Monday, April 21, 2008
Photos Please!!
If you have any fascinating photos of foreigners in foreign lands, we'd love to put them up here on the website. Nothing touristy/vacation snappish. Something that captures that indelible space between worlds where you live. Humourous or haunting, whatever you'd like to contribute would be appreciated.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
First Story - The Great Narwhale
The Great Narwhale
Back in the land of the living, back in California, Hugh was wondering what to do over a bottle of 3 dollar plonk. Three years teaching in Japan, 6 months studying Hindi and music in India, and here he sat in his old bedroom in Monteray, strumming his sitar and wondering what to do. Dun daka daka de dal. A raga and three duns.
Damned if he’d go back and teach English again. Damned if he’d go back to the land of suit and ties. The only thing he missed was drinking and thinking with Grenfell, the Skimo. Grenfell, from the frozen tip of Labrador, was another piece of ESL driftwood, washed up on the island of Kyushu, living first by an old temple on a beach and then in a squalid broom closet in the drinking district that was neon-lit until 4 am every night. This latter was their shared Timonium, where they debated life while pouring Asahi beer from aluminum kegs and watched the assorted pimps, prostitutes, snack girls, staggeringly drunk salarymen, and shouting foreigners parade past their location, stopping occasionally to pee, puke, or fornicate in Grenfell’s doorway.
But life had to go somewhere, so Hugh had come back vowing to play his part in the American Dream ™ and start working and consuming. The next day and the next Hugh revised his CV, beefing it up with weekend English teacher piss ups he interpreted as international exchange activities and hash-hazed trips to Thailand and India he parleyed into world experience. He vowed to himself to research and send off one application every day. Gradually, life in Japan became a half-forgotten dream that came to him as worked hard to find work here in the real world.
And that is what he did for three months.
Ninety days later, Hugh sat again strumming his sitar in coolie pants he bought in Utar Pradesh and a wife beater, sipping wine and playing. Dum dikka dikka de dum.
Usually, Hugh’s mom was never home – between work and socializing that had kicked up in scale the three years her son was in Japan, the house was a place to shower, change, and sleep, nothing more. One day she called up over the stairs “Hugh, mail for here for you honey – looks like the government.”
It was the CIA. Sitar laid aside, Hugh ripped open the manila envelope stamped with the mark of the US Government. Acceptance letter, date and time of interviews, necessary documentation – Hugh’s eyes drank these in while his mind reeled. This was it.
The CIA interviews were held in a 2 storey white stucco building in Venice. Hugh responded by Email and set his interview for the following Thursday.
The bus up to Venice later, then a short walk through a park busy with mothers and toddlers enjoying the sun before the boisterous school kids were let loose, and Hugh arrived in front of the appointed building.
Walking in, a woman in a steel grey suit seated behind a low desk eyed him before greeting him mechanically. She informed Hugh to wait in the hallway on the second floor until called.
Hugh climbed the dark stairwell and set down on a folding chair.
The door next to his chair opened and a serge suited young man in reflective glasses slipped out and said one thing:
“Follow me.”
Hugh did as was told and proceeded to the far end of the corridor, where the young man opened another door and pointed inside. Hugh slipped past him and entered. The young man closed the door and his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.
Hugh took in his surroundings, then sat down at a wooden table in the single chair pushed into it. The walls were lined with great white baseball bases that baffled sound, with two small speakers high up in the corners facing Hugh. On the wall across from the table in front of Hugh was a rectangular mirror, and on the table a microphone in a cordless cradle.
A thump and a crackle, then a voice issued from the speakers. “Mr. Thompson, thank you for coming. We’d like to start by asking you why you are interested in working for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
There, it had been said. On the outside Hugh was as emotionless as years in Japan teaches one to be, but inside his heart a small boy leapt with joy at hearing that the secret club exists – and wants him to join. Hugh formulated an answer that was neither too patriotic nor schmaltzy. This was going well.
“Fine. Next we want to know about your foreign contacts, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“First, can you tell us more about this Great Narwhale?”
Hugh was wordless. Narwhale? What the fuck?
“I’m, I’m sorry. Who?”
“You wrote in your foreign contacts list the alternate name Great Narwhale. What about this person?”
Hugh thought, then thought more. Who, who, who? He had written the application almost three months earlier, and the names of people he knew in Japan had started coalescing into a haze of names and faces. “I’m sorry, could you give me more? It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”
“Also known as the Meat stick. Or Fat Bastard.”
The absurdity struck Hugh and from deep inside he laughed. His whole body shook as it all came back to him, the neon-lit room, the sun-drenched beach below the temple, the beer, the talks that went on until the day become night, then slouched towards morning again. Tears rolled out of his eyes, and it took minutes to reassert his composure.
“Yes, Grenfell Martin. Nice guy. We were friends.”
“Was he or did he ever express an interest in terrorism or communism?”
The interview rolled on this way for some time. Hugh could not say how long, but his eyes smarted as he stepped back into the California sunshine. He spent an hour watching the mothers and children finish their play, then slipped away as the first brigades of schoolkids in baggy jeans and leather jackets began to strut in.
The CIA never got back to Hugh. Within a month the California branch of a large Japanese video game design company did, and he began translating fighting and roleplaying games into English. And, for a while at least, he was happy.
Back in the land of the living, back in California, Hugh was wondering what to do over a bottle of 3 dollar plonk. Three years teaching in Japan, 6 months studying Hindi and music in India, and here he sat in his old bedroom in Monteray, strumming his sitar and wondering what to do. Dun daka daka de dal. A raga and three duns.
Damned if he’d go back and teach English again. Damned if he’d go back to the land of suit and ties. The only thing he missed was drinking and thinking with Grenfell, the Skimo. Grenfell, from the frozen tip of Labrador, was another piece of ESL driftwood, washed up on the island of Kyushu, living first by an old temple on a beach and then in a squalid broom closet in the drinking district that was neon-lit until 4 am every night. This latter was their shared Timonium, where they debated life while pouring Asahi beer from aluminum kegs and watched the assorted pimps, prostitutes, snack girls, staggeringly drunk salarymen, and shouting foreigners parade past their location, stopping occasionally to pee, puke, or fornicate in Grenfell’s doorway.
But life had to go somewhere, so Hugh had come back vowing to play his part in the American Dream ™ and start working and consuming. The next day and the next Hugh revised his CV, beefing it up with weekend English teacher piss ups he interpreted as international exchange activities and hash-hazed trips to Thailand and India he parleyed into world experience. He vowed to himself to research and send off one application every day. Gradually, life in Japan became a half-forgotten dream that came to him as worked hard to find work here in the real world.
And that is what he did for three months.
Ninety days later, Hugh sat again strumming his sitar in coolie pants he bought in Utar Pradesh and a wife beater, sipping wine and playing. Dum dikka dikka de dum.
Usually, Hugh’s mom was never home – between work and socializing that had kicked up in scale the three years her son was in Japan, the house was a place to shower, change, and sleep, nothing more. One day she called up over the stairs “Hugh, mail for here for you honey – looks like the government.”
It was the CIA. Sitar laid aside, Hugh ripped open the manila envelope stamped with the mark of the US Government. Acceptance letter, date and time of interviews, necessary documentation – Hugh’s eyes drank these in while his mind reeled. This was it.
The CIA interviews were held in a 2 storey white stucco building in Venice. Hugh responded by Email and set his interview for the following Thursday.
The bus up to Venice later, then a short walk through a park busy with mothers and toddlers enjoying the sun before the boisterous school kids were let loose, and Hugh arrived in front of the appointed building.
Walking in, a woman in a steel grey suit seated behind a low desk eyed him before greeting him mechanically. She informed Hugh to wait in the hallway on the second floor until called.
Hugh climbed the dark stairwell and set down on a folding chair.
The door next to his chair opened and a serge suited young man in reflective glasses slipped out and said one thing:
“Follow me.”
Hugh did as was told and proceeded to the far end of the corridor, where the young man opened another door and pointed inside. Hugh slipped past him and entered. The young man closed the door and his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.
Hugh took in his surroundings, then sat down at a wooden table in the single chair pushed into it. The walls were lined with great white baseball bases that baffled sound, with two small speakers high up in the corners facing Hugh. On the wall across from the table in front of Hugh was a rectangular mirror, and on the table a microphone in a cordless cradle.
A thump and a crackle, then a voice issued from the speakers. “Mr. Thompson, thank you for coming. We’d like to start by asking you why you are interested in working for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
There, it had been said. On the outside Hugh was as emotionless as years in Japan teaches one to be, but inside his heart a small boy leapt with joy at hearing that the secret club exists – and wants him to join. Hugh formulated an answer that was neither too patriotic nor schmaltzy. This was going well.
“Fine. Next we want to know about your foreign contacts, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“First, can you tell us more about this Great Narwhale?”
Hugh was wordless. Narwhale? What the fuck?
“I’m, I’m sorry. Who?”
“You wrote in your foreign contacts list the alternate name Great Narwhale. What about this person?”
Hugh thought, then thought more. Who, who, who? He had written the application almost three months earlier, and the names of people he knew in Japan had started coalescing into a haze of names and faces. “I’m sorry, could you give me more? It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”
“Also known as the Meat stick. Or Fat Bastard.”
The absurdity struck Hugh and from deep inside he laughed. His whole body shook as it all came back to him, the neon-lit room, the sun-drenched beach below the temple, the beer, the talks that went on until the day become night, then slouched towards morning again. Tears rolled out of his eyes, and it took minutes to reassert his composure.
“Yes, Grenfell Martin. Nice guy. We were friends.”
“Was he or did he ever express an interest in terrorism or communism?”
The interview rolled on this way for some time. Hugh could not say how long, but his eyes smarted as he stepped back into the California sunshine. He spent an hour watching the mothers and children finish their play, then slipped away as the first brigades of schoolkids in baggy jeans and leather jackets began to strut in.
The CIA never got back to Hugh. Within a month the California branch of a large Japanese video game design company did, and he began translating fighting and roleplaying games into English. And, for a while at least, he was happy.
Submit to Exiles
Exiles is currently looking for short or short-short fiction from expats. For further details read this webpage or send an Email to the address below.
Submission Details
Send all inquiries or submissions to:
exilesjournal@live.jp
Submission Details
Send all inquiries or submissions to:
exilesjournal@live.jp
No comments:
Post a Comment