No-No Boy

by John Okada

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the things we said this afternoon.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, and so have you.” He looked at Ichiro with his face already flushed from the liquor.

  “Sure,” said Ichiro. “Seems like that’s all I’ve been doing since the day I was born.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Then who’s to blame?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Blame the world, the Japs, the Germans. But not yourself. You’re killing yourself.”

  “Maybe I ought to.”

  “Now, you’re talking like me.” Kenji smiled and beckoned the bartender for refills.

  “There used to be times, before the war,” said Ichiro, “when I thought I had troubles. I remember the first time I laid a girl. She was a redhead in my history class. Knew her way around. I guess, actually, she laid me. I was scared, but I was more scared after it was done. Worried about it for weeks. I thought I really had troubles then.”

  “Sounds more like a good deal.”

  “Could have been. I think about that now and I feel good about it. If I had to do it over—” Leaving the rest unsaid, he played with the glass in his hands.

  “I feel for you,” said Kenji.

  “I suppose that means you’ve decided not to change places with me.”

  “If it were possible to, no.”

  “If it were, Ken, if it were and there was just half an inch to trade for my fifty years, would you then?”

  Kenji thought about that for a long while. “When it comes to the last half an inch and it starts to hurt, I’ll sell the car and spend the rest of my life sitting here with a drink in my hand and feeling good.”

  “That means no, of course.”

  “That means no, yes.”

  “Thanks for being honest.”

  “I wish I could do something.”

  “You can’t.”

  “But I wish I could.”

  “Nobody can.”

  “I want to anyway.”

  “Don’t try.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  So they sat silently through the next drink, one already dead but still alive and contemplating fifty or sixty years more of dead aliveness, and the other, living and dying slowly. They were two extremes, the Japanese who was more American than most Americans because he had crept to the brink of death for America, and the other who was neither Japanese nor American because he had failed to recognize the gift of his birthright when recognition meant everything.

  The crowd was beginning to thicken now. The door seemed continually to be buzzing and, from their stools at the bar, they watched the laughing faces of the newcomers, who quickly settled down at the tables with a thirst for the drinks which would give them the relaxation and peace they sought.

  A swarthy Japanese, dressed in a pale-blue suit that failed to conceal his short legs and awkward body, came in with a good-looking white girl. He spoke loudly and roughly, creating the commotion he intended so that, for a moment, all eyes were upon the couple. Seeing Kenji, he boomed out jovially: “For crissake, if it ain’t Peg-leg. It’s sure been a helluva long time since I seen you.” He left the girl standing at the door and advanced upon Kenji with arms outstretched.

  “Cut it out, Bull,” said Kenji quietly. “I saw you last night.”

  Bull wedged himself between the stools with his back to Ichiro. “How’m I doin’?” he whispered slyly.

  “She’s all right,” said Kenji examining the girl.

  “C’mon, sit with us. I’ll fix you up.” Bull gave Kenji a hearty slap.

  “I’m with a friend,” said Kenji.

  Bull turned around and looked at Ichiro with a meanness which was made darker by the heavy cheekbones and the rough stubble which defied a razor. He wiggled out into the open with exaggerated motions and began to brush himself furiously. “Goddammit,” he said aloud, “brand-new suit. Damn near got it all cruddy.”

  There was a ripple of laughter and Ichiro turned and looked at the crowd without wanting to. Someone said something about “No-no boys don’t look so good without the striped uniform” and that got a loud, boisterous laugh from the corner where a group of young Japanese who were too young to drink sat drinking. He scanned their faces quickly and saw, among them, the unsmiling, sick-looking face of Taro.

  “Go on, Bull, your girl friend’s waiting,” said Kenji quietly.

  “What’s with you, nuts or somp’n?” said Bull wickedly.

  “Go on.”

  Bull regarded the lean, solemn face stubbornly but only for a moment. “Sure, sure,” he said lightly, “a friend of yours . . .” He paused and cast the meanness at Ichiro once more and added: “. . . is a friend of yours.” Grinning at the crowd as though he were a performer who had just done his bit, he returned to his girl, who had been primping ostentatiously all the while.

  Ichiro leaned over the bar, the fury inside of him seething uncontrollably, and shame, conceived of a great goodness momentarily corrupted by bitterness and the things he did not understand, deprived him of the strength to release the turbulence.

  “Want to go?”

  “No,” he muttered savagely before he could stop himself.

  “Bull didn’t mean it. He might be a brute, but he’s all right.”

  “He meant it. They all mean it. I can see it in their faces.”

  “You see too much.”

  “I feel it.”

  “Then you feel too much.”

  As if hoping to find escape in the whisky, he downed it quickly and motioned to the bartender to fill it. When the smiling Chinese behind the bar tipped the bottle over the glass, he held it down until the liquor spilled over the lip.

  “Leave it, Al,” said Kenji to the Chinese.

  Al nodded his head and left the bottle in front of Ichiro.

  They drank in silence, Kenji taking his leisurely and Ichiro gulping his purposefully.

  “Take it slow,” warned Kenji in a voice which was softer than usual because the whisky made him that way.

  “Doesn’t help,” grumbled Ichiro thickly, “not a goddamned bit it doesn’t help.” He swung around on his stool and surveyed the crowd, which had long since forgotten about him. He noticed hazily that Taro and his friends were gone. “Son-of-bitches. That’s what they are, all of them. Dirty, no-good son-of-bitches.”

  “I agree,” said Kenji peacefully.

  “You too.”

  Kenji nodded his head, “Sure, I’m a member too. World’s full of us.”

  “I mean it. Everybody except me. Me, I’m not even a son of a bitch. I’m nobody, nothing. Just plain nothing.”

  “Let’s get some air.”

  “No, no. After a while. Right now, I’m going to get stinko.”

  “You’re drunk now.”

  “Hell, I’m just starting. I want to get so drunk I’ll feel like a son of a bitch too.” He lifted the glass to his mouth and emptied it, almost toppling off the stool.

  Kenji grabbed his arm and straightened him out.

  “Thanks. Thanks, Ken. You’re okay and you’ve done plenty for me. Now, it’s my turn. I’m going to do something for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You go over there and sit with your friend, the monkey in the blue suit, and I’ll go out the door and I’ll forget I ever saw you. Fair enough, huh? Best thing I can do for you. Forget you, that’s what.”

  “That’s no good.”

  “It is. It is. You go get fixed up with that blond. Take her away from that monkey and I’ll walk out the door and keep right on going all the way down Jackson Street and into the drink. I got no right to let you be my friend. I don’t want you for a friend, friend. Please, huh?”

  “We’re going for a ride,
remember?”

  “Nope, you go, with blondie. That’s for you. I don’t want to go anyplace with you no more.”

  They stared at each other, Kenji smiling patiently at his friend, who spoke with drunken earnestness.

  Someone said “Hey” softly and they both turned. It was Taro.

  “Hay is for horses,” he blurted out stiffly at his brother. “Don’t you even know your own brother’s own name? I’m I-chi-ro, remember?”

  “I wanta talk to you.”

  “Talk then.”

  “C’mon outside.”

  “I like it here.”

  Taro fidgeted uncertainly and looked hostilely at Kenji.

  “I have to hit the John anyway,” said Kenji obligingly.

  “No, stay. Piss on the floor. This ought to be good. He’s finally got something to say to me and I want you to hear it. Well? What is it?” he demanded impatiently.

  “If you’ll come outside, I’ll tell you.”

  Ichiro threw up his arms in disgust. “Come back when you feel like talking in here.” He turned around to get his drink and did not see the two young Japanese step inside the doorway and look questioningly at Taro. Taro waved them away with a furtive motion of his hand, which Kenji noticed. The two youths hurried back out.

  “You gonna come out?” asked Taro.

  “Your brother is busy. Come back later,” said Kenji.

  “For crissake. Okay, okay, so I’ll go.” Ichiro tumbled off the stool.

  “I’m coming too.” Kenji reached for his cane.

  Ichiro held back his friend’s arm. “Nope. This is a family powwow. You keep my glass warm and I’ll be right back. Right back.”

  “Watch yourself,” cautioned Kenji.

  “I’m not that drunk,” laughed Ichiro. He lumbered after Taro, the weight of his body urging his legs unsteadily forward in quick, clumsy spurts.

  Taro walked rapidly, turning down the alley away from King Street. Some thirty yards from the club entrance he angled off through a vacant lot which was gloomily illuminated by a distant street light.

  Resolutely, Ichiro followed, his breath coming hard and the hot smell of the whisky swirling through his nostrils nauseatingly. He started across the lot and spied Taro far ahead. “Where in the hell you going? I’m tired.” He stopped and fought for breath.

  His brother had stopped too and faced him silently from the shadow of an old garage. Ichiro had to squint his eyes to barely see him.

  There were sounds of feet shuffling in the gravelly earth. The sounds advanced from all sides. The darkness of the night and his own drunkenness made it difficult for him to realize immediately what was happening. Two youths stepped between him and Taro.

  “That’s a Jap, fellas,” sneered one of them bravely.

  A voice concurred from behind: “Yeah, this one’s got a big, fat ass, fatter than its head.”

  “It’s got legs,” came a voice from the side, “and arms too. Just like us.”

  “Does it talk?”

  “Talks Jap, I bet.”

  “Say something,” egged the first youth. “Say no-no in Jap. You oughta be good at that.”

  “Yeah, I wanta hear.”

  “Me too. Say no-no.”

  Ichiro wove unsteadily, the humiliation and anger intensified by the dulling effect of the liquor into a heavy, brooding madness. He strove to keep his brother in sight, catching an occasional glimpse of the now fear-stricken face.

  “It doesn’t look very happy,” said a voice, shaky but inspired by the knowledge of being on the stronger side.

  “That’s ’cause it’s homesick.”

  “It’s got a home?”

  “Sure, on the other side of the pond.”

  “Comes from Japan, doesn’t it?”

  “Made in Japan. Says so right here.”

  A brutal kick on his behind sent Ichiro stumbling forward. His anger frothing over, he picked up momentum and lunged at the dim shape that was his brother. He swung his arms wildly at the two youths who stood between them. One of them threw himself athwart his legs and Ichiro sprawled heavily to the ground. He shook his head wearily and struggled to his knees.

  “Pretty game,” said one of the tormentors calmly.

  “Wants to fight,” said another.

  “Just like a dog.”

  “Dogs don’t wear pants.”

  “Right. We can’t let it run around with pants on.”

  “No. People will think it’s human.”

  Before he could struggle to his feet, his arms were pulled painfully behind him. Furiously, he attempted to kick himself loose. Immediately arms were clawing at his trouser legs and it was only a matter of moments before he was stretched out helplessly.

  There was a sharp snap and a slender youth bent over him with a wide grin and started to slip the knife blade under the leather belt.

  “That’s enough. Let him go.” Kenji limped across the lot and advanced upon the group. He poked his cane at one of the youths who hovered over Ichiro. Slowly, they backed away from their prey. Only the youth who held the knife did not move.

  “You heard,” said Kenji to him.

  “Keep out of this. It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s certainly none of yours.” The cane swished and smacked loudly against the wrist of the knife wielder.

  Dropping the knife with a yelp of pain, the youth backed off, swearing menacingly at Kenji.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said one of them urgently.

  “Yeah, I heard about this guy. Kill-crazy, that’s what. Even his buddies were afraid of him.”

  “Just like a madman. Couldn’t kill enough krauts.”

  “I’m gonna beat it.”

  “Aw, he’s just another Jap.” The slender youth stooped over to retrieve his knife, mumbling “Jap-lover.”

  Kenji raised his cane and aimed a stiff blow at the youth’s back.

  “Ahh!” The youth fell across Ichiro, then picked himself up hastily and dashed into the shadows. The others followed in a mad rush.

  “Your brother has nice friends,” said Kenji, helping Ichiro to get up.

  “No-good rotten bastard.” Ichiro brushed himself with heavy, limp arms.

  “Want to drink some more?”

  They walked silently to the car and, a short while later, were driving swiftly along the highway leading southward out of the city. With both windows rolled down, the dulling effects of the whisky soon wore off.

  Ichiro rested his head on the door, exposing his face to the stream of cold air. Hazily, he thought disgustedly of the recent happenings, of Bull and of Taro and his gang of weak hoodlums. He could understand Bull’s subjecting him to the indignity in the Club Oriental. Bull’s mind was about as thick and unpliable as a brick and the meanness which had prompted him to make a spectacle of him was less to blame than the dull, beastly desire to feel the approval of the crowd, which had laughed with him for a moment instead of at him. The blond was a compensation for his lack of acceptance also. Somehow, he had managed to date her but, before the night was done, Bull would be looking stubbornly for her while someone else took her to bed. He could forgive Bull, but not Taro, who had baited him into the lot and was too cowardly to join in the game which he had made possible and too cowardly to come to his defense when the horror of what he had done dawned too late.

  Taro, my brother who is not my brother, you are no better than I. You are only more fortunate that the war years found you too young to carry a gun. You are fortunate like the thousands of others who, for various reasons of age and poor health and money and influence, did not happen to be called to serve in the army, for their answers might have been the same as mine. And you are fortunate because the weakness which was mine made the same weakness in you the strength to turn your back on Ma and Pa and makes it so frighteni
ngly urgent for you to get into uniform to prove that you are not a part of me. I was born not soon enough or not late enough and for that I have been punished. It is not just, but it is true. I am not one of those who wait for the ship from Japan with baggage ready, yet the hundreds who do are freer and happier and fuller than I. I am not to blame but you blame me and for that I hate you and I will hate you more when you go into the army and come out and walk the streets of America as if you owned them always and forever.

  I have made a mistake and I know it with all the anguish in my soul. I have suffered for it and will suffer still more. Is it not just then that, for my suffering and repentance, I be given another chance? One steals and goes to prison and comes out a free man with his debt paid. Such a one can start over. He can tell himself that the mistake which he has made has been made right with the world. He can, without much difficulty, even convince himself that his wrong has been righted and that, with lesson learned, he can find acceptance among those of his kind. I, too, have made a mistake and I, too, have served time, two years all told, and I have been granted a full pardon. Why is it then that I am unable to convince myself that I am no different from any other American? Why is it that, in my freedom, I feel more imprisoned in the wrongness of myself and the thing I did than when I was in prison? Am I really never to know again what it is to be American? If there should be an answer, what is it? What penalty is it that I must pay to justify my living as I so fervently desire to?

  There is, I am afraid, no answer. There is no retribution for one who is guilty of treason, and that is what I am guilty of. The fortunate get shot. I must live my punishment.

  Overcome by the sense of futility which came back to him again and again, he moaned helplessly.

  Kenji pointed the Oldsmobile down the broad stretch of concrete at an unwavering fifty-five. “Head starting to hurt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can stop for a drink.”

  “No. That wouldn’t help.”

  They sped past a drive-in movie, catching a glimpse of the silent drama on the part of the screen which was unobscured by the fence.

  “Speed make you nervous?”

  “No.”

  The Oldsmobile lunged up to seventy, then struggled more slowly to seventy-five and, soon, they were hurtling along at eighty. They rolled up the windows to stop the wicked rush of air.