The ABCs, Part 3, Page 2
Tony Monbetsu
teacher, approached me as I sank back down into my chair.
"Mr. Jackson! Today, no five year." Motomura-Sensei was uncommon in that she was willing to use what English she had to communicate, mistakes be damned. She was also uncommon in regards to bust size, a fact that hovered tangibly at my lowered eye-level. I looked up.
"No five year," she repeated. "School… festival. Practicing. Jumping rope."
"All day?"
"All day." She nodded, once, firmly.
"Wakarimashita," I said, which means "Understood." No fifth grade, eh? I'd have to approach this one differently than I had approached Class 2B the day before.
The bell rang, and I went to class. Kuroyama Elementary School, or Kurosho, wasn't shy about using me to the fullest extent; I had five or six classes nearly every day I was there. Today was no different, save for the missing fifth years.
First period: Fourth graders. Colors, get them running around touching colored objects and you're golden. Running a lesson that involved the kids sitting still was like trying to stack caffeinated cats. Hosoi-Sensei watched me sullenly from beneath the rim of his bowl cut.
Second period: First graders. Animals. I had the kids come up and imitate the animal of their choice. Every kid picked dog. The teacher, Sawada-Sensei, participated enthusiastically and thanked me profusely.
Short break. Coffee time.
Third period: Sixth graders. Maps and directions. The kids put on blindfolds and got directed around the room by their classmates. If you know any twelve year olds it should be immediately obvious that the kids were going to gleefully direct their friends into walls, desks, and each other. I stayed out of the way and practiced my pencil-flipping, a skill that I felt would surely come in handy some day.
Fourth period: Fifth graders. Except not, so I was free to loiter in the teachers's office. The rafters shook dustily as the students practiced their jump rope routines for the coming school festival. Would Muritaro Morita be practicing, too? I somewhat doubted it- with so many students in a class, it wasn't hard for any given kid to slack off. Maybe he was thinking about the cards he had stolen. Maybe he was thinking about poor Miss Takahashi, and laughing. I cracked my knuckles under my desk. Maybe Muritaro was going to learn a few things about making bad decisions.
The bell rang for lunch. Kids at Kurosho ate in their classrooms, like most Japanese students, and as getting to eat lunch with me was a sought-after privilege I rotated classrooms each time I was at the school. Today I'd be eating with the second graders, and I knew I'd have to eat quickly during the rare gaps in their never-ending stream of questions.
"Mr. Jackson! I'm hungry!" said a kid who had materialized from behind my desk. "I'm hungry!" is the one English phrase that I can guarantee every student will have mastered by the time they graduate. In this case, it meant "Lunch time!" I let the kid take my hand and lead me to the second grade classroom.
The little kids screamed in excitement and led me to an empty desk, which came up to my shins. I sat down in the style of a spider, with splayed limbs everywhere and my lunch tray held protectively at my crotch.
"ITADAKIMASU!" screamed the kids in unison, which means "Please partake," if you don't know. It's what you say before you eat in Japan. I said the magic words along with the kids and chowed down on some sort of phlegmatic stew, accompanied by the inevitable bowl of rice. The kids, as expected, began to bombard me with questions:
"What's rice in English?"
"What's stew in English?"
"What's milk in English?"
"What's head in English?"
"What's hand in English?"
"What's poop in English?" This last one accompanied by a chorus of giggles. I answered as best I could and ate my food in huge scoops when the kids paused to take breaths. Marui-Sensei sat roundly behind his desk with his eyes fixed in the middle distance, eating his lunch like a machine designed for only that purpose.
I finished my lunch and cased my plastic chopsticks with a flourish. The kids oooh'd appreciatively. I seized the chance and said, "Hey kids, I'm going to have a janken tournament at recess. Winner gets stickers. Tell everyone!"
I had them at "stickers," of course. The kids went nuts. Janken is the Japanese version of Rock-Paper-Scissors if you don't know, and is a fundamental underpinning force in Japanese society. Had the Emperor had two sons who were disputing the succession, I had no doubt that Janken would have been called upon to settle the matter.
And with stickers involved, every kid would be sure to try his luck. Even Muritaro Morita.
The bell rang and I dashed back to the teachers' room for a quick pull of Pepsi Nex. (I kept one in the refrigerator at every school.) I knew I'd have to play this just right. In short order a kid came running in like it was Christmas morning and beckoned me to follow. We went out and he urged me on through halls that were eerily silent, save for the rain.
There had to be two hundred kids in the ageing gymnasium. The room was a great and soaring space that occupied its own sub-building attached to the main school by a creaky covered walk. One end of the gym was raised into a curtain-framed stage, and it was to here that I ascended. A sea of faces looked up expectantly, and the great volumes of space above us rumbled with the rain's power. The sky outside the high windows was black and opaque.
"Hello!" I said.
"Hello!" the kids roared in uncanny unison. A sheet of dust fell from the high rafters.
"We're going to play Janken," I explained. "If you lose, sit down. It will be in English, of course. The winner will get…this!"
I held up the prize. It was a sticker depicting a hyperactive anthropomorphic pear. The subject wasn't the selling point, though- the size was. It was about the size of a little kid's hand, and you probably could have smothered somebody with it. Two hundred pairs of eyes watched the sticker like a stellar omen. Nobody breathed. I scanned my crowd, and spotted him- Muritaro Morita, off to one side. I smiled grimly to myself. He was as I had been picturing him for the last 24 hours- buzz cut, sneer, and eyes only a particularly gullible mother could love. He had on a T-shirt that said "Ultraviolence," with a picture of an apple.
"Ready!" I said, and clenched a fist. The kids all did the same, like a horde of little samurai preparing to unsheath their weapons.
"Rock, paper, scissors… one, two, GO!" I threw my hand up in the air, palm flat and fingers together like a fascist salute. A wave of hands borne on a sea of prepubescent voices rose to meet me. About a third of the kids screamed and fell over like black plague victims as their chosen throw was defeated.
Muritaro Morita was still standing, as I had known he would be.
"Rock, paper, scissors… one, two, GO!" I chose scissors this time, and another wave of kids was scythed down. I didn't look at Muritaro. I knew he'd be fudging his throws, waiting until he'd seen my hand to choose his own, and I didn't want him to know I was onto him. Not yet, anyway.
We carried on. I chose scissors again for the next throw, and nailed a good swatch of hopeful paper-throwers. The kids had been weeded down to a few dozen by now, mostly fifth and sixth graders; another two throws had it down to an even six. I still hadn't thrown rock, and Muritaro still hadn't admitted defeat. I beckoned the remaining kids up onto the stage and they skipped up beaming, all of them except Muritaro. He had eyes only for the giant sticker, which I had kept in plain sight in my off-hand.
"Alright! Let's go!" We formed into a circle. The Japanese have mastered this sort of group janken where everybody throws at the same time. This was the riskiest part- it would be harder for Muritaro to cheat, here, and I had to make sure he lasted through to the last round.
The circle prepared to throw. The kids had their eyes on the invisible nexus of power at the center of the circle. Not Muritaro; he was still watching that sticker. Mesmerized, like a snake watching his charmer. I liked that.
"Rock, paper, scissors…"
I curled my off-hand into a fist, careful not to crush the sticker. Did Muritaro's eyes widen?
Hands flew. My brain processed what had happened, but slow, too slow- the kids, seasoned pros, had already reacted.
Four scissors. One paper. Two rocks. Muritaro and I- we'd won. I breathed.
The crowd went wild and the defeated kids threw themselves from the stage in despair. I noticed that the principle had come to the gymnasium door, obviously curious as to what the ruckus was about, but right now I had more important things to focus on. I still had to beat the smirking Muritaro.
"Alright," I said. "Final round. You want the sticker?"
He nodded, not looking at me. Of course.
"Let's up the stakes. If you win, I'll give you the sticker, and another one just like it."
Now I had his attention. He looked up with suspicion in his malicious little eyes. "And if I lose?"
I smiled at him. "You have to do whatever I say."
He thought about it for about two seconds. "Okay," he said. Muritaro, I thought, you are as predictable as you are ugly. And believe me, he was not a photogenic kid.
We squared off. The kids were silent and expectant. I looked my opponent in the eye. What did he think I was going to throw? What did he think I thought he was going to throw? There was no chance of Muritaro cheating now- not in front of the whole school. He'd have to play it straight, just like me.
"Rock, paper, scissors, one two go!" Our hands flew out in unison. I'd thrown paper. So had he.
He smiled. I smiled back.
