“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo … Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
TGIS: Thank God it’s Saturday — the longest time until I have to go back to Zozo. I just need to keep breathing until then.
As I put on my skirt suit and butter up a slice of Texas toast, I almost look forward to this networking party tonight. I’m in a good mood for once. It also occurs to me that I haven’t been eating as much as I ought to, staring down the Kraft Dinner I just made for lunch. Zozo doesn’t have a fridge or a microwave, but it’ll keep warm in my bento box until twelve. After this, I’ll make it a point to eat healthier.
I’m slowly riding past Yagi-sama and the post office when I hear my phone vibrate in my purse. The clock in the post office says it’s not even quarter to ten yet, but my purse tingles a second time and once more as I ride past Tully’s. What the hell is going on? It’s not like I’m late. Maybe it’s text spam … or maybe someone from home wants to get a hold of me. Maybe something’s happened. Something serious. Or it’s Lieko harassing me again … but for what? For running late? Late for what? I’m never late. Late, my ass. If anyone accuses me of being late for anything I will dragon-punch them in the throat. For crying out loud, they can’t make me pedal any faster than I’m already going so get off my freaking phone and —
No. I stop myself. That’s the “old” Cybelle losing her temper over meaningless premonitions. This Cybelle is polite, professional, and has not been late once in all the years she’s lived in Japan. There’s no need to go into attitude mode. Don’t be so paranoid. It’s time to enjoy English!
Just to be safe I decide to take a quick detour under the train tracks. I’ll get to Zozo a little faster and maybe shut everyone up a little sooner.
The tunnel is a small pocket of darkness, as expected, occupied by only one passerby: an old woman, by the look of her unkempt grey hair and staggering gait. Nothing out of the ordinary — until I pass her. The silence of the tunnel is torn by a long, loud snort erupting from her nasal cavities.
“Nooo!”
I crush the brake levers on my handlebars and skid to a halt. She hocks a massive projectile that splats on the pavement. It misses me by inches. I can’t help gasping in horror as I shut my eyes and turn my head away before I can see what is on the ground. My “nooo” echoes down the tunnel. The old woman turns and snarls: “hrrrrnh …” It’s a guttural, gurgling, angry sound. I can feel her eyes on me in the dim light. I know that if I look down at the ground at what could be on my bike or on my clothes if I hadn’t stopped, I will puke. Unsure of what else to do, I back up and walk my bike around her, to give her plenty of space. Once I’m out of the tunnel I can’t help looking over my shoulder. She has stopped in her tracks. She watches me go with bloodshot eyes and dribble running down her chin.
Now I’m glad I might be late for work. It gives me the perfect excuse to pedal faster than I’ve ever pedalled in my life, because that is what I would call a premonition. I don’t want any more nasty surprises projected at me. I should turn back, go home, and call in to use one of my sick days. Wait, how many sick days do I have?
And is it me, or have I seen that woman somewhere before?
Cybelle, you idiot. You’re being paranoid. Let’s enjoy English. Must enjoy English …
The elevator opens onto Zozo’s floor and I come face to face with the cutest, chubby-cheeked boy I’ve ever seen, chewing on my foam sunset picture. His pants are billowy and white; his shirt is deep blue with a red bow tie and a white hood with a blue sailor’s hat sewn on. It’s a Donald Duck outfit for toddlers. His eyes widen, making them look quite puffy underneath. I’ve never seen a toddler’s eyes go so wide. I smile, anyway, trying my damnedest to ignore my drool-soaked picture in his hands. I don’t even want to know how he got it. It belongs to him, now.
“Oh, hello,” I say. “Who might you be?”
He screams. He runs away and throws himself into a young woman’s arms. He screams and screams some more. The woman stares at me like I just kicked him. “Ohayou gozaimasu,” I greet her with a bow. She doesn’t respond. Whatever. That’s fine.
I go to the other side of the entryway to change my shoes and prepare to sneak away. Lieko and Misaki are sitting on the lobby floor. They’ve already been playing with him for a while it seems, but now that I’m here I’m causing too much of a distraction. Misaki can’t get the little boy to return his attention to that disgusting Anpanman toy gyrating on the floor. She picks up Anpanman and nuzzles it against the boy’s back as he continues to scream like a banshee into his mother’s small bosom. “Say, ‘hell-o, Sheee-belle! Hello! Hello!’ Aww … he is so shy!”
Yeah, shy, my ass. I turn to go to the staff room, not in the mood to deal with Misaki or Lieko’s staring or any more strangeness today.
“Cybelle,” Manager stands up behind the info desk. He smiles with tremendous effort. “This is Hitomu. He is your trial lesson today?”
My jaw twitches, like it’s about to unhinge. I think long and hard before I speak. “I’m sorry, Manager. I don’t remember you telling me about it.”
His smile fades for about a second. So, I’m right; he never told me. His smile quickly returns to disguise his epiphany. “Ah … it was Wednesday. As you can see, Hitomu has some troubles. So, mama takes Hitomu to doctor on Wednesday. Hitomu cancel, before dinner for Misaki-sensei. Hitomu rescheduled to this day. He called, last night. After Cybelle went home.”
“I see. But why not text me?”
“Ah, Lieko say she text you and you don’t reply. But now, it does not matter. You can do trial lesson today? Please?”
“Sure.” I look back at the shrieking child. “Hi, Hitomu.”
Didn’t think it was possible, but yes, he can scream louder. Whatever, fine, let’s get this over with. “Okay, fine, I’ll get Room Five set up now —”
“Ah, Cybelle-sensei,” Manager sucks air in through his teeth. “Ah, lesson is, not now. Hitomu will take your lesson at lunch. So, please take your time, but … maybe, Hitomu will need some time to get ready. So, you must be ready for sometime between twelve and one o’clock.”
“What?” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “I’m sorry, but I thought trial lessons only take ten minutes. It’s Saturday. When am I supposed to eat lunch?”
Manager’s smile twitches. I’m pretty sure everyone sees it. “Ah … Cybelle-sensei … jitsu wa … maybe, it is the only time that Hitomu can have a lesson, with you. So, maybe, you must do it between twelve and one o’clock. So, maybe, it is best to get ready for Miyu’s lesson, and Honoki and Reiki’s lesson, and Sakura and Ayuna now, otherwise …”
Is this happening? I mean, I’m fine in terms of lesson prep, but I wonder if I’m hearing things right. Is this guy really telling me I have twelve minutes to get ready for seven hours of back-to-back classes without a lunch break? “Ow,” I rub my eyes. “Son of a — I mean, I see.”
“Ah! Thank you for your understanding! Okay, Hitomu, please take your time and say, ‘See you again, Cybelle!’”
Hitomu screams again, and clings harder to his mother.
“Uh, ‘take your time’ doing what?” I ask.
“Ah, well, Hitomu and mama are not sure what lesson they want to take. Hitomu and his mother want to watch some lessons first. You see, Hitomu is almost three years old, so maybe he is too old for Baby Two but maybe, he cannot do Zippo and Zappo. He has no experience without mama, so they would like to see all lessons, and then maybe they will choose. Maybe.”
“Oh.” I think for a moment. “So, they’re going to stay here until twelve.”
“Yes. And maybe, they will stay until Zozo closes at seven.”
“Say what now?”
A horde of excited children streams out of the elevator and swarms around the reception desk before I can muster a scathing follow-up. I am not happy, but I can tell Manager is not happy either after Hitomu disrupts the first two hours of the day screaming in the lobby. Several parents ask who he is and what’s wrong with him, and if his mother is really his mother or did his mother step out and leave him with a stranger, and so on and so on. I wish I had answers for them. I’m curious as to what the heck is going on myself, but it’s fine. I can be professional. That’s the Zozo policy: always be professional, polite, and playful. I can do all three, easy.
When noon comes around, I’m waiting with Manager in the lobby, which does not get any quieter. Manager spends about twenty minutes talking to Hitomu’s mother about what my trial will be like as he makes attempts to pry Hitomu from her arms and drag him kicking and screaming into Room Five. He finally gives up and allows Hitomu’s mother to accompany him inside. Had I known this would happen I would have wolfed down my mac and cheese fifteen minutes ago.
“How are you, Cybelle? Ready?”
“Hungry,” I blurt out.
Manager cringes, hissing air through his teeth. “Ah yes, now Lieko and everyone are eating lunch. I am very sorry, Cybelle.”
“Yeah, don’t worry; I got this. It’s for the company, right? Plus, it’s not like I can’t eat once it’s over.”
“Eh? I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I understand.”
“Ah. Yes. Thank you for your understanding. Our school, it is not very good. We need many students, maybe, or it will be troublesome.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Eh?”
“I mean, yes, I understand.”
“Yes, that’s right, you are always understanding. Many foreigners are not. That reminds me, your re-contracting form … you signed it, yes?”
“YAAAAAAH!” Inside Room Five, Hitomu screams in his mother’s arms and scratches at her. It’s almost like he’s answering Manager on my behalf.
“Ah, maybe, now is not the time. But, let’s discuss it again? Because many students, maybe they will not stay if Cybelle leaves. It will be mendokusai — eh, I mean, troublesome. But maybe, for now, we can wait. Please do your best.” Manager bows and bends down to reassure Hitomu and his mother for the thousandth time. He closes the door as he murmurs aside, to me: “After your lesson is Lieko, who is eating now, so you only have to teach for maybe ten minutes. I think, maybe, Hitomu will cry even with mama, but please do your best. Okay, Hitomu! Time to enjoy English with Belle-sensei!”
And that’s that. Manager closes the door, and I am trapped with a grim young woman and her violent child.
“Hello, Hitomu! How are you today? Okay, we’ll just get started. Hitomu, do you know who this is? This is Jibanyan! Jibanyan, can you say hello to our new friend Hitomu? Hello, Hitomu! Nice to meet you! What’s that, Jibanyan? You want to give Hitomu a high-five? No? Not happening? Okay! Let’s sing Hitomu the ‘Hello Song,’ what do you say? Hello, hello hello hello, hello hello hello, hello hello what’s your name?”
Hitomu screams for the whole lesson. The kid does not even stop to take a breath; in time, he starts to cough, his entire face turns beet red, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to throw up. His mother has to hold him and rock him back and forth the whole lesson to keep him from scratching at her face and throwing himself against the door to escape. I’ve seen some shit in my time at Zozo, but this is by far the worst trial I could ever conceive. I try everything. I use my silly Jibanyan voice. I blast Raffi on the CD player (the volume of which can only go so high). “Frère Jacques” and “Baby Beluga” are no match for this kid’s lung capacity. I throw my whole plan out the window and blow bubbles. I try every junior toy in my teacher kit. Hell, I even convince Manager to retrieve the sunset for him from the lobby to chew on again. Nothing helps. Not for a second. Over my shoulder Manager watches us through the window the way one watches a hospital operation go wrong. I have a feeling this trial lesson has gone way past the ten-minute mark.
After what feels like hours of ear-splintering hell, I notice Lieko in the window about to open the door. I give Hitomu — well, I give his mother — a star sticker. “Good job, Hitomu!” I say. I’m gathering all my crap back into my teacher box when I hear the door open and Lieko’s voice stretch several octaves to greet him.
“Otsukaresama desu! Hello, Hitomu!”
Boom. Silence. Like someone hit pause on a video. The kid is quiet and still. What the hell? Did she slug him in the face or staple his mouth shut? I dare a peek over my shoulder as I slip out the door. Hitomu’s eyes are wide open, his mouth closed; he sits sniffling in his mother’s lap while Lieko kneels a foot away and makes weird gestures with her arms. Then they all get up and hold hands as she sings the Japanese Zozo welcome song.
That’s when I hear his tiny little voice on the other side of the door: “Oni baba, doko?”
“It’s okay!” Lieko sings. “She’s gone!”
Oni baba? I can feel my stomach acid boil with rage. Seriously?
There’s a small gathering of pity in the lobby. Yoshino and Yuri are nodding, looking pensive. “Sugoi,” they murmur to each other. They must have seen or at least heard it all. Manager has his arms folded and I can already hear him hissing through his teeth. No one says a word to me or looks my way. Guess I’m the only one who heard a toddler call me “old demon woman” and my co-worker reaffirm him.
Sneaking into the staff room with a giant box stuffed with toys and papers isn’t as easy as I thought. “Here, Cyb, let me get that for you,” Yoshino slides the door open for me. “Talk about the trial lesson from hell, huh? I’ve never heard anything like that. Whoa. Cybelle, are you okay?”
“I think …” I can’t look her in the eye. “Never mind, it’s nothing. I’ll be in the staff room.”
She nods. “Of course.”
This is when Manager notices me and tries to intercept me at the staff room door; Yoshino is faster. She covers for me as Manager drills her for information on what I said to her. She’s good at bullshitting our two-second interaction into a complete rundown of everything I did in my trial lesson.
Lesson. Ha.
“Shinjirarenai!” Misaki is at the bench with her back to the door. She shakes her head, muttering in Japanese to Seri, Yuki, and Jun: “He just kept screaming and screaming. Did you hear him? Kyaaa, kyaaa!” She waves her hands in the air, a vapid attempt at an impression of Hitomu. “Does she always scare the students that much?”
Seri’s and Jun’s heads are down over calculators and notebooks. They nod and make low humming sounds in pseudo-agreement. None of them say a word to me or look my way. I stand there, frozen in time as Misaki goes on about how our branch school is losing more and more money, and it doesn’t help if teachers scare the students. I’m going to assume they don’t realize I’m here. Every sentence makes me lose my appetite for my mac and cheese, which is great because there’s no room for me to sit down, anyway. Screw this. I’m going out for some HORUS Bakery buns. Hopefully by the time I get back this horrible child will be gone.
I head back outside and hide my box of gear behind the reception desk. Manager and the others are watching the rest of Lieko’s perfect fucking lesson. I put on my shoes and go down the elevator. The lunchtime rush is over, so the streets are relatively quiet. Hell, a rave would be quiet compared to what I just went through. My ears are still ringing. I decide to walk down to HORUS rather than take the bike, since I still have time to go on foot, come back, and eat lunch before my next class. If there still isn’t enough space or peace and quiet in the staff room, at least I can squeeze in a couple of buns before my next class. All I want is space, peace, and quiet, anyway. Who needs food? Not Cybelle.
At HORUS, I try to immerse myself in the scent of cinnamon and the classical guitar music playing on a small radio. I take time to select half a dozen croissants and three Totoro cream-filled buns like it’s the toughest job I’ll have all day. Anything beats dwelling on what just happened. I thought Zozo and I were done with all the “scary gaijin” crap I dealt with when I first started. It’s like everyone has forgotten about all the kids I won over, all the countless walk-ins and trial lessons that I got signed up after those initial moments of fear. I would have said I was doing pretty damn well. Up until now. Or, rather, up until Lieko joined us. That’s when things at Zozo got awkward. Something about the way she stares at me and then avoids me completely whenever it suits her mood. The way she talks to me (on the rare occasion) doesn’t help, either. I take my tray of goodies up to the counter, and rethink that. No, I’m being unfair. Lieko is just one factor of how crappy I feel right now. I can’t blame it all on her.
The salesgirl rings me up without looking at me. “Sen ni-hyaku san-juu ichi en desu.”
And that’s when I realize I have no money. I walked right out of Zozo without my purse. Ignoring the stares of the people in line behind me I check my pockets for even a coin or two so I can walk out of here with a shred of my dignity. Guess I left that back at Zozo, too. “Sumimasen …” I begin.
“Eh?! Okane nai no?!”
“Saifu wasurechatta,” I clarify. I left my wallet. I’m not begging for handouts.
The young salesgirl winces with mock sympathy. When she asks if she should hold them for me, I shake my head. There isn’t enough time to go and come back, and HORUS will be closed by seven. “Gomen nasai, ne,” she says with a grimace. I excuse myself and run out of there before more stuck-up customers can judge me any further. Now I remember why I don’t shop at this bakery ever.
In my back pocket, my phone vibrates. Someone at Zozo must wonder where I am. This is turning into a nice, shitty Saturday.
It doesn’t get any better when the doors slide open on the Zozo lobby and a sour-faced Manager is waiting for me at the desk, arms folded so tight he’s created some substantial cleavage. “Ah, Cybelle,” he hisses through his teeth. “You, ah, left Zozo.”
“Yes …?” Where is he going with this? Am I supposed to chain myself to the staff room bench when I have nothing else to do? “I went for a walk?”
“Ah! Okay, that’s great. Sorry. I, ah, thought maybe Cybelle was sad and went home. Then, it’s okay. You, ah, cry?”
My eye twitches. “No.” I rub it. “I’m fine.”
“That’s great. Ah, but yes, if you must cry, please cry only in staff room. It is empty now. Hitomu and mama are still here. Maybe …” He hisses again, bracing for the impact of his next words. “Maybe, Hitomu is afraid of strangers. So maybe, if you stay in staff room, Hitomu will not cry. So. Please, return to staff room?”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I hear Hitomu’s mother talking to him down the hall, probably in the washroom. Whatever, it’s fine. At this point I could care less about Hitomu or his mother, or Manager, or HORUS, or the planet. I want my lunch. Manager barely notices my half-assed shrug as I return my shoes to the shelf and head to the reception desk for my box. I take it to Room Two, ready to drop it as loud as I dare.
“Cybelle,” a voice coos behind me. I almost drop my prop box in earnest. Like the silent, stalking banshee she is, Lieko poses in the doorway, baring all her teeth like a death’s head grimace. “Hel-lo. There you are. You are here, getting ready for your students. Good job!”
“Uh-huh,” I wipe my other eye. “I am here. And now, I’m going there.” I gesture to the staff room around the corner. Lieko keeps grinning at me, hands braced against the doorway. Just past her shoulder I can see a small Donald Duck head bobbing up and down in Hitomu’s mother’s arms. She sees me too and moves out of my vision. Yup. Lieko is blocking my path.
“You cannot walk about until Hitomu leaves,” Lieko drops her singing voice. “I told Manager it is best for Hitomu.”
Oh, so you’re the brainchild behind Manager’s groundbreaking idea of the century. Why doesn’t that surprise me? “Yeah, but they’re leaving soon … aren’t they?”
“Now, they are coming. You must wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Manager told them they can stay until seven to observe other lessons.”
“This is a joke, right?” It takes every ounce of strength to keep my voice calm. “Sorry. It’s just that my lunch is in the staff room, and I do have time before Miyu gets here, so …” The staff room door is right around the corner; how will he see me if I move five feet that way? Does she really need me to explain it out loud?
“Zozo is not a place for jokes. This is a serious business, a serious company. You should understand. Zozo policy states we must all ‘be professional, be polite, and be playful.’”
“Yeah, I know the policy —”
“As the only gaijin, you must be professional because Hitomu is very … shy. But his mother wants to sign up for many lessons. So, we must all work very hard. Many Japanese staff miss their lunch hour, or they must work very late, so even though you are gaijin, you must also work very hard.”
This woman is serious. But I don’t have the chance to argue. Halfway through her insipid speech, I hear the elevator doors open and Miyu singing hello to everyone, adding something about cookies.
“Oh, look, Cybelle, your student Miyu is here! You should not leave her alone! That is not good. You ought to start early; your students will like that. They always enjoy your lessons. Okay, Miyu, let’s enjoy English!”
She leaves me there. I try hard not to let my jaw drop open in front of Miyu and her mother, who are smiling bright with the prospect of English entertainment. Great. There goes my chance to eat — and the chance to pee before my six-hour stretch of classes. With a forced grin, I bow to them, then sit on the carpet and arrange my toys, cut-outs, and books on the floor. Miyu runs into the room after me and throws her baby backpack open on the floor.
“Sensei, here you are! It is a cookie!” She holds up one to my mouth. I recognize it as a HORUS cookie. Well, at least I won’t starve.
Somehow (my guess is by the awesome power of chocolate chips), I trudge through my classes and keep the million-watt smile going for all my students and their parents without a break. By four my bladder is about to burst. In the five minutes it takes to stop caring about Zozo company policies and go to the washroom, I pass Hitomu on my way to Room Five and spend the next twenty minutes telling my students that screech they hear is not a fire alarm or the emergency exit. By six, I realize my biggest mistake was not sneaking my lunch into the washroom with me when I had the chance. I run into the staff room to make photocopies for Naohiro (who forgot his Zone 2 textbook again) and I’m hit with a wave of stuffy heat.
“Is it just me, or is it warm in here?”
Misaki is the only one in the staff room. “Ah, Shibelle-sensei. Lieko-sensei turn on the heater. Staff room, very cold. But, maybe, you feel kimazui? Eh, unpleasant? Because you are American?”
“Canadian.”
“Ah, yes, Canada is very cold.” She goes back to her work.
Oh sure, Canada’s cold. About as cold as the look on my face as I hold back what I really want to say. The heater must have been on for hours. Too bad it couldn’t heat up my lunch. Say, where is my lunch? I swear I left it on the bench this morning.
Yoshino gently elbows me with a smile as she squeezes behind me into the staff room. “Hey, lady. Ready for tonight?”
“Can’t think of a better way to start the weekend. Just need to collect the garbage before I go home and change.”
“That … might be a good idea, except … Lieko says we must stay together. All the girls want to come — Seri-sensei and Yurisensei, and Yuki-sensei and Jun-sensei, too!”
Well, isn’t that just great. The Ice Queen gets to join us. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. I decide to ignore that part. “Well, I’m not really dressed for a club —”
“Oh, don’t worry about it! Especially in your skirt; you look fine!”
“Thanks.” I look down at my suit. I may look fine, but with all the running around I’ve done today, I doubt I smell fine. “But —”
“Besides, if you go home, we cannot go to the station together! Please stay. I really want you to join us! Please?”
“Oh, okay, I guess I can wait … for a bit.”
“Thanks for understanding, Cyb. One more hour and we’ll be out of here.”
“One more hour,” I sigh wistfully. “This day already feels like it’s been half a dozen years.”
“Because of Hitomu?” Yoshino kisses her teeth. “I know. Weird, right? Don’t worry about it. The kid’s got issues. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t know, Yoshino … you heard him today. I mean, sure, I’ve had some bizarre reactions, but this was like I was some kind of monster.”
“He doesn’t think that! How can he? He’s still a baby. He’ll come around. All kids do. You don’t need to care about him. Focus on having fun tonight!”
“That’s good advice. Thanks.” She’s right. I need to stop thinking about this kid. And about Lieko’s penchant for ruining social situations. This party will be fun if I make the effort. Isn’t that what life in Japan is all about? And with Yoshino there, what’s the worst that can happen?
“An-punch … an-kick …” something groans.
“What the hell?” I murmur. Yoshino doesn’t hear me, she’s too distracted by whatever it is she’s photocopying after me. I know exactly what it is before I even see it. “Um, quick question. Why haven’t we trashed this thing yet?”
“What thing?” Yoshino asks.
“That thing.” I point with my slipper to the Anpanman toy. I wonder how long it’s been hiding under the staff bench, peeking up at me from behind the trash containers. “It’s got to be at least twenty years old. Why haven’t we thrown in away?”
“We have,” Yoshino says, still distracted as she organizes her papers and tidies up the bench. “Several times. Someone must keep taking him back out.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disturbing.” I don’t have the courage to pick it up, and besides, I’m in the middle of a lesson. It’s someone else’s problem now.
At seven, I do one last sneak-around to collect the garbage, grateful that Hitomu has managed to cry himself to sleep in his mother’s arms. She gives me a slight nod as I pass her in the lobby, on my way to collect from the reception desk. I can’t wait for them to go home. Hell, I can’t wait to go home. But I did promise to check out this party … with a tacit agreement with myself to make at least one new friend tonight.
“But, I think everyone there will be gaijin,” I hear Misaki in the staff room. “I can’t speak English! Can you?”
“No, no,” Lieko’s voice reaches that high pitch of hers. “That’s impossible! I can’t speak English, either.”
“Well, neither can I! Maybe Seri-sensei, and Yuri-sensei, can they speak? Ah, dou shi o? What can we do?!”
Lieko replies with a hiccupping sound that I assume is laughter. Screw it, if I have to hang around here until everyone wraps up, I’m eating. I slide the staff room door open, stunning Lieko and Misaki into abrupt silence, and put the garbage bags away. No sign of Anpanman, thank goodness. But then I realize I really cannot locate my lunch. It’s not on the bench, it’s not on the shelves. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Did someone take it? Did someone eat it?
Ugh. I give up. I don’t feel like eating anymore. It doesn’t matter; Yoshino did say they’ll have food at this party. I pull up a stool and take out my phone. Right on cue, Misaki and Lieko leave the room. Whatever. I’m still going to check the weather and play Snake and pretend I have things to do on here. I see three missed messages from phone numbers I don’t recognize. Great. I brace myself for catching up on all the profanities from Lieko or Manager or whoever tried to reach me this morning.
Cybelle come home! Your family needs you! Your sister is to be married, did you hear? Congratulations!
Hi Cybelle may this message find you. I hear Bully is about to get married. Congratulations. Just checking in on you. Lots of love and God bless u
Cybele I hear your sister has been engaged. May the lord bless her and you in your far-off travels. I pray China takes care of you. Please call home, your mother must worry
Hey C-Note, if you find yourself the recipient of several strange text messages, sorry. Mom’s been getting calls from all the relatives and I think she gave out your email to throw them off our scent. Brace yourself. Bully <3
PS you know there’s no date for the wedding yet, right? ^__^”
Well. Only one message from a person I recognize — my sister. Not a single text from anyone who works here. Nothing from anyone about a trial lesson or a “where the hell are you?” text. Go figure. Well, I’m not in any mood to reply to any of them about this wedding that doesn’t even have a date set.
I organize flash cards and write little reminders on Post-its and stick them onto their respective textbooks, mentally run through my schedule between next Tuesday and Saturday, and try to focus on how much more comfortable my regular students are with me. They don’t scream or hide under tables. They don’t cower behind their parents when I enter the room. And their parents, they’re not bothered by me, either. They don’t stare, or glare, or make mock sympathetic faces when I make a mistake. So I can’t be all that bad. Next week everything will be back to normal; I’ll never have to deal with this Hitomu kid ever again.
Maybe it’s not Hitomu I’m upset with. It’s my co-workers. Lieko and Manager are not Stratford actors: the whole foreigner-fear phenomenon may go over some people’s heads, but not theirs. Not after working with me all this time. Oh, Hitomu is shy, I hear Lieko and Manager’s voices lecturing in my head. And Sotaro, he is shy. And that child you saw acting normally with a Japanese teacher up until the second they saw your face and morphed into a shrieking, volatile whirlwind of doom? They’re shy, too! Do your best!
“Arrrgh!” I push the books aside and hold my head in my hands. I can’t think. I shake so hard that I curl up into a ball on my tiny chair with the intention of staying in the staff room forever. I give up trying to get anything done and rest my head on my arms.
Knock knock.
“Cybelle!” Lieko hisses. “Get out here!” The door slams.
Nope. Never mind. No breaks for you, gaijin. Whatever, it’s fine. I can be professional for a little while longer. I can sacrifice a couple of hours to meet people and feel socially acceptable. Maybe even make at least one friend outside of work.
High-pitched voices congratulate one another on the other side of the wall, which means Seri and Yuri are finished with their students and Hitomu and his mother are getting ready to leave. I lift up my head and see 7:35 p.m. on the clock. Son of a bitch, it’s been over half an hour. I’m pretty sure I could have biked home and changed out of my armpit-sweat-stained shirt. Maybe snagged an onigiri from the fridge and shoved it into my purse to eat before the thirty-minute train ride to Osaka. Little things to make oneself presentable for a single-and-mingle party at a fancy club and make a new friend. One will do.
Manager has pulled Hitomu’s mother aside. He asks her what she thinks. I can hear him offering “a private lesson” and “Japanese teachers.” I can see the little guy clinging to her leg. He doesn’t know I’m out here, in the lobby. The mother cocks her head. She hums a little sound, then looks about the room. She catches my eye, pretends she didn’t. After some time, she kneels down and mutters to Hitomu. Manager gets down to his level, too. I’m sure I will never know what he said. My imagination can only go so far. All I know is that Manager is jumping to his feet, shouting. He looks wildly around the lobby and catches sight of me. One would think he’d spotted wild game.
“Ah! Cybelle-sensei! Come here!”
This is it, isn’t it? The moment I get fired. Oh well, guess that’s Zozo for you; fired after however many years because people believe you scare business away. We’ve put up with you for too long, but no hard feelings. Maybe Manager will ask Head Office to let me go and save himself another three weeks of asking me about my re-contracting form. Well, might as well go home, pack my bags, head back to Toronto. It’s all for the best. Mom’s been worried and now that we have this wedding coming up, anyway …
“Cybelle-sensei, please say something to Hitomu,” he beams and points at the sniffling child. “He will join our school. Please do your best!”
I can hear every employee in the lobby gasp. The mother is still nodding at Manager. Manager is still bowing and humbly thanking her. Hitomu is still sniffling, his face buried against his mother’s knee.
“Uh … I …”
“Yes. Hitomu is waiting. Maybe say, ‘Good job’?” He is practically sweating enthusiasm as he nods with such pointed exaggeration that I can picture him stabbing me in the shower tonight if I don’t comply. The mother’s eyes dart between him and I with a puzzled look.
What else can I do?
“Good job today, big guy!” I kneel down on the floor and smile until it hurts. “I’m glad you had fun. Can’t wait to see you again!”
Hitomu peeks out from behind his mother’s leg, looks me right in the eye, opens his tiny mouth, and screams.
I was wrong. I can think of a bajillion better ways to start my weekend. Rearranging my socks. Steam cleaning my futon. Digging out that giant cicada corpse from under the radiator on my balcony. Fleeing for my life from a swarm of Japanese hornets. Anything would beat this waking nightmare.
This is no networking party. It’s just a snack bar with a pall of second-hand smoke, jam-packed with people. It’s hard not to look at all the tables behind me. They’re still covered with empty plates and bowls with tortilla chip crumbs, blobs of salsa, platters streaked with ketchup and bits of overcooked cheese that have been here since we arrived. Telltale signs that we missed all the food. The music is so loud I can feel the beat pulsing in my veins. It’s only been about half an hour since we arrived, but I’m exhausted, like I’ve been drunk dancing all night like the majority of people in here. And I’m so hungry I could cry.
My second rum and Coke is finished. I’m not in the mood to go back to the bar and get elbowed for a third. Nothing left to do but try and be social. I leave the so-called comfort of the empty snack table and look for the rest of the Zozo staff. Yoshino and Misaki are gone but there’s still nowhere to sit with my co-workers. We’re all fans of giant purses, and they have strategically arranged them on their seats to take up room. Lucky for me, a table nearby becomes available as the four men sitting there see me come closer, look me up and down, exchange glances, and vacate. A few feet away they burst out laughing, looking back at me. Assholes.
I sit down with a forced grin. “Pretty packed in here, eh? You’d never know it’s Saturday night.”
The girls look up at me, horrified. “Ah, Cybelle-sensei, ne,” Seri confirms in Japanese.
“Thank goodness,” Yuki adds in Japanese. “That was so scary for a moment!”
Oh, for crap’s sake — I stop and take a deep breath. No, no, don’t get upset. Don’t get upset. Just laugh it off.
“Scary? Why, am I wearing a Halloween costume or something?” I joke. They laugh nervously. I take a sip of the icy Coke water in my glass. “Minna, genki?” I try.
They nod but still murmur to each other in Japanese. Something along the lines of “Can she speak Japanese? Did you know that? No, I didn’t. Amazing. Mmm.” And then they retreat into awkward silence when they see I’m listening. Or, trying to listen. It’s loud as balls in here. Hang on … didn’t we all have dinner three days ago? What do they mean, ‘Can she speak Japanese?’ I’m really getting tired of this Twilight Zone–language thing going on with my co-workers.
“I’ve never been to this part of the Bay Area before,” I say instead. “How about you?”
“Sorry, Cybelle-sensei,” Jun speaks in English this time. “We have never been to this part of Osaka before, either. But I am sure we are safe! We are in a group. Besides, it is not late at night.”
“Of course, we’re safe. We’re all here together, right?”
Lieko gives me a dirty look, the first she’s given me since we left the school. “Yoshino should have checked before bringing us here,” Lieko scolds. “But I am sure nothing will happen as long as we are not separated.” The others nod in agreement, even though they don’t look too convinced.
“What’s everyone drinking?” I ask. I’m desperate, now. They make little kanpai gestures with their glasses; even through all the smoke, I can tell it’s all oolong tea. All right, one more attempt and I’m out of ideas.
“How have your lessons been going?”
“Um … good …”
They turn to Lieko. She concentrates hard on stirring the ice in her glass with a straw. “The oolong tea here is very good, isn’t it?” she says in Japanese.
The others nod eagerly. “Oh, yes, very good! I agree.” They start up a conversation in Japanese about how healthy oolong tea is for women. My co-workers believe in sticking together, all right — to themselves. Screw it. Why did I leave the snack table in the first place? Hell, why did I come here in the first place?
“Well,” I stand up. “I think I better get another drink.”
“But …” Jun exchanges glances with the others. “Lieko says, we must not be separated.”
Obviously, no one noticed that I was at the snack table without a place to sit up until now. “Um, well … I won’t take long. See you all later!” We wave to each other (except for Lieko, naturally) and I squeeze through the crowd. I’m getting the hell up out of here, with or without Yoshino. This sucks.
Luckily, I find her at the bar, lighting up a cigarette. “Yoshino, thank God I found you. Oh. Oops.” I’ve just waded into a whole group of young men with dark- to pale-blond hair and a mix of British and Australian accents. They’ve all stopped dead in their conversations to stare at me.
“Hi, Cybelle!” Yoshino says. “Come, join us!”
The guy who has his arm around Yoshino’s shoulders notices me for the first time. He recoils in horror. “AUGH! You’re not American, are you?!”
“Cybelle is Canadian,” Yoshino explains. “You getting another drink, Cybelle? Rum and Coke?”
“Sumimasen!” the guy yells at a bartender at the same time. “Two highballs!”
It’s fine. I manage to order a rum and Coke as Yoshino and several of this loser’s friends get drinks. “So, Yoshino-chan, what do you do again?” the guy asks.
“My friend and I are English teachers!” Yoshino gestures her cigarette at me.
“Oh, really? Hey, my buddies here are dying to get English lessons!” He yells out two names and scoops two sheepish-looking Japanese guys up with one arm. “This is …” Yoshino leans into the crook of his neck for a long time to relay our names. “Yoshino, and what? What?! Uh, o-kay, that over there is Civic.”
“Eh?! Civic?! Honda Civic?” they yell. “Nani o sore?!”
“No, it’s Cybelle,” I say. “CYBELLE.” They burst out laughing again and make shooing hand gestures to imply they don’t understand.
My stomach growls loud enough to be heard in this smoky sardine can, and I’m pretty sure my smile looks more and more like a grimace. If someone hadn’t hidden my lunch deep in the staff room cupboard, behind Lieko’s purse (where Yoshino eventually found it), I could have eaten it before coming here. Hell, I could have gone home, eaten my weight in food, or grabbed something from the Family Mart by Nishibe Station. Why didn’t they just let me eat?! On second thought, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe there’s a corner I can hide in and eat my lunch. It’ll be cold and stale, but —
“Hey!” one particularly large man grabs my upper arm. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
“Uh, I don’t think —”
“Yeah! I totally know you! You got some kinda weird name, I know it! Seatbelt! No wait — Cybelle, am I right? You don’t remember me, do you? What the fuck, come on, you remember me!”
I squint. I think he just spat in my face a little. “Ummmm … Josh?”
“YEAH! I told you you remember me! You’re not still working for that clown company, are you? Zozo?! Geez, you are, aren’t you? Fuck, aren’t you tired of that eikaiwa kids’ bullshit yet?!”
“Um,” I repeat. I guess I got it right. I don’t recognize him, but he must know me. No wait, I do know him. He’s heavier, and has lost a lot of hair, but he’s the same obnoxious asshole trainer I met when I first came to Japan. Terrific. Of all the people I could have run into from my past, it has to be a jerk. “What are you up to?”
“Translation, baby. Sweetest gig if your Japanese is good enough to get it. I barely gotta do shit where I work now.”
“That’s fantastic. Excuse me, I gotta —”
“Hey, what happened with you and that guy you hooked up with?”
“Uh, who?”
“You know, that guy! You were both in the same training group. You were obsessed with him! Come on, you remember! Super tall, all the chicks wanted him … you know who I’m talking about, right?”
Yup. He’s definitely spitting in my face. “You know what? I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Nah, nah, it was you! Had to be, you were the only one with a weird name! Fuck, this is going to kill me, hang on.” He pulls his smartphone out of his back pocket. “I’m still friends with the guy on LINE, I’m sure of it. Say, while we’re on the subject, what’s your number? Are you on LINE? What’s your nickname?”
“Uh … hey! I see a friend of mine! Excuse me.”
I shove through the crowd and almost throw myself at Misaki when I see her. She gasps, scared to death. Then she relaxes. “Ah, Shibelle-sensei! Bikkuri!”
“Misaki-sensei, tasukarimashita!” I’m saved.
“Heeeey!” a Japanese salaryman with his arm around another man steps in front of me. “Can you speak Japanese?! Nihongo shaberu no?!”
“Uh, not really, no. Sumimasen —” I try to walk around him. Misaki is already distracted by the group of guys that have ensnared Yoshino.
“Sugoi! You speak very good Japanese!”
“Thank you,” I put on my serious teacher voice. “Could you take a step back, please?”
“Oh, sorry!” They jostle around a little but we are still stuck together. My glass still can’t reach my lips. “How long you stay in Japan?”
“Wait, do you mean how long have I stayed in Japan, or how long will I stay in Japan?”
“Eh, difficult. English, difficult! One more, one more time!”
Fuck, I really don’t want to do this.
“Oh, wow!” The other guy shouts, even though I haven’t done anything special. “Ah, English teacher?”
“Yeah, I work for an eikaiwa. But it’s kids only!” Who knows, maybe Lieko’s cockblocking techniques will work on these two long enough for me to drink.
“Eikaiwa? Sugoi! Sore ja, please! Teach us English!”
“Ugh.” I give up. “Misaki, how’s it going?” I edge my way past the two drunks to return my attention to her. She jumps again, but her presence seems to repel the eager salarymen away to a more comfortable distance. However, they don’t go away.
“Hey!” one of the salarymen asks me. “Together … teachers?”
“Yeah. This is Misaki. Misaki, this is … uh …”
They don’t need me. They introduce themselves to one another in Japanese and even exchange cards. In fact, they start a whole conversation about what companies they work for and how their card designs are so similar. That would be nice; to have the same small, perfect laminated Zozo business cards with my name and the stick-figure children holding hands on the front and the date and time of their trial lesson printed in tiny, neat kanji on the back. I wonder how Misaki got hers so fast. Oh, well. I can wallow in self-pity about it over this drink.
Cold liquid splashes over the rim of my glass and down my sleeve as someone pushes me from behind. Three other salarymen, a little shorter than me but way more intoxicated, shove each other and point at me, laughing. One raises his hands in apology once he notices me glaring at him. “Oh, so sorry,” he says in English, then punches his friends in the arms. “Nande ya nen! Gaijin abunai yo!”
“Ike! You go! Go — speak — English!”
“Fuck you!” the first guy shouts back. They collapse over one another, laughing hard. It’s fine. I can grab a napkin, wipe the sticky liquid off my fingers and the glass. No harm done, my little friend. Well, maybe it got my suit a little, but other than that —
WHAM.
Someone slams into me, hard. My drink slips from my grip. The music is at full volume, the bass is shaking the floorboards, but everyone can hear my glass crash onto the floor. Is it an unfortunate accident? One of those things that happen in a crowded bar? No. Several women glare at me, swearing. They wipe at their clothes and their legs, then stand upright with relieved sighs that they are completely dry. Makes sense — all of my drink has already soaked through my shirt and skirt. The guys are laughing even harder now, their voices lost in the music as they retreat. The last words I can hear are how the Coke stain on my shirt matches my face.
My co-workers seem to have made new friends, too: a small group of foreign guys, including Josh, flank their sides. Their faces light up as they raise their hands and clap: “Nice. Way to go. Brilliant.”
“Brilliant?” asks Misaki. She turns her back on me and tilts her head. “Why? What do you mean, ‘brilliant?’”
“It means ‘smart,’ Misaki-chan.” Lieko appears behind her. “But, he means, that girl is not smart.” She turns to Josh and tilts her head, too. “Hiniku, ne? Sarcasm. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right! Hey, I used to know that girl, like a decade ago! Check this out — I KNOW I can find an old photo of us on here somewhere! Thank God for Facebook, you know?!” He whips out his cellphone and invites Misaki and Lieko to lean in close. They both giggle behind their hands as they do so.
It wasn’t a decade ago. It was six and a half years. I’ve been in Japan for six years and six months, and probably about six days, to be exact. It’s fine. I’ll let them figure that out on their own. I need to find a bathroom. Something’s really going on with my eyes.
I stagger through the tide of people, following the signs to the washroom. They point toward a tiny nook where I see at least ten women lined up along the wall. It’s fine. I just need to step out. Find a convenience store or a McDonald’s or the like. They all have bathrooms.
I walk down the main street but all the stores are closed. The temperature has dropped, or maybe it’s colder here because we’re close to the bay. I can smell it in every deep, panic-reducing breath I muster. It smells like salt with a hint of onion.
There are no convenience stores or fast-food places between Kappa Garappa and the station. Nothing but love hotels, other snack bars, and clubs, none of which I’d dare enter on my own. I guess I can use the washroom at the station. According to the number of people on the streets it’s getting pretty late. Okay, not really, but since it will take a while to get back to Osaka Station alone, I might as well get on a train.
It’s fine.
I spend the first part of the train ride squished between the railing at the end of the seats and a salaryman who clubs my shoulder with his head because he’s nodding off so hard. He gets off the same time as a staggering drunk man who’s busting out of his button-down shirt gets on. The drunk mutters “fakku gaijin” loudly, over and over, until I get off at my stop. I can feel the invisible camera waiting for me again, following me back to Zozo, where I unchain my bike. There’s no way in hell I can ride it now, which is great because my feet are on fire. The walk to my apartment feels like a mile of hot, burning coals. I’m famished, but not enough to strike up a conversation with the 7-Eleven employees smelling like a smoky snack bar with a big brown stain on my shirt.
Halfway home, I have to stop to give my feet a rest, so I wheel my bike over to a bus stop and sit down on the bench. I can’t stop dwelling on how horrible this whole week has been. I don’t understand. Okay, so I’m not the prettiest girl to look at. Doesn’t make me a monster. I’m not mean. I’m not loud. I smile when people look at me so they don’t jump to the conclusion that I’m some snooty bitch. I try to strike up conversations when I can. It’s never enough. There is something wrong with me. And everyone can see it except me. Maybe everyone’s right: maybe I am a monster. It’s been this way since long before Japan. It’s been going on for years, and it’s holding me back in … well, in life. What I wouldn’t pay to have it ripped out of me and see it destroyed.
Over six years ago I had it good. I had my family, I had friends. Now I have nothing and no one. My only constant companion is this rusty, hand-me-down, decades-old bike.
It starts to rain. Then the wind blows, ever so gently, and my bike crashes to the ground.
My cellphone buzzes in my purse as I lock my apartment door behind me. I’m soaked and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. My clothes and hair reek of alcohol and second-hand smoke, reminding me of why I stopped going to bars and clubs ages ago. I read my newest message:
Just remembered you’re not home now. I got your msg about you going out tonight. Good for u! The other day I was starting to think there was no one for you over there, but it’s ok, miracles happen! I’ll keep my fingers crossed you finally meet someone! Hurry up and come home, and bring back a husband, k? I want grandkids lol
Love you sweetie!
Mom
I sniffle. My eyes still itch. I’ll do my best, Mom. I have to admit, though, it’s a little hard to land a husband when I can’t find someone who will talk to me once or twice before deciding I’m the most kowai creature he’s ever laid eyes on.
Six and a half years. Six and a half years without business cards. Six and a half years without a welcome dinner. Six and a half years of “look, it’s a scary foreigner.” And, if I had actually hooked up with Josh’s imaginary friend, it’d be six-and-a-half years since that happened, too. But I’m not supposed to complain. After all, this is my job. I’m a Native English Teacher. My duties: To be the bigger person. To ignore the fact that I shed forty-five hours’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears in a house of lies. To smile throughout everything that this eat-or-be-eaten world throws at me. To show everyone, young and old alike, that I’m not some she-beast who blends into the darkness at night to steal your purse. To demonstrate that English is not the scariest language in the world, and it’s impossible to contract some kind of skin-darkening disease by talking to me or giving me high-fives, and that I am not — repeat, am not — a horrible bloodthirsty creature from beyond the realm of human understanding.
But oh, Cybelle, you’re so understanding …
The burning sensation in my eyes is too much. Tears begin to trickle down my face. Then they gush. My throat closes up so fast I topple over. Lying slumped in my dark living room — Zozo’s dark living room — I bawl my eyes out.
Back in Osaka, I wanted to go home. Here I am — and I still want to go home.
And once I’m there, I’ll still want to go home.
Idiot.
“I hate you.” The words drag themselves across the carpeted floor. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I can feel them slither up the paper-thin walls, writhe all over my ceiling. I let the words echo throughout the building and reverberate through my cold, shaking bones.
My eyes are wet, sticky, but I notice a glow in the corner. A big bright halo of light on the carpet. It can’t be a stray light coming in through the window. The curtains are closed. I blink through the tears, and it’s still there. I lie there, still as a statue for a long time, and try not to sniffle too loud.
It looks like a star. Perhaps it’s a shooting star that has landed on my floor. I should make a wish.
But I can’t string words together, even in my head. The sound of me cursing myself still rings in my ears. So, I watch it. I wait for it to reveal itself as an illusion — a mirror angled the wrong way, or a light from the street peeking through a coincidental crack in the curtains. I wait for it to disappear.
It stays right where it is. I struggle to keep my eyes open, to see what it will do next, but in time, I lose the staring contest.