Fuck! Wake up!” He is so thankful that his night terrors are just dreams. Being in the adjustment center with Death Row overflow does that to the mind. Lethargic hallucinations, fever dreams and glimpses of phantoms are the result of irregular sleep patterns. In the dim cells, behind a double row of black steel grate, bars and a final locking food port… there is a lack of daylight to set the circadian rhythm as buzzing artificial lights and PA announcements terrorize the psyche. Takes you into hellish trips into deep introspective dreams. Harsh realities in dimensions of hate and malice like the Twilight Zone. As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew the calendar had that big circle on it. End of the road! So this is it, this is the day he is getting released.
Furyo almost stopped counting the months he has been in prison. Not like he was getting any good time. 6 Years and 10 months. He only got 3 originally for a strong arm robbery, but a couple riots, getting caught with knives and “pruno” put another 3 years on his sentence, minus all the good time. Furyo Matsuno (松野 不慮) is his name. His mother was a famous folk singer in the Bay Area Hippie scene, his dad… he doesn’t know much about other than he was abusive, had a stray eye for other women and went back to Japan when he was a baby. His mother said his dad was a Yakuza but the only pictures of him show a hardworking fisherman.
Furyo grew up in San Francisco, ran with a gang called Murder Society. After 5 years of no letters or girls from school writing him, he was pretty much open to any thing. He read a lot of people making it big in Alaska working on pipelines, or hauling frack sand in Texas, being private mercenaries in Central America. All of that was out the window when he got his Deportation Order with his Release paperwork. He was speechless. All his life he thought he was born in the city. His mom must be waiting at the gate the straighten this out. There was going to be no hugs as kisses at the gate. Just a perp walk through SFO to be trapped in his seat by Feds.
He was taken from San Quentin to INS detention in San Francisco. Some beady eyed clerk reads some legal jargon and before he knew it he was chained up to Guatemalan and a Haitian on the way to the Airport. Feeling like a condemned man he tried to ask questions to the stone faced Immigration Agents. They had no answers or room for small talk. They wouldn’t even let him get uncuffed until the plane was taxiing from the gate. The stewardesses looked at him like he was a serial arsonist. When every one else got drinks and chips he got sneers and it was like pulling teeth to get sleeping pills.
This wasn’t a direct flight, the refuel stop in Honolulu was brutal. Every one else got to get out and walk around. Not him, he was stuck between two pissed off Federal Marshals who were happy to start their own vacation once the ground crew was done draining the toilet tanks and refueling. He got a quick glimpse of the ocean and the hotels from the middle seat. The Marshalls left and now he was free to take the window seat, longingly staring at the last bit of American soil he would ever see.
New passengers board the and the next shift stewardesses are all smiles and flirtatious talk. Sitting beside him is a cowboy named Calvin Buddy, who was quick to bring up prostitution all over Asia. The other seat next to him was occupied by Lenny Webb, a geeky reporter who worked on a movie magazine about samurai and yakuza flicks. Drinks were on Calvin who was asleep halfway though the flight as soon as the sun set.
Going through magazines in the front seat-back, he finds a guide to local crime in Tokyo. It’s in English but just barely intelligible. He reads articles on the suicide epidemic in businessmen and students living unfulfilling lives, about subway perverts pressing up on female commuters during rush hour and an article about old houses being shunned by the Gen X workforce who prefer western style condos over beautiful traditional style homes. When abandoned they are called 空き家 Akiya, usually left with all the former residents belongings.
Furyo had quite a liquor tolerance from making batches of hootch inside. He managed to stay awake the whole flight with Lenny who was sweet talking 3 exotic dancers in the seats behind. Furyo knew the look like they had something itchy between their legs and despite hearing he was somehow drafted into meeting them for drinks when they landed, he was more interested in the stewardess Cynthia who was giving him shy but interested looks the whole flight. He excused him self to chat her up while waiting for the restroom.
The stewardess Cynthia was a student, half Japanese and had an apartment in 恵比寿 (Ebisu ward) in Tokyo. He got her phone number and address but played it cool like he was only half way interested. She gave him a couple free Japanese beers that had fallen out the packaging and weren’t all dented up. アサヒ (Asahi), サッポロ (Sapporo) and キリン 一番 (Kirin Ichiban). He weaseled some fine サントリー (Suntory) and ニッカウヰスキー (Nikka Whisky), but noticed the Japanese stewardess avoided him once he had gotten comped half a bottle of expensive whisky.
Cynthia was surprised he didn’t know a word of Japanese and asked a million questions about Tokyo. She thought he was cute, but his full length prison tattoos gave her a little pause. He lied and said he was a tattoo artist. That was half true, really he wasn’t good at any thing besides plunging improvised stabbing instruments into rivals lungs. But that wasn’t polite conversation so he didn’t mention, prison, deportation or the fact he didn’t know a soul in Japan and didn’t have a place to sleep. Approaching Japanese airspace broke the magic of the moment. She ushered him back to his seat and the captain put on the seat belt sign.
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They left SFO around 10am, got to Hawaii around 4pm and now it was around 2am the next day when they landed. Circling the landing zone, he discovered a land of the future. There were no abandoned buildings or tents on the sidewalk like home. Everything here was well lit, orderly and full of points of interest. He saw a fascinating coastline, Mt Fuji bathed in warm silvery moonlight and covered in soft white clouds. All he knew about Japan he learned in gangster movies or Kurosawa flicks. Not useful information when dealing with customs and immigration who wanted to know his criminal history, known associates and about his drug habits. They yelled at him for not knowing Japanese and made up their own answers to his mailing address.
He felt like they wanted to send him back as defective. Before he knew it he was roughly shoved out a nondescript door to the taxi stand where his friends from the flight were huddling around the 3 exotic dancers smoking. They boarded a shuttle van and in 10 minutes were in the dazzling lights of Tokyo. Every thing here was so bright. TV screens and neon signs like old gangster movies filled the skyline. Every conceivable surface was covered in some kind of signage, reflective strips or winking advertisements. It reminded him of the movie Blade Runner. Everywhere smiling faces and cartoon caricatures sold him on soft drinks and whiskey. Blue birds, McDonalds clowns, Geisha’s selling Coca-Cola and Suntory Whiskey.
It was a lot to take in. The 3 exotic dancers ghosted them. As soon as the shuttle pulled up, they dashed off while the guys lugged heavy suit cases. Furyo had no bearings for where they were. He realized he had some American money in his pocket but it was only good for tipping here. Soon the 3 merry marauders were making a nuisance of them selves in bars, getting loud and disorderly. Twice they were thrown out, once by an angry chef the next time by a group of Yakuza in pin stripe suits.
Furyo blacked out and woke up to the frost of dawn and his feet feeling asleep from the cold. He could feel his spirit leaving his body. He had a strong instinct that if he didn’t get up and walk, he wouldn’t wake up. The Japanese nights are bitter cold, a bone breaking cold that comes from all the moisture in the air. The reverse is the humidity that starts as soon as the sun is high in the sky. He wanted more than any thing to doze off some more. The light hit his eyes like Mike Tyson, shooting pain into the back of his brain like a hammer. Little sounds of life startled his last chance at rest. A pressure washer, a beeping truck delivery, insects screeching, bits of feminine gossip and giggling about the 酔っぱらい外国人 “Yopparai Gaijin.”
He was on the ground in a puddle of vomit at being nudged by an old man with a power washer shooing him away like a cat who pissed on the nice floor. Feeling like a piece of shit, he realized somebody stole his shoes and wallet. He was penniless and his red Hawaiian shirt was ripped and missing several buttons. He realized he pissed him self during the night and felt bruises around his eyes and blood on his hands. Must have been a wild night. Standing up he is greeted by the warm rising sun. It wasn’t a myth, the sun here was actually red, or a kind off deep pink you would round off as red.
Furyo felt like shit, but at least this bath of the rays of dawn made him feel some solace. This wasn’t all bad, despite losing all his friends, every thing he knows and being in a hostile foreign country known for its xenophobia and rejection of outside ideas… he always wanted to come here. Some instinctive DNA in his bones felt at ease. Looking over the stark contrast of the black city waking up to magenta light. Sing song messages came from the Subway PA system, advising of weather conditions, products for sale and line closures.
He marveled at the complexity of Tokyo. Every possible Inch of the city was crawling with catwalks, antennas, bridges, billboards, radio towers, esoteric rooftop air-conditioning mazes and power lines. Everywhere urban blight mixed with natural beauty in seamless harmony. Thousands of birds circling the morning sky as he looks out at the dawn cityscape from the subway platform. From his vantage point on an elevated rail station, the city seems like some futuristic setting for a video game. He imagines Gojira and his rogues gallery stomping across this magical lip on the edge of darkness.
The sky was so beautiful with electric peach colored clouds and everywhere it touches, flowering trees and sparkling lakes. He decides to go and find some tranquil spot by the water to get a few more hours of rest. He sets out, down the stairs that are so cold his feet ache from every step. Stepping over the refuse of a wild night, he trips out on the wild packaging on every piece of trash. Bright pink and red logos, selling some gibberish slogan on a bottle of pink flavored milk or seaweed wrapped pork rice ball, candy and cigarettes litter the path while navy blue clad utility workers scowl at him while they busy with some task of cleaning the metropolis for the morning commute.
His stomach is growling and isn’t too proud to steal a plate of someone else’s order from the counter of a breakfast stall under the bridge. Shoving some nameless blob of egg and spinach in his mouth, tearing into some sweet bean roll and chomping hungrily at pickled fruit and slices of purple yam. He groans with pleasure as it reminds him of some breakfast his mother used to make. He is almost hit by a speeding taxi one lane and a yellow flashing street cleaner in another. Making it to the sunny side of the street, his sore and bleeding feet thank him for rest from the harmful nights chill, still lurking among the shadows.
The sidewalk is warming up and he has stopped shivering. Making his way past endless rows of beige cement office towers until the scent of flowers and the songs of birds mark the entrance to a park, where he can see glistening blue water and white egrets. Almost running to the distant lake, he realized he must be still drunk from the night before. He makes it to a bench and feels like he barely survived a high stakes video game on the last man. Rocking back and forth in the warm sunlight, he feels tears in his eyes. He made it, this is home. Even with out a single friend or place to rest, there is a feeling of victory just being here in his ancesteral homeland, the land of anime dreams and consumerized craziness.