WITH KISS AND HEART MARKS ❤

She is a 19-year-old girl,

cute and pretty, charming and cheerful.

She sent me an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you over a cup of coffee.”

Really?

An e-mail from such a young girl to

such an old man like me.

How happy I was!

 

I met her at a coffee shop three months ago.

She was working as a waitress.

She became so friendly with me that

we shook hands whenever we met.

One day I saw a poster advertising

a vocational school at a subway station.

A cute girl was smiling in the poster.

She was the spitting image of the waitress.

How surprising!

 

The next time I went to the coffee shop,

I asked her if it was her.

“Yes, it is. I am working as a model.”

That’s why she is cute and pretty,

charming and cheerful.

 

I sent back an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you, too.

She sent back an-email,

“I can’t wait to see you, too.”

At the end of the text

there were kiss and heart marks.    ❤

I was too excited to sleep.

 

We were to meet in Sakae at noon.

We were to eat lunch.

Around 11 o’clock she texted,

“Sorry, I’ll be late. I’ll be there at 1:00.”

“All right, I’ll be waiting for you.”

I arrived there at 12:50 and waited for her.

I waited and waited and waited.

No telephone call. No e-mail.

I telephoned. I texted.

No reply.

 

I got impatient.

I got irritated.

I got angry.

She must have had an accident.

She must have fallen ill.

Still no reply. No nothing.

I waited and waited and waited.

 

The next day.

No e-mail from her. No call.

I sent an e-mail,

“Why don’t you mail me?

Why don’t you call me?

I am disappointed with you.”

 

The next day, she texted me,

“Sorry, but I had trouble at home.

I’m now staying with my friend.

I’ll contact you later when

the trouble is solved”

with a crying face mark.

 

I waited for her message

I waited and waited and waited.

At last she e-mailed me.

“I’d like to see you on such and such day.”

On the morning of that day

she sent me an email,

“I am sick and can’t come.

I’ll contact you soon.”

 

Since then she has sent me no messages.

Since then she hasn’t called me.

  Since then my messages haven’t been replied to.

  Since then no telephone reply.

  No response, no nothing.

  Why did she say,

  “I can’t wait to see you, too”

  with kiss and heart marks?

How disappointing!

 

  Two months have passed.

  I’ve given up on her.

  Is she a bad girl?

  Did she intend to tease me from the start?

  Did she enjoy teasing me?

How could such a pretty girl

have played a prank on me?

How could she?

How could she?

 

  What still haunts me are her posters.

  I see them on subway trains.

  Whichever seat I sit on,

 I see her poster.

 How depressing!

 

MY SISTER'S MYSTERIOUS WORDS

MY SISTER'S MYSTERIOUS WORDS
 

My sister has been dead for about ten years. I still do not understand the mysterious words she said to me several months before she died.
　　One day when she was in bed in a hospital (She had been hospitalized for several years because of her broken leg and a chronic disease), she said, “There is a precious thing on the border between the west room and east room on the second floor of our house, and another at the south end of the kitchen floor.” At first, I didn’t comprehend what she was talking about. There was only a wall between the two rooms.
　　 Several weeks later, however, I opened the drawer of a tansu chest that stood against the wall between the two rooms. In the drawer lay an old bereaved family pension bond. My uncle had been killed in China during World War II. So the government had issued the bond to my late father. I wondered how my sister knew about it? She had her leg broken many years before and had not been able to climb to the second floor. It was unlikely that my father had told her about the bond while he was alive.
　　 I went to a post office with the bond and received the pension once a month for about a year. Without her words, I couldn’t have gotte the money.
　   As for the kitchen floor, I was not able to find any precious thing. Because the floor was covered with concrete, I was not able to break it to dig a hole in the ground.
　   What is strange is how she could know the location of the pension bond? She did not tell me to open the drawer of the tansu chest. She just mentioned the border between the west and east rooms. Was it her sixth sense that told her about it? Do chronically diseased people have special abilities?
 

TOO MUCH IS TOO MUCH

TOO MUCH IS TOO MUCH

 

   When I was 28 years old, I participated in the All Japan Teachers’ English Speech Contest which was held in November in Tokyo. The allotted time for the speech was seven minutes. I had participated in it twice before because I thought I had to be an example for my students as an English teacher before recommending them to participate in an English speech contest. The first two times I had tried and failed to win the first prize.

   My title for the speech for the third time was “How to Win the Last Prize in a Speech Contest.” (Honestly though, I couldn’t think of a topic that I would appeal to the audience.) I practiced my speech day after day until I memorized all the lines. I practiced it even on the Shinkansen bound for Tokyo standing in the space between the cars looking at the passing scenery out of the door window.

   My speech focused on such points as:

1. Do not look at the audience, but look at the ceiling or the floor while speaking. (I actually looked at the ceiling and the floor while speaking this line.)

2. Mumble or stutter as many times as possible. (I demonstrated mumbling.)

3. Make your speech illogical so that the audience could not comprehend you at all. (My speech was logical, however.)

   My turn came. I walked on the stage and stood at the podium. I began to speak as I had prepared. As I had practiced the speech dozens times, I spoke fluently or, I should say, too fluently. Since my mouth and tongue moved automatically, I did not have to follow the chain of thought.

   When I finished about two thirds of my speech, one of the doors of the hall opened and my acquaintance entered the hall. He was Mr. H, a university professor and the leader of the tour to the United States which I had attended that summer. I thought, “Oh, Mr. H. I haven’t seen him for four or five months. Glad to see him.” Suddenly, I forgot what to say next. I stopped speaking. I sweated. I looked at the audience intently. They looked at me intently. Both of us were being embarrassed. The silence continued for about 10 seconds, which seemed as long as 10 hours. Then, luckily I remembered the next sentence. And thus I managed to finish my long, long speech, literally wining the last prize.

   One of the judges said to me during the review meeting, “I thought you were intentionally demonstrating how to forget a speech line.”

   I did not intend to; I forgot what to say. Practice did not make perfect. Too much practice spoils the broth.

Sleepless Overnight at Miyamoto Hotel

　　The following is the translation of my composition I wrote when I was a 6th grader. We, about 250 elementary school pupils, went on a school graduation trip to Kyoto and Nara. We stayed overnight in a Japanese hotel in Kyoto on the first day. The composition reveals my excitement that night.

********************

 

After taking a bath, I was about to go to sleep sharing a futon with Nakanishi, when he said, “I’ve lost my soap.” We made a fuss looking for it in the bed, his bag, and what not. Soon we found it in the bed. He put it in his bag before he lost it again.
　　Sighing with relief, I went to bed, but Nishimura was restless, kicking my legs, going out of the bed, or coming back to it. I sneaked into Ogino and Takagi’s bed. The bed was too narrow for three boys. So, Takagi got out of the bed and went to Nishimura’s bed, but since Nishimura was so restless that Takagi came back to his original bed where I and Ogino were sleeping. Again three boys were crammed in one bed. I felt cramped. So, I moved to Fukui’s bed, when suddenly I heard the teacher’s thundering voice in the next room, “Be quiet!” Terrified, we got into bed and kept silent.
　　I was so excited that I was awake. I went to the bathroom a few times. I took out some candy from my bag and ate it. I heard streetcars moving in front of the hotel. I wondered what my family were doing about that time. Several hours later, it was already morning. I did not know whether I had slept. The teacher came to our room and said, “Six o’clock.” I got up at 6:20. I looked out of the window. The shops were all closed. I breathed the air of Kyoto. It was a clean morning. Today we were going to visit Nara.

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.