The car still doesn't feel like my own yet. I've certainly marked my territory with wolf-like diligence, only instead of pissing on the leopard print upholstery, I leave espresso-flecked coffee cans scattered in the footwell of the passenger seat. There is a half-finished bottle of Qoo apple juice -- or apple substance, really -- rolling around down there amid the unopened cup noodles and BOSS coffee promotional pastic Batmobiles. It seems unlikely that, given the length of its exposure to god-knows-what, I will ever swig from that Qoo again, but the trash laws of Japan insist that we cling to every scrap of semi-recyclable material like a sickly child. If there is one unexpected thing I miss about the states, it's that we truly extend that "Land of Plenty" mentality to its breaking point, replete as the street corners are with trashcans and trash thrown into gutters less than three feet away. What I wouldn't give for my gaijin guilt to pass long enough to allow me to deface the ditches of this country, to spit in the face of decency, tradition, and nature herself. Instead, my backseat overflows with a full set of winter tires and the boxes from four separate imitation IKEA shelving units.
And yet suddenly I miss this trash, as I miss the rest of the Little Car That Couldn't. I miss its faded pastel blue shell. I miss the ski rack that dominates its upper half like the antlers of a 20-point buck, and the fact that I will never attempt to use it. Perhaps most of all I miss the leopard-spotted seat cushions and the air of quirkiness they added to my already impressive ability to stand out.
It would have been impossible for my coworkers to have flocked toward me communicating anything outside of charades, so perhaps aware that visuals need no translation, they ushered me outside to where the rainbow trail snaked from under my unmistakable vehicle. An hour later, I stood in the same place, similarly exasperated, and nodded politely as the same venerable and snaggle-toothed man who signed my insurance papers gestured at the viscous pool, then at me, then back again for ten minutes. Out of respect for elders and not having the faintest of clues, I nodded and countered with my limited Japanese verbal filler. I unspooled the key from the ring...
...and the car vanished.
And so I sit, work complete, feigning industriousness, and imagining where the car sits right now. I picture the mechanic, his calloused hands shoved deep into its greasy heart, massaging the coils until it professes its secrets and speaks of its mistreatment at my hands.
I wonder if I will see it again.
And yet suddenly I miss this trash, as I miss the rest of the Little Car That Couldn't. I miss its faded pastel blue shell. I miss the ski rack that dominates its upper half like the antlers of a 20-point buck, and the fact that I will never attempt to use it. Perhaps most of all I miss the leopard-spotted seat cushions and the air of quirkiness they added to my already impressive ability to stand out.
It would have been impossible for my coworkers to have flocked toward me communicating anything outside of charades, so perhaps aware that visuals need no translation, they ushered me outside to where the rainbow trail snaked from under my unmistakable vehicle. An hour later, I stood in the same place, similarly exasperated, and nodded politely as the same venerable and snaggle-toothed man who signed my insurance papers gestured at the viscous pool, then at me, then back again for ten minutes. Out of respect for elders and not having the faintest of clues, I nodded and countered with my limited Japanese verbal filler. I unspooled the key from the ring...
...and the car vanished.
And so I sit, work complete, feigning industriousness, and imagining where the car sits right now. I picture the mechanic, his calloused hands shoved deep into its greasy heart, massaging the coils until it professes its secrets and speaks of its mistreatment at my hands.
I wonder if I will see it again.
