I’m feeling a bit less ambivalent about leaving Japan. This morning I had to take the local train downtown, at rush hour. It’s the tail end of a big typhoon system and the 7am sky was dark with rain clouds as I walked from home to the local station. The train was crowded with workers and school kids and I was the only unmasked rider. The air in the packed train was warm, thick and humid and it was a relief each time the oscillating overhead air-conditioner blew my way. At one point I’d felt a sneeze coming on and I held my breath to try and prevent it. I’m already a walking bio-hazard in the minds of the obedient TV watchers; just what I don’t need is to start sneezing, packed in a Japanese rush-hour train, during covid. “Everybody, don’t worry! I sneeze all the time, sick or healthy. And I’m healthy now. I just got my antigen test and…”
I was happy to get off a few stops before the terminus. As I walked down the platform toward the exit, the train doors closed and it proceeded downtown. As it passed I looked into the raindrop-specked, foggy windows and saw many masked faces staring back out. But they weren’t looking at me; they were looking into a void. It reminded me of a scene in Jacob’s Ladder, where an older woman stares out from a train, expressionless.
Yesterday morning at the same hour I was driving my car and I passed an elementary and jr. high school. The principal of the elementary was out greeting the kids as they entered. Everyone was masked. Same with the jr. high. It’s one thing when adults make the choice to mask, without looking into efficacy and considering whether it’s necessary, but it’s another level of shame making these kids do it, with no consideration for their physical health and psychological development, for two and a half years now, and no sign of it ever ending.
I’ve been trying to limber up my stiff back before my long flight back to the states. Sometimes after a ten-hour Narita to Seattle economy-class ordeal, I walk around hunchbacked for a few days. Surfing and bicycling help, as does swimming. I decided to hop on my bike and go to the municipal pool at the sports complex night before last. I passed the pachinko parlor. The car lot was full. I didn’t bother riding up close to the darkened windows to get a look inside so I could tell you that all these salarymen, forgetting their workday in this atmosphere of deafening noise, were all masked. I already knew that. Everyone indoors is masked. More troubling were the people out on the streets. Kids walking and riding home from school. Men and women walking home from the train station. Housewives out for a walk and a little ‘me-time’ before the family got home. All masked.
People! Your own government has told you that you don’t need the veil if you are outside. Even if you’re with other people they say it’s OK to breathe freely (provided you don’t talk). You’re outside and you’re alone, FCOL. But you’ve adjusted to the new normal and now you can’t go back.
Just before the pool I passed the soccer fields, lit up under the lights. Kids were stretching, jogging around the perimeter, doing wind-sprints, etc. All were masked. Some of the drills looked pretty rigorous. I stood and watched for a while, praying nobody would keel over. “Maybe they got the less deadly batch of clot shots,” I hoped.
I was fishing around in my backpack for coins for the ticket machine and the lady said “you’ll need a 100 yen coin for the locker. Do you have one?” I said yes.
“And I’ll just need to check your temperature.”
She was too fast. You have to be ready for these things. Japan used to be a place where you could let your guard down, but you never know what crazy covid rule or restriction is going to pop up. She caught me off guard and I let her scan my forehead with the damned wand. Usually, the wand is a non-starter for me. If they are scanning your forehead or wrist for the temperature reading (or for the mark, as it will be) I just turn around and leave. But she was quick and got me. I figured, heck, I’m out of here in a week and I already paid, don’t make a fuss. But then she said, “And please sign in at the table over there?”
-Sign in?
-Yes, due to covid, we have to get your name and address and phone number. It’s those forms on the table.
-No thanks. I’m leaving.
-You’re leaving?
-Yeah. It’s too much. The temperature check. The sign in. Give us your name, your phone number. This has been going on too long. It’s two and a half years now?
She actually seemed to agree with me as she handed my money back.
“Well, you take care and we’ll see you next time.”
I smirked, nodded and started for the door, but then caught myself and said, “Next time? There is no next time. If we can do two and a half years of this, we can do five. Then it will be ten and then it’s just endless. This never ends.”
She said, Soo desu nee (“yes, it seems so”) and nodded. The college girl behind her, also working the front desk, nodded too.
On the way home I got a little lost and passed through unfamiliar territory. In a wooded neighborhood, I came across a house with a big, gravel parking lot. Lots of people were gathered here. They were all wearing the hapi (Japanese traditional, dark blue summer shirt for festivals). Ah, a charming late-summer, evening scene: a small community, together getting ready for matsuri (local festival). There were little kids all the way up to old grandmas. Everyone but a three-year-old was masked. One guy was just arriving when I rode by. Before he could join the group, the dude in charge ran out with a thermometer wand and scanned his forehead, then wrote something on a clipboard and instructed the guy to clean his hands with the alcohol gel. New normal festival protocol, here forever.
When I arrived home my older son Kenny asked, “How was swimming?”
-I ended up not going.
-Why not?
-Well, I was all set to go. I even paid my money and got the ticket. But then the lady said sign in and I said “forget it. I’m leaving.”
“I KNEW IT!” said Kenny.
-Knew what?
-I knew you’d never get to the pool. I knew they’d make you do something and you would refuse!
Tuesday morning I went to teach my class of software engineers. Miss Morita, who’s friendly and looks like she might be pretty but whose face I’ve never seen, always comes to give me a bottle of cold water. I like that as the water gives me an excuse to remove the mask. It had been almost two months since I wore the mask and I felt a little defeated as I put one on to get by the beady-eyed secretaries in the office. Now, in the conference/classroom, I took it off to take a sip of water, and to ask Morita-san for another bottle. I wanted to make sure I had water for the duration of the class, to justify keeping the mask off.
The class went well, and none of the students seemed to care that I was unmasked. But I looked up at one point and through the window of the glass entrance, I saw one of the secretaries standing at the door and staring at me. Then she was joined by another office worker, this time an older man. I tried to concentrate on the class but I couldn’t ignore this kerfuffle in the office as various desk workers came to the door to stare at me. I could see them talking among themselves, gesturing and shuffling about, disappearing and reappearing. I tried to calmly carry on with the lesson while this five-alarm fire took place in the office. Then I saw kind Miss Morita looking at me and pointing frantically at her face with both index fingers, indicating that I need to put on my mask.
I obeyed.
I think it’s time to go.
Y'all will want to click that picture and listen to John Denver's song. Emmylou Harris singing harmony makes it near perfect.
And the comments today are real good!
Well....it’s getting to me, too. It’s become my mission to remind my co-workers of the following:
If you want to "return to normal" you have to start acting normally! Masks aren’t normal. Spraying yourself with alcohol isn’t normal. "Distancing" isn’t normal. Allowing yourself to be injected with an experimental treatment that never went through thorough testing isn’t normal.