Sayonara to Summer

In half an hour? The Japanese aren’t known for their spontaneity, but here Kensuke was inviting me to a BBQ two days after he saved my life. It was the last day of summer before I returned to work. Soon I would only be able to feel the sunshine from the wrong side of classroom windows.

The night we met at DJ’s place, Kensuke mentioned his favorite park near where we live. I counted the homeless people sleeping on benches in Yotsuya Sannencho Park. No sign of grills. No sign of him either.

Once he arrived at our designated meeting point, he led me away through twisting alleys with quiet homes bathed in soft afternoon light. A park like none I have seen in the capital came into view. A bamboo fence enclosed a gravel lot. In one corner, trees shaded a small shrine. Businessmen and elementary school children stopped by to summon the spirits.

Dark splotches dotted the back of Kensuke’s Bob Marley t-shirt. A towel wrapped around his neck soaked up the last of summer’s sweat. Our feet crunched on pebbles as we approached his four friends sitting around a hibachi. Two sat leaning against the fence sharing earphones like Siamese twins.

The cook rose up from sitting on the cooler to welcome me with a cold Yebisu beer. I recognized the tanned and mustached boy from DJ’s place. The grill sizzled with an assortment of meat, which he piled generously onto my paper plate before I took a “padded” seat on a flattened cardboard box.

This being a city that has repeatedly burned down over its long, fire-prone history, cooking devices were banned in the park. Helicopters chattering above added to the cook’s paranoia, which he voiced in Japanese.

“If the police come, you run,” translated a slim 19-year-old who has the Friday night shift at Kensuke’s restaurant. He pulled back his long auburn hair with a tortoiseshell headband and continued, “You are teacher.”

We all laughed. Water sources close at hand quelled any risk of fire. Near the shrine was a manual water pump, and much of this small sanctuary was filled with a dirty pond home to some resilient goldfish and one fearsome Kappa water monster, or so the boys told me.

This mythical creature lurks in rivers and ponds, and preys upon humans by gently sucking out their entrails through the anus (distended rectums of drowning victims is evidence). Only cucumbers can combat a Kappa’s hunger for humans, so pocket a good supply the next time you take a dip.

The hot plate sizzled with pork, sausages, smelt fish, and veggies. A record player studded with Sapporo bottle caps turned out reggae beats. I held my own as we talked in Japanese about various subjects like music, cars, and girls. They said Japanese Olympic gold medal skater Arakawa had a “horror face.” I charged that American Britney Spears was dumb and ugly. However, we came to agreement that Sharapova was one fine piece of Russian meat.

Aside from the imported Jamaican music, the park, food, company, and conversation felt like the real Japan. Although always an outsider here, for a few hours on the last day of summer I felt incorporated into Japanese life.

It didn’t last long. I suddenly urged to cry out in my native language. Surrounded by the Japanese atmosphere, I wanted to reassert my identity. I grabbed my Yebisu beer can, and thumbed away the beaded sweat. I read the English label aloud like I was at a poetry reading. Even the earphone twins tuned in to listen. Unable to digest my words, they captively swallowed them whole.

“You are so cool,” the cook smiled following my impassioned delivery.

I took a refreshing sip before returning the compliment with an empty plate.