In my apartment there is patchy Wifi, so when I’m trying to research the mating patterns of snow leopards and the internet fails I’m driven to the brink of insanity. Furthermore, as a budding and brooding journalist I find myself grabbing for my phone like a mother for her-WHERE’S MY PRECIOUS LITTLE BABY whenever I’m in line at Shake Shack or Popeyes, and if the Wifi is uncooperative I’m filled with an unquenchable rage. Don’t ridicule my addiction-to-connection just yet, as the lauded journalist, James B. Stewart, wrote in Follow the Story: How To Write Successful Nonfiction, “In today’s ecosystem of news, the greatest sin is to cut oneself off from the conversation.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, if John Knych sends me one more picture of a snow leopard with the caption, “Sup Jim,” I swear to god I will end this conversation and…
Jim is right that journalists must consistently engage in society’s dialogue, especially when it becomes polarized, paranoid, or paternal, so our Wifi connections must be sound. The news conversation is becoming faster and readers are expecting more cutting-edge content. If I plan to survive and thrive in this cut-throat ecosystem, it looks like I must try and understand the nature of Wifi like the snow leopards understand the mountain ranges of Central and South Asia.
Author’s note: this snow leopard did not survive.
It was once widely believe that “Wifi” stood for wireless fidelity, but it is actually not an acronym and does not stand for anything. The term was coined by Phil Belanger in August 1999, when the branding consulting firm, Interbrand Corporation, wanted a name catchier than, “IEEE 802. 11b Direct Sequence.” Wifi is also the same thing as WLAN which stands for Wireless Local Area Network. The difference between Wifi and the dinosaur tail known as the ethernet cable (ethernet is slower because of the resistance in the wires) is that Wifi transmits data (0-1-1-0-1-0-0-0-0-1-1 = picture of a ManBearPig) through electro-magnetic waves in the air. But unlike heat waves, Wifi waves don’t need the elements of the air to affect electronics/enlighten your soul. Also, unlike radio waves which sometimes have wavelengths up to 3kHz long (100 kilometers), Wifi is transmitted on a much shorter frequency: either 2.4 Ghz or 5.0 Ghz (about 12 centimeters long). Most microwaves operate on this frequency, which is why they can interfere with the signal and thus your spiritual well-being.
Many things can interfere with a Wifi signal because these waves are sent back and forth between the router and your computer/phone. It’s an electrical conversation. Basically, through the electromagnetic pulses of your router, your computer/phone is instructed on what to do with each pixel on the screen (0-1-1-1-0 or off-on-on-on-off = another picture of a ManBearPig). Generally, the signal can’t go more than 150 feet from a signal router. The Wifi signal can be affected by the objects it encounters, such as concrete, wood, metal, other Wifi, and murderous clowns. You can actually buy “Wifi paint” that prevents other Wifis from interfering with your Wifi signal. The way you position your router affects the strength of the signal throughout your house/dumpster you sleep in on the weekends. Here are five ways to improve your Wifi signal:
1.) Lift your router off the ground. Many routers broadcast waves slightly downwards, and the material of the floor can affect the signal.
2.) Don’t put your router behind a hall or in a closet. Again, the obstructions cause interference. Ideally, you should hang it above your bed like a disco ball.
3.) Point the antennas of your router in different directions. If you have two antennas, point one horizontal and one vertical. Why? Because devices work best when their internal antennas are parallel with the routers. Most antennas inside laptops are horizontal. With a cell phone, the direction of the internal antennas depends on how you’re holding/desperately clutching it. So by bending your antennas of your router in different directions you have the highest chance of having a parallel match/good signal/nirvana.
4.) Download a wifi-signal-strength app on your phone so you can test which places in your apartment have good signals and why. Don’t tell anyone you did this.
5.) Don’t put your router near other electronics (ones with motors inside of them), like televisions, computers, or your Dance Dance Revolution machines. They can interfere with the router signal.
My favorite part of this video is the woman on the left (his mom?) just chillen in front of the fan.
While writing this essay I realized that my router was sitting two inches from my television. It was also a few feet from the printer. I’ve moved it to a better/less disrupting location and my Wifi has significantly improved. Now my life is beautiful again. I hope the suggestions above can help you too.
Revised Final Audio Project for Columbia University’s Journalism School:
Visit the basketball courts next to the Marcy Housing Complex, in Bedford-Stuyvesant, New York, and you will likely find an old man named Umar Jordan working with the youth of the community. Reporter, Jack Knych, talks with Umar one summer night about Umar’s work and about Bedford-Stuyvesant as a neighborhood in flux:
Special thanks to Tracy Collins (here’s his website) for providing the photograph above.
Subscribe below:
Interview Transcript:
Jack Knych 1 (Narration): At the basketball courts next to the Marcy Projects in Bedsty, New York, you will often find an old man working with the youth of the community. Today he is wearing blue jeans, a red shirt, and a gold chain necklace.
Umar Jordan 1: My name is Umar Jordan, better known as grandad, from Grandad’s Put’em Up Boxing Camp.
Jack Knych 2: And you live in Bedsty?
Umar Jordan 2: Since 1957.
Jack Knych 3: So you’ve seen Bedsty change enormously?
Umar Jordan 3: I’ve seen Bedsty go from…Jim Crowe…to Jackass. This community is divided from home-owners to people who live in the projects. People that live in the projects don’t have a…and I can say this…we don’t have enough respect for where we live. We shoot, we piss in the elevators, we don’t…we throw garbage all over the ground. So a guy like you that bought a brownstone in this neighborhood, you…I’m your enemy. So until we understand that…that the elected officials, they gonna go with the people that pay mortgage as opposed to the people that pay rent. Bedsty is gone. Bedsty-do-or-die, most people that say that don’t even know what it meant. I grew up here. Bedsty-do-or-die meant you gonna do the right thing. You couldn’t play hooky in this neighborhood back in the day because the wino on the corner would tell your mother. The wino on the corner see you cursing he would check you. Now, mothers hanging out with the kids, kids hanging out doing whatever they wanna do, principles and morals are out of the window.
Jack Knych 4: What’s the best way to maintain the culture of Bedsty?
Umar Jordan 4: You can’t do it. Because the new generation, young people, they…too much T.V. too much in the house playing X-box. They been deceived by so many people that they don’t wanna believe, ah….the person that know’s the truth. The problem with the youth in our community today is where do they go? There’s not a rollerskating rink, movie theatre, nothing for them.
My whole goal is to prepare some of these little guys, these younger guys, for the future. Listen, take them behind the school, your role models…are not a good…you know Big Chains, I wanna be Jay-Z I wanna be EEEEAAAAHHH. EEAAAHH. That’s not important. You know it’s…who are you? Who do you wanna be? You understand? So I take them on trips, like, to the morgue. Take a bunch of kids to the morgue, let them see a body laying up there and see how real is that, when you pull that trigger there’s no reset button. This is not X-box. You understand? So you have to speak in the language of the people. You at the person where they at. You can’t take them from kindergarten to college. So you gotta bend down, slow down, move real slow.
So it’s like a…a constant battle, an uphill battle, but I don’t give up. And nor do I weaken. You know, I just…just makes me stronger. Listen, I walked with Malcolm X. I had to escort Mandela when he came to Boys and Girls High. I seen Martin Luther King preach. I danced with Shirley Chisholm the day she got sworn in. I am in the history book. And it’s to give it to y’all freely. But you stuck on Jay-Z and the rappers and the Beyonce and all that other bull-job, you will never recover what Bedsty was.
I did 72 prayer vigils from 09′ to 2011. 72 prayer vigils where somebody got shot across the city. I used to bring out all the car clubs and truck clubs until I found out that that’s when the politicians come and wanna stand next to you. So I just…I just back up. I don’t do it for the…for the sight of man. I do it for the glory of God, you understand? It’s about your spiritual growth, that, when you’re put on, when….there’s two most important days, and I’m gonna end on this, of your life, is the day you born. And the day you learn your purpose. That’s it.
Jack Knych 5 (narration): Jack Knych Columbia University Radio.
For a journalism reporting assignment I was given the neighborhood: Bedford-Stuyvesant. I walked every street in this community. Here are my 14 favorite murals:
Collaboration with my friend and esteemed colleague: Cal K. Check out his writing website on food and adventure: www.thejoyofeating.org
“There is nothing more glorious than a hot beer shit.”
-Charles Bukowksi
Whether you call them the D.A.D.S. (day after drinking shits), rum bum, the after-grog-bog, or the Trumpity Dumpities, we’ve all experienced that bodily emergency of needing to empty our bowels, IMMEDIATELY, NOW, PRONTO, STAT, post heavy night of drinking. Why does the body spur us on to such desperate fecal-evacuations? How come their stench is so potent, rivaling skunks and causing pedestrians nearby to gag? Why do they frequently entail multiple trips and multiple toilet-paper rolls over the course of a stressful, sweaty day? And what makes them, overall, so fucking nasty?
Of course it all has to do with how our body breaks down booze. Alcohol is a dense substance (beer = liquid bread, shot of vodka = 110 calories) which bypasses the mouth, unlike food which is chewed and broken down by saliva before it reaches the stomach.
Once alcohol reaches the stomach about 20% of the booze is broken down (mostly through the stomach lining). Then the alcohol moves to the small intestine which absorbs the leftover booze and sends it to the liver to metabolize. The liver processes about 1 drink/hour. The excess alcohol, which isn’t being processed, is sent to the bloodstream and the rest of the body. That’s when everybody in the bar starts smiling at you.
The western, American bias when looking at food/drink is like gas for a car. We need energy to survive, and food gives us energy so we can go, talk, dance the mambo, and streak naked at professional soccer games. But the reality is far more mysterious and complex. Food is not only what we build our body with, but each time we eat something it subtly and immediately affects our entire system. Our mood, thoughts, muscles, third testicle, and organs are all impacted by what we just consumed. This lesson is evident when we become aware of the effects of alcohol, beyond feeling hammered:
Six pina coladas depresses the secretion of an anti-diuretic hormone in the posterior pituitary gland. This means the kidney can’t balance the amount of water in your body, just like you can’t balance on your feet.
Shot-gunning Four Loko also affects sections of the kidney that absorb water and sodium. While your kidney struggles to absorb H2O and NaHCO3, your mind has difficulty absorbing time, language, social cues, and the value of legal tender.
Sipping malt liquor at your nephew’s 2nd birthday party negatively affects the G.I. tract as well. The muscles surrounding the stomach and intestines become loose, just like your conversation. And the contractions in your rectum are reduced, just like your standards.
Inside Story/J.W. Kash:
The worst beer shit morning of my life happened in college. The night before taking the LSAT test I went out drinking heavily with Cal and company. As was the habit, I crushed some late night food somewhere, then passed out. I remember waking up early on a futon next to my girlfriend and being convinced she had just gut-punched me as a joke. I ran to the nearest bathroom and a swamp came shooting out of my ass. I wondered, vainly, if I had gone dumpster diving the night before and been ingesting trash and dead mice all night. Thirty minutes later, after shoveling down a breakfast of 4 eggs and 2 red bulls, I was once again breathing laboriously in stall. While flipping through an LSAT practice book, attempting to figure out why Dan was sitting behind Laura if Jim was sitting in front of Greg, I was spawning Satan out of my butt-crack. Some guy taking a piss even said, “Hey buddy, are you gonna be alright?”
—
So why do beer shits smell so bad? Alcohol increases the bacteria count in your small intestines, reducing the nutrient absorption in your digestion system. This means the bacteria in both your large and small intestines have more nutrients to consume (which haven’t been absorbed in the body), which produce the potent, “sour” stink when you have a beer shit. Also, the liver produces a bile to help break down alcohol, and this bile is added to the pungent mixture that is flushed out.
Inside Story/Cal K.:
As my colleague J.W. astutely observed, the beer shit is a chemical cocktail – a calamitous mixture brewed up in our bowels and released with a furious vengeance. It is unlikely the stomach of modern man was engineered to successfully pass a dozen malty brews administered over the course of a few short hours – it comes as no surprise that the result is unpleasant.
But as with all things in life, the worst of these events is more than a biological process – it is a social and psychological one, as well.
Let’s examine the larger topic of defecation in general: It is rarely enjoyable to evacuate your bowels in anything but the comfort of your home, or perhaps in a hotel room with a degree of privacy and a separate room for the toilet. There you can set up shop and get to business at a familiar. But in airports, restaurants, outdoor concerts, indoor concerts, friends’ houses, relatives’ houses, foreign countries or anywhere that might become a high-traffic zone, I contend that stress is an additional, negative factor.
When in these strained circumstances, it is impossible to enjoy a leisurely depth charge. You inevitably force the issue.
Now, combine a public shit with a long night of drinking – perhaps a bender – and what results is the worst-case-scenario, the apocalypse now – like, as in, right now.
J.W. asked me to contribute my $0.02 to this piece, which I am happy to do no matter what the topic. But in fecal matters, we happen to share a connection.
During college, J.W. and I were involved in a week-long celebration that fell sometime in late autumn. I won’t go into great detail to avoid incrimination. Suffice to say we consumed, probably, an average of 15 beers per 24 hours, including various other forms of booze presented in everything from glass bottles shaped like mo’ai to gallon jugs that look like they once held battery acid. Our stomachs underwent significant stress during that period – some of it unforgivable.
Toward the end of the week, I awoke in our suite sometime in the wee hours of the morning – maybe 10 a.m. – and walked into J.W.’s room. He and his roommate were asleep. Their quarters were covered, inexplicably, ceiling to wall to floor, in a layer of bleached white flour. I carved out a spot on the desk and proceeded to roll a marijuana cigar.
For the uninitiated, smoking is itself a diuretic – you will need to use the restroom not long after burning one down. Before that happened, I walked toward the campus café, seeking any form of nourishment that might quell the quiver in my liver. It was a sunny day, and that only made matters worse. You never want to be seen in such misery.
As I entered the building, a friend of ours walked out – a girl we’d known throughout college. She stopped me just as I began to realize, too late, that I was soon to undergo a thunderous bowel movement.
“Hey Cal! Wow, you look awful – “
“Hey, I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”
I brushed past her, past the café, past the angelic studying nerds and on to the bathroom. What had occurred was something greater than gas – something far worse. This sort of thing is exceedingly rare: Consider what it would take for you to knowingly poop yourself. How much willpower could you command to break that instinctual seal? Yet my condition was so haggard that my regulatory system failed to recognize the impending catastrophe.
When I reached the stall, the storm had already passed – I merely needed to assess the damage. It was severe: enough for me to abandon the underpants beneath the toilet and waddle back to my dormitory in humiliation so I could properly shower.
But as I removed my boxers, I couldn’t help but laugh. Remember, J.W. and I were roommates, and undergoing a chaotic week of debauchery. I realized, as I looked down at the crumpled, smelly wad of plaid shorts underneath a toilet, that a custodian would eventually find them (for this I am deeply ashamed), and that the custodian might even pick them up and think, “What sort of bastard would rip off his shitty underwear and leave them behind – knowing I would have to clean it up?” And that custodian might then glance at the tag on those boxers that I compromised and think, of course – who else could it possibly be than the student whose name was marked on the inside waistband: J.W. Kash.
—
So keep in mind, gentle reader, that alcohol is fun, but it is also poison that should be imbibed with awareness and respect. Because the spiritual pleasures of the night must always be paid for by the bathroom agonies of the morning.
Joe Rodriquez worked as a garbage man for 11 years. Then after completing a government sanitation test, he was promoted to the supervisor position in 1990. His department covers Manhattan section two. The day before I interviewed Joe, his department removed 77.74 tons of trash from their designated area. There are 26 trucks in his department and they work on two shifts, 6am and 4pm. Once they’ve collected the trash, they bring it to an incinerator in Newark, New Jersey. In the winter, which is their busy season, they also plow the streets. Joe said the biggest change he’s seen in his department, as a supervisor, is the technology they use to monitor the trucks and schedules. Waste disposal employees are the most frequently injured government employees, more than firemen and cops. Even though his job is usually mundane, Joe says that 95% of the time he’s excited to come into work. The building where I interviewed Joe was finished being built in Decemember 2015. Joe has a son who is an architect and a daughter who has plans to become a speech therapist. His daughter was married in 2016. Joe’s looking forward to retiring in 2020, receiving his pension, and spending more time with his family.
Los Angeles, CA – Suspicious sources confirmed this week that married and pregnant woman Lauren Calloway doesn’t actually care about life milestones, but is merely advertising these achievements in a misguided attempt to make her insufferable daily life more bearable. Sources have agreed that Lauren needs serious help. They are planning an intervention to try and teach her about the value of intimate experiences and the importance of self-realization, and that worrying about what the world thinks of her life is pointless and a sad waste of time.
Saying they first became worried about her rapid deterioration through a barrage of emails, text messages, and social media posts, Calloway’s peers told reporters that the woman is grasping for anything to make herself feel better, as if drowning and reaching for something solid, and that she’s in serious danger.
“Her wedding was 2 years ago, yet last week she kept posting photos from the ceremony on facebook. It was scary. I mean, it’s one thing to re-live a memory, it’s another thing to become obsessed by it to the detriment of your immediate life,” said Gabriella Antolla. “Then, on instagram, she posted 42 photos of her baby’s ultrasound. 42!!! It’s a fucking blurry, black-and-white image! Does she really think that people want to see that over and over again?! Or is she really that egotistical?!”
According to friends and acquaintances, Calloway’s debilitating obsession with life milestones began immediately after college, when she was able to obtain a prestigious, entry-level position at fashion agency within just weeks of graduation. “We would all be drinking wine in my apartment and laughing,” said Lauren’s friend Cara Hanson, “Making fun of each other for being unemployed or having shitty jobs, while Lauren would be in the corner taking pictures of herself. It was weird. Then, later that day, we’d see on social media a post by Lauren with the caption: Celebrating my new job with all my friends! Yet she was in the corner the whole time with her phone, ignoring everyone around her and not listening to the conversation! That’s when we knew she had a problem.”
“I usually see Lauren around the holidays, and every time she keeps telling me that her life is getting better and better,” said Calloway’s cousin Jerry Watson, 34. “Yet her face looks haggard, her plastered smile looks painful, and her voice is even more high-pitched. I want to tell her that nobody really cares if you “got your shit together” or if you’re experiencing success after success. I want to tell her that what really matters is the one-on-one with people you care about, and whether or not you respect yourself, however many times you’ve failed.”
“Hey Lauren,” Watson continued. “Are you crying on the inside? Can I help?”
Claiming that the idea of milestones “has completely consumed her life,” several of Lauren’s acquaintances noted that she hardly spends any quality time with her husband, and knows hardly anything about the lives of her “friends.” “She’s living in a hall of mirrors,” said Natalie Etson. “And I think she actually hates it.”
Several of Calloway’s closer friends have acknowledged that, because of the direct relationship they’ve observed between Lauren’s emphasis on milestones and her barren, superficial personal life, they’ve started to care less about showing the world what they’ve accomplished. “I’ve become a more private, more withdrawn person since knowing Lauren,” said Becky Garrison. “She’s shown me who I don’t want to be.”
“Even when Lauren’s mother died last summer, it was particularly horrifying,” said longtime friend Diana Longman. “She posted all these pictures of her dead mother in the casket with hashtags like: #braincancerisabitch #deathisstupid #undertakerdidagoodjob #byemom #wtf #humanexperience
“I’d like to get inside her head and figure out what the hell is going on,” continued Longman. “Because her words and actions are spread so thin her attempts at communication mean shit. It’s like I’m only there as an accessory to her social media identity. I only matter because I make her look better. Does she care about anyone at all?”
At press time, sources simultaneously looked at one another and asked, “Does anyone know where Calloway is right now?” A woman, who had only met Lauren once at a birthday party of a mutual friend 10 years prior (and had received a friend request the next day), looked down at her phone. “Lauren arrived at Whole Foods 12 minutes ago with her husband. Kumquats are on sale for $3.25 a lb.”
“If you get nothing better out of the world, get a good dinner out of it.”
-Herman Melville
While wandering around Tokyo this past February, I felt hungry and decided it was time to eat some authentic ramen noodles. It was Saturday night and I was near Shibuya Crossing:
After leaving the lights and crowds, I began exploring dark alleys and foreboding side streets in hopes of finding, not a hole in the wall, but a culinary crevice (Tokyo is a very compact city) that only a local could discover. The night before I had visited a “hole in the wall bar” suggested by my lonely planet tour book, and to my chagrin saw groups of well-dressed white people huddled over pricey cocktails and conversing in English. Na. This time around I would wander until I found a place where the staff and patrons looked at me with either dull suspicion or obvious disgust. “Koko ni gaijin wa nan desu ka?” (What is that dirty foreigner doing here?) Yes, much better. Kon ban wa! (Good evening!)
My stomach was grumbling. I turned a corner and there it was: a ramen place that was the most inconspicuous, smallest restaurant I had ever seen. There were 4 chairs inside jammed against a crumbling wall, a flimsy counter, a narrow hallway behind the chairs, then an open kitchen without a door. I would learn later that there was only one worker present who was the host, chef, waiter, bus boy, and dishwasher. There was also only one customer; a woman sitting by herself on the middle chair.
As I set down my lucky backpack on the floor near the chair the host/chef/waiter/busboy/dishwasher gesticulated towards the entrance. The woman turned and said in perfect English, “You have to use the machine.” Next to the door was a vending machine with pictures of food on plastic squares. I learned later that many restaurants in Tokyo utilize this vending machine system: you order and pay right when you arrive, then wait for the food to be served. The pictures were blurry and did not resemble any sustenance I could recognize, so I picked the one with best mix of colors and sat down.
While reading a book on Jack Ma, I furtively inhaled the beef-spice-broth smell of the woman’s ramen bowl next to me and thought, “Yes, this is going to kick the shit out of those ramen-dime-blocks back home.”
Then I put the book down and struck up a conversation with the woman. For this essay, and the sake of anonymity, I’ll call her Matsuri. You may be wondering what this all has to do with the tragic death of a Japanese Olympian…
I asked Matsuri how she found this place. “My mother recommended it to me. She says this restaurant has the best ramen in all of Tokyo.” Even though Matsuri’s English was very good with only a slight accent, I could see via her facial expressions that her mind was in overdrive before each sentence. Nonetheless, the conversation went smoothly. I told her that I was in Tokyo for a week, by myself, and staying in 6 different AirBnB locations throughout the city. She wrote down on a napkin the name of a shrine (Meiji Jingu Shrine with a “quiet and refreshing” park)…
Ah, Sumo titties, so refreshing…
…and a place called Kappabashi Dougu Street (merchants have been gathering there since 1912 selling everything from hardware to restaurant supplies):
BUY BUY BUY
While she wrote on the napkin, I noticed slight scars on Matsuri’s wrists and hands. Before she left, I learned that she was a plastic surgeon. Immediately after revealing her occupation Matsuri assured me that it’s not like being a plastic surgeon in the United States. “It’s much easier to become a plastic surgeon here. Much less school. It’s very easy.” This was a theme throughout our conversation, her constant humility and downplay of my compliments. But I could tell she was very intelligent. She gave me her business card and I gave her mine. She left and my ramen meal arrived. Matsuri’s mother was right: it was delicious.
The next day I woke up in my $20/night AirBnB cubbyhole near the prostitute district and checked me email. Matsuri had sent me a long message:
Good morning. Here is a long list of interesting or my favorite places in Tokyo. Enjoy your trip. :D.
Below were 32 places (streets, shrines, restaurants, and museums), some with links, all with symbols next to them. At the bottom of the email was a key for the symbols: star = my favorite. * = good for people-looking. Circle = good for knowing Japanese culture. Square = funny.
Matsuri was intense, kind, and thorough…and I liked it. I emailed back asking if she wanted to have dinner that night. She said yes.
We met at Ueno park. I had just checked out the museums by there, and waited near teenage boys arm wrestling, feeling tempted to challenge one of them:
Anata wa gaijin ude o tameshimasu?…You want to test the dirty foreigner’s arm?
We walked to the restaurant district nearby. It was a cool, pleasant night and we threaded the bustling crowds. I almost purchased this Godzilla shirt…
…but decided I needed to start making better buying decisions, especially now that I was embarking on the path of an impoverished journalist. Matsuri led me to a busy restaurant off a side street, pushed aside some plastic curtains, and we sat down.
The dinner was relaxing and fun. We learned more about each other’s lives. Matsuri was living at home with her mother. Her parents had been divorced for 20 years and lived in separate apartments, but her grandparents still believed their children were married and living together. Despite this hidden separation, Matsuri’s parents were still pressuring her to marry. Japanese culture can be excessively polite, strict, and repressive.
Matsuri mentioned that she checked out my website. Her favorite story was, “The Aspiring Actress.” She asked me questions about the piece and I could tell that, to put it crudely, she “got it.” I was further impressed when I learned that she had never lived in an English-speaking country, although she had visited Thailand 10 times. Her speaking and reading skills were the result of school and self-study. Our first course arrived, Oden:
Lots of brown.
Oden is Japan’s “pot winter” dish and contains an assortment of boiled eggs, daikon (raddish), konjac (yam cake), and processed fishcakes stewed in a light, soy-flavored dashi broth. It’s like the “shephard’s pie” of The East.
While eating our food and crushing bottles of Sake, we also discussed books. I showed her the other book I was reading:
Matsuri had read it before, and we discussed the differences in the translation. Matsuri was very disappointed in the title. In Japanese the book is called Sasameyuki, which means Light Snow. The book centers around the character named Yuki, who is one of four sisters, who drifts aimlessly and carelessly through life and is unable to find a husband, despite the pressure of her family to marry. In Japanese, there are numerous ways to describe snow, here are six different ways, and it’s meaningful that the author named his book Light Snow rather than the Makioka Sisters. We wondered about what else was lost in the English translation, and I told Matsuri about my plan to teach myself Japanese.
Matsuri asked if I did any sports back in American, and I told her I was a runner. She asked if I knew about the Japanese runner, Kokichi Tsuburaya. No, I did not. Kokichi was famous, in the athletics world and in Japan’s literary world. He had won the bronze medal in the marathon in the Tokyo 1964 Olympics. Then he wrote-
“Hold on, I have to go the bathroom (I was drunk).” Here’s a crappy picture I snapped on my way back from the bathroom:
When you’re drunk, banal places in foreign countries look fascinating.
The conversation moved on from Kokichi Tsuburaya and we ordered desert. I tried to pay, but Matsuri insisted that she treat me to the dinner. Then we left the restaurant…
On my last day in Tokyo I emailed Matsuri asking if she wanted to hang out again. I was drinking beer with Wolfgang (a physicist who I met my first day who was studying at Keio University) and we decided to get some late-night snacks. Tokyo is not a late-night town. The subways close at midnight and most of the restaurants close too. We began wandering around Shimbashi and I snapped this picture of a drunkenly “salary man” passed out against a pole:
Finally, we found a place that was open and selling Takoyaki, or fried balls. Tako means octopus and yaki (which sounds similar to ‘yucky’) means fried. Here they are:
Matsuri met us there after work and we drank, eat Takoyaki, and talked. We stood at a table near the street and the chilly breeze complemented the hot balls I kept impatiently scorching the roof of my mouth with. We had a good time. I told them how much I had enjoyed my trip and swore that I WOULD RETURN SPEAKING JAPANESE. Matsuri gave me a book of poems:
I can’t read them yet, but someday I will.
As I hugged Matsuri goodbye, I thought she looked preoccupied and sad. I even thought there were tears in her eyes, but that could have been the street-lamp reflections and the wind. She said, “I forgot to tell you the story of Kokichi Tsuburya!”
“It’s alright, I’ll look him up later.”
“Goodbye. It was nice meeting you!”
“It was nice meeting you too. Goodbye Matsuri!” She left.
On the plane back to New York City, I looked up Kokichi Tsuburya. Over the next couple months I sporadically researched his life. Here is his tragic story:
Kokichi was born in Sukagawa, Fukushima in 1940. He was 1/7 children:
Kokichi is front and center, laughing, with his father.
The family planted rice and raised livestock. When each child reached the age of 10 they were put to work. The father, Koshichi Tsuburya, was extremely strict and believed his children required extra discipline to ensure they did their chores. Like a drill Sargent, he ordered them around yelling, “Go Forward!” “Right Face!” and, “Attention!” On top of cooking, cleaning, and planting, he trained them to use bayonets and hit them whenever they were not obedient.
As a young boy Kokichi loved to run, especially with the family dog. At the age of 5, though, he felt acute pain in his legs and back. Koshichi noticed that his son’s left leg was shorter than his right. When they brought him to hospital to confirm the diagnosis, they also learned that Kokich had tuberculosis arthritis, which causes pain in the weigh-bearing joints of the ankles, knees, and hips. Kokichi felt pain whenever he ran.
Despite this pain, Kokichi kept on running. He looked up to his older brother, Kikuzo, who ran in competitions. They ran together and even though Koichi was 7 years younger, he kept up. The brothers would go on runs late at night. Their father did not approve. “You can’t earn a living off of running,” he said. So the sons would sneak out to run when their father was taking his evening bath.
Koshichi finally confronted his son and asked, “If you run, will you take this all the way?” Kokichi replied, “Yes,” and the father added, “If you decide to do this, do not stop halfway.”
Kokichi dedicated himself completely and in high school he qualified for the National 5000 meter race. He did not win. Without anyone urging him to do so, he shaved his head to publicly account for his defeat.
After graduating from high school Kokichi joined the Ground Self-Defense Force, following in the footsteps of his father and becoming a soldier. He became a 1st lieutenant.
Kokichi is in the center.
At the age of 24 he qualified for the Tokyo Olympics in the 10,000 meters and the marathon. He also fell in love with a girl named Eiko, who he planned to marry after the games.
I’m coming Eiko…
The Tokyo Olympics was historic in various ways: it was the first Olympics held in Asia, it was the first time South Africa was barred from taking part due to its apartheid system, and they were the first games to be telecast internationally without the need for tapes to be flown overseas. They were the first Olympic games to have color telecasts and of the 5,151 participants 4,473 were men and 678 were women. In the 2020 Tokyo Olympics there will be nearly an equal ratio of men/women competitors and there will be mixed events (men and women competing in the same relay, such as the 4×400 meters). We’ve come a long way.
The competitions were held in October to avoid the city’s midsummer heat and humidity. On the 14th of October, Kokichi raced the 10,000 meters and placed 6th. This would be the last time the Olympics used a traditional cinder track for the track events, as a smooth synthetic all-weather track would be used for the first time at the 1968 games.
The last event of the games was the marathon. Kokichi was entered in the competition with his friend and teammate Kenji Kimihara. No doubt they discussed that Japan had not won a single track medal during the entire Olympic games, and this marathon would be the last chance for them to win one for their country.
Abede Bikila won the gold, becoming the first and only man to win the gold in the marathon in two, consecutive Olympics (he won gold in 1960 running barefoot). Here’s good amateur video of his finish, where immediately upon crossing the finish line he began doing calisthenics. Great athletes never stop.
Here’s a video with great footage:
When Kokichi entered the Olympic stadium he was in second place and greeted by a roar from the crowd. But right behind him was Basil Heatley, who would pass him in the last 200 meters (13:59). Kokichi was devastated that he would let a competitor pass him in front of so many Japanese people, and there was a collective groan when he lost. Later, Kokichi would tell his friend Kenji Kimihara (who was 23 years old during the race and placed 8th):
“I committed an inexcusable blunder in front of the Japanese people. I have to beg their pardon by running and hoisting the Hinomaru [national flag] in Mexico [the next Olympics.]
After the games, Kokichi began training hard. He was a national hero and vowed to do better in 1968. He also wanted to marry Eiko. Kokichi’s coach at the Self-Defense Forces Athletics school, Hiro Hatano, supported the marriage, and so did Kokichi’s parents.
But Hiro Hatano’s boss did not approve of the marriage. In 1966, coach Hatano’s boss declared that Kokichi needed to focus 100% on his training and that a marriage would distract him from his goals. In Japan, there are rigid hierarchies, and this system is even more strict in the military.
Hatano’s boss brought Hatano, Eiko, and Eiko’s mother together to discuss how the marriage would have to wait until after the Olympic Games. That way Kokichi could focus solely on his training. Kokichi was not at the meeting.
Hatano protest this decision, but was left with the task of telling Kokichi that he couldn’t marry Eiko. Hatano refused and ended up being demoted and removed from his coaching position.
Eiko was devoted to Kokichi and still wanted to marry him, but Eiko’s mother was not supportive any longer. Eiko’s mother was anxious that a marriage to a famous, bronze-medalist with the whole country counting on him would add a burden to his wife. She also wasn’t confident that a marriage in 2 years was certain. And since Eiko was 22 years old, she could lose her chance to marry well.
The marriage was broken off. Since Kokichi didn’t have a coach anymore, he began training on his own. He became plagued with injuries. He felt intense pain in a slipped disk that he had hurt years ago. In 1967, an injury to his Achilles tendon required surgery.
At the end of 1967 Kokichi returned home for a New Year’s holiday break. His father was distraught with news that he did not want to tell his son. But he thought it was best to tell his son the news before he found out on his own. He told him that Eiko had married someone else. Kokichi’s response was, “Oh, Eiko-san is married. That’s good for her.”
Soon after Kokichi returned to his Self-Defense Force base to train. But he couldn’t run a step because he suffered from lumbago. On Janurary 8th, 1968, teammates of Koichi entered his dorm room to find that he had slit his wrists and killed himself. He left behind a suicide note:
The suicide note is consider by the Japanese literary world as a masterpiece for its simplicity and banality. Yukio Mishima (who ended up killing himself 12 years later during a military coup through seppuku) described it as beautiful, honest and sad. Kensaburo Oe, the Nobel Prize winner in 1994, believed it was a cultural marker of the 1960s Japanese ethos. Here it is:
My dear Father, my dear Mother: I thank you for the three-day pickled yam. It was delicious. Thank you for the dried persimmons. And the rice cakes. They were delicious, too.
My dear Brother Toshio, and my dear Sister: I thank you for the sushi. It was delicious.
My dear Brother Katsumi, and my dear Sister: The wine and apples were delicious. I thank you.
My dear Brother Iwao, and my dear Sister: I thank you. The basil-flavored rice, and the Nanban pickles were delicious.
My dear Brother Kikuzo, and my dear Sister: The grape juice and Yomeishu were delicious. I thank you. And thank you, my dear Sister, for the laundry you always did for me.
My dear Brother Kozo and my dear Sister: I thank you for the rides you gave me in your car, to and fro. The mongo-cuttlefish was delicious. I thank you.
My dear Brother Masao, and my dear sister: I am very sorry for all the worries I caused you.
Yukio-kun, Hideo-kun, Mikio-kun, Toshiko-chan, Hideko-chan, Ryosuke-kun, Takahisa-kun, Miyoko-chan, Yukie-chan, Mitsue-chan, Akira-kun, Yoshiyukikun, Keiko-chan, Koei-kun, Yu-chan, Kii-chan, Shoji-kun: May you grow up to be fine people.
My dear Father and my dear Mother, Kokichi is too tired to run anymore. I beg you to forgive me. Your hearts must never have rested worrying and caring for me.
My dear Father and Mother, Kokichi would have liked to live by your side.
*
When Kokichi Tsuburaya was found dead in his dorm room he was holding on to his bronze medal.
Epilogue:
For months I’ve planned to end this essay with Kokichi dead in his dorm room and holding on to his bronze medal…next to a suicide note about delicious food. But due to various life circumstances and additional research, there’s another part of the story I want to tell:
Kenji Kimihara:
Kenji was Kokichi’s teammate and friend at the 1964 Olympics, whom Kokichi confessed, “I made an inexcusable blunder…” Two years after the 1964 Olympics Kenji won the Boston Marathon. Then, in the 1968 Olympics, 9 months after Kokichi’s suicide, Kenji would win the silver medal in the marathon by 14 seconds. No doubt he felt redemption for Kokichi, winning the medal that Kokichi missed by 3.6 seconds.
In 2016 Kenji Kimihara ran the Boston marthon, 50 years after his victory. He was 75 years old and ran the marathon in 4 hours 53 minutes and 14 seconds. There was little press given to this accomplishment.
We are all surrounded by sadness and lost opportunities. But we’re all, also, headed to the same, dark place. What’s tragic to me about Kokichi’s death was not his suicide or what caused him to take his life, but what he missed. Kenji, while he’s an old man, is still living, breathing, learning, and running. He is a reminder to me that life, with all its pain, confusion, glory, and hope, will always move on, past all tragedy and defeat. He is a reminder that life is only out there, waiting, for the living.
A modern adaption of Anton Chekhov’s short story, “Neighbors.” 6.5 minute read:
Zach Lebowitz was in a bad mood: his younger sister, who was eighteen years old, had dropped out of college and moved to Los Angeles to become a porn star. To shake off his confused depression which pursued him at home and at the office, he called to his aid his sense of lofty morality, his genuine and noble ideas – he had always been an open-minded liberal, supporting ideas like gender equality, tolerance, and free love, but these political views were of no avail when it came to his personal life and his sister’s sudden departure and chosen profession, and he always came back to the recent conversation he had with his aunt (a devout Catholic), who believed that his sister had acted wrongly and betrayed the family. And that was fucking with him.
His mother did not leave their Upper-East Side penthouse in New York City all day long; his aunt (who lived with them) kept sighing, crossing herself, and speaking in whispers. His father, a respected Democrat and member of Congress, would only mumble incoherently at the dinner table and began drinking heavily at night. In the apartment it was as still as though there were some one dead in a room. Everyone, so it seemed to Zach Lebowitz, looked at him enigmatically and with perplexity, as though they wanted to say, “Your sister is ruining her life and our family’s reputation. She only listens to you. So why are you doing nothing?” And he reproached himself for inactivity, though he did not know precisely what action he ought to have taken.
So passed six days without a word from Zach’s sister. On the seventh – it was Sunday morning – Zach finally received an email. The message’s tone was flippant: “Hey! How’s it going? Sorry I took so long to reply. But…” Zach fancied that there was something defiant and provocative beneath the informality.
“She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her family,” thought Zach, as he went to his mother in her bedroom.
His mother was lying on the bed watching the television show, Girls, dressed in the same clothes she had worn for the past three days and drinking white wine. Seeing her son’s face, she rose impulsively, and straightening her gray hair, asked quickly,
“What? What do you want?”
“An email came…” said her son.
Zissel’s name, and even the pronoun, “she” was not uttered in the apartment. Zissel was spoken of impersonally, “In Los Angelis,” “Gone away,” etc. The mother’s face grew ugly and unpleasant.
“No!” she said, with a motion of her hands, as though to block a ghost that was attacking her. “No, I don’t care. I don’t want to know. Leave me alone!”
The mother broke into hysterical sobs of grief and shame; she evidently longed to know what was said in the email, but her pride prevented her. Zach realized that he ought to read the email aloud from his phone, as it mentioned his mother, but he was overcome by anger such as he had never felt before; he ran out of the room and kicked a chair.
“God damn it! God fucking damn it!”
He threw his phone against the wall, (which fortunately didn’t break because of the high-quality case he had purchased two weeks ago); then tears came into his eyes, and feeling that he was stupid, miserable, and to blame, he went out into the city streets.
He was only twenty-seven, but he was already quite fat. He wore expensive suits, chain-smoked, and suffered from a nasty cough. He already seemed to be developing the characteristics of an elderly bachelor. He never fell in love, never thought of marriage, and loved no one but his mother, his sister, his aunt, and his father. He was fond of a good meal and of talking about politics and exalted subjects. He had in his day received his Bachelor’s and P.H.D. in Economics from George Mason University, but he now looked upon his studies as though in them he had discharged a duty incumbent upon young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six. At any rate, the ideas that now strayed every day through his mind had nothing in common with the university or the subjects he had studied there.
Out in the city streets it was hot and still, as though rain were coming. The air above the avenues was wavering in the heat and there was the smell of asphalt and dust. He lit a cigarette and began to walk.
Zach stopped several times and wiped his beaded forehead. He looked at the restaurants and stores, and twice almost ran into someone looking at their phone. And all the while he was thinking that this insufferable state of things could not go on forever, and that he must do something about it one way or another. He must stop his sister, stupidly, madly, but he must stop her.
“But how? What can I do?” he asked himself, and looked imploringly at the sky and the buildings, begging for their help.
But the sky and the buildings were mute. His noble ideas were no help, and his common sense whispered that the agonizing question could have no solution but a stupid one, and that today’s email was not the last of its kind. It was terrible to think what people were saying about his sister and his family!
At dinner it was only Zach and his father. As usual, the father’s face wore the bitterly resigned expression that seemed to say though he was embarrassed and ashamed, he would allow no one to insult him. Zach sat down at the other end of the table and began drinking a beer in silence.
“Your mother has had no food today,” said his father. “You ought to do something about it, Zach. Starving oneself is no cure for depression.”
It struck Zachary Lebowitz as absurd that his father should expect him to remedy the situation. He was tempted to say something rude to him, but restrained himself. And as he restrained himself he felt the time had come for action, and that he could not bear it any longer. Either he must act at once or fall on the ground, and scream and bang his head upon the floor. He pictured Zissel in a porno, moaning, taking cum shots to the face, riding a man like a cowgirl, and all the anger, bitterness, and humiliation that had been accumulating him for the past seven days welled up inside until it became too much.
“My sister wants to be a porn star,” he thought, “my mother will commit suicide, my father will lose his reputation and not be re-elected the next term…and all this because Zissel thinks she’s an independent woman who can do whatever she pleases!”
“No, I won’t allow it!” Zach cried suddenly, and he slammed his fist down on the table.
He jumped up and ran out of the dining room. In the study he opened a computer and typed, “Flight to L.A. from N.Y.C.” into Google. He purchased an airline ticket for a red-eye flight, hastily packed a duffel bag, and ran out of the apartment to hail a taxi.
There was a storm thrashing within him. He felt a longing to do something extraordinary, startling, even if he had to repent of it all his life afterwards. Should he kidnap his sister and take her home? But Zach was not one of those men who use physical force. He knew he would not kidnap his sister, but the idea was invigorating and propelled him on this impulsive journey.
A taxi stopped along the curb and Zach jumped in. He yelled, “Newark Airport!” and the taxi lurched away. He texted Zissel, “Purchased a plane ticket to L.A. You’re coming home.” He imagined how Zissel would try to justify her conduct by talking about being an independent woman, an adult, individual freedom, and about supporting herself however she wanted. She would argue about what she did not understand. And very likely at the end of the conversation she would ask, “And how do you have a right to tell me how to lead my life. What right have you to interfere?”
“No, I have no right,” muttered Zachary Lebowitz. “But so much the better…the harsher I am, the less right I have to interfere, so much the better.”
It was a sultry night. There was a traffic jam on the east side of Central Park. People were shouting and honking their horns. The sky seemed to suggest a downpour any second. Zachary stared out the window at the trees of the park. He had spent hundreds of hours in this park and knew every bush, rock, and path. Through the trees he pictured the carousal that he used to ride as a child with Zissel; he could picture it all down to the smallest detail, even the forms and colors of the beat-up horses. Near the carousal was the baseball field where he used to play catch. Near the baseball field was the boulder where he once fell off and broke his arm.
Above the park and the distant buildings a huge black storm-cloud was rising, and there were ashes of white lightening.
“Here comes the storm!” thought Zachary Lebowitz. The taxi was now at a complete stop in the middle of Central Park. There were red lights blinking and Zachary assumed there had been a car accident not far ahead. All of a sudden Zachary felt a wave of exhaustion. The storm-cloud and the car accident seemed to be signs advising him to go back home. He felt a little scared.
“I will bring her back!” he tried to reassure himself. “She will fight and talk about her rights and freedom, but freedom also means respect and self-control, and not indulging whims and passions. It’s not liberty, but awareness of others and logical consequences!”
The taxi was near the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. On the radio the song, “I’m ‘N Luv (Wit a Stripper),” by T-Pain was playing. “What a stupid song,” muttered Zachary. “Excuse me? Sir? Could you please change the song?”
“What?”
“Could you change the song?”
“Sure.”
Just then Zach felt a buzz in his pocket. It was a call from Zissel.
“Hello?” he answered.
“You are not coming to L.A.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’ll be wasting your time. I’m not coming home.”
“You…we…I’m coming…we need to talk and-”
“We can talk now. What do you want to know?” Zach paused. Raindrops began hitting the car. There was no anger in his heart now, nothing but fear and vexation with himself. What was he doing? He felt he had made a bad beginning with the phone conversation, and that nothing would come of it but useless bickering. Both were silent for some time. “Look, Zach, I appreciate your concern. You’ve always looked out for me. I understand it, and, believe me, I appreciate it. Believe me.”
Zach looked out the window and grimaced.
“But I’m old enough to make my own decisions. College would be a waste of time for me. I’m not going $200,000 in debt and sitting in classrooms learning shit I don’t care about. I’m not throwing away the prime of my life. And trust me, the feeling that you, mom, and dad would be upset has bothered me. But let me explain myself. I-”
“You can’t-”
“Let me speak, Zach. There wasn’t time to explain myself earlier. I’m doing a movie now and I had to fly out on short notice. It’s a touchy subject to talk about, but here it comes. I love doing porn. It’s been my dream for the past three years. All I-”
“Zissel! You-”
“Shut up! Let me finish. I really shouldn’t need to justify myself, but since you’re my older brother and I’ve always cared about you, I’ll talk. Really, Zach, I’m grateful to you. But you can’t force me to a lead a life that you think is right and respectable, when I would hate that sort of life.” Zissel talked in a quiet, steady voice, but was evidently agitated. Zach felt it was his turn to speak, and that to listen and keep silent would really mean playing the part of a generous and noble idiot, and that had not been his idea upon making this trip. He sat up in the taxi and said, breathlessly, in an undertone:
“Listen, Zissel. You know I love you and want you to have the best life possible; but this…this is just…awful. It’s terrible to think of you doing porn when-”
“Why is it terrible?” asked Zissel, with a quiver in her voice. “It would be terrible if I was hurting anyone else, but I’m not doing anything that-”
“You are hurting us, Zissel. Your mother hasn’t changed her clothes in three days! Your father can’t sleep unless he’s black out drunk. You know we all have an open mind, and tolerance for everyone, but you’re acting selfish. We’re all miserable and-”
“I’m selfish for trying to live my dream? For doing what I love? Just because you, mom, and dad are living in the past, blinded by traditional values, obsessed with how strangers think of you, slaves to public opinion, means I should cater to your prejudices? Just because my actions make people feel embarrassed doesn’t prove that they are wrong. Every important step one takes is bound to distress somebody. If I became a fashion model, mother would be angry too. What am I supposed to do? Anyone who puts the peace of their family before everything has to renounce the life of excitement and self-fulfillment completely.”
There was a vivid flash of lightening outside the window, and the lightening seemed to change the course of Zachary’s thoughts. He slumped into the cushion and began saying what was utterly beside the point.
“I care about you so much, Zissel. When you were little we would go on walks through Central Park almost every day. Remember that? It hurts me to think of you doing something like…like porn. Isn’t there something else you can do? Some other job? You deserve better. You deserve-”
“Here we go-” sighed Zissel. “What do I deserve, Zach? How do you know what I like to do, what I hate, what my plans are, everything that’s happened to me in my life? Your arrogance and your desire to control me are exasperating.”
“Why can’t you just…be a normal actress?”
“Because I hate normal acting, I’m not good at it, and there’s no money in it!”
“Can’t you at least try and-”
“No! I can’t try! I don’t want to and I don’t care! And unlike you, I don’t care what people say about me!”
During the conversation Zachary listened to Zissel and wondered in perplexity why it was that she wanted to be a porn actress so intensely. Their childhood had not been traumatic. They had never suffered or been in need of anything. Zissel had never exhibited any signs that she was a whore or a slut. Yes, she had dated a handful of boys at different times, never for more than a couple of months, but she had also spent long periods of time being alone. She was good-looking, elegant, carefree; she was fond of laughing, chatter, argument, a passionate reader; she had good taste in dress, in furniture, in books, and her personality seemed in direct contrast to the seedy underworld of the porn industry. She was intelligent and clever, had advanced ideas, but in her free-thinking one felt the overflow of energy, the vanity of a young, strong, spirited girl, passionately eager to be better and more original than others…what had happened to her that caused this desire to do porn?”
“She’s an obstinate and independent to a fault,” thought Zachary Lebowitz. “She’ll pay for her brash decisions one day.” But immediately upon thinking this, Zachary’s belief in the extraordinary loftiness and faultlessness of his own way of thinking struck him as naïve and even morbid; and the fact that Zachary had all his life followed the beaten path and done as he told came charging to the front of his mind. All of a sudden Zachary felt an admiration and respect for Zissel he had never felt before. He was conscious of a sort of power in her, and for some reason lost the desire to argue. Zissel cleared he throat and was about to speak, but Zachary interrupted her gently,
“Yes, you’ve always done…what you’ve wanted…but we’ve been wandering away from the point.”
“Okay. Then let’s get back to the point. I’m telling you, Zach, my conscious is clear. There’s really no need for me to prove myself. You, mom, and dad are free to hate me, cut me off, and disown me. I’ll survive. I’ll be all right.”
The taxi began to move again and Zachary’s heart began to beat in his temples. He sat up and said, “Hold on! Excuse me, sir! Pull over! Pull the car over!” The driver sighed and swerved the taxi to the shoulder of the road. Zach paid, stepped out, and began to walk.
“Well, I have to go,” said Zissel.
“No, wait, don’t hang up yet.” Zach’s hand was trembling and his eyes filled with tears. He knew that the conversation was over and that there was no use talking. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and thick. He walked hurriedly on a dirt path towards the reservoir. “I…I won’t come to L.A. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Okay. Good.”
“If there’s anything you need…money….someone to talk to…don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks, Zach.” There was a brief silence. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
“Okay, do you have any idea…when you’ll be home?”
“No, I don’t. Goodbye Zach.”
“Goodbye Zissel.” She hung up. Not hearing Zissel’s voice caused Zach to immediately forget his previous admiration, and he told himself that she was unhappy. He told himself that she had made a ridiculous, irreparable mistake.
“I’ll visit her sometime and try to convince her, just not now,” he said out loud. But it sounded as though he were making a concession, and this did not satisfy him. To avoid bursting into tears he pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke. He walked into the darkness of the woods on the perimeter of the reservoir.
“I’m a baby, a pushover, a wimp,” thought Zachary Lebowitz. “I attempted to solve the question and save my sister, and I haven’t accomplished anything.”
He was heavy at heart. When he reached the reservoir he walked along the cinder path. But he wanted to sit and think without moving. The moon was rising and was reflected on the water. There were low rumbles of thunder in the distance. Zachary Lebowitz sat on a bench and finished his cigarette. He looked steadily at the water and imagined his sister’s future despair, her martyr-like pallor, the tearless eyes that would conceal her humiliation from others. He imagined her broke, unable to find a job, imagined his mother being admitted to a mental hospital, his father drinking himself to death, Zissel’s horror…His proud, superstitious mother would be sure to die of grief. Terrible pictures of the future rose before him on the background of the smooth, dark water, and among pale feminine figures he saw himself, a weak, cowardly man with a guilty face.
A hundred feet away on the right bank of the pond, something dark was floating motionless. Was it a dead body? Zachary Lebowtiz thought of the corpse that was discovered this past Tuesday in the reservoir, naked and decomposed. He stood up and walked along the path until he was leaning against the fence near the form. But all he saw was a piece of trash.
He walked to the bench, collapsed, and pulled out another cigarette. He inhaled the smoke and coughed. Then he looked mournfully into the water. And thinking about his life, he came to the conclusion he had never said or acted upon what he really thought, and other people had repaid him in the same way. And so the whole of life seemed to him as dark as this water in which the night sky was reflected and trash was left. And it seemed to him that nothing could ever set it right.
