A Lifetime of Experience - The Wrong Side of Life

[UberGoober]

I knew before I arrived in Japan that I wanted a motorcycle. I had spent several weeks before my departure pouring over a practically unreadable magazine that listed virtually every bike ever released in Japan and, although I had some ideas, it was still wide open as to what I would get. The only thing that I was certain of was that whatever I got, it would NOT be something I could own back home. No, I vowed to myself, this time I was going to get something most Americans would never have a chance to ride. The problem was, I was flat broke.

To be honest, I had no real interest in even going to Japan. That’s an odd thing to say for a guy who had, up to that point, spent more than 10 years of his life studying Japanese and three of the past four living with a Japanese girl, but it was true. I was plenty sick of Japan, its language and its people. What’s more, the job I was taking was a path to nowhere and I would never have taken it if I hadn’t been at the end of my personal rope. How I got there is a story unto itself, but it had all started out well enough.

Around the time I turned 27 I decided that the Merchant Marines had been a good experience, but that it wasn’t where I wanted to spend the rest of my life. Sure, I was good at the job and the traveling appealed to me, but what turned me off was the kind of lives that so many of the older guys lived.

The old guys had it rough. They would take a job and ride the ship for 6 months but when the time came to sign off, most of them didn’t have homes to return to. Almost without fail, they’d end up renting some run down studio apartment in the bowery district, spend their nights in some local watering hole and their days in the union hall playing pinochle with the other old timers who, just like them, had nowhere else to go.

What really tipped the scales for me was an old timer named Ed. Ed was one of the nicest guys you could ever meet, but he was also at least 70 years old and had no business being aboard a ship any longer. Had he worked in the engine room, Ed would have been forced to retire years earlier as, down below, we spent our days climbing up and down ladders, clambering over the tops of machines or sliding underneath them in pursuit of our duties. But Ed worked in the air conditioned comfort of the ship's bridge, where his job was solemnly standing beside the ship’s wheel as the autopilot, called “the Iron Mike,” held the ship on course.

It was easy work, but Ed had a problem - two problems actually. First, he couldn't walk very fast any longer, and second, he had to pee three or four times an hour. Despite the fact there was a bathroom not more than 50 feet behind him, Ed pissed his own pants at least once darn near every shift, maybe more than once for all I know.

Looking at Ed made it all too clear. If I stayed where I was, there was a good chance I would never have a family or a home and that I too would wind up shipping out until the day I died. This was made even clearer when, a year later as I boarded the last ship I would ever sail on, they carried a guy off under a sheet right before my eyes. He had died of an apparent heart attack while the ship was at sea and they had kept in in the galley's walk in refrigerator until they hit port. No, if I wanted to build a life and a family, I needed to do something else. So, I decided to go back to school.

I entered community college with a some concerns, my previous performance in school had not been very stellar after all, but I soon found that I was fine with the coursework and the studies. In fact, with several years of traveling around the world under my belt, I was more than fine, I was unstoppable. When the teachers talked about something, there was a chance I knew at least a little about it already. All I was really doing was getting easy credit for things I had already learned. Sure, there were some things I had to learn from scratch, but for the most part, I was so far ahead in everything else that the new things I had to learn were easy to master.

After two years at Everett Community College I got my Associates Degree. Then, after an abortive attempt at night school via a Western Washington University extension campus in Seattle, I transferred to Washington State University in Pullman and I finally earned my Bachelor’s degree. After five years of school, the last two of which I had spent in abject poverty as I tried to live on a combination of student loans and what I was able to earn from part time jobs, I was hot and bothered to get back to some real, full-time gainful employment.

(Photo Caption - An actual photo of my own CBR250R taken at a park in Kyoto, Japan)

[UberGoober]

After graduation I had several interviews and quickly tried to parlay what I thought were decent Japanese skills into some kind of career. When that didn’t pan out, I answered an ad in the paper for a legal assistant at a prestigious downtown Seattle law firm. I was soon brought on board and given my own office in what had obviously been intended to be a supply closet. In that tiny space, I soon determined that I wasn’t right for the job. I had the intellectual skills, but the simple truth was that I didn’t have the typing and other office skills the job required. After struggling with it for several weeks I realized that there was just no way I was going to be able to keep up. Why they hired me when they should have hired a secretary I’ll never know, but I told the office manager my reasons and put in my notice. I wasn’t happy about quitting of course, but at the very least, I figured, I could get another job pretty quickly. I figured wrong.

Finding a job is pretty hard when you are in your early 30s and are trying to make the leap from blue to white collar. Although age discrimination is against the law, most companies are looking for younger people to fill their entry level jobs. I could see it in the hiring managers’ eyes when I arrived for the interviews. Qualified or not, I wasn’t even in the running for most jobs.

After a few weeks I widened my search to include blue collar jobs too. I soon found that the situation there was even worse. Once they found out I had gone to college they lost all interest in me. One guy told me the truth. “You didn’t put all that work into going to college to drive trucks,” he said, “Sure, you’ll do it for a little while, but the minute you get a better offer you’ll be gone.” I probably would have had more luck if I told them I had just got out of jail.

Days turned to weeks, weeks then turned to months. I applied for everything I could. I filled out applications to work with city, county and state government only to get put on waiting lists again and again. “You’re number two on the list. If we hire a couple of people, you’ll be in.” they would say knowing full well that there was no budget for new positions and the only way they would hire someone was if someone else died. Of course I, being clueless, would be encouraged by their words only to have my hopes smashed again and again.

To make matters worse, I was living with my mom and she made it her life's mission to be on my ass every second of every day pushing me to take any job I could find. Despite the constant barrage of criticism and all the hand wringing, I knew at least my room and board were covered and I was thankful for her help no matter how begrudgingly she gave it. But room and board was all I got. My gas money and car payment - for a car I was so upside down in I couldn't even give it away - came out of my own pockets however and, unfortunately, my pockets were empty.

With no money coming in from a job, I had to start selling the things that it had taken me years to acquire. I started with big things, electronics, guns, a small old dirtbike I had ridden in college, and worked my way down to smaller things eventually selling all my compact discs to a used record store and all my paperback books at a used book for next to nothing. Everything I sold was like hammering another nail into the coffin of my life. Everything I had ever worked for was being sold piece by piece and I entered into a cycle of depression. I even seriously considered shooting myself from time to time.

I hung in there though and as Christmas approached, I got lucky and was offered a seasonal job at Costco. I jumped at the chance and was soon working the overnight shift stocking shelves with Christmas merchandise. Despite the cheerfulness of the holiday decorated store, I was intensely unhappy and it was a miserable existence. I fixated on the fact that I had given up a decent career in the Merchant Marines to go back to college and as a result the best I could do was eke out an existence as a night stock boy – and not even a full-time permanent one at that. I stewed about it constantly and was actually relieved when the season ended and I was laid off. Had I been offered a regular job there, I probably would have followed through on my earlier thoughts of suicide.

It was at this point, somewhere past rock bottom, when I spotted an ad in the newspaper for a company Called GEOS looking for people to go to Japan to teach English. I had thought about doing this before, but I quickly realized that it was a dead end job. No American, I knew, was going to go to Japan as a teacher and work their way up into an executive position with a Japanese company. If I took the job I would be assigned to the rank and file of some school somewhere and chances were that I would never advance myself. Still, in the months since I had graduated, no other opportunity had presented itself and so I decided that even though a dead end road might not be the path to sure success, it was better than any other option I had been considering. I applied for the job.

The interview process was intense. I made it past the basic English proficiency test easily enough but struggled with the interview. It turns out that Japanese English conversation schools are only looking for certain types of people. Happy, joyful sorts of people who radiate good cheer and excitement in everything they do – “Genki” people. On the happiest day of my life I couldn’t have radiated the genki-ness they wanted, I have never been and probably will never be all that genki anyhow.

Still, I faked it as best I could. I was happy to be at the interview and excited about the possibility of the job. I smiled as much as I could, chatted up every other person in the waiting room and generally creeped everyone out with how nice I was, but would it be enough? At the end of the day, the interviewer took a long hard look at me. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she had her doubts, but I had tried my hardest and so, after a good deal of thought, I was given the green light. Two months later, after getting a passprt, the correct visas and taking a two day training session in Vancouver BC, I was on my way to Japan.

[UberGoober]

I hit the Japanese ground running, or rather walking, but I had motorcycles on my mind. Riding in a foreign country can be dangerous, especially when they drive on the opposite side of the road so I knew from the outset that I was going to face some challenges. I found a good on-line resource that taught me the basics of Japanese road law and another that offered pictures of the basic signage so, at the very least, I had an understanding of the rules of the road. What I lacked were the natural instincts I would need out on the street so I also tried practical things to prepare myself, like always walking on the left side of the sidewalk and making sure I looked right-left-right at crosswalks instead of left-right-left. And so it went, day after day while I thought and pondered and dreamed while I waited for my first payday.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the end of the month arrived and I had actual cash money in my hands for what seemed like the first time in years. Since I would only be receiving my salary once a month I knew I had to make it last, but I was still determined to get my bike as quickly as possible. My rent and power had been taken off the top of my salary so, at the very least, I would have a roof over my head no matter what I did. With the remaining $1900, I figured I might just be able to swing a motorcycle and still manage to eat for 30 days.

Finding a bike, especially a cheap bike, in Japan proved more difficult than I thought it would. I quickly found a few shops, but most of the bikes I was interested in cost a lot more than I had. Eventually I discovered a small English publication called the Kansai Flea Market that offered various items for sale at rock bottom prices. One ad, offered up a CBR250R and without really knowing much about them, I called on it.

The man who had it was an Australian who had lived in Japan for many years. He had found that he could turn a nice profit by buying bikes on the cheap from foreigners departing Japan then re-selling them to new foreigners as they came in. Considering the average turn over in English teachers, most barely lasted a year, it turned out to be a good system. I suspect that he sold many of the same bikes again and again and at a nice profit each and every time. Of course it looks like profiteering - making money on someone else's misfortune - but I am sure that he had many satisfied customers.

The bike, he told me, was a little bit older than what most Japanese guys liked to ride, but that it was a nice bike with just a few dings and that it ran well. It had been owned by a Canadian teacher who had left a month or two earlier. It sounded OK so I made arrangements to come down to see it the next night after work.

Since I clocked out at 9:00 pm, and because the train trip down took more than an hour, it was close to 10:30 at night by the time I got there. After calling the seller from a payphone, it took another 20 minutes until he finally showed up at the station. There, just before 11 PM on a spring night, I saw in light of the train station entrance, the little bike for the first time. Excited as I was, I was a little let down.

The bike, a 1991 CBR250R, looked like a miniature twin of the famous CBR900 that had redefined liter bikes around the same time. It was missing its lower fairings and the little bike looked odd and fragile with its tiny engine hanging out in the open. The upper fairing was scratched and chipped, but at least there were no chunks missing and the bar ends showed serous gouges where it had been down – several times I guessed. It wasn’t pretty. But as it sat there, the engine purred away in a nice even idle and responded instantly when I twisted the throttle. I had carried my helmet on the long trip down – in fact I was so certain I would ride in Japan that I had shipped it from the United States – and I took the bike on a test ride.

I can’t say that I did a very good or complete test ride in the narrow crowded streets that surrounded the train station that night, but it was enough to convince me that, ugly as it was, it was a serviceable little motorcycle. I took it back and we began to dicker. I wanted a discount because it had no lower fairings, he had them in the garage back home he assured me, and they would be on the bike when I picked it up. Back and forth it went, but we eventually struck a deal, $1600, and since I had no idea how to ride it home from so far away, we also agreed that I would pick it up after work a few days later.

The days passed slowly. With just $300 left for a month’s worth of food, the days were made worse by lack of any real sustenance. I had bought a big bag of cheap rice and augmented it with a few small pork wieners each day. Maybe it wasn’t the most balanced diet in the world, but it filled me up. Even so, I was soon sick of it and it would be a long time before I could eat those wieners again. I also bought a map book from my carefully watched funds and used it to plot my trip home. I soon realized that I would have to take the freeway.

Friday night at 11:00 found me back at the train station many miles south of my Apartment. Sure enough, the bike had its lower fairings on and securely fastened. I presented the money, the seller presented the keys and a bunch of official looking paperwork in return. I couldn't read them, of course, but in a few places I could see "CBR250R" and I made sure the serial number matched up. It looked right at least, so without a backward glance, I headed down the narrow streets towards the place my map had told me the freeway should be.

I have to say I had some concerns about taking the freeway home. The alternative was a maze of surface streets that crossed the city of Osaka and I knew I couldn’t manage those, so concerns or not, the freeway was the only option. I grit my teeth and ran up the on ramp to the toll booth. I parted with another $2.00 worth of diminished money and rode straight into the movie Akira.

The Japanese highway system is an amazing thing. Although it runs at ground level for much of its length, because Japan is so rugged it also passes over soaring trestles and through long tunnels. Also, because Japan is so heavily populated and because so many people live close to the high speed routes, the roadway is almost always bordered on either side by a high, futuristic looking sound proof wall.

The road surface too has many different markings. In areas with sharp curves or steep slopes, the whole roadway is colored yellow or red. Dangerous areas are further lit flashing lights cemented right in the road surface, and bordered by reflectors mounted with pinwheel like spinners that turn in the wind to create a flashing effect. At night, as I soon found out, it is also home to long distance truckers who don’t give an inch and who will try to slide past a bike even if you are in the center of the lane. You soon learn to get out of the way.

Revving the bike up higher and higher, I was soon racing down the freeway right at the indicated limit of 80 kilometers per hour. Judging by the number of trucks and cars passing me, I figured that my pace was too slow so I slowly inched it up close 100 kph until I was running more or less even with the cars around me. The bike seemed to run well, but bogged down on hills. For a while, despite the fact I had no low-fuel warning light, I thought I must be running out of gas and switched to the reserve. It was quite unnerving, would the little bike actually make it all the way home? There was no other choice, so I pushed on with the bike seriously bogging-down on the uphill sections of the road but coming back into its own on the downhill runs. It took about 40 stressful minutes to reach my exit and, as exciting as the experience had been, I was happy it was over.

Once off the freeway, following the plan I had so carefully mapped out in advanced, I threaded my way home across the surface streets and parked the bike safely at my back at apartment just before 1 AM. I sat there for a moment and listened to the little bike's smooth idle, it seemed fine but based on the way the engine had bogged down on the freeway, I wasn't so sure. As I shut it down and went inside, my mind raced over the possibilities and I could feel that familiar feeling - the one that told me I might have bought myself a whole mess of trouble - start to work inside my guts

But I would deal with that in the future. Concerns or not, as I went inside and went to bed, I knew that for the first time in a lot of months that my life was once again, finally on the upswing.

[LaurenOE]

Great read! That is a cool feeling to finally get your life in order. Sometimes, I think back to when I was alone and no one cared about me or was in my life. Yes, depression is a tough thing, but "aloneness" can be liberating when there is no one to tell you what to do. Sounds like we could have crossed paths. I too was alone in Japan for a couple of weeks when my ship made port there. Akihabra, Shinjuku...Japan is like being on another planet. Thanks for bringing back some memories!!

[binx_19]

wow you are good at writing stories, is this going to be a regular occurrence?

[UberGoober]

I'm thinking about once I week - maybe more if I have the time. I figured I would make a big burst to start it off and then slow down a little. I have lives lots of stories - I'm living one now as I just handed over the title to my GSXR - and most of them have some sort of motorcycle connection.

Thanks for the positive feed back, you and Lauren, its fun to get. I'm willing to answer questions or discuss anything in the stories. I'm a fairly open person - being an English teacher taught me that, most students are as interested in your culture and your worldview as they are actually learning English.