understand the literal translation, but I don’t understand what the writer wants to say through this passage. Where is the humor?”
I was not able to give him a prompt answer. I figured out the superficial meaning, but failed to read between the lines. I mumbled.
　　Later I understood the humor, but it was too late. The passage was about the London air raid. It went like this: the owner of the shop, whose shop had been bombed, said to a customer, “We’ve widened the storefront.” I think it was written in a more sophisticated way.
　　Kazuki might have told his mother that Mr. Matsuoka could not read English. He might have wondered why Takao praised Mr. Matsuoka. His mother, whose husband was a professor of philosophy, might have been frustrated.
　　I do not know any other words that pierced my bosom so harshly than hers. A typical Japanese mother would not criticize her son’s teacher to his face, but she was different. She utilized the most ironical expression, “I don’t see any Mr. Matsuoka in this school. Where is he?”
　　I sometimes remember her words: her ill-disposed eyes, scornful tone, and twisted laughter in her mind. She might have felt satisfied by pricking my heart, or she might have felt she should have pierced me much harder.
After graduation from high school, Kazuki entered a prestigious university. I hear that he is now a psychiatrist.
　　I hope and want to believe that her verbal thrust has driven me to improve my English.

AN UNFORGETTABLE STUDENT

Minoru Kimoto (anonym) is one of my unforgettable students during my 43 as a high school teacher. About 25 years ago when he was a ninth grader, I was his homeroom teacher. He was a friendly, bright, handsome boy. The only problem was that he was often absent from school.
　　Whenever I found that he was absent at the morning homeroom meeting, I telephoned him at home. Usually no one answered. His parents had divorced and he lived with his mother, who ran an izakaya, a Japanese style pub. The school office had told me that Kimoto’s parents had not paid the tuition for the school year. I thought I must visit him soon.
　　One afternoon in early July, I managed to talk with Minoru on the phone. I asked him if it was all right for me to visit him the next morning. He said it was OK.
　　Minoru lived on the second floor of an apartment building with his mother. Around eleven o’clock, I was in front of his apartment. I pushed the doorbell. No answer. I pushed it again. No response. I said in a loud voice, “Kimoto, Kimoto.” There was no answer. The apartment number was correct. The door’s name read “Kimoto.” I wondered, “What’s the matter? I made an appointment to meet Minoru only yesterday. So he should be waiting for me this morning.” I again pushed the doorbell, then banged the door several times, and shouted “Minoru! Minoru!” No reply. I put my ear on the door but heard nothing. I wondered whether I should go back to school or wait some more.
　　At that moment, I heard a patrol car approaching with its sirens blaring. The sound was gradually increasing. The patrol car seemed to be coming towards the apartment building. The siren became louder and louder until, to my surprise, it stopped at the apartment building. “What’s happened? Why has the patrol car stopped here?” I was curious.
　　Then I heard loud heavy steps climbing the metal stairs. I saw several policemen fully armed with clubs and pistols rushing towards me. Lo and behold, they stopped in front of Minoru’s apartment. One of them questioned me, “What are you doing here? I was too surprised to speak for a moment. He again interrogated me, “What’s your name?” I answered half stammering, “I am a school teacher and am visiting my student, Kimoto.”
　　No sooner had I answered him than he started banging the door without a word. Then, he took out a string from his uniform and instantaneously picked the lock. The door opened with a clang like magic.
　　The policemen rushed into the apartment. I followed them. Minoru was there.
“Minoru, what’s the matter with you?” I said. “I called you innumerous times outside the door.” He gazed at me with his mouth half open.
His mother was not there. Instead, there were two high school girls in an adjoining room. The policeman said to me, “You, talk with the boy. We talk to the girls.”
　　I heard the policemen asking the girls’ names and addresses. I thought I was in a place completely foreign. It was like a cheap TV drama. A patrol car, a siren, robust policemen, two girls, and a thief’s technique to open the door.
　　After the policemen took the girls out with them and left the apartment, I asked Minoru why he did not open the door. Looking relieved, he apologized to me and said, “To tell you the truth, I was scared when I heard someone calling my name in front of the door. I mistook you for my brother.” He paused a moment and continued. “Actually, he belongs to a gangster organization. I was afraid of him. So I called the police and said that a gangster was going to break into my house.”
　　His story sounded true, but now I wonder why the policemen did not interrogate me in front of the door. Probably I did not look like a gangster. Probably I did not look like one.
　　It was nearly noon. I suggested to him that we eat lunch. We went to a nearby Japanese restaurant and ate zarusoba, cold buckweat noodles. I forgot what we talked about, but I think I strongly advised him to come to school.
　　The next day at school, I had a telephone call from a junior high school principal. He said, “Thank you very much. The girls you met yesterday are the students at my school. They were missing and we’ve been searching for them for weeks.”
　　I wondered what Minoru and the girls had been doing in the apartment. Had the girls been staying at Minoru’s house for weeks? Or had they just visit Minoru on that day? Hadn’t his mother noticed them? I speculated wildly that the policemen had got a line of whereabouts of the girls, and so they made an assault on the apartment.
Minoru’s frequent absence from school continued through the second term. Then, unfortunately he quit school during the third term. I have never seen him since.
　　About ten years later, one of his friends said to me when he visited me at school, “Minoru still remembers you. He said the zarusoba you treated him to was delicious.”
　　He may be around 40 years old. I wonder what has become of him.

悪戯坊主 A MISCHIEVOUS BOY

　自分では悪戯坊主だった、とは思っていないが、状況から判断すると、そうかもしれない。

思い出すと、四つの悪戯が目に浮かぶ。道に張ってあったロープを切ったこと。新築の家に石をぶつけたこと。小学校の天井裏に登ったこと。それに、線路に絵の具のチューブを置いたことだ。

　　　　　　　　　　　　一

四歳か五歳のころの話だ。わたしの家（岐阜県、大垣）のすぐそばに幅二メートルぐらいの川があった。よくこの川で川藻に潜んでいるハリンパ（四センチぐらいの魚で、鰓のところに針が出ている）を捕まえた。

ある日、橋が老朽化してか（幼稚園児だから理由が分からない）、直径一メートルぐらいの土管と取り換える工事が始まった。わたしは一日中工事を見ていた。日が沈むころ工事が終わり、作業人は、川から十メートルぐらい離れた道路の両端に杭を打ち、杭から杭へ縄を張った。わたしはどうして縄を張ったのか分からなかった。

夜の九時頃、縄のところへ行った。当時は（昭和二十二年頃）街路灯などなく、辺りは暗かった。縄を見て、「この縄、通行人の邪魔になる」と思って、家へ戻り、台所から包丁を持ってきて縄を切った。周りには人っ子一人、猫一匹いなかった。家に帰って包丁を元に戻して、寝た。

翌日、朝食のとき父が言った。

「きのうの晩、自転車に乗っとる人が二人、川に落ちて大怪我をしたそうや。二人とも縄に気づかなんだらしい。でも、おかしいやないか、縄が張ったったのに……。多分、猛スピードで飛ばしとったんやろ」

　わたしは、びっくり仰天！　縄を張った訳がこのとき始めて分かった。

「ごめんなさい」と心の中で思っただけで、正直に「僕が縄を切っちゃったんだ」とは言えなかった。

（お二人さん、済みませんでした）

 

見りゃわかる　縄が切れたか　切られたか

　　　　　　　　　　　　二

確か小学校の四年生の時だった。学校帰りに、進が「お化け屋敷がある、行かへんか」と訊いてきた。面白そうや、と思って一緒に行くことにした。他にも七、八人の男の子がいた。

お化け屋敷は普通の家だった。どうしてこれが……、と思っていると、誰かが「石をぶつけよう」と言った。みんな石を拾って、玄関めがけて投げだした。私も石を投げた。玄関は格子戸になっていて、わたしが投げた石は格子の枠に当たって跳ね返った。皆どんどん石を投げている。枠内のガラスに命中？する者もいた。わたしはもう一度石を投げた。また枠に当たった。三つ目の石を拾って、投げようと前へ出たとき、誰かが「逃げろ！」と叫んだ。見ると、おっさんが走って来る。一目散に逃げた。

翌日、全校朝礼のとき、Ｋ先生（怖い先生で生活指導担当だったらしい）が、「昨日、興文橋の近くの家に石をぶつけた者がこの中におる。誰だ。正直に手をあげなさい」と言った。進が手をあげ、数人の手もあがった。私も釣られて手をあげた。

Ｋ先生が、ドスを聞かせて、「今、手を挙げた者、前へ出てこい！」と言った。

　私達は校長室で一日中立たせられ、先生方からさんざん説教された。説教を聞いていて分かったことだが、お化け屋敷は新築中の家で、既に悪戯坊主が襖や障子を破いたり、壁を汚したり、ガラスを割ったりしていたのだ。

始末書を書くことになった。わたしは列の最後に並んでいて、順に回ってきたみんなの罪業を読むことができた。

「ぼくはガラスを三枚割りました」「障子を壊しました」「壁に落書きをしました」などと石川五右衛門なみの悪事を書いていた。わたしはどう書いたらいいか困った。わたしは石を投げ、格子戸の枠に当たっただけで、家を壊したりしていない。しかし、ここまで追い詰められた以上、何か悪行を書かねばならない。仕方なく「ぼくはガラスを二枚わりました」と嘘を書いた。一枚でも良かったが、二枚の方が正直に書いたと思われると思った。

午後三時頃、全ての悪人の親が呼ばれ、校長やＫ先生からお叱りを受けた。

母は担任のＯ先生に平謝りだった。先生は「人に釣られやすい子ですからねぇ」と言ってくれた。

家に帰って、面目なくて、親に本当のことを言えなかった。

（お母さん、お父さん、僕はガラスを割ってません）

 

検察で　嘘の告白　させられて

　　　　　　　　　　　　三

小学校の六年生のときの話。ある日の放課後、午後五時頃、西村、正木、三浦とわたしが教室で遊んでいた。西村が天井裏に登ろうと言いだした。当時の学校は木造で、三角形の天井裏があった。天井を見ると、隅に約四十センチ四方の通気口があった。

早速、通気口の真下に机を四つ積み上げて、一人一人机の塔を登って行った。西村が先頭で、三人が後に続いた。私は机がぐらぐらして、崩れやしないかとびくびくだった。

十分後、四人とも無事に天井裏に登り、梁の上に立った。中は薄暗くて暖かかった。瓦屋根の隙間から差し込んでくる光の中を、ホコリがキラキラ舞っている。目が暗がりに慣れるまでしばらく時間がかかった。

西村が、隣の教室まで冒険しようと言った。四人は、そろそろと梁の上を歩いて行った。西村が先頭で、次が正木とわたし、最後が三浦だった。

五分ぐらい歩いた時、「アー、助けてー、助けてー」という絶叫を聞いた。振り向くと、三浦が床から落ちそうになっていた。梁から足を踏み外し、身体ごとズボッと厚紙の床に穴をあけて落下しかかり、とっさに両腕を左右に一杯伸ばして梁と梁の間で体を支え、かろうじて落下するのをこらえていた。教室の下から天井を見ると、三浦の胴体と足だけが天井からぶら下がっているのが見えたはずだ。

三人で、三浦の腕をつかんで身体を引き上げた。三浦は引き上げられながら、「だずげでー、だずげでー」と泣きわめいていた。

冒険はこれでおじゃん。みんな机をつたって教室に下りた。三浦はまだ泣いていた。（可哀そうに、死ぬかと思ったんだろう）

天井を見ると大きな穴があった。明日になると、きっとＯ先生から「天井に穴あけたの、お前たちだろ」と言われるに決まっている。西村が、「俺が穴を紙でふさいでくるわ」と言って、大きな紙を持って、また登って行った。

暫らくして、穴から紙が見え、西村が、「これでいいか」と大きな声で言った。「いいよっ」と答えたが、いい訳がない。天井は灰色なのに紙は白いから、すぐばれてしまう。

明くる日、Ｏ先生から、四人は大目玉を食らった。

（授業中だったら、下で勉強している生徒や先生はびっくりしただろう）

トラウマで　エレベーターが　怖くなり

四

中学生になった。ある日、美術の授業は校外での写生だった。校外と言っても指定された学校周辺である。わたしは徹ちゃんと裕ちゃんの三人で、近鉄線の線路へ向かった。指定地域外で、先生の目が届かない。

線路を目の前にして腰をおろし、絵を描き始めた。周りは背の高い雑草が茂っていて、誰からも見えない。

裕ちゃんが青い絵の具のチューブから絵の具を絞りだそうとしていた。しかし、チューブの口が乾いていて中身が出てこなかった。

「チューブを線路の上に置いたら、電車が絵の具を出してくれるよ」と徹ちゃんが言った。

「そんなことして、電車大丈夫か」と裕ちゃん。

「大丈夫、大丈夫、この前、釣った鮒を五、六匹線路に並べたんや。電車が鮒をパシパシっと、内臓を飛び散らせてったよ」と徹ちゃん。

裕ちゃんはチューブを線路の上に置いて、電車を待った。

電車が轟音を響かせて近づいてきた。チューブをペチャンコにした。青色の絵の具が線路に飛び散り、枕木や砕石が青く染まった。裕ちゃんは、意気揚々と筆に青の絵の具をつけ、絵を描きだした。

なんて面白いんだ！　わたしはチューブを二、三本線路の上に並べた。

電車がチューブを煎餅のようにぺしゃんこにしていった。

「すごい！」

三人とも絵の具を線路に幾つかならべて、電車を待った。

電車が二十メートルぐらい近づいてきたとき、チューブのひとつが線路から落ちた。裕ちゃんは走って行ってチューブを線路の上に戻した……と同時に、キキキキーという耳をつんざく鋭い金属音が聞こえた。電車が急ブレーキをかけたのだ。一目散に逃げた。

電車は速度を落としたが、停車せずにそのままスピードを上げて、消えて行った。

ほっとした。

怖かった。

次の瞬間、「いけねー、駅長が校長に電話をかけてきて、苦情を言うやろな」と思った。

翌朝、びくびくしながら登校した。悪戯三人組はブラックリストに載っており、隠し通せそうにない。

しかし、その日は、先生から呼び出しがなかった。電車の運転手が駅長に報告しなかったのか、駅長が校長に電話をかけなかったのか、明日かかってくるのか……。

ともかくも、裕ちゃんが電車にひき殺されなくて、良かった。

（ごめんなさい、運転手さん）

冷や汗を　かいて描いた　手抜きの絵

五

私は大学卒業後、私立某中高等学校（男子部）の教師になり、三年前に退職した。在職中は悪戯坊主どもを指導することが多々あったが、生徒は私の悪行を誰も知らない。

叱りつつ　生徒の気持ち　良くわかり

   　　　　　　A MISCHIEVOUS BOY

I don’t think I was a mischievous boy, but considering the circumstances, I have to admit it.　I remember three naughty acts: one was when I cut a rope stretched across a road; another was when I climbed into my elementary school attic; and the other was when I put painting tubes on a railroad track.

 

1

When I was four or five years old, there was a twoーmeterーwide river next to my house. I used to enjoy watching or catching tiny fish swimming among the river grass. One day the river was dammed up to replace the old wooden bridge with a pipe of one meter in diameter. I enjoyed watching the construction. It continued the whole day. After sunset, I saw the workers stretch a rope across the road about five meters away from the river. I did not know why they did so. Around nine o’clock in the evening, I went to the rope. It was dim because there were no street lights. Looking at it, I thought it was a hindrance for pedestrians. I went back home, got a kitchen knife, and cut it. There was not a soul about. I returned the knife and went to sleep.

During breakfast the next morning, my father said, “Two cyclists were injured last night because they fell into the dry river bed that was under construction. They say they did not notice the rope. It is strange. They must have been running at full speed.”

I was surprised. It was at that moment that I recognized that the rope had been stretched to keep pedestrians and cyclists from falling into the river bed. I felt sorry for them, but I did not confess what I had done.

look at the cut edge

Is it cut?

Is it broken?

2

When I was a third grader, one of my friends told me on our way from school that there was a ghost house near the school and suggested that we should go there. I followed him with some of my friends. When we reached it, I saw an ordinary house. It did not look like a ghost house. Someone said, “Let’s throw stones at the house.” The boys began to throw stones. I also picked up a stone and threw it. Fortunately or unfortunately, it hit the frame of the latticed front door and bounced back. I picked up another stone and stood for a while looking at other boys throwing stones. I threw the stone and it again bounced back. While I was picking up another stone, some boy screamed, “Someone is coming. Let’s get out of here!” We ran and ran. The next morning during the morning assembly at school, Mr. Koyasu, who was in charge of students’ manners, said, “Who threw stones at a house near the school? Raise your hands.” Some of the boys including me raised our hands. After the assembly, Mr. Koyasu took us to the principal’s room. He ordered us to stand at attention there. There were six or seven boys. We had to stand all day, during which time several teachers visited the room and scolded us. In the end we wrote an apology letter. We wrote what we did to the house (which was not a ghost house but a newly built one). One of the boys wrote, “I broke a sliding door.” Another wrote, “I broke three windows.” Although I did not break anything, I wrote, “I broke two windows.” I don’t know why I lied. I thought I had to make up some bad behavior to be in balance with the other boys. My mother was summoned. She and I were scolded by teachers.
(Dad, Mom, I did't break the window!)

forced to
"confess"
by prosecutors

3

 

One day after school, all the pupils in my classroom went home except four boys including me. While we were chattering, Nishimura suggested that we should climb into the school attic. In those days most of the elementary school buildings were made of wood and had triangular roofs. There was a footーsquare opening at the corner of the ceiling. He said, “We can climb into the attic through that hole. It is adventurous to walk in the attic, isn’t it?”

We piled up three or four desks under the hole. Then, one by one we climbed the unstable tower, reached the hole, and went up through the hole onto the ceiling. Nishimura was the first to climb in. He pulled the other boys up. I was afraid that the desks would collapse.

In 10 minutes, all of us successfully climbed into the attic. It was dark and warm. We stood on the wooden beams. It took some time for our eyes to get accustomed to the darkness. After a few minutes, Nishimura proposed we walk to the adjoining classroom. We all agreed and began to walk slowly and carefully stepping on the beams. Nishimura was first. Masaki was second. I followed him. The last was Miura. When we had walked for about five minutes or so, I heard a scream behind me, “Help! Help me!” I turned around and saw Miura’s head sitting on the ceiling, his body obviously hanging down in the air between the beams. Miura was desperately stretching his arms over the beams so that he would not fall down through the hole his body had made. We grabbed his hands and pulled him up. We were lucky. The beams we were standing on did not break. While we were pulling him up, Miura was shedding tears, screaming, “Oh God, oh Mom, help me, help me.”

The adventure was canceled. We went back to the opening, climbed down the desks, and landed on the floor. Miura was sobbing. When we looked up at the ceiling, Jesus Christ, we saw a big hole in the ceiling. We were afraid that the next day our homeroom teacher, Mr. Ohashi, would find the hole and scold us, a gang of mischievous four. Nishimura said, “I’ll go up again and cover the hole with paper.” He again climbed the desks, went up through the hole, and disappeared. In a few minutes, I saw the hole being covered with a piece of paper. To our disappointment, however, the ceiling was grey while the paper was white. The next morning, Mr. Ohashi severely scolded us.

nothing is more terrifiying

than descending

on an elevator

4

When I was a junior high school boy, one of my friends was almost run down by  train. During fine arts class, we were allowed to go out of the school and choose any good place to draw a picture from. Of course we were not allowed to go too far away. My friends, Takashi and Susumu, and I went to railroad tracks that ran near the school. I don’t remember exactly why we went there. Probably we wanted to draw a picture of an oncoming train, or just wanted to play around away from the school. Anyway, we sat beside the railway tracks and began to draw a picture. There was a lot of tall grass around us and no teacher could see us. Whenever we heard a train approaching while we were painting, we moved away from the tracks.

After a while, Susumu had difficulty squeezing blue paint out of his paint tube. It was dry and no paint came out even if he pressed it hard. Takashi had a good idea. He said, “Why don’t you put the tube on the railway track? The train will press it and blue paint will come out.” So, Susumu put the tube on the tracks and waited for a train. And it came with a thunderous noise, pressed the tube instantaneously, and disappeared. We saw the tracks. The blue paint splashed in all directions covering the neighboring brown railroad ties and stones. Susumu put some of the blue paint on his paint brush and cheerfully continued to draw his picture. We thought it was amusing and thrilling to have the train flatten paint tubes. So, we put some of our tubes on the track and waited for a train. It came, crushed them ejecting the content, and left. How exciting! We put some more tubes and waited for a train. We heard a train approaching. When it was 20 meters away from us, one of the tubes fell off the tracks, and Idiot Susumu ran to put it back. At the same time, we heard the strongest and loudest earーsplitting screech resonating all over. The driver of the train pulled the emergency brake. We ran and ran and ran.

The train slowed down, gained speed, and disappeared. We were relieved and scared. We were sure the station master would call the school principal and complain about us.

The next morning, no teacher summoned us. I don’t know whether the driver did not make a report about the dangerous boys to the station master or the master did not call our principal.

I tremble to remember the incident. Susumu would have been killed by the train.

close shave

three shoddy

pictures

 

 

 

5

 

   After graduation from university, I became a teacher for a private boys’ high school and retired it three years ago. I had often scolded students. No student knows my mischievous conducts.

scolding the students

I understand well

their psychology