My Irritating Neighbor
“… in a society of saintly anarchists, where no conflict about ultimate purposes can take place …”
Isaiah Berlin, OM
So many ex-Prime Ministers, and I had to get this one. I think they’re supposed to keep their mouths shut – except maybe in the rare cases where they held office for more than eighteen months. But he talks. About this and about that. Russia and China and whatnot. And then the right-wingers’ sound trucks come, because nobody’s paid them off – probably the ex-PM wants the attention. You can hear the pumped-up anger all the way to my house, in the modest part of the neighborhood, where the not-rich people live, throughout our 857-square-foot interior spread over three inexpensively-built stories. My little dog, Puchi, usually so well behaved, starts barking her big bark. Then one of my five chock-a-block, almost-next-door neighbors – the streets here as curvy as overcooked ramen noodles – leaves a complaint letter in our post box, politely-worded, but, ominously, unsigned. Then my wife gets stressed out. Inordinately so. Her finely-sculptured eyebrows go a tad asymmetrical, her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, and she won’t have sex with me for weeks. And I only agreed to stay in Japan and buy this house so she could help look after her aged father. This is not the way society is supposed to work.
Puchi is a Japanese dog – a shiba-inu – but unusually small and exceptionally cute. My wife is a Japanese woman – also exceptionally cute, though not remarkably small. I like my wife even more than I like little Puchi, though, quite plainly, Puchi has always liked me rather more than my wife likes me. In the old days – so I’m told – you’d rarely see foreign breeds here. You may ask why so many Japanese people now choose them, at least in Tokyo, when it’s clear that deep in their hearts they still love Japanese dogs best. Well, you may ask, but I don’t bother. I just savor the attention Puchi and I get on our walks.
These walks go past the ex-PM’s fabulously-elegant house, where I often chat with the policeman on guard – about dogs, wives, right-wing sound trucks. and life’s diverse other vicissitudes. When it’s Sergeant Waranuki, I bow deeply and assure him that any dog poop he may find hurled at, or smeared upon, the ex-PM or his property most definitely did not emanate from Puchi. At this point, he snaps to attention with a sharp salute and shouts “Hai.” I salute back, declaring with maximum formality that citizens have a solemn duty to cooperate with the police. I am now able to keep a straight face almost as well as Sergeant Waranuki. Perhaps I am becoming Japanese.
The walk continues. Which these days leads us so distant from home, even beyond the local water purification plant, that I can bask in the proximity of any attractive woman who directs attention towards Puchi. But mere proximity is enough. I am unreservedly faithful to my exceptionally-cute wife, and still cherish the hope that she will one day love me more.
Now, you may say that such a hope is better called a fantasy unless the hoper actually has reason for believing the hopee might someday love him more. I can respond only that I’m committed to living as if my hope is pure and worthy and bona fide. And I’m not inclined to test my feelings with too much reason – so maybe I really am becoming Japanese.
Whether or not I’m turning Japanese, at my workplace I try to behave at least Japan-compatible. This is a rather complex endeavor, as relationships can trump linear logic. Also, whatever you aim to do, usually there’s exactly one rigidly-fixed proper method – and you’re the only one around who doesn’t know it. You may eventually learn the one proper method, but meanwhile it’s best to focus on feelings. If you get the human relationships right, then somehow everything becomes less rigid. They are like magic – sometimes more like voodoo. Anyhow, I have to earn a living.
Japan-compatibility is hard enough. The road to get there was so long, so winding, I can’t remember many details. Perhaps I didn’t consciously take in much detail as I motored through, my eye too focused on the odometer. Nonetheless, some points are obvious.
First, politeness – which has only limited overlap with good will. The latter, unfortunately, is all I was initially kitted-out with, so right off the bat I trained myself to speak softly and stop saying “shit” and “fuck” so much – at least not out loud. And in Japan, it’s polite to apologize. So I started apologizing for everything. Pretty much every fucking thing – whether or not the particular thing was my fault or even a problem. It took time to intuit the degree of apology fitting the occasion, and that in very rare cases even the most slender, trifling apology can be out of place. Nowadays, I probably manage to stay within the generous apology-error-range acceptable even for locals.
Also, of course, I strove to improve my basic language skills, which involve both words and rhythm. Including measured … silence … … … But what truly helped was learning keigo – distinct vocabulary and specialized grammar signaling respect and/or humility. In the years before this came naturally, my mistakes could trigger bewilderment. Like when I asked to use a stapler and my boss, eyebrows raised, replied, “but Mr Hiramoto has already eaten the tuna and mayonnaise pizza.”
This is not unrelated to Japanese sentences normally failing to simultaneously include a subject, an object, and a verb. Typically there’s only one or two out of the three, and not infrequently zero. The underlying theory seems to be that only a vulgar moron requires a subject, an object, and a verb merely to communicate. Also, the more syllables you hear, the smaller the proportion signifying anything.
But I persevered – the Japanese love perseverance. And finally, thanks to keigo, I became a Good Foreigner. Even one stray phrase can make all the difference, as when I telephoned a notably stern bank official, asking whether he’d “deigned to peruse the fax I had very humbly taken the liberty of sending.” When we met in person, his soul already light from the vanquishing of innate fears regarding weird and erratic outsiders, we were instant old friends. My co-workers were gob-smacked.
By now you can see that I am by nature an even-keeled, live-and-let-live type, more or less. Also optimistic. And being so, I kept on persevering from embarrassment to embarrassment, punctuated by a few successes, until I found my way. I found my quiet role at my company, and became pretty much accepted by my colleagues, even valued, on a daily basis. I found my role at home, returning each evening to a cozy house in a respectable, mostly-tranquil neighborhood – a healthy neighborhood for maybe someday raising kids – with Puchi’s slobbering welcome and dependable affection. My wife would be there, too, usually calm, always dressed immaculately. And I thought my biggest problem was a 50-50 probability she didn’t really love me very much, but I could let myself hope that whatever her present love-level, it really might grow. So life was okay.
And then came the new neighbor.
It was a cold, overcast December day. He introduced himself in English with an un-Japanese-ly firm handshake, giving his name as Kuranosuke Kuramoto, but saying to call him Clap.
Puchi and I had just started our walk when Clap emerged, unshaven, from a somewhat-dilapidated house where, he said, he’d lived until quitting school. He wore a heavy biker jacket, tight black jeans, and ornate dark brown cowboy boots buffed to a gleaming luster. The house itself, he continued, with an unexplained smirk, had been rented out these past thirteen years after his father began suffering a degenerative disease. “So,” said Clap, zipping open his jacket to reveal a torn t-shirt in Jamaican-flag colors depicting a marijuana plant with a subterranean heart-shaped appendage, “I’m returning to my roots” – Roots being the t-shirt’s one-word caption.
When I commended Clap’s excellent English, he said he’d played rock music in England during the 1970s. He then hugged me, saying, “Peace and love be upon you, my brother.” Puchi hid behind my legs.
Forty minutes later my dog and I returned home to find my wife in a state of exhilaration, apparently owing to an intervening visit by our new neighbor, who, she seemed to assume, had earned his nickname by playing guitar like Eric Clapton. “Well, fuck me over,” I said to Puchi – almost out loud.
Although life continued much as before, Clap’s name would frequently enter my wife’s conversation. Thus, I learned the following month that he’d opened The Foursome, a golf-themed tea salon near our neighborhood train station. The next morning, through the shop window, I saw English splattered about, promising patrons an “organoleptic” experience or inviting them to get “Tea’d Off.” The menu included combination sets like the “Play Through,” the “Ten-finger Grip” and, my least favorite, the “Ball Washer.” All irresistibly appetizing, according to my wife.
Business started booming once the ex-PM, in his daily bilingual Facebook posting, praised its “high tea served in the true English style with dainty watercress sandwiches.” It was sufficient that the ex-PM is famous, even though he’s famous for incompetence, for using money to manipulate people, and for having a creepy, Frankenstein-ish face. I declined to accompany my wife to The Foursome because, I said, “They don’t serve coffee.”
My wife, who finishes work earlier than I do, started going there on her way home. And the more she went, the less she mentioned Clap. I supposed she liked him more than me, but thought it inappropriate to rub that reality into my face.
I myself would frequently encounter Clap taking out garbage or hauling groceries, etc. He’d inevitably wish me “peace,” “harmony,” “beauty in life,” or some other bullshit. This was extremely irritating, as I sensed he was calculating to contaminate my wife’s affections even further, and also because I had no evidence he’d committed any particular act beyond socially-accepted bounds. Still, I also had no sense there had been or would be any actual physical contact between him and my wife. I felt confident in her overarching respect for propriety.
This confidence was reinforced when, one weekend morning, Puchi and I returned from our walk to find the two together on the street, standing a decent distance apart, chatting at a standard level of politeness, and thus indicating no special familiarity. I joined the conversation, and when my wife went back inside, I continued to speak about neighborhood nothings. I now switched to keigo, which can be used not just for respect and humility, but to create a feeling of distance. At this point, Clap switched to English. “I hate keigo”, he said. “That’s one reason I left Japan.” He smiled, but displayed far too many of his teeth.
Yet when I told my wife what he’d said, she seemed to doubt my word. Clap, she declared, always spoke impeccable keigo when serving customers at The Foursome.
Some weeks later, while tidying up our home’s minimal frontage as Clap was walking by, I accidentally scattered some leaves. A few landed on his shiny cowboy boots. I apologized politely. Clap extended his lanky height to its fullest and puffed his chest into an aggressive posture. “Don’t you think Japanese people apologize way too fucking much?” he sneered. Then, laughing loudly, “Just shitting you, man.” Before I could escape, he bear-hugged me for about twenty seconds. “Peace and solidarity in our world of beauty, man,” he said.
It was events like these that raised my irritation to a new level and kept it there.
Meanwhile, in a notable neighborhood development, the ex-PM stepped up his efforts towards self-revivification in the arena of national affairs, this time using his inherited wealth to back a right-wing party. But despite this marked repositioning on the political spectrum, his voluble praises of nuclear energy, traditional family values, and a corporate tax reduction attracted little attention. Finally, he went as far as stating that Japan’s overseas image might improve if everyone would just stand up when the national anthem is played at public events.
At last, a rag-tag group of left-wingers gathered outside his house, along with a couple of bored-looking newspaper reporters. Puchi and I happened to be passing by.
Unlike the right-wingers, these new protesters were restrained – lacking even megaphones, let alone sound-trucks. On duty was Sergeant Waranuki, who seemed to be nervously awaiting reinforcements. Just as I attempted to move on, Puchi heard the compelling call of nature, so I pulled out a plastic bag and my green child’s-beach-toy shovel.
Though trying to concentrate on my embarrassing task, I was distracted by a repetitive series of vocalizations, pronounced rhythmically and gradually growing louder. A lone man was walking towards the protest, shouting frenetically in English. It was Clap.
What do we want? Peace now!
What do we want? Peace now!
What do we want? Peace now!
What do we want? Peace now!
And so on.
He waved both arms furiously, trying to rally the other protesters into a chant. But they all went stone silent, not catching his meaning, probably unsure whether he was for or against the ex-PM. Clap, who looked like a caricature of a nineteenth-century waiter, must have come straight from The Foursome. Hair greased back, black bow tie, and old-fashioned short jacket, trousers covered by an almost-floor-length white apron, and a curly, glued-on moustache – though, as always, he wore his brown cowboy boots. No doubt this costume further obscured his political orientation.
Suddenly he darted towards me, though showing no sign of recognition. Coming close, he leaned down towards Puchi, who, having just completed her business, strained at her leash to get away. Then, with his bare hand, Clap snatched up her poop and hurled it towards the ex-PM’s fabulously elegant house.
Puchi, being a very small dog, produces correspondingly small poop. Also, the wind was blowing strongly towards Clap. Thus, the erstwhile projectile touched down no further than the shiny top of his left boot.
As Sergeant Waranuki raced forward, Clap fled, accidentally knocking the leash from my hand and me onto my behind. For my part, I not only was uninjured, but was enjoying the spectacle: My usually-respectable neighborhood’s best show ever. Puchi, however, enraged at the assault on her master, gave chase as fast as her little legs permitted. Clap might have escaped, but was startled by Puchi’s big bark and stumbled over a curb.
Puchi caught up, clamped her teeth onto his apron, and persevered with steadfast valor as Clap stood and spun around, lifting her into the air like the Swing Carousel Ride at the amusement park of my childhood. Within a minute Sergeant Waranuki took Clap into custody, after which I granted press interviews – on condition of anonymity. The reporters had approached me in halting English. Confronted by my soft, Japanese-cadenced keigo, sprinkled with apologies, their disorientation was such that they accepted my version of the facts unquestioningly, despite some obvious irregularities.
I never again met my irritating neighbor. His house was soon, as before, rented out to strangers and The Foursome closed down permanently. Thanks to some overdue Googling, I learned that during the late 1970s he’d played in a band called Lice Infested Scum. Also, his English pronunciation turned out to be rather less than perfect. He wasn’t Clap; he was Crap.
According to the newspapers, the ex-PM’s neighbors felt he often behaved outrageously merely to attract attention, willfully disturbing their domestic tranquility. Particularly noted was the intense dislike of the ex-PM borne by Puchi, and how she would bark loudly to join in the protests in front of his house. Though her name wasn’t mentioned, I believe my neighbors recognized her photo. In any event, no further mock-polite complaint letters reached our post box.
Otherwise, there’s been no substantial change in my life. Except that I’m once again optimistic my exceptionally-cute wife may someday come to love me a little bit more.
• • •
Mark Halpern has lived since 1993 in Tokyo, where he runs his own law firm. He was born in America, mostly grew up in Canada, and has spent long periods in the UK and France. In 2016, Mark began writing short stories about foreigners living in Japan. In life, Mark has done enough foolish things to be capable of granting his characters the same level of respect he grants myself. And, like some of them, in Japan he has found a way to be both an outsider and an insider.