Tales of the summer that wasn't.......Part 4

Mina and I were both back to work the day after our attempt at a few carefree hours of summer fun had been blown to bits by the bad news call from Mayumi. On our drive from the seaside back into town, I tried to put a positive spin on it,

"At least she didn't call and drop the bomb at noon..."

Indeed.

We had managed to get a few good hours in...and were both feeling thoroughly deflated and guilty about it.

Try to salvage just a scrap of a day of late summer?

How dare we.

The dozen or so photos that Mina took would remain un touched in her phone for almost two months. She loves taking pictures; usually fusses over them as soon as we get home, finally arranging the ones she likes best into an evening Facebook post to commemorate the occasion. I don't think we even bothered looking at them until a couple of weeks ago, when I told her that I wanted to pull out a couple for my last blog entry.

Of course, with this COVID business, being put on a ventilator is a serious thing. We had been thinking that he'd turn the corner and be released within a week, and that the attending physician had just been offering up a worst case scenario when he asked for consent to sedate him and put him on a ventilator 'if necessary'. None of us thought that it would actually happen. The reality was that his 40C fever had shown no signs of breaking, and his (un assisted) oxygen intake had gone down to almost zero.

The virus had taken over his lungs.

He'd spoken with Mayumi via smart phone before they put him under. I can only speculate how that went. He must have been struggling to speak.

The hopeful expectation was that he'd only need to be on the ventilator for a week or so.

My Saturday morning student is a hematologist. As part of our oral practice, I get to pick his brains about issues of health and medical treatment - so naturally, I hit him up for the skinny on ventilators, and how long a 'serious case' COVID patient would generally need to be on one.

It seems that seven to ten days is pretty common, if there is the possibility of a recovery on the cards - though some more seriously ill patients actually cross the ten day/two week threshold without having improved enough to safely be taken off the machine. In this case, there needs to be a tracheostomy procedure, in which a throat catheter is surgically installed in the patient's trachea. From what I gather, the purpose of this is to secure and maintain a clean, clear airway, ease the delivery of oxygen, and ultimately facilitate the patient's timely weaning from sedation and mechanical ventilation.

Hopes were that he'd be in the clear after a week. Trying to put an optimistic spin on the situation, I ventured that it was fortunate there had even been a ventilator available to put him on. We'd heard enough horror stories of doctors in the U.S. and Europe having to pick and choose who to treat - and who to let die - because there simply weren't enough ventilators to pair with all of the critical cases. No...this was much better. He was in the right place; getting the best care possible. It was just a matter of waiting.

Needless to say, he'd be incommunicado for the duration. This was going to wear particularly hard on Mayumi and the extended family. She was still in pretty bad shape herself.

We wondered about the hospital's wisdom in releasing her so quickly. Surely it would have been better to at least keep her under observation for a week? It seemed irresponsible. From the looks of things, their main concern is keeping enough beds and resources open for what they fear could be a potential influx of critically ill patients at any time. Less serious patients are thus discharged as quickly as possible, to ostensibly fend for themselves. What that entails after said patients leave the hospital apparently doesn't seem to concern them a great deal. It's a given that a lot of these patients are still infectious to some degree; yet they're released to 'isolate' at home, which often consists of wandering supermarkets and going about their sundry matters of business...hopefully - but not necessarily - masked up.

Puzzling.

There is a real disconnect between the 'talk' that we hear in the news media over here about all the safety procedures being put in place to 'protect 'everyone - and the 'walk' - how things are actually going down in the real world.

* (The Japanese love hedging their bets; this seems to be the prevailing m.o. in restaurants over here, as well. Sidelining couples or single customers to narrow tables or poorly positioned seats in order to keep large blocks of the (unreserved) best tables open for potential groups of big ticket diners that may or may not ever come. As I've detailed in previous installments, here In Japan, the customer is absolutely not king. You are obliged to take what they give you. If you don't like it, they are happy enough to show you the door, and twiddle their thumbs all night in a mostly empty shop...waiting for those theoretical 'groups' of 'big ticket' customers that often times never materialize. It's hardly surprising that restaurant closures are so commonplace in these parts. Of course, there is a distinct difference between highly contagious, critically ill patients and would-be diners - not to mention the ins and outs of addressing a dangerous pandemic disease versus the dilemma of treating real time paying customers well, or blowing them off and holding out for 'potential' higher profits...but the prevailing mindset seems to be the same. We like to hold hospitals to a higher moral standard than restaurants...but in the capitalist world we live in, the reality is that they are both money making (or losing) enterprises, and their policies are always dictated first and foremost by their ability to turn a profit.)

Sunday, August 16th, and Friday's attempted 'Funland at the Beach' afternoon already seemed a million miles away...though the guilt and deflation was still lingering a bit.

Again...how dare we.

Nevertheless, after six days off, and not having done any major supermarket trips for the better part of the week, our cupboards were finally bare, and there was shopping to do. We typically hit two or three places on Sunday afternoons. The specialty supermarket up the road is our first stop, then it's on to a big, 'no-frills' outlet supermarket called Tachiya, that's a roughly 20 minute drive out toward Nagoya Port. Not a glamourous place, but huge and always bustling...and a good place to get fresh produce, meat and fish a bit cheaper than almost anywhere else. They send Mina's smart phone an alert at 10:00 am every Sunday morning announcing the daily specials. Hopes were not high this time around, as the Obon holiday period had just wrapped, and the store had been closed for three days straight...but they were headlining some outrageously cheap chicken according to what Mina had seen on her phone...so that was sort of our objective going in.

As I said, it's a mob scene in there, especially on Saturdays and Sundays. Shopping there involves a far amount of dodging and weaving. Fortunately people out here are pretty good about masking up; but as social distancing in a place like this is just not happening, the strategy is to go in with a plan, know what you're after, and 'ninja' in and out. No dilly-dallying or dithering. We know the store layout like the backs of our hands, and have almost got it down to an art. There's also a pretty international crowd in there. A lot of Southeast Asians, Indians, Chinese, women in Hijab that appear to be from Malaysia or Indonesia...a real mix. Some appear to be restauranteurs, from the sheer volumes of their purchases. Once in awhile we run into an Indian guy that works in the Nepali curry house near Mina's workplace. He usually has his family in tow, and gives us a nod and a smile. The staff are knowledgeable, friendly and helpful, too.

Anyways, it must have been about 2:30 in the afternoon, and it was predictably busy. We'd finally made our way through the produce and dairy sections, and were approaching the poultry cold case at the very back of the store. There was a gaggle of people darting in and out, and I was straining to see where this 'loss-leader' chicken that they'd advertised was. From our vantage point, we couldn't spot it. As Mina went off to ask, I edged in to have a closer look. Typically the crowd moves in a very fluid way, so it's not too hard to slide in, have a quick look, grab what you want, and get out. Of course, basic manners are indispensable anywhere you go, so the occasional, strategic 'sumimasen' (excuse me) is usually sure to lubricate any tight situations, and keep the fast moving crowd in a good humour. This is the operative theory, anyways.

* (Thirty years ago, 'sumimasen' was one of the first Japanese words that I committed to memory. That and 'arrigato' (thank-you). 'Sumimasen' is like the Swiss Army Knife of Japanese the Japanese lexicon. It basically means 'excuse me', but can also mean 'sorry', as well as 'thank-you'. It can be used to get attention, solicit assistance, apologize, smooth over uncomfortable situations, or simply fill a gap when you're not sure what else to say.)

Having joined the stream of chicken selecting humanity to the left of the sukiyaki beef, I was working my way past the poultry cold case, when I suddenly found myself stuck. I waited a bit, and leaned in to try to see what 'the problem' was, but the guy just in front of me had stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't appear to be making any effort to get on with his 'chicken business'. I waited and scanned the bins. No 'loss leader' chicken. I finally ventured a 'sumimasen!'...but he didn't respond. He wasn't going anywhere. No normal person spends that amount of time fawning over chicken parts they don't intend to buy. Could he be holding things up deliberately? Naw. Why would anyone pull something like that in here? Still...I started picking up some weird vibe. Call it my 'Spider sense'. Or douchebag radar. Maybe I was being paranoid. Perhaps he hadn't heard me. One more time,

'Sumimasen!'

Nothing. I had definitely been direct enough the second time. Deliberately standing with his back to me, This short, masked up guy in a baseball cap stood frozen, with his back to me, refusing to acknowledge my request. He absolutely wasn't going anywhere. He seemed to have some kind of point to make, and wanted me to know that he was also actively 'disrespecting me', by refusing to turn around and acknowledge my request.

* (Once in awhile I run into these 'chip on the shoulder' types over here. They're invariably middle-aged Japanese males. Miserable, pent up little men...and they pick the weirdest times and places to 'rise up' and 'make a stand'. It's a pathetic thing to behold. It's always a territorial issue. It seems that they somehow feel that their perceived 'sacred space' has been - or is in the process of being - violated, or gravely encroached on. They feel some sudden and overwhelming need to engage in a seemingly random confrontation, in order to assert their 'right' to said space. As I said...it's a pathetic thing to behold. I had one of these cunts pull a similar stunt on me in line at the convenience store at Centrair several years ago. I told him to go fuck himself, and he had four cops on my wife and I, trying to get me arrested for 'damaging him with my disparaging comments'. Ultimately, (to his chagrin) the cops let us go with just minutes to spare. We almost missed our flight.)

Knee-jerk....I started cursing under my breath.

"Jesus fucking Christ, fucking move you little fucking prick...", etc.

Suddenly, without even bothering to turn around and face me, he cuts loose with,

"I'm looking".

In English. IN ENGLISH.

We obviously don't know each other. This is Japan...where Japanese is spoken. Not every caucasian over here is an English speaker, either. Totally inappropriate. Who did this guy think he was?

Was he trying to show off? If so...for whom? Why would he bait me like that? I was absolutely unimpressed. Without bothering to turn around, he then continues to ever so staunchly 'hold his ground' in front of the end of the poultry cold case. It became absolutely clear that his objective wasn't to peruse and select chicken parts at all...it was to bait and obstruct me.

To 'make a stand'.

But why?

What the actual fuck?

My heart started pounding. I knew what was coming. He had succeeded in pressing every single one of my buttons. Perhaps this is where 'adults' suck it up and walk away. In my nearly 54 trips around the sun on this stormy, disease ridden old rock, I apparently haven't quite mastered that yet.

It was official.

I was triggered.

Finally, the wormy little ball capped fucker at the eye of this hurricane of stupidity did me the dubious honour of turning around. He looked up at me, squinted from under the bill of his orange cap, and repeated,

"I'm looking".

What a fucking turd. Who did he think he was? Clint fucking Eastwood?

Was this the only English phrase he knew?

What was his point? I was literally starting to vibrate.

"Good for you....

Just as Mina wound her way back to inform me that the 'loss leader' chicken had sold out, I cut loose on this douchebag with a barrage of colourful four letter expletives and combinations thereof the likes of which I doubt had ever been conjured in the poultry section of Tachiya; loudly enough to be heard by anyone within a radius of at least several metres.

I knew she was wincing...but I was seeing red, and simply couldn't resist letting him have it.

"YOU LITTLE FUCKING DICKHEAD...etc.,etc... ", was gist of it.

There was more, and it wasn't pretty. I can't remember exactly what else I said, because I got swept up in the moment; but Mina kept repeating that main refrain, (FUCKING DICKHEAD! FUCKING DICKHEAD!) for the rest of the afternoon. Naturally, she disapproved. She couldn't understand why I didn't just 'take the high road' and walk away? Hadn't I learned anything from the Centrair debacle? And so on.

It must have been quite the spectacle. I felt bad for Mina. When shit like this happens, nature takes over. It's like a hammer hitting my knee...the swearing reflex. Action...reaction. Some guys see red and punch.

I curse a fucking red streak.

I don't mess around.

Suddenly there was this pre-pubescent kid there, looking a bit out of the loop. I guess she'd been off looking at something else while Daddy was being a douchebag to the gaijin at the poultry cold case. He made sure to pull her in front of him. A human shield, of sorts. She obviously had no idea what was going down. To the casual observer just happening by, now I was THE BAD GUY.

Well played, you odious little fucking prick.

For all his provocation, he was now clutching at and hiding behind a ten year old girl. Standing 'his ground' in front of the bloody poultry cold case like it was Mount fucking Suribachi on Iwo-Jima.

Behind a confused ten year old girl.

He started jabbering at her in hushed tones, half gesturing toward me with the bill of his ball cap. He seemed to be saying something to the effect of,

"Look at the bad animal!"

Coward.

Mina pulled at the sleeve of my t-shirt,

"Shaun-kun. Forget it. Leave it alone. The special chicken was sold out already. No more trouble! Please!"

"No more trouble". I sort of resented that. I hadn't provoked it.

I had allowed myself to be drawn in, though.

My adrenaline was pumping. I was amped. Of course, it couldn't go any further. The crowd of shoppers kept flowing around us, as if nothing had happened. The show was over. I wanted to punch him in the face SO BAD; but that was never going to go down. I'm sure he felt he had secured some major victory over the dirty gaijin. 'Made his stand'...and a really great display for that poor confused kid to mull over while he was at it. Imagine being raised by an insecure asshole like that?

I felt sorry for her...though I'm fairly certain as far as she was concerned, I was nothing more than a 'bad animal'.

Mina pulled me away.

The situation had been diffused.

This was the first time (in my life, perhaps) that I can recall 'sumimasen' or 'excuse me' not working. Someone says 'excuse me', and you make room. It's not like I was trying to occupy his fucking ancestral lands. I just wanted to have a quick look at the last few rows of packaged chicken parts. There was enough space for both of us, and whoever was behind and or next to me. Besides...what's to look at? It's a fucking poultry cold case, not the Louvre Museum.

People have said, 'excuse me' to me all of my life, and I've always reflexively made way. There's not a situation I can think of in which it would even occur to me to refuse to move if there was enough room to manoeuvre. It's almost always possible to make a little space for someone to get by. If someone says 'excuse me', and it's possible to move... I move. Why wouldn't I?

"I'm looking"

Who the fuck says that?

As we wrapped up our shopping, in between Mina chastising me for 'my bad mouth' (FUCKING DICKHEAD! FUCKING DICKHEAD!) and lack of the ability to simply walk away, I kept craning around, trying to get a bead on where this prick and his kid had got to...but he was nowhere to be seen. It seemed unfinished.

It was as if they had beamed out. Vanished into thin air. I was frustrated. I felt like I'd been ambushed, and he'd got the best of me. This kind of thing hits us guys right where we live, in some very ancient, primal area of the nether regions of our pea brains. Maybe it's those old Neanderthal genes kicking in. I wanted nothing more than to split this guys skull with a big dirty Mastodon thigh bone. Maybe it's all the steadily compounding stress of the 2020 shit-show so far. Mina isn't buying it, though. As far as she's concerned, these are all excuses. She figures that my bad mouth is the problem...not 2020. She can't figure out why I can't back down in these types of situations. I blame my birth parents. Those two couldn't back down from anything, ever...and foul mouths? Legendary. Mine pales in comparison.

Deep down, I know she's right, though.

It's ultimately pointless. There is no winning for gaijin in these precincts. Ever.

Back home, and after loading the days shopping in, the first thing we want to do is open all the windows and sliding doors...but the north facing doors and windows have to stay shut now, on account of the new neighbour, a worked-out old spinster woman who smokes like she's a pile of moss on fire.

I've lived here almost 15 years, and never experienced anything like it.

When she moved in, in the beginning of August, in lieu of any 'formal introduction', we got a big waft of cigarette smoke in our front balcony door on a bright, hot Sunday morning. Mina had just finished hanging the laundry out. It was around 35C outside...and humid. Ever since I quit around five years ago, I've become hyper sensitive to the smell of cigarette smoke. it drives me nuts...not to mention that I suffer from chronic asthma. The last thing I need is that gross shit to trigger another episode. I went outside and looked over to the left adjacent balcony, and saw a mess of 'in progress' laundry shit, a stool and ashtray set up, and an 'oldish' looking woman hunched over fiddling with something, with a smoke dangling from her mouth.

First impressions...a used up 'mizu shobai' onna (water-business woman). Someone who'd spent a lifetime working late nights in smokey hostess bars and snacks, or in the grey area sex industry, and gradually found herself on the north side of sixty, with no spouse or family, and without the looks or body to continue plying her trade. At this age, these women have either clawed their way to the top, and are well heeled 'Snack Mommas', pimping other women, or have been reduced to wiping counters, and washing up in the very bars they used to receive 'top billing' at...while the younger, prettier women work the customers, and pull the big ¥¥¥¥¥¥¥..

Kind of sad.

Mina had mentioned that she thought there might be someone moving in next door the week before, as the left adjacent balcony had been swept and cleaned up; but we'd had no one ringing our door bell to introduce themselves, and give us towels or toilet tissue - as is the custom over here. Regardless, there she was...dangling smoke and all. I came in and shut the doors.

We decided that the best thing to do was address the situation head on. Mina took the initiative, slid the door open, went out on to the balcony and leaned over. The new neighbour was still out there, puffing away. As the window for formal introductions had closed, Mina cut directly to the chase, and asked her politely - but curtly - if she could, 'please refrain from smoking on the balcony, because 'it makes our laundry stink'. The woman looked over at her, dead-eyed, and through a cloud of smoke, and told her, 'this would be the last one'. No apologies. No friendly introductions. So much for hopeful diplomacy. Oh, well.

Mina thanked her, and she turned her head and kept smoking. I guess she had no intention of giving up a second early. She took her time, smoked it right down to the filter...went back in her place, and closed the doors.

That was the last either of us have seen of her. The curtains are perpetually drawn, and the sliders always closed. After a particularly violent rain storm (detailed in the next installment), a wet blanket and a bunch of random crap that had been strewn about by the wind must have sat out there on the cement un-touched for three or four days. A few times a week, some random items of clothing will appear outside, hang there untended for two days and nights, then disappear.

Whether she'd be as good as her word, and not smoke out there anymore remained to be seen...but my hopes weren't too high.

Mina came back in, looking a bit triumphant.

"See? Things can get done without calling anyone a 'cunt'...."

High fives all around.

We assumed that the problem had been properly addressed and solved. What a relief.

What's that they say about assuming?

Oh, yeah...

In fairly short order we started noticing our that apartment was suddenly starting to smell like a giant ashtray. We couldn't figure out where the smoke was coming from, either. Not from the front balcony. Our living room was fine, and the laundry didn't smell like crap...so It seemed like the smoking woman was keeping her word. Something on the north side was making our bedroom and my office reek...yet no one was outside in the courtyard smoking.

We couldn't figure it out.

If we kept the windows and vents closed, the bedroom seemed alright...but my office still smelled like a dirty ashtray, no matter what.

Was there a phantom smoker suddenly haunting us? It seemed so.

Curiously, our windowless, central apartment situated kitchen also started smelling like hardcore secondhand smoke. It was almost over powering.

Therein was the key.

The mystery smoke seemed to be coming in through the range top ventilation fan. When we turned it on, the smell would gradually go away. Somehow, someone's cigarette smoke was coming in through the vent's exhaust port...which was situated on the north side, to the upper right of our bedroom balcony sliders...right beside the smoking lady's kitchen vent.

That's what it was.

She had taken to smoking in her kitchen, under the range top ventilation fan, and it was billowing out, and being swept straight up our vent, as well as into my slightly angled office windows by the nearly constant breeze rushing past the side of our building. Since we're on the ground floor, adjacent to the buildings entrance, there's a sort of cul de sac next to our place, and a barrier that traps whatever is blowing down the side of the building, or out of her vent, allowing it all to collect in a kind of dark corner, and ultimately seep into our place any way it can.

Lovely. On top of everything else.

If she was a casual smoker, I'm sure it wouldn't be a big deal...but this wasn't the case. She seems housebound, and there almost all the time.

She's in her kitchen lighting up from 6:30 in the morning. I can tell, because I'm up, and that's when my office starts smelling like Fidel Castro's arsehole. My Mum used to be a heavy smoker before it killed her dead on the cusp of her mid-sixties. This woman must be close to that age, and smoking two to three packs a day. Her kitchen fan vent pumps that foul shit out like a busted car exhaust pipe for 18 hours a day.

If she keeps it up at that rate, she ain't gonna be long for this world. I wonder what a worked out old tar-bag spinster wants with a three bedroom flat over here in 'the projects', anyways? I mean, it's certainly not the cheapest housing option available for an older, single person.

I hope she doesn't expire in there, then moulder away and rot until the stink is so bad around her place that the building management company and cops have to break down the door and scoop her into a plastic bag. This happened down the hall from one of Mina's co-workers a little while ago. Some guy expired in his flat, and went all melting banana.

Apparently the smell is really, really bad. We'd be wishing for Fidel Castro's arsehole, then.

We rode out the remainder of the summer heat with the north-side windows and sliders shut.

Fingers are crossed that she's only there short-term, and will split come next spring or summer. That place must have sat empty for a bit over a year until she moved in. For some reason, no one ever stays too long in that room. Eight months to a year seems to be the prevailing record.

Forever looking for the positive, Mina ventures,

"Well...at least our laundry doesn't stink".

All was relatively quiet for the next few days. Back to our routines, after a whole six days off. I hadn't gone running for the duration, so the first few days back on the scorching asphalt of Waffle Cat Road were kind of tough...not to mention the alarm going off at 5 am...as opposed to the luxurious 8 or 8:30 lie ins we'd been enjoying.

Mina had got news from Mayumi, via her husband's attending physician over at the Red Cross Hospital's COVID Area, that while his oxygen ventilation concentration dropped from nearly 100% to around 40% (meaning he wasn't requiring as much mechanically provided oxygen), he was still running a high fever; that they'd like to see a bit more improvement before thinking about taking him off the machine. We'd felt a bit encouraged that he at least seemed to be moving in the right direction...though the persistent fever was a worry.

Positive thinking. He still had some fight in him.

It must have been Thursday or Friday evening that Mina got another call from her sister. The doctor over at the Red Cross Hospital had called again, and informed her that her husband's kidneys were failing, and he'd need to be put on emergency dialysis. Of course, he was still under sedation, and being ventilated. Things were getting dicey, and more complicated. A few days earlier, we had felt some cautious optimism...that maybe he'd finally pull through this and be OK.

While his lung condition and oxygen intake were slowly improving, the virus had other ideas. It was now loose in his body, and acting like a rogue terrorist seeking new targets.

TO BE CONTINUED...