by Neil Watson
Yushi’s Light Bulb Moment
Y ushi would be approaching his twenty-first birthday in only two months. He sat in his bedroom, feeling as depressed as he had done when coming up to his twentieth. And his nineteenth, eighteenth, and all the years back for as long as he could remember. He felt that his life wasn’t exactly setting any fires alight. Not even any cinders.
True, he was doing quite well in his job taking telephone calls in the sales office at the factory that made electrical connectors. He was always polite to the customers who enquired as to whether they had twenty-two-pin male quarter-inch variants in stock, or what the price would be for, say, half a dozen single-flange steel couplers. He efficiently dealt with each enquiry, he always called back when he said he was going to, and precisely replaced the telephone receiver after each call, before carefully picking it up again the next time it rang, answering with a polite “Good afternoon, Yushi speaking, how may I help you?”
Since leaving college and starting work, Yushi had had great expectations that ‘something great and good’ was going to happen to him, but it never seemed to. Sure, he got on well with his colleagues at the sales desk, and the three women in the typing pool seemed to like him enough when he asked politely if they’d mind completing some paperwork or other. But, in short, he was bored out of his mind.
That was his work life. Things were pretty much the same in his home life too. He lived comfortably, and he had no complaints about how his mom cooked his dinners and washed his clothes, or how his dad engaged him in conversation about his work life, or his social life. “What social life?” he thought to himself, as he sat in his bedroom, literally twiddling his thumbs in a circular motion whilst contemplating the nothingness that lay before him. Maybe that could be part of his problem, the fact that he had no social life.
And by social life, what he actually meant was love life. He knew that he wasn’t bad-looking, and he did have a few friends after all, and some of them were in fact girls. He was able to engage comfortably in conversation about his favourite movies and records, about his hobby of cycling, and about topical issues of the day, but only when he was in a group. When it came to being in the company of a girl on his own, his basic problem was that he was shy. And so, he avoided failing in the heterosexual relationship department by not attempting one in the first place. Instead, he concentrated on his hobby, which at least made him athletic and strong. He could be good at being athletic and strong without the fear of clamming up through not knowing what to say next.
As his thumbs turned in circular motion, he wondered what he could do to reduce his feelings of sadness and frustration—before it was too late. Soon to be 21 and never been kissed, at least not in the way he wanted. If he weren’t careful, his life would be over before he knew it, and his love life wouldn’t even have begun, so he had to do something. But what, exactly?
Whether it was the pressure caused by his impending, significant coming-of-age birthday, or whether it really was one of those ‘light bulb’ moments, Yushi somehow came up with the answer. Of course! He would leave. Leave home, leave his job—and go. He could afford to. Living at home was quite cheap—free, in fact—and so he’d built up a fair amount of savings that should last a while. For the first time in his life, Yushi Yakamoto became truly excited and leapt to his feet, putting an LP on his stereo—“ah yes”, he thought—Bowie’s Aladdin Sane—until sinking back on to his bed, deflated with the realisation that he had nowhere specifically in mind to go. But a seed had been sown, and as he went downstairs to his mom calling dinner-time, Yushi was determined to pick up his thoughts later where he’d left off, and work out a plan. A plan of escape, and a plan for the rest of his life—or at least for the next few months.
CHAPTER 2
(MONDAY, 2ND MARCH, 1981)
Yushi’s Preparation
O n Monday, 2nd March 1981, having had the whole of the weekend to really think his plans through, Yushi went to work with a spring in his step, inconsistent with his normal, unenthusiastic trudge. He waited until everyone except his boss had gone home at five o’clock, before knocking at the door—politely—of the glass-partitioned office belonging to Mr. Jim Pursey, the Manager of the Sales Office, in order to tender his resignation. Conscientious and conscious of his position of minor responsibility towards his co-workers, customers, and Mr. Pursey, Yushi had decided to work more than his contractual notice period right through to the end of the month, instead of the obligatory one week. That would no doubt help Mr. Pursey, and would also bring in three more weeks’ wages to fund his travels.
It was time, decided Yushi, to grow up, to leave home, meet people and to explore his country—and maybe, just maybe, get a girlfriend. That was how it happened in the movies, wasn’t it? Surely, the possibility may lend itself, at least once perhaps, during his epic bike ride. It was a trip that he’d been fastidiously planning, poring over detailed American Automobile Association maps spread over the floor of his bedroom, red marker pen poised to plot his route.
His parents, while initially expressing concern when his intentions were first proposed to them, eventually capitulated and gave Yushi their blessing. After all, they themselves had shown courage when they had decided to come to the Land of Opportunity, so perhaps some of their sense of adventure had rubbed off on Yushi. A good idea, they thought. It might help their only son become less introverted. Mr. Yakamoto senior even pledged to give $100 to his son’s cause. He didn’t know that Mrs. Yakamoto would be secretly stashing double that amount into Yushi’s wallet—“just to be on the safe side,” she whispered in Yushi’s ear. She wanted to be sure that, as Yushi cycled off in a westerly direction across the country towards the Golden State of California, he would always be able to afford a room in a motel, a hot meal, and have enough money to phone home at least every other day to let her know he was safe and well. And for certain to clean his clothes at the Laundromat. “Always have pride in your appearance,” she advised, or rather commanded.
But clean clothes were less on Yushi’s mind than the preparation of his bicycle. Twenty-one gears, a firm, leather saddle, lightweight aluminium frame, and thin, 26-inch wheels were well engineered to make up his pride and joy. All he was uncertain about, in the end, was whether to swap his tubeless tyres for more practical tubed versions—but that would involve spending some of his limited savings on wider wheels, and what would be the point, when he’d already got a large number of spare tubeless tyres hanging up in his parents’ garage? So he opted to use what he had.
Next on his mind was the question of whether to take a rucksack or panniers, or both. And, if panniers, should they be front- or rear-mounted? And another dilemma: how would he record his adventure? He would like to take his full-bodied Pentax camera with long-range and wide-angle lenses, but that would add weight. And what about a compass? And maps? Some proper cycling shoes would surely be essential. . . The organisation began to bother him, and as the end of March approached, he became more and more nervous about the challenge he’d set himself. Yushi was even considering backing out. It was his father who, having wished he’d done something like this when he was young and unencumbered, encouraged him to go through with what he hoped would be a trip of a lifetime. “Travel broadens the mind, son,” he said.
So that was it, Yushi thought. There was no going back now. He decided to get some final advice about what equipment to take, so on the Saturday two weeks before his planned departure, he arrived at Cycle City, the best bike shop in Allentown, to browse the accessories on offer and, if the store manager wasn’t too busy, he would politely pick his brains.
Satisfied with the answers to all his technical questions, and about to leave the shop, Yushi noticed one accessory in the glass cabinet that he hadn’t previously thought of buying. He wasn’t even aware that such a thing existed. He stared at the radio on display, and it was not just any radio. This one, priced at $29.99, was just what he hadn’t realised he needed—until now. It was specifically designed for fixin
g onto his bike’s handlebars with a bracket that enabled it to be removed with ease and speed. Supplied with batteries that the store owner threw in for free, the sound was good too, clearly picking up AM stations, and it was waterproof. It even had a horn and built-in reflector on the front, and with its bright-red and shiny-black body, it looked just great. Yushi was very pleased indeed with his impulse purchase.
The next two weeks flew by, as he finalised his tasks at work, and busied himself with his preparations at home. A few of his sales-desk colleagues had signed a good-luck card and had bought him a present—a pair of cycling gloves and a Timex watch—but there was no big leaving party for Mr. Yakamoto junior. Mr. Pursey kindly allowed him to leave at lunchtime instead of the normal 4.30p.m. and, as Yushi left the building for the last time, he reflected on what a waste his life had been selling boring electrical connectors during his employment at the company. As he walked through the reception area, he noticed the replacement recruit waiting to be ushered in to take his seat in the telephone sales office. The same seat that was still warm from Yushi’s backside, occupied for three uneventful and dull years of his life.
That was all about to change, Yushi thought, when his backside would soon be sitting on a very different seat. Excited more than at any time he could remember, he hurried home to the garage where his prized bike was awaiting its final preparation. The tyres would be checked, and the brakes, the chain and the gears. Everything was now ready for his departure and the next day his mother, father and sister would be presenting him with a farewell traditional Japanese breakfast of steamed rice, miso soup, and grilled fish.
Yushi would have much preferred bacon, eggs, and maple syrup, but this would be no time to add to his mother’s angst and sadness. He knew she would find it hard to hold back her tears, and he wondered if he’d be equally able. Before taking to his bed for an early night, Yushi went in the garage to put the finishing touches to his bike—to fix his handlebar-radio, now with batteries fitted, and two national flags on a long wooden stick attached to the rear of the bike’s frame. That would please his mom, he thought, as he stood back to admire them; symbolically, one of them sported stars and stripes, and the other a red circle on white.
CHAPTER 3
(WEDNESDAY, 8TH APRIL, 1981)
PARIS, ILLINOIS, USA
Ozborn’s Failing
M arc Ozborn staggered his way to the bar to get a bottle of beer and a whisky chaser, the first of several from that establishment that evening. He didn’t notice the attention that he’d gained from a woman sitting on a stool, elegantly holding her bottle of Bud Light, and observing him with interest. Still brushing off some spilt beer from his arm, he had already had two or three swigs of liquor from the bottle he kept wrapped in brown paper on the parcel shelf under his Dodge pickup truck’s dashboard. He was pleased with how smart he was, keeping it there, out of sight from prying road-cops’ eyes. He was pleased with the way that he could lean across the passenger seat, shift his body in a certain position, and swig from the bottle beneath the sight-line of the windows—even when he was driving. Yeah, he was smart alright, he thought. He must have been—he’d never been caught for that particular offence.
He’d just strayed into town, and the neon-signed Old Parlor was the first brightly-lit tavern he’d come to, so he pulled into the parking lot, finished his joint before flicking the remaining stub to the dusty ground, and made his way inside. Positioning himself at the bar, he pulled a packet of Marlboro Unfiltered from his top pocket. “Shi-it,” he murmured, when he realised there were none left. He crumpled up the empty packet and threw it in disgust across the wooden bar, wondering what to do next, whether to make his way all the way back through the crowded room, past the guy who had spilled beer on him, to his pickup where he knew he had more cigarettes. He’d at least get a pop at the punk that had knocked into him, he considered, but he really didn’t want the bother of going anywhere, now that he’d got to his position by the bar.
Then he heard sweet music to his ears from a few feet further along the counter.
“Hey there, Marlboro Man. Help yourself.” An almost full pack of smokes came sliding along the wooden surface towards him, and he looked in the direction of where they, and the woman’s voice, had come from. Despite the effects of the recent inhalation of his joint, as well as the plentiful alcohol consumption, he was still able to recognise a pretty lady when he saw one. And this lady was no exception. “Why, thank you, Ma’am,” he responded in his usual low, gravelly voice, doing his best to reduce the slur in his voice to a minimum, while touching the rim of his hat.
“You’re very welcome,” the lady in the black halter-neck top mouthed sexily, turning up the charm a notch, as the gruff voice that matched his rugged good looks confirmed to her that tonight this man would be the one going home with her, if she had her way.
“Why don’t you move over here so I can light it for you too?” She beckoned Ozborn to take up her offer—while he attempted to disguise that his legs weren’t exactly coordinating with his brain.
For Sandy, the usual small talk followed, but she found herself more captivated than usual with this particular man’s conversation. For Ozborn however, it would just be good to sleep in more pleasant surroundings than his pickup truck or at the trailer park, and if he were to get laid, that would be an added bonus. Less than one hour later he was being offered more than just a bed for the night.
Sandy went outside, with Ozborn in tow, who followed her to her Volvo estate. She was already anticipating what would be happening on her waterbed when they got back to her place, and the fantasies that were running through her brain were causing much excitement and anticipation. Stone-sober, she remembered exactly where the handcuffs were in the bedroom that she’d bought especially for such occasions. It was true that this guy could do with a shower before they got down to business, but, such was her eagerness to commence proceedings, she wasn’t even sure if she could wait for that.
After pulling up at the drive of her neat bungalow, they both got out of the car and giggled as they made their way, arms around each other, to the front door. Once inside, Ozborn found himself being eagerly stripped, his clothes being discarded here and there as he was led to the bedroom. The bedroom, he noticed, even in his stupor, had the most grotesque, flecked-green wallpaper adorning it. The next thing he knew, his hands were being cuffed to the bed posts behind him, and this unique woman was straddling him, riding him as if he were a horse and she were a cow-girl swinging a lasso in the air. The waterbed squelched as the mattress rose and fell like waves at a theme park, making him feel sick. The interior decor didn’t help matters, and was hardly what he should have been focussing on to prevent himself puking, but that goddamn awful colour was the last thing he remembered seeing after prematurely climaxing, and promptly passing out.
Sandy Beach wasn’t happy, and she made it perfectly clear to Ozborn that that was the case when she awoke with her alarm clock going off the following morning at 7.30a.m.
“Come on. Get up, you! I’ve gotta go to work, and you’ve gotta get outta here,” she commanded.
There was hardly any movement from the side of the bed where Ozborn was still out cold. All he could manage was a feeble groan. Sandy proceeded to get dressed in her prim and proper dentist’s uniform. She looked over at the unlocked handcuffs still dangling from where she’d given up on having any pleasure the night before. Well, that had been a complete waste of time, she thought, as she pulled back the bed sheets in the hope that that would get this guy out of her bed. As she did so, she couldn’t help but admire his body—lean, muscular and tanned. The admiration just added to her pain of unfulfilled satisfaction. His rough and rugged facial features still attracted her, but not half as much as the sight of his manhood—although limp now—and his perfectly-formed buttocks, still offering promise of a better time to be had than during last night’s disastrous failure.
“Look, you can come back again this evening if you want, and I�
�ll be home from work by around four!” exclaimed Sandy. “You can even stay here all day if you don’t have anywhere else you need to be, and maybe we can have a more successful time tonight. There’s coffee in the kitchen for now, and I can give you a ride back to the Parlor on my way to work so that you can get your truck. How does that sound?” she asked, hoping he’d agree. Sandy wasn’t finished with him yet, and was keen for him to finally satisfy her cravings at the second attempt. A slight smile appeared at the edges of her neatly lipsticked mouth as the man in her bed nodded ‘yes’.
All that day, while staring into the wide-open mouths of men, women and children, professionally concentrating on the oral hygiene tasks she was being paid to do, Sandy’s mind wandered elsewhere. She was looking forward to getting home to continue the unfinished business with her Marlboro Man. She wasn’t even sure of his name. Mark, she thought he’d told her, but no matter what it was—she wasn’t too bothered about getting on first-name terms with him—she just wanted long, sensual, exciting and rough sex with him. That was all.
The end of the working day came and Sandy said ‘good evening’ to Mr. Edgar, and made her way home-but not before stopping at the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner. The least she could do was to feed Marlboro Man’s belly later, after she’d had her fun. She then pulled up outside her bungalow, hoping to see the pickup truck there, but it wasn’t. At least three hours went by until she heard the growly sound of a car engine, tyres skidding to a halt and loud country music blaring out of the car’s window. Then she heard the truck door slam shut and footsteps. “At last!” she thought.
During the day, Ozborn hadn’t had an awful lot to do. Having recently moved to Illinois, he was in an unfamiliar town in an unfamiliar part of the county. After being dropped off by Sandy to collect his truck from the tavern’s parking lot, he thought about going inside for a morning hair of the dog. He hadn’t needed to think too long and hard about it, and by the time mid-morning had brought in the bar’s regular farmers for their beer and breakfast, he was already on his third solitary drink while the owner busied himself with glass-washing and other such chores. By the time Ozborn reached into his pocket to pay for his fourth beer, he was still sober enough to calculate that he was nearly out of cash.