More confessions of a Gaijin

Living in Japan was the best experience of my life – except for the day I almost went to jail forever. The sleepy sun dipped low on the horizon as I walked through the shopping arcade of Shinsai-baishi. School had let out, pouring an additional torrent into the human wave that swept down the walled street. I bobbed in the current, head above the water like a white cork, seeking souvenir shops to dodge into and wait out the flood – I hate crowds. People stared occasionally and I smiled back. Unlike most gaijin – commonly used slang for “foreigner” – I enjoyed the attention. Japan is a safe place, especially compared to other areas of the world, including the US. In any city, though, you will find opportunists and thieves. Blissfully, I was unaware of the thief behind me marking his target. Lost in happy thoughts of not drowning in the Japanese tsunami, I pondered gift choices for my family. Then the thief struck. He snatched a girl’s purse and ran towards the crowd, hoping to lose himself in the faceless mass, but the crowd was an ocean that ebbed and flowed. At that moment, the crowd surged, leaving the thief trapped with nowhere to go, and no choice but to try to push through. Me. Running full speed, he slammed into my back like a linebacker. The victim screamed for help, but I couldn’t hear her words, only her panic. My dream-like mood shattered like glass. I was under attack. The training I endured as a martial artist took over in a single fluid motion, and the surprised thief’s head snapped back as my elbow caught him like a battering ram in the gate of his mouth. My hand snaked around to the back of his head and found imbalance. I shepherded his face straight into the ground. Spinning, my foot rose for a final blow, but the motionless form of the thief told me he was out cold. Or dead. My heart iced over. I’d just knocked out a Japanese guy. For a moment, I thought of running away, but then I thought of the APB: “Suspect description: Only tall white person in the area.” The victim ran up and grabbed her purse from the thief’s limp hand, while I checked his pulse. He was alive, but I doubted he was very happy – or would be whenever he woke up. I breathed a sign of relief when the girl thanked me for returning her purse. I knew I wasn’t out of the water yet, though. A police officer was making his way through the crowd of spectators to the blood sport. When he arrived, he looked at the thief, looked at me, looked at the spattering of blood on my jacket, and asked me what happened. “Do you speak English?” I asked hopefully. The officer shook his head no. “Well… I guess I have to try in Japanese,” I told him. I took a breath and reached into my semester and a half of study to come up with a reasonable explanation that wouldn’t get me put in jail. Trying to look humble and not dangerous, just a confused and lost puppy dog gaijin, I said, “Because the thief surprised me… regretfully, I broke his face.” Which I realized can also translate to, “Because the thief surprised me… I completely broke his face.” Not that it mattered, I thought bleakly; I was going to end up in jail. I didn’t know how to ask that. The officer’s eyes widened, and I thought for sure he was going to beat me with his nightclub or something. But the girl rushed up and explained the situation to the officer. He glanced back at me. “Show me your passport please, sir,” he ordered. I handed it to him and he looked it over to make sure I wasn’t a thief-hunting terrorist. Satisfied, he handed it back. “Please go to the restroom and wash the blood off… you are frightening the people. Thank you, you may go.” I bowed to the officer, and thanked the girl for saving my gaijin behind. She smiled her thanks, and blushed a little. She introduced herself as Yuka, and she asked me out for coffee. She said she wanted to speak English. Smiling back, I nodded in agreement. “Let’s go speak English.”