“Loser take dirt back to his home field and empty it out there so he won’t forget he lose,” he explained.
Throughout the year, TV stations signed off with the standard barrage of sappy music and soft-lensed shots of cherry blossoms. Sometimes. But this year was the thirty-fifth anniversary of Hiroshima, and there was a national observance. Each night on the tube photos of the atomic destruction were broadcast for five minutes at a time. That explained why they were so cold in Kyoto. It was August 7.
A new watchman was sent on board by the company, less slick than the first fellow, and not so well versed in English. I struck up a conversation with him and we ended up getting along famously. In a whisper he said he’d rig up the ship’s telephone so that I could call the States for free, but I’d have to keep it under my hat—no one else was to know. There was an uncanny intuitiveness in this man; he seemed to have picked up on the story and crew of the Rose City right away. The officers were cold, and the crew was insane. He pointed out various members and asked me about them, as if he already knew the answers. In our final chat he asked me my name. He seemed to think he’d met me somewhere before. Oddly enough, I knew what he meant: There was something there that transcended the company.
When I say it was our final chat I mean anything beyond a nod. He had been on the ship only two days before he was taken off in a hospital boat. What happened is still unclear, but the results were obvious.
Ned was drunker than usual one night when he decided to go ashore. He stood out by the gangway and shouted all the Japanese curses his half-deranged brain could dredge up. When the launch showed up he jumped down onto the gangway and bitched at the launch crew. They took one look at him and refused to let him aboard, remembering the incident two days earlier when Jimmy was so drunk he’d fallen off the gangway and nearly drowned (he was trying to hang on to the three gallons of bourbon he was bringing back).
This refusal outraged Ned, and sent him into a fury. He ran up to B deck, burst into the cabin where the watchman was sleeping, and beat the shit out of him. The poor man managed to break free and get out of range of Ned’s fists, but not before he’d been seriously injured. Ned was dragged off to jail by the harbor patrol.
I saw the watchman as he was leaving the next day. His head was in a bandage, his arm in a cast. I nodded to him and he nodded back. But that was it. He left the ship in silence, his head bowed. It was as if he’d been disgraced, publicly humiliated. The crew of the Rose City felt generally ashamed.
Although we had been in the harbor for a week and a half there was still no sign of fresh stores coming aboard. The food situation had become critical, and we were down to the last loaf of bread. Worse yet, our mail hadn’t been delivered. This perpetuated great anger with the company. Not only was the crew on edge because they hadn’t heard from home, but the lack of stores and mail made us think the company might be in financial trouble. That would mean they were probably going to pull what was known in the business as a Houdini act—declare bankruptcy and bail out of all outstanding debts and obligations. That would mean we’d get paid only for the work week—all our overtime would be lost.
But stores did show up, and we spent the better part of a day loading up. It was like something out of a Jerry Lewis or early Jack Lemmon movie. The crew members were all in good spirits, and the work moved in a parade of bad jokes and slapstick. The most enjoyable part of the whole day was bringing on the beer. The officers were resupplying the ship store with well over two hundred cases, and the crew readily formed a chain to relay the precious cargo up to the C deck lockers.
For now, however, the real thing was in the bars ashore. After we’d loaded up, I went over to Sakai with the cadet. He was off to see Kyoto, having heard of the adventures Charlie and I had. Pete had also gone, but by way of a hotel tour, a great opportunity to see the temples of medieval Japan through the tinted windows of an air-conditioned bus. I was beginning to realize that Pete was in fact an honest-to-god preppy.
The cadet and I soon found a bar and sat down to drink a few before we went our separate ways. I’d gotten high with him a few days earlier, along with Charlie and the third engineer. That was kind of nice, breaking the law with an officer, but the Third was a young fellow, and it wasn’t particularly out of character.
The cadet was flying home soon in an effort to get back to the Academy in time for the fall semester. This trip was already taking longer than expected. We sat there, drinking in the calm Sakai afternoon, and reflected on the ship and what had gone down. It was the first open discussion I’d had with anybody, and it was a good release for the emotions. He surprised me; he was in fact a good-natured Wilmington boy who just happened to have nothing to do when he graduated from high school, so he’d signed up for the Merchants. I’d thought he seemed out of place; more than once I’d seen him gazing romantically off at the sunset, or watching a rainbow out at sea.
He also surprised me by talking about Billy. We’d all been shaken by what we’d seen the other night, but the cadet more so than the others. He was convinced Billy was a hopeless case. He also mentioned that Billy now thought I was all right. I’d learned to do my job, and I knew how to drink, so Billy was impressed. That was the best news I’d had in months.
We split up and I hopped a train for Nara, home of the Todai-ji, the great bronze Buddha, and center of the old religious oligarchy that predated Kyoto’s preeminence. On the train I made conversation with a friendly Japanese businessman next to me. It was a good time. He spoke excellent English and was full of anecdotes about Osaka and Nara.
When we reached Nara, where the gentleman lived, he insisted that I accompany him to a Catholic mission a few blocks from the station. Not really sure of what to do, I followed. The mission was typically hideous 1950s modern and surrounded by a few miserable attempts at a Western garden. In the courtyard the man told me to wait and disappeared inside. I watched his progress through the plate-glass windows that covered the whole side of the building. He ran hurriedly up the stairs and into a music-filled room, where I could make out a number of people talking loudly. The man bent over to someone—they were all seated on the floor and out of sight—and then ran back downstairs. He put his shoes back on and joined me in the courtyard, saying the priest would be down to see me in a moment.
We waited about five minutes. The gentleman was getting nervous and was afraid I was getting offended at being kept waiting. Then a heavyset man wrapped in a white kimono appeared. To my surprise it was a peach-faced old Scot with a shock of white hair and a great accent who took my hand and shook it heartily. What was going on was that the Japanese gentleman had asked if I could stay the night there, since I’d mentioned that I’d nowhere to stay. The priest smiled benignly, but I could see that his lips were drawn back with uncomfortable tightness. I told him I was in the Merchant Marine.
“The Merchant Marine, eh? Well, then, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding some lodgings! Well, good luck, lad, and enjoy your stay in Nara.”
That was that, and the gentleman and I returned to the street. Before we said good-bye my friend handed me a pack of cigarettes and wished me well. We walked back to the center of town again and waved “so long.” He disappeared into the throng of late-night commuters.
So, there I was, alone at night in Nara. I strolled into the Great Park and wandered along the pebbled paths and squatted down by the five-storied pagoda Horyu-ji. Crickets and strange Asian birds echoed all around the sleepy park. Occasional clusters of Japanese families and couples were the only interruptions to the stillness of the scene.
Eventually I ventured into the heart of the park. For some reason I was very nervous. It was exceedingly dark, and the forest grew thicker and more disturbing. I’d lost the sense of spiritual quest. This was a very different journey than those I’d taken in India. I wanted to find Zen bliss, but my mind was elsewhere, on the mundane, on the worldly, on the life of a merchantman.
Cringing at the strange calls of the night insects,
I kept to the main path. Then I looked to my right and saw in the soft vaporous light a panorama of two hundred deer lying by a gurgling stream. I slipped around them as quietly as possible. As I moved, the primordial landscape unfolded like an ancient scroll. They were scattered among trees and rolling hillocks.
I stepped off the path and sat down against a tree. The deer were at first startled by my intrusion, but settled back down before long. I watched them for God knows how long, the fragile serenity of the scene hanging tenuously in the air. Then, to my amazement, a noisy family walked straight up to them without the least hesitation. A few of the deer stood up, but most of them simply watched. The yelling children handed out Deer Snax and laughed with glee. My Zen ink painting was suddenly a Kodak postcard, and I split.
I wandered the park some more, following the family’s example and walking through the heart of the herd. The night continued to be foreboding and I decided to sleep in town. I thought the best way to approach the lack of shelter was to get as drunk as possible and find another vacant building to pass out in. I walked into a bar and got a beer.
Japanese bars are not like those found in the West. First of all, they don’t serve drinks; they serve bottles. If you want whiskey you buy a bottle, which they tag for you and keep on the shelf. From then on you can go into the bar at any time and drink from your personal bottle. The other notable difference is that when you sit at the bar the geisha girls wait on you personally. They wipe the bar under your drink every three minutes, and if you’ve drunk a third of your glass they’ll take your bottle and fill it to the brim again. At first it’s somewhat intimidating, but after a while it becomes fun. Besides, just seeing the petite Japanese women, let alone having them wait on you, was a thrill for us all.
That night I chanced upon a lively local spot where no tourists were to be seen. The locals thought me something of a curiosity. I was wearing a traditional Japanese shirt I’d bought and was a six-foot-two white boy alone in an uncosmopolitan part of town.
They crowded around me, and the geisha tried to ask me where I was from. I drew a picture of the ship, and they all exclaimed in understanding and surprise. At least I wasn’t another tourist. They then started talking all around and about me in a different tone, occasionally glancing at me. Every now and then I made out a word I could understand. Words like American and Hiroshima. I sat back and drank my beer. Shrugging at them, I tried to convey the idea that I hadn’t even been a twinkle in my daddy’s eye then. They continued the debate.
I decided to split the scene. The geisha asked me where I was staying, and I replied nowhere. They looked at one another with concern. I shrugged again and said good-bye to the geisha, who watched me disappear into the night with a melancholy stare.
I had trouble finding a vacant house. When I did come across a construction site I broke in and tried to bed down on the floor. But within ten minutes I felt something crawling up my back. I freaked and, jumping up, reached down my shirt and grabbed some slimy insect/snail-like thing and dashed it to the ground, then ran like hell.
My next attempt was in the backyard of an apartment building, but the mosquitoes were horrendous. I finally crashed out on a park bench in the center of town.
After a couple of hours the sun rose, and I decided to go see the temples. The deer had roamed into town during the middle of the night and were standing in the streets with impunity. A strange place, this was.
Too burnt out and tired to really appreciate the sights, I went through the motions like an automaton. I felt like I was attending a lecture because it was required. The Japanese loved it, however, and were out in droves. All the same cheap junk that fills Ocean City was being gobbled up by Mr. and Mrs. Executive-san and their three lovely children. Disillusioned, I went back into town.
I’d forgotten that the Japanese drive on the left and, stepping boldly into the street, I heard a horn blaring behind me—I’d looked the wrong way. A motorcycle skidded to a halt, smashing into me. I didn’t travel very far and only received a few minor abrasions on my arm. The motorcyclist picked up his beautiful new bike from the street. In avoiding killing me he’d twisted the bike to a sliding stop, and now it was scratched and dented. He looked at it and then at me.
“Forgotten.” That was all he said. Then he got back on the bike and rode off.
Ned was released and fined 41,100 yen for beating up the watchman. He was fairly unrepentant, and Billy acted as though he had done us all a favor. The others, especially the old-timers, did not agree.
CHAPTER 13
BACK ON THE SHIP, after Nara, I returned to the tedium of gangway watch. True, I could read out there, but after two weeks of doing absolutely nothing except sit on the same uncomfortable crate, it was too much. One afternoon the 4–8 was the only watch on ship. I was doing Joe’s sanitary work while Jake and Billy took turns at the gangway. They were even more sick of it than I was. Usually no one had to go out until the launch was expected.
Sweeping the corridors of B deck, I decided to take a break and look in on Jake. He was getting crocked, as usual, and called me into his room. Since our arrival, Jake and I had taken to sitting down with a bottle of Myers’s Rum and polishing it off, a shot at a time, in a single sitting. This day Jake had some whiskey, some vodka, and a cooler of beer. Not long after we started, there was a knock on the door. It was Billy; he was sick of sitting out there and wanted a drink. So we drank.
And we drank.
And when we were through with the whiskey and the vodka and the beer we opened the gin. Then we heard a fateful knock on the door. It was the Chief.
Jake and Billy decided to pretend that no one was home. Unfortunately, we’d been making lots of noise, and Jake was so drunk that he was talking to himself while he was trying to hide, pretending not to be in his cabin.
Soon enough we had to come out, and Jake and I opened the door and faced the Chief. He had brought the Second down with him as a witness. He’d also woken the sleeping Bosun, who, as the head of the deck gang, had to be there. The Chief was livid; we were drinking on watch and had neglected our post at the gangway. He asked me who else was in there and I mumbled something about Billy under my breath. Jake denied it altogether, but it was clear the man was hiding inside. The Bosun ordered us out on the deck.
Billy didn’t come out for a quarter of an hour. When he did he was too drunk to put up any pretense of innocence and joined Jake and me on the deck. There the Bosun chewed us out. Poor Dave—he’d been getting trouble ever since his stance on the sea watches, and he was furious that the three of us had stupidly played right into the hands of the Man himself. The Chief had something on us now.
That night the 4–8 watch went ashore to celebrate. So what if we were bad boys? We didn’t give a care. Jake broke into song on the launch ride and Billy handed some money to a little Japanese girl who reminded him of his own three-year-old daughter, far away.
We didn’t go far that night—just to the closest bar. It was an empty little place, frequented only by the townsfolk. We ordered a round of drinks and toasted ourselves for our heinous crime. We had become “brothers in crime” and loved it.
Jake looked over at the tape deck at the end of the bar. The other notable feature of Japanese bars is that they don’t have jukeboxes. What they have instead is a library of instrumental tapes and a songbook. Anyone who wants to can sing into the house microphone to the music and entertain the patrons.
Jake got a fiendish look in his eye and asked them to turn it on. A minute later the 101 Strings were playing the theme to A Man and a Woman, and Jake was crooning away. He was in his element, and between the three of us the rafters were shaking.
We shifted anchorage on the sixteenth. They had finally found room for our oil and we were to pull into the dock and unload some of the cargo. Not all of it; we had to make another stop in Yokohama after this to unload the rest of the shipment.
The shift didn’t take long, but the tying-up at the dock was a drag. Jake and the Bosun
worked the winch, and it was left to Billy and me to do all the heavy work. But we did it, and we did it fast.
Seeing as this was our last night in Sakai, I went ashore and hitched a ride to Osaka for one final look around. I was by now familiar with the city. The mazes of the amusement district were no longer a mystery, and I could navigate to the various points of interest with minimal difficulty.
This time around I took a good look at the Japanese. They moved with an urgency that contradicted their smiling faces. There was always something to be done, and if you didn’t do it first and best somebody else would. The competition was intense.
Their favorite pastime was pachinko. Pachinko is a souped-up variation of the original upright pinball machine. A player would buy a box of tiny silver balls and pour them into a feeder at the bottom, then hit a lever so that a ball flew up the track and bounced off the thin metal pins until it was swallowed up by one of the drains. Nine out of ten times the ball fell right through to the bottom. Sometimes the player got lucky and it was caught in a bonus hole and he got extra balls. But that was it. Nothing more, just extra balls, and the Japanese loved it. On any given street you’d see at least four or five of these parlors, and in each parlor there were hundreds of these machines, and at each machine there was someone flicking away, ball after little silver ball, hoping that maybe the next one would get him ten more to flick away.
As if this wasn’t enough, their other favorite game was a variation on the groundhog and his shadow. Picking up a large mallet, one tried to smash the groundhog on the head as it popped up out of one of the ten holes in the game board. It was the physical alternative to pachinko.
Japan appears to have a totally Western culture, and it gave me the creeps to see how fast and to what extent they had begun emulating America after the war. They still hated us, that much was obvious. An old man spat at me in the subway, and their television was obsessed with the war and radioactive monsters. But everything still has a peculiar, singularly Japanese twist to it, right down to the airbrushed Playboys and the porno movies that were all filmed from the waist up.
The Voyage of the Rose City Page 13