Kamogawa

Crash

"FUCK! FUCK! SHIT FUCK DAMMIT FUCK!" I screamed all these things after the crash, or rather, their Japanese equivalents.

The tiny, three-cylinder Mira just sat there, still running. No one outside, no lights.

I looked back. I had hit a concrete planter box that was placed several feet into the street, bounced off it, and then the car had crunched into a wall on the opposite side of the road. I had driven for months in this small town, passed that house countless times, and never seen it.

I got back in the car and clunked back to my apartment. The engine squealed and howled like a wounded animal.

When I got back to the parking lot outside my apartment building, I trotted around the car, looking at the smashed up front, and realized that the bumper was missing. A bumper with a license plate. A license plate that would trace the car back to this apartment.

My face and neck started to burn as I was plunged into abject fear. How does an American, teaching English in the Japanese countryside recover from this? A night out at the bar, a few drinks, a loose turn over a hill, an object in the road, a crash - they all created a sudden path in my mind that lead to deportation back to the US, or worse, jail. There was no way out.

I sprinted up to my apartment - first floor, second floor, third. The door opened and I could already hear the sirens. This might be my last time here. I might never see this place again. I drank some barley tea to wash the taste of alcohol out of my mouth and spit it out. I drank as much tea as I could until the sirens, becoming louder and louder, halted as a police car pulled up next to the Mira.

Well, might as well be friendly about it.

I took one last swig of tea, got my jacket, and walked out and back down the stairs.

The two policemen, one fat, young officer with a face coated in sweat even in this cool night, and an older, thin, almost emaciated officer both eyed me in surprise. I noticed that my bumper was sitting in the back seat of their car, the curve of once side jutting out of their rear window.

"Good evening," I said in my best Japanese.

"Oh! So you speak Japanese?" The older officer stepped forward as the fat officer put his hand on the bumper.

"Yes, a little."

"We had a neighbor call in and say that she heard you crash and there was someone cursing loudly in Japanese and then they drove away...that was you right?"

"Yes."

"Had anything to drink?"

I quickly thought about the incident. "Um, I had some to drink when I got home to calm my nerves. I didn't have any before I drove though."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You know, foreigners like you should be more careful. You shouldn't be crashing up your employer's cars and then fleeing the scene afterwards."

"I know. I didn't see the damage though, or the bumper."

"Are you sure you didn't have anything to drink? You know, we can probably ask around and find out where you went tonight. A foreigner like you tends to stand out. Come over here and we'll see."

My face felt hot again - everything that I said and did could land me on a plane back to the US with a 5 or 10 year immigration ban or worse. The fat officer smiled at me while the older one got out a breathalyzer.

"Here. Blow in to this, and when it beeps, stop."

I blew softly, like one would blow out a candle. A candle that signified my dreams to stay in Japan. I was blowing that candle out.

The machine gave a little beep. "Hmmm, a little over the limit there, .15. Do we need handcuffs with you, or not?"

"No. I'll get in."

The only thing keeping me from weeping was the fat officer's smile and words - "You'll be ok. It's quite hard to send a foreigner to jail nowadays."

Thanks, fatty.